‘What did she tell you about the search for her child?’ asked Lottie.
‘Broke her heart it did, them taking away her chisler. She was never sure what actually happened to her baby.’
‘So, she’d no luck tracing it?’
‘She went through every avenue available and got nowhere. The biggest obstacle was the Church. She even met with the bishop. Fat lot of good that did her.’ Anger flashed in the old woman’s eyes once again.
‘She met Bishop Connor?’ Lottie nudged Boyd on the elbow. The bishop had denied knowing Susan and now it appeared he’d actually met with her.
‘Yes, she did. Let me think for a minute.’ Mrs Murtagh closed her eyes, then said, ‘When she came back here afterwards, she was very upset. So I couldn’t understand why she returned a second time.’
‘A second time? When? Why?’ asked Lottie, itching now to have another go at Bishop Connor.
‘I don’t know. I told her not to go back, but she was adamant he had information.’ Mrs Murtagh dropped her eyes. ‘Poor soul. That man told her she was nothing only a slut and said that’s why she must’ve been put in St Angela’s. He’s a bastard. God forgive me.’ Mrs Murtagh blessed herself again.
Lottie digested this information. Why had Bishop Connor lied?
‘When was this second meeting, Mrs Murtagh?’
‘Christmas! Yes, it was before Christmas.’
‘Any idea when, exactly?’
‘Susan was on annual leave from the council. Christmas Eve. That’s it! We had three pots boiling on the big cooker. Did I show you the cooker? Of course I didn’t. Remind me before you go. Normally one or two pots would be the maximum. Funny how I can remember that when there’s so much I can’t. It was snowing like the dickens and the weatherman said it was going to be minus twelve or something ridiculous like that. So yes, I’m fairly sure it was Christmas Eve.’
Boyd made a note.
‘How did she get on at the second meeting?’ Lottie asked, taking another bite of bread. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was.
‘I don’t think I even asked her. When she came back we filled the flasks, loaded my car and off with us, through the blizzard.’
‘Had her mood changed?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘After her visit with the bishop. Was she troubled or upset?’
‘I imagine she was the same Susan as always. Troubled, very troubled.’
Lottie thought about Bishop Connor and felt an increasing sympathy for Susan Sullivan. She had been wronged throughout her life and the more she learned about her, the more determined she became to afford Susan some sort of justice, albeit too late.
‘When did you last see Susan?’ Boyd asked.
‘The night before her murder.’ Mrs Murtagh wiped another tear from the corner of her eye. ‘We did our soup runs every night over the Christmas.’
‘She was off work,’ Lottie said, ‘so what did she do during the days?’
‘I don’t know. Susan kept to herself.’
‘She lived at the opposite end of town. But her car looks like it hasn’t been moved in weeks. Did she walk everywhere?’
‘She liked her exercise. Always had that music thing in her ears. What do you call it?’
‘An iPod.’
‘Loved her music, she did,’ Mrs Murtagh said wistfully.
‘Anything else you can tell us?’ Lottie asked.
‘Two cups of wholemeal flour, teaspoon of yeast, tablespoon of butter, a pinch of salt and twenty minutes in the oven.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t bake,’ said Lottie. ‘And even if I did, I don’t think I could ever make bread as delicious as this.’
She wondered if the old woman was changing the subject. She dreaded the thought of her mother ever getting Alzheimer’s. Or maybe it might be a good thing. Hard to know with Rose Fitzpatrick.
‘You’re trying to flatter me. I’ll get some tin foil and you can bring the rest of the loaf home with you.’
Lottie began to protest, but decided it was too good an offer to refuse.
Wrapping the bread, Mrs Murtagh said, ‘And you, young man, you could do with a slice or two.’
Boyd smiled and remained silent.
Lottie returned to the conversation.
‘I’m led to believe St Angela’s was a brutal place. What did Susan tell you about it?’
‘She told me something one time. Said she’d never told a living soul. A baby was murdered there and a young lad was beaten to death.’ Mrs Murtagh made the sign of the cross, forehead, chest and shoulders, slowly and deliberately. ‘She called it the baby jail; all them little mites in cots with iron bars. And she wasn’t sure if it was her baby that was murdered but she convinced herself it wasn’t.’ She paused, tears damp on her cheeks. ‘Not knowing, that was the worst. The poor tormented soul. Do you know, she bought the newspaper every day to look at the photographs? Thought she might recognise her child, all grown up now.’
‘We saw the newspapers in her house,’ said Boyd.
‘Obsessed she was. As if she could recognise someone she only saw as a baby. I tried talking to her. But she said if she saw a picture, she would know.’
Dismissing the futility of Susan’s newspaper quest, Lottie said, ‘Patrick O’Malley. Did you ever hear of him?’
‘Of course. A demented man. One of our soup clients,’ Mrs Murtagh said. ‘Susan was very kind to him but never spoke to me about him. Detective, I only knew Susan for the last six months of her life but it felt like I knew her forever. It’s so sad. Why do these things happen to the good people and the bad bastards walk around scot-free?’
Lottie and Boyd said nothing. There wasn’t much they could add to that.
The woman rose, gathered the three mugs, placed them in the sink, turned on the tap and rinsed them under the flowing water. Leaving them to dry on the draining board, she picked up her walking stick and pointed to the side door.
‘Come on. I’ll show you our soup kitchen. We were so proud of it.’
Lottie hadn’t the heart to refuse.
All four wheels intact and the foul-mouthed little boy was nowhere in sight.
‘That’s some set up,’ said Boyd, starting up the car.
‘Wherever Susan got the money from, it seems she put it into the soup kitchen.’ Lottie placed the bread at her feet. ‘I hope whatever Mrs Murtagh can’t remember to tell us is nothing too important.’
‘We need to go through Susan’s phone records again.’
‘For sure.’
‘Where to next?’ asked Boyd. ‘Or can I guess?’
‘Bishop Terence Connor,’ said Lottie. ‘He has some explaining to do.’
Fifty-Two
‘I see you have brought the cavalry with you, Inspector.’
Bishop Connor indicated two chairs in front of his desk. Lottie and Boyd sat.
‘When are you going to release Father Angelotti’s body?’ he asked.
‘That’s up to the pathologist,’ Lottie said. ‘Is there anything you can add to our investigation regarding his murder?’
‘I am devastated,’ he said. ‘To think he was only here a few weeks, then this abomination happens.’
‘Why was he at James Brown’s home?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Did he ever mention James Brown or Susan Sullivan to you?’ Lottie pressured.
‘He never mentioned anything, Inspector. He barely communicated with me.’