And he’d left without his jacket. The snow was soaking through his T-shirt, into his body, clinging like a second skin. He was still stoned, but he couldn’t go anywhere without his phone.
Turning to go back home, car lights lit up the road behind him. Realising he was walking on the wrong side, Jason stepped into the ditch to allow the car to pass. It slowed to a stop and the window rolled down.
‘Need a lift, son?’ the man asked, leaning across the passenger seat.
Jason thought he recognised him. A friend of his father’s? The man from the bar? He couldn’t be sure with the haze swarming around in his head. But he wasn’t about to refuse a lift.
‘Thanks. I don’t know where I’m going, though.’
‘No bother,’ said the man. ‘Neither do I.’
Jason opened the door and sat into the warmth. The man smiled, shifted the gears and drove. The wipers swished back and forth and the man clicked on the radio, drowning out the repetitive hum.
They drove through the night with the clear tone of Andrea Bocelli filling the silence. As snow fluttered and died, a sharp frost descended and a bright moon rose from behind the clouds. Jason shivered to the haunting strains of the blind man singing and he knew how it felt.
Sixty-One
Mrs Murtagh parked her Fiat Punto and hoisted her rucksack up on her back. She struggled with the large flask and plastic cups stuck out at an angle from the top of the bag. She hobbled on her walking stick, thinking how strenuous it all was, without Susan to help.
She missed Susan. Why was she killed? Hopefully it was nothing to do with any of their unfortunate clients. Poor desperate people. Concealed during the day from the eyes of the unseeing and uncaring people of Ragmullin, they blended into the bricks and mortar of the town. At night, they were the streetscape.
The air temperature quickly dropped to minus figures. Her breath hung in the air, preceding her as she shuffled along the icy footpath toward Carey’s Electrical Shop. She set her flask on the ground. Patrick O’Malley was usually here, whether he was drunk or asleep.
Looking around, she saw no sign of him. Checked her watch. Same time as every other night. Keeping a regular timetable had been Susan’s idea. Give these people at least one thing they could depend on, she’d said.
Mrs Murtagh sighed deeply. She picked up the flask and walked further down the street to her next wretched customer. With any luck, Patrick wasn’t lying frozen to death somewhere.
More than likely, she thought, he was dead drunk.
Sixty-Two
The building was dark, its windows sunken, hollow holes in the concrete.
‘What’re we doing here?’ asked Jason, blinking his eyes open. Shit, he’d fallen asleep.
‘Somewhere for you to kip for the night,’ the man said, idling the engine.
‘No way. Bring me home. I need my phone. I’ve to check my girlfriend’s okay.’
‘I’m sure she is fine. Who is she anyway?’
‘Katie. Her mother is a detective.’
‘Really?’ The man was silent for a moment. ‘How interesting.’
‘I should go home,’ said Jason, his body trembling with the cold.
‘I thought all you youngsters loved adventure. I want to show you around. Give you a history lesson.’
‘It’s late and I hate history,’ said Jason. He sat up straight as the man manoeuvred the car, headlights dimmed. He couldn’t get a good look at him but he seemed familiar somehow.
‘Ah, but this will be an interesting lesson,’ the man insisted. He switched off the engine.
‘It’s very dark,’ Jason said, trying not to sound like a little boy.
‘Come on,’ said the man, getting out of the car.
Jason got out and hitched his damp jeans to his waist.
The man turned on his phone’s flashlight and walked up the steps towards the large solid door. Jason stood on the bottom step, undecided. Not wanting to be left outside alone in the dark, he followed.
The door creaked as the man pushed it open with his shoulder. He hurried inside. Sweeping the light around the marbled hallway, he shouted, ‘Honey, I’m home.’
He laughed. The sound, loud and ugly, echoed around the walls. And he walked toward the staircase. The wooden banisters seemed to evoke some memory in him; he stroked the timber with his fingers and laid his cheek down, as if feeling the smoothness underneath.
Jason toyed with running back down the steps, out the gate and home. But his father had been a total jerk. His jaw still throbbed from the impact of the fist. He craved a joint. Hell, if Katie was with him, they’d have some laugh at this shithead kissing the staircase.
‘Up here,’ the man said, walking up the stairs, leaving Jason in a wake of darkness.
A loud shriek echoed high above their heads.
‘What’s that?’ Jason ducked.
The man sniggered.
‘Only the wind whistling along these old corridors,’ he said. ‘Or birds. Never know which. Come, I want to show you something.’
Jason, cold and wet, itched to see what was up the stairs. Anger at his father fuelled his resolve. He stomped up the stairs.
What harm could it do?
Sixty-Three
Lottie’s phone rang at quarter to midnight.
She was going over her case notes, cursing the fact that she’d left Mrs Murtagh’s brown bread in Boyd’s car. Superintendent Corrigan’s name flashed on the screen. She ignored it. Too late to listen to a tirade. The phone stopped. Instantly, it rang again. Knowing Corrigan wouldn’t give up, she answered without looking at the caller ID.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘That’s a very official-sounding greeting.’
Lottie smiled and folded up her notes.
‘Father Joe. Good to hear from you.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘Slow is an understatement.’
‘Come visit me in Rome. The weather is beautiful. Cold with blue skies.’
‘Sounds nice. But—’
‘You’re wondering what I’m doing ringing you at this hour, right?’
‘Mind reader.’
He laughed. ‘How’re you keeping?’
‘I’m okay,’ Lottie lied.
She wasn’t okay at all. She’d cradled Katie to sleep before returning to the kitchen with her daughter’s words reverberating in her brain. A drunk? Was the girl correct? Wasn’t that what she’d become since Adam died? She controlled it most of the time but not totally and she was becoming more dependent on her pills. Great role model for her teenage children. She sighed.
‘You’re not okay. I can hear it in your voice,’ he said. ‘Come to Rome. I’ve sourced interesting information. You need to look at it, first hand.’
‘Have you uncovered another Da Vinci code?’ joked Lottie.
‘Not quite. I found St Angela’s records. They’re in a secure location, all hard copy. It would be impossible to photograph them to fax or email. It would take forever. And if I was caught I’d be excommunicated. In all seriousness, you need to look at them yourself. Could you swing it with your superintendent?’
‘Not a chance,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ve been stepping clumsily on your bishop’s toes. I think he’s reported me again.’
‘You’re only doing your job.’
‘He is Superintendent Corrigan’s golf buddy.’