‘Kirby, did we find anything on the whereabouts of Maeve Phillips’ phone?’
Kirby lifted his head from his computer. ‘It’s taking a while because it’s switched off. I’ll try spinning a few lies and see where it gets me.’
‘Any word on those friends of hers in Dublin?’
‘I got a colleague in HQ to check them out. All sound people but none of them has had any contact with her for ages.’
‘Dead end there so. Any luck with the school?’
‘No one has seen her all week. Principal rang the mother. Stupid bitch didn’t appear to know her own daughter was missing.’
‘No need for name-calling. Tracy Phillips is an alcoholic, and alcoholism is a disease, in case you didn’t know.’
‘Sorry, boss.’ Kirby ducked his head back to his work.
Lottie wasn’t letting him away that easy.
‘Did you find out where Jamie McNally is?’ That made her think of Boyd. Where was he this morning? Maybe Jackie had hooked up with him after all.
‘He’s gone to ground. We’ve a record of him entering the country last Wednesday. Nothing since. Jackie Boyd’s been spotted around town. No sign of McNally.’
‘He wouldn’t leave Jackie in Ragmullin unattended. He has to be nearby. Keep digging.’
‘Will do.’ Kirby stood up with a mug in his hand and wobbled.
‘Hard night?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Do you know where Boyd is?’
Kirby shook his head and escaped out the door without a word.
‘What’s going on around here?’ Lottie asked, raising her arms to the ceiling.
Lynch lifted her head. ‘Must be the heat.’
Opening up her emails, Lottie clicked on the murdered girl’s post-mortem report and read it again. Who are you? Why has no one reported you missing? Why did the killer wash your bullet wound?
‘Any DNA results back?’ she asked Lynch.
‘Not yet. SOCOs found no bullet in Weir’s wall. So whoever fired the shot took the bullet with them.’
‘Or it’s the one in the victim. If not, there has to be a reason for it.’
‘Someone shooting rats? Probably Bob Weir himself.’
‘Do you honestly think he’d have called it in if it was him? He doesn’t like the disruption,’ Lottie said.
‘You’re right,’ said Lynch. ‘Did you do anything else about that letter you got from the girl, Mimoza?’
‘She hasn’t been in contact since. Maybe she was chancing her arm or something.’ Now that Lottie thought about it, she got an uneasy feeling that she’d neglected it. ‘Wonder where she is now.’
‘And who is she with?’
‘Probably with the girl who was waiting for her at the end of my road. Very mysterious.’ Lottie twiddled a pen between her fingers, thinking back to Monday morning. So much had happened since then.
‘What I’d like to know is why she came to you,’ Lynch said.
‘I have no idea. But it’s a bit odd that the note’s written in Albanian and the guy who found the body is from Kosovo. Isn’t Albanian one of the official languages in that country?’
Saying this aloud made Lottie think about it for a moment, and she felt the beginnings of a churning in her stomach. She said, ‘Maybe I should have another word with Andri Petrovci.’
‘Maybe you made a mistake involving him with the note,’ Lynch said.
‘Maybe you haven’t enough work to be doing.’
‘I’ve plenty, thanks.’
‘Do it then, and let me get on with mine.’
‘I was just saying—’
‘Don’t, Lynch.’
Lottie shoved back her chair, picked up her bag and got out of the office before she said something that would result in a harassment tribunal.
Thirty-Four
Mimoza eased herself out of bed and walked slowly to the washbasin, tugging back the curtain to allow in light. A brick wall maybe a foot from the window blocked any view. She looked down. Too high up to jump. The gap too narrow anyway.
Dampening a cloth, she rubbed away the dried semen from between her legs. Why did this place allow unprotected sex? The main attraction, she supposed, for frustrated old men and the young uninitiated, who didn’t want or couldn’t wait to slide the rubber on before ejaculating.
Searching the wardrobe for clean underwear, she glimpsed the man’s wallet that she’d picked up last night. She took it out, opened it up and quickly counted the money with trembling fingers. Less than a hundred euros. Bank cards and an ID badge. Her eyes widened in surprise as she slowly read the words. Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd. Her translation wasn’t good, but she was sure that meant he was a policeman.
If only she’d known who he was. If only. Would he come back for his wallet? She hoped so, because Mimoza knew this detective might be her only escape route from captivity. Especially since it appeared the woman police officer had done nothing with her note.
She would have to come up with a plan before he returned. She was sure he would come back for it. Once he remembered where he had lost it. He might wait until after dark, so nobody could see him, unless of course he had an official reason to return.
Could she put a message inside the wallet? But what to write with and on? She spied the few items of make-up on the small locker. The eyeliner pencil would have to do. She unscrewed the cap and checked it was working by marking the palm of her hand with a black line. Sitting on the bed, she looked at the bulky curtains. Too heavy. But her sheets were white cotton.
She stood up. This might be her only hope. But he had been so drunk, would he even remember her? She had no other option but to try it.
Dragging the sheet loose from the mattress and biting down on the material while yanking at it with trembling hands, she felt it give, heard a tear. Dust mites floated into the air as she inspected her handiwork. The rip was close enough to the hem and she tore a strip from one edge to the other. Then she carefully folded the end of the sheet back around the bottom of the mattress, hoping no one would notice her destruction.
Flattening out the strip on the bed, she took the eyeliner pencil and began to write, in her own language because she couldn’t write well in English. When she’d finished, she folded it into the smallest wad she could manage, slipped it into the cash flap and placed the wallet on the floor under the bed.
Looking round her tomb-like abode, she silently prayed that this Detective Boyd would remember where he had been last night. And she hoped he would be brave enough to return. It might well be her only hope of ever seeing her son again.
Thirty-Five
The morning heat was giving way to a welcome breeze, raising dust into the air at an alarming rate. Lottie clamped a hand over her mouth and walked around the barrier towards the man in the yellow singlet.
He stood up tall from his work and wiped a gloved hand over his forehead. Removing his protective goggles, he tipped back his safety helmet.
‘You not allowed here. Danger,’ he said, and stepped out of the trench to the road.
Lottie hoped her smile might melt some of his antagonism, but he remained tight-lipped and grim. Shit.
‘I was wondering if perhaps you’d thought any more about the note? The one written in Albanian.’