‘Is it relevant to the recent murders?’ Jane asked, placing a hand on Lottie’s shoulder.
‘I’m not sure. It might concern an old crime,’ Lottie said. In an effort to prevent further questions and to shake off Jane’s hand, she asked, ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘I better get back to the Dead House. It’s filling up faster than Tesco on Christmas Eve.’
Lottie tried a smile. It didn’t work.
‘You’re exhausted,’ Jane said.
‘Long day.’
Lottie printed the picture. When she looked up, Jane was gone.
Kirby and Lynch were watching her.
‘What does it say?’ Lynch asked.
Lottie picked up the page from the printer and read.
‘Dear Inspector, the red-haired boy killed with the belt was called Fitzy. You need to find Brian . . .’ The words trailed off as if the nib had broken or the author no longer had the will to write. The page, smudged and crimpled, pencil strokes shaky.
Removing the old file from her drawer, Lottie slid the note under the photograph of the boy. He’d been missing for almost forty years but was still smiling in his school shirt. She ran her finger over the freckled nose, then closed the folder. Was he Fitzy, the boy murdered in St Angela’s? Dear God, she hoped not, because then it would be too personal.
She wondered if Sean was home yet. Tried his number again. No answer. ‘I’m so going to kill you, Sean Parker,’ Lottie said to the phone in her hand. And still nothing on Jason Rickard’s whereabouts either.
She had to find Patrick O’Malley.
They found Derek Harte first.
Ninety-Seven
Uniformed gardaí brought Harte to the station, an hour and a half after the six o’clock news aired. Moroney’s television news report had stirred the public and a stream of phone calls resulted in locating Harte, almost by accident.
Lottie and Kirby sat in the warm, sticky, interview room. Harte had agreed to the recordings and waived his right to a solicitor.
‘Mr Harte, at 19.13 this evening, sixth of January, you were apprehended attempting to gain access to a property belonging to the late James Brown. Can you inform us as to your reasons and intentions in doing so?’
Lottie sat across the table, eyeing Harte. It was difficult to conceal her loathing, as she recalled the heinous crime for which he had spent five years behind bars. Abduction and abuse of a minor. His smug face added a hint of insult. He rubbed his hands incessantly. She wanted to slap him, to make him stop. Instead she fingered a pill out of the pack in her jeans pocket and slipped it into her mouth. She needed to maintain control of her emotions. And locate Jason Rickard, and find out what her son was up to. She shifted uneasily. She should have asked Lynch to carry out the interview with Kirby. Too late now.
Harte remained silent, breathing through flared nostrils, short, sharp bursts, a sly sneer flushing his cheeks.
‘I haven’t time for this,’ Lottie said, crashing her chair back against the wall. She leaned across the table, grabbed him by his shirt, pulled him towards her. Kirby jumped up, ready to intervene. Harte’s mouth curled into an ugly snarl.
She saw then the reality of his personality as his facade faded, revealing a cruel and sadistic pervert. The real Derek Harte. Tightening her hold, she shoved her knuckles against his throat until his face reddened. She didn’t care that it was being recorded. He was scum.
‘This is brutality,’ Harte spluttered, his first words since he was apprehended. ‘Maybe I might get that solicitor.’
Lottie drove her hand deeper against his Adam’s apple, wanting to do damage, to leave her mark. If Boyd was here, he’d have pulled her back already and they’d have a laugh over it later. Giving Harte one last shake, she thrust him back into his chair. She’d have paced if there’d been enough room. Kirby was in the way. No option but to pick up her chair and sit down.
‘Where is the boy?’ she asked, through gritted teeth. The urge to choke him was overwhelming. Concentrate.
‘Boy? I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he sneered.
‘You like young boys, teenagers.’ Lottie slid Jason Rickard’s photographs across the table.
He glanced down, then quickly looked up at Lottie. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘Why do I not believe you?’ Lottie took back the photograph. ‘The posters in James Brown’s house, did you put them up?’
‘No comment.’
‘Why did you wrangle your way into his life?’
‘None of your business.’
‘It is my business. I could arrest you for murder.’
‘Arrest away. You’ve no evidence.’ Harte tapped his index finger on the table, gritting his teeth. ‘Because I didn’t do it.’
‘Brown was a deviation from your normal prey, wasn’t he? Not a ripe young child. Why did you go for an older man? Had he something you wanted? Money? Information?’
‘You’re talking pure shite. I haven’t a clue what you’re on about.’ Harte folded his arms.
‘Why the charade about being a teacher?’
‘I never said that.’
Lottie thought back to her earlier interviews with him. He could be right. She had misinterpreted what he initially told them.
‘Tell me then, why were you attempting to break into Brown’s house tonight?’ Lottie asked, changing the subject rapidly.
‘I wasn’t breaking in. I was going in. I knew where the key was. Only it wasn’t there. I tried the back door and window. I forgot you lot would’ve taken the key and switched on the alarm.’
Lottie studied him. He looked so different from the man who’d feigned grief. She was furious with herself for falling for his ruse. She’d thought he was genuine. So much for her intuition and gut instinct. Losing your touch, Parker, she chided herself.
‘Now you’ve an opportunity to put the record straight,’ she said.
‘If you don’t mind, Inspector, I’m saying nothing until I get a solicitor.’
‘Mr Harte, the least I can charge you with is obstructing our enquiries. And I will. This is your last chance.’
Lottie read a range of emotions crossing Harte’s face, like rolling isobars on a weather chart. His body sank into the chair as he appeared to reach a decision.
‘Okay. What’s in it for me?’
‘Talk to me and I’ll know what I’m dealing with.’
‘Can I have a coffee first?’
Lottie wanted to say no, but the truth was, she needed to get away from the self-righteous Harte. If only for a few moments.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘Interview suspended.’ She switched off the recording equipment. He’d got under her skin and it itched worse than a mosquito bite. She sought air.