‘So you definitely didn’t see her after that?’
‘No. You have me worried now. Where do you think she is?’ Concern seemed to put a damper on Emily’s antics.
‘I thought you might know, but obviously…’ Lottie rose to leave.
‘Wait.’ Emily tugged her bag. Lottie resumed her seat. ‘Maeve was online a lot. Tinder and Facebook. Snapchat and Twitter too. More than any of us. I think her fella might be someone she met that way.’
‘Okay,’ Lottie said. ‘If you think of anything else, contact me.’ She handed over her card.
‘Yup. I’ll ask around too. I can be like a private detective.’
‘Emily, we will do the investigating. But if you hear anything, ring or text me.’
‘Whatever.’ The curls bounced around even more. ‘Mrs Parker?’
Lottie paused. ‘Yes?’
‘You should ask Chloe about Maeve. They’re friends as well.’
* * *
‘I’ll drive,’ Lottie said, at the car.
‘Fine by me,’ Boyd said.
‘I’d say you’re over the limit.’
‘Oh, I was way over my limit three years ago.’
‘I’m not talking about Jackie.’
‘Neither am I.’
Lottie unlocked the car and got in. ‘Boyd, I’m very concerned.’
‘I feel sick.’ Boyd buckled his seat belt. ‘Hope I’m not getting the flu,’ he complained.
‘Grow up. It’s your lunchtime pints mixed with the heat. I’m convinced now that Maeve is missing. I’m just not sure if she ran off freely or not. I’ll need to set up a task force to oversee it. Even with the murder investigation ongoing, we have to keep this high-profile.’
‘She’ll be with her online boyfriend. No need to panic.’
‘She’d have told her best friend.’ Lottie started the car. ‘Teenagers stick together, tell each other everything. If Emily doesn’t know where Maeve is, then no one does.’
‘What about Chloe?’
‘I’ll talk to her this evening, but she’s a year behind Maeve in school, so she mightn’t know much about her.’
Boyd shook his head. ‘You think Maeve’s been abducted, don’t you? Come on, Lottie. Don’t jump to conclusions. The evidence points to the fact that the girl ran away.’
‘Ran away with what? You saw her home. They have nothing.’
‘She has a criminal father who is more than likely loaded and you’re panicking because you didn’t do the right thing when Jason Rickard went missing.’
Lottie slammed on the brakes. Luckily there was no one behind her. She quickly manoeuvred the car onto the hard shoulder opposite the old tobacco factory. Twisting round, she shot Boyd a scathing look.
‘That was below the belt. Way below.’
He appeared to shrink beneath her glare. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. But in all honesty, don’t you think it’s true?’
‘Fuck you, Boyd.’
Gritting her teeth, she floored the accelerator, swerving into the lane without a glance in the rear-view mirror, and roared the car back to the station.
She was mad at Boyd because she knew he was right.
* * *
Lottie rang Jane Dore, but the pathologist had had no word from ballistics regarding the bullet found in the victim.
‘Any favours owed to you?’ Lottie asked.
‘Cashed them in last time when I bumped that DNA sample to the top of the queue for you,’ Jane said. ‘No identification yet?’
‘No. We also have a missing local girl, but I’m nearly positive it’s not her. I’ll email you her photo, just so you can rule her out.’
‘Okay, send it on.’
‘Do you think our victim could have been shot at the car dismantler’s depot?’ Lottie asked.
‘I’m having the bloods checked,’ Jane said. ‘And I found a particle of moss lodged under a fingernail.’
‘Moss? But she was buried in clay and dirt.’
‘I’m having it analysed at the moment.’
‘Let me know as soon as you have results.’
‘I will.’
‘Moss,’ Lottie repeated as she ended the call. Her head ached. Looking around, she noticed she was the only one left in the office.
Twenty-Eight
Lottie had let Boyd out of the car at the front of the station while she parked round the back. He had grabbed Kirby, who was on the steps having a smoke, and steered him down the street to Cafferty’s. The pub was quiet at 5.30 in the evening.
‘Don’t mind the boss. She’s chewing everyone’s arse,’ Kirby said.
‘It’s not that,’ Boyd replied. ‘Jackie’s back.’
Kirby averted his eyes. ‘That’s all you need.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Kirby sipped his Guinness. ‘Look, Boyd, I knew your ex-wife was trouble the first time she wiggled her boobs at me.’
‘She’s still my wife, if only in name,’ Boyd corrected him. ‘To hell with this sparkling water. Hey, Darren. Put on a pint for me.’
The barman set about the slow art of pulling the perfect pint of Guinness.
Kirby said, ‘You’re blind to all things dangerous and criminal when the gorgeous Jackie’s in your vicinity.’
‘Playing the philosopher doesn’t wash with me.’
‘You know McNally is back in town?’
‘I do now, but I didn’t see any sign of him nor did I hang around to hear her story. Not that she had any intention of telling me anything.’
‘Was it weird seeing Jackie after so long?’ Kirby finished his pint with three gulps and signalled for another.
‘Weird?’ Boyd thought for a moment. ‘That’s one way of putting it after three years. Scary, I’d say.’
‘You’re not afraid of Rat-Face McNally, are you?’
‘Afraid of what he’s doing back in Ragmullin more like. Trouble tracks him like a second shadow.’
‘We need to get on to Europol and see if they can tell us what he’s been up to.’
‘We’re not the CIA, Kirby.’
‘Hmph,’ Kirby grunted.
‘I’m not even sure Jackie’s still with him.’
‘Wishful thinking?’
Darren, the barman, arrived with the pint. While Boyd was counting out the money, Kirby picked up the glass and started drinking.
‘I’ll have the other one ready in two shakes,’ said Darren with a wink.
‘You’re a greedy bastard, Kirby. Anyway,’ Boyd said, ‘I don’t want to talk about Jackie.’
‘Fine by me. But you’d like to get your leg over her again, wouldn’t you?’
The barman arrived with the second pint.
‘Shut up and let’s get shit-faced,’ Boyd said.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Kirby replied, raising his glass in a mock toast.
Twenty-Nine
Chloe was lying on her bed, bright red headphones clamped to her ears, still wearing her uniform. She was thumbing through her phone.
‘Can I have a word?’ Lottie walked into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Chloe jumped up, pulled the Beats down to her neck and slipped the phone under her pillow. Lottie took this as assent.
‘How are things? You seem to be in bad form all the time. Why?’
‘Just stuff. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘I’m worried about you; try me.’
‘No. Way. What do you want?’
Sighing, Lottie asked, ‘Do you know Maeve Phillips?’
‘What if I do?’
‘Chloe, please do me a favour and answer the question.’
‘Okay, Detective Inspector. Yeah. I know her.’
‘Any idea where she might skive off to?’
‘No. Is she gone AWOL?’