Final Betrayal

by Patricia Gibney

  A kitchenette was separated from the main room by a three-foot-long breakfast bar with two high stools. Upturned mugs and plates sat on the draining board. The sink was empty. She moved through a door to her right. A small bathroom; the walls and shower door were smeared with false tan.

  ‘Just like mine,’ she said.

  Boyd stuck his head over her shoulder. ‘Yours is a little cleaner.’

  She shoved out past him. ‘Where does she keep her clothes?’

  ‘There’s a cupboard over there.’ Boyd pointed to a set of double doors to the left of a gas fire.

  Lottie opened them up and found hangers with clothes pressed tightly together. Beneath them was a line of shoes and two pairs of ankle boots. She searched through every item of clothing with pockets but came up empty-handed.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ she said. ‘We need to look in Amy Whyte’s house.’

  ‘I wish you luck getting past the councillor,’ Boyd said as he searched through a basket of nail polish.

  ‘Didn’t you know my middle name is luck?’

  ‘Luckless, more like. What’s this when it’s at home?’ He held up a small bottle with white liquid inside.

  ‘Let me see.’ Lottie took the bottle and shook it. ‘Doesn’t look like a nail product.’ She opened the lid and sniffed.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Boyd said. ‘It’s like ammonia.’

  ‘Nail polish remover then.’

  Boyd took the bottle, screwed back the lid and replaced it in the basket. ‘SOCOs can analyse it.’

  As she was leaving, Lottie noticed a jacket hanging on the back of the door. She searched the pockets. ‘Bingo.’ She held up her find.

  ‘What the …?’ Boyd stared.

  ‘Must be a couple of hundred euros here.’ Lottie flicked through the roll of notes.

  ‘Would she make that much from nails?’

  ‘Depends on who her customers were.’

  Boyd patted the appointment book. ‘This might be more of a help than a hindrance after all.’

  ‘We’re trying to catch a murderer, Boyd. Not nail a tax-dodger. Pardon the pun.’

  ‘You’re so funny. Not.’

  As he left, she turned around to look at the two SOCOs. They were not going to find anything here, unless the killer was into nail fetish. Then again …

  She sighed and followed Boyd to the car.

  * * *

  Bernie Kelly curved her back into the wall of Grove’s Coal Suppliers. She didn’t care that a black slick of oil would leave a mark on her jacket. She only had eyes for the tall, hooded figure of Lottie Parker getting into the car with her sergeant. She needed to feel that freckle-skinned neck beneath her fingers as she crushed and squeezed the life out of the woman who had halted her personal crusade of retribution against the family that had never acknowledged her. She knew she had to get a knife. She would plunge it deep into Lottie’s body. Deeper than the last time. And this time it would be fatal.

  A drop of water nestled into the nape of her neck. She flicked it away. The blue lights on the car grille flashed before the car turned right and headed away. She moved out from her secluded corner and began to walk in its wake.

  Lottie Parker could wait.

  It was time to have some fun with her family.

  Twenty-Three

  Sitting on a bench outside the courthouse, Conor Dowling smoked the cigarette he’d swiped from Tony. From his vantage point he could see the activity in the car park beyond the council buildings.

  Guards. Plenty of them.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  He jumped up at the sound of the voice. Cyril Gill was towering over him. Conor’s reply died in his throat. All the words and sentences he’d concocted during his prison time evaporated into the misty air as just a jumble of letters; nothing connecting; nothing forming even a word, let alone a full sentence. He dropped the cigarette and made to move around his boss.

  Gill grabbed his arm and pulled him to his chest.

  ‘If you so much as look crooked at my daughter, I’ll personally flay you alive. Got it?’

  Conor gulped and dropped his chin to his chest. He’d thought Gill wouldn’t remember him. Stupid. Of course the man knew absolutely everything about him. Maybe he’d hired him on purpose. To keep him in his sights. That sounded about right.

  When he looked up, he found himself alone. Gill’s car was speeding up Gaol Street. How long had he been standing like an idiot, staring at his mucky boots? Too long. He glanced down at the half-smoked cigarette drowned in a puddle. Shouldn’t have started, he thought, because now he’d have to go buy a pack.

  With a backward glance at the guards searching around the recycling banks, he took a deep breath and headed to the newsagent’s. Maybe he’d buy two packs.

  * * *

  Richard Whyte made no objection to a search of Amy’s room. He was dry-eyed and talking on the phone to an undertaker.

  ‘When will my daughter’s body be released?’

  ‘As soon as the state pathologist says so,’ Lottie said. ‘Which room is it?’

  ‘Up the stairs. Third on the right.’ He returned to his phone call.

  The Whytes lived on a private estate close to the ring road. The hum of traffic permeated the triple glazing and the house seemed to tremble. The hallway was spacious and the staircase winding, but the decor was soft and soothing. Amy or her late mother must have had some input, Lottie thought, because she found it hard to believe Richard Whyte had a soft bone in his body.

  Her feet sank in the plush cream carpet and she wondered if she should have removed her boots. Too late now.

  Upstairs she was met with a wide corridor and a line of white doors with brass handles. She tried the first one.

  ‘He said the third door,’ Boyd offered.

  ‘I want a quick look at how the other half lives.’ Lottie stepped into a bathroom. ‘This is the size of Penny’s flat. And not a streak of fake tan anywhere.’ She ran her gloved fingers over the white ceramic.

  ‘Genuine Armitage Shanks.’ Richard stood in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder with Boyd.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Mr Whyte.’ Lottie stumbled over her words and her feet in her haste to exit the bathroom.

  ‘That’s okay. I have a housekeeper three days a week. But you should see it after Amy has got herself ready for a night out. I’d say there’s cleaner dressing rooms on Broadway.’

  Lottie smiled thinly and edged by him. In Amy’s room she was stunned by the contrast to the bathroom.

  ‘She doesn’t allow the housekeeper in here. The only room that remains like a pigsty. But it’s Amy’s space, and she loves her privacy. It’s the least I can give her after all she went through.’

  He was still speaking about his daughter in the present tense, Lottie noted, but she didn’t have the heart to correct him.

  ‘What did she go through?’

  Richard rubbed his jowly cheeks. ‘That business at Bill Thompson’s. Then the loss of her poor mother to cancer. And now … and now my Amy’s gone too.’ He slumped in a heap of hand-tailored suit and fell against Boyd.

  Lottie indicated for Boyd to take him downstairs and began her search. She hated trawling through victims’ possessions, but she knew that the dead spoke to her through the evidence left on their bodies and in their habitat. This was one of the last places Amy had been. Tell me about her, she pleaded silently.

  The king-size bed was made up with plain white cotton covers and sheets. Here and there Lottie saw little scratches of tan that had failed to disappear in the wash. She had to pick her way through discarded clothing on the floor until she reached the dressing table under the large window. Venetian blinds helped cast an eerie pattern of lines along the wall as she slipped a finger between two slats and looked outside. Trees guarded the end of the garden, but beyond that she could see the dual carriageway, with traffic travelling along in both directions at speed.

  She sat on the small white stool and opened the drawers. Finding no
thing of interest to her investigation, she hurriedly closed them again. This part of the job made her feel like a grave robber, but someone had to do it.

  She admired the expensive row of perfume bottles on the surface of the dressing table, and thought how her girls would love to possess even one of them. The make-up was all Mac, but the brushes were clogged and well worn. Lights surrounded the mirror, with a photograph stuck under each bulb. She squinted at the images, thinking that most people didn’t get photos developed any more. They were all saved in phones and in clouds, available at the swipe of a fingertip. She detached a photo of a woman in her forties. Amy’s mother, she assumed, then noticed that all the photos were of the same person. Definitely the mother.

  As she flicked up each photo, she noticed that one of them had a small envelope taped to its back. She extracted both the picture and the envelope and laid them on the table. Carefully she peeled back the tape and stared at the envelope. Just the name AMY scrawled on the front. No address, no postmark. She lifted the flap and extracted the white page. It was cheap paper, and as she opened it up, she stared open-mouthed.

  Four words were typed on the page.

  I am watching you.

  She tipped the envelope on its side, and a single silver coin slid out.

  Richard Whyte claimed he knew nothing about the note or the coin. Had no idea when Amy had received it. He’d shrugged his shoulders and Lottie believed him. For the moment. They’d rushed back to Penny’s flat, but there was no envelope, note or coin to be found.

  At the office, Lottie photocopied the note through the plastic evidence bag and pinned the copy up on the incident board.

  ‘It’s a blatant threat,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Someone targeted her,’ Lottie said. ‘Was it because of the old court case? The one where she gave evidence against Conor Dowling? We need to bring him in. I want to interview him. Preferably before he gets his hands on a solicitor. Do we know where he is?’

  ‘I’ll find out from the probation service.’

  ‘Do it now.’

  ‘Was it just the one note?’ Kirby asked, joining Lottie at the board.

  ‘I pulled the bedroom apart. It’s the only one.’

  ‘And she didn’t tell her father?’

  ‘He claims he knew nothing about it. But I’ll grill him again.’ Her phone pinged. A reminder. ‘I almost forgot. I have to go collect Chloe and Sean from school.’

  ‘Why? Aren’t they big and bold enough to walk home?’

  ‘Don’t ask, Kirby. Just don’t ask.’

  She flew out of the office and down the stairs while texting her two children to stay at the school gates until she arrived.

  * * *

  Rose strained the pot of potatoes and fetched the masher. She would put on a fried egg later and that would do for her dinner. She missed having her grandchildren around. Rushing in from school and grabbing plates and cutlery, sometimes eating at the table, but more times in their rooms. She’d never allowed that kind of behaviour when Lottie was young, but now life seemed too short for nonsense rules. She put the pot to the rear of the stove and went to get the frying pan from the shelf.

  The doorbell rang.

  Lottie had told her not to open the door, but she could see through the glass that it was just a woman in a rain jacket standing on her step.

  When she was bundled backwards into her own hallway, she knew she’d made a mistake.

  Lottie would kill her.

  If Bernie Kelly didn’t do it first.

  Twenty-Four

  In Whyte’s Pharmacy, Kirby was glad of the mug of coffee offered to him by Megan Price. She was seated opposite him, her dark hair feathered with strands of grey held back in a ponytail and her black dress with brass buttons down the front adding an air of regality to her appearance. She had hung up her white work coat when he’d arrived. He inhaled the antiseptic smell of medicines emanating from the stacks on the shelves around them, and when she stared at him, he dropped his eyes and drank a mouthful of coffee.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Megan said. ‘Two lovely young women in the prime of their lives. Who would want to do such a thing?’

  ‘It’s a brutal old world we live in,’ Kirby said. ‘I need you to think over everything you know about each of them. People they may have spoken about. Anyone who came into the shop that they reacted to in any way that you can remember as being … let’s say unusual.’

  ‘You’ll have to let me think about it.’

  Kirby put the mug on the floor between his feet and noted how scruffy his shoes looked. The toes were scuffed, and when he lifted his foot, he could see where the sole was coming away. Gilly would have had something to say. He gulped loudly.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ Megan Price said. He felt her hand brush his knee.

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine.’

  ‘You look tired, and if I may so, there’s a deep-rooted sadness in your eyes. I know that look.’

  ‘And what look might that be?’ Kirby tried a wry smile. He didn’t want to talk about Gilly. How was it that she invaded his thoughts at the most inopportune moments?

  ‘Sorrow. Unrelenting, unforgiving sorrow. Did you know her well?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The young guard who was murdered during the summer.’

  He couldn’t stop the tears that dripped one by one down his cheeks. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.

  ‘Let’s get back to Amy and Penny.’ He straightened himself on the small stool. ‘When did you last see either of them?’

  ‘Death leaves a big fat hole in your life,’ Megan said softly, leaving his question unanswered. ‘That’s the worst part. Trying to find something to fit into it and knowing in your heart that it will always be there. What was her name?’

  Kirby gazed into the pharmacist’s dark brown eyes. They were kind and sympathetic.

  ‘Her name was Gilly. She was a lot younger than me, so she made me feel young. And she had the craziest smile you’d ever see. Not crazy like crazy, if you know what I mean.’

  She laughed nervously. ‘Is infectious the word you’re looking for?’

  ‘That’s it. I’ll never hear her voice again. Do you know how terrifying that is? To know you will never hear someone’s voice again.’

  ‘I know it well. It’s tough, Detective Kirby. With time, the pain will ease. It never goes away, but you learn to live with it.’

  ‘Are you speaking from experience?’ He patted his pockets. He could do with escaping outside for a quick smoke.

  She stood. The cluttered space seemed to fill, though she was as thin as a rake. ‘Enough about personal trauma. I’ll rack my brains and let you know if I remember anything out of the ordinary about Amy and Penny.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’ Kirby edged by her.

  He noticed the downturned heads of the two assistants, who’d made themselves busy when he and Megan returned to the main shop. He welcomed the multitude of scents vying with each other for supremacy.

  ‘Did Amy have a locker? Somewhere to store personal stuff?’

  Megan blushed. ‘She used a small cupboard in my office, but I checked it this morning when I heard the news. There was nothing in it.’

  Kirby addressed one of the shop assistants; Trisha, according to her name badge. ‘Did you like working with Amy?’

  Trisha’s face drained of all colour and she began to sob. ‘She was fantastic. We all loved her. Didn’t we?’

  He noticed she’d directed her question to Megan and not the other assistant. Megan nodded and steered Kirby to the door. ‘I have your card. I’ll have a chat with the girls too and contact you if we think of anything.’

  Out on the street, Kirby couldn’t help feeling that he’d missed something. He scratched his head. For the life of him he couldn’t work out what it was. One thing he knew for sure, he was totally embarrassed. When he’d been in the claustrophobic storeroom, he’d realised he needed a shower. Badly.

  * * *
>
  The recording equipment was running, and names and details had been outlined. Lottie had picked up Chloe and Sean and dropped them home, where she was surprised to see that Katie had prepared dinner. She’d declined the offer to eat and rushed back to work, where she found Conor Dowling had been brought to the interview room. Boyd did the introductions for the recording before she began.

  ‘So, Conor, you’re working for Cyril Gill, is that right?’

  ‘You know I am because that’s where you had me picked up from. Don’t be asking stupid questions. I know the drill. Been here before, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you have. When did you get out of prison?’

  ‘You know that too.’

  ‘Two months ago. And you started working for Cyril Gill two weeks ago.’

  He clamped his mouth shut, arms folded, legs stretched out under the table. A lip curled upwards. His nails were crusted with mud and the backs of his hands laced with dirt. He’d dropped his work coat on the floor and rolled up his sleeves. His arms were inked with a myriad of tattoos.

  ‘Odd choice of employer,’ Lottie said.

  Dowling said nothing.

  ‘I mean, Cyril Gill is the father of one of the two young women who gave evidence against you ten years ago. Why would you want to work for him?’

  He sniffed and eventually said, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. That’s my motto.’

  ‘Do you see Mr Gill as your enemy?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘He did nothing to you.’

  ‘That scum bitch of a daughter of his did.’

  ‘Have you been in contact with Louise Gill recently?’

  She thought she noticed a slight blush, but he quickly rubbed his hands over his cheeks and up onto his bald head.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘And Amy Whyte. What do you know about her?’

  ‘She lied too.’

  ‘Lied about what?’

  He scanned his surroundings with narrowing eyes, which landed on her. ‘Why have you got me here? I’m entitled to my solicitor and a phone call.’