The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(25)

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He walked to his car at the end of Windmill Road, phone to his ear.

‘She’s at home. The mother just left.’

He listened, taking further instructions.

‘Right so. I’ll follow the old woman to make sure she goes to her own house. And will I continue surveillance back here then?’

He waited for the reply, then said, ‘Sure, that’s no problem.’

Snapping shut the cover on his pre-paid phone, he slipped it into his pocket and took out his car keys. Climbing behind the wheel, he folded up the fast-food wrappers, then shifted the car into gear and headed after Rose Fitzpatrick.





Nineteen





Alexis put her phone down on the desk. With a freshly manicured nail, she tapped her computer awake, then clicked on the screen so she could see the images in four different squares. One remained black, her own reflection glaring back at her. She turned up her Meryl Streep nose in annoyance and patted her lightly curled grey hair, cut tight at the back with a neat quiff at her brow.

Why wasn’t that camera working? She pressed a button on her desk phone and asked the question. After a few seconds the square brightened and what she had initially expected to see appeared. All was well in her world, or it would be if people stopped interfering with the past.

Satisfied with what she’d seen, she powered down the computer, picked up her phone and walked over to the window. It was an expensive office, commanding views of Lower Manhattan. Image was everything for someone in her position. She could afford it. Beyond her reflection in the plate glass, she watched the late-afternoon lights come on and workers head home.

She turned away and picked up her full-length black coat. Pulling it on over her designer black jersey dress, she buckled it tightly. She liked black. It highlighted her best features – her inky blue eyes. Smiling to herself, she picked up her bag. She knew that some called her the black widow. Didn’t matter that she’d never been married, let alone widowed, but she supposed she was a little like the spider. Dark and dangerous.

She left the light on. Her secretary could switch it off. Alexis knew the young woman was in awe of her; quite possibly she thought that someone of sixty-six should be retired and joining others of her age in a book club, or even a knitting club.

She grinned. She knew of one such woman who wouldn’t be going to a knitting club ever again.





Twenty





As Rose Fitzpatrick entered her house, she noticed it was pitch dark. She flicked the light switch. Nothing. She opened the drawer in the hall table. Her fingers touched the small torch and she clicked it on.

The fuse box was above her head. She dragged a chair from the kitchen and climbed up to inspect the trip switches. The one for the lights was down. She flicked it up and the hall light flashed on immediately.

Throwing the torch back into the drawer, she closed the front door behind her and brought the chair back to the kitchen. Turning on the stove, she idly stirred the large pot of soup, waiting for it to boil. She was getting weary of the nightly soup runs for the homeless. I’m too old for this lark, she thought. But then Mrs Murtagh, who had started the venture, was over eighty and addled with Alzheimer’s.

When she was happy with the soup, she switched the stove down to simmer and took two chicken breasts from the refrigerator. She placed them on a baking tray and put it in the oven. One would do nicely for a sandwich when she got back. The other for tomorrow’s dinner.

It was only then that she realised she had forgotten to take off her coat. She shuffled out of it, and as she hung it up on a hook in the hall, she thought she saw car headlights outside, flashing in through the small V of glass on the front door. She glanced up at the fuse box. Had someone been in her house?

The lights outside disappeared and she went back to the kitchen, thinking about Tessa Ball. She’d known Tessa years ago, when her husband, Peter Fitzpatrick, was still alive. But that was so long ago it couldn’t have anything to do with Tessa’s death. No, poor Tessa must have been the victim of a burglary at her daughter’s house. That was it.

She filled the flasks with soup. When she had them all ready, she buttered a couple of slices of bread to make her chicken sandwich.

Opening the oven door, she stared at the raw meat. She’d forgotten to turn on the oven.

Not for the first time, Rose Fitzpatrick wondered whether she was losing her mind.





Twenty-One





Emma curled up against the wall and stuffed her fist into her mouth to stem her sobs. What was this nightmare all about? Who could have done that to her granny? And now they said her mum was in hospital. Why couldn’t she visit her? Her stomach hurt and her eyes felt like someone had thrown sand in them. She wanted her dad. And she wanted to go home. But that wasn’t possible, so the detective said. Her stupid mother had destroyed her life. Again.

She heard the front door open. Chatter in the hallway. Then the door closed. Maybe the detective had left. She rolled off the bed and crept to the top of the stairs. Coming towards her was a young woman in a garda uniform.

‘Who are you?’ Emma asked.

‘Hi, Emma. I’m here for your protection.’

‘You can go away. I can mind myself.’ Emma turned back into the room.

‘Sorry, but I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for the night.’ The guard hovered in the doorway. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, or if you’d like to talk.’