The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(39)

She shook off the shiver. Had he threatened her? Did he know something about her father? Or was it about Eddie, her dead brother? Whatever it was, he had spiked her interest in him when she felt he was in fact trying to divert her.

And the fire. Wouldn’t any normal human being ensure there was no one inside the burning cottage? Do all in their power to rescue them? But O’Dowd had apparently watched the place go up in flames while one man was burned to death and another was left hanging on to life by his fingertips. Another shudder up her spine. He had no fingertips.



* * *



O’Dowd watched the inspector’s car crest the hill, heading into town. He sighed with relief. She hadn’t noticed the bicycle at the side of the house. He wheeled it into the second shed, beside the milking parlour. Closed the door. Tied up the dog.

He pulled off his boots, banged them against the step, scraping away most of the cow dung and muck, and left them to dry out. The kitchen was clean but empty. Moving into the hall, he shouted up the stairs.

‘You can come down now, girleen. The guard is gone.’

He waited a moment before seeing her pop her head over the banister.

‘No need to be afraid.’

She pushed her spectacles back up her nose, and with wariness in her steps as well as her eyes came down the stairs.

‘Sit yourself down and I’ll make you that cup of tea now,’ he said, and went to boil the kettle.





Thirty-Three





Lottie had swung a U-turn when she’d reached the main road, and headed to the Dead House in Tullamore. O’Dowd, whether intentionally or otherwise, had got her thinking about her father.

Jane Dore poured boiling water over a camomile tea bag.

‘So, what is it you want help with, Lottie?’

Lottie held the cup in her hand, letting the warmth thaw out her fingers.

‘The body that came in this morning. Have you carried out his PM yet?’

‘He’s on the table. Badly burned. But he didn’t die in the fire.’

‘What?’

‘I found a few nicks on his ribs. I’ve more tests to run, but in my opinion he was stabbed. No smoke in what’s left of the lungs, and that suggests he was dead before the fire.’

Lottie digested this information. Murdered. She had already suspected as much, seeing as the other victim had had his fingers hacked off.

‘Drug gangs,’ she said, half to herself. This would bring the GNDU – the Garda National Drugs Unit – to her district. ‘But it seems a bit extreme for a shedload of cannabis.’

‘I’ll email the preliminary results in the morning.’

‘How can we identify him?’

‘I’ve captured his dental impressions. Should have something for you later today or tomorrow morning.’

‘Thanks, Jane.’ Lottie sipped her tea, allowing it to relax her slightly. Only slightly.

‘Is there something else you want to discuss?’

‘It’s about my dad. You see, in 1975, he supposedly killed himself.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Jane eyed her quizzically. ‘You said supposedly.’

‘Over the last few months, I’ve been privately investigating the circumstances of his death. Following up with his former colleagues. Asking questions. Poking my nose into old people’s lives. Getting nowhere.’

‘Why are you doing that?’

‘I’m trying to figure out why Dad shot himself. I was only four, and my brother was ten.’

‘Was he suffering from depression? Stress at work?’

‘His colleagues, those still alive, say they can’t remember. It’s like they don’t want to talk about him. And my mother won’t tell my anything.’

‘Have you tried talking to her? Nicely?’

Lottie smiled. ‘Yes. I’d been trying to find out for years what happened, and a few months ago she handed over a box containing my father’s things.’

‘Did that give you any clues?’

‘I can’t pinpoint anything. A few newspaper cuttings. Notebooks. No suicide note. Mother says there wasn’t one.’

‘Was there an investigation at the time?’

‘An inquest. I suppose, because he was a serving garda sergeant, there doesn’t seem to have been too much of a fuss. Top brass probably wanted it all hushed up at the time.’

‘What was the verdict?’ Jane asked.

‘Suicide by lethal weapon. I’m surprised he even got a Catholic burial.’

‘Where did he get the gun?’

‘Took it from the weapons cabinet at the station. Stole the key and stole the gun.’

‘I’m assuming there was a post-mortem. Do you want me to check it out?’

‘Please. I have some photos and a death certificate. It’d be great if you could see what’s archived.’

Jane glanced at the certificate. ‘I’ll have a look.’

‘Thanks, Jane.’

‘I can’t promise anything.’

‘I know, but I thought that if you could examine the file, you might be able to tell me, one way or the other.’

‘Where did he do it?’ Cool and professional. Lottie winced at Jane’s aloofness.