‘Call me Tracy. Details? Wha’ details?’ Her words slurred into each other.
‘When did you last see Maeve?’ Lottie fought off an urge to find a cloth and wipe down the table. She kept her arms firmly folded, away from the dirt.
‘My husband, the bastard…’
‘What about him? Is Maeve with him?’ Lottie hoped so, then the case could be stamped closed without the need to enter this hovel again. She was sure she heard something rustling around the bread bin on the counter.
‘I doubt it,’ Tracy said, ‘but everything is his fault. Left me when Maeve was seven years old, he did. Ten years I’ve been on my own with her. Did my best. Honest to God. Slaved to bring that girl up well and how does she repay me?’ Her eyes glazed over as she gulped more alcohol. ‘She’s gone. Run away. Ungrateful little bitch…’ Hiccups obliterated the remainder of her words.
‘Where can I find your husband?’ Lottie asked.
‘Some whorehouse in Malaga, I’d say.’
So the girl’s father was the criminal who had fled the country. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Struggling to remain focused on Tracy Phillips, Lottie’s eyes were constantly drawn to the chaos surrounding them. A pot, congealed beans on the rim, stuck out obliquely from the overcrowded sink. And the bottles… She counted eleven empties on the grey granite-type counter. Five half-full pasta sauce jars, one brimming with cigarette butts, within the menagerie of clutter on the table. Bolognese and cigarettes definitely didn’t mix, she decided. Wrinkling her nose at the acidic odour, she dragged her gaze back to the thin-jawed woman.
As she watched Tracy through the smoky haze, a jolt shook Lottie. It was like looking through a skewed mirror at an image of what she herself had almost become in the months following Adam’s death. Drunk by midday, operating in a vacuum, normality disintegrating around her like the ash falling from Tracy’s cigarette.
She had been pulled back from the brink, but she knew Tracy was precariously perched on the lowest rung of existence. Who was going to save her? Not Maeve, if she had indeed run away from this crumbling lifestyle.
‘She’s never been away this long before,’ Tracy said, lighting another cigarette from the one in her hand. She doused the first in the pasta jar. ‘Sometimes she stays with friends. Anywhere is better than here. That’s what she says.’ She swept her hand around the kitchen, trailing ash everywhere. ‘She was supposed to be back by now.’
‘When exactly did you last see her?’ Lottie felt her patience disappearing as quickly as her sympathy.
‘Friday morning. She went to school. She’s in transition year. Said she was staying the night with… Emily or someone. Sometimes she stays away longer, so I wasn’t really worried.’
Too drunk to care, thought Lottie. This was like extracting teeth, but the molars visible in Tracy’s mouth convinced her the woman hadn’t seen a dentist in decades.
‘Today is Wednesday, for God’s sake! Why wait until last night to report it?’
‘I needed groceries.’ Tracy lowered her eyes, looking down at her shaking hands.
‘What?’ Boyd exclaimed.
Tracy rose with a wobble and opened a cupboard. Empty. Lottie noticed the woman wore cheap cotton pyjamas and two-euro plastic flip-flops. She looked sixty but was probably closer to forty. Her dark hair was a tangled mass of grease, ragged unintentional dreadlocks, like Amy Winehouse without the eyeliner.
‘Your daughter normally shopped for you?’ Boyd asked.
‘Yeah. I was out of… things.’
Vodka probably, Lottie thought. Someone must have bought her the half-litre that stood on the table; she doubted Tracy Phillips had the energy to dress herself to go to the shops. Then again, she most likely ventured out in her nightclothes.
‘Vodka?’ Boyd sneered.
Lottie glared at him.
Turning her head away, Tracy sat down.
‘Did you ring Maeve?’ Boyd snapped. ‘I’m presuming she has a mobile phone.’
Tracy doused her cigarette in the clogged jar, lit yet another and gulped her vodka, eyeing Boyd over the rim.
‘You think I’m a good-for-nothing drunk, don’t you? You’re right. But I do my best for that girl and now I’m reduced to this… this mess.’ She drank some more and looked up. ‘Anyway, the school rang me yesterday evening. That’s how I knew something was up. No matter what happens at home, my Maeve goes to school.’ Another deep inhalation and a cloud of smoke encircled them. ‘I’m ringing her every five minutes. Nothing. Her phone’s dead. I don’t know where she is.’
Lottie had expected lots of tears. There were none. Tracy Phillips had probably used up her quota long ago.
‘Do you have a photo of Maeve?’
Tracy handed over her phone. Lottie took in the pale face framed with long black hair on the cracked home screen. A tiny diamond stud adorned her nose. It could possibly be the dead girl. She showed it to Boyd. He nodded.
Lottie said, ‘Can I send this to my phone?’
‘Fire ahead.’
‘Did Maeve ever have a kidney removed?’ Boyd asked.
‘Jaysus! Why would you ask me that? No, of course not.’
‘We’re building a profile,’ Lottie said quickly, checking she had received the photo. ‘Another thing,’ she said. ‘I have to ask this. Could Maeve be pregnant?’
Tracy’s eyes shifted upwards through the haze of cigarette smoke. ‘You bitch! Just ’cause I’m way below your class, you think my girl opens her legs for anyone. You can fuck off with your dirty questions.’
Lottie said, ‘I’m not passing judgement. I just need to know everything about her.’
Tracy slurped her drink and gave a resigned nod. ‘To answer your question, I don’t know.’
‘Her room, can I see it?’ Lottie hoped the girl was neater than Tracy. ‘Has she a computer?’
‘A laptop,’ Tracy said, pointing to the stairs. ‘Her door says “Keep Out”. Not too original, my Maeve.’
‘Does she have a boyfriend?’
‘If she does, she didn’t tell me.’
‘So you’re not sure?’
‘I can’t be sure, can I? What mother can be?’
Indeed, thought Lottie, following Boyd out of the depressing kitchen and up the stairs.
* * *
Unlike the kitchen, Maeve’s room was clean but untidy. Like any normal teenager’s bedroom, Lottie thought. Tracksuit bottoms turned inside out, along with a collection of underwear, crowded the floor. A single bed, plain cream duvet thrown back as if the girl had just rolled out. Dressing table overflowing with perfume bottles and tubs. Make-up, every shade of eyeshadow and eyeliner.
‘Twenty-seven,’ Lottie said.
‘Twenty-seven what?’ Boyd asked.
‘Bottles of nail polish. This girl likes her nails.’ She continued counting. Five perfumes and six body sprays. A flowery scent hung in the air. Lottie inspected a tin. Impulse, Forest Flowers. She sprayed it.
Boyd said. ‘Spray a little around the kitchen, will you?’