As they made their way to the car, Lottie said, ‘Do you think the person who killed Elizabeth is responsible for this?’
‘Hard to know. Wouldn’t you think that if he buried Elizabeth in a grave, he’d do the same with this one?’
‘That’s what I’m thinking. So maybe he tried to dispose of this victim before Elizabeth. And if we agree with Mulligan’s hypothesis that his dog would have found her if she’d been here earlier, the body had to have been dumped this week.’
Fifty-Five
In the incident room, Lottie pinned up another grainy photograph of the body found at the lake, then returned to her own office.
They’d learned nothing new from Shane Timmons or Jen O’Reilly, the two terrified teenagers who had escaped Dublin for a few days to make out in the caravan belonging to Shane’s mother.
‘Okay, so this body cannot be that of Mollie Hunter, who may or may not be missing. She’s aged twenty-five, and it’s likely that the body is that of a woman in her mid thirties. She’s been dead perhaps a week.’ Lottie sat down at her desk. Boyd lounged at the door.
‘I’ll get someone to go through the national missing persons database, because I don’t think anyone local fits that description,’ he said.
‘We might have her DNA later.’
‘In any case, I’ll check with Mollie’s employer and colleagues to see if they have any notion where she might be.’
‘Get Lynch to go through the database.’ Lottie strained her neck to see around Boyd. ‘Where is she?’
‘She called in sick.’
‘Shit. We’re too busy for anyone to be off.’
‘Why don’t you give her a call?’
‘I don’t think so. She might see it as harassment.’
‘Is that ugly word rearing its head again?’
‘You know what happened before, Boyd. I don’t want to go there again.’
Kirby appeared. ‘We found Paddy McWard. Do you want to interview him?’
‘What grounds did you bring him in on?’
‘I didn’t bring him in.’ Kirby flustered around with a file of papers in his hand. ‘He turned up demanding to speak to whoever is in charge. So that’s either you or McMahon. Will I get the super to do it, then?’
Lottie stood up.
‘The less he’s involved in, the better. Which interview room is he in?’
* * *
Paddy McWard was standing against the wall, arms by his sides, suppressed rage filling the air. He was wearing a T-shirt, though it was freezing out, and he had a sleeve of coloured tattoos on one arm and a Celtic cross on the other. His voluminous black hair was neatly combed and his hard-blue eyes held a challenge. Lottie was struck by how handsome he looked despite his simmering temper.
She knew from the file she’d read that he was six foot three, thirty-six years old and had two arrests for disturbing the peace. Neither had resulted in a court appearance but both had been logged on PULSE.
‘Mr McWard. What brings you here?’
‘You do.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘You can find the bastard who beat the shit out of my wife.’
‘Sit down, please.’ Lottie didn’t like the air of intimidation exuding from him.
‘I want to stand. You sit if you like.’
‘Mr McWard, this is my interview room. I can bring in a couple of uniforms if you wish.’ Lottie smiled sweetly and directed him to the chair on the opposite side of the table.
When he had reluctantly seated himself, she sat down too. He smelled of aftershave and his clothes were fresh. She had dealt with many members of the travelling community during her years in the force, and she knew they were basically good people trying to live their lives the way they wanted and protect their heritage and culture. Like any community, there were always troublemakers, giving everyone a bad name.
‘So, Mr McWard, where’ve you been all week? We’ve been looking for you.’ She folded her arms and rested back in her chair. The effect made him lean forward.
‘What are you on about? I came here to talk to you, Missus Detective. You don’t be going on about shite, asking me the questions.’
‘Your wife was assaulted and you were nowhere to be found. Obviously we want to speak to you about it.’
‘And I want to talk to you about it.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘What are you doing to find the bastard who did it? Tell me that.’
‘We’ve carried out forensic analysis of the scene and interviewed everyone on the site, and—’
‘This wasn’t my own people. This was an outsider.’
‘How did they gain access?’
‘Through the front gate.’
‘I noticed that all the homes, and even the caravans, have cameras. No one was willing to part with their tapes. That’s not very helpful.’ Lottie had garnered this information from Kirby’s investigation.
‘There was nothing to see. I checked them out. I want justice for my Bridie. She’s a nervous wreck since the attack.’
‘Why do you think she was so viciously assaulted?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ He leaned away from her, eyes wary.
‘Are you involved in anything that could have made your wife a target?’
He shoved back the chair and stood up, towering over her.
‘This has nothing to do with me.’
Lottie remained seated, unmoving. ‘Where were you Monday night and Tuesday morning, Mr McWard?’
‘None of your business.’ He sat down again.
‘You’re aware that we found a young woman’s body in the cemetery. Your wife heard her screaming. But you weren’t at home. So where were you?’
‘It’s none of your business where I was. You’ve no right to be asking me these questions.’
‘Will you consent to a DNA test?’
‘A what? Are you out of your mind?’ He slapped the table.
‘Can you account for your whereabouts every day and night for the last week?’ Lottie kept her voice soft and even.
‘This is harassment.’ He grimaced, then his lips curled in a smirk. ‘Ah, I know. Because I’m a traveller, you think you can harass me.’
‘Everyone is being asked the same questions. But you interest me because you don’t seem to be very forthcoming with information. Are you going to tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing?’
‘No, I am not. And if you’re not bothered to get off your bony arse and do something about the bollocks who beat my wife, I’ll do it myself.’
He hurled the chair back against the wall and strode to the door.
‘Mr McWard?’ Lottie mustered up her calmest voice. As he turned with his hand on the handle, she said, ‘I’ll be watching you.’
He flung the door open and stormed out.
Boyd poked his head in.
‘Cynthia Rhodes wants a comment from you.’
‘Tell her to piss off.’
Fifty-Six
Lottie walked out to the reception area, opened the door to the left of the desk and switched on the light. It was a mirror image of the interview room she’d just left, only smaller. Used mainly for applicants filling up forms. It just about held two people, uncomfortably.
‘I’m very busy, as you can imagine,’ she said, sitting down and folding her arms.
‘I won’t take up much of your time. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.’ Cynthia Rhodes pulled out a chair.
‘I haven’t agreed to anything. Just ticking a box.’ Once she’d said the words, Lottie knew she’d succeeded in ruffling Cynthia’s journalistic feathers. Paddy McWard’s fault. She had yet to digest the interview and identify the source of his anger.
‘Will I sit?’ Cynthia asked, placing her phone on the tiny desk and opening the recording app. She pushed her black-rimmed spectacles up her nose.
‘Two minutes. That’s all I can spare.’
‘I want to do a feature for the weekend news.’
‘Feature on what?’
‘The tenth anniversary of the disappearance of Lynn O’Donnell.’
Lottie whistled out a sigh.
‘I wasn’t based in Ragmullin at that time.’ She was determined to say as little as possible.