The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(29)

Her home had been much quieter since Tessa had moved to her own apartment and Daddy had left. But a strong ache stabbed at Emma’s heart as she thought of what was facing her.

Another day with Natasha and her mum, and of course her guard. Why did she have to be here? She felt perfectly safe.

The tears threatened again. She pulled the duvet over her head and let them flow.





Twenty-Six





The morning broke without rain. The first time in over a week. But the sky bulged with heavy grey clouds and Lottie could see a mist hanging around the cathedral spires.

‘Annabelle, I hate to be annoying you, but can you fit me in today?’

‘I’m free before surgery starts. Now. Can you get here in the next five minutes?’

‘Sure. I’m outside.’

She put away her phone, opened the door and entered the building. The receptionist nodded and Lottie made her way into Annabelle’s surgery.

‘What happened to you?’ she asked.

‘Oh, this?’ Annabelle put her bandaged hand down on her lap, under the desk. ‘Knocked over a kettle of boiling water.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. Enough about me. Sit down and tell me what’s up.’

Lottie shook off her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. ‘I hate asking, because I know you don’t want to do it, but…’

‘But what? I’ve a full roster for the rest of the day, so you’d better be quick.’

Taking a deep breath, Lottie said, ‘It’s like this. I’m… I’m drinking again. Just the last few months. I’m trying to quit. It’s hard, Annabelle. Very hard.’

‘You’ve quit before.’

‘I know, but it’s worse this time. I need something to shave off the bristling edge.’

‘And you want me to give you that something?’

‘Just for a week or two. Until I get the alcohol out of my system.’

‘You know as well as I do that substituting alcohol with a narcotic isn’t going to help.’

‘I’m not a druggie. I just need a few Xanax. To get me through the bad patches.’

‘You need rehab.’

‘I’m not an alcoholic!’ Lottie folded her arms and turned down her mouth in disgust. No, she wasn’t an alcoholic. She just couldn’t do without it. Big difference.

The desk phone buzzed.

‘I’ve a patient to see.’ Annabelle took up a pen. ‘Against my better judgement here is a script for one week. One a day. Twenty-five milligrams. Okay?’

‘Can’t you make it fifty?’

‘No.’

‘For two weeks?’

‘Lottie, you need help. Professional help.’

‘You’re a professional. That’s why I’m here.’

‘You don’t give up.’

‘Never.’

Lottie watched as Annabelle tried to write out the prescription with her bandaged hand, her other hand shaking as she held down the page.

‘What’s wrong, Annabelle?’

The doctor raised her head. Blackness circled her eyes through a sheen of foundation.

‘Wrong? Nothing is wrong with me.’

‘Keep telling yourself that and you’ll believe it. I’m the expert on that hypothesis.’

‘Honestly, everything is fine.’

Lottie took the script, folded it up and shoved it into her bag before Annabelle could change her mind. ‘You have my number. If you ever need to talk. About anything. Understand?’

‘Up until a few days ago, you were hardly speaking to me.’

‘I’m always your friend, even when we argue. So ring me if you need me.’

Annabelle nodded. If Lottie didn’t know better, she could have sworn her friend was about to cry.

‘Are you sure everything’s all right? With you and Cian?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

Lottie laughed. The sound seemed to take away the tension. Annabelle laughed too. They both knew things hadn’t been right with Cian for a long time. Hence Annabelle’s numerous affairs. ‘Maybe we can go for dinner sometime.’

‘You get off the drink and get yourself sorted out first.’

Lottie pulled on her jacket. At the door, she turned.

‘You get yourself sorted too.’

Outside, the clouds burst and rain crashed down from the heavens.





Twenty-Seven





The cottage, situated in Dolanstown, a couple of kilometres from Ragmullin, was a smouldering wreck. Water from fire hoses flowed down the potholed road and settled in puddles on the leaf-clogged drain.

‘How long do you reckon it’s been raining for?’ Kirby said, getting out of the car. He yanked up his trousers to keep the ends from getting wet and buttoned his coat.

‘A week,’ Lynch replied.

He zapped the car locked. Patted his pockets; found his e-cig. Twisted it, trying to get it to work. ‘Feckin’ bollocky yoke.’

‘Try a mint, or gum,’ Lynch offered.

Getting it ignited at last, he inhaled and blew out white smoke before dropping the metal tube back into his pocket.