‘I believe that to be correct,’ he said, emulating Lottie’s words.
‘You need to think very carefully,’ she emphasised. ‘I have proof you met with Ms Sullivan on at least two occasions.’ Hearsay, but he didn’t know that.
‘And what proof might that be?’ The bishop’s eyes flared.
Lottie gave Boyd the floor. He was better at fudging the truth.
‘We have phone records, proving Susan Sullivan rang you. And her computer diary, detailing a scheduled meeting with you,’ Boyd said, bluffing with confidence.
‘I thought you could not find her phone.’ Bishop Connor sat back and smiled.
‘And how would you know whether we did or not?’ asked Lottie.
‘My sources are very good.’
‘Your sources are incorrect and you lied to me,’ Lottie said.
‘I did not know Susan Sullivan. I will admit, however, that I did meet with her. There is a difference between knowing someone and meeting with them.’ He caressed his fingers over his smooth chin.
‘You’re being evasive. I could arrest you for obstruction.’ Arsehole, thought Lottie.
‘I do not believe I have any information that could help you,’ said the bishop.
‘Let me be the judge of that. What were the meetings about?’ She was fed up with the pussy-footing.
‘Private matters. I do not have to tell you anything further.’
‘Bishop Connor, you were acquainted with two of our three murder victims. One of whom, Susan Sullivan, I know met with you, the other, Father Angelotti, was in your care. And you say you don’t have to tell us anything.’ Lottie kept her voice strong and challenging. ‘The longer you play this game, the more I think you’re guilty of something. And believe me, if I get a sniff that you’re giving us the run-around, you might begin to experience what hell on earth is like.’ She leaned forward, breathing rapidly.
‘Are you threatening me, Inspector?’ The bishop returned her glare.
Boyd broke the confrontation.
‘We’re not threatening you, Bishop Connor. We’re telling it like it is and we’d like to know why you denied having met with Susan Sullivan. You must admit it all looks very suspicious.’
Bishop Connor took a breath and reclined into the comfort of his chair. Lottie remained forward, coiled so tight she could spring across the desk any minute. Boyd put a hand on her arm. She refused to move. Damned if she would let Connor away this time.
‘And don’t invoke the superintendent threat,’ she said. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck how many golf balls you and Superintendent Corrigan have hit together. Or how many whiskeys you’ve downed on the nineteenth hole or how many birdies, eagles or albatrosses you can claim. It doesn’t wash with me. I want answers. If I’ve to haul your unholy arse down to the station, so be it. But one way or another, you will talk to me.’
Bishop Connor smiled, incensing Lottie further.
Boyd said, ‘Allow me to outline our position. Father Angelotti arrived here from Rome on December first. On Christmas Eve, you met with Susan Sullivan following a meeting earlier in the year. Our best estimate is that Father Angelotti was murdered on Christmas Eve. I think it’s time you started talking.’
‘And I think it is time for you to leave,’ Bishop Connor said.
‘What are you hiding?’ asked Lottie, keeping her eyes locked on the bishop’s darting emeralds.
‘I have nothing to hide,’ he said, a pink shadow creeping up his cheekbones.
‘But you won’t talk to us,’ Boyd said.
‘I am busy . . . if you would be so kind . . .’ He pointed to the door, his phone already in his hand.
‘You’re wasting your time talking to Superintendent Corrigan,’ Lottie said, stomping out the door.
‘And you are wasting your time talking to me.’
He shut the door behind them.
Settling into the car, Lottie said, ‘If I was so inclined, I could murder that bastard, myself.’
‘Me too,’ said Boyd. ‘And how do you know so much about golf?’
‘Sean went through a Rory McIlroy phase with his PlayStation games.’
Boyd nodded as if he understood.
‘Connor’s hiding something,’ Lottie said.
‘I need a drink,’ Boyd said.
Lottie looked out over the lake as they drove away, the water rippling silver under the moon’s reflections. ‘It’s almost seven. I should check in at home.’
Boyd concentrated on the road.
‘On second thoughts, why not?’ she said, reclining the seat. She planted her feet on the dashboard and closed her eyes.
He remained quiet.
She was glad of his silence. Rickard and Connor were giving her the run-around and, after today, she was convinced they were hiding something. But what? She was almost certain it related to St Angela’s. She didn’t know if it had to do with the past or the present. One thing was sure though, she was determined to find out. She owed it to the victims.
Fifty-Three
The man left his office saying he’d be back in an hour. He needed fresh air, even if it was full of tumbling snow.
As he strolled through the half-deserted town, a teenage couple laughing and leaning into each other rushed past him. A blast of wind lifted the scarf from the boy’s neck and the girl tugged it around her own. The black tattoo stood out against the white flakes falling from the sky. The man idled at a shop window as the girl pulled the boy toward her and the two kissed. He could see her pale hands rub along the youth’s thighs then move upwards until they were caressing his neck.
He tried to control his breathing; it was so loud he thought they would hear it. The neck. The tattoo. That beautiful boy.
The young couple resumed their walk and headed into Danny’s Bar.
He needed to touch that skin.
Soon.
Fifty-Four
Detectives Larry Kirby and Maria Lynch were already in Danny’s Bar, sitting in front of the fire, when Lottie and Boyd arrived.
Two pints of Guinness held centre stage on the round table beside Kirby, his hair wilder than usual. Lynch was drinking a hot whiskey. A hum of chatter filled the air and a group of teenagers, piercings and tattoos highlighting their pale skin, sat in a semi-circle in a dim corner. A pot of tea with a multitude of cups and saucers cluttered their table. Tea time in the zoo, thought Lottie, easing in between her two detectives. She passed no more heed on the youngsters. Boyd went to order the drinks.
‘You drinking for two, Kirby?’ Lottie asked.
‘I’m sitting here thinking about the second one,’ he said, taking off his jacket, ready for a session. A wad of paper and three chewed Biros stuck out of his shirt pocket.
‘And the first one?’
‘It’ll go down so quick I won’t even remember drinking it.’
He took the pint, raised it to the two women either side of him and downed the drink in three swallows. He wiped his mouth with the back of his rough hand and put the empty glass back on the table.
‘Needed that,’ he said.
Lottie smiled across at Lynch. Boyd arrived with a glass of red wine for himself and a white for Lottie.
‘I thought you didn’t drink any more,’ Kirby said, white frothy Guinness lingering on his upper lip.
‘This isn’t any more,’ said Lottie. ‘This is now. I need it as much as you needed that first pint.’
‘Totally agree with you,’ said Kirby, taking a large gulp, following it with a loud belch, without any trace of embarrassment.
The four detectives drank their alcohol and the blazing fire restored heat to their bodies.
‘Don’t look now, Inspector,’ Lynch said, nodding behind Lottie with a swish of her ponytail, ‘but your daughter is sitting in the corner.’
Lottie turned immediately. Katie! She was lounging with her head on Jason Rickard’s shoulder. Her eyes were tired slits, while a smirk curled at the corners of her pouting red lips. Her face, artificially pale from
intense white foundation, challenged Lottie.
‘Stay where you are,’ advised Boyd.
‘I’ve no intention of moving. I’ve had enough confrontation for one day.’
Sipping the illicit wine, Lottie really wanted to slaughter it, like Kirby had with his pint. She didn’t have his gut though and needed to be able to walk home. Katie could wait. But she was annoyed that Maria Lynch was a witness to her family strife. She turned to her colleagues and told them about the progress she and Boyd had made.
‘Give me five minutes with that bishop and he’ll talk,’ said Kirby, licking his lips.
‘How was your day?’ Lottie asked, studiously ignoring the teenagers behind her.
‘I had a bit of a bingo moment,’ said Kirby. ‘I reviewed Brown’s phone records and discovered some of the calls he made were to a mobile number belonging to none other than Father Angelotti.’
‘James Brown knew Father Angelotti!’ Lottie finished her wine with a gulp. ‘So we now have a conclusive link between James Brown and the dead priest.’ She placed the empty glass on the table. ‘When was this? What date?’
‘Dates,’ Kirby corrected her. ‘There were a few calls. Mid-November was the first one. Hold on.’
He extracted the sheaf of papers from his shirt pocket and unfurled them. Yellow highlighter illuminated the pages, circling a myriad of numbers.
‘Here it is,’ Kirby said, pointing with a stubby finger. ‘November twenty-third at six fifteen p.m. And two others, December second and December twenty-fourth.’
‘What time on December twenty-fourth?’ asked Lottie, feeling a surge of excitement.
‘Ten thirty a.m. and seven thirty p.m.,’ said Kirby, taking one of his pens and drawing yet another circle around the digits.
‘And according to our pathologist’s best guess, Father Angelotti was murdered on Christmas Eve,’ said Lottie.
‘And Susan Sullivan met with the bishop on Christmas Eve. Even though the pretentious bastard refuses to tell us what it was about,’ said Boyd.
‘What ties all this together?’ Lynch asked.
‘St Angela’s and the developer Tom Rickard.’ Lottie threw a glance over her shoulder at Rickard’s son. He was nuzzling her daughter’s neck. She turned away, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
‘How does Father Angelotti fit in?’ Boyd asked.
‘I don’t know yet but we could presume Brown rings him at ten thirty a.m. to arrange to meet and called later to say he couldn’t make it back in time,’ Lottie said. ‘That’s the appointment his lover Derek Harte referred to.’
‘But Father Angelotti was already there,’ Boyd said. ‘And someone else, also.’
‘Apparently,’ said Lottie. ‘Who?’
A barman came between them to tip a bucket of coal on to the fire. The flames dampened momentarily and then leapt up the chimney. Sparks settled on the hearth in front of the detectives. Kirby ordered another round. The four of them settled into silence. A burst of laughter amongst the chatter behind them ruptured the air.
Lottie tried to concentrate on Kirby’s information. At the same time she wanted to know what her daughter was up to. She looked down at her empty glass, willing the barman to return with the refills. She noticed the frayed edges on her T-shirt sleeves. If Adam was still alive, she’d have more money. Was it the Rickard kid’s wealth that attracted Katie?
The drinks arrived. Boyd passed them round. Kirby paid. Lottie heard laughter behind her again. She twisted around.
Katie was looking straight through her. The girl’s open mouth displayed a tongue piercing reflecting the firelight. When did she get that? Jason had his arm around Katie’s shoulder, fingering her collarbone. When she felt Boyd tugging her arm, Lottie realised she’d stood up.
‘Leave her be,’ he said. ‘She’s just a kid having fun.’
‘What would you know about it?’ Lottie snapped, brushing Boyd’s hand away.
‘Not much, I agree. But I do know this, making a scene with your daughter in front of her friends is the wrong move. Sit down.’
She did. Boyd was right of course. She sighed and allowed the wine to layer a thin numbness on to her brain.
‘I hate to say this, but your other daughter, Chloe isn’t it? She’s just walked in,’ Lynch said.
‘Sweet Jesus.’ Lottie swung around in her chair. Chloe waved and walked over.
‘Hello, Mother,’ said Chloe. She nodded at the other detectives. ‘So this is your busy schedule.’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,’ said Lottie. ‘Where’s Sean?’
‘Well, he’s not with me.’
‘Obviously,’ retorted Lottie, quoting one of Chloe’s favourite words.
‘He’s at home. We had Pot Noodles for lunch,’ said Chloe, lingering behind her mother’s chair.
‘Yuk,’ said Boyd, turning up his nose.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Lottie, feeling the guilt trip her daughter was sending her on. ‘You’re underage.’
‘Stating the obvious, Mother,’ said Chloe, pulling at the string of a pink hoodie underneath her white puff jacket. She looked twelve, not sixteen. ‘I’m looking for Katie and now I’ve found her.’
‘I think you should go home,’ said Lottie, aware they were now the focus of hushed attention. ‘Wait for me outside. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.’
Chloe turned, her blonde hair bobbing on top of her head, and she marched out of the pub.
‘Don’t fret about them,’ said Lynch. ‘Things will get better.’
‘When?’ asked Lottie. ‘That’s what I’d like to know. It goes from bad to worse.’ Was that a smirk she noticed on Lynch’s lips? She needed to keep a closer eye on Lynch. She didn’t think she could trust her at all.
Ignoring her unfinished wine, she pulled on her jacket. ‘I’ll see you all at six in the morning. Thanks for the drinks. I owe you.’
‘Need a lift?’ asked Boyd. He remained seated.
‘We’ll walk. I want to clear my head. Thanks anyway.’
‘Watch out for muggers,’ said Kirby.
Lottie stopped for a moment in front of Katie and her friends, said nothing, kept going.
Boyd, Kirby and Lynch said nothing either. They sipped their drinks, listening to the fire crackling.
Outside the pub, pulling up her hood against the blizzard, Lottie thought it was sometimes easier to battle against the weather than the tumultuous storm raging within her. Chloe linked her hand through her arm and at last, Lottie felt warm.
The man stayed in the dark nook, obscured from the general crowd, until the detectives finally left the bar following another round of drinks. He was sure they hadn’t noticed him. But it was getting to the stage where he didn’t really care one way or the other. When the youth with the neck tattoo went to the bar, he joined him.
‘Buy you a pint?’ he asked, ordering one for himself.
‘No thanks. I’m with a crowd.’
‘You sure?’ He waved a fifty.
‘Would you ever piss off?’
The man stared into the dark eyes for a moment before paying for his pint and pocketing the change. And as he moved away, making it appear as accidental as he could, he brushed his hand down the young lad’s spine, feeling the vertebrae beneath the cotton T-shirt.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘Bit crowded here tonight.’
‘Fuck off, you pervert.’
The man returned to the nook, his fingers tingling and his body hardening. The anticipation was too much to bear. He would have to do something about it.
Fifty-Five
Tom Rickard sat on the edge of the bed tying his shoelaces.
‘Have I told you how beautiful you are?’ he said.
‘Only every five seconds in the last hour,’ the woman said, her long hair framing her face. ‘Tom, I don’t know how much longer I can do this.’
He sighed as she pulled the sheet up to her neck, her damp body seductively outlined beneath it and a silver chain hanging down one gliste
ning shoulder.
‘Don’t say that.’ He turned and, leaning over, kissed her roughly on the lips.
She struggled to a sitting position, the sheet falling away to expose her flesh, warm and inviting. He wanted her again. Had he time?
‘It’s getting too difficult making up excuses,’ she said. ‘And some day someone is going to see us coming and going from here.’ She paused. ‘Tom, are you listening to me? Look at this place. How long can we keep this up? I hate it.’
He didn’t trust himself to speak. He picked up his jacket from the narrow wooden chair and slipped it over his creased purple shirt. He scanned the room, seeing it for what it was. An inadequate two-bar electric heater in a corner, peeling paint dripping from the damp ceiling and cracked floorboards which had, more than once, resulted in cut feet for both of them. His lust had conjured the room into a lovers’ paradise. The beautiful creature on the creaking bed deserved more than an ancient dormitory. But they were too well known to have their trysts in hotels. Definitely not now, with Melanie sniffing around him.
‘Can we discuss this another time?’ He sat back on the edge of the bed.
‘There’s no need to talk to me like I’m one of your junior employees. You can’t just schedule me in your appointments diary for a quickie and then bugger off to Mrs Versace Rickard. We shouldn’t even be in here, regardless of what we’re doing when we’re here.’ She slumped on to the damp pillow and closed her eyes.
‘Give me a while longer. I’m working things out. Honestly. We’ll make it work. Together.’
‘And how do you propose to do that? Get real, Tom. You are pathetic.’
‘You want out?’ he asked, horrified she might actually agree.
‘No. Yes. I don’t know. This isn’t right.’ She squeezed her eyes shut.
‘Soon, very soon. I’m nearly there. Don’t do anything rash. Not yet. Give me time.’
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 22