Pulling the cellophane from the pack, Lottie extracted a cigarette with numb fingers. Leaning against the newsagent’s window, she flicked a lighter and inhaled. Harte’s words swirled around her brain.
The awning over the shop sagged in the middle with accumulated snow. Traffic crawled up and down the street and she idly counted the red ones. Snow fell in thick clumps. A group of boys, hoodies shrouding their faces, lounged at the corner of a laneway across the road, drinking from cans. An occasional ‘yahoo’ emanated from their huddle and Lottie thought of Sean. She looked at her phone: still no contact. She rang Chloe.
‘No, he’s not home,’ Chloe said. ‘Katie is driving me mad.’
‘Don’t mind her. Try Niall again and Sean’s other friends.’
‘What other friends?’
‘Just do it, Chloe.’
This was unlike Sean. A knot of fear gathered in the pit of Lottie’s gut but she felt somehow detached. How could she be this calm when her own son might be missing? The pill she’d just taken or because she wanted to believe he was all right? Of course he was.
Shaking herself out of her musings, Lottie knew there was something rotten in her town; there had been for a long time. St Angela’s, with its walled-in secrets, was at the core of it. The tattoos, the records, Father Con, Patrick O’Malley, Susan and James, even Derek Harte. St Angela’s was the den of iniquity.
Pulling up her hood, she caught a glimpse of her face in a shop window. A ghost-like apparition peered back at her. As quickly as she could, she headed to the station. Harte was her next target. She was ready for him.
Pacing, one step one way, then the other. Lottie had to be doing something or she would hit him.
‘So, Mr Harte, what have you to tell us?’
‘Right so,’ he said. ‘You better not charge me with anything. I don’t want to go back to jail.’
She waited without replying. She wasn’t going to promise the bastard anything.
‘I suppose I better tell you what I know,’ he said.
Lottie nodded at Kirby to be sure everything was being recorded.
‘I got a call from a priest in Rome. Father Angelotti.’
She hadn’t been expecting that. She sat.
‘He said he had information for me. Talking all about me being adopted and my birth mother wanting to meet me.’ His eyes flitted around the room.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I knew I was adopted but I hadn’t given it much thought. So when he contacted me, I was curious.’ His eyes never stopped moving.
‘You were in St Angela’s as a baby,’ Lottie stated. Earlier she’d seen his name on the Rome ledger. ‘You want me to believe you are Susan Sullivan’s son?’
‘Hard to believe, I know. I hardly believed it myself. That priest sounded convincing on the phone. Said he was coming to Ireland later in the year, with the proof.’
‘How did he find you?’
‘He told me he’d had enquiries about a woman trying to find her child. From the date she gave him, he discovered the adoption records or something. That’s what he said, anyway.’
‘Sounds fanciful to me,’ Lottie said, but she was thinking of the ledger copies on her desk. She stood up and paced again.
‘I’m telling you what I know. I was in prison for five years; my name’s been in the news, so it was probably easy enough to find a jailbird in this country.’ He smirked.
Lottie cringed. Father Angelotti had been a better detective than she was. How had the school where Harte worked not checked him out? Someone would be in deep shit over that.
‘And he told me her name. He was all apologies then. Said he shouldn’t have said it.’
‘Did you meet with the priest?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Harte said, raising his head. The dancing eyes looked hollow. ‘He told me he was coming to Ireland. Asked me if I was willing to meet with my birth mother. He wanted to know if I’d agree, before he spoke to her. I didn’t care one way or the other.’
‘So you met Father Angelotti?’
‘No. I never met him.’
‘Yet we found his body in James Brown’s garden. Odd that, don’t you think?’
‘I didn’t meet the priest. Ever. I didn’t kill him. So I can’t explain it.’
‘Odd too, you shacking up with James Brown.’
‘Coincidence.’
‘I don’t believe in such a thing,’ Lottie said.
She considered Harte. He appeared to be weighing up his strategy.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘When the priest first contacted me he told me the enquiries were made by a James Brown on behalf of this woman. I did some research of my own. I found out this woman he mentioned, Susan Sullivan, worked in the council here in Ragmullin. I went online; saw where she worked, who she worked with. I googled a few of them and stumbled across James Brown on this dating site. That bit was true and we really did like each other. I was sorry when I heard he was murdered.’
‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ Lottie said. ‘So, why did you murder your lover?’
He laughed. ‘I am many things, Inspector, but I am not a murderer.’
‘Did you try to contact Susan?’
‘No. I left that up to the priest.’
Lottie paced in front of him, fitting in two steps, fatigue eating into her joints. She eyed Kirby. This was getting them nowhere.
‘Coincidences, all coincidences. I don’t believe you,’ Kirby said, breaking his silence.
‘I know I was in St Angela’s. I’m sure you can verify it and I had no reason to kill anyone.’
The first part of his statement was true, Lottie knew. ‘Why were you attempting to get into Brown’s house this evening?’
Harte sucked in his jaws. Debating with himself? It better be the truth this time, Lottie thought.
‘James kept money in his house and Susan Sullivan kept money in her house.’
Lottie sat. ‘What money?’
‘They were blackmailing someone. Don’t ask me who, because James never told me. He let slip one night that they got cash in hand as well as money into their accounts. Said no more but told me not to be asking questions about it.’
‘Pull the other one,’ Lottie said. ‘So where’s this phantom cash?’
‘Not sure. In the house somewhere.’
Lottie eyeballed him.
‘Okay then,’ he relented. ‘The suspended mirror over the bed . . . that’s where the money is hidden.’
Lottie looked at Kirby. They’d missed it.
‘What about Susan Sullivan’s cash? You know where that is?’
‘You got it, didn’t you?’
Lottie looked at him and wondered if he were the cause of her mugging. He dipped his eyes, avoiding her bruised face.
‘Did you . . . ?’ Lottie reached across the table towards him. Harte squeezed back against the wall, his chair screeching on the tiled floor.
‘Easy, Inspector. I couldn’t get in. A guard was sitting in the squad car in front of the house. I saw you coming out. Followed you. Thought you might have the money.’
Lottie shot out of her chair. Harte jumped back against the wall. She jabbed her finger into his chest.
‘You bastard—’ she said. Kirby grabbed her by the elbow.
‘Didn’t mean to hurt you as bad. But sure you’re okay.’
‘How did you know about my children?’
‘Guessed,’ he said. ‘Wanted to scare you, get you thinking the mugger might be the murderer.’
‘Guess what I’m thinking right this minute?’ Lottie shouted, pounding his chest.