‘Good morning, Mr Rickard,’ she said in her sweetest voice.
She wheeled over Boyd’s chair. Rickard sat, his buttocks precariously balanced on the edge. Nodding to Corrigan that she had everything under control, he scuttled out the door.
‘Are you here about St Angela’s?’ Lottie found a notebook and picked up a pen.
‘St Angela’s has nothing to do with anything,’ Rickard said, a white handkerchief appearing in his hand. He wiped his pulsing forehead. ‘It’s my son, Jason. He’s missing.’
Lottie scribbled without raising her head. Katie had said she couldn’t get hold of Jason yesterday. She should have listened more carefully. She tried to stem the beginnings of alarm. Surely Jason would at least have contacted Katie? Something wasn’t right.
‘Missing? According to Katie, you and Jason had something of an altercation. When was that?’
Rickard looked as if he was going to object but said, ‘That’s right. Night before last. He stormed out of the house and hasn’t been home since.’
‘Did you check with his friends? His usual haunts?’
‘Yes. And scoured the town, the lakeshore,’ he said. ‘We had a fight. He fecked off.’ His feet were planted firmly on the ground but his head shifted from side to side.
‘I understand how worried you are, but Jason is over eighteen and an adult. Do you think his disappearance could have anything to do with your St Angela’s dealings?’ she asked, emphasising the name of the institution.
Rickard shot up from the chair. Lottie recoiled instinctively.
‘You’re one callous bitch,’ he said.
‘Sit down, Mr Rickard,’ she said, writing more notes on a page, allowing him time to regain composure. ‘Any ransom calls?’
‘What?’ Rickard clenched his fists on the desk. ‘That’s absurd.’
‘No ransom requests then.’ She wrote a note then raised her head. ‘Mr Rickard, I have to ask awkward questions. You’re a wealthy businessman. Kidnapping is one option. Suicide or running away are some of the others. If you want us to investigate, you have to co-operate.’ This was bullshit, but she wasn’t letting go. It might be her only chance to get information from him.
‘How can my business affairs have anything to do with Jason?’
‘Probably nothing, but the way I see it, you hit your son, he ran off in a huff and now he’s cooling his heels somewhere until he figures out how he’s going to tackle you about it.’
‘Why isn’t he holed up with your daughter then? Why hasn’t he contacted anyone? His phone is at home, but all his friends have mobiles, Facebook and Twitter stuff. Wouldn’t he at least contact his girlfriend? What did she tell you?’
‘Katie was very frightened when she came home and she told me you hit your son. She hasn’t heard from him since but Jason is an adult, Mr Rickard. In normal circumstances, I’d advise you to go home, hold your wife’s hand and wait while we make enquiries.’
Blood flushed the veins in his cheeks. He remained silent.
‘However, as you know,’ Lottie continued, ‘things are not normal in Ragmullin at the moment. People have been murdered so you have cause for concern.’ She was genuinely concerned for Jason, but she couldn’t help being bitchy. She needed to know what Rickard knew.
He remained immobile except for his bottom lip twitching as if he wanted to say something but was unable to get the words out.
‘It’s not normal procedure as he is not a minor, and we should really wait a bit longer, but I’ll process a missing person’s report and put out a bulletin,’ she said.
‘That’s it? A missing person’s report?’
‘I’m even bending the rules at that.’
‘Rules my arse. Where’s Corrigan?’ Rickard stood up.
‘Tell me about St Angela’s,’ Lottie said, without raising her head.
‘St Angela’s has nothing to do with Jason.’ He sat down again.
Chewing her pen, Lottie tapped her computer awake and pressed a few keys. She clicked Susan Sullivan’s pathologist report, scrolled down to the photos, zoomed in on the victim’s throat and turned the screen toward Rickard. She had nothing to lose.
‘What’re you playing at?’ he asked, the handkerchief appearing again.
‘This is our first victim.’
She was a total shit doing this to him, but being at a low ebb he might volunteer some useful information.
‘Please . . . Inspector, don’t,’ he said. ‘Do you honestly think I’d something to do with this . . . this monstrosity?’ He puffed out his chest, shaking his head.
Lottie closed the document and opened another.
‘James Brown.’ She eyed Rickard. ‘He phoned you a little while before he died. So tell me. What was going on?’
Rickard chewed the inside of his cheek.
She imagined his brain forming a response. Before he could answer, she said, ‘Think of your son. Do you want me sitting here in a few days’ time scrolling his post-mortem photos for your wife?’
He swallowed noisily and leaned in towards her. She waited.
‘None of this has anything to do with St Angela’s,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’m a businessman, I formulate plans, conclude deals, make money, develop property, realise profits. Sometimes I lose, but more often than not, I win. St Angela’s was a site ripe for development, a way of clawing back what I’d lost with the ghost estates. I had a vision for it, a master plan. I wanted to develop it into a beautiful hotel, build a magnificent golf course, bring business, jobs to the town.’ He straightened his back. ‘And it has nothing to do with the disappearance of my son.’
‘Just humour me,’ Lottie said.
‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘Never.’
She knew Rickard was considering her, forming a reply he thought she might want to hear. She sat rigid, displaying no emotion. He looked around the room, then back at her and seemed to come to a decision.
‘First off, I want you to be clear that I did not murder those people or arrange for them to be murdered. I had nothing whatsoever to do with those crimes. I might be a lot of things, Inspector, but I am not a murderer.’
‘Go on,’ Lottie said.
‘Should I have my solicitor present?’
‘Depends on whether you’ve done anything that warrants you needing one.’
Rickard exhaled. ‘James Brown did ring me, that evening, before he was killed.’
‘Go on,’ Lottie repeated. Nothing new there. They had the evidence.
‘I knew both Brown and Susan Sullivan through their work on the planning application. He told me Susan Sullivan was dead, that she might’ve been murdered. Said he wanted to meet me. That was the sum total of the conversation.’
‘Why did he contact you?’ Lottie asked.
‘I don’t know. He said he wanted to tell me something, urgently.’
‘Did you meet with him?’
‘No. Told him I was busy. Hung up. Then he was killed a few hours later.’
‘Someone met him and then possibly killed him. Who did you contact after James’ phone call to you?’
‘No one.’
‘Come on, Mr Rickard. We can access your phone record.’
‘I rang my partners to inform them of Sullivan’s death and Brown’s phone call.’
‘Your partners?’