Until the pathologist declared it, she couldn’t publicly announce a murder. Brown blanched.
‘Dead? Susan? Oh, my God. That’s terrible. Terrible.’ Beads of sweat pulsed on his forehead. His voice increased an octave and his body trembled. Lottie hoped he wouldn’t faint. She didn’t want the trouble of lifting him up.
‘What happened? How did she die?’
‘I’m unable to comment on that, I’m afraid. But do you have any reason to believe someone might want to harm Ms Sullivan?’
‘What? No! Of course not.’ He twisted his hands together like stress balls.
‘Can I talk to anyone here who knew Susan? Someone who could provide me with an insight into her life?’
More than you’re giving me, she wanted to add. For some reason she felt he was not being totally honest with her
‘This is a shock. I can’t think straight. Susan is . . . was a very private person. Perhaps you should talk to her PA, Bea Walsh.’
‘Perhaps I should,’ said Lottie.
Some colour had returned to Brown’s cheeks, his voice had lowered and the shaking ceased. He began wiping his forehead back and forth with a white cotton handkerchief.
‘I’ll talk to her now,’ said Lottie, ‘if you can arrange it. Time is important. I’m sure you understand.’
He stood. ‘I’ll get her for you.’
‘Thank you. I’ll definitely need to talk to you again. In the meantime, this is my card with my contact details, if you think of anything I should be aware of.’
‘Of course, Inspector.’
‘If you could direct me, please,’ she said, waiting for him to lead the way.
He walked along the corridor to another office, a mirror image of his own.
‘I’ll get Bea. By the way, this is Susan’s office.’
When he was gone, Lottie sat at the desk. She looked around the office. It was like Boyd’s. Pristine. No file or paper clip out of place; just a phone and computer on the desk. A flip-over calendar showed December 23rd, with the motto, The acts of this life are the destiny of the next. She wondered if Susan was now reaping her destiny based on what she had or hadn’t done in her life.
A birdlike woman with a tear-stained face walked in and smoothed down her navy button-through dress with quivering hands. Lottie indicated for her to sit.
‘I’m Bea Walsh, Ms Sullivan’s PA. I can’t believe she’s gone. Mr Brown told me the awful news. Ms Sullivan had so much work to do. I was only after tidying her office and organising her files today for her return. This is awful.’
She started to cry.
Lottie assumed the woman was near retirement age, early to mid-sixties. A frail thing.
‘Can you think of anyone who might want to harm Ms Sullivan?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I’ll need your help and the assistance of anyone you can point me to. I want to build up a profile of Ms Sullivan and her life, especially in recent times. People she met with, places she went, her hobbies, her loves, any enemies or people upset by her.’
Lottie paused. Bea looked up expectantly.
‘Can you help me?’ Lottie asked.
‘I’ll do my best, Inspector, but I’m afraid I’ve very little information. She was a closed book, if you ask me. A lot of what I know is hearsay.’
Lottie took some notes, though there wasn’t much to write. She would have her work cut out trying to establish just who Susan Sullivan was and, more importantly, why she was killed and who did it.
James Brown rubbed his brow, wiping away sweat pooled in the shallow wrinkles on his forehead. He couldn't believe Susan was dead. Reading behind the inspector’s veiled words, he knew she had been murdered.
‘Oh my God,’ he said.
He’d always assumed Susan would be around forever, ready to pick up the pieces every time he crumbled under the weight of their shared past.
‘Susan,’ he murmured to the walls.
His eyes lost focus against the magnolia blandness and he closed them. Was this, Susan’s untimely death, because they’d begun to resurrect buried secrets?
He tried to clear his mind. He had to protect himself; to put in motion the plan he’d concocted if something like this happened. He had prepared for something like this, but he didn’t think Susan had.
Astute enough to realise that he and Susan were dealing with conniving, dangerous people, he’d documented everything from the very start. Unlocking a drawer, he removed a thin folder. He put it in an envelope and wrote a note on the outside. Then he placed it all in a larger envelope, addressed and sealed it. He slipped it into the post basket. The recipient would know if it didn’t need opening and to send it back per instructions on the note. If it did – well then, he wouldn’t know much about it, would he? He stemmed his panic and took out his mobile phone.
There was nothing else he could do other than make the call.
With trembling fingers he tapped a number in his phone. He began to speak, his voice strong and forceful, belying the tormented heart bursting inside his chest. Even as he spoke the memories refused to lie down.
He said, ‘We need to meet.’
1971
The Mass servers were changing back into their own clothes when the tall man with the thick black hair and angry face walked into the room. The smallest boy had the fairest skin and lightest hair. A whippet on two legs. He looked up wide-eyed, as if to say, please don’t be looking at me, and pulled his threadbare jumper over a creased, once white shirt now faded grey, buttoned up to the neck.
A bony hand, veins protruding, pointed at him.
‘You.’
The boy felt his eight-year-old body fold into itself. His bottom lip quivered.
‘You. Come into the sacristy. I have work for you.’
‘But . . . but I have to get back,’ he stammered. ‘Sister will be looking for me.’
The boy’s eyes widened and salty tears curled at the corners of his fair lashes. Fear expanded in his heart and the man seemed to grow in size before him. Through a watery haze he saw a long finger curling, calling him. He remained rigid, one shoe on and the other underneath the bench behind him. His beige socks creased around his ankles; their elastic, melted from too much washing, protruded like little white sticks in sand. The man moved and with a single stride his shadow fell on the boy, shrouding his body in darkness.
A hand pinched his arm and dragged him through the wooden door. He silently pleaded with his eyes for the other boys to help but they gathered their remaining clothes in trembling arms and fled.
Golden angels adorned the corners of the ceiling as if they had flown up there, become trapped and were unable to come down again. White alabaster gargoyles were interspersed with the angelic cherubs, their faces tired and drained. The boy tried to hide behind a high mahogany table in the middle of the room. The dark wood seemed to him to exude a deep, penetrating air of oppression.
‘What have we here, a scaredy cat? Are you a little girl, you whining good-for-nothing?’ the man shouted through his pale, pink lips.