‘Are you going to open it or bag it?’
Lifting the lid, she peered into the rectangular space that had once held size seven black court shoes, according to the label. A bundle of letters held together with a rubber band, sticky with age.
‘She hadn’t touched these in years,’ she said.
‘Old memories?’
‘Bad memories?’ She got a plastic evidence bag from her handbag and placed the bundle inside.
‘Not going to have a sneaky look?’
‘No time now.’ Claustrophobia tightened her airways. ‘I’ll check the cabinet and wardrobe. You search the living room.’ She stood up to let Boyd edge out and noticed he was careful not to let their bodies touch. Her imagination?
She opened the door of the wardrobe. Ran her fingers through the hangers. Polyester and wool dresses, blouses and coats. Marks & Spencer Classic range trousers and sweaters folded on a shelf. On the floor, three pairs of well-worn black shoes. She closed the door and turned her attention to the three-drawer bedside table.
On top of it sat a ticking alarm clock, set for seven a.m. A lamp. A small leather purse with gold lettering proclaiming that it came from Lourdes. Inside was a string of rosary beads. How many did she need? A laminated prayer to St Anthony was taped to the side of the locker. Lottie supposed Mrs Ball had recited it when she’d been in bed at night. Could this religious old woman really have beaten her adult daughter? Nothing would surprise her any more.
She opened the top drawer. It was kept tidy, with plastic separators for loose change, and an assortment of pill bottles. Aspirin, blood pressure and sleeping pills. She shut the drawer. The next one held underwear and tights. The bottom drawer was lined with a selection of paperback novels.
‘Mrs Ball was an avid crime reader,’ she called out to Boyd.
‘Really? I thought she’d be the type to read the Bible. I don’t see one here.’
‘Don’t worry – I’ve found one.’ She flicked through the pages of all the books. Nothing fell out.
She joined Boyd in the living room. ‘Find anything?’
‘Nope.’
‘We’ll examine what we’ve got back at the station. Switch off the light on the way out.’
‘Hey, Lottie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Look at this.’
She joined him hunched down at a dark cabinet squeezed between the armchair and the breakfast bar.
‘I thought it might be one of those cupboards that you hide a television in,’ he said, slowly opening the door.
‘Christ!’ Lottie said. ‘That most definitely is not a television.’
Twelve
The bread was brown, soft and fresh, but the tea was weak. Lynch made no comment on either. Across the table, Emma gulped Red Bull from a can, her eyes wide with apprehension. Or was it fear? Lynch wondered.
‘So who was with you down at your house earlier?’ Lynch asked.
‘What? I was only at the shop.’
Lynch couldn’t help rolling her eyes. ‘Well, it wasn’t Natasha, because she was in bed. Tell the truth. Who was with you?’ She tried to remember if McGlynn had in fact confirmed that someone had been with Emma. But then she recalled that he didn’t even know Emma.
‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’
‘Might help us find your mother.’
‘Do I need a solicitor?’
‘A solicitor?’ Lynch spluttered into her mug. ‘Why on earth would you need a solicitor?’
Emma shrugged her shoulders. ‘Dunno. They always say that on the telly.’
Sitting forward, hands clasped to keep her impatience locked in, Lynch said, ‘Emma, this is very serious. Your gran is dead. Your mum is missing. You can’t just go waltzing round the shops. You could be in danger.’
The girl’s eyes seemed to pop behind her spectacles. ‘I want my dad.’
Bernie Kelly said, ‘I don’t think you should be frightening the life out of the poor girl. Isn’t it your job to keep her calm?’
‘I just want to know where you went this morning, Emma.’
‘Buying bread.’
‘There’s plenty of bread here,’ Bernie said. ‘No wonder you’re half drowned. You need to get out of those wet clothes.’
‘It’s a long walk to the shops. Why did you go out for bread if there was some here?’ Lynch persisted.
‘I like it fresh.’ Emma dropped her eyes.
‘Who was with you?’
‘No one.’
‘Listen, Emma, I know when a teenager is telling me lies.’ Lynch was kicking herself for not getting more details from Jim McGlynn. ‘I need the truth from you. Now.’ Then she’d have to ring Lottie and tell her the girl had been out, alone or with someone.
‘Bernie, could you make us two very strong cups of tea? This might take a while.’
* * *
Boyd stopped outside the station to let Lottie out of the car. She picked up her bag from the footwell. ‘Register everything. We’ll go through the letters later on.’
‘Will I get forensics to check the apartment?’ Boyd idled the engine.
‘No harm giving it the once-over. But I don’t think they’ll find anything. It looked untouched since the last time Tessa was there.’
‘What was a little old lady doing with a handgun?’
‘Breaking the law. And don’t forget she had boxes of bullets. Protection? Fear? I don’t know why she had it or where she got it from. But get everything printed and organise a ballistics test. See if it was fired recently.’
‘No one’s been shot around here. Recently,’ Boyd said pointedly.
‘Check if it’s ever been fired.’
‘Sure. Where are you going?’
Lottie got out of the car and pulled up her hood. ‘I need a coffee. A proper one. None of that office shite. Won’t be long.’
‘You sure it’s just a coffee you’re after?’
She slammed the door without reply.
* * *
The water on the footpath lapped up over her boots, saturating them. Rain dripped from the hood of her jacket down on to her nose. It was gone midday, but it was persistently dark and wet. Light from shop windows cast amber shadows on the flood streaming down the road into drains clogged with fallen autumn leaves. An umbrella-wielding passer-by prodded Lottie in the back of the head and she quickly entered the coffee shop.
She ordered and sat at a table by the window to mull everything over. She could do with Boyd to bounce stuff off, but he was being a pain in the arse. When her coffee arrived she stirred in three sugars and on impulse asked for a cream bun. Two garda sergeants came in, nodded acknowledgement and settled into a corner booth by the far wall. They reminded her of her dad. Though she’d only been four when he died – when he killed himself – she remembered him in uniform. Or was that a trick of the mind? Did she only remember him from photographs? She couldn’t be sure.
The coffee was too strong but she forced it down. Her thoughts were focused on her father. What would he look like today if he was still alive? Would he have made detective? She liked to think so. But he’d be well retired by now. Would he be proud of her? Rubbing her forehead, as though it could eradicate the pain thumping inside, she wondered how different her life might have been if he hadn’t killed himself. She had to find out what had made him do it. The box was still in her bedroom. His papers. Stuff from his desk. She’d gone through it many times since her mother had given it to her almost five months ago. Conducted her unofficial investigation, but no one she’d spoken to remembered anything. Selective amnesia? She didn’t know. It was maddening
She put down the cup with a clatter, pushed away the uneaten bun. Her stomach could just about cope with liquid.
Her phone rang. Lynch.
Thirteen
Standing outside the coffee shop, Lottie slipped her phone back into her bag.