‘No, there are thirteen. See the bottle of vodka behind the Jack Daniel’s? It’s in the wrong place.’
She counted things. A fetish, Boyd called it. Boredom, Lottie called it. But she knew it was a throwback to her childhood. Unable to cope with a trauma in her early life, she had resorted to counting as a distraction from things and situations she couldn’t understand. Though now, it had just become a habit.
‘You need glasses,’ said Boyd.
‘Thirty-four,’ said Lottie. ‘Bottom shelf.’
‘I give up,’ said Boyd.
‘Loser,’ she laughed.
They were sitting at the counter in Danny’s Bar among the small lunchtime crowd. She felt little warmth as the coal fire roared up the wide chimney behind them, taking most of the heat with it. The chef stood at the carvery stirring a thick skin off the top of the gravy in a tray beside his Special of the Day – wizened roast beef. Lottie had ordered chicken in ciabatta. Boyd had copied her. A slight Italian girl lounged with her back to them, watching bread brown in a small toaster.
‘They must be plucking the chickens the time these sandwiches are taking,’ said Boyd.
‘You’re putting me off my food,’ said Lottie
‘If you had any food to be put off,’ said Boyd.
Forgotten Christmas decorations twinkled along the top of the bar. A poster, Sellotaped to the wall, advertised the weekend’s band, Aftermath. Lottie had heard her sixteen-year-old daughter, Chloe, mention them. A large ornate mirror proclaimed in white chalk last night’s special deal – three shots for ten euro.
‘I’d give ten euro for just one, this minute,’ said Lottie.
Before Boyd could respond, Lottie’s phone vibrated on the counter. Superintendent Corrigan’s name flashed on the incoming call.
‘Trouble,’ Lottie said.
The little Italian girl turned round with chicken ciabattas.
Lottie and Boyd were already gone.
‘Who could want this woman dead?’ Superintendent Myles Corrigan asked the detectives standing outside the cathedral.
Obviously someone did, Lottie thought, though she knew well enough not to utter this observation aloud. She was tired. Perpetually tired. She hated the cold weather. It made her lethargic. She needed a holiday. Impossible. She was broke. God, but she hated Christmas, and hated the gloomy aftermath even more.
She and Boyd, still hungry, had rushed to the crime scene at Ragmullin’s magnificent 1930s cathedral. Superintendent Corrigan briefed them on the icy steps. The station had received a call – a body had been discovered in the cathedral. He immediately swept into action-man mode organising the crime scene cordons. If it proved to be a murder, Lottie knew she was going to have trouble extricating him from the case. As detective inspector for the town of Ragmullin, she should be in charge, not Corrigan. For now, though, she needed to put station politics aside and see what they were dealing with on the ground.
Her superintendent spouted instructions. She scrunched her shoulder-length hair into the hood of her jacket and zipped it up without enthusiasm. She eyed Mark Boyd over Corrigan’s shoulder, caught him smirking and ignored him. She hoped it wasn’t a murder. Probably a homeless person with hypothermia. It had been so cold recently she didn’t doubt for a minute that some unfortunate had succumbed to the elements. She had noticed the cardboard boxes and rolled-up sleeping bags hugging the corners of shop door nooks.
Corrigan finished speaking, a sign for them to get to work.
Having navigated her way through the gardaí activity at the front door, Lottie strode through the secondary cordon set up in the centre aisle. She ducked under the tape and approached the body. A gaseous smell came from the tweed-coated woman wedged between the front row kneeler and the seat. She noticed an earphone cable round the neck and a mini lake of liquid pooled on the floor.
Lottie felt the urge to put a blanket over the body. For Christ’s sake, this is a woman, she wanted to shout, not an object. Who is she? Why was she here? Who would miss her? She resisted leaning over and closing the staring eyes. Not her job.
Standing in the chilly cathedral, now bathed in bright lights, she ignored Corrigan and made the necessary calls to get the experts on site immediately. She secured the inner area for the Scene of Crime Officers.
‘State pathologist’s on her way,’ said Corrigan. ‘Should only take her thirty minutes or so, depending on the roads. We’ll see how she calls it.’
Lottie glanced over at him. He was relishing the prospect of getting stuck into a murder case. She imagined his brain conjuring up a speech for the inevitable press conference. But this was her investigation, he shouldn’t even be part of her crime scene.
Behind the altar rails, Garda Gillian O’Donoghue stood beside a priest who had his arm around the shoulders of a visibly shaking woman. Lottie made her way through the brass gates and approached them.
‘Good afternoon. I’m Detective Inspector Lottie Parker. I need to ask you a few questions.’
The woman whimpered.
‘Do you have to do it now?’ the priest asked.
Lottie thought he might be slightly younger than her. She’d be forty-four next June and she would put him in his late thirties. He looked every inch a priest in his black trousers and his woolly sweater over a shirt with a stiff white collar.
‘I won’t take long,’ she said. ‘This is the best time for me to ask the questions, when things are fresh in your minds.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But we’ve had a terrible shock, so I’m not sure you’ll learn anything worthwhile.’
He stood up, extending his hand. ‘Father Joe Burke. And this is Mrs Gavin who cleans the cathedral.’
The firmness of his handshake surprised her. She felt the warmth of his hand in her own. He was tall. She added that to her initial appraisal. His eyes, a deep blue, sparkled with the reflection of the burning candles.
‘Mrs Gavin found the body,’ he said.
Lottie flipped open the notebook she’d extracted from the inside of her jacket. She usually used her phone but in this holy place it didn’t seem appropriate to whip it out. The cleaner looked up and began to wail.
‘Shush, shush.’ Father Burke comforted her as if she was a child. He sat down and gently rubbed Mrs Gavin’s shoulder. ‘This nice detective only wants you to explain what happened.’
Nice? Lottie thought. That’s one word she’d never use to describe herself. She eased into the seat in front of the pair and twisted round as much as her padded jacket allowed. Her jeans were eating into her waist. Jesus, she thought, I’ll have to cut out the junk food.
When the cleaner looked up, Lottie surmised that she was aged about sixty. Her face was white with shock, enhancing every line and crevice.
‘Mrs Gavin, can you recount everything from the moment you entered the cathedral today, please?’