‘Inspector Parker! My office.’
Lottie involuntarily jumped at the sound of Superintendent Corrigan’s thunderous voice. Even Boyd looked up when the door banged, rattling the lid on the photocopier.
‘What the hell . . . ?’
Straightening her top, she pulled a sleeve over her thermal vest cuff and banished biscuit crumbs from her jeans. She flicked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear and followed her boss through an obstacle course of ladders and paint cans. Health and Safety would have a field day, but really there was little complaint. Anything was better than the old offices.
She closed the door behind her. His office was the first to be renovated; she smelled the newness of the furniture and the whiff of fresh paint.
‘Sit,’ he commanded.
She did.
Lottie looked at fifty-something-year-old Corrigan sitting behind his desk, stroking his whiskey nose. The paunch of his belly pressed into the timber. She remembered a time when he was trim and fit, bombarding everyone with healthy living ideas. That was before real life had overtaken him. He bent to sign a form and she saw her reflection on his domed head.
‘What’s going on out there?’ he barked, looking up.
You’re the boss, you should know, Lottie thought, wondering if the man knew how to talk in a normal tone. Maybe loudness came with the job.
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
She wished she was still wearing her jacket so as to bury her chin deep into its padding.
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ he mimicked. ‘You and bloody Boyd. Can you not be civil to each other for five minutes? This case will soon be officially a murder investigation and you two are snapping at each other like feckin’ five year olds.’
You haven’t heard the half of it. Lottie wondered if Corrigan would be shocked if he knew the truth.
‘I thought we were being very civil to each other.’
‘Bury the proverbial hatchet and get on with the job. What have we got so far?’
‘We’ve established the victim’s name, address and place of work. We’re trying to find out if she has any next of kin,’ Lottie said.
‘And?’
‘She works with the county council. Detectives Kirby and Lynch are cordoning off her house until the SOCOs get there.’
He continued to look at her.
She sighed.
‘That’s it, sir. When I organise the incident room, I’ll head down to the council offices to try to paint a picture of the victim.’
‘I don’t want any feckin’ painted pictures,’ he roared. ‘I want this solved. Quickly. I’ve to do an interview in an hour with Cathal feckin’ Moroney, from RTE Television. And you want to paint a feckin’ picture!’
Returning Corrigan’s glare, Lottie masked her true emotions with an impassive glaze, an expression she’d mastered after twenty-four years in the force.
‘Set up an incident room, establish your team, assign someone to the Jobs Book and email me the details. Call a team conference early tomorrow and I’ll attend.’
‘Six o’clock in the morning?’
He nodded. ‘And when you learn anything, let me know first. Go on, Inspector, get cracking.’
She did.
An hour later Lottie was satisfied everyone knew what they had to do. The foot soldiers commenced door-to-door enquiries. Progress. Time to find out more about Susan Sullivan.
She escaped into the pelting snow.
Four
The county council administration offices, housed in a new state of the art building in the centre of Ragmullin, were a five-minute walk from the station. Today, it took Lottie ten minutes on the icy footpaths.
She surveyed the large glass construction. It was like a monster aquarium with a shoal of fish inside. Glancing up at the three floors, she could see people sitting at their desks and others walking up and down corridors, floating around in their glass bowl. She supposed this was what the government meant by transparency in the public sector. She entered through swing doors into the relative interior warmth.
The receptionist chattered away on a phone. Lottie didn’t know who to ask for or if word had filtered in yet that Susan Sullivan was no longer in the land of the living.
The young, black-haired girl ended her conversation and smiled.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I‘d like to speak to Ms Susan Sullivan’s supervisor, please.’ Lottie returned the smile without feeling it.
‘That’d be Mr James Brown. Can I say who’s looking for him?’
‘Detective Inspector Lottie Parker.’ She produced her ID card. Obviously, it was a slow news day in the council. They appeared not to have heard about Sullivan’s fate.
The girl made a call and directed Lottie to the lift.
‘Third floor. Mr Brown will meet you at the door.’
James Brown did not look anything like his American soul singer namesake. One, the singer died in 2006, and two, he was black. This James Brown was very much alive, pale faced with slicked back red hair matching his red tie. His suit was an immaculate pinstripe and he was short, about five foot three by Lottie’s estimate.
She introduced herself and held out her hand.
Brown thrust his small hand into hers, a strong shake. He guided her into his office and pulled out a chair from behind a round desk. They sat.
‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ he asked.
Was this council speak for Why the hell are you interrupting my busy schedule? He had a smile plastered over a stressed face.
‘I’d like to ask you some questions about Susan Sullivan.’
His only response was a raised eyebrow and a flush of red up one cheek settling beneath his eye.
‘Was she due into work today?’ Lottie asked.
Brown consulted an iPad on the desk.
‘What is this about, Inspector?’ he asked, tapping an icon.
Lottie said nothing.
‘She’s been on annual leave since December twenty-third,’ he said, ‘and not due back to work until January third. May I ask what this is in connection with?’ Brown’s voice seemed tinged with panic. Again, Lottie ignored his question.
‘What does her job entail?’ she asked.
A long-winded response revealed the deceased had managed planning applications, recommending them for approval or rejection.
‘The controversial files go to the county manager,’ he said.
Lottie consulted her notes. ‘That would be Gerry Dunne?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know if she has any family or friends?’
‘She has no family that I can recall and from what I can see Susan’s best friend is Susan. She keeps to herself, doesn’t mingle with the staff, eats alone in the canteen, doesn’t socialise. She didn’t even attend the Christmas staff party. If you don’t mind me saying, she is odd. She’d be the first to admit it. However, she’s excellent at her job.’
Lottie noted Brown referred to Susan in the present tense. Time to break the bad news.
‘Susan Sullivan was found dead earlier today,’ she said, wondering what effect, if any, her next words would have on him. ‘Under suspicious circumstances.’