‘You drinking for two, Kirby?’ Lottie asked.
‘I’m sitting here thinking about the second one,’ he said, taking off his jacket, ready for a session. A wad of paper and three chewed Biros stuck out of his shirt pocket.
‘And the first one?’
‘It’ll go down so quick I won’t even remember drinking it.’
He took the pint, raised it to the two women either side of him and downed the drink in three swallows. He wiped his mouth with the back of his rough hand and put the empty glass back on the table.
‘Needed that,’ he said.
Lottie smiled across at Lynch. Boyd arrived with a glass of red wine for himself and a white for Lottie.
‘I thought you didn’t drink any more,’ Kirby said, white frothy Guinness lingering on his upper lip.
‘This isn’t any more,’ said Lottie. ‘This is now. I need it as much as you needed that first pint.’
‘Totally agree with you,’ said Kirby, taking a large gulp, following it with a loud belch, without any trace of embarrassment.
The four detectives drank their alcohol and the blazing fire restored heat to their bodies.
‘Don’t look now, Inspector,’ Lynch said, nodding behind Lottie with a swish of her ponytail, ‘but your daughter is sitting in the corner.’
Lottie turned immediately. Katie! She was lounging with her head on Jason Rickard’s shoulder. Her eyes were tired slits, while a smirk curled at the corners of her pouting red lips. Her face, artificially pale from intense white foundation, challenged Lottie.
‘Stay where you are,’ advised Boyd.
‘I’ve no intention of moving. I’ve had enough confrontation for one day.’
Sipping the illicit wine, Lottie really wanted to slaughter it, like Kirby had with his pint. She didn’t have his gut though and needed to be able to walk home. Katie could wait. But she was annoyed that Maria Lynch was a witness to her family strife. She turned to her colleagues and told them about the progress she and Boyd had made.
‘Give me five minutes with that bishop and he’ll talk,’ said Kirby, licking his lips.
‘How was your day?’ Lottie asked, studiously ignoring the teenagers behind her.
‘I had a bit of a bingo moment,’ said Kirby. ‘I reviewed Brown’s phone records and discovered some of the calls he made were to a mobile number belonging to none other than Father Angelotti.’
‘James Brown knew Father Angelotti!’ Lottie finished her wine with a gulp. ‘So we now have a conclusive link between James Brown and the dead priest.’ She placed the empty glass on the table. ‘When was this? What date?’
‘Dates,’ Kirby corrected her. ‘There were a few calls. Mid-November was the first one. Hold on.’
He extracted the sheaf of papers from his shirt pocket and unfurled them. Yellow highlighter illuminated the pages, circling a myriad of numbers.
‘Here it is,’ Kirby said, pointing with a stubby finger. ‘November twenty-third at six fifteen p.m. And two others, December second and December twenty-fourth.’
‘What time on December twenty-fourth?’ asked Lottie, feeling a surge of excitement.
‘Ten thirty a.m. and seven thirty p.m.,’ said Kirby, taking one of his pens and drawing yet another circle around the digits.
‘And according to our pathologist’s best guess, Father Angelotti was murdered on Christmas Eve,’ said Lottie.
‘And Susan Sullivan met with the bishop on Christmas Eve. Even though the pretentious bastard refuses to tell us what it was about,’ said Boyd.
‘What ties all this together?’ Lynch asked.
‘St Angela’s and the developer Tom Rickard.’ Lottie threw a glance over her shoulder at Rickard’s son. He was nuzzling her daughter’s neck. She turned away, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
‘How does Father Angelotti fit in?’ Boyd asked.
‘I don’t know yet but we could presume Brown rings him at ten thirty a.m. to arrange to meet and called later to say he couldn’t make it back in time,’ Lottie said. ‘That’s the appointment his lover Derek Harte referred to.’
‘But Father Angelotti was already there,’ Boyd said. ‘And someone else, also.’
‘Apparently,’ said Lottie. ‘Who?’
A barman came between them to tip a bucket of coal on to the fire. The flames dampened momentarily and then leapt up the chimney. Sparks settled on the hearth in front of the detectives. Kirby ordered another round. The four of them settled into silence. A burst of laughter amongst the chatter behind them ruptured the air.
Lottie tried to concentrate on Kirby’s information. At the same time she wanted to know what her daughter was up to. She looked down at her empty glass, willing the barman to return with the refills. She noticed the frayed edges on her T-shirt sleeves. If Adam was still alive, she’d have more money. Was it the Rickard kid’s wealth that attracted Katie?
The drinks arrived. Boyd passed them round. Kirby paid. Lottie heard laughter behind her again. She twisted around.
Katie was looking straight through her. The girl’s open mouth displayed a tongue piercing reflecting the firelight. When did she get that? Jason had his arm around Katie’s shoulder, fingering her collarbone. When she felt Boyd tugging her arm, Lottie realised she’d stood up.
‘Leave her be,’ he said. ‘She’s just a kid having fun.’
‘What would you know about it?’ Lottie snapped, brushing Boyd’s hand away.
‘Not much, I agree. But I do know this, making a scene with your daughter in front of her friends is the wrong move. Sit down.’
She did. Boyd was right of course. She sighed and allowed the wine to layer a thin numbness on to her brain.
‘I hate to say this, but your other daughter, Chloe isn’t it? She’s just walked in,’ Lynch said.
‘Sweet Jesus.’ Lottie swung around in her chair. Chloe waved and walked over.
‘Hello, Mother,’ said Chloe. She nodded at the other detectives. ‘So this is your busy schedule.’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,’ said Lottie. ‘Where’s Sean?’
‘Well, he’s not with me.’
‘Obviously,’ retorted Lottie, quoting one of Chloe’s favourite words.
‘He’s at home. We had Pot Noodles for lunch,’ said Chloe, lingering behind her mother’s chair.
‘Yuk,’ said Boyd, turning up his nose.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Lottie, feeling the guilt trip her daughter was sending her on. ‘You’re underage.’
‘Stating the obvious, Mother,’ said Chloe, pulling at the string of a pink hoodie underneath her white puff jacket. She looked twelve, not sixteen. ‘I’m looking for Katie and now I’ve found her.’
‘I think you should go home,’ said Lottie, aware they were now the focus of hushed attention. ‘Wait for me outside. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.’
Chloe turned, her blonde hair bobbing on top of her head, and she marched out of the pub.
‘Don’t fret about them,’ said Lynch. ‘Things will get better.’