Assuming Petrovci was now ensconced in his flat, Lottie knew she had no authority to knock on his door, to search his home, but she would keep him firmly fixed on her radar.
She headed back to the station wondering about Boyd. Had he been one step ahead of her, marking Petrovci as a prime suspect? Or was his not-yet-ex-wife Jackie residing around here? Lottie thought it was probably the latter. She intended to ask him.
Thirty-Nine
‘Got it,’ Boyd said, throwing his jacket over the back of his chair.
‘Your wallet?’ Kirby asked. ‘You went back up there? You’re an eejit.’
‘Don’t even talk to me.’ Boyd began tidying up the paperwork on his desk. ‘Did you get anything from the residents in the Columb Street area?’
No answer.
‘Jesus, Kirby, out with it.’
Kirby scratched himself. ‘You told me not to talk to you. Anyways, there’s one flat with a wall-mounted camera, at the front gates of the block. I’m going back up there later to see if the resident is home. Might be something on it.’
‘If it even works. Who lives there?’
‘Willie “the Buzz” Flynn. Retired from the local newspaper. Must be eighty if he’s a day.’
‘Buzz Flynn? What’d he be doing with CCTV?’
‘He was always getting robbed. I advised him to get the little camera set up a few years back.’
‘Good. We could do with a break,’ Boyd said.
‘Fancy a pint?’ Kirby wheezed as he rotated his chair.
‘Not that kind of break… Oh, forget it.’ Boyd flicked off his computer and swallowed a mouthful of water from a bottle.
‘One pint.’
‘No. Never again. Not with you, anyway.’ Boyd drained the water, squashed the bottle, screwed on the lid and threw it into the recycle bin.
‘Don’t be an arsehole.’ Kirby shuffled his feet into his sandals and bent down to buckle them. ‘You got your wallet back; what’re you complaining about?’
‘That place, where we went after the pub. We should be raiding it, not servicing it. Fuck’s sake. Makes me feel like a lowlife shit.’
‘Live and let live. That’s my motto.’
‘It’s not right.’
‘What’re you going to do about it? Call the vice squad? The National Immigration Bureau?’
Boyd paused, thinking.
Kirby said, ‘They’ve bigger fish to fry than a little whorehouse in Ragmullin. There’s one in every town in Ireland. The bureau is after the sharks, not pinkeens.’ He bent down to rub his sore foot.
Boyd stood up, banged his chair against the desk and headed for the door. Looking back over his shoulder, he concluded that Kirby was a sorry excuse for a guard. But wasn’t he himself just as bad? He hadn’t slept with the girl but he couldn’t shut out the image of her melancholic eyes.
With one last shake of his head in Kirby’s direction, he left for home. Hopefully he could get some peace and quiet there. And ditch his lingering hangover.
Forty
There was no sign of Boyd, Kirby or Lynch in the office when Lottie arrived back at the station. She sat at her desk to write a report of her interview with Andri Petrovci. Her own thoughts and assumptions. Just in case all hell broke loose during the night and she couldn’t remember it in the morning. Anything was likely to happen. Garda Gillian O’Donoghue had left a transcript on her desk. Lottie read over it again. She was convinced Petrovci knew something about Maeve Phillips.
Before going home she checked in with the staff in the incident room. A few detectives were talking on the phones. No sign of her own crew.
On the whiteboard, the photo of the latest dead girl had been pinned up. The face seemed too decomposed to be of any help in identifying her. Lottie hoped the body might give them a clue as to who she was and who was carrying out the killings, if it was the same perpetrator. Of course it was. How many psychos were out there burying bodies under the street? Only one, she hoped. Maybe Jane Dore had had time to prioritise the PM. Lottie rang her to check.
‘Nothing of interest at the site,’ Jane said. ‘But the victim has a gunshot to her back, exited just below the chest. Unfortunately the heat accelerated decomposition but I can determine that she has a scar from her abdomen up over her hip and around her back. Just like the first victim.’
‘Oh my God. And was the bullet wound washed, like the first victim?’
‘Looks like it. I’ll start the PM in the morning. Eight a.m. if you’d like to attend?’
‘I’ll be there,’ Lottie said. ‘Why can’t you do it now? I can be there in half an hour.’
‘No can do. Wonder of wonders, I’ve a dinner date at seven.’
‘Delighted for you,’ Lottie said. Shit, she’d forgotten all about Dan Russell, her own dinner date. A quick look at her watch: 7.15. Oh well. There was no time for it now. ‘See you in the morning, Jane. Enjoy your night out.’
Calling over a couple of the detectives, Lottie instructed them to organise another search of Weir’s yard in the morning.
She glanced up at the board.
A second body with a washed bullet wound and a scar. Another missing kidney?
‘Dear God, I hope not,’ she whispered to herself but she knew it was more than probable.
As she left, she wondered if she should ring Russell to apologise but then thought that leaving him hanging might be better for him.
* * *
As she walked towards the greyhound stadium, Lottie saw Dan Russell sitting in his big black Audi. On double yellow lines, engine running. It was a race evening and traffic was building.
She crossed the road. He lowered the window. Hunkering down beside the door, she said, ‘Got delayed at work.’
‘Half an hour late. You could have given me a call.’
‘I should give you a parking ticket.’
‘How about dinner tomorrow?’
‘Honestly, you know what, I’m actually too busy at the moment. We’ve found another body, so let me ring you when things die down.’ She stood up to go.
‘Another body?’ he repeated. ‘That’s awful. I’ll drop you to your door.’
Oh what the hell, Lottie thought, and went around to the other side of the car. The coolness of the interior was welcome. Rich bastard.
He said, ‘Where’s your house?’
She pointed to the estate across the road. He swung the car in a U-turn and she directed him where to stop.
‘So this body you found, is it a murder?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
He stared straight ahead. ‘Are you going to question me about this also?’
Not wanting to give him any information, she decided to change the subject.
‘You mentioned you remembered Adam. Did you work with him?’
Russell idled the engine. ‘I did, actually. Overseas.’
Silence filled the car. Since Adam’s death Lottie had alienated herself from Adam’s military friends, though somehow she doubted Dan Russell had been a friend.
‘Tell me more,’ she said.
‘How about you give me a shout tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Why are you stalling?’
‘There are things you should know about your late dear husband. Things you might not want anyone else knowing. But I’m not going to speak about it now.’