The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(47)

Stinking shitty sheets and towels. Hundreds of them. Piled high in baskets attached to trolleys.

My shrivelled stomach turns with the stench. I retch and gag; slam my fist into my mouth to hold in the vomit. The thump to the back of my head knocks me sideways into the sheets already piled up on the floor. If I’m not careful, I could end up in the washer.

I slip my feet back into my slippers that are about ten sizes too big and begin hauling the soiled linen out of the basket onto the floor. Eventually I drag it to the washing machine.

I think I’m going to faint. It’s too warm. Stifling hot. Bubbles of sweat drip down my pale nose and I wipe them away. I have to do this quickly so I can go back to my bed.

I hear the voices.

Calling.

Whispering a name I do not know.

Then shouting a name I do know.

‘Carrie,’ they say. ‘Where is Carrie?’

And I wonder that too.

Where is Carrie?

It is her fault I was brought here. Her fault I’ve been left here. Her fault they’ve all forgotten about me. Carrie, the bitch.





Day Four





Forty-Two





The smell of paint had faded but a scent of newness oozed from the furniture in Superintendent Corrigan’s office. The fact that it was 7.30 in the morning and he had called her in even before she’d had time to take off her jacket didn’t help Lottie’s mood. Nor his either, she thought.

‘Sit,’ he ordered.

She sat. What was going on? She put her hand to her mouth, blew out and sniffed. No smell of alcohol. Good.

‘Where were you at eight o’clock yesterday feckin’ morning?’

‘Here, sir.’ She didn’t like the look he was giving her over the rim of his spectacles.

He wagged a thick finger in her direction. ‘Think very feckin’ carefully before answering, Detective Inspector Parker.’

Lottie sat stock still. What was he talking about? Yesterday morning? Seemed a lifetime ago. She tried hard to think. She had worked the case with Boyd. Talked to Emma. Searched Marian Russell’s house. Lost Emma. Called to Lorcan Brady’s house. Before all that, early morning… Annabelle’s surgery. Surely he couldn’t mean that?

‘I… I… don’t understand, sir.’

‘Let me help you understand, Detective Inspector Parker. You visited Dr O’Shea’s surgery. Remember now?’

Lottie gulped. A visit to her doctor wasn’t a crime, as far as she knew. ‘That was a private matter, sir. Annabelle’s a friend of mine.’

‘Go on.’

‘I had to ask her something about Louis.’ Thinking fast now. Concocting the tale as quickly as the words were leaving her mouth. ‘He’s my grandson.’

‘I know who Louis is!’

She thought Corrigan might explode. His bald pate turned red, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bulged behind his spectacles. He kept tapping a piece of paper with a silver pen, louder with each tap.

‘You’re lying to me. Last chance. Why did you—’

‘Okay, okay, sir.’ Lottie held up her hands. ‘I visited my doctor because I wasn’t feeling well. Thought I was getting the flu.’

‘Flu, my arse.’

She could feel his stare burning through her. ‘Sir, what is this about?’

‘I’ll tell you what it’s about,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve an email here disputing everything you just said. So when are you going to tell me the truth?’

Lottie felt sweat break out on her forehead. Her T-shirt clung to her spine. If she hadn’t had the flu before, she just might have it now.

‘Are you going to sit there with your mouth feckin’ glued shut, or are you going to tell me?’ he roared.

She shook her head slowly. ‘I’ve no idea what’s in that email, sir. What’s it about?’

‘It’s damning, that’s what. You know, if you’ve got health problems, you’re supposed to report to me. Then I can decide if you’re fit to work a case as serious as the one you’re working on right now.’

Shit. ‘I went to see Annabelle because I… I…’

‘Go on.’

Deciding on something resembling the truth, she said, ‘I needed something to help me cope. At home. It’s a bit mental since the baby arrived, and—’

‘I don’t want your family history,’ Corrigan interrupted, waving the printed page. ‘This email claims that you’re an alcoholic and a drug addict.’

‘What?’ Lottie jumped up so quickly, she knocked over the chair. She went to snatch the page but Corrigan grabbed it at the same time, tearing it down the centre.

‘Who sent this? Anonymous, I bet.’ She looked at the scrap of paper in her hand.

‘Yes, but I wanted to hear from you if there was any truth in it.’

She righted the chair and slumped down on it.

‘Are you drinking again, Detective Inspector Parker?’ he asked, his voice way too soft to be soothing. Dangerous.

‘Everyone takes a drink.’ Lame, she knew, racking her brain to figure a way out of this. The only positive thing was that the email was anonymous. The force had a policy of not dealing with such correspondence. Then again, this was personal. Shit.