After her mini meltdown with Katie, she’d abandoned the casserole, called Boyd and convinced him to drive out through the snow to Brennan’s Pub in Ballydoon, just to see if they could pick up any gossip on the recent death of Fiona Heffernan. That was what she told him anyway, though Katie’s words still crunched in her ears. She wondered how Boyd was going to fit into her madcap family. Easily, probably.
He was on his second pint and she felt that if she drank another sparkling water she’d pop. She really wanted a glass of wine. A big glass, not a piddling small one. Full to the brim, so she’d have to lean down and put her lips to the rim. First a sip, then a glorious gulp. The image was so vivid in her mind that she tasted the crushed grapes in her mouth. She pictured a place where she could float to after a bottle or two. Oblivion. A dot in infinity where all her troubles disintegrated into nothing. After the argument with Katie and the burn on her fingers, she’d known there was only one person who could keep her from downing the bottle of cooking wine she kept at the back of the cupboard.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Boyd said, and sipped his drink.
‘You don’t want to know,’ she muttered, the smell of alcohol consuming her.
‘That dirty, eh?’ he grinned.
She hit him on the arm, her mood lightening. A tiny bit. She hadn’t hit that hard, had she? But Boyd had somehow dropped the pint. Smithereens of glass flew everywhere on the floor. Beer seeped into the old, scarred floorboards and people tried to get out of the way, dancing little jigs.
‘I’m sorry,’ Boyd said, leaping to his feet. ‘So sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ Lottie said. ‘Sit down. Don’t be a lug. Here’s the barman.’
Boyd sat, and she stared at him as a lad appeared, mop and brush in hand. The floor was cleaned quickly and the glass swept up. In the few minutes it took, Boyd sat like a statue on the low three-legged stool, his knees almost at his chin as he crouched forward. She noticed how sunken his cheeks were. Her heart dipped, landing somewhere in the pit of her stomach.
‘Boyd?’ Her voice was drowned out by the din. It was the quiz interval. Leaning into him, and a lot louder, she said, ‘What’s wrong?’
Instead of crouching closer to speak, he seemed to pull away. ‘I broke a glass. I’ll get another drink when that crowd clears away from the bar.’
‘I’m not talking about your stupid drink. What’s up with you?’ She was almost sorry she’d posed the question. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know the answer, because somewhere within her soul, she sensed Boyd wasn’t going to tell her good news. They were engaged, though he’d yet to produce a ring. Was it another woman? No, not just when she had committed her heart to him. She felt her breath die in her throat.
‘Me? Moi?’ He smiled with mock incredulity. ‘I’m as right as rain. Or snow. Or whatever the weather is deciding to do outside at the moment.’
‘You sure?’
Inclining his head, he landed a quick kiss on her cheek. ‘I’m grand. Honestly. I’ll get that pint.’
He stood and moved to squeeze in at the bar.
She wasn’t sure she believed a word he’d said. She should have protested. Probed and prodded like the detective she was to find the truth, but a moment after Boyd stood up, the door opened and Ryan Slevin walked in followed by Beth Clarke.
Transfixed, Lottie watched as they searched for a seat. Unable to find one, Beth lounged against a spare bit of wall and Ryan headed to the bar. Someone got up, put on their coat and left the pub. Beth sat on the vacant chair, directly in Lottie’s line of vision.
When Boyd returned, looking a little flushed, she said, ‘Did you notice Ryan Slevin at the bar?’
‘No. Is he here?’
‘Yes. With Beth Clarke.’
‘That’s not a crime.’
‘I know, but—’
‘They work together,’ he continued. ‘Don’t they?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And they’ve both lost loved ones in the last day or two, so what’s the big deal?’
‘I never said it was a big deal.’ She folded her arms. ‘Jesus, Boyd, you’re impossible sometimes.’
‘Me? It’s you who’s making a song and dance about two grieving people out for a drink together.’
‘Shh. I might be able to hear what they’re saying.’
‘Are you mad?’ Boyd said. ‘It’s noisier in here than a school playground at break time. Enjoy your drink and chill.’
‘I would if I had a drink.’
‘Oh shit. I forgot to get you another.’
‘I mean a drink with alcohol in it. Preferably one hundred per cent proof.’ She really did want one now. Because suddenly everything seemed a little too much for her, and she wanted to experience an hour she would not remember later. An hour. Even half an hour. She’d settle for that. Yes. Definitely.
‘Don’t go there,’ Boyd said, his voice soft but serious. ‘Not now. Not ever. You’re doing so well.’
‘Yes, Rose.’
‘You’re scaring me, Lottie.’ He sounded totally unconvinced by the half-smile she flashed him.
‘It was just a thought. You know, one of those irrational things that pop into my head now and again.’
‘I know too well.’ Boyd laughed and went to buy her another bottle of water.
His laugh made her feel a little better. Maybe he wasn’t hiding a woman from her somewhere over in the west. He returned with the drink and she kept her eyes on the couple just inside the door. She sipped the water, imagining it was a glass of dry white wine.
‘They seem very close,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Ryan and Beth.’
‘Stop staring.’
‘She just placed her hand on his knee, and he’s put his hand over hers. He didn’t try to swat it away.’
‘I wouldn’t swat yours away if you wanted to put it on my knee.’
‘Shut up, Boyd. I’m trying to listen.’
‘You’re a madwoman.’
‘You’ve said that many times before.’
‘I thought you never listened to me,’ he said.
‘I do. Sometimes.’ She kept staring at Ryan and Beth. ‘I wonder if we could move closer to them.’
‘Lottie, I’m finishing this pint and you’re driving me home and then you’re going to sort out Katie and Chloe. Forget about work. For now.’
‘But this could be important.’
The pub door opened and, bending his head of white hair so that it wouldn’t graze against the lintel, Colin Kavanagh entered.
In a flash, Ryan was on his feet. Before anyone could react, he was thumping and punching the solicitor and a streak of invective flew from his mouth. Lottie drew her eyes to Beth. The girl was immobile. In the next instant, Boyd was on his feet, trying to separate the two men.
Wending her way through the crowd, wondering how Boyd had managed it so quickly, Lottie joined them. Kavanagh was being held back by Boyd, while Ryan Slevin was still mouthing out at him. Lottie grabbed his arm. It didn’t stop him shouting.
‘You’re a thieving bastard, Kavanagh. A good-for-nothing fraudster. No wonder Fiona couldn’t stand you. You’re a bloody fuckwit. You—’
‘Now, Ryan, sit down.’ Lottie put a hand on his other arm. He shrugged it off.
‘Bloody guards. Never around when you need them, and then they go poking their noses in when you don’t want them.’ Spittle landed on Lottie’s cheek. She wiped it away calmly and eventually forced Ryan to sit on a stool.
‘I want him arrested. He assaulted me. I’m making a formal complaint,’ Kavanagh spouted.
‘Shut up,’ Boyd said.
‘You’ve been drinking,’ Kavanagh said.
‘I’m off duty, and it’s none of your business.’
‘Everything in this village is my business because I own more than half of it.’
The crowd swelled around them and men began shouting angrily. Lottie filtered out the words and concentrated on how to defuse the si
tuation.
‘I think you should go home, Mr Kavanagh.’
The tall man glanced around. Seeming to sense the hostility in the bar, he turned on his heel, dipped his head again and left.
‘Phew,’ Lottie gasped. ‘That was close.’
‘What do you mean?’ Boyd said.
‘I thought he might have a swing at you.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
She turned her attention to Ryan. ‘Any more of that carry-on and you’ll spend the night in a cell.’
‘Kavanagh’s the one who should be in a cell.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s robbed poor Beth blind.’
Beth moved beside Ryan. ‘I can talk for myself and fight my own corner. There’s no need to be an arsehole, Ryan.’
‘Oh really?’ He looked like he was about to cry. ‘This place is too jammed. I’m going home.’
‘I want a word,’ Lottie said.
He ignored her. ‘You coming, Beth?’
Beth picked up her jacket from the floor. ‘I suppose so.’
Lottie grabbed her elbow. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘How would it be okay? My dad blasted his head off with a shotgun and that bastard stole every penny from him. No, I’m not okay.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ask Colin Kavanagh.’ Beth wrestled her arm from Lottie’s grip and pushed past Ryan. Before Lottie could ask another question, Ryan had left too.
As the crowd dispersed back to their quiz and drinks, she said, ‘I think I’ve had enough of this place.’
‘Let’s go,’ Boyd said.
Outside, the snow had started to fall again. There was no sign of Ryan or Beth. Lottie made her way down the street to the car. Boyd caught up with her.
‘You seem unusually on edge tonight,’ he said.
‘Well, you were very quick to jump into the middle of that row back there. I’d say you’re more on edge than me.’
There was something in the way Boyd hung his head that melted her anger. She leaned into him and put her finger under his chin. The longing to be held in his arms superseded the other emotions vying for her attention; she was so lonely it hurt physically. She was the expert on knowing what lonely meant and she thought Boyd got it too. He turned from her, though, shrugging off her embrace.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘Now isn’t a good time.’ He was shaking his head as if there was something caught in his hair and he was trying to cast it away.
‘What do you mean?’
He paced the length of the car then back again. ‘I’m not in the right headspace.’
‘Oh, I see.’ But she didn’t see at all. ‘Would your headspace be in Galway? Some young one there keeping a bed warm for you, is there?’
‘Will you listen to yourself?’
‘And would you ever piss off?’ She unlocked the car and sat in.
As Boyd moved around to the passenger side, she locked all the doors.
‘Lottie? You’re being childish. Let me in.’
She gunned the engine, pulled out of the parking space and skidded along the road. Taking a sharp left, she looked in the rear-view mirror to see Boyd fading to a dot, standing with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in dismay.
Yeah, she might have been childish, but it felt good. His floozy in Galway was welcome to him. If he’d given Lottie an engagement ring, she’d have flung it out the window.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Her three little boys were asleep at last. Zoe folded up Tommy and Josh’s washed and dried uniforms; Zack’s clothes were still in the washing machine. She welcomed the few snatched moments of peace. Moments like these were rare in her life. There were always adults or children around. Her legs felt heavy, as if the blood in her veins was lead resting around her ankles. She picked up the three blue rain jackets and went to hang them on the hall stand.
Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror, she gasped aloud. She hardly recognised herself. When had that happened? The frozen image stared back at her. Her hair was threaded with streaks of grey. Natural grey, not the new fad of hip grey that women paid a fortune for in a salon. Her eyes, so like Ryan’s, were narrow streaks of tiredness and her forehead was creased with deep furrows. She hung up the boys’ jackets and walked back down the hall.
In the kitchen, she opened a packet of biscuits and had chomped her way through four or five when the front door opened. Giles was home. So much for her peace.
‘I’m in here,’ she said, hurriedly sweeping crumbs from the table into her hand. ‘There’s fish stew in the pot.’
‘Fish again?’ He flopped onto a chair and unfolded a newspaper on the table.
‘There was so much left over from yesterday, I didn’t want to waste it. I know you don’t like waste.’ She ladled a few scoops onto a plate and switched off the stove. ‘Did you hear the news?’
‘I’m trying to read it, if you’d shut up.’
Zoe placed the plate at his right hand. He picked up a fork and shoved a bite into his mouth with one hand still on the newspaper.
‘Ouch. That’s mad hot,’ he said.
‘Blow on it,’ she said, ‘like the kids do.’
The rustle of the paper as he bunched it into a ball grated like nails on a chalkboard.
‘Fuck you,’ he said, throwing the paper onto the floor.
‘I just swept up.’ She stood her ground, though she just wanted to go upstairs, fall into bed and sleep.
‘Sweep it again.’
She didn’t move.
‘What are you looking at?’ He paused with the fork halfway to his mouth, sauce dripping onto the table. His lips were wet and flabby. While she’d been losing weight, it seemed Giles had ballooned. Must be all the butter and cream from her new recipes.
‘You, Giles. I’m looking at you. You might think you can talk to Trevor and Shelly at the dance school like that, but for Christ’s sake, I can’t take much more of it.’
He shoved the plate away, kicked the newspaper under the table and pulled her towards him. She fell to her knees with the grip he had on her.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she whispered.
‘Good. You know how important my work is, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘I expect you to keep this house straight while I’m out. I don’t like coming home to a pigsty.’
‘I do my best.’ God, why did he make her feel so worthless?
‘No you don’t. I actually have no clue what you do all day.’
‘I’ve little Zack to mind, and I bring the boys to school and pick them up. Giles, please, there’s something I have to talk to you about.’
‘Sweep up that mess first.’
‘Listen to me. I want to return to my job.’ Giles had insisted on her extended maternity leave, and even though she had hated working for Colin Kavanagh in his solicitor’s office, it allowed her a sense of freedom.
‘What are you talking about? You can’t even do a day’s work at home.’
‘I’m going mad here. We need the money and I really want to go back.’
‘No,’ he snarled.
She shot upright and, as if possessed by some alien spirit, drew her hand backwards to smack him. He caught her wrist and twisted it.
‘I get enough shite at the theatre; I expect a little bit of respect, not to mention a clean house, when I get home.’
‘Christy Clarke is dead,’ she spat at him.
She waited for the reaction. Got one. The purple that had infused his face drained away. His eyes bulged. She could see the yellow in the corners of the whites, with veins snaking towards the pupils.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘He’s just gone and blown his fucking head off. You know what that means?’ For some reason, she was actually enjoying his discomfort, though she knew what Christy’s death spelled for them.
‘What?’
‘We are fucked, Giles,’ she spat.<
br />
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’ He put out a hand to grasp hers, but she sprang backwards as if he had a disease. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I thought, seeing as you are such an important person according to yourself, you might be able to come up with a plan.’
‘Fuck you, Zoe.’ He burst from the chair. She cowered behind her hands, but he had gone. She could see into the hall, where he grabbed his coat and was out the door, slamming it behind him.
A cry from upstairs.
‘And fuck you too, Giles,’ she shouted after him. ‘You’ve only gone and wakened the boys.’
Steve O’Carroll sat staring at the reservations program on the computer screen. His boss would have a fit when he returned next week from Gran Canaria sporting a tan bought on the back of good sales. Well, he was going to be very disappointed. With the Slevin-Heffernan wedding cancelled, small though it was, there’d be no Christmas bonus this year. The deposit was secure, but nothing else had been paid for. The flowers, the decorations, the waiting staff and chefs. And the food going to waste; the freezers were stocked to the brim. Steve hated when that happened, but then hadn’t he cancelled his own wedding? That made him think of Cara. He heard an uneasy click-click in his ears and swung around in the chair. The sound was a pair of heels walking across the floor of the empty bar.
‘Anyone serving in this dive?’
He looked out through the half-open office door. No sign of his barman behind the counter. He appraised Eve Clarke’s looks from his vantage point. She was one of those women who thought she was God’s gift to man, when in fact she was middle-aged, caked in make-up and wearing false eyelashes. Trying too hard to shed her years, he surmised.
‘Service!’ she yelled, like she was in some city saloon.
She could wait.
He turned his attention back to the screen and worried his fingers through his ponytail, wondering what he was going to do.
Eve hadn’t really wanted to go out for a drink, but the thought of Cara Dunne having been murdered next door gave her the shivers. She had slapped on her face, then dragged on a pair of white jeans and a blue blouse, forgetting she was no longer living in Spain and it was zero degrees outside.
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 20