‘What can I do for you?’ Lottie withdrew her hand as quickly as politeness allowed. She resisted wiping it against the leg of her jeans. Despite his disarming smile and hail-fellow-well-met act, there was something decidedly unpleasant about Moroney in the flesh, something she couldn’t put her finger on, but she felt it nonetheless.
‘Inspector Parker, what can you tell me about the rumours that James Brown was an active paedophile?’
Blindsided, Lottie blinked in confusion. ‘I . . . what are you talking about?’
‘That he was involved in some ritualistic, sadistic psycho-sexual—’
‘That’s enough,’ Lottie snapped. ‘You, turn that camera off. Now.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to comment on the large amount of money found in—’
‘Off. That’s an order.’
‘All right.’ The man lowered his camera.
‘I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, Mister Moroney,’ Lottie jabbed a finger into Moroney’s smug face, ‘but from now on you can wait for a press office release like everyone else.’
She turned and made her way to the door.
‘Oh, Inspector?’
She paused, her fingers on the door knob.
‘What?’
‘Your face, you got any comment on that?’
‘Yes.’ Lottie turned to him. ‘You don’t want to see it any time soon. And you better believe me on that.’
She left the room and hurried down the corridor, furious with herself, Corrigan, Moroney and everyone else. Even though Moroney’s information was twisted and totally inaccurate, someone had said something they shouldn’t have. A rat, she thought, great. They had a bloody rat.
Twenty-Five
The incident room was a den of voices swearing and groaning when Lottie entered. With all leave cancelled, it looked like everyone had turned up to work.
Some detectives muttered in hushed tones on phones, while a few chatted unaware they were impinging on others’ space. They all appeared to be individuals in the midst of chaos. This was her team, working with a common purpose, gathering information, searching for a clue, for anything. With such large numbers, it was inevitable idle chatter would reveal restricted information and it in turn would get contorted by the media. She presented a mini speech to the assembled troops about keeping their mouths firmly shut.
‘Anything further on the cash?’ she asked Kirby.
‘Forensics has it now. Two and a half grand. In the fucking freezer!’
‘We need Sullivan and Brown’s bank records. There may be more than two and a half grand at stake here.’
‘I have documents we found at both houses,’ Maria Lynch said. She pulled down a file and rummaged through it. ‘Here’s a bank statement belonging to James Brown. Hold on a minute.’ Another file, another piece of paper waved in the air. ‘And one of Susan Sullivan’s.’ She placed both on Lottie’s desk triumphantly.
‘Same bank,’ Lottie said, flicking through the documents. Boyd had a look.
‘I’ll ring Mike O’Brien in the bank. I know him a little,’ Boyd said. ‘He’s the local area bank manager.’
‘Good,’ Lottie said. ‘Kirby, examine James Brown’s phone again. Find other instances when he called the developer, Tom Rickard. I don’t like that ostentatious bastard. And where’s that warrant for Rickard’s phone records?’
‘We need probable cause to do that.’
‘Brown called him before his alleged suicide. Cause enough for me.’
‘Okay,’ Kirby said, doubtfully.
‘Rickard’s up to his neck in something,’ Lottie said. ‘If not murder, I guarantee he has something unsavoury cooking and I’m going to stop him before his pot boils over.’
‘Swallow a cookery book?’ Boyd asked.
Lottie ignored him and asked Lynch, ‘The tattoos, anything on them?’
‘I’ve scanned the images into the database and googled them. So far nothing. When the shops open tomorrow I’ll try that tattoo place in town.’
‘And James Brown’s laptop?’
‘Porn sites,’ Kirby interjected. ‘No evidence of any paedophilia. We’re documenting his emails. Still no sign of Sullivan’s laptop or phone. They could be at the bottom of the canal for all we know at this stage.’
‘Keep at it,’ Lottie said.
She glanced over at Boyd. ‘What did the pharmacy have to say about Susan’s doctor?’
‘I’ll follow it up now,’ he said, swearing under his breath.
‘And I need to know what all that cash is about.’
‘We’re buried under a mountain of paperwork, you know,’ Boyd muttered.
‘Yes, I know. I also know we have nothing,’ Lottie said. ‘Nothing.’
She scowled at the three detectives before storming out of the incident room. She needed to find space to dampen her temper. Damn Cathal Moroney and his gutter journalism. Maybe that was a bit unfair, but this was her own hometown and she didn’t know what was going on.
She stood on the station steps, inhaling breaths of cold January air. Across the snowy road, the majestic cathedral stood tall, once open and inviting, now an enforced no-go area. Taking another deep breath, hurting her ribs in the process, Lottie returned inside, shaking the weariness from her shoulders along with flecks of snow.
She needed coffee.
Superintendent Corrigan pounded down the corridor as fast as the builders’ ladders would allow. He burst into the office, mobile phone in his hand.
‘Inspector Parker. Get your arse out to Bishop Connor’s house.’
Projectile spit landed on his prey. Lottie steadied her mug of coffee. What now?
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, not feeling a bit like the lead detective on a murder case.
‘How’d it go with Moroney?’ he asked.
‘Fine sir. Brief.’
‘Good.’ He peered at her. ‘What the hell happened to your face?’
‘Mugging, sir.’
‘Do you need stitches?’ he asked, eyeing the plaster askew on her nose.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look fine to me.’ Corrigan turned to leave.
‘Sir, what am I seeing Bishop Connor about?’ She struggled into her jacket.
‘He will explain.’
And Corrigan was gone.
‘Fine? Wait until he hears what really happened,’ Boyd smirked.
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Come on, I need a lift.’
‘What am I now? Your chauffeur?’
‘You know what, Boyd? You can fuck off.’ Lottie pranced out of the office, leaving Boyd shouting after her.
‘What did I say now?’
Twenty-Six
The bishop’s house, built eight years ago on the edge of Ladystown Lake, six kilometres outside Ragmullin, defied local logic. How did he get planning permission in such a scenic area?
Lottie studied what she supposed might be a genuine Picasso painting hanging over a white marble fireplace. Money oozed. Whose money?
After an impatient ten-minute wait, she followed a silent young priest along a marbled hallway to a gold-handled door. He opened it and she stepped on to a deep-pile, cream wool carpet. The priest closed the door behind her.
‘Inspector Parker, is it?’ Bishop Connor spoke without raising his head of short black curly hair. Sitting at his desk, he wrote on a page, a gold pen clutched between long fingers. Did he dye his hair? she wondered. She presumed he was about sixty-five years old but he looked very healthy and fit, she noticed.
‘Yes.’ She stood with her hands in her pockets. He continued to write.
‘You may sit,’ he commanded. ‘Be with you in a moment.’
She sat and dug her short nails into the palm of her hand, to keep herself grounded.
He signed the page with a flourish and looked up at her from beneath piebald eyebrows.
‘I know your mother. Lovely woman.’ He turned over the page and placed his pen on top of it.
Lottie didn’t doubt this for a minute. Everyone knew Rose Fitzpatrick.
‘Unfortunate incident years ago with your father’s suicide—’
‘Yes, it was,’ interrupted Lottie.
‘Was it ever discovered why he—’
‘No.’
‘And your brother. Any news on that front?’
‘You wanted to see me?’ She ignored his inquisitive small chat. Her family’s dysfunctional history was no concern of his.
‘I play golf with Myles, Superintendent Corrigan. When weather permits.’
She remained silent. Was he trying to make conversation?
‘Thank you for coming by so promptly,’ he said.
‘Superintendent Corrigan said it was urgent. How can I help you?’
‘I’m afraid Father Angelotti is missing.’ His face was deadpan serious.
‘Who?’
‘A visiting priest.’
‘Visiting? From where?’
‘Rome. Arrived in December.’
‘And he’s missing?’
‘Yes, Inspector.’ He leaned back, folding his arms. ‘Missing.’
‘Can you explain the circumstances of this disappearance, please?’
‘There is not much to tell. He is not here any more and has not returned to Rome.’
‘When did you realise he might be missing?’ Wondering what this was all about, Lottie pulled her notebook from the depths of her jacket but couldn’t find a pen.
‘I have not seen him since before Christmas.’
Lottie raised an eyebrow. ‘And you’re only reporting it now?’
‘I did not know he was missing. One of the priests here became concerned after looking everywhere for him and took it on himself to inform the gardaí. I probably would not have done so. But what is done is done.’
‘You have a missing priest and weren’t going to report it?’
‘Father Angelotti’s disappearance has been a terrible shock for me.’
‘I’m not sure how much priority I can give to a missing person. We’re very busy at the moment.’ Logistics whirled through Lottie’s brain.
‘Myles will see that it gets the priority it requires,’ he emphasised.
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I am sure you will. I appreciate this very much. Thank you, Inspector.’ He nodded to the door, dismissing her.
Lottie had no intention of leaving. She picked up his pen and wrote the missing priest’s name in her notebook.
‘I need to ask you something,’ she said.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Did you know Susan Sullivan?’
‘Who?’
‘The woman who was murdered in the cathedral.’
Bishop Connor paused, his eyes stony green marbles.
‘So tragic,’ he said. ‘Poor woman. No, Inspector, I did not know her. I run a large diocese. Ragmullin parish, as you no doubt know, has over fifteen thousand people. I only know a handful.’
A handful? Golf buddies?
‘I thought . . . maybe she played golf or something,’ Lottie said.
‘Really? Are you being smart with me?’ he asked.
‘Of course not,’ she lied. ‘I’m having difficulty finding people who knew her. She was killed in your cathedral and, as you now have a missing priest, it’s just occurred to me, maybe there’s a connection.’
‘I cannot think of one reason to connect that murder with my missing priest.’
‘Tell me about Father Angelotti. Why was he here?’
‘He was sent over from Rome on a sabbatical. Personal problems.’
‘Problems?’
‘A crisis of identity or something. I was not privy to the details.’
‘Had he any prior connection with Ragmullin?’ She tapped the desk with the pen. With a name like Angelotti, probably not.
‘I do not know, Inspector.’
‘Why send him here then?’
‘Maybe the Pope stuck a pin in a map?’
Lottie stared at him, dipping her chin to her chest, widening her eyes.
‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘There was no need for that. Father Angelotti was entrusted to my care and now I cannot find him.’
‘I need his personal details and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘He is thirty-seven years old. Of Irish extraction, based in Rome, studying a doctorate at the Irish College. Apparently, in recent months, he began questioning his vocation, his sexuality. That sort of thing. His superiors felt he needed time out and sent him here.’
Lottie wrote quickly in her own shorthand, then looked up. ‘When did he arrive?’
‘December fifteenth.’
‘What frame of mind was he in?’
‘He said little. Stayed in his room most of the time, from what I gather.’
‘Can I have a look?’
‘Where?’
‘His room.’
‘What good will that do?’ The bishop’s eyes were alert, his brow creased.
‘Normal procedure in a missing persons case.’ Lottie noticed his changing expressions.
‘Do you have to do it now?’
‘No time like the present,’ she said.
He lifted his phone, punched one digit. The young priest entered.
‘Father Eoin, show Inspector Parker to Father Angelotti’s room.’
‘Thank you,’ Lottie said, rising from her chair.
‘Can you treat this investigation with the utmost discretion?’ Bishop Connor asked.
‘I am always professional in my work. You’ve no need for concern.’ Except when Cathal Moroney catches me on the hop, Lottie chided herself.
The bishop stood and shook her hand quickly. ‘I will be waiting anxiously for news.’
‘As soon as I know anything, I’m sure you will too,’ Lottie said, with a huge dose of sarcasm.
Father Angelotti’s room was sparse but functional; magnolia painted walls and a red lamp burning beneath a picture. A scowling Jesus with a burning heart.
Lottie pulled on latex gloves and scanned the room. A single bed with plain brown covers. A wardrobe and dressing table. En suite bathroom. Shaving bag, razor, toothbrush and paste, shower gel, shampoo and a hairbrush. One jacket, five black shirts, two sweaters and two trousers hung in the wardrobe. He hadn’t intended to stay long, she thought. The dressing table drawers contained underwear, plain and nondescript. A faint smell of stale tobacco smoke hung in the air. A laptop was the only item on the table. Powered off.
The young priest stood at the door. She felt his eyes following her moves.
‘Father Eoin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know Father Angelotti?’ she asked, bagging the hairbrush. Might be needed for DNA. With all that had happened she couldn’t discount anything.
‘Not really. He didn’t say much. Kept to himself. Stayed in his room most of the time.’
‘Did he have a mobile phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not here. When did you last see him?’
‘I’m not sure. He was excused duties. We were busy with the lead up to the Christmas ceremonies, so I hadn’t many dealings with him.’
‘You’ve no idea where he could be?’ Lottie pressed.
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Did you report him missing?’
His face coloured slightly.
‘I thought it odd,’ he said. ‘That’s all. I mentioned it to Bishop Connor. He didn’t appear concerned.’
‘Why were you, then?’
‘After that woman’s murder, Susan Sullivan . . . I wondered where he could be,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Are you finished? I’ve things to do.’
‘I think there’s something you want to tell me?’
‘I was anxious. Nothing else.’
Lottie picked up the laptop. ‘Can I take this?’
‘Sure,’ he said and ushered her out the door.
Twenty-Seven
At the station, Lottie ordered a complet
e appraisal of the priest’s laptop and logged the hairbrush for DNA analysis. Just in case of the worst.
Sitting at her desk she opened the bottom drawer and from beneath a mess of files, extracted a worn, yellowing Manila folder. Taking a deep breath, she opened it and scrutinised the faded photograph; an image which could not hide the dimpled chin, too wide eyes and spiked hair sticking up on top of his head. Whenever she looked at the picture, Lottie imagined the boy had been due a haircut. A school photograph, taken on one of the few days he had attended.
‘What are you looking at?’ Boyd asked, placing a mug of coffee at her elbow.
Lottie slammed the file closed and moved the mug over on top of it.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’ He perched himself on the edge of her crowded desk.
Two pens fell to the floor. She returned the file to its resting place, banged the drawer shut and sipped her coffee.
Boyd picked up the pens and lined them neatly by her keyboard.
‘It’s that missing kid from the seventies, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve plenty of work to be doing without spying on me.’
‘And you’ve enough work without resurrecting cold case files. What’s your obsession with it?’
‘None of your business,’ Lottie said, tossing the pens across the desk. She noticed one of them belonged to the bishop.
‘That file should be in a museum for restoration work; you have it thumbed to within an ass’s roar of its life.’
‘Get lost.’ She darted him an irritated, scrunch-eyed glare.
Boyd sauntered over to his neat desk. Lottie hastily tidied her own, stacking files and throwing crumpled paper into the bin. She typed up the report of her meeting with Bishop Connor and prepared a missing person’s file on Father Angelotti. She duplicated this into the Sullivan murder database. They might be linked. She could leave nothing to chance. She told Boyd about Father Angelotti.
‘Do you think he had something to do with the victims?’ he asked.
‘We better find out,’ she said. And she knew someone who might have information.
‘Forgot to tell you,’ Boyd said, ‘Garda O’Donoghue found this.’ He held up her scuffed leather slouch bag.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 11
