‘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.
Annabelle said, ‘Would you like a drink? Oh, sorry, I forgot, you don’t drink. Cup of tea?’ She picked up a kettle and busied herself pouring in water.
‘That’d be grand,’ Lottie said, without correcting her friend. She’d seen little of Annabelle since they fell out in January, and since then she’d led an investigation into a horrific series of murders. On the night of the memorial service for the victims, she’d downed a bottle of wine. That was the start of it. Now she tried to control it; keep it secret. Not easy living in a house with three teenagers and a baby.
Sitting at the black-granite-topped breakfast bar, Lottie admired how it blended in with the decor. Everything matched. Figured. Dr Annabelle O’Shea was the epitome of designer chic.
The stainless-steel kettle began to hiss on the stove. Annabelle moved in her ridiculously high-heeled boots across the black-and-white-tiled floor and placed black mugs on the table.
‘Where is everyone?’ Lottie asked.
‘The twins have after-school study groups. Cian is upstairs working. Developing some new game or… I don’t know what he does up there.’
Cian was Annabelle’s husband, and Lottie didn’t really care much for him. She wasn’t sure if that was because of the picture Annabelle painted of him or because she just didn’t like him. She sensed Cian O’Shea was too good to be true. A man whose smile never succeeded in reaching his eyes.
‘How did the twins get on with their exams?’ she asked, immediately regretting it. Now she’d have to tell Annabelle about Chloe’s.
‘All A’s, the both of them. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Yes,’ Lottie said. ‘They’re very bright.’
‘How did Chloe do?’
‘Not too bad. Considering all that happened.’
‘What did happen?’
Did Annabelle live under a stone? Lottie thought everyone knew what had gone on last May in Ragmullin. Maybe she was being diplomatic.
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s all over now.’ Lottie rolled up the sleeves of her long-sleeved navy T-shirt. The kitchen was stifling.
Annabelle poured the tea and sat, expectantly.
It was a long time since they’d last spoken properly. But Lottie had lifted the phone earlier and called Annabelle. Swallowed her pride and everything else. She needed something more important than her damn pride.
‘Oh, how stupid of me,’ Annabelle gushed. ‘You’re a granny! Congratulations. Boy or girl?’
You know right well, Lottie thought. ‘A boy. Louis. He’s three weeks old. I worry about Katie, though. She’s not coping very well but she won’t let me help her.’
‘If she has post-natal depression, she needs to see her doctor. Or tell her to call in to me.’
‘I’m not sure she will, but I’ll try talking to her about it.’
Lottie knew Katie imagined that because she had turned twenty in August and was no longer a teenager, she now possessed special powers. But she didn’t want to get sidetracked about this with Annabelle. She would talk to Katie tonight.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Annabelle said. ‘What can I help you with?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Lottie began. ‘It’s so hot in here.’
‘Is it? I didn’t notice.’ Annabelle, her blonde hair hanging loose over her shoulders, wore a black polo-neck jumper and skin-tight blue jeans. Her knee-high leather boots finished the look. Lottie didn’t know whether to be jealous or suitably happy in her trusted old clothes.
‘How’s work?’ she asked.
‘Not as busy as it used to be. Not since the media publicised the fact that a brothel was being run from the building beside the surgery. Doesn’t matter that it disappeared in a flash.’
Lottie caught the knowing look from her friend. But she wasn’t about to admit anything. ‘Do you have milk?’ she asked.
Annabelle jumped up, fetched a jug from the refrigerator and sat down again. ‘How’s your mother?’ she asked.
Lottie paused, jug in hand, and stared at Annabelle. After a moment she said, ‘She’s fine. Why? Do you know something?’
‘I may be her doctor, but I’m just being polite.’
‘She’s fine.’ Lottie sipped her tea. Silence wrapped around them, broken only by the soft hum of music emanating from somewhere in the depths of the house. ‘Do you ever see Tom Rickard?’ she said, her voice a whisper.
‘No… Why would you ask that?’ Annabelle had also dropped her voice and looked around furtively before getting up to close the door leading to the hallway. ‘Jesus, what’s got into you, Lottie? I haven’t seen you for months, and then you come into my home asking about my former lover. Things are bad enough. Give me a break.’ Her words swished through clenched teeth.
‘Ease up. I was only wondering. You know his son was Katie’s boyfriend, and therefore Tom is the baby’s grandad.’
‘I may be blonde, but I’m not stupid.’
‘I think he needs to know about Louis,’ Lottie said.
‘Last I heard, Tom had moved abroad, and I’ve no idea where Melanie is.’
‘That figures. I drove by their house once or twice and saw the For Sale sign. But I didn’t think they’d left the country.’
‘Surely you could have snooped around a few databases and found out where they’d gone?’
‘Thought I’d ask you first.’
Annabelle threw back her head and laughed. ‘You’re so weird, Lottie. God, I’ve missed you. More tea?’
‘No thanks.’ Lottie clutched the mug with both hands. ‘There was something else I wanted to ask.’
‘Fire ahead.’
Before she could say another word, the door burst open.
‘Somebody’s left footprints on the hall floor, and I thought I told you not to close… Oh, I didn’t know you had a visitor.’
‘Sorry,’ Annabelle said, picking up a tea towel. ‘Lottie must have closed it when she came in.’ She wiped the perfectly clean counter.
Lottie stood up. ‘Hi, Cian. I’m just leaving.’
Cian O’Shea, at six foot three, had to duck his head under the ornate lighting arrangement hanging from the ceiling. He held out his hand and shook Lottie’s in a crisp, hard shake, then brushed her cheek with his lips.