‘Give it a rest, Boyd.’
‘Okay, but when Corrigan gets wind of this, I don’t want to get caught in the down-draught.’ He walked on ahead of her.
‘How can we find out if the body is that of this Kaltrina?’ She caught up with him again.
‘So far no one has been reported missing. No one reported abducted.’
‘I need to find Mimoza for more information.’
‘Lottie?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t involve this Petrovci character. We know nothing about him.’
‘He read the note for us, didn’t he?’
‘You have no idea what is in that note. He could have said anything.’
‘I’ll get it translated,’ she said. ‘Properly this time.’
‘Don’t make the same mistake as last—’
‘Oh my God, you’re the proverbial broken record.’
They turned the corner. The twin-spired cathedral soared upwards like a majestic bookend at the top of the street. The murder at the end of December within its marbled walls might have been a fading memory to most of Ragmullin’s citizens but Lottie could not forget. It had set off a train of events, solving her personal family secret about her long-lost brother, Eddie, and in the course of many mistakes she had almost lost her son. She shivered.
‘Are you all right?’ Boyd asked.
Gripping her arms tight to her body, Lottie shrugged off his concern and hurried into the station. She couldn’t help thinking she had made an error of judgement involving Andri Petrovci.
Fifteen
Back in the office, sitting at her desk reading her way through various reports on the murder, Lottie looked up to see Kirby struggling to get in the door, a large watermelon gripped to his chest, dribbles of perspiration slipping down his face from his bushy, in-need-of-a-cut hair.
‘Is it raining?’ asked Boyd.
‘We’re so funny today,’ Kirby mocked, slapping the watermelon onto his desk. It started to roll. He caught it before it smashed on the floor.
‘What’s that for?’ Lottie asked.
‘Thought we might have a game of football. Any of you geniuses know how to cut up this thing?’
‘Google it,’ Lottie and Boyd said together.
‘Fuckers,’ said Kirby.
Turning her attention away from Kirby as he went off in search of a knife, Lottie said, ‘When we find Mimoza, we’ll show her a photograph of the dead girl.’
Boyd slammed a bunch of interview transcripts down on his desk without answering her.
‘Just thinking, boss, the victim might be one of those asylum seekers,’ Kirby said, returning from the canteen brandishing a bread knife. ‘They’re housed up in the army barracks and she might not have been reported missing yet.’ He leaned down to Lottie and whispered, ‘No sign of McNally.’
She nodded her thanks. ‘We were wondering the same thing yesterday evening. Why do you think she could’ve been resident there?’
‘She hasn’t been reported missing by anyone, has she?’ Kirby set about dissecting the watermelon on his desk.
‘No,’ Lottie said. ‘So she’s probably not a local, and we’ve checked the national missing persons list too.’
‘There was a fierce commotion a few months ago in the media about the accommodation at the army barracks,’ Kirby said. ‘Overcrowding or something.’ Juice splattered up from the melon. ‘When the barracks closed down, everyone was afraid it would be overrun with vagrants,’ he continued, pips caught in a day’s growth of stubble. ‘Then there was more of an outcry when the Department of Justice set up the camp.’
‘Camp? Kirby, you are the most politically incorrect person I know.’
‘You know what I mean.’ Kirby sucked on the watery fruit.
‘We’ve no evidence the victim is from this… what do they call it?’ Lottie said.
‘Direct provision centre. We’ve no idea where the hell she’s from.’ Kirby offered a slice of melon to Boyd, who declined with a shake of his head.
Lottie typed a few words into her computer. ‘Says on the DOJ website that the guy in charge of the direct provision centre is Dan Russell, ex-army officer. Interesting to note too, the Ragmullin centre is one of the government’s latest outsourcing projects.’ She continued to read.
‘Experimental so,’ Boyd said. ‘God knows what it’s like.’
‘Like a concentration camp. That’s what I heard.’ Kirby squelched the fruit, rivulets leaking from the side of his flabby lips. ‘All women and children. The men are located at another centre somewhere. Longford or Athlone. Families split up.’
Lottie ignored their banter. ‘Let’s pay a visit to Mr Russell,’ she said to Boyd, anxious to flee Kirby and his obnoxious eating habits.
‘Wonder if Russell knew your Adam,’ Boyd said.
Sixteen
Ragmullin army barracks, built in 1817, had changed little in almost two hundred years. Lottie and Boyd entered through a door beside the main gate and showed their ID to a security guard. Up ahead, the old guard hut was empty and the jail, which during the civil war had held IRA leader General MacEoin captive, also looked bereft of human habitation. The security guard pointed out directions. Lottie and Boyd followed the cobbled path and entered a building marked ‘Block A’, situated beside a small chapel.
Climbing the wooden stairs to Russell’s office, Boyd asked, ‘Are you all right being here, Lottie?’
‘It’s a bit weird, but I’m okay.’
She knocked on the door, feeling claustrophobic in the narrow corridor.
‘Enter,’ came the command from within.
With formalities over and seated at his desk, Lottie studied Dan Russell. He was the quintessential ex-army man. Uniform-like suit, slate grey, black tie and immaculate white shirt. She placed a photograph of the dead girl on the desk. She had no qualms about showing him a post-mortem picture.
He glanced down. ‘I don’t know her.’ His voice was as sharp as his appearance. He looked up from the photograph, directly at Lottie. He had navy-blue eyes and was older than she’d first thought – perhaps late fifties – with a moustache perched above a thin upper lip. ‘I’m exceptionally busy, Inspector,’ he said. ‘You do realise I’ve had to reschedule my day to fit you in.’
‘Yes, and thank you. Appreciated,’ Lottie said abruptly. Tell me if you know the girl in the photo and I’ll get out of your sleek black hair, she thought.
‘You’re on a wild goose chase.’ A smile tickled the edge of his upper lip.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What makes you think this person might be from here?’
Lottie counted the pictures hanging on the wall behind him. In stressful situations, she counted things. Gave her time to breathe. It stemmed from a trauma in her childhood when she’d used it as a coping mechanism.
‘Do you recognise the dead girl? That’s all I’m asking,’ she said at last.
‘She’s dead?’ The lip drooped. Shock? Surely he knew it was a post-mortem photograph.
‘Yes, she’s dead,’ Lottie said. ‘Murdered.’