The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(17)

‘Where is he? Oh, I see him. Great. Thanks.’ Moroney took off at a gallop, splashing through puddles.

Lottie moved just as quickly in the opposite direction. Grabbing Boyd by the elbow, she dragged him into the hospital foyer and up the stairs.

‘Did you get it all sorted?’ She tried to catch her breath as she took two steps at a time. Not a bad place to be if she suffered a heart attack.

‘I’m still trying to reach Lynch. Two uniforms are on the way.’

‘OK. We need to stay here until they arrive. We can’t leave Marian Russell alone.’

‘She’s in surgery,’ Boyd pointed out. ‘She’s not going anywhere.’

‘Right, but I don’t want to risk anything else happening to her.’

‘I get that, but can’t you take it easy? Slow down.’

She stopped on the top step, panting to catch her breath, hand on her heart. A young man pushed through the swing doors.

‘Are you all right, missus?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine,’ Lottie snapped.



* * *



A uniformed garda and a detective arrived. Lottie posted them outside the ICU with clear instructions.

‘No one enters without clearance from me.’

‘What about the doctors and nurses?’ Boyd said.

‘Get a list, with ID photographs, of everyone working the ICU shifts. Only those can go in. Got it?’

The two men nodded and took up their positions.

Before leaving, Lottie got an update on Marian Russell’s condition. Not good.

‘Boyd?’ she said.

‘Yeah?’

‘I need a drink.’





Fifteen





The lights were on at Danny’s. Silver hues glinted off the bottles behind the bar.

Lottie slid onto a high stool and Boyd sat beside her. She dropped her bag on the floor hoping, too late, that it was shut. Shrugged out of her wet jacket and zipped down her black hoodie. Felt like pulling the hood up over her head, but thought she might be barred if she did.

‘Your stuff is all over the floor.’ Boyd leaned down to scoop up her belongings.

‘Double vodka,’ she said, through gritted teeth. The bored barman stared back at her, twisting his wrist as he dried a glass.

‘She doesn’t want vodka,’ Boyd said, banging his head on the underside of the counter as he got up. ‘Soda water.’

‘It’s a bar, Boyd. Where people drink alcohol.’

The barman took a step back, put down the glass. ‘So what’s it to be?’ he said, hands on hips.

‘Two vodkas,’ Lottie said.

With an audible sigh, Boyd agreed, nodding his head. ‘What about a sandwich? I’m starving.’

‘I feel ill,’ Lottie said.

‘Don’t puke on me,’ Boyd said.

‘Her tongue, Boyd. Her tongue.’

‘Keep your voice down.’

‘She’s got no voice to keep down.’

‘She might be able to write out what happened to her.’

‘The doctor said it could be a week before they’ll be able to take her out of the induced coma.’

The door opened and a blast of wind brought rain in through the door. The barman put the drinks on the counter. Lottie stared at the clear liquid slipping over the ice. She let her fingers glide up and down the glass.

‘Is that all?’ the barman asked.

‘Do you know Arthur Russell?’ she said.

‘He works here. Why are you asking?’

‘Just something I’m following up. Was he working yesterday?’

‘He was. But he’s off today. You might catch him later on. He plays music here some nights.’

‘What time did his shift end?’

‘Yesterday? Let me think. My shift started at six thirty, so he would’ve finished up around then.’

‘Did he leave straight away?’

‘Sometimes he has a drink before he goes. Why?’

Jesus, Lottie thought, why do barmen always have to be asking questions? ‘Can you find out for me?’

‘Can’t you ask him yourself?’

‘Right. Thanks.’ She raised her glass and the barman walked off. ‘Does vodka smell?’

‘You should know. You drink enough of it,’ Boyd said.

Twisting round on the stool, Lottie glared at him. ‘Take that back.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Screw you, Boyd.’ She stood. Downed her drink, picked up her bag and coat and stomped out into the rain.



* * *



The office was suffering from everyone’s bad mood. The deteriorating weather wasn’t helping. Her hair was stuck to her scalp and Lottie hadn’t the will to go to the locker room to find a dryer. Dampness lined the neck of her shirt and her jeans were glued to her legs.

‘Probably catch a cold now,’ she muttered.

‘Did you say something?’ Boyd asked, coming in and hanging up his coat.

‘Did you find out anything on the gun from Tessa Ball’s house?’ she asked before he could return to the argument they’d had in the pub.

He checked his computer. ‘It’s still with ballistics for testing.’