‘I didn’t kill you and I didn’t kill anyone.’
Lottie sat down. And when Harte resumed his seat she reached out and grabbed his hand, twisting it round until he groaned.
‘You’re a little prick,’ she said.
‘Whatever you say, Inspector,’ he said, his arrogance restored. He eyed the camera in the corner of the ceiling. Lottie dropped his hand.
Kirby fidgeted and she knew he was itching to kick the shit out of Harte too. But if he was telling the truth, that left someone else out there who was the murderer. But why should she believe him?
‘Jason Rickard,’ Lottie said. ‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know any Jason Rickard,’ he insisted.
Lottie sighed heavily and, leaving Harte alone with his conceited eyes, she switched off the recorder and followed Kirby out.
Ninety-Eight
In the incident room, Lottie, Kirby and Lynch looked at the photographs on the board.
‘Arrest him for breaking and entering. For mugging and robbery. Anything else we can charge him with? Come on guys, help me out here.’
‘We’ve no evidence Harte killed anyone, so if it’s not him, who’s the murderer?’ Kirby said.
‘And where is Jason Rickard? Was he abducted? If so, why?’ And where is Sean? she wondered. He better be home by now. Ignoring the icicles freezing her spine, Lottie walked away from the board and rummaged through the ledger copies, scanned down through the names and dates without really seeing them. Tried to recall O’Malley’s story. Could he be their prime suspect?
‘There was a murder in St Angela’s years ago,’ she added, ‘and my theory is someone is killing the witnesses. That’s the only conclusion I can come to. But what has Jason Rickard got to do with it? And Father Angelotti. Where does he fit in?’
‘Just got uniforms’ report here. They talked to all the taxi drivers. Not one of them has a record of going to Brown’s house on Christmas Eve,’ Kirby said.
‘He couldn’t walk that far,’ Lottie said. ‘Not in that weather, so someone drove him there.’
‘The killer?’ Kirby suggested.
‘Possibly. More than likely,’ Lottie said.
Lynch peered over her shoulder. ‘Why is all this happening now?’
‘We need to talk to Bishop Connor again. Another lying bastard.’ Lottie picked up her bag. ‘And we’ve to see Mike O’Brien. Boyd said he was in the gym when he took my call about Father Con.’
‘Conspiracy theories, now?’ Kirby asked.
‘And I need jump leads for my car.’
‘I’ll look after it.’
‘First, I want to see where this latest body was found.’ She put the old Manila folder in her bag.
‘Any word from Sean?’ Lynch asked.
Lottie stopped at the door. ‘What time is it?’
‘Eight forty-twoish.’
She tried not to panic. ‘Kirby, this is Sean’s phone number. Can you get our tech guys to see if they can locate where he is via the GPS?’
‘Sure, Inspector. Straight away.’
‘I’m trying hard not to worry,’ Lottie said, ‘but this is totally out of character for Sean. I better go look for him now.’
‘Don’t fret,’ Lynch said. ‘I’ll get the traffic corps to keep watch out for him. We’ll find him. Do you have a list of his friends?’
Lottie said, ‘Chloe already tried them but contact them again. Chloe will have numbers.’ She fought back tears of anxiety. ‘We need to track down where Mike O’Brien might be at this hour of the night.’
Her phone rang.
Father Joe.
‘Not now,’ she said and hung up abruptly. ‘Maybe I should stay here, in case Sean comes looking for me.’
‘If he does, I’ll contact you immediately,’ Lynch said.
‘Okay,’ Lottie relented. ‘I’ll keep myself busy.’
But where was her son? Her chest constricted with fear, and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. She searched her bag for a pill and remembered she had taken one a little while ago. She saw the silver pendant in her bag, plucked it out and flung it on the desk.
‘What’s that?’ Kirby asked.
‘Tom Rickard’s alibi,’ Lottie said. ‘Hurry up, Kirby. We’ve things to do.’
Ninety-Nine
Jim McGlynn and his SOCO team were still at the scene in one of the roofless terraced houses by the train station.
Lottie scanned the area under the glare of the temporary lights. No sign of any other life except the SOCOs working like ants, quickly and efficiently. She left them at it and entered one of the old carriages to her left and switched on her flashlight.
‘He has to be somewhere,’ she said, upturning empty sleeping bags, a stench rising with the material in her hands.
‘He’s not here,’ Kirby said, standing well away from Lottie’s frenzied search.
Lottie heard a shout.
‘Are you looking for me?’
She turned, dropping the matted strip of cloth that had come away from a damp cardboard box. Patrick O’Malley. Standing outside the crime scene tape, his hands deep in his pockets. He looked a lot cleaner than when she’d last seen him.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she demanded, walking toward him. She couldn’t visualise him as a murderer but evidence was suggesting otherwise.
‘Trying to knit my unravelled life back together,’ he said.
Ducking under the tape, Lottie grasped him by the elbow and steered him up the hill to the car. She was anxious to get away from the oppressive air of deprivation emanating from the old wooden railway carriages. It clawed at the back of her throat. A small black hump of movement caught the corner of her eye and she hurried her steps, thinking of the vermin who had feasted on the faceless man who’d sought nothing more than shelter.
O’Malley leaned against the car door.
‘Sit in out of the cold,’ Lottie said and followed him into the back seat.
Kirby sat up front, chewing his cigar and watching in the rear-view mirror. O’Malley was clean-shaven, his clothes fresh. Gone was the scent of sickly unkemptness.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked again.
‘The hostel on Patrick Street,’ he said. ‘They took me in.’
‘Why did you not go to them before now?’ She twisted round to look at him.
‘I never bothered. Just drifted along. But . . . after Susan and James . . . I felt different.’ He paused. ‘Inspector, I owe it to them to pick up the pieces of my life and begin again.’
‘Mr O’Malley, I ought to bring you to the station for questioning.’
‘Grand so. I’ve nothing to hide.’
Lottie considered him. His face seemed naked of any fear or guilt.
‘The note,’ she began, ‘found in a sleeping bag. You wrote it?’
‘Ah yes. You could say that,’ he said. ‘I started it. Didn’t finish it. I decided to get myself together. Never came back for my stuff. Not that there was anything worth getting.’
‘So why are you here now?’
‘I heard earlier this evening that a body was found. I only came up to see what the commotion was all about. I think it’s old Trevor over there. Frozen to death, poor eejit.’