‘For God’s sake, come in.’ A command.
Sighing, Lottie pushed open the gate and walked up the pathway to the bungalow that had been her family home. It hadn’t changed in the twenty-plus years since she’d left it to marry Adam. She often wondered if she had married so she could escape her mother. She walked through the hall and into the steaming kitchen. Even though it was near eight o’clock, the smell of cooking filled the air.
Her mother unplugged the kettle and brought it to the tap.
‘No tea for me. I’ll have a glass of water. What’s in the pot?’ Lottie asked, pulling out a chair and sitting at the table.
‘I’m helping Mrs Murtagh with her soup kitchen.’
‘Really?’ Lottie sat back, eyebrows raised. She hadn’t known her mother was in contact with the old woman, who had been a witness in her last case. ‘Does she still live in Mellow Grove?’
‘Of course she does. Why?’
‘I’m dealing with a missing girl from there. I wonder would Mrs Murtagh know something about it?’
‘She knows everything about everyone but her mind is so addled I’m not sure you’d get anything worthwhile out of her.’
‘Will you ask her? A little inside information is always a good thing. Maeve Phillips is the girl’s name. Her mother is Tracy and her father is Frank.’
‘The criminal?’
‘One and the same.’
‘He’s not been seen in Ragmullin for years.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll chat to Mrs Murtagh about the family. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.’ Rose smiled, then her mouth flatlined. ‘You blame me,’ she said.
‘Blame you for what?’
‘It wasn’t my fault, Lottie, no matter how you care to dress it up. Your brother Eddie was always a handful. After your father… did what he did…’ The sound of water flowing from the tap into the kettle drowned out her last words. ‘You’ve no idea what it was like. Living with that stigma.’
‘That stigma was my dad,’ Lottie whispered. Biting back tears, she stood up, walked over and flicked off the kettle switch. ‘I have to know what made him do it. Was it work? A case he’d been working on, maybe? What made him put a gun to his head and pull the trigger?’
She could almost see her mother’s brain clicking over her words. Moving away, Lottie sat down, cupping her face in her hands. The room filled with an uneasy silence until the kettle began to hiss once again.
‘There’s a lot you don’t know and I think it’s better for all of us if it stays that way,’ Rose said.
‘What are you talking about now?’ Lottie said through her hands.
‘Nothing. I’ll keep an eye on my grandchildren during the day and make sure they get at least one decent meal. And you leave the past alone.’ Rose poured boiling water into a teapot and looked around for the lid.
Twiddling her fingers around the white cotton tablecloth, Lottie glanced up at her mother. Rose Fitzpatrick looked every one of her seventy-five years. Having a forensic scientist identify a bundle of bones wrapped in linen aprons and decades-old flour bags as the body of her long-lost son had been earth-shattering.
‘I appreciate all you’re doing for my family, honestly I do,’ Lottie said. ‘But I have this hole here in my heart and I think I can only fill it if I find out the truth. Until then, I can’t leave it be. One day I’ll know why my dad killed himself.’
‘There was a lot going on back then,’ said Rose. ‘I can’t tell you why he did what he did, because I don’t know why.’ She turned her back on Lottie and stirred the pot of soup on the hob.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lottie said.
‘So am I.’
‘And I do love you, in—’
‘In your own way. I know, Lottie. I love you too.’
‘I’m going home now.’
‘Do that, girl.’
Lottie shook her head wearily and left her mother there, shoulders trembling, stooped over the stove. She ran out into the warm night and didn’t stop running until she reached the end of her own road across from the greyhound stadium. As she stood on the kerb, a dark saloon car purred up beside her.
‘You’ll kill yourself running in this heat,’ Dan Russell said, lowering the window.
Lottie gaped at him, sitting in his Audi. Typical car for a smart-bollocks. ‘What are you doing? Following me?’
‘Just passing. On my way to the centre.’
‘So you work day and night?’
‘When I’m needed.’
‘You must be very busy with the recent influx of refugees.’ She stood with hands on hips as he leaned out of the window with the engine running.
‘There isn’t enough room for the agreed quota, let alone this new batch. We’re doing our best.’
New batch? Lottie cringed. He was talking like people were nothing more than sliced bread. ‘How many are you housing?’
‘At the moment we have fifty-four more than we can comfortably hold.’
‘How do you manage?’ She noticed how he never fully answered her questions.
‘Extra camp beds. It’s crowded.’
‘Overcrowded?’
‘Unofficially, I’d say yes. Officially, it’s not quite a health-and-safety issue yet.’
‘You only have females and children there, is that right?’
‘Yes, the men are in various other towns dotted around the country.’
‘It seemed very quiet when I was there this afternoon. Where is everyone?’
‘Oh, they have lots of activities. Did you decide about dinner?’
She laughed. ‘You’re persistent, to say the least.’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t think dinner is appropriate, Mr Russell.’
‘Dan, please. How about tomorrow evening?’
She remained where she was. Thinking about it, she decided she could possibly garner some information from him over dinner, to assist the murder investigation. A bottle of wine might loosen his tongue. As long as she stayed on sparkling water, it would be fine.
‘Be a daredevil,’ he pressed.
‘Maybe,’ she said.
‘Excellent!’
‘I’m not agreeing to anything. Give me your number and I might ring you tomorrow.’ Two could play at being evasive.
He extracted a business card from the glove compartment, scribbled on it and handed it over. ‘That’s my personal mobile number. I look forward to your call. But let’s say provisionally that I’ll pick you up here tomorrow evening at seven.’ His fingers brushed hers as she took the card.
Walking to her front door, she wiped her hands down her T-shirt, feeling decidedly grimy from his touch. What would Boyd say about that little encounter? Russell was playing a game of poker. She knew that. But could she read his hand over his shoulder without him knowing? That was her task. She knew she was up to it.
Thirty
Boyd and Kirby stood outside the bar, too many hours to count since they’d entered the establishment, leaning into each other under the clear starlit sky. Boyd tried to light a cigarette and failed. Kirby lit it for him.
‘I know a great place to get a ride,’ Kirby said, his bushy hair damp with perspiration against his scalp.