‘Were the gardaí called in?’ Lottie asked O’Malley.
‘Are you mad or what?’ he said, his tongue flicking in and out of his mouth as if searching for his cold sores. ‘Herded into the hall like animals, we were. Told us it was a tragic accident, so they did. Liars. And we were frightened enough to keep our mouths shut.’
‘What happened after that?’ Lottie asked, a little too loudly, unable to mask her disbelief.
‘They buried the kid. Under one of them apple trees.’
‘And Sally?’
‘She convinced herself her baby had already been adopted. But no one would confirm or deny that was the case. Thinking it was already gone kept her from going mad in that place.’
‘Had you any idea who did this, back then?’
‘Sure how would I know, Inspector,’ O’Malley said. ‘Maybe the priest. Or that Brian fella. After all, it was Sally who shoved the apple into his mouth. Anyway, I don’t know. The terrible thing is, they blamed it on another boy. A red-headed whippet tearaway. Younger than us, he was.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Can’t remember. My head is a bit addled with the drink, you know.’
He pointed to a patch of skin just below his eye.
‘But I do remember him sticking a fork in my face one time. Could’ve blinded me, but for some reason, we became something like friends. Not real friends. Respect for each other maybe. Hard to explain.’ O’Malley stared at a point on the wall above Lottie’s head. ‘Poor bastard.’
Lottie’s brain was swimming with all this new information.
‘They killed him too.’ O’Malley’s voice was soft in the silence.
‘What do you mean? Who killed who? When?’ Lottie asked, confusion constricting her thought process.
‘Ah, it was months later. Winter time. Fierce cold it was. Beaten to a pulp he was. Buried him beside the baby in the orchard.’ O’Malley’s head sank into his chest.
Lottie wondered for a moment if he was making it all up. But she concluded the man was too distraught to do that. What had gone on in that place? Who murdered the baby and who murdered this nameless boy? Who was the baby? Was it Susan’s? A flood of questions crackled at the tip of her tongue without being spoken.
She watched O’Malley, his eyes boring a hole through the wall, and she knew he had said all he had to say. He moved his head and looked at her and she felt his deep brown eyes peer into the back of her skull.
‘We used to call it the night of the black moon,’ he said.
‘The black moon,’ said Boyd. ‘I think I heard of that.’
‘I can tell you, we might have been afraid before that boy was killed, but it was nothing to the fear we carried around with us after that.’
‘And you don’t know who he was?’ Lottie asked again.
He shook his head. ‘Must’ve blocked it out.’
‘If it comes back to you, let me know.’ Conundrum time. She glanced at Boyd. He looked as stymied as she felt.
O’Malley gave her a tired nod.
She glanced down at the name she’d scribbled on her pad.
‘Do you know where this Father Con is now?’
‘I hope he’s dead.’
‘And Brian, do you know what happened to him?’
‘I never liked him and I always had my suspicions about him and the dead baby. So I hope he’s dead too.’
Lottie stood beside Boyd outside the station door watching the hunched O’Malley shuffle through the snow on his way down the street.
Boyd lit a cigarette. Lottie took it from him. She inhaled and he sparked up another for himself.
‘That was some hell-hole,’ she said.
‘St Angela’s?’
‘Yeah. Jesus, how many lives did it wreck?’
‘You only have to look at Patrick O’Malley. The poor shite.’
‘And how many more are out there, like him?’ Lottie asked. ‘I think Susan Sullivan was haunted all her life by her experiences, and probably Brown too. But at last I’m convinced there’s more to this case than planning permission.’
‘You’re sure their past is a factor?’ asked Boyd.
‘Of course it is.’ Lottie was adamant. She knew Boyd wasn’t convinced.
He said, ‘Two apparent murders, almost forty years ago. I can’t see how they can be linked to the murders we have now.’
‘I can’t either. Not at the moment.’ Lottie stamped out her cigarette.
‘I wonder who this Father Con is and where he is,’ Boyd said.
‘In jail, if he’s lucky.’
‘I’ll run his name through PULSE and see what turns up,’ said Boyd. ‘But without a full name, I don’t hold much hope.’
‘Find out what you can about that soup kitchen too,’ Lottie said.
‘Is this O’Malley a suspect?’
‘God help him, but he has to be in the frame. Somewhere. He’s linked to Brown and Sullivan through their shared past. We better keep an eye on him.’
‘I don’t think he could be sober long enough to kill anyone.’ Boyd attempted to blow smoke rings but they died in the air.
‘And he’d leave a trail of skin behind him to fill every forensic lab in the country.’ Lottie glanced toward the cathedral and jumped as the bells rang out ten chimes.
‘I’m going to visit our developer friend, Tom Rickard,’ she said.
‘Shake his tree and see what falls out,’ said Boyd, dousing his cigarette in the snow.
‘And I’ll have to find out how Bishop Connor fits into all this.’
‘Ask your priest when you find him.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t act all innocent with me, Lottie Parker. I think you’ve taken a shine to Father Joe.’
‘Your imagination is so vivid, Boyd, it’s blinding me.’
Lottie zipped her jacket and hurried down the street before Boyd could see the flush on her cheeks.
Fifty
Tom Rickard was letting her know he was busy, rattling desk drawers, stacking files in front of him and tapping his keyboard. Simultaneously.
His eyes appeared closer together, scrunched in a scowl.
‘I can do without your interruptions,’ he said, shuffling out of his suit jacket. He rolled his shirt sleeves, slowly and methodically, up to his elbows.
Ready for battle, Lottie surmised, wondering how he had ever spawned a son. Then again, he was a rich bastard. Sometimes money could compensate.
‘Why did you buy St Angela’s?’ she asked, without any preamble.
She had caught him on his way into work, hoping he might have a hangover like almost everyone else she’d encountered this morning. He wasn’t impressed with being doorstopped. Reluctantly he had allowed her a few minutes of his precious time.
‘That’s none of your business.’ Rickard ceased fidgeting.
‘I have two murder victims, both of whom worked on the planning application for the property you bought from Bishop Connor. I also have a dead priest. And you tell me it’s not my business?’
‘It’s simple,’ he said. ‘I bought St Angela’s because I happen to believe it’s a prime site for development. I’ve sunk a lot of money into this project and I stand to make profits from it in the future. I don’t appreciate you getting involved in my business affairs.’ He gave the drawer one last thump and folded his arms.