‘I am a suspect then.’ He locked his long fingers together in a steeple beneath his chin.
‘Everyone is a suspect until we determine otherwise.’ Lottie tried but couldn’t read anything in his eyes. ‘Did you know Susan Sullivan?’ She watched for his reaction.
‘Was she the victim?’
She nodded. His face was serene.
‘No, I don’t remember seeing her before.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There are lots of people who come to the cathedral but don’t go to Mass. They might drop in to pray or light a candle. Ragmullin parish has over fifteen thousand people, you know.’
‘Do you do house calls?’
‘Not unless someone is sick and requests a priest. I visit the hospitals. I’m also the chaplain for the girls’ secondary school. We say Mass and hear confessions, though not many go to confessions any more.’ He shook his head. ‘Baptisms, weddings, funerals, communions and confirmation.’
‘Is that a lot of work?’
‘Which part, or all of it?’ His face opened up with a smile.
Lottie was silent. She recalled a priest coming to her house to administer the blessing of the sick for Adam. She’d have remembered if it was Father Joe Burke. Then again, Adam was so ill at that stage, she might not have noticed him. Unlike now.
‘Can I ask what you did for the remainder of yesterday afternoon?’
‘I accompanied Mrs Gavin home and waited until her husband arrived. Then I returned and read in my room for the night. I’ve never seen such a snowstorm in all my life.’
‘So you didn’t venture out in it, then?’
‘No, Inspector, I didn’t. Why all the questions?’
Lottie contemplated what she would say then decided on honesty. ‘We have another suspicious death on our hands. It could be suicide but we’re not totally sure.’
‘I wasn’t on duty last night and didn’t attend any emergency. What happened? Should I know who it was?’
‘James Brown. He worked with Susan Sullivan.’
‘Don’t know him. God help his poor family.’ Father Joe joined his hands and bowed his head.
‘We haven’t been able to trace any next of kin as yet. Just like Susan. It’s as if they were both plucked from thin air and dropped into Ragmullin.’
‘I’ll ask around. Someone must be related to them.’
‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’ Lottie sighed and, unable to think of anything else to delay her stay, she stood up. ‘I’ll send someone to collect the CCTV discs. Call over to the station today. We’ll take a buccal swab and fingerprints. As the investigation progresses, I’ll be back to talk to you again.’
She pulled on her jacket.
‘I look forward it,’ he said, helping slip her arm into the sleeve. This time she saw a definite twinkle in his eye.
Handing him her card, she said, ‘In case you remember anything else, that’s my mobile number.’
‘It was lovely chatting with you. Pity about the circumstances.’
‘Thanks for the tea.’ She pulled her hood up against the swirling snow.
When he closed the door, Lottie stood for a moment, blinded by the whiteness after the dull interior, and attempted to wrap her mind around just what had gone on between her and Father Joe Burke.
Thirteen
Boyd took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled.
‘We have nothing,’ he said.
They were walking to the council offices. Lottie wished he would shut up. It was fine knowing they had nothing, but there was no need to remind her.
‘We’ll go through their files,’ she said. ‘There has to be a link in relation to their jobs. Both worked in the planning department and it is a highly contentious area. They don’t appear to have anything else in common. For the moment, anyway.’
Boyd inhaled deeply. ‘Maybe they were having an affair?’
Lottie stopped and stared at him.
Then she started walking again, shaking her head. ‘So what? Both were single as far as we know.’
‘It has to be something dodgy in the planning area so,’ he said.
‘Doh,’ Lottie mimicked Homer Simpson. ‘Let’s see what we can find out.’
Boyd stubbed his cigarette into the snow and they entered the glass aquarium.
The building was unnaturally silent. A few staff walked around with bowed heads as they arrived for work, New Year’s Eve joviality now abandoned. Detective Maria Lynch’s team were conducting individual interviews with all personnel in a second-floor room. Lottie looked forward to hearing the outcome.
In Sullivan’s office, a technician unlocked the computer. Lottie could have done it herself, she thought, after finding the password taped to the underside of the keyboard. Some people never learn. Seated, she scrolled through the electronic folders. Stopping the cursor on one marked private, she sensed Boyd at her shoulder.
‘Why don’t you start on Brown’s computer,’ she said.
She was being a bitch, but he was irritating her. So much for ‘be nice to Boyd day’. After an hour of trawling, Lottie looked up to see him standing in the doorway shaking his head.
‘There’s nothing unusual here,’ she said. ‘Her private folders have tax returns and medical insurance. A few items could be of interest though. For example, the minutes of meetings in relation to a group called ‘Residents against Ghost Estates’. There’s about a year’s worth.’ Lottie stretched. ‘Did you find anything on Brown’s computer?’
‘Nothing I can understand.’
‘We’ll need someone who knows about these things, to see if they can spot anything illegal or dubious,’ Lottie said. ‘I’m going to have a word with the county manager.’
‘Will I tag along?’
‘See about getting these files zipped, or whatever you call it, to the station. Make yourself really useful.’
She headed out without listening to Boyd’s retort.
At forty-five years old, Gerry Dunne was the second youngest county manager in the country.
He managed a revenue budget of millions and a capital budget on a downward curve as the recession hit infrastructural development. During the Celtic Tiger years he had overseen multi-million-euro developments including a major motorway traversing the county. No comfort to struggling motorists, thought Lottie as she leafed through the council’s annual report outside his office. People couldn’t afford the diesel; they couldn’t afford the cars; they couldn’t afford the taxes and some couldn’t afford to put decent food on their tables. Gerry Dunne continued to earn his hundred thousand plus salary annually and Lottie was sure he was one of those who changed his car every January. His biography made interesting reading for Lottie as she waited to be admitted to his office. She thought of her own dwindling bank balance and squirmed.
A secretary buzzed her in. His office was twice the size of James Brown’s. A chill circulated the room. Snow had settled outside on the window ledge and mystical images imprinted themselves on the glass where the wind had blown the flakes. A networked laptop and phone were the only blemishes on the smooth wooden surface of his desk.
‘I’ll do anything I can to help, Inspector,’ Dunne said. His striking features were lined with stress and his mouth dipped toward his chin. Short dark hair had wisps of grey shadowing his ears.
‘We’re all shocked at these deaths,’ he said, his eyes appearing to penetrate the depths of her soul. Lottie pitied him if he could read what was written there. There was a time when these interviews wouldn’t have affected her, but that was then, this was now and her life had changed. ‘Two esteemed members of my staff, in one day. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘Is there anything work-related that might lead someone to kill Susan? Or indeed James, though I should state that his death is classed as suicide for the moment.’
She interrogated his face and found little reaction.
‘They both dealt with planning applications. From time to time they would’ve come under political and developer-led
pressure. Inspector, I can vouch for my staff having the highest ethical standards.’
His voice was slow and measured. It sounded like a prepared speech.
‘Any threats made against them?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes. Against other staff too. During the Celtic Tiger era developers had millions of euro for land purchase. Acquiring permission to build large housing estates, shopping centres, industrial estates and the like ensured they made a profit. Those late on the scene lost everything. Others early in the game made fortunes.’
‘How were these threats made?’
‘Phone, letter . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘I once received a bullet in a miniature coffin.’
Lottie remembered the incident.
‘And all these threats were reported?’
‘Yes, of course. You should have records of them.’
‘I’m sure we do. I’ll double check.’
‘Yes, Inspector, you do that,’ Dunne said, lips tight, drawing a line under the matter.
Was he reprimanding her? Pull yourself together woman, she warned herself. He was hard to read. At least Corrigan shouted and bellowed and she knew where she stood with him.
‘Their current planning files, I need to see them. I know you’ll tell me they’re confidential . . .’
‘On the contrary,’ he interrupted, ‘all planning information is in the public domain. I’ll ensure you have access. Will that be all?’
‘Where were you around midday yesterday?’
‘I returned early in the morning after a few days’ holiday in Lanzarote with my wife, Hazel. I think ours was the last flight in before the airport shut down due to the weather. Once I was home, I stayed there.’
‘Will Hazel verify that?’
His smile emphasised straight white teeth. His eyes never moved.
‘I’m sure she will.’
Jesus, a barracuda in a pinstripe suit. God help the other fish in the aquarium. Lottie went off to find Boyd.
The smile slipped down Gerry Dunne’s face as soon as the inspector left his office. He looked at the icy river below his office window.
He was not a stupid man. He knew she had conducted a character appraisal in the short time she’d been with him. She probably hadn’t liked what she found. He didn’t care. He didn’t like himself much either.
Two members of his staff were dead, attracting attention at a time when he wanted to be so far under the radar that he was invisible.
The mask of composure, which he could wear so well, dissolved into tiny shards. He sat back at his desk and, trying to hold it all together, he cradled his head with quivering hands, wishing he was back in Lanzarote.
Fourteen
Boyd struggled to keep the car upright and Lottie braced herself for impact with a ditch. He was an expert driver. Good job.
‘Twenty-two,’ Lottie said, rubbing cold fingers over her forehead, deepening the furrow.
‘What?’ asked Boyd.
‘Trees on the left-hand side of the avenue.’
‘And that means . . . what exactly?’ Boyd asked, bringing the car to a halt.
‘Observing. That’s all,’ Lottie said. Why was she feeling stressed? The day was yet young. She got out of the car.
A Garda Technical van, a squad car and two other cars were parked on the courtyard in front of James Brown’s house. In the daylight Lottie observed the stone cottage, covered in snow-laden ivy. It dominated the enclosure. A leafless tree, a cairn of rocks circling its roots, sprouted from the centre of the frozen cobbled ground. Looks lonely, she thought. To her right the oak tree, without the body that had swayed from its branch last night, threw ominous shadows in its wake. The state pathologist had been and gone.
They pulled on protective clothing, covered their shoes and entered the cottage. From the black and white hexagon tiled hallway, they walked into the living area. Wooden beams traversed the ceiling. The walls were bare and whitewashed. A round table with four chairs stood in the centre of the floor. A cream fabric couch faced an open-hearth fireplace. Red bricks climbed up the chimney breast and extended towards the window. The entire area was stark in its brightness. Clutter free and clean. Scattered around the floor in front of the fireplace were thick white candles at various stages of melt. Lottie smelled only their wax, no vanilla or jasmine. She deduced the candles possibly served a purpose other than exuding a calm scent.
The room felt overcrowded with two SOCOs and a couple of uniforms along with herself and Boyd. Nothing looked out of place. No sign of a struggle.
‘We’re finished in here,’ Jim McGlynn told Boyd, ignoring Lottie.
‘Asshole,’ she muttered, interpreting his snub as disrespect.
‘Heard that,’ Boyd whispered.
‘Did you find anything we should know about?’ Lottie asked McGlynn.
‘We’ve taken fingerprints and samples for comparisons. That’s if you find anything to compare them with. No suicide note.’
She nodded and stooped into the kitchen. Small and compact. She opened the fridge. Tubs of organic mush, she noted, lifting and probing, searching through the food. She closed it and inspected the counter. An empty sink, a breakfast bowl, mug and spoon on the drainer. No microwave. The kitchen was clean and tidy. It was obvious James Brown had no teenage children ransacking it.
At the bedroom door Boyd stood, looking in. Lottie joined him.
She sucked in a gasp. ‘What the hell?’
‘My sentiments exactly.’
‘And I thought Brown was Mr Stuffy Boots when I spoke to him yesterday.’
Lottie explored the small bedroom. It felt oppressive, with a free-standing wooden wardrobe, chest of drawers and a four-poster bed adorned with a black silk quilt. Life-sized photographs of naked men blasting out various stages of arousal covered every inch of wall space.
‘McGlynn could have warned us,’ she said.
Glancing upwards, she motioned Boyd to do likewise. On the ceiling above the bed, hung a square mirror, suspended from the rafters with chains.
‘Hugh Hefner is only trotting after this guy,’ Boyd said.
A laptop, open on the bed, was half covered by a black silk sheet. They had his office laptop, this must be a personal one. Lottie tipped the return button with the pen from her notebook. The screen flashed to life. A pornographic site appeared. Obviously Brown was not expecting anyone but himself to return to it. The content was graphic but featured only adults, not children. She had seen worse during the course of her job.
‘Would you look at the balls on that fellow.’ Boyd stared at the photographs.
Uncomfortable with violating the secrets of a dead man, Lottie slammed the laptop shut and put it under her arm. The technical team could interrogate its history. Boyd began searching the drawers. She went through to a cramped bathroom.
A bottle of cologne on the shelf above the sink, a tube of toothpaste and a single toothbrush sat in a glass in the window. A feeling of sympathy for Brown grew within her. She joined Boyd.
‘Anything?’ she asked.
‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing to point us in the direction of a murder motive, unless someone didn’t like his sexual persuasion. I still think he topped himself.’
‘It’s all too neat.’ Lottie shook her head. ‘So far the only common denominator between the victims is their place of work. There must be something else connecting Susan Sullivan and James Brown.’
Boyd shrugged. They walked outside and removed their protective gear.
‘Do you want to drive?’ he asked, stifling a yawn.
‘What do you think?’ she answered, sitting into the passenger seat. ‘Put the heater on, I’m freezing.’
‘And I’m not?’
He started the engine and clipped the fender of one of the patrol cars as he reversed.
‘What’s up with you?’ Lottie asked. ‘Something back there excite you?’
He didn’t answer.
She closed her eyes and leaned he
r head against the window. Maybe she should text Chloe to switch on the heating. Maybe not. If they were cold enough they’d put it on. Getting them to turn it off, that might be the problem.
Her phone rang.
‘Inspector, you know we found Brown’s mobile phone in his briefcase?’ Kirby said.
‘Yes. Go on.’
‘We’ve extracted his recent calls.’
‘Anything unusual or recurring?’ She hoped they had a lead. She needed something fast.
‘Being analysed as we speak. The last number he called before his untimely demise was Derek Harte’s. The second last number is more interesting.’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘It lasted thirty-seven seconds.’
‘Don’t play with me, Kirby. Who did he call?’
‘Tom Rickard.’
Lottie thought for a second.
‘Rickard Construction? I came across that name on the ghost estate files on Susan Sullivan’s computer. I remember all the hullabaloo a few years ago when he got permission to knock down the old bank on Main Street and erected his company headquarters monstrosity in its place.’
Kirby said, ‘Going by your report, Inspector, James Brown made the call approximately four minutes after you concluded your interview with him.’
‘Thanks, Kirby.’ Lottie hung up.
‘I presume our next stop is Tom Rickard,’ said Boyd.
‘I’m going to tackle him on my own.’
‘Shouldn’t I be with you?’
‘I know his sort, believe me, it’s better if I go it alone. I want to pick up that phone printout at the station too.’
Visibility was increasingly difficult. Boyd struggled to follow the road.
‘Some way to spend New Year’s Eve,’ Lottie remarked, leaning over to turn up the heat. She closed her eyes as Boyd swore.
Fifteen
‘Mr Rickard. I hope you can spare a few minutes of your time.’
Lottie followed as Rickard brushed past her, striding to the glass lift.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 7
