‘Hi hon. Hope you’re okay. Ring me when you wake up. Love ya.’ She hung up, then sent him a text with two lines of happy emojis.
She nuzzled into her pillow and groaned as more memories of last night hit home.
She’d called her mother a drunk.
She buried her head under her duvet and moaned.
Tom Rickard stared at the phone in his hand. His son’s mobile; it quickly registered with him that Jason had left last night without it. It stopped ringing. He saw the name ‘Katie’ on the screen and the voicemail icon flashed.
He listened to the girl’s words, realising Jason had not spent the night with her. He looked at the boy’s phone in his hand. Jason went nowhere without it. So where was he?
Going back to finish his breakfast, Rickard figured he hadn’t hit the little prick half hard enough.
Jason Rickard woke to scratching sounds above his head. Tried to sit up. Couldn’t. His hands and feet were tied with a rope, wound up his torso and around his neck. Tremors convulsed his body. Fuck, fuck, double fuck. What happened? He tried to remember but his mind was blank.
He moved his neck a little, trying to see around him. Nothing. Dark. Black. He turned his head. The rope tightened at his throat. Pain throbbed as if a beetle had burrowed through his ear and lodged in his brain. He realised he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
This was no prank.
This was serious shit.
Relaxing his body on to the cold floorboards he tried to call out, but instead succumbed to loud sobs.
He wanted his mother.
He wanted Katie.
He wanted to kill his bastard of a father.
Sixty-Six
Lottie followed Boyd into the cupboard canteen. He boiled the kettle.
‘Who does Corrigan think he is?’ she hissed. Clenching her teeth, she thumped the makeshift counter.
‘He’s the boss, that’s who,’ Boyd said. He found two clean mugs and spooned in coffee.
Leaning against the wall, with her arms folded as if they might keep her anger under wraps, she said, ‘I even put on my subordinate act. He didn’t buy it. Wouldn’t even listen to me.’
‘I wouldn’t listen to you either,’ he said. ‘Look at it from his viewpoint. We haven’t turned up a solid piece of evidence in any of the murders. Now that it’s out about Sullivan working in the soup kitchen, she’s on the front pages again. Corrigan has to answer to his hierarchy and to the public. The locals think we’re doing feck all to find this killer.’
‘Jesus, you sound just like him,’ Lottie spat back. She took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I might have a solid lead in Rome but he didn’t want to know.’
‘What are you talking about?’
She told him about her talk with Father Joe. Boyd’s face remained passive. She wished he’d show some emotion, anger even.
‘Be sensible, Lottie,’ he said. ‘With modern technology I’m sure your priest can figure out some way of sending on this information.’ The kettle boiled and he poured the water into the mugs. ‘There’s no milk.’
‘I don’t want milk. I want answers. One possible lead and I get stonewalled.’ She took the mug, sipped the coffee and allowed the silence to restore stillness to her mind. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said eventually.
‘About what?’
‘Maybe I should contact Father Joe again. See if he can find some way to send me whatever he found.’
‘That’s a start anyway,’ Boyd said.
Her phone rang. She looked at the screen.
‘It’s Katie. Another problem I have to sort out.’
‘Can’t help you there. Sure what would I know?’
Boyd eased past her, his body brushing against hers. He dipped his head in apology and kept walking.
She pretended not to notice his fleeting touch but it warmed her.
‘Katie, are you okay?’
‘. . . and I haven’t heard a word from him,’ Katie was saying.
‘Start again. I was distracted,’ Lottie said.
‘Jeesuus Mam! It’s Jason. I don’t know where he is. His mother rang me from his phone. He didn’t come home last night.’
Lottie glanced at the time.
‘It’s only just gone seven. He’s probably kipped down in a friend’s house somewhere.’
‘Mam! He goes nowhere without his phone. Mrs Rickard said he left shortly after me. After his dad hit him. I’m worried.’
‘Well, there’s nothing to worry about. Trust me. He’s probably nursing his bruised ego. His father was wrong to hit him but Jason has to sort it out himself. When he figures how to do that, he’ll be home. He’s nineteen, not nine.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Katie said. ‘And I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Calling you a drunk. I didn’t mean it. Honest. You’re the best mother anyone could have.’ Katie’s voice filled with tears.
‘Thank you,’ Lottie said, a surge of relief shaking the mug in her hand. ‘Look, I’ve to go. I’ll talk to you later. I’m on a warning from war-horse Corrigan. Eat some breakfast and let me know as soon as you hear from Jason.’
Lottie went back to the incident room. Glancing at the board, she noticed Kirby had stuck up Father Joe Burke’s photograph.
Sixty-Seven
Mike O’Brien was working hard at pretending to work.
His PA, Mary Kelly, wiggled her bottom as she leaned over her desk outside his office. For a moment he studied her figure through the open door. But he wasn’t interested. Too many thoughts clouded his brain. Bishop Connor had rattled him last night. Tom Rickard had angered him. Between the whole lot of them he was teetering on the edge.
His fingers shook as he tried to type in figures. It was gobbledegook. Air. He needed air. Nice cold wintery air. He logged off and pulled on his coat.
‘Mary, I’ve to go out. Take messages if anyone is looking for me. I won’t be long.’
He buttoned his coat.
‘If Head Office ring about the figures you sent yesterday, what will I tell them?’
‘Tell them to go and shite,’ O’Brien said and kept walking.
Bishop Connor unlocked his car and sat into the cream leather seat. Should he have been so hard on O’Brien last night? Maybe he shouldn’t have gone on about putting off the inspector. That might in fact make her more suspicious. God knows what O’Brien would do and, if he cracked, he was liable to do anything. He was the weak card in the deck. But you always need a money man, he thought.
What was done was done. He was not one for doubling back on his convictions. At least Father Angelotti was out of the way. That was good. There were enough meddlers in his affairs to last him until his deathbed. The project would go ahead. A new hotel and golf course. Membership for life, with all the time in the world to enjoy it.
Things were going well. At last.
He turned up the radio and cruised along the road, humming to the music.