At home she hung her jacket on the banister of the stairs and Chloe went into the sitting room. Sean was lying on the couch flicking through indiscriminate television channels. Chloe flounced on to the chair opposite him, arms folded. The room was warm, the atmosphere cold.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lottie. ‘I should’ve come straight home after work. But it was a long day and I needed to unwind first.’ She leaned against the door watching her children. Why did she have to explain herself? Guilt?
Chloe lunged out of the chair and skipped over to her.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, wrapping her arms around Lottie, hugging her. ‘I was worried you might be on a binge. That’s the real reason I went to the pub.’
Lottie welcomed her daughter’s concern.
‘You don’t need to fret over me,’ she said. ‘I only had a couple. I won’t be making it a regular occurrence.’
‘You needn’t think I’m going to hug you,’ said Sean, smiling at them over his shoulder. ‘I need a new PlayStation.’
‘It’s only two years old. What’s wrong with it?’ asked Lottie, freeing herself from Chloe.
‘It keeps freezing. Niall looked at it and said it’s almost at the red light of death. It can’t be fixed,’ said Sean. ‘And I’ve had it four years, not two. I got it way before Dad died.’
‘And Niall is an expert, is he?’
Lottie knew Sean’s best friend was a master at taking things apart and building them up again. She hoped he was wrong. Red light of death? What the hell was that? Her budget wouldn’t stretch to a new PlayStation.
‘He is an expert. When can I get a new one?’ Sean beseeched, the little boy in him overriding the teenager. ‘I have some money in the bank.’
‘You can’t touch your money. You know it’s held in a trust fund until you reach twenty-one.’ She had invested Adam’s small life insurance money in special accounts for the children.
‘I know that. But I have a few hundred in my own account,’ Sean sulked.
‘I’ll see what I can do. You’re back to school in a few days so you’ll be studying,’ she said, hopefully. ‘No time for PlayStation then.’
‘I’ll die without FIFA and GTA. There’s nothing on the telly.’
Lottie sighed. Maybe she should cancel her Sky subscription.
‘Come on, Chloe, let’s see if there’s anything besides Pot Noodles in the kitchen.’
Sean returned to his channel hopping, settling on a re-run of Breaking Bad.
Lottie wasn’t sure if it was suitable for a thirteen year old, but hadn’t the energy to protest.
Fifty-Seven
Mike O’Brien had left the bank in a foul mood, after he had dispatched Rickard’s loans account to Head Office. He knew there could be repercussions. One day. Not yet, though. He had massaged the figures as best he could. Now, he had to wait and hope the account might get lost in cyber world. The diversion on his way home had done little to assuage his temper.
He sat with his orange-striped cat on his knee, as he did most nights. Classical music filled the air from the music system speakers. It usually served to relax him. Not tonight.
Chewing his nails, he stroked the purring creature. Most of his life was spent alone. He liked it that way. Loneliness and aloneness went hand in hand with him. He’d never been one for forming friendships, let alone relationships. He had a few acquaintances at the gym, Boyd the detective included. But they were not friends. His sexual inadequacies warped his sense of belonging. He had learned to live with it. Found ways to supplement it. Not always tastefully, but he survived. And another couple of months before the hurling season resumed. He missed training the young lads. The activity helped fill the spring evenings.
The doorbell sounded, screeching into his reverie.
Flinging the cat to the ground, O’Brien looked around wildly. Had Head Office sent the crime squad already? Could they be on to his fraudulent activity with the Rickard loans so quickly? That was insane. Not at nine o’clock at night.
He switched off the music, flicked back the curtain and peered into darkness. Living on the outskirts of town had its disadvantages, particularly since his home was in the middle of a Rickard ghost estate. Twenty-five houses, enclosed behind high walls, was the original plan, but only half were completed and the erection of intercom gates had not transpired. The remainder struggled against rusted scaffolding and wind howled through windowless concrete. The sound resonated through O’Brien’s skull.
Pulling back from the window, his reflection in the glass was all that remained. He let the curtain fall and smoothed down its creases.
The doorbell rang a second time.
He cursed and went to answer it.
Bishop Connor had an anxious scowl scrawled on his face.
‘Let me in, before someone sees me,’ he said, pushing past O’Brien.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked O’Brien, his smile faltering. He closed the door, having first checked no one else was outside.
‘I hate cats.’ Bishop Connor walked straight into the living room, eyeing the ginger cowering beneath a Queen Anne chair.
O’Brien clenched his hands into tight fists. This was his home.
‘I’ll take your coat,’ he said, rescuing it from the back of the couch where Connor had dropped it. A cat hair clung to the shoulder. O’Brien plucked it away and hung the coat in the hall.
He returned to find Connor holding a fragile Lladro ornament of a young boy.
‘Your décor could do with a facelift,’ Connor said, returning the ceramic piece to the mantle.
‘It serves me well. I don’t see any reason to waste money unnecessarily.’
‘Ah, yes. Ever the banker.’
‘Drink?’ asked O’Brien.
He poured generous fingers of whiskey into two crystal tumblers and handed one to Connor. They clinked glasses, remained standing and sipped the alcohol.
‘That interfering Inspector Lottie Parker is poking her nose around,’ said Connor.
‘She has a job to do.’
‘She knows I met that Sullivan woman and she’s snooping about Father Angelotti.’
‘That had nothing to do with you,’ O’Brien said. ‘Did it?’
‘I do not need her joining any more dots.’
‘What about your friend, Superintendent Corrigan? Won’t he help?’
‘I think I have exhausted that line of friendship.’
‘Sit?’ O’Brien indicated a chair. The cat sulked beneath it.
‘I will stand,’ said Connor, taking up centre position in the room.
O’Brien’s legs felt weak, he needed to sit, but remained standing. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Get her off my back. We need to transfer her focus somewhere else.’
‘And what do you propose?’ O’Brien asked, a sense of helplessness swamping him. His throat constricted so he swallowed another draught of whiskey. Lottie Parker had ridiculed him in his own office yesterday. He’d love to make her pay for that, but what could he do?
‘What about Tom Rickard? What does he have to say?’
‘I am talking to you, not Rickard,’ said Connor, his voice a shaft of steel.