Chapter 47

FORTY-SEVEN

Lottie was desperate to get home, but first she needed a phone. There would be a spare one at the station. Her mind was in such disarray that she hadn’t thought of it before. She drove around by the ring road and snaked along with the traffic at the railway bridge. She wondered how Penny Brogan’s family were faring. She really needed to call to them; it was going on tomorrow’s to-do list.

Parking haphazardly, she jumped out of the unmarked Mondeo and ran through the spills of rain. Inside the station she headed to the storeroom and checked out a Samsung. She had no contact numbers but at least she had a phone. Before heading off again, she made her way to the office. It was still empty, Boyd’s desk the neatest of the lot. Hopefully he’d be sitting there before too long. She gulped down her emotion and went into her own office to try and figure out how the phone worked.

She should make a report on her visit to Dowling’s home. She was interested in finding out what Conor Dowling had in his garden shed. But how would she get a warrant? A gut feeling wasn’t enough. She’d have to sleep on it.

There was a stack of pages on her desk with a Post-it on top signed by Sam McKeown. The new guy. She hadn’t yet had a chance to get to know him. Once this was over, she’d have more time for introductions and familiarity, she thought with a grimace that made her stitches hurt.

As she flicked through the photocopies, she recognised pages from Louise Gill’s notebooks.

‘McKeown!’ she yelled. But there was no one there. She began to read, her eyes still stinging.

‘What?’

She jumped. ‘Don’t creep up on me like that.’

‘You shouted for me. I’m sure you were heard across the road in the cathedral.’

Sam McKeown stood in front of her desk, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. No tie. Beads of perspiration glistened on his shaved head under the fluorescent light.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she said.

‘Stuck in a cupboard-like office going through CCTV. It’s a sauna in there.’

‘I know. And in here. The superintendent is always going on about budgets, and here we are wasting gallons of heating oil.’

‘Why don’t you complain?’

‘Because if we get it turned down now, when the really bad weather comes it will be a running battle to get it switched on again.’

‘Can I make an observation?’

‘Sit down first. I’m dizzy looking up at you.’

He sat. ‘That’s part of my observation.’

‘What are you talking about?’ She wanted to discuss the notes, but she had to hear him out otherwise she might alienate him when she needed him enthusiastic for the investigation.

He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘It’s just that you don’t look great. You’ve been through a traumatic experience. Do you think you should be working?’

The cheek of him. He was hardly a day in the place and here he was voicing crap opinions.

‘Detective McKeown, I’m your boss. Never, ever question my ability to do my job.’

‘I wasn’t?—’

‘You were.’

‘I’m sorry. But have you looked in a mirror? You’re bruised, cut and bleeding. I’m genuinely concerned. Nothing more.’

‘Bleeding?’

‘Yes. You seem to have burst one of the stitches on your cheek.’

‘Oh feck. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. You’re right, it’s been an awful experience, but both Boyd and myself are fine. Or will be. My main concern is the four dead girls. When I find out who killed them, then I’ll take a break. Not before. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ He shuffled in the chair and placed his hands flat on his knees.

‘Tell me what I’m looking at here.’ She pointed to the pages, with lines of Louise’s handwriting marked in pink highlighter.

‘It was the only one I could find.’

‘What?’

‘The pink highlighter. No yellow anywhere. Believe me, I looked.’

Lottie hoped she hadn’t inherited another OCD detective. One Boyd was enough, thank you very much. ‘I mean the text!’

‘Oh, right. Sorry.’

‘Please don’t say sorry again.’

‘Okay. This notebook seems to be a diary of prison visits that Louise Gill made over the last year. May I?’ He took the pages from Lottie and scanned them, then handed one back to her. ‘This one here. Three months ago. Mountjoy Prison. See the name of the prisoner she visited?’

‘I might have bloodshot eyes, but I can still read.’ Lottie squinted at the neat spidery handwriting. ‘Louise visited Dowling in prison a month before his release?’

McKeown nodded. ‘Her notes read like a confession. In a nutshell, she told him that she was sorry. That she’d been sure he was the man she saw that night, but that maybe she’d made a mistake. That she was finding it hard to live with herself.’

Lottie swallowed hard.

‘Are you okay?’ Sam asked.

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Do you need a drink of water? I can fetch a bottle for you. Or a coffee?’

‘You’re trying too hard. You don’t have to impress me. Back to Louise and Dowling.’

‘It seems to have been an angry meeting. He said he wouldn’t forgive her. She told him that she intended to do something to uncover the truth.’

‘The truth?’ Lottie said. ‘What was she going to do?’ She hastily flipped through the remaining pages.

‘She doesn’t say. I’m still waiting for the transcripts from her computer. There might be something on those.’

‘You need to find out if she met with Dowling after his release.’

‘How will we do that?’

‘ You will do it. Talk to her mother. Her friends. Anyone you can find who knew her. Her course tutor. Use that detective’s brain you have.’

He smiled then, a broad, toothy smile, and Lottie was amazed at his dental work. If only Rose had paid attention to her teeth when she was growing up, she wouldn’t forever be smiling with closed lips.

‘And I’ll talk to Dowling when I find him.’

He stood. ‘That reminds me of another thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘The list of casualties from the accident is in. Ten deceased so far. A crane is arriving at daylight to assist in recovery. There may be more bodies. But Conor Dowling is not on the list.’

‘He might still be buried.’

‘Possibly. I recognised one name from the Amy Whyte investigation reports, though.’

‘Who’s that?’ She wondered if Cyril Gill had escaped without injury.

‘Dermot Reilly.’

Lottie blew out a gasp of air. ‘Poor Ducky.’

‘He was only twenty-four.’

‘So sad.’

‘I’d better get back to work.’ McKeown moved to the door.

‘What about the CCTV you’ve been working on? The car park at Petit Lane.’

‘I don’t think we’ll find anything. Whoever it was seems to have been able to disappear into thin air.’

Lottie glanced at her phone. Shit, she hadn’t even succeeded in turning it on. ‘Do you know how this works?’

‘Of course I do.’ He pressed a button on the side of the phone and it lit up.

‘Thanks,’ Lottie said. ‘It’s been a long day. Head home and be back in at six in the morning. You can get to work on Louise’s friends then.’

‘I’m grand. I’ll punch in another few hours on the CCTV.’

‘Up to you.’

As McKeown left, Kirby walked in.

Lottie beckoned him to sit. ‘What’s up with you? You look worse than I feel.’

He slumped into the chair and tried to flatten his hair with his stumpy fingers.

‘I smell alcohol,’ she said. ‘My senses are heightened since I gave it up. Whiskey, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘That’s why you’re the inspector and I’m not.’ He grinned.

‘You can wipe that smirk off your face. You can’t go waltzing off to drink in the middle of an investigation.’ She felt herself blush. She’d done it often enough. But those days were behind her. She hoped.

‘Sorry, boss. Won’t happen again.’

‘Right so. Tell me you have news.’

‘I had a drink with Councillor Whyte. I asked him about the phone you found hidden at his house.’

‘And?’ Lottie rubbed her hand over her furrowed brow, trying to smooth away the pain that was buzzing in her temple. Kirby was slipping in and out of focus. She needed to lie down. McKeown was right. She wasn’t well at all.

‘He told me the phone was his. He used it to communicate with Cyril Gill. He said Gill is convinced that smartphones aren’t safe, that everything gets recorded and could be used against him.’

‘Why? What has he to hide?’

‘We’ve been here before, boss. Councillors and developers. Dodgy deals. Backhanders. Whyte wasn’t too forthcoming when I pressed him.’

‘Planning corruption again.’ Lottie slapped her desk. ‘He could be filling you with bullshit.’

‘His daughter’s dead. He’s a man with nothing left to lose. Said he’d send in the SIM card when he finds it.’

Lottie leaned back in her chair and winced. Her back was in bits. ‘I reckon he has enough time to either flush it down the toilet or wipe it clean.’

‘He was fairly drunk. I think he told me the truth.’

‘As soon as you get it, inform me. Anything else?’

‘The CCTV seems to be a dead end.’

‘You and McKeown need to keep on it.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Kirby stood and made for the door, his body slow and bulky.

‘Will you do me a favour?’

‘Sure.’

‘Pull the Bill Thompson file again.’

‘The assault and robbery case that Conor Dowling served ten years for?’

‘Yes. Go through it with a fresh eye. I want to know if I missed something back in the original investigation.’

‘Wasn’t Superintendent Corrigan SIO on that?’

‘Yes, but I did the legwork.’

‘I’ll check it out first thing in the morning.’

‘And if you find something,’ Lottie said, ‘I want to be the only one that knows.’

Conor nursed his sore ankle and decided that rather than feel sorry for himself, he had to plough on. The darkness was filling his lungs as if it was a fog. He felt his way up the steep incline, fitting his feet into grooves in the brickwork. He’d discarded his hard hat, gloves and heavy jacket. It made climbing easier, or as easy as it could be in the circumstances. His nails were broken and bleeding, and it was painful to get a grip on anything. But he struggled on. He knew there had to be an exit at the end.

His fingers reached an obstruction that didn’t feel like stone. He raised his head and it hit something hard. He edged his hand around what he thought must be a steel hatch, hoping to find a handle or latch. Something to get the damn thing open. But it was smooth and solid. It wouldn’t budge. He wasn’t giving up that easily, though. He leaned against the wall, took a couple of deep breaths of fusty air and willed strength into his body.

At last he felt a slight motion. The hatch was circular, so maybe he had to try to swivel it. He attempted it again and heard a hiss. Yes! he thought. Now he was getting somewhere. Hopefully that somewhere was out.

And then he slipped and fell back down into the abyss.