The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(20)

‘I’ve had a bitch of a day and I need you to do this one thing for me. Jesus!’

‘Hey, boss. Calm down.’

She slammed the desk. ‘Don’t tell me to calm down.’

‘I’ll ask Gilly. She has the training; she might do it.’

‘You’re friends with Garda O’Donoghue now, are you?’ She stared at Kirby, who blushed. ‘Okay. Ask her.’

‘Sure.’ Kirby looked like he was glad to escape.

Lottie sat down. Breathe. Her phone rang. Lynch. ‘I’ve got cover for you,’ she said, pre-empting Lynch’s question.

‘Thanks.’

‘Did you get anything from Emma?’

‘She and Natasha are sticking to their story. In all evening, watching Netflix. This morning, Emma left the house. Said she went to get fresh bread in the shop, but Jim McGlynn thought she was trying to get access to her home.’

‘Did he know for sure?’

‘No. I tried ringing him to check, but he’s not picking up.’

‘I’ll try him later on. Emma is not to be left alone until we figure out what is going on.’

‘I’ll make sure of it. Who’s replacing me?’

‘Garda O’Donoghue,’ Lottie said, crossing her fingers and hoping Kirby could work his magic. Doing double shifts wasn’t to be recommended, but until the appointed FLO returned from sick leave, she had to work with whoever was available.

‘I’ll stay until she arrives. But Inspector, I’m not doing this tomorrow.’

‘Just do what I ask.’ Lottie disconnected the call.

She thought about Arthur Russell’s interview and couldn’t decide if he was telling lies to cover his arse, or if he was innocent and painting Marian as the wicked witch in order to get access to his daughter. With her nerves frayed and no ideas popping magically into her brain, she made a phone call.

Then she grabbed her jacket and raced for the door.



* * *



The rain had eased to a soft veil, falling in inverted V’s beneath the street lamps.

She started to walk, unable in that moment to recall where she’d left her car. She bit her lip, trying to conjure up strength. To face whatever foe was out there in the miserable night. Someone had murdered Tessa Ball. Someone had cut out a woman’s tongue and left her to die on the front porch of a hospital. Someone was sending a message, loud and clear. Only problem was, she had no idea who that someone was or who the message was for.

A car drew up alongside her, drowning her with water.

‘You eejit!’ she screamed.

Boyd rolled down the window. ‘Get in, you madwoman.’

‘I need air.’ She kept on walking.

‘Get in, Lottie.’ He kept pace with her.

She stopped and breathed in, then looked skywards and breathed out.

‘Right. You can give me a lift,’ she said and opened the door.





Seventeen





‘Well look what the cat dragged in.’ Annabelle O’Shea grabbed Lottie in a hug. ‘Missed you.’

‘Hi, Annabelle.’

‘Give me that wet thing. You’ll get your death.’ She took Lottie’s jacket. ‘Leave your… em… boots by the door.’

Glancing down at her soggy Uggs, Lottie wondered if her socks were presentable enough to walk on Annabelle’s pristine tiles. She pulled off the boots and noticed that water had seeped into her odd socks. What the hell, she thought, and moved down the hall after her friend, leaving damp footprints in her wake.

Annabelle said, ‘Would you like a drink? Oh, sorry, I forgot, you don’t drink. Cup of tea?’ She picked up a kettle and busied herself pouring in water.

‘That’d be grand,’ Lottie said, without correcting her friend. She’d seen little of Annabelle since they fell out in January, and since then she’d led an investigation into a horrific series of murders. On the night of the memorial service for the victims, she’d downed a bottle of wine. That was the start of it. Now she tried to control it; keep it secret. Not easy living in a house with three teenagers and a baby.

Sitting at the black-granite-topped breakfast bar, Lottie admired how it blended in with the decor. Everything matched. Figured. Dr Annabelle O’Shea was the epitome of designer chic.

The stainless-steel kettle began to hiss on the stove. Annabelle moved in her ridiculously high-heeled boots across the black-and-white-tiled floor and placed black mugs on the table.

‘Where is everyone?’ Lottie asked.

‘The twins have after-school study groups. Cian is upstairs working. Developing some new game or… I don’t know what he does up there.’

Cian was Annabelle’s husband, and Lottie didn’t really care much for him. She wasn’t sure if that was because of the picture Annabelle painted of him or because she just didn’t like him. She sensed Cian O’Shea was too good to be true. A man whose smile never succeeded in reaching his eyes.

‘How did the twins get on with their exams?’ she asked, immediately regretting it. Now she’d have to tell Annabelle about Chloe’s.

‘All A’s, the both of them. Isn’t that amazing?’

‘Yes,’ Lottie said. ‘They’re very bright.’