‘I didn’t have time to make an appointment.’
‘You look dreadful. Sit down.’ Annabelle offered a chair to Lottie before perching on her leather-topped desk. ‘I have your prescription.’
‘I haven’t time to go to the pharmacy. Can’t you give me a few pills? Just for now.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Annabelle enquired. She leaned back to a cabinet behind her, extracted a couple of boxes, read the labels and handed one over.
Satisfied it contained benzodiazepine, Lottie pocketed it and took the small plastic bag from her pocket and placed it on the desk.
‘This is yours,’ she said, pointing to the silver pendant in the bag. ‘Explain how I came to find it under a bed in St Angela’s.’
Annabelle glanced at the pendant, face inscrutable. Lottie imagined her friend’s brain whirring, formulating what she thought might be a satisfactory answer.
‘This is not mine,’ Annabelle said, pushing it away from her.
Lottie’s laugh broke up with a cough.
‘Others might believe you, Annabelle O’Shea, but I don’t.’
The doctor picked it up again. ‘I’m sure lots of people have a similar pendant.’
‘I haven’t time for games and I’m definitely not in the mood,’ Lottie said.
Annabelle threw the jewellery down on the desk, stood up and walked to the door. Short, sharp, steps. ‘You got what you came for. Please leave.’
Lottie remained seated, turning the small plastic bag round in her hand.
‘Tell me, Annabelle. I want to know.’
‘If it is mine, what does it matter to you?’
‘Because St Angela’s is part of my investigation into the murders in this town.’
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Annabelle. Tell me.’
‘Okay. Calm down.’
Annabelle sat. Lottie did too.
‘I go there, now and again. With my lover,’ Annabelle said.
‘Who’s this lover?’ asked Lottie, blowing her nose, too loud in the confined space.
‘You don’t need to know that.’
‘I do.’
After a pause Annabelle said, ‘Tom Rickard.’
‘What?’
‘He said he’d leave his wife,’ Annabelle said. ‘When we had enough money to set up together. He’s always involved in some scheme or other.’ She paused, closed her eyes and then opened them wide. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m getting weary of him.’
Lottie snorted her disgust. ‘Same as always. Wanting what you can’t have. Never stopped you, though.’
‘Not everyone can have the marriage you had.’
‘But what about Cian . . . your children?’
‘But what, Lottie, what? You think it’s just me.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘You do, don’t you? You think I’m the only one fucking around in their marriage?’
‘You’re a bitch,’ Lottie said, leaning over the desk.
‘You know me. I take what I want, and I wanted Tom Rickard.’
‘Were you with him the day of the Sullivan and Brown murders?’
‘Probably. When was that again?’
‘You know right well it was December thirtieth.’
‘Mmm . . . let me see.’ She checked her computer diary. ‘Yes, I believe we were together then. Some meeting of his was cancelled and I wasn’t working, so we met up.’
And a few more puzzle pieces slid into place for Lottie. ‘That’s why he couldn’t provide a definitive alibi. He didn’t want to betray you.’
‘Didn’t want his wife to find out.’
‘You should’ve told me this when I spoke to you about Susan Sullivan.’
‘You never asked.’
‘Clever answer,’ Lottie said. She’d had enough of Annabelle, her secrets and lies. She rose and went to the door. ‘Sometimes you can be too clever for your own good.’
Annabelle was silent.
‘When did you last meet him?’ Lottie asked.
‘Two days ago.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I think.’
‘At St Angela’s?’
‘Of course.’
‘I pity you, Annabelle. You have brains, money, a good family and here you are acting like the spoiled brat I always knew you were. Goodbye.’
Outside the doctor’s surgery, Lottie leaned against the wall until her breathing returned to normal. Tom Rickard could have saved her a lot of trouble if he’d been truthful with his alibi from day one. She started walking back to the office.
Sirens were blaring down by the train station as she crossed the canal bridge. The water was frozen, a sheet of snow glistening on it under weak lamps. Blue lights flashed beyond the old carriages. She hurried down the hill and through the town, oblivious to the still twinkling Christmas lights forlornly inviting non-existent customers to venture through shop doors. Cold chewed into her bones but she was too numb in her heart to feel it on her skin.
On the steps of the Garda Station, a black crow stood on the snowflakes, his beak, hard and grey, claws long enough to pluck an eye out of its socket. Flapped his wings once, but didn’t move. Lottie felt him staring as she walked up the steps. An icy shiver travelled the length of her spine and she knew what people meant when they spoke of foreboding.
The chattering in the incident room dropped a decibel when she entered.
‘What’s up?’ she asked. Oh God, she thought, gripping her sides with her folded arms. ‘Boyd?’
‘No,’ Kirby said, twisting in his chair.
‘Well, are you going to tell me?’
‘We found another body,’ he said.
‘Jason?’ Lottie sat down quickly.
‘No. A body was found beyond the old railway carriages, in one of the dilapidated terraced houses.’
‘I hope it’s not O’Malley.’ She got up and walked around the desks. ‘He was looking like one of our most likely suspects.’
Lynch said, ‘The body was probably there for a few days. The face, gnawed by vermin. One arm missing and two fingers gone from the other hand. The toes too. A bag of bones and rags.’ She spoke in the abstract, not referring to the body as a human being. It helped distance the horror.
‘It better not be O’Malley,’ Lottie snapped. ‘According to Mrs Murtagh, that area was one of his haunts.’ She banged the desk in frustration. ‘Is there any indication yet if it’s murder?’
‘Possibly hypothermia,’ Lynch said. ‘The state pathologist is at the scene. Will we head down there?’ She grabbed her coat. A soft murmur of activity resumed as detectives returned to their work.
‘You go. I’ll stay here.’ Lottie gripped the back of her chair, hoping they hadn’t another murder on their hands. If O’Malley was dead, who was left to answer her questions? Would St Angela’s’ evil remain secret forever? She hoped not.
‘Did you track down Derek Harte?’ she asked.
‘He’s not at either of his addresses and his phone is dead,’ Lynch said at the door.
‘Find him.’ Lottie went to find solace at her desk.
‘And get me the journalist, Cathal Moroney.’
Ninety-Four
It must be getting dark outside, Sean thought, because he was much colder now. He hoped his mother was out looking for him. Would she even know he was missing? He hoped so.
He heard footsteps, strained his ears. The door opened and a shaft of muted light silhouetted the man framed in the opening.
‘How is my young man?’ The voice was hoarse and gruff.