Lottie said nothing. She was thinking of her late night conversation with Father Joe. She looked out at the sleet, beating against the window, eating up the frost. A day in sunny Rome might be a good idea.
‘I still think Father Joe Burke’s photo should be up there,’ said Boyd, the bone securely between his teeth.
‘Put it up then,’ Lottie said, prickly as a thorn bush.
‘Touchy this morning, Inspector,’ said Boyd.
‘Don’t you two start,’ said Kirby, his eyes drooping with exhaustion.
‘Did I miss anything?’ asked Maria Lynch, entering the room, her ponytail bobbing from side to side. She had a bag of croissants in her hand.
Three sets of eyes turned to her.
‘No,’ came the synchronised reply.
Superintendent Corrigan followed Lynch, spraying spittle over the seated detectives before words even reached his mouth.
‘Detective Inspector Parker!’
He stood, hands on hips, legs apart, his face as flushed as Kirby’s. So, he hadn’t been sent to work with a fry.
‘Sir?’ Lottie queried.
‘My office.’
Corrigan turned on his heel and headed down the corridor.
Handing Boyd the coffee, Lottie mentally formulated responses to the inevitable questions. Prepared for the fight, she followed Corrigan into his office.
‘Before you say anything, sir—’ she began.
‘No, Inspector Parker,’ he interrupted, raising his hands. He sat down on his leather chair, air hissing out under his weight.
‘Before you say anything, don’t feckin’ feed me excuses. I don’t want to hear them. Are we clear?’
Lottie nodded, not trusting the words that might find their way to the tip of her tongue.
‘You better have a good reason for upsetting Bishop Connor. Again.’
‘Was that a question, sir?’ So much for keeping her mouth shut.
Corrigan’s spectacles slipped down his sweaty nose, his eyes bulging over them, the top of his head like a boiled egg about to be cracked with a hot spoon.
‘Explain yourself. Before I get the chief superintendent to suspend you.’
‘Suspend me?’ This was serious. Shit. ‘What for?’
‘I’ll think of something,’ he said, his voice reducing the size of the room.
She held her breath before blurting out, ‘I want to go to Rome.’ Might as well go for the full monty, she thought.
‘Ro . . . Rome?’ Corrigan stammered. ‘Do you want to insult the feckin’ Pope now?’ He pushed his spectacles back into place.
Lottie kept her mouth firmly shut.
‘And sit down. Sit down, for God’s sake. Standing there like a giraffe lost in the feckin’ zoo.’
Lottie sat.
‘Are you stupid?’ Corrigan raised his hands despairingly. ‘What’s got into you?’
‘I need to go to Rome,’ Lottie chanced again. ‘I think Father Angelotti is the link to the Sullivan and Brown murders. And the answer to that link is in Rome.’ She hoped she sounded convincing, because she didn’t know what Father Joe had uncovered. She continued before Corrigan could interrupt. ‘I need to see St Angela’s records. Two children were murdered there, almost forty years ago, and two of our victims were resident there at that time. I believe those records may help establish a motive. They should be archived in the Dublin Archdiocese but for some unknown reason they’ve been transferred to Rome. So I need to go to Rome.’
‘You’re either drunk or mad,’ Corrigan said. ‘And I can’t smell alcohol so it must be the latter.’
‘That’s a no, is it?’
‘Most definitely.’
‘Can I explain where I’m coming from?’ Lottie asked.
‘You can’t even explain where you’re going to,’ Corrigan thundered. ‘But I’ll explain something to you, Inspector Parker.’ He stood up and paced around her. ‘We are a week into these investigations and so far you’ve come up with sweet Fanny Adams. I’m giving daily press conferences, talking a load of shite, because you, Boyd, Kirby, Lynch and the other clowns in your circus out there are too busy playing stick the feckin’ tail on the feckin' donkey photos to give me any answers. The people of Ragmullin are scared shitless. The murderer is out there laughing at us and what do you want to do? To go arsing around feckin’ Rome. Hah!’
He ceased his tour round her and sat down, more air escaping. Lottie wondered if it was from the chair or his arse.
‘There’s a logical explanation and I’ve a gut feeling—’ She stopped mid-sentence as Corrigan’s cheeks flamed purple.
‘I don’t want any bullshit about women’s intuition or gut feelings, do you hear me?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And stop harassing Bishop Connor. If I see his name appear on my phone again, I’ll have you suspended before I answer the call. Are we on the same page, Inspector?’
‘Yes sir,’ Lottie said, biting back that Connor might be ringing for a round of golf.
‘And stay away from Tom Rickard too.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Now get out and do constructive work, if you still know what that means.’
Superintendent Corrigan took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, and when he replaced them, Lottie was halfway out the door. She heard his words as she retreated.
‘Rome me feckin’ arse.’
Sixty-Five
Tom Rickard chewed his breakfast. Vigorously.
‘Jason never came home last night,’ Melanie said.
‘I know.’ Rickard stuffed a sausage into his mouth.
‘I’m worried,’ she said, refilling his mug from a red Le Creuset teapot. ‘He often stays out, but after what went on last night, you know . . .’ Her voice cut as sharp as the knife he was holding.
Rickard raised his head, picked a piece of egg from between his teeth and swallowed it.
‘He’ll be home soon enough.’
‘You never hit him before, even when he was little. Not so much as a slap. What got into you? And in front of his girlfriend. You are despicable.’
Running his tongue around his teeth, Rickard lifted the fork and finished his breakfast. He stirred three spoons of sugar into his tea and gulped it loudly.
He said, ‘He’s hanging out with the wrong sort. I’m going to put a stop to it this very day.’
‘You do realise there’s a murderer out there and our son has disappeared.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘He probably spent the night wrapped around that young one.’
‘Like you? Where did you take off to late last night?’
‘Don’t go there, Melanie.’ Rickard watched her through the tines of his fork.
‘You hit our son, then you do your disappearing act,’ Melanie sneered. ‘Were you with your perfume blonde?’ She sniffed the air as if he carried around the other woman’s scent.
Rickard refilled his cup. He wondered how many pieces the teapot would shatter into if he threw it at the wall. Or maybe at her head.
A phone rang in the hall. Rickard got up to answer it, thinking it had just saved him from an act of madness.
Katie Parker awoke with a headache banging behind her eyes. She pulled her phone from under her pillow. No missed calls. No texts.
She tapped Jason’s number. Why had his father been so angry?
Voicemail. His voice laughed through the message. ‘Hey bud, I’m obviously not able to take your call, don’t bother to leave a message. Ha. Ha.’
Katie smiled.