‘Is there CCTV in the yard?’
‘No. It’s private. Staff only.’
‘Cameras at your house?’
‘What is this? Why would I need them at home?’ His face clouded. ‘If I’d thought I’d be needing an alibi, I’d have made sure I had someone stay over for the night.’
‘I’ll need all the hotel CCTV.’
‘Why?’
‘To prove you were there when you say you were there.’
‘Get a warrant.’
He was smug. Too smug. Had all the answers, and he was getting under her skin. ‘Do you own a black leather belt?’
‘I own maybe five or six. Why?’
‘I’ll need to see them. Do any of them have the inscription BB or BD?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Will you consent to us taking a sample of your DNA? For elimination purposes.’
‘I will not.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve been in and out of Cara’s apartment for the last few years. I’m sure my DNA is all over the place, and you’ll try to frame me for her death if you find just one hair or fingerprint belonging to me. I’ve done nothing wrong. Now I’m waiting for my solicitor.’ He folded his arms and clamped his mouth shut.
End of, Lottie thought.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lottie was back in Cara Dunne’s apartment, searching for a lock of hair.
If the suicide from three weeks ago was suspicious, and her theory of a serial killer was correct, then the lock of hair from that victim had to be here.
‘This is ludicrous,’ Boyd said.
‘Won’t do you any harm to have a look. You take the living room.’
SOCOs were working away in the bathroom. She went to the bedroom. Suited up and gloved, she traced her hand along every surface, inside each drawer and through all the clothes. Nothing. She knelt by the edge of the bed and checked each blanket, each sheet as she turned them down. Still nothing.
‘It’s a wild goose chase,’ Boyd shouted from the other room.
She ignored him. Went on checking. Carefully she took Cara’s nightdress from under the pillow and ran her fingers through the folds.
‘Boyd!’
‘What?’
‘Got something.’
He rushed into the room. ‘It’s not much, is it?’
‘Boyd, it’s a lock of hair. Cara had blonde hair, and—’
‘Fiona Heffernan had long black hair. What colour is that? Ginger?’
‘Could be light brown with a tinge of red. Hard to know.’ But she thought Boyd was right: it was ginger.
‘Who the hell does it belong to?’
‘It could be from the suicide victim Jane mentioned. Or it could be someone else entirely.’ She put the lock of hair into an evidence bag.
‘Lottie?’
She looked up. Boyd’s face was paler and thinner than normal. His eyes were watery. Had he been drinking again last night? She wanted to reach out to hold his hand, to tell him not to worry.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Could it belong to the little girl?’
‘Oh shit.’ A cold finger of dread slithered down her throat. She felt sick. ‘No. It couldn’t be. Cara was murdered before Lily went missing.’
‘Thank God.’
‘And Lily has fair hair.’ Lottie stood up from the bed. ‘Did you find anything?’
‘A lot of dust.’
‘This makes no sense.’
‘She wasn’t much of a housekeeper.’
‘Don’t, Boyd. Now is not the time for jokes.’
‘I wasn’t joking. I’d end up asthmatic if I lived here.’
She cast a final glance around the bedroom and moved back into the living area. She hoped SOCOs found something they could use from the samples they were gathering in the bathroom. ‘Let’s get this logged in at the station.’ She fingered the evidence bag with its piece of treasure. ‘Jesus, Boyd, we need to find the little girl.’
She shrugged her arms out of the white suit and grabbed her jacket. She was in the corridor before Boyd had his zipper undone.
The next-door neighbour was peering through her slightly open door.
‘Eve?’ Lottie nodded a greeting. ‘Can I have a word, please?’
‘Sorry. I’m not feeling very well. Another time?’
‘Now would be a good time for me.’
‘I was about to lie down.’
‘Just a quick word.’
The woman went to shut the door, but Lottie held her hand in the way, hoping it wouldn’t slam on her fingers. It didn’t. She checked over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Boyd. She followed Eve Clarke inside.
The living room, which had appeared so slick and bright yesterday, seemed to have taken on a darker hue. Clothes were strewn on the backs of chairs, and the venetian blinds had snagged halfway. Lottie could see into the kitchenette, where dishes were spread around haphazardly, as if someone had taken them out of the cupboards while looking for something and had forgotten to put them back where they belonged.
‘I’m sorry for disturbing you,’ she said, lifting a magazine from a chair and sitting down.
Eve gave a long, exasperated yawn and leaned against the window ledge, folding her arms. She was still in pyjamas. Her feet were bare and dirty.
‘What do you want to know? I’m exhausted with all the noise from next door. When will they be gone?’
‘As soon as they finish. Will you sit down?’
‘I’m grand here.’
‘Eve, I need to confirm your whereabouts yesterday morning.’
‘I was here alone. I told you that.’
‘Can anyone else verify it?’
Eve unfolded her arms and leaned towards her. ‘No.’
Lottie heard the woman’s teeth grinding and saw her eyes flitting about the room as if she was expecting someone to jump out of a cupboard. What was going on? She was sure she smelled alcohol, and Eve had the look around her watery eyes of someone who took more than she could handle.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I was here. Alone. For shit’s sake, what’s this all about?’
She reminded Lottie of her daughter Chloe when she acted like a petulant child. Lottie stood and faced her.
‘I’ll tell you what it’s about. Your next-door neighbour was brutally murdered yesterday morning. You entered the apartment and found the body. You have yet to consent to your DNA and fingerprints being taken. If you do not consent, I will arrest you for obstruction of justice, and I’ll get a court order to tear your home apart. That’s what it’s all about.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Eve flapped her hands in the air. ‘No need to get your knickers in a twist …’ She stopped gesticulating. ‘You sure she was murdered?’
‘Yes.’ Lottie folded her arms and leaned against the wall.
Eve gulped loudly. ‘I’ve nothing to hide. I like my privacy. I don’t like cops sniffing around, you know …’ Her voice trailed off, and she looked away and twiddled with the cord for the blind. It slapped down suddenly onto the windowsill and she leaped back as if bitten. ‘Damn useless yokes.’
‘Has something frightened you, Eve?’
‘A woman was murdered next door and you ask if something frightened me? I’m scared. It’s not safe around here. I thought she’d taken her own life. I never thought for one second it could be … something else.’
‘It was made to look like suicide.’
‘That’s cruel.’
‘Sit down, Eve. We need to talk properly.’ Lottie was fast losing patience. She tried to keep her voice even when what she really wanted to do was shout at the woman.
As if sensing her restrained anger, Eve sat at the table.
Lottie joined her. ‘Listen to me. We can do this here, or at the station. Which is it to be?’
‘I’ve nothing to hide.’ Still not answering the question.
Lottie sighed. ‘Can you run through yesterday morning from the start?’
‘I got up around eight thirty. Went to the shop for fags. Came back. Looked at telly. Then I heard the voices.’
‘Did you see or hear Cara before that?’
‘No. But I know she goes to Mass every morning and usually visits an old friend out in the nursing home at least once a week.’
‘Who is the friend? Which nursing home?’
‘Sister Augusta, I think she’s called. She’s in Ballydoon Abbey.’
‘Really?’ Lottie sensed her eyebrows arching. ‘Why didn’t you mention this to me yesterday?’
‘You never asked, did you?’
‘Okay. Do you have a partner? Anyone to vouch for you?’
‘I have no one. I left my husband years ago. Christy put everything and everyone before me and I’d had enough of it.’
‘Christy?’ Before Lottie could ask anything further, a knock at the door interrupted her. She looked over at Eve, who slowly got to her feet.
Boyd stood there. Face flushed, hands fluttering as he beckoned Lottie out.
‘What’s the fuss?’ she said as he gripped her elbow and wheeled her down the corridor, away from a startled Eve.
‘Come on, we have to leave.’
He kept walking. She pulled away from him. ‘Hold your horses. I was in the middle of an interview.’
‘You can continue it at the station later. This is important.’
‘Boyd, unless you tell me, I’m not budging an inch.’
‘We have another one.’
‘Another what? For Christ’s sake …’ She followed him. ‘Tell me, Boyd.’
‘Another murder made to look like suicide,’ he said over his shoulder as he took the stairs downwards, two steps at a time.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lottie felt like blowing red raging flames through her nostrils at Boyd when they arrived back at the station.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just thought it was important to look at it straight away. McKeown was adamant we had to read it immediately.’
Lottie flopped behind her desk and picked up the post-mortem report that Jane Dore had sent through.
‘Robert Brady. Thirty-six years old,’ she read aloud while Boyd sat on the chair in front of her.
‘Go on.’
‘I don’t need an audience. Why don’t you get something to eat? You look like death warmed up.’
‘Jesus, Lottie, you’re not my mother.’
‘How is your mother?’
‘Fine.’ He grunted and shoved the chair back. ‘I sent the lock of hair to the lab for analysis.’
‘What hair?’
‘The hair you found at Cara Dunne’s apartment.’
‘Let me know when there’s a report back.’ But she knew forensic analysis could take weeks. She also knew it was useless for DNA, but perhaps it could be matched to the cutting found on Robert Brady’s body. She needed to know one way or the other, and unless she got Jane to call in a favour, it’d be weeks before she’d have a result. She continued to read aloud, even though Boyd had returned to the main office.
‘Five foot eleven. Weighs seventy kilos.’ That sounded light to her. ‘Hey, Boyd, what weight are you?’
‘Around eighty kilos. Why?’
‘Just wondering. You’re six something in height; this guy was five eleven.’ She read the remainder in silence. ‘Jesus, Boyd,’ she exclaimed.
‘What now?’ He got up from his desk and sauntered back into her office.
‘This Robert Brady. He had shoulder-length ginger hair.’
‘Same as we found at Cara’s.’
‘We need that comparative analysis completed immediately. Tell Jane to request expediency.’
‘You’re asking her to call in favours?’
‘Yes, I am.’
As Boyd made phone calls, she read the remainder of the report. There were no more major revelations. The assistant pathologist, Tim Jones, had classed it death by suicide due to compression of the carotid arteries. He mentioned bruising on the neck and fingers, but decomposition had ruled out further tests. McKeown had been right to call her back from Eve Clarke’s. This was too much of a coincidence. Once the hair analysis was complete, she was certain she’d be looking at perhaps the first of three murders.
She told Boyd.
‘Your boss won’t be happy,’ he said.
‘He’s your boss too.’
‘I know, but another murder will skew his performance reports.’
‘We’d better get cracking before he finds out then, hadn’t we?’
Boyd scuffed the floor with his shoe. ‘You’re forgetting about the wedding dresses angle.’
‘Robert Brady was hardly going to wear a wedding dress …’ She flicked through the report again. ‘He was wearing black trousers and a white shirt.’
‘Part of a wedding suit?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’
But something gnawed away in her brain. Brady might not have been the first victim. Where had the hair come from that was found on his body? And the fact that Fiona was missing a lock of hair convinced her that they would soon find another body. Not if she caught the killer first. She stood up and stretched.
The big question was, how did little Lily fit into it all? Lottie dug her nails into the palms of her hands, then checked for updates on the child. Lily was all over the news and social media, but no one knew where she was. McMahon was on top of it, so what else could she do? She decided to follow up on something Cara’s next-door neighbour Eve Clarke had said.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The location looked different in daylight. Crime-scene tape whispered a lonely tune as it fluttered in the wind, and the uniformed garda resembled a frozen statue.
Lottie showed her ID and entered the main door of the abbey. Boyd stopped outside to have a puff on his e-cigarette. She wondered how long that fad was going to last.
The abbey reminded her of an old convent school building. Long tiled hallways, high ceilings, and narrow arched stained-glass windows dulling daylight and throwing a criss-cross of rainbows on the floor.
Needing to ensure they’d missed nothing, she headed to the locker room, glancing back to see if Boyd was on his way. Not a sign of him. She was sure the e-cig was for show, and that he’d lit an actual cigarette once she’d disappeared inside.
SOCOs had taken samples of the blood from the floor, and Fiona’s locker was still cordoned off with tape and bore the remains of black fingerprint dust. She hoped the killer had left his or her mark. Something to give her a clue to their identity. She raised the tape and dipped under it.
The locker door was open. Fiona’s uniform had been taken away for analysis. As had her clothes. Lottie recalled there had been a shirt, a sweater and a pair of jeans, folded on a shelf. On the floor of the locker was a pair of robust boots, perfect for walking in the snow. But Fiona would never get to walk anywhere again. A hooded fur jacket with a Primark label was scrunched up on top of the boots. The pockets held coins, till receipts and tissues. She wondered why Kirby or SOCOs hadn’t bagged the receipts. She did so now, tut-tutting at the sloppiness of others. A quick glance showed the receipts were from Tesco, with itemised grocery products, dated the day before Fiona’s death. It reminded Lottie that she had yet to check out Fiona’s home, even though she knew McKeown and Kirby were there right now.
Running her gloved fingers into all the crevices of the locker, she came up empty. She got down on her hands and knees and noticed a piece of paper on the ground under the locker. Sliding her hand in, she drew it out. A photograph of Lily.
‘Fuck you, Kirby.’ She swore aloud.
She’d trusted him to do his job efficiently while she and Boyd had examined the roof yesterday afternoon, and he’d missed this. His performance since Gilly had died was bordering on negligent. If she’d known about the photograph when they’d found Fiona’s body, they’d have been alerted to Lily earlier and perhaps have prevented the child disappearing.
She studied the photo
. It was more personal than the one they’d used on the nationwide alert. The little girl really did have an infectious smile. Her eyes danced in the light, her hair flowing in the wind. A moment captured by her mother to savour in times when she was not with her daughter. The irony made Lottie shiver.
As she slid the photo into an evidence bag, she thought again about the wedding dress. What had made Fiona bring it to work? Had she been trying it on? Then a thought struck her. Was it even hers? Hurriedly she texted Kirby to check Fiona’s house for a wedding dress.
Walking up the stone steps, she reached the roof. SOCOs had been through the whole area, but she wanted to see if there was even a hint of Fiona’s hair anywhere. Why was the hair so important to the killer? Why the dresses? Shaking her head, she stood at the edge of the roof and looked out over the snow-covered gardens. She found her eyes drawn to the wooded area where she had walked in the dark of the previous evening. Her skin prickled as she recalled the sensation of someone watching her after she’d stumbled across the life-sized statues. From up here, with the snow blanketed everywhere, she could not see them. They seemed to have melded into the winter landscape along with the killer. With a final glance at the tented area below, she returned inside.
With still no sign of Boyd, she hurried along the main corridor, where she found a nurse in an office. She asked to see Sister Augusta. After following the winding corridors, trying to remember the directions, she found the nun.
The room was bright and airy. Blue and yellow wallpaper. Sunflowers. The hospital bed had rubber sheeting visible around the mattress. The cabinet was bare. No flowers, no water or biscuits or grapes.
‘Who’s there?’ croaked a voice. ‘Get me water.’
Lottie introduced herself and said, ‘Will I fetch a nurse?’
‘They’re useless. Pour me a glass, like a good little lassie.’
‘Let me see if there’s anything in here.’
As Lottie opened the cabinet to check, a bony, long-fingered hand clasped hers.
‘What are you snooping in my drawers for?’
‘You asked me …’ She disentangled her hand and stepped back.
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 14