She blessed herself three times and attempted to stem her tears with a crumpled tissue. The Holy Mother of God wasn’t going to help any of them now, thought Lottie.
‘Did you touch the body?’
‘God no. No!’ said Mrs Gavin. ‘Her eyes were open and that . . . that thing around her neck. I’ve seen corpses before but I never seen one like that. By Jesus, sorry Father, I knew it was a dead person.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I screamed. Dropped my mop and bucket and ran for the sacristy. Collided head first with Father Burke here.’
‘I heard the scream and rushed out to see what was going on,’ he said.
‘Did either of you see anyone else around?’
‘Not a soul,’ said Father Burke.
Fresh tears escaped down Mrs Gavin’s cheeks.
‘I can see you’re very upset,’ Lottie said. ‘Garda O’Donoghue will take your details and arrange for you to get home. We’ll be in touch with you later. Try to get some rest.’
‘I’ll look after her, Inspector,’ Father Burke said.
‘I need to talk to you now.’
‘I live in the priest’s house behind the cathedral. You can get me there any time.’
The cleaner leaned her head into his shoulder.
‘I ought to go with Mrs Gavin,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ Lottie relented, seeing the distraught woman ageing by the second. ‘I’ll be in touch later.’
Father Burke nodded and, supporting Mrs Gavin by the arm, he led her across the marbled floor toward a door behind the altar. O’Donoghue followed them out.
A gust of cold air breezed into the cathedral as the Scene of Crime Officers arrived. Superintendent Corrigan rushed to greet them. Jim McGlynn, head of the SOCO team, offered him a precursory handshake, ignored small talk and immediately began directing his people.
Lottie watched them working for a few minutes, then walked around the pew, as close to the body as McGlynn would allow.
‘Appears to be a middle-aged woman. Wrapped up well for the weather,’ Lottie said to Boyd, who was standing at her shoulder like a persistent mole. She moved back toward the altar rails, partly to view from a good vantage point, mainly to put distance between her and Boyd.
‘Hypothermia’s not an issue here so,’ he said, stating the obvious to no one in particular.
Lottie shivered as the serenity of the cathedral was decimated by the heightened activity. She continued observing the work of the technical team.
‘This cathedral is our worst nightmare,’ said Jim McGlynn. ‘God himself knows how many people frequent here every day, each leaving a piece of themselves behind.’
‘The killer picked his location well,’ Superintendent Corrigan said. No one answered him.
The sound of high heels clipping up the main aisle caused Lottie to look up. The small woman rushing toward them was dwarfed in a black Puffa jacket. She jangled car keys in her hand and then, as if remembering where she was, dropped them into the black leather handbag on her arm. She shook hands with the superintendent as he introduced himself.
‘State pathologist, Jane Dore.’ Her tone was sharp and professional.
‘You’re acquainted with Detective Inspector Lottie Parker?’ Corrigan said.
‘Yes. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ The pathologist directed her words to Lottie. ‘I’m anxious to get the autopsy underway. As soon as I can declare this one way or the other, the sooner you can officially spring into action.’
Lottie was impressed with the way the woman handled Corrigan, putting him in his place before he could start a sermon. Jane Dore was no more than five foot two, and looked tiny beside Lottie, who stood without heels at five eight. Today Lottie wore a pair of comfortable Uggs, jeans tucked untidily inside them.
After donning gloves, a white Teflon boiler suit and covering her shoes, the pathologist proceeded to carry out the preliminary examination of the body. She worked her fingers under the woman’s neck, examining the cable embedded in her throat, lifting her head and concentrating the examination on the eyes, mouth and head. The SOCOs turned the body on to its side and a stench rose in the air. Lottie realised the pool congealed on the floor was urine and excrement. The victim had soiled herself in the last seconds of her life.
‘Any idea on time of death?’ Lottie asked.
‘My initial observation would indicate she died within the last two hours. Once I complete the autopsy, I’ll confirm that.’ Jane Dore peeled the latex gloves from her petite hands. ‘Jim, when you finish up, the body can be removed to Tullamore mortuary.’
Not for the first time Lottie wished the Health Services Executive hadn’t relocated the mortuary services to Tullamore Hospital, half an hour’s drive away. Another nail in Ragmullin’s coffin.
‘As soon as you can declare the cause of death, please inform me immediately,’ Corrigan said.
Lottie tried not to roll her eyes. It was obvious to everyone that the victim had been strangled. The pathologist only had to officially class the death as murder. There was no way this woman had accidently or otherwise strangled herself.
Jane Dore dumped her Teflon garments into a paper bag and, as promptly as she had arrived, she left the scene, the echo of her high heels reverberating in her wake.
‘I’m heading back to the office,’ Corrigan said. ‘Inspector Parker, get your incident team set up immediately.’ He marched down the marble floor behind the departing pathologist.
The SOCO team spent another hour around the victim before expanding their area of operation outwards. The corpse was placed into a body bag, zipped up and lifted on to a waiting gurney, with as much dignity as could be attached to a large rubber bag. The wooden door creaked as they exited. The ambulance blasted out its sirens, unnecessarily, as its patient was dead and in no hurry to go anywhere.
Three
Lottie pulled up the hood of her jacket and clasped it to her ears. She stood on the snow-covered cathedral steps, leaving behind the hum of activity. Every nook would be searched and every inch of marble inspected.
She breathed in the cool air and peered skywards. The first flakes of a snow flurry settled on her nose, and melted. The large midland town of Ragmullin lay still beyond the wrought iron gates now swathed with blue and white crime scene tape. Like herself, the once thriving factory town struggled to awake each day. Its inhabitants muddled through the daylight hours until darkness sheathed their windows and they could rest until the next mundane day dawned. Lottie liked the anonymity it offered, but was also aware that her town, like many others, had its share of secrets buried deep.
The life in Ragmullin appeared to have died with the economy. Young people were fleeing to Australian and Canadian shores to join those lucky enough to have escaped already. Parents bemoaned the fact of not having enough money for daily essentials, not to mention an iPhone for Christmas. Well, Christmas was over for another year, thought Lottie, and good riddance.
The drone of the ring-road traffic seemed to shake the ground, though it was two kilometres away, which denied retailers a passing trade. She looked up at the trees labouring under the weight of snow-filled branches and scanned the grounds in front of her, knowing instinctively they wouldn’t find any evidence. The earth was frozen and the soft snow hardened as quickly as it fell. The morning Mass-goers’ footprints were encased under another layer of snow and ice. Gardaí, clutching long-handled tongs, scoured the grounds for clues. She wished them luck.
‘Fourteen,’ said Boyd.
The smoke from his freshly lit cigarette clouded around Lottie as he invaded her space. Again. She stepped away. He moved into the spot she’d vacated, his sleeve brushing against hers. Boyd was tall and lean. A hungry-looking man, her mother once said, turning up her nose. His brown, hazel-flecked eyes lit up an interesting face, strong and clear skinned, with ears that stuck out a little. His short hair was greying quickly. He was forty-five and dressed in a spotless white shirt and grey suit beneath his heavy hoo
ded jacket.
‘Fourteen what?’ she asked.
‘Stations of the Cross,’ Boyd said. ‘I thought you might have counted them, so I got in before you.’
‘Get a life,’ Lottie said.
There was a history between them and she cringed at her drunken memory, distilled with the passage of time but still present on the periphery of her consciousness. Other things had come between them too – she got the inspector job that Boyd had sought. It didn’t bother him most of the time but she knew he’d relish the chance to lead this investigation. Tough shit, Boyd. She was delighted with the promotion because it meant she didn’t have to commute the sixty kilometres to Athlone each day. The years she’d been based there had been a nuisance; though she wasn’t sure if being back working with Boyd in Ragmullin was more of a nuisance. But on the plus side, it meant she was no longer dependent on her interfering mother to check in on the children.
Boyd childishly blew smoke rings into the air and she turned away from the smile curving under his inquisitive nose.
‘You started it,’ he said. With one final pull on his cigarette he went down the steps and headed for the Garda Station across the road.
Lottie smiled despite herself and walking carefully, so as not to fall on her arse in front of half the force, she took off after the long lanky Boyd.
A few people were queuing in the reception area. As the duty sergeant tried to keep order, Lottie skipped by and hurried up the stairs to the office.
The phones were ringing loudly. Who said good news travels fast? What about bad news? Travels at the speed of light.
Sniffing the stale office air, she glanced around. Her desk was a shambles, Boyd’s as neat as a TV chef’s kitchen. Not an ounce of flour anywhere, well, not a file or a pen out of place. Clear signs of OCD.
‘Neat freak,’ Lottie muttered under her breath.
Because of the on-going renovations, she shared an office with three other detectives – Mark Boyd, Maria Lynch and Larry Kirby. Landlines, mobile phones, photocopier, clanking oil heaters and the trooping through of every guard who needed to use the toilets gave the room an air of chaos. She missed her own space where the silence allowed her to think. The sooner the work on the station was finished the better.
At least the place was buzzing, she thought as she sat down at her desk. It was as if the events in the cathedral had stripped away layers of fatigue and boredom, revealing men and women ready for action. Good.
‘Find out who she is,’ Lottie instructed Boyd.
‘The vic?’
‘No, the Pope. Yes, the victim.’ She hated when he used CSI language.
Boyd smiled to himself. She knew he was gaining the upper hand.
‘I suppose you already know who she is.’ She moved files from one side of her desk to the other, looking for her keyboard.
‘Susan Sullivan. Aged fifty-one. Single. Lives alone in Parkgreen. Ten-minute drive from here, depending on traffic, about a half-hour walk. Worked in the county council for the last two years. Planning department. Senior Executive Officer, whatever that means. Transferred here from Dublin.’
‘How did you find out so quickly?’
‘McGlynn discovered her name Tippexed on the back of her iPod.’
‘So?’
‘I googled her. Got information on the council website and checked the Register of Electors for her address.’
‘Was she carrying a mobile phone?’ Lottie continued searching her desk. She could do with a map and a compass to find things.
‘No,’ Boyd said.
‘Send Kirby and Lynch to search her home. One of our first priorities is to find her phone and anyone who can verify her movements today.’ She discovered her wifi keyboard on top of the bin at her feet.
‘Right,’ he said.
‘Any next of kin?’
‘Doesn’t appear to be married. I’ll have to dig further to find out if she has living parents or any other family.’
She logged on to her computer. While she felt excited, Lottie silently cursed all the activity the investigation would generate. They had plenty of work to keep them busy – court cases dragging on, a traveller feud – and New Year’s Eve tomorrow would bring its usual late night trouble.
She thought of her family. Her three teenagers, home alone. Again. Maybe she should ring them to make sure they were okay. Shit, she needed to do grocery shopping and noted it in her phone app. She was starving. Rummaging in her overflowing drawer, she found a packet of out-of-date biscuits and offered them to Boyd. He refused her offer. She munched a biscuit and typed up her initial interview with Mrs Gavin and Father Burke.
‘Do you have to eat with your mouth open?’ Boyd asked.
‘Boyd?’ Lottie said.
‘What?’
‘Shut up!’
She stuffed another biscuit into her mouth and chewed loudly.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Boyd said.
‘Inspector Parker! My office.’
Lottie involuntarily jumped at the sound of Superintendent Corrigan’s thunderous voice. Even Boyd looked up when the door banged, rattling the lid on the photocopier.
‘What the hell . . . ?’
Straightening her top, she pulled a sleeve over her thermal vest cuff and banished biscuit crumbs from her jeans. She flicked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear and followed her boss through an obstacle course of ladders and paint cans. Health and Safety would have a field day, but really there was little complaint. Anything was better than the old offices.
She closed the door behind her. His office was the first to be renovated; she smelled the newness of the furniture and the whiff of fresh paint.
‘Sit,’ he commanded.
She did.
Lottie looked at fifty-something-year-old Corrigan sitting behind his desk, stroking his whiskey nose. The paunch of his belly pressed into the timber. She remembered a time when he was trim and fit, bombarding everyone with healthy living ideas. That was before real life had overtaken him. He bent to sign a form and she saw her reflection on his domed head.
‘What’s going on out there?’ he barked, looking up.
You’re the boss, you should know, Lottie thought, wondering if the man knew how to talk in a normal tone. Maybe loudness came with the job.
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
She wished she was still wearing her jacket so as to bury her chin deep into its padding.
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ he mimicked. ‘You and bloody Boyd. Can you not be civil to each other for five minutes? This case will soon be officially a murder investigation and you two are snapping at each other like feckin’ five year olds.’
You haven’t heard the half of it. Lottie wondered if Corrigan would be shocked if he knew the truth.
‘I thought we were being very civil to each other.’
‘Bury the proverbial hatchet and get on with the job. What have we got so far?’
‘We’ve established the victim’s name, address and place of work. We’re trying to find out if she has any next of kin,’ Lottie said.
‘And?’
‘She works with the county council. Detectives Kirby and Lynch are cordoning off her house until the SOCOs get there.’
He continued to look at her.
She sighed.
‘That’s it, sir. When I organise the incident room, I’ll head down to the council offices to try to paint a picture of the victim.’
‘I don’t want any feckin’ painted pictures,’ he roared. ‘I want this solved. Quickly. I’ve to do an interview in an hour with Cathal feckin’ Moroney, from RTE Television. And you want to paint a feckin’ picture!’
Returning Corrigan’s glare, Lottie masked her true emotions with an impassive glaze, an expression she’d mastered after twenty-four years in the force.
‘Set up an incident room, establish your team, assign someone to the Jobs Book and email me the details. Call a team conference early tomorrow and I’ll attend.’
; ‘Six o’clock in the morning?’
He nodded. ‘And when you learn anything, let me know first. Go on, Inspector, get cracking.’
She did.
An hour later Lottie was satisfied everyone knew what they had to do. The foot soldiers commenced door-to-door enquiries. Progress. Time to find out more about Susan Sullivan.
She escaped into the pelting snow.
Four
The county council administration offices, housed in a new state of the art building in the centre of Ragmullin, were a five-minute walk from the station. Today, it took Lottie ten minutes on the icy footpaths.
She surveyed the large glass construction. It was like a monster aquarium with a shoal of fish inside. Glancing up at the three floors, she could see people sitting at their desks and others walking up and down corridors, floating around in their glass bowl. She supposed this was what the government meant by transparency in the public sector. She entered through swing doors into the relative interior warmth.
The receptionist chattered away on a phone. Lottie didn’t know who to ask for or if word had filtered in yet that Susan Sullivan was no longer in the land of the living.
The young, black-haired girl ended her conversation and smiled.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I‘d like to speak to Ms Susan Sullivan’s supervisor, please.’ Lottie returned the smile without feeling it.
‘That’d be Mr James Brown. Can I say who’s looking for him?’
‘Detective Inspector Lottie Parker.’ She produced her ID card. Obviously, it was a slow news day in the council. They appeared not to have heard about Sullivan’s fate.
The girl made a call and directed Lottie to the lift.
‘Third floor. Mr Brown will meet you at the door.’
James Brown did not look anything like his American soul singer namesake. One, the singer died in 2006, and two, he was black. This James Brown was very much alive, pale faced with slicked back red hair matching his red tie. His suit was an immaculate pinstripe and he was short, about five foot three by Lottie’s estimate.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 2