‘Kirby and Lynch have been carrying out a surveillance operation on the traveller community. We believe there is an underground movement of bare-knuckle fights.’
‘Fights? Is that all you have to concern yourself with these days?’
‘It can be very nasty. Large amounts of money are wagered. And sometimes it turns into a fight-to-the-death kind of thing.’
‘Has anyone died?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then let them get on with it. I’ve seen this kind of thing in Dublin. It’s all a show of strength.’
Lottie sighed and pulled her sleeves down over her hands, trying desperately to keep herself from fidgeting. God, she needed a Xanax. ‘Do you want me to tell Kirby and Lynch to back off, then?’
The suddenness of his movement caught her by surprise. She sank back into her chair as he stood and marched around the small office, coming to a stop in front of her and perching on the edge of the desk. ‘I want you to do your job,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you getting stuck in my hair.’
You have enough of it anyway, she thought. As if reading her mind, he brushed his fringe out of his eyes. Shit, she hoped she hadn’t spoken aloud.
‘Attend the post-mortem and determine whether you are dealing with a murder. Pull your detectives away from the traveller community and present me with a killer. Today, preferably.’
‘Right so.’ Did he think she was Superwoman or what? ‘One other thing,’ she said. ‘Superintendent Corrigan asked that I look into a cold case.’
‘What cold case?’
‘A young woman called Lynn O’Donnell, disappeared ten years ago this week.’
‘And what has that got to do with anything?’
‘I haven’t had time to read the file yet, but it appears she was last seen on the commuter train from Dublin. Valentine’s Day.’
‘Perhaps she eloped?’
‘I don’t know. She’s never been found. I’ll read the file and maybe have a chat with her family.’
‘I think you’ve enough to be doing without burying your nose in a ten-year-old case.’
‘I’ll check it out anyway.’
‘Find the Byrne girl’s murderer. If she was murdered, that is. And that’s an order.’
‘Yes, sir.’ You bollocks, she added in her head.
‘You can go,’ he said.
Getting up, she edged out past his outstretched legs and left the office without a word. Sometimes it was better to remain silent. Sometimes, but not always.
Thirty-One
‘Where on earth have you been?’ Lottie watched Boyd fall into his chair without removing his jacket. ‘I needed your support ten minutes ago.’
‘Sorry. Grace has my head wrecked. I’ve been away from home for so long, I’d actually forgotten how much she talks. Non-stop. Never-fecking-ending. I think she’s given me a migraine.’
‘You don’t get migraines,’ Lottie scoffed.
‘I have one now. I dropped her to the train station early and was at home, standing in the shower, when she rang to tell me her friend wasn’t on the train.’
‘I thought you said she doesn’t have any friends.’
‘She doesn’t. This is someone she met yesterday. I’d say the poor woman is avoiding her. God forgive me, I know she’s my sister, but even I’d want to avoid her.’
‘Don’t be so mean. I can’t wait to meet her.’
‘You’ll take back those words once you do.’
‘Some brother you are.’
Lottie pulled Kirby’s chair across and sat down beside Boyd. She thought how she would love to have a brother. She’d had one once, but he’d been murdered when he was just twelve years old. Then she thought about the mysterious half-sibling she had only become aware of during her last murder investigation. The lies. Her life had been built on lies. ‘McMahon is on site,’ she said.
‘That’s all we need.’
‘My sentiment exactly. He’s being a pain about this murder investigation. Won’t allow it to be classed as murder until the state pathologist confirms it. I’ve to report everything to him first. And he wants Kirby and Lynch taken off the fist-fighting investigation.’
Pulling at his chin, Boyd said, ‘They haven’t had much success. Maybe McMahon is right and it’s time they did something new.’
‘Whose side are you on?’ Lottie stood up, wheeled the chair back to its rightful place and headed for her own office to get her jacket. ‘I’m driving to Tullamore for the PM, and after that, we can have our team meeting. Then I’m getting on to the press office.’
‘What? After our new acting superintendent told you to report to him first?’
‘Starting as I mean to go on,’ Lottie said, and kicked the door closed.
* * *
Jane Dore was petite and precise. In every way. She nodded as Lottie entered her sterile place of work, aptly called the Dead House.
‘Been a few months since you were last here,’ she said, pulling down her face mask.
‘Thank God, it’s been quiet,’ Lottie said. ‘I was beginning to think all the murderous bastards had hightailed it off to the Costa del Sol.’
‘Not quite all of them.’
‘What have you found?’
‘I’ve completed the prelims. Elizabeth Byrne was a healthy twenty-five-year-old female. I’d say she looked after her body. Probably did a lot of running, based on her muscle tissue.’
‘Maybe that’s how she got away from her killer.’
‘You’re assuming she was murdered?’
‘Wasn’t she?’
‘You’ll need forensic evidence to prove it. I can only tell you about the condition of the body and the evidence collected. If you’ll allow me?’
‘Go ahead.’ Lottie perched herself on a high stool, surrounded by white tiles and stainless-steel benches and tables. She couldn’t see any bodies. Good.
‘She suffered from chronic psoriasis. Her scalp, knees and elbows were badly affected. So badly, in fact, that if she was transported by car, there will be flakes of skin everywhere. Trace evidence.’
Lottie noted this in her notebook. If they ever found a car to check.
Jane continued. ‘She had cuts to her right elbow and to the soles of both feet consistent with running barefoot. The hallux on her left foot was fractured – that’s her big toe. Also her left leg.’
‘Tibia open shaft fracture,’ Lottie said.
Jane raised an eyebrow.
‘McGlynn told me. Most of this is consistent with what I already know.’
‘Her knuckles were bitten by her own teeth, probably from the pain when she suffered the fracture.’
‘How did she die?’ Lottie was impatient to get this classified as murder.
‘To put it bluntly, she was buried alive.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Her assailant grabbed her round the throat from behind with his arm. No fingerprints, but we got some fibres. She fell or was pushed into the grave, and as she lay there, clay either fell down or was thrown in on top of her, smothering her. I can give you the technical details if you like.’
‘No, that’s fine. So it was murder?’
‘If I’m being honest, I don’t think that amount of clay could have fallen in of its own accord. She died from asphyxiation caused by the clay.’
‘McGlynn said there was evidence of maggots.’
‘She had an open bleeding wound, so that would be normal, seeing as she was six feet below ground.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Going by the cold weather, and her lividity, I would estimate she was dead thirty-two to thirty-six hours maximum when you found her.’
‘So it’s possible she was murdered between three and four on Tuesday morning?’
‘I’d agree with that.’
‘Any of the killer’s trace evidence show up on the body?’
‘He wore gloves. As I said, a few fibres on her neck from his coat. It’s possible she was drugged. I’ve sent samples off for toxicology. You will know as soon as I do.’
‘Sexual assault?’
‘No evidence of any recent sexual activity.’
‘Thanks, Jane.’
‘One other thing,’ the pathologist said.
Lottie waited.
‘This girl suffered greatly. Her cheeks, despite the clay, were salty. She’d been crying. Find him, Lottie, before he takes someone else.’
Thirty-Two