Five missed calls from Kirby. Nothing from Boyd. She tried him first. No answer. Then she rang Kirby.
‘Jaysus boss, I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours,’ he panted.
‘What’s wrong? My kids! Are they all right?’
‘They’re fine.’
‘Thank God. Boyd’s not answering his phone. And I need a lift home.’
‘He’s in hospital.’
‘What? What happened? Is he okay? Tell me he’s okay, Kirby.’
‘No, he’s not. Stabbed, strangled. He’s in surgery. You better get back here.’
‘What the hell happened?’
‘That priest you sent him to talk to is dead. Murdered. Boyd took after the killer and almost got himself killed in the process.’
‘Oh my God. Is he going to be okay?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I’ll be there in less than an hour.’
‘And boss?’
‘What?’
‘Superintendent Corrigan is looking for you.’
Lottie hung up, ran to the taxi rank and jumped into the first car. Sinking into the seat, she looked out at the grey dawn rising on the horizon with only one person on her mind.
Boyd.
The narrow hospital corridor, lined with empty beds and lockers, had staff in green scrubs, unrecognisable as doctors or nurses, flitting along, heads down, scanning patient files. In and out of the ICU swinging doors, whooshing wind over the stifling air, they hurried. Lottie was tempted to push open the door to see for herself how serious Boyd was, but rationale ruled. Two plastic chairs facing the ICU lockdown were free beside a dozing Detective Lynch. Detective Kirby was lounging beside her.
‘How long since he returned from surgery?’ Lottie asked.
‘Half an hour,’ Kirby said, standing up straight. ‘No word yet.’
Lottie paced, then sat.
‘Let’s get a coffee,’ Lynch said, stretching.
‘Let’s not,’ Lottie snapped.
‘Calm down,’ Kirby said.
‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
Lynch filled her in.
‘And Father Cornelius . . . I’m assuming it’s the same MO as the other murders.’
‘Yes. Strangled. The lads are searching the database to see if he had any connection to the other victims,’ Lynch said.
‘I found a connection in Rome. That’s why I rang Boyd to go talk to the priest,’ Lottie said.
‘What did you find?’ Lynch asked.
‘In his interview Patrick O’Malley mentioned a Father Con. I found out that Father Cornelius Mohan was a priest in St Angela’s when Sullivan and Brown were there. After that he was moved around institutions and parishes more times than a carousel. He had to have been a serial child abuser.’
‘But what’s the motive for the murders?’ Kirby asked. ‘And how does a paedophile priest fit in?’
‘He does. Somehow.’
Lottie nursed her head, attempting to keep a headache under wraps.
‘Boyd better make it,’ she said and they lapsed into silence.
A doctor rushed out of ICU. Lottie sprang from the chair and marched over to him.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Parker. I need to see Detective Sergeant Boyd.’
‘I don’t care who you are, no one goes in there until he’s stable.’
‘How long might that be?’
‘As long as it takes.’
‘Doctor? Please.’
‘I’ve managed to save his ruptured spleen. He’s a very lucky man. No other internal damage that I could see. He’ll be in ICU for the rest of the day. I suggest you all go home for now and call back later.’
Lottie swayed in the draught from the swinging door as the doctor brushed past.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We can do more for Boyd by finding the murdering bastard who did this to him. This just got personal.’
Seventy-Nine
Kirby dropped Lottie home to pick up her car. Her mother was busy mopping the kitchen floor.
‘Did you ever hear of a Father Cornelius Mohan?’ Lottie asked, after thanking Rose for looking after the children.
‘I did. He lives out in Ballinacloy. Retired this long time.’
Jesus, her mother really did know everyone. ‘And?’
‘He was a local curate in Ragmullin, back in the seventies.’
‘Do you know anything else about him?’ Lottie watched her mother’s face.
Rose Fitzpatrick stared back.
‘What’s this about?’ she asked, squeezing out the mop.
‘Background information.’
‘As far as I can recall he was one of the chaplains in St Angela’s for a time.’
‘Really?’ Lottie knew her mother was being evasive.
‘Come on, Lottie. I’ve answered your questions about my conversation with Susan Sullivan and I know you’re itching to ask me something else.’
‘Was there ever a hint of scandal surrounding him, especially in St Angela’s?’
Rose turned, put the mop and bucket into the utility room, grabbed and buttoned her coat. She pulled her hat down over her ears and paused at the door.
‘I know full well, Lottie Parker, you already know the answer.’
‘And you know full well that’s where you dumped Eddie after Dad died.’ Lottie stated grimly. This was the first time she’d ever accused her mother.
Rose’s hand dropped from the door handle. She took a step toward Lottie. There were tears in her eyes.
‘You know as well as I do that your precious father killed himself. He didn’t just die.’ A sob broke from her throat. ‘And I didn’t dump anyone anywhere.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Lottie hunched her shoulders, reached out and placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. She waited for Rose to shake it off. She didn’t.
‘No. I’m sorry. You were too young to understand it all. I could never talk about it and I’ve always grieved for their loss. You know about grief; how hard it is to carry on without a husband by your side. I did everything I could to make things right for you. Everything.’
Lottie did know, but she had lived with the gaping hole in her existence every second of the day. Now she wanted answers.
‘I want to know what happened and why it happened. You owe me that much, at least.’
Rose pulled away from Lottie’s hand and lowered her voice.
‘After all I’ve done for you and your children, I don’t think I owe you anything.’
‘But why did Dad kill himself?’ Lottie persisted.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Okay, I will accept that. For now. But Eddie? My little brother? You put him in that place, left him to rot there. I cannot accept that.’
‘You don’t know what it was like back then. The stigma attached to suicide. I was a widow with two young children. And Eddie, he . . . he was impossible. I had no choice.’
‘There’s always a choice, Mother. You just made the wrong one.’
‘Don’t judge me, Lottie.’
‘Then tell me why you placed Eddie in there.’
‘It was the only place that could handle him.’
Lottie laughed wryly. ‘Only they couldn’t, could they? He ran away, didn’t he? What must it have been like for him?’ She shook herself as images of the horrors of 1970s institutions invaded her senses.