‘Yes, sir.’
When Fatjon had gone, Russell smoothed down his moustache, picked up the dead girl’s picture, tore it in half and fed it into the shredder beneath his desk.
Once his breathing had returned to normal, he looked at the card. Detective Inspector Parker. He knew he had to stop the nosy nuisance. He had too much to lose to have her fuck it all up now. He fingered the card and wondered about the name. Parker. She couldn’t be related to Sergeant Adam Parker. Could she?
Seventeen
‘So whose toes did you step on this time, Inspector Parker?’
Lottie stood in front of Superintendent Corrigan. ‘Sir?’
‘I’ve had a call from the Department of Justice, the RIA.’
‘The IRA?’
‘Don’t play smart with me, Inspector. The Reception and Integration Agency. Apparently you’ve upset their coordinator here in Ragmullin, a Dan Russell.’
‘Really? I thought I was very polite. Sir.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘It appears that when I step on toes, the guilty invariably jump around holding theirs, squealing.’
‘What are you on about?’
Lottie took a deep breath before speaking. ‘I didn’t give Mr Russell any reason to contact the department, this RIA. In any case, he’s managing the centre as a private enterprise. A new initiative, so I’m told.’
‘What did you do, Inspector?’
‘I showed him a photo of our murder victim. I wanted to know if she came from his facility, as he calls it.’
‘Why in God’s name would you think she came from there?’
‘No one has reported our dead girl missing. No reported abductions. No sightings. Nothing. If she’s not local, I thought, on a hunch, that maybe she was here illegally, or possibly an asylum seeker. If it’s the latter, the direct provision centre’s the logical place to ask questions.’
Lottie debated telling Corrigan about the visit from Mimoza, but decided he was irate enough already without adding to it.
‘A hunch? One of your gut feelings? Those feckin’ things that got you and me into trouble last time. Tread softly, Inspector, very softly. I saved your job before, not so sure I can do it again. Please keep your feet firmly on your own side of the table.’
Corrigan was a good man but Lottie knew there was only so much shite one person could shovel at him. And he’d already had a trailer load from her.
‘Any word on McNally’s whereabouts?’ he asked.
Lottie had heard nothing further from Kirby. ‘Not yet. I’ll get to it.’
‘You do. Now go and find our killer.’
Off the hook for the moment, Lottie wanted to find out everything she could about Russell. Now that he had complained about her, she had him firmly in her sights.
* * *
When she got back to her desk, she began writing up the Dan Russell interview. She hated paperwork but it was a core responsibility of her job.
‘That fellow got under my skin,’ she muttered, unable to concentrate.
Popping her head over her computer, Maria Lynch asked, ‘Who? Superintendent Corrigan?’
‘Him too. But I’m talking about Dan Russell. He runs the direct provision centre in the old army barracks.’ Lottie could hardly hear herself speak above the drone of the photocopier. The place was never quiet.
‘Heard rumours about that DPC place,’ Lynch said, undoing her ponytail and running her fingers through her long hair.
‘What kind of rumours?’ Lottie was interested. She didn’t know much about the asylum-seeker or refugee population in Ragmullin.
‘My husband, Ben, you know he lectures in languages at Athlone Institute?’
‘Of course I do,’ Lottie said.
‘Some of the grad students teach English to the refugees and asylum seekers from time to time. They’ve told Ben that place is run like a prison camp.’ She wrapped her hair up in a bobbin.
‘Dan Russell appears to be getting above his station. Do a background check on him, please.’ Lottie stood up and went round to Lynch’s desk.
‘Sure.’
‘And could you do me a favour?’ Lottie held up a copy of Mimoza’s note. ‘I need this translated.’
‘What is it?’
‘It was given to me yesterday by a frightened young woman who called to my home. She had very little English and I can’t be sure of the accuracy of Andri Petrovci’s translation.’
‘You showed it to Petrovci?’ Lynch looked up incredulously.
‘I did.’
‘Do you think that was wise?’
Not you too, Lottie thought. ‘Wise or not, that’s what I’ve done.’
‘Hope Superintendent Corrigan doesn’t find out you involved a suspect in something unrelated to the murder.’
‘He won’t if people keep their mouths shut.’ Lottie stared directly into Lynch’s confident little face. And if you tell him, I’ll know, she thought, because she was sure Boyd wouldn’t rat her out. She handed over the letter, then went in search of Kirby.
Eighteen
The cathedral bells chimed four times in the near distance.
Pulling Milot behind her, Mimoza walked across the yard to the cookhouse. The guard at the gate waved a hand in salute and smirked. A feeling of disgust assaulted her. Yesterday she had done what she needed to do. Sometimes you had to sell your soul to the devil and hope he would rent it back to you. Shaking off the memory, she pushed open the door and escaped inside.
The cookhouse was buzzing with flies. Through glass-panelled walls, sunshine radiated unhindered over the women seated at wooden tables. Crockery clunked against trays and the chatter was a muted drone. Mimoza spied Sara sitting alone and made her way towards her.
‘What are you eating?’ she asked, dragging Milot up on her lap. Four p.m. was too early for dinner, but if you didn’t eat now, you got nothing until breakfast time. And she was hungry.
Sara’s bony shoulders twitched as she twirled her fork around the puddle of watery spaghetti. Her eyes were too big for her petite dark face, her hair in raggedy plaits, swirling around her thin neck. She sucked the stringy pasta into her mouth. Suddenly Mimoza didn’t feel hungry any more.
The canteen chatter dropped and rippled to silence as the glass door at the end of the room opened and two security guards made their way towards Mimoza’s table. Her body began to shake and she clasped her arms around Milot, pulling him to her chest protectively.
The men halted. One of them gripped her shoulder, hauling her to her feet. Still she held onto the boy. Panic threatened to suffocate her. The man’s hand tightened on her shoulder, bone on bone. Cold shivers of steel cut through the cauldron of fire raging in her heart. With one swift movement he unlocked her hands from the boy and dragged her away.
Milot cried out and the other guard pushed him towards Sara.
Looking over her shoulder, Mimoza wailed, ‘Sara! Look after him.’
She saw her son kicking wildly, attempting to follow her. The guard caught him by the arm, jerked him backwards, sitting him firmly on Sara’s lap.