Boyd switched off the recording equipment and began sealing up the DVDs. Lottie followed Petrovci with her eyes as he moved to the door. Wide shoulders, muscles taut beneath his hi-vis singlet.
He turned his head. ‘Little one… in the clay. Too young to die.’ He opened the door, exited and pulled it closed silently behind him.
Lottie stared at Boyd as he shrugged his shoulders.
‘I’ll get the next one in,’ he said, and followed Petrovci out of the door.
* * *
When they’d interviewed all the workers from the site, Superintendent Corrigan put his head around the door and said, ‘Incident room. Now.’
Lottie followed him, watching the light glint off his bald pate, wondering how often he had to shave his head to maintain such an even sheen. In the incident room, an unwelcome surge of shivers shot up her spine as she recalled her last case. Same room, different murder. A free-standing noticeboard held a death-mask photograph of the victim. A rough drawing of the area where the body had been found and a large map of the town were pinned on a second board. Officers were busy on phones and typing up reports from the ongoing door-to-door enquiries.
Superintendent Corrigan rubbed a hand over his head, pushed his spectacles up his fat nose and said, ‘Inspector Parker, you are the senior investigation officer on this inquiry.’ He stared at her through one eye. The other was red and half-closed. An infection? Hopefully it wasn’t contagious. She took a step back, just in case.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Past experience had taught her to say as little as possible in Corrigan’s presence. A habit of uttering the wrong thing in front of him had got her in trouble too many times.
‘But all the press stuff goes through me first,’ he warned. ‘Don’t want a feck-up like last time, do we?’
‘I want to get straight to it, sir. Maria Lynch is working on the jobs book and Boyd is going to review the transcripts of the interviews we’ve just conducted.’
‘Kirby? What’s he at?’
‘I’ll let you know shortly.’ As soon as I find him, she added silently.
‘You know my views on cases like this. Ragmullin district handles it. No feckin’ need for the city to be involved. But after the almighty balls-up you made of your last case, I’m not sure I can keep their noses out of this for long. So wrap it up quickly. Without feck-ups. Okay?’
‘Sure, sir.’ She couldn’t help wondering what was wrong with his eye. Had Mrs Corrigan lost her temper and thumped him?
‘And stop feckin’ staring at me.’
Lottie sighed. So much for her quiet first day.
* * *
Kirby was sitting at his desk shuffling through a bundle of interview transcripts from the apartment residents, one foot resting on top of a stack of files with his sandal beside it.
‘I was looking for you,’ Lottie said, wrinkling her nose.
‘You found me.’ He quickly slid his toes into the sandal. ‘I was about to bring this lot into the incident room.’
‘Does the pub on the corner of the street where the body was found have CCTV?’
‘Take a guess, boss.’
‘Doesn’t work?’
‘Correct.’ Kirby scratched his wiry mop of hair. ‘Why go to the bother of installing all that equipment and then not maintain it? It’s beyond me.’
‘And none at the apartments either?’
‘Nope.’
‘What about the town CCTV at that location?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Anything there?’
‘Cutbacks? Budgets? I don’t know, but half the cameras don’t work. They’re only on the main streets anyway.’
‘Great.’ Lottie tried not to let her disappointment show, but it was a setback.
She spent the afternoon reading every report her detectives had highlighted for her. Boyd sat doing the same while intermittently organising pens in a straight line on his desk. But there were no clues as to who the girl might be or who had murdered and buried her beneath the streets of Ragmullin.
At 4.15 p.m., Lottie’s phone rang. Jane Dore, the pathologist. Lottie listened carefully before disconnecting the call. ‘Jane has the preliminary report ready.’
‘No flies on her,’ Boyd said.
‘Your choice of words amazes me at times.’ Lottie shook her head, grabbed her bag. ‘I’m going to Tullamore.’
‘Do you need me to—’
‘No, I don’t need you to come with me. I know how to drive. Keep sifting through that lot. I want to know the name of the victim.’
‘I can’t magic it out of thin air.’
‘Just find out who she was.’
‘Yes, boss. Why do you have to go all the way over there? Can she not email the report?’
‘Can you not do your own work and I’ll do mine?
Lottie swung her bag over her shoulder and hurried out of the office before she lost her temper with him. Heading to the car, she hoped the damn air con worked. Chance would be a fine thing.
Nine
‘What did you say?’ Lottie asked.
‘Gunshot,’ the pathologist repeated.
‘No way.’ Lottie shook her head in dismay.
‘It’s all preliminary at the moment,’ Jane Dore said, curt and professional as always.
‘Preliminary will do for now,’ Lottie said.
A forty-kilometre drive to Tullamore and she had sweltered through every one of them. At least in the Dead House it was cold. And round here it was like a million miles away from the scenery she’d viewed along the road. Green trees, luscious in their growth, grass verges blossoming with buttercups and one of the many midland lakes glittering in the distance under the heady sun. That was before she hit the motorway of speeding vehicles and diesel fumes rising in the air. Now she would welcome that oily smell to help dispel the odour shrouding the Dead House.
They sat on chrome stools at a bench. The victim lay beneath a sheet on a steel table behind them.
‘Entry through her back. No exit wound. X-rays show a bullet lodged in a rib. I’ll send it to the lab and the ballistics people can examine it.’
‘She was shot. Shit,’ said Lottie. ‘I can’t remember when we last had a shooting in Ragmullin.’
‘And I found what looks like a bite mark on the back of her neck. I’ve swabbed the area for saliva and taken impressions. I’ll send the images to you.’
‘Will you be able to get DNA from the swab?’
‘Not sure. It was very clean. Wait and see.’
‘Any sexual assault?’
‘Evidence of vaginal tearing. So it’s probable but not conclusive.’
‘Anything from her clothes?’
‘Nothing. I believe she was undressed before she was shot. The wound presents as very clean. It may have been washed.’
‘The bullet hole? He washed it after he shot her?’
‘It’s clean. Someone washed it. I’ve also taken scrapings from beneath her nails. They might yield results. But don’t depend on it.’
‘Why did he undress her, shoot her, wash the wound and then dress her again?’ Lottie shook her head. What was she dealing with?
‘Maybe he’s a CSI freak.’
‘Who is she, Jane?’