The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(15)

The coffee was too strong but she forced it down. Her thoughts were focused on her father. What would he look like today if he was still alive? Would he have made detective? She liked to think so. But he’d be well retired by now. Would he be proud of her? Rubbing her forehead, as though it could eradicate the pain thumping inside, she wondered how different her life might have been if he hadn’t killed himself. She had to find out what had made him do it. The box was still in her bedroom. His papers. Stuff from his desk. She’d gone through it many times since her mother had given it to her almost five months ago. Conducted her unofficial investigation, but no one she’d spoken to remembered anything. Selective amnesia? She didn’t know. It was maddening

She put down the cup with a clatter, pushed away the uneaten bun. Her stomach could just about cope with liquid.

Her phone rang. Lynch.





Thirteen





Standing outside the coffee shop, Lottie slipped her phone back into her bag.

Lynch had had one job – one goddam job – and she seemed to have messed it up. Emma had left the house and Lynch had no idea where the girl might have been. Pulling up her hood, Lottie turned towards the station. It was dark enough for the street lights to be on, but they weren’t. She glanced up at the cathedral spires, which appeared to look down on her – two eyes warning of impending doom.

She heard a siren screeching down the road towards her. Boyd. He drew the car alongside, and she leapt back against the wall to avoid being drowned in the splash of water from the road.

‘Get in,’ he shouted, pushing open the passenger door.

Lottie jumped in. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘Marian Russell’s been found.’

‘What? Where? Is she okay?’

‘Too many questions.’

‘Okay, one at a time.’ Lottie held up one finger. ‘Is she alive?’

‘I don’t know.’

Two fingers. ‘Where’s she been?’

‘I don’t know.’

She abandoned her fingers. ‘Where the hell are we going?’

‘The hospital.’

‘Explain.’

‘She was found outside the front door of the hospital. She was wearing a bracelet ID because she’s diabetic. Her name was on it. Security guard had the sense to call us.’

‘She’s alive so.’

‘She was when we got the call. I’m not so sure now.’

‘Boyd, stop it.’

‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘We were told she’s been taken through to the emergency department and they’re working on her. Sounds serious.’

He parked the car in the ambulance bay and Lottie was first to jump out and run to the revolving hospital door.

‘Come on,’ she shouted at the inanimate glass as Boyd squeezed in behind her.

‘Which way?’ he asked.

‘Follow me,’ she said.

‘Detective Inspector Lottie Parker,’ she shouted into the intercom speaker at A&E. ‘Open up.’ The door swished inwards.

Trolleys with patients lined the walls of the corridor. Lottie crashed along. She grabbed a passing nurse.

‘Where can I find Marian Russell?’

‘I’ll have to check. Take a seat,’ the nurse said.

‘I have to find her. Now.’

‘As I said, I’ll check. And you need to calm down.’

Lottie took a deep breath. ‘Please,’ she said, trying to conjure a smile.

‘We’d better wait.’ Boyd guided her to a reception area.

The nurse looked at a computer screen, tapped the keyboard and said, ‘She was triaged and taken upstairs for surgery.’

‘She’s alive then.’ Lottie exhaled.

‘She was when she left here,’ the nurse said. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re busy today.’

Lottie barely heard the words. She turned, ran out of the A&E department and scanned the notice board on the wall.

‘Third floor,’ she said, heading for the stairs.

By the time they reached the third floor, Lottie thought the elevator would have been a better option. Too late now. She leaned her bottom against the wall, bent over in two, struggling to catch her breath. Boyd was walking in circles, not a hair out of place, breathing normally.

‘Press the buzzer.’ Lottie wiped drool from her chin.

‘You need to give up those cigarettes,’ he said.

‘I don’t smoke.’

Boyd made a display of taking out his pack of cigarettes and counting them. She snatched it from him and shoved it in her bag as the ward door opened.

‘We’re here about Marian Russell,’ Lottie said.

‘Are you family?’ The nurse checked down a list on a clipboard in her hand.

‘We’re detectives.’ They showed their ID.

‘She’s in surgery. Leave your details and I’ll give you a call as soon as she—’

‘Look,’ Lottie interrupted, ‘this is a murder investigation.’

‘She’s not dead,’ the nurse said.

‘I know, but her mother is and we need to speak with Mrs Russell as a matter of urgency.’