‘I guarantee you I intend to find out.’ Lottie pulled her hand away and debated taking a formal statement.
Tracy began fumbling around in her handbag. ‘I’m sorry, but I need a drink. I’ve tried to stay off it, but McNally scared me half to death. I thought Maeve had just run off. But now I’m not sure of anything.’
I know the feeling, Lottie thought.
‘Did McNally give you the impression he knew where Maeve might be, or if she had been abducted?’
‘Abducted? No. He just wanted to know what you lot were doing, and if you’d taken anything from the house. I was afraid of him, so I let him have a look in Maeve’s room when he asked.’
‘Did he say anything after that?’
‘Just said, “Maeve takes after her daddy.”’
‘What did he mean by that?’
‘Expensive tastes, that’s what he said. Remember that blue dress you were interested in? He took it with him.’
‘Good God, whatever for?’
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even know where Maeve got it from.’
Shit, Lottie thought, they should have removed the dress from the house. Damn. Why was McNally interested in it?
Studying Tracy Phillips, trembling but dry-eyed, she said, ‘You know you can tell me anything. I promise no one will know but me, and my colleagues.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Is there anything at all that might point me in the right direction to find Maeve? Something you’re not telling me?’
‘Inspector, you have children, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Can you honestly say you know everything about them?’
That got Lottie thinking for a moment.
Tracy said, ‘I drink a lot. I admit that. So there are things I don’t know about my daughter and things I probably don’t want to know, but I do know this. My Maeve wouldn’t run away. If I were you, I’d try to find my bastard of a husband. If he doesn’t know where she is, you can be sure he’ll know someone who does.’
* * *
After Tracy left, Lottie ran down to the basement and burst into the locker room. She had five minutes to get ready before the team meeting. Pulling off her damp T-shirt, she rummaged around for a clean one. When she was dressed, she walked towards the door.
Hearing someone on the other side of the room, she longed for the day when the building renovations were complete and she could have some privacy. Unisex lockers were not ideal. She looked over. Boyd was unbuttoning his shirt.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, leaning against the door and folding her arms. She recalled Jackie at his apartment last night. Would he tell her what that had been about? Probably not. And she wasn’t going to ask.
Boyd pulled on a clean shirt. ‘What does it look like? Got caught in the downpour.’
‘How’s Jackie?’ Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?
‘How would I know?’
‘After all she put you through, Boyd, I thought you’d realise she’s not your type.’
‘Are you my personal matchmaker now or what? She was my type when I married her. And how would you know what my type is anyway?’
He was right. What did she know? But she couldn’t stop herself.
‘I don’t want you making a fool of yourself. Jackie arrives back in Ragmullin with her big baby eyes and you sleep with her.’ She unfolded her arms and shoved her hands into her jeans pockets.
Boyd banged the locker door and faced her. ‘Lottie, you’re not my mother. Try being a mother to your own kids.’
She stepped away from him, mouth open. ‘How… how can you say that?’
She saw his shoulders slump. He gripped her arm.
‘I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that. You just riled me—’
‘Don’t make excuses.’ She snapped her arm away.
‘I’ll make you a coffee.’ Boyd escaped up the stairs, heading for the makeshift kitchen.
‘We have a team meeting,’ Lottie shouted after him, ‘and you better be there.’
Forty-Five
Maeve’s skin clung to her like a well-worn washcloth. She tried to turn over onto her side, but pain restricted her movements. Arms heavy, she traced her fingers beneath her body. She wasn’t on the floor. Cold sheets beneath her. Damp. A bed. She lifted her hand. Blood. It smelled coppery, like corroded metal. Was it hers?
She turned her head. Solid walls. Bare concrete. No window that she could see. No furniture. A dusty fluorescent strip lined the centre of the ceiling, casting a weak yellow streak downward, failing in its quest to brighten the room. Where was she?
Carefully she raised her head and glanced down her body. Naked, not even underwear. Instinctively she tried to cover herself, clasping her skin with weak fingers. An arrowhead of pain shot through her and she screamed, but only a strangled sob came from her throat.
Tentatively she caressed the spot where the stab of agony had erupted. A sticky wetness slid over her hand. She bit her lip to prevent another scream.
A wound across her abdomen, spread in an arc over her pelvis. Blood curled down her pubic bone and between her legs. The triangular illuminations from the stained-glass in a panelled door danced before her eyes, exploding in a thousand fireflies, fluttering in the dark.
She struggled to stay alert; to save herself from her unknown captor. What had he done to her?
I want to go home, she cried silently, before the light merged into one long line of blackness.
Forty-Six
The extended team members were gathered in the incident room. Lottie was glad when Superintendent Corrigan rang in to say he had to take a sick day. She hoped he wasn’t too ill, but in all honesty he hadn’t looked great all week. At least she wouldn’t have to tell him about Milot.
Standing with the incident boards to her back, she looked at her team. Expectant faces stared back at her. She was about to give them a shit-load of information they already knew, and questions with no answers. She pointed to the photograph of the first murder victim and proceeded to outline the facts.
‘Monday. First victim discovered at Bridge Street. Buried beneath the road. Found by water-main contract worker Andri Petrovci. From the post-mortem results we know the victim had been undressed, shot, the wound washed, then she was re-dressed. Why would he do that?’ She looked at the expectant faces. ‘Control? Power?’
‘Because he could,’ Boyd said.
‘To wash away evidence,’ Lynch suggested.
Lottie said, ‘The killer took a great risk burying her beneath the street where a few days earlier contractors had been digging. Did he know they would be back? If so, he wanted the body found. Why?
‘The victim was about four months pregnant and aged between sixteen and twenty at best estimate. According to the pathologist, her bone structure suggests she is of Eastern European or Balkan origin. Moss was discovered under her nails but no DNA. She’d had a kidney surgically removed within the last twelve months. This detail must be kept from the media at all costs. Understood?’
A murmur of assent filtered throughout the room.
‘A bullet was lodged in the victim’s rib. No report from ballistics. Detective Lynch, you follow this up.’