‘Feck off, Boyd.’
‘Right so.’ He slammed the files into the drawer and stomped out.
Lottie looked around at the empty chairs and equally empty office. Was she jealous? Of what? Or whom? Boyd hadn’t admitted anything. And why should he? He owed her nothing. I’m going mad, she thought. Stark raving mad.
Boyd stuck his head back around the door.
‘We’ve got a call,’ he said, beckoning her with a nod.
‘What?’ Lottie stayed where she was.
‘Might be a crime scene.’
She gave the keyboard one last thump before hurrying after him. Beard or no beard, she realised she needed Boyd. Whatever else happened, she needed him as her friend.
* * *
After negotiating the water main works on the narrow street outside the car dismantler’s depot, Lottie and Boyd were directed in through the gates. Met by the owner, Bob Weir, they walked along a gravel path lined with battered cars stacked five high, scarred metal shimmering in the sun.
Lottie sniffed the late-afternoon air, inhaling a noxious whiff of oil and rubber. She pulled her T-shirt from the waist of her jeans and flapped air against her clammy skin.
‘Down this way,’ Weir said, ducking under a platform of disassembled vehicles.
She wondered if they should be wearing hard hats. None had been offered. She and Boyd had to bend in two to get under the platform.
‘Over there,’ Weir said, pointing to the furthest corner of the yard.
The entire depot seemed to shudder as a train in the station beyond the wall picked up speed and exited on the Sligo line. Following the direction of Weir’s plump index finger, Lottie scoured the ground until her eyes rested on a dark congealed pool. She held out her hand, keeping Weir back.
‘Council wouldn’t let me demolish it,’ he said.
Lottie eyed him quizzically.
‘The wall. I wanted to erect a proper one. It’s ancient, falling down and disintegrating in places. Dangerous, so I thought. But a dipshit planner said it was something to do with heritage or some other shite. Cost me a fortune to stabilise it. And there’s still enough holes and gaps to make it a fucking short cut to the station and Hill Point Flats over there.’
She saw what he was talking about. Easy access for cider parties. Or murderers. Hoping he wasn’t wasting their time, she walked past him, over to the puddle. Tar oozed underfoot and clung to shards of gravel already embedded in the soles of her shoes. She hunkered down to the pool, slipped on gloves. Dipping her finger, she scrutinised the rusty colour and beckoned Boyd over.
‘Blood,’ he said, stating the obvious. As usual.
‘Could be animal,’ she ventured. Holding her fingertip to her nose, she sniffed, getting a metallic odour.
‘I had pest control in only a few weeks ago,’ Weir protested, his face as red as his hair.
Straightening up, Lottie stepped carefully over the pool, her eyes travelling the length of the wall behind it. It would be easy for someone to scale the corroded stones.
‘Told you, didn’t I?’ Weir said, smirking.
‘You did.’ Lottie turned to him. ‘Thanks for calling this in.’
‘Well, I felt it was my duty, seeing how you found a murdered girl yesterday.’
‘It might lead to nothing, but I have to treat this as a crime scene for the moment.’ She turned to Boyd. ‘We have to evacuate the depot. Immediately.’
Boyd got on his phone and called in reinforcements and the SOCO team.
‘You can’t be serious,’ Weir said, looking like he was sorry for reporting it.
Lottie said, ‘I’m very serious. Is this place locked at night?’ It didn’t make much difference, she thought. Access was manageable – up and over the wall.
‘It’s locked and a security van passes every fifty minutes or so. You mightn’t think it, Inspector, but this lot is very valuable.’ Weir smeared his face with an oily hand.
‘I don’t doubt it.’ She skirted round the puddle. Running her fingers along the old stone wall, she marvelled at the original workmanship.
‘Nineteenth century, so I’m told,’ Weir said.
‘Boyd?’ Lottie called him over. ‘I think this might be a bullet hole. McGlynn will need to see it. And get uniforms to clear the place.’
‘Ah for Jaysus’ sake.’ Weir paced in small fat circles. ‘This is my business. You can’t do that.’
‘I can and I am,’ Lottie said. ‘You too. Out.’
As the depot owner marched away across the yard, chuntering to himself, Lottie pointed to the wall. ‘Is it a bullet hole?’
Boyd inspected the mark. ‘Possibly. Could be our primary crime scene.’
‘Our victim still has the bullet inside her.’
‘Maybe he missed with the first shot.’
‘We’ll let SOCOs make an impression of the hole and poke around to see if there’s a bullet in there.’
‘You know what else it could mean, Lottie?’
‘Yes. There’s another body somewhere.’
They stayed on site until Jim McGlynn and his team appeared, suited up, equipment cases in hands.
‘Out, the both of you,’ McGlynn ordered. ‘Contaminating my scene.’
‘We didn’t know it was a crime scene, and it still might not be.’ Lottie turned away.
‘You know better, Inspector. Protective suits or go.’
Boyd tugged her elbow. ‘Come on. There’s nothing else to do here.’
Lottie had to agree.
* * *
‘Blood and a bullet hole. So where’s the body?’
Lottie rinsed her hands under the tap in the makeshift kitchen. Boyd flicked on the kettle and leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching her. She dried her hands.
‘Well?’
He shrugged. ‘It must be related to the girl in the morgue, one way or other.’
‘I hope it is, otherwise we might have a second victim.’
‘There’s no body there, as far as we know.’
‘When the whole area is searched, every car and scrap of a car, we might find more evidence.’ She got two mugs and spooned in coffee.
‘No milk,’ said Boyd, shaking an empty carton.
‘There’s definitely something there.’
‘Definitely no milk.’
‘Not milk,’ Lottie said. ‘At Weir’s depot. It’s easily accessible, despite his so-called security.’
‘So what?’
‘Ideal dumping ground or murder site.’
‘It’s in the middle of town. How could someone discharge a gun there? It’d be heard a mile away.’
‘Pick the right moment. Say, when a train is entering or exiting the station – you heard the noise. And if the gun’s equipped with a silencer, it’s just a loud pop.’
‘Ballistics will confirm or otherwise.’
‘And we need the blood type.’ Lottie eyed the black coffee in her mug. ‘Still no identification for our victim?’
‘Nope.’
Sipping the scorching liquid, she felt comforted by Boyd’s proximity even though he was wearing his serious face. She glanced at her watch and decided to call it a day.
‘I’m heading home. I’ll download a few files to a USB and study them there.’
‘Still content with breaking the rules?’
‘Yep,’ she said.
‘Need any help?’ His face broke into a wicked grin.
‘You never give up, do you?’