‘What?’
‘You dress up all fancy, with your diamond cufflinks and designer suits, but that persona doesn’t hide the fact that you are a sham without your costumes.’
‘You’re insulting me,’ O’Brien said. Hadn’t Lottie Parker reached the same conclusion? What right had either of them to do this to him? He hung his head.
‘Get out,’ Rickard shouted. ‘Insults are nothing to what I’ll do if you don’t go now.’
O’Brien scuttled out the door.
Rickard poured another drink and went to the window.
‘The little shite,’ he said.
He flicked the curtain open, saw O’Brien’s tail lights disappear down the drive, then he closed it over again, swallowed his whiskey and headed to his drinks table. He didn’t like being kept in the dark and O’Brien had hinted there was something he should know about. That creep was too afraid of the bishop. What hold did Connor have over O’Brien? The banker was right about one thing, Rickard concluded. They could do without Inspector Lottie Parker messing up their project. Things were getting a little bit out of control.
He poured two more fingers of whiskey and drank greedily. The door opened and Jason sauntered into the room, hand in hand with Katie Parker. Melanie was behind them. Rickard stared at the young girl, seeing only her mother.
‘I think you should go home, missy,’ he said, pointing with his tumbler.
‘Why?’ asked Jason, his arm encircling Katie.
‘Because her mother is a fucking detective inspector, that’s why.’
‘That’s not a good enough reason,’ said Jason. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Don’t you dare question me,’ Rickard roared, stepping closer to the pair.
‘Well, you don’t question me,’ Jason said, pulling Katie tighter to his side.
Tom Rickard clenched his fist, reached out and struck his son on the cheek. The glass tumbled from his other hand to the ground and smashed. He hit the boy a second time, full on the jaw. Jason fell to the floor.
Katie screamed, turned and fled.
Fifty-Nine
Lottie stacked the dinner plates into the dishwasher, swept the floor and put the second load of the night into the washing machine. Clothes were drying on all the downstairs radiators and she turned up the boiler thermostat. The house was hot and the fresh scent of fabric conditioner floated around in the heat.
Stifling a yawn, she stretched her arms and thought about what else she had to do at this hour of the night. Looking around the kitchen, she felt comfortable in her own house. It wasn’t a palace but it was her haven; a home for her and her children. She wished she could be here all the time. Not an option. Maybe she should ask her mother to do a few hours’ housework? Then again, maybe not, she thought grimly. But she knew, in reality, she would have to make up with Rose soon. After all, she was her mother and she did love her, despite all Rose had done in the past. If only she could get to the truth of the matter. Another item for her to-do list. She replayed the conversation she’d had with Rose about Susan Sullivan. Maybe the murders had something to do with Susan’s search for her child?
The front door opened, banged shut and footsteps thumped up the stairs.
‘Katie?’ Lottie called.
No answer. She went after her daughter and found her sobbing into her pillow. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Lottie put her hand on Katie’s shoulder.
‘You’re sopping wet. Did you walk home?’ She wiped flecks of snow from her daughter’s hair.
‘It’s your fault,’ Katie sniffed. ‘You and that job of yours. You’ve ruined everything for me. As usual.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Lottie knew the girl was quite possibly half-stoned earlier in Danny’s Bar, but her eyes were now wide with anger. Streaks of mascara blackened her chalk-white cheeks and the child Lottie had once nurtured was nowhere to be seen. She had no idea how to cope with Katie’s dope smoking, though she was damn good at advising junkies’ mothers she met through her job. She needed to address the issue. She would have to talk to that Rickard kid and get him, and his drugs, far away from her daughter. Boyd would help.
‘Missus Detective Inspector,’ Katie spat. ‘You think you’re so important, sitting in the pub with your three stooges. All grand and powerful. You know what? You’re only a drunk. That’s what you are. A drunk! You’ve ruined my life.’ She buried her face into the pillow, smothering her cries.
Lottie jumped up, the words causing her skin to sting like an allergic reaction. She couldn’t speak. She wrung her hands, biting back humiliation. She counted the posters on the wall. She counted the cubes of eye shadow on the dressing table. She counted the shoes lined up beside the bed. She looked around the room wildly. Panic and hurt pushed tears to the corners of her eyes. She wanted to reassure and comfort her daughter, but she didn’t know how.
Katie raised her head from the pillow.
‘Jason’s dad hit him tonight,’ she whimpered, once again the little girl Lottie knew and loved. ‘I eventually got a taxi, after walking for miles. In the snow. In the dark. I was so scared.’
‘Oh my God. You should’ve called me. Here, I’ll help you out of those wet clothes and then you go to sleep.’
‘Why would he hit him?’ Katie sat up and struggled out of her damp jacket.
‘I don’t know why people do these things,’ said Lottie. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
All she could think of was her wild daughter walking along the lake road on a dark winter’s night. And three murder victims lying in Jane Dore’s Dead House.
Had she taught her kids nothing?
Sixty
After Jason stormed out of the house, Tom Rickard watched Melanie turn away from him, a mixture of fear and disgust contorting her face.
His hand trembled as he poured another whiskey. Never in his life had he hit his son. What had possessed him to do it now? No matter what was going on in his business dealings, it was no justification for striking the boy.
Maybe he should just have another drink.
He loosened his tie and gulped the amber liquid.
Answers were like snowflakes on the window, disappearing before he could grasp them.
He hated his father.
In the instant the punch had connected with his jaw, Jason detested him more than anything or anyone in the world.
He’d run out of the house, rushed past his car, shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and marched off down the avenue. He’d turned on to the main road without knowing where he was going. He just needed to get away. He hoped Katie was all right. Shit, he’d let her walk home alone. In the dark. He stopped walking. He should ring her. Oh my God! He’d left his mobile at home on the hall table, with his keys.