‘Moroney, the journalist . . .’
‘Go on.’ Somehow, she knew what he was going to say.
‘That stuff he reported about James Brown being a paedophile, well, I might have said something I shouldn’t have.’
‘Ah, Jesus, Kirby. What did you say?’
‘Moroney overheard a conversation about what we found in Brown’s house. He rang me for confirmation. We were up to our necks in reports and stuff, so I might have agreed with what he said, to get him off the phone.’
Lottie shook her head. At least now she knew the source of Moroney’s information. She had been wrong to suspect it might have been Lynch. Probably a genuine mistake on Kirby’s part. At least she hoped so. Deciding to let it go, she said, ‘Don’t let it happen again.’
Kirby exhaled and tapped his pocket for a cigar. ‘Thanks boss.’
‘And you did well with O’Brien.’ It was the closest she could come to a compliment in the circumstances. She watched Kirby stroll off down the corridor as Lynch joined her.
‘Sean? How’s he doing?’ she asked as they walked.
‘He’ll recover. In time,’ Lottie said.
Tom Rickard’s eyes. She didn’t want to see that look again any time soon. She’d found his son, like she’d said she would; but she’d failed him in the worst possible way.
Lynch said, ‘Kids always turn out fine.’
‘And what the hell does any of us know about it?’ Lottie muttered.
She kept on walking.
One Hundred Eight
Rounding the corner, she bumped into Father Joe standing at the nurses’ station.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said, flicking a strand of hair from his brow, breaking into a sad smile. But Lottie read sorrow in his eyes. Welcome to my world, she thought.
‘Joe.’ He was holding a bulky A4-sized envelope. Tiredness creased his face like crumpled linen. ‘What are you doing back home?’ she asked.
‘How’s Sean?’ he asked, ignoring her question.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘No. Not good. God, I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry, Lottie.’
‘Everyone is sorry. What good is sorry?’
‘I’ll come back later.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she cried. ‘I don’t want to see you again. My son almost died. And it’s all my fault.’
‘Nothing I say can make any difference at the moment,’ he said, lowering his head.
‘Then why are you still here?’
He handed her the envelope.
‘I paid a visit to Father Angelotti’s office. I got this.’
‘What is it?’ She turned the envelope over in her hand, still bristling.
‘Look at the return address.’
‘James Brown. He sent this to Father Angelotti?’ She noticed the postmark. ‘December thirtieth. The day he died.’ She questioned with her eyes. ‘But Father Angelotti was dead by then.’
‘Brown mustn’t have known that.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘All I know is Father Angelotti’s staff were getting ready to return it, so I volunteered to take it with me. I caught the next flight home.’
He took a sheaf of papers from his inside coat pocket and handed them to her.
Lottie arched an eyebrow. ‘What are these?’
‘I went back to Father Umberto’s place, looked through the records again and found more information that might be of interest to you.’
‘I haven’t time for all this now,’ she said, leaning against the wall.
‘I know,’ he said, his shoulders drooping.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, turned and walked down the cluttered corridor, leaving her standing alone.
She watched him until he disappeared behind the closing elevator doors. Her anger evaporated; in its place an intense loneliness settled.
One Hundred Nine
‘What’s in the envelope?’
Boyd leaned against the wall, outside Sean’s door. Fully dressed, looking like a corpse.
‘What the hell? Boyd? Are you serious?’
‘You need help and I’m it.’
‘You’re half-dead,’ Lottie said. ‘Go back to your room. I have the team.’
‘The envelope?’ he repeated.
‘I haven’t opened it yet.’ She turned it over in her hand. ‘James Brown posted this to Father Angelotti. Joe brought it from Rome.’
‘Joe? How cosy.’
‘Boyd?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t start.’
‘I’ve missed you, Lottie,’ Boyd said.
‘I missed you too, you daft man, and now I need to check on Sean.’
Voices echoed from the elevator. Katie and Chloe ran forward, tears streaming, arms outstretched. Rose Fitzpatrick hurried up behind them. Lottie smiled a weary thank you to her mother.
Her family, bruised and damaged, but complete.
With Sean awake at last and comfortable, his sisters either side of the bed holding his hands, Lottie could contain herself no longer. She tore open the envelope and read James Brown’s words. They jumbled up inside her, flitting about like an image from Alice in Wonderland’s mad tea party, then merged into a cohesive picture without the Mad Hatter. Now she had the full story, scripted in Times New Roman, imprinted firmly in the forefront of her mind.
She had to talk to Patrick O’Malley again. Before it was too late.
One Hundred Ten
She should really be with her son and the girls, but her mother told her to do what she had to do, then come back.
Sitting at her desk, Lottie felt totally at odds with herself, but at least her son was safe with his granny entrenched in his room, taking control as usual. But for once, she was glad of her mother’s help. Conflicted though she was, Lottie knew she had to end this case. Afterwards, she would make the space to spend time with her children. Sean needed her, Katie needed her and even Chloe, in her own obstinate way, needed her. As for Rose Fitzpatrick, Lottie knew her mother was a survivor, with or without her. For the first time, she acknowledged the grief and trauma her mother had endured. It couldn’t have been easy for her. She had battled through it all. Now she must do the same.
Kirby dropped a Happy Meal on her desk.
‘Lunchtime,’ he said.
Lottie glanced at the clock. So it was. She yawned and couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten or slept. A false energy was keeping her going so she didn’t stop to think about it.
She read through the copies Father Joe had given her.
‘Boyd, I think I know how Derek Harte, James Brown’s lover, became involved in all this.’
He sat on the edge of her desk. She welcomed his easy familiarity and at the same time she hoped he wouldn’t keel over.
‘Right, Sherlock,’ he said. ‘Explain.’
‘He’s a wrong number.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Seriously Boyd, look at this.’ She pointed to an entry on one of the ledger pages. ‘The reference number attached to Susan Sullivan is AA113.’ She lifted up another copy. ‘So look at the records for the babies and check reference AA113.’
Boyd scanned the page and found the number. ‘It says Derek Harte.’
‘But that number was changed.’
‘How do you know?’