‘No need for you to know them, is there?’
She would get it out of him later. ‘Had any of them reason to kill Sullivan and Brown?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You must have some idea. What were the victims up to?’
Rickard inhaled a couple of deep breaths.
‘Brown and Sullivan. A right pair when they got going,’ he said. ‘They knew I’d wrangled the alteration to the county development plan to progress my plans for St Angela’s. Had it in for me, the two of them did. Tried to blackmail me. Said they wanted reparation for past sins or some such shite. I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. When Brown first contacted me with their . . . their scam, back in July, I told him to go fuck himself.’
Lottie thought of the money in the victims’ bank accounts and the cash in Susan Sullivan’s fridge.
‘But you gave in.’
‘I did not.’ He banged the desk. ‘I rise above such challenges, Inspector. I don’t give in.’
‘So what did you do? They’d threatened you with blackmail.’
‘I convened a meeting with my partners. I told them about the blackmail threats and we decided to ride it out. Brown and Sullivan were not a danger to our plans. They’d no concrete proof of any wrongdoings. In all honesty there weren’t any wrongdoings – just speeding up the planning process.’
‘And how was that done?’
‘A few quid in a few back pockets of councillors. But that’s not the issue, is it?’
Lottie decided to ignore his admission of planning manipulation. She had enough going on. She decided to change direction. ‘Were you ever a resident in St Angela’s, Mr Rickard? As a child?’
‘No, I was not and I don’t know what that has to do with anything.’
Lottie wasn’t sure if this was the truth but she needed him to confirm it.
‘Who else is involved in this project?’ she asked. If he was telling the truth, and she suspected he was, who sent the money to the victims’ bank accounts?
‘I don’t see what you knowing who my partners are has to do with my son’s disappearance.’
‘You don’t know that. I want to know who they are.’
‘Will you find my son?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Lottie said.
‘Alive?’ Rickard asked. His bulk appeared to have shrunk since he had entered the room.
She didn’t answer. That was a promise she couldn’t make, however confident she was that the boy had skived off to get away from his overpowering father. She hoped that was the case, thinking of her last missing person. Father Angelotti.
He told her the names. Gerry Dunne, Mike O’Brien and Bishop Terence Connor.
‘You need to tell me the whole story,’ she said, her fatigue from lack of sleep evaporating.
‘There is no story, Inspector. Just a few men pulling a couple of strokes to make a quick buck. Bishop Connor sold me the property below market value in exchange for lifetime membership to the new golf club. Mike O’Brien massaged a few figures so that I could finance the deal and Gerry Dunne is to ensure the project gets full planning approval.
‘That’s it. We’re not involved in anything dark enough to warrant murder. I suggest you start looking elsewhere. Otherwise you’re wasting valuable time when you could be looking for Jason.’ Rickard searched his pocket for something.
‘As you appear to have a fascination with St Angela’s, here, take these,’ he said, slapping a ring of keys on the desk. ‘Go, see for yourself. It’s just an old building in need of renovation. Bricks and mortar. Satisfy your curiosity. And then, for God’s sake, find my son.’
Lottie placed her hand over the keys and pulled them towards her before he changed his mind.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Go home to your wife. Let me know the second you hear anything from Jason. I’ll do likewise.’
She indicated their interview was over.
Rickard stood and, without a word or a backward glance, walked flatfooted out of the office, his tailored suit as wrinkled as his craggy face.
Opening the bottom drawer, Lottie extracted the yellowing Manila folder and gazed at the young boy in the photograph. She knew exactly what it was like to have someone missing. She hoped against hope that Jason Rickard was only nursing a sore ego. Anything more sinister than that, and they were in a completely new sphere.
Eighty-One
Sean Parker listened to Katie sniffling in her bedroom next door. It reminded him of his mother’s night-time crying after his dad had died. The difference was his mam got up each morning red-eyed but in denial, going about her work as if nothing was wrong. He’d wanted to shout at her, remind her of the crying keeping him awake at night. But he remained silent, his young heart breaking for her, for his sisters and himself.
Katie’s sobs were different and he felt sorry for her. He’d been in awe of Jason since he’d let him have a pull on a spliff. He’d managed a few drags before the sitting room swam in a myriad of shapes and colours. Then he’d vomited for twenty minutes. He hadn’t told Jason that.
He pressed his camouflage controller and stilled a soldier’s action on the screen. He wished his mam was home more. But she had her job and was busy with the murder investigations. Everyone told him he was the man of the house, now his dad was gone. So what would the man of the house do?
He tried to switch off the PlayStation but it froze. Wouldn’t go on or off.
He needed a new console. Badly, like right now.
He had some savings. Searching his locker for his bank card, his fingers touched cold steel and curled around the Swiss army knife his dad had bought him years ago. He liked to flick open the different shaped blades pretending he was a character from Grand Theft Auto. In all the years he’d had the knife, he’d never taken it out of the house. Today he would. After all, there was a murderer around. You never knew when you might need a Swiss army knife. His dad had told him that. He checked the time on his phone. Just gone half past eleven. He’d be there and back before lunchtime.
He put his bank card in his pocket along with the knife and, pulling on two hoodies, left the house to the sound of Chloe calling Katie a drama queen.
Eighty-Two
Kicking off her boots, Lottie massaged her foot with one hand while clutching the keys to St Angela’s with the other. She caught Kirby eyeing her over the top of his monitor.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Nothing.’ He returned his gaze to the computer.
‘Kirby, for once in your life will you say what you’re thinking?’
Pocketing the keys, she stamped her foot to the floor and shuffled her aching feet back into her boots. Trailing a hand through her limp hair, she took her phone off silent. No messages. No missed calls. No nothing. She hoped Boyd was doing all right. She looked up to find Kirby standing beside her with a page in his hand. He squeezed her shoulder.