‘I get that, but can’t you take it easy? Slow down.’
She stopped on the top step, panting to catch her breath, hand on her heart. A young man pushed through the swing doors.
‘Are you all right, missus?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Lottie snapped.
* * *
A uniformed garda and a detective arrived. Lottie posted them outside the ICU with clear instructions.
‘No one enters without clearance from me.’
‘What about the doctors and nurses?’ Boyd said.
‘Get a list, with ID photographs, of everyone working the ICU shifts. Only those can go in. Got it?’
The two men nodded and took up their positions.
Before leaving, Lottie got an update on Marian Russell’s condition. Not good.
‘Boyd?’ she said.
‘Yeah?’
‘I need a drink.’
Fifteen
The lights were on at Danny’s. Silver hues glinted off the bottles behind the bar.
Lottie slid onto a high stool and Boyd sat beside her. She dropped her bag on the floor hoping, too late, that it was shut. Shrugged out of her wet jacket and zipped down her black hoodie. Felt like pulling the hood up over her head, but thought she might be barred if she did.
‘Your stuff is all over the floor.’ Boyd leaned down to scoop up her belongings.
‘Double vodka,’ she said, through gritted teeth. The bored barman stared back at her, twisting his wrist as he dried a glass.
‘She doesn’t want vodka,’ Boyd said, banging his head on the underside of the counter as he got up. ‘Soda water.’
‘It’s a bar, Boyd. Where people drink alcohol.’
The barman took a step back, put down the glass. ‘So what’s it to be?’ he said, hands on hips.
‘Two vodkas,’ Lottie said.
With an audible sigh, Boyd agreed, nodding his head. ‘What about a sandwich? I’m starving.’
‘I feel ill,’ Lottie said.
‘Don’t puke on me,’ Boyd said.
‘Her tongue, Boyd. Her tongue.’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘She’s got no voice to keep down.’
‘She might be able to write out what happened to her.’
‘The doctor said it could be a week before they’ll be able to take her out of the induced coma.’
The door opened and a blast of wind brought rain in through the door. The barman put the drinks on the counter. Lottie stared at the clear liquid slipping over the ice. She let her fingers glide up and down the glass.
‘Is that all?’ the barman asked.
‘Do you know Arthur Russell?’ she said.
‘He works here. Why are you asking?’
‘Just something I’m following up. Was he working yesterday?’
‘He was. But he’s off today. You might catch him later on. He plays music here some nights.’
‘What time did his shift end?’
‘Yesterday? Let me think. My shift started at six thirty, so he would’ve finished up around then.’
‘Did he leave straight away?’
‘Sometimes he has a drink before he goes. Why?’
Jesus, Lottie thought, why do barmen always have to be asking questions? ‘Can you find out for me?’
‘Can’t you ask him yourself?’
‘Right. Thanks.’ She raised her glass and the barman walked off. ‘Does vodka smell?’
‘You should know. You drink enough of it,’ Boyd said.
Twisting round on the stool, Lottie glared at him. ‘Take that back.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Screw you, Boyd.’ She stood. Downed her drink, picked up her bag and coat and stomped out into the rain.
* * *
The office was suffering from everyone’s bad mood. The deteriorating weather wasn’t helping. Her hair was stuck to her scalp and Lottie hadn’t the will to go to the locker room to find a dryer. Dampness lined the neck of her shirt and her jeans were glued to her legs.
‘Probably catch a cold now,’ she muttered.
‘Did you say something?’ Boyd asked, coming in and hanging up his coat.
‘Did you find out anything on the gun from Tessa Ball’s house?’ she asked before he could return to the argument they’d had in the pub.
He checked his computer. ‘It’s still with ballistics for testing.’
‘The letters I found under the bed. Do you have copies of them?’
‘In the incident room. Be back in a minute.’ Boyd rushed out of the office and Lottie took a deep breath.
She didn’t like arguing with him, but did he not realise how hurtful he’d been? Glancing at the time, she realised that home and bed were a distant prospect. She needed a pill. Something to calm her brain; stop her hands from shaking. She thought of her friend, Dr Annabelle O’Shea, whom she had fallen out with ten months ago. They’d met a couple of times since, in the street. Passed themselves, as her mother was apt to say. Maybe now was the time to rekindle the bond.
‘Here they are,’ Boyd said, jolting her out of her daydream.
Picking up the photocopies, Lottie flicked through them. She noticed they were not dated. And there were no envelopes.
‘They’re all unsigned.’
‘I spotted that.’
‘Who’d send a letter without signing it?’
‘Anonymous letters can be a warning or a complaint. Why don’t you read them and see what they’re about?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’
‘I give up.’ Boyd turned and marched out of the office.
The pages in her hands were crushed. Lottie flattened them out and realised she’d crumpled them herself. She started to read the first one. It appeared to be a love letter. Short and sweet.
Boyd appeared back at the door. ‘Arthur Russell has arrived. Prepared to give a voluntary statement. You want to interview him?’
She put the letters into a folder and slipped it into her drawer.
‘Has he a solicitor with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit.’
* * *
As usual, the air in the interview room was stifling. Arthur Russell had showered and dressed in clean clothes. Lottie could smell fabric softener and wondered if his landlady did his laundry for him as well as cooking.
‘Your mother-in-law, Tessa Ball, is dead,’ she said, after conducting the formalities.
He nodded, unsurprised. ‘So I’ve heard. Good riddance is all I can say. She was bad news from the first day I met Marian.’
Russell seemed comfortable in the intimidating room. Must be his solicitor’s presence, Lottie thought.
‘You didn’t much care for your mother-in-law?’
‘Hated her. Doesn’t mean I killed her.’
She glanced over at Boyd. He shrugged. She focused her attention back on Russell.
‘Can you account for your whereabouts last night? Six thirty p.m. until eleven.’
‘Told you this morning, when you interrupted my music.’
‘For the tape, please tell us again.’
‘I didn’t kill the old biddy.’
‘No one said you did. We’re just gathering evidence.’
‘What evidence? I told you, I did nothing.’
Russell rubbed his head with one hand and tugged his beard with the other. Worry lines deepened around his eyes. The reality of his situation was sinking in, Lottie thought. Good.
‘Your wife—’ she began.
‘Back up there a minute,’ Russell said, raising a hand. ‘What evidence?’
He thumped the table and jumped up, crashing his chair back against the wall. His solicitor put a hand on his arm. Russell shrugged it off. Lottie tapped her index finger on the table until he sighed and sat back down, glaring like a cornered bull.
She said, ‘Your wife is in hospital. Know anything about that?’
Russell slammed his fist on the table again. ‘No, I don’t. What�
�s wrong with her? Grief?’
‘Mr Russell, please.’
‘Maybe she killed the old woman.’ He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest, a smug smile spreading across his face.
‘Do you own a baseball bat, Mr Russell?’ Lottie asked quickly. She was truly fed up with his antics.
His eyes darted around the room. The solicitor nodded his white head for him to answer.
‘Yeah. I do.’ Uncertainty flickered in his eyes. ‘Not a crime, is it?’
‘Not when it’s used for a sport, no. Though there’s not much scope for playing baseball in Ragmullin, is there?’
‘I bought it for Emma. About five years ago, when I was on a trip to the States. It’s been in the shed at home… her home, ever since. I haven’t touched it in years. Doubt she has either.’
‘Interesting.’ Lottie wondered if Emma could have wielded the bat at her grandmother’s head. She doubted the slight girl had the strength needed to cause such a serious injury, but she’d check with Jane.
Russell’s eyes were full of suspicion. ‘Why am I here? I never laid a finger on Tessa.’
‘What about your wife? You ever lay a finger on her?’
Sucking on his bottom lip, bristles catching between his teeth, Russell was silent.
‘Mr Russell? Are you refusing to answer?’
‘She barred me from the house. Got a restraining order. Is that why you’re asking me if I hit her?’
‘Did you appeal it?’
‘I sure did. That woman’s mental. Doing drugs and stuff. If you want to know the truth, it was her started out beating me. But no one believed me.’
Boyd grunted.
Lottie said, ‘Last night, I believe you went to Marian’s house, murdered your mother-in-law, then abducted and violently assaulted your wife.’
Russell jumped up for the second time. ‘What the hell?’
‘Sit down. Now,’ Lottie said, lacing her voice with grit.
The solicitor grabbed Russell by his shirtsleeve and eased him back into the chair.
Shaking his head vigorously, Russell said, ‘Where’s Emma?’
‘You haven’t asked what happened to Marian. Is that because you already know?’
‘I don’t like your tone,’ Russell said. ‘And I told you, I haven’t been near that house in months. I did nothing.’
The oppressive atmosphere in the small room was grating on Lottie’s nerves. She wanted to reach across the table and beat a confession out of Russell. That clearly couldn’t happen; his solicitor was present. She tried to quench the frustration wrenching her chest into a knot by taking a few deep breaths.
‘Mr Russell, tell me about you and your wife. The type of relationship you shared. How the separation has affected you.’
Leaning forward, hands clutching each other, Arthur Russell lowered his head as if in surrender and spoke into his chest.
‘Volatile, that’s how I’d describe it. We married young. But when we had Emma, even the rows were worth it. That girl is the light of my life. Whenever I can get access, that is. Marian is a bitch. I mean that, Inspector. An out-and-out bitch. Like mother, like daughter, eh?’
Lottie thought of her own mother, and hoped that sentiment wasn’t true.
‘Back to last night. Outline your activities.’
‘One, I was nowhere near that house. Two, I don’t know what happened to Tessa, and three, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, saying Marian was abducted and assaulted.’
‘We want to know what you did yesterday,’ Boyd said, and shifted in his chair, clearly fed up with the suspect.
‘You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,’ Russell said.
‘Mr Russell—’ Boyd began.
‘Okay, okay.’ He held up his hands. ‘I got up. Had breakfast. Went to work for ten o’clock and was there until seven.’
‘You work in Danny’s Bar, that right?’ Lottie said.
‘Yes. I do the stock in the mornings and then my shift behind the bar. Some nights I play music there as well. Mainly weekends.’
‘I assume you weren’t playing last night?’ Lottie said, knowing that if he had been, he’d have already offered an alibi and the dopey barman would have mentioned it.
‘No, unfortunately. I went back to my digs. Landlady can confirm I ate my dinner there around seven thirty.’
‘And?’
‘Went to my shed and played music until I hit the hay. I’m repeating myself here, you know.’
‘It’s for the tape. What time did you go to bed?’
‘Not sure. Probably around one.’
‘So no one can corroborate your whereabouts from seven thirty onwards?’
‘Landlady?’
‘When my detectives interviewed Mrs Crumb she said she last saw you at seven forty-five, when you finished your dinner. Nothing after that.’
Russell raised his head. ‘I’m fucked so.’ His eyes were watery, and for the first time since she’d entered the interview room, Lottie felt something other than anger emanating from him. Despair?
‘We need to take a sample of your DNA. That okay with you?’
Russell glanced at his solicitor, who nodded.
‘Okay, I suppose.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘It’d make me look guilty if I didn’t.’
‘Very good,’ Lottie said, tidying up her notebook. ‘We’ll take a buccal swab. What did you do after we left you this morning?’
‘Stayed inside, making music. All day. Then some of your lot arrived again and I agreed to come here.’
‘Fair enough, for now. You can go for now but don’t leave town. We’ll have more questions later.’ Lottie knew they hadn’t enough evidence to hold him.
She stood up and gave Boyd a knowing look. If Russell was prepared to give a DNA sample without a fight, did that mean he was innocent?
Russell said, ‘Where’s Emma?’
‘She’s staying with a neighbour.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t give you that information.’
‘Only one neighbour on our road. That Kelly one is as daft as a brush.’
‘You seem to think everyone has a mental problem, Mr Russell. I’m beginning to think you’re the one with the problem.’ Lottie opened the door.
‘Can I see my daughter?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Russell, the answer for now is no.’
Sixteen
‘Kirby?’ Lottie shouted as she rushed back into the office. ‘Where’s Kirby when I need him?’
He stuck his head around the door. ‘You looking for me?’
‘Yes, I am. Can you do an extra shift tonight?’
‘I can, but if you’re thinking of asking me to babysit a teenager, I’m not doing that.’ He sat down, shoving his e-cig into the top pocket of his shirt.
‘I’ve had a bitch of a day and I need you to do this one thing for me. Jesus!’
‘Hey, boss. Calm down.’
She slammed the desk. ‘Don’t tell me to calm down.’
‘I’ll ask Gilly. She has the training; she might do it.’
‘You’re friends with Garda O’Donoghue now, are you?’ She stared at Kirby, who blushed. ‘Okay. Ask her.’
‘Sure.’ Kirby looked like he was glad to escape.
Lottie sat down. Breathe. Her phone rang. Lynch. ‘I’ve got cover for you,’ she said, pre-empting Lynch’s question.
‘Thanks.’
‘Did you get anything from Emma?’
‘She and Natasha are sticking to their story. In all evening, watching Netflix. This morning, Emma left the house. Said she went to get fresh bread in the shop, but Jim McGlynn thought she was trying to get access to her home.’
‘Did he know for sure?’
‘No. I tried ringing him to check, but he’s not picking up.’
‘I’ll try him later on. Emma is not to be left alone until we figure out what is going on.’
‘I’ll make sure of it. Who’s replacing me?’
‘Garda O�
��Donoghue,’ Lottie said, crossing her fingers and hoping Kirby could work his magic. Doing double shifts wasn’t to be recommended, but until the appointed FLO returned from sick leave, she had to work with whoever was available.
‘I’ll stay until she arrives. But Inspector, I’m not doing this tomorrow.’
‘Just do what I ask.’ Lottie disconnected the call.
She thought about Arthur Russell’s interview and couldn’t decide if he was telling lies to cover his arse, or if he was innocent and painting Marian as the wicked witch in order to get access to his daughter. With her nerves frayed and no ideas popping magically into her brain, she made a phone call.
Then she grabbed her jacket and raced for the door.
* * *
The rain had eased to a soft veil, falling in inverted V’s beneath the street lamps.
She started to walk, unable in that moment to recall where she’d left her car. She bit her lip, trying to conjure up strength. To face whatever foe was out there in the miserable night. Someone had murdered Tessa Ball. Someone had cut out a woman’s tongue and left her to die on the front porch of a hospital. Someone was sending a message, loud and clear. Only problem was, she had no idea who that someone was or who the message was for.
A car drew up alongside her, drowning her with water.
‘You eejit!’ she screamed.
Boyd rolled down the window. ‘Get in, you madwoman.’
‘I need air.’ She kept on walking.
‘Get in, Lottie.’ He kept pace with her.
She stopped and breathed in, then looked skywards and breathed out.
‘Right. You can give me a lift,’ she said and opened the door.
Seventeen
‘Well look what the cat dragged in.’ Annabelle O’Shea grabbed Lottie in a hug. ‘Missed you.’
‘Hi, Annabelle.’
‘Give me that wet thing. You’ll get your death.’ She took Lottie’s jacket. ‘Leave your… em… boots by the door.’
Glancing down at her soggy Uggs, Lottie wondered if her socks were presentable enough to walk on Annabelle’s pristine tiles. She pulled off the boots and noticed that water had seeped into her odd socks. What the hell, she thought, and moved down the hall after her friend, leaving damp footprints in her wake.
The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 6
