The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(48)

Corrigan pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his bad eye, which had improved slightly over the last few months, then put the glasses back on again. ‘Every so often you do things that drive me to distraction,’ he said. ‘I’m starting to believe you’ll have me in an early grave.’

‘Sir, I’m sorry. But that is a malicious piece of junk. Bin it.’

‘I will. But first I need to have an idea of your state of mind. Your work isn’t up to scratch these last few months. You’re behind on your admin.’

‘I know. I’m sorry sir.’

‘And you’ve been upsetting old folks with talk about your father’s suicide. That was forty years ago. Drop it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Corrigan leaned into his chair. ‘You’re telling me there’s no truth in this email?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fingers tightly crossed on her lap.

He sighed. ‘I think you have a problem, Detective Inspector Parker. A big feckin’ problem. One step out of line and I’ll hear about it. Understood?’

She nodded, lips in a thin, tight line. Thinking. Who the hell had sent that email?

‘Can I have a copy of the correspondence, sir?’

‘Why?’

‘I’d like to investigate who’s been making false accusations against me.’

‘You won’t be doing any investigating. I’ll look into this. You just stay on the straight and narrow. Do what you’re supposed to be doing.’

‘Yes, sir.’

She got out of his office before he could say another word. Pulled the door shut behind her and leaned against it.

Surely Annabelle hadn’t ratted her out? No. There was doctor–patient confidentiality to consider. And she hadn’t been scheduled for a visit. She’d just turned up. Had someone been following her? But how would they know about the pills? The drinking? Boyd. No. He wouldn’t go behind her back. Definitely not Boyd.

But it had to be him, she thought, twisting her hair through her hands.

‘Boyd, you… you arsehole.’



* * *



Before the team meeting, Lottie cornered him outside the incident room.

‘Thanks a bunch,’ she whispered through gritted teeth, standing legs apart, hands clenched in fists in her jeans pockets. She caught sight of the flecks of hazel in his eyes sparkling under the tubed light.

‘What are you on about?’ Boyd said. His jawline hardened. ‘You on something? You look as wild as the weather.’

‘Don’t, Boyd. Don’t get me started. Someone sent an anonymous email to Corrigan about me and I won’t stand for it. You hear?’

The light faded in his eyes. ‘You think I’d do something like that?’

Shit, wrong call, Parker. She clasped his hand.

‘I’m sorry. I’m just wound up. Who would do that to me?’

He pulled away from her pressing fingers. ‘Well, it wasn’t me.’ Turned on his heel. Pushed open the door to the incident room and disappeared.

Leaning against the wall, Lottie rubbed her fingers round her eye sockets, attempting to dispel the pain that was about to explode. Taking a pill from her jeans pocket, she snapped it out of the blister and swallowed it dry. Now she had to face the troops with possibly one of them mutinous.





Forty-Three





Standing in front of the incident boards, Lottie said, ‘Today is the day we find Emma Russell, and cement the evidence against her father, Arthur Russell, for the murder of his mother-in-law, Tessa Ball, and the GBH of his wife Marian. We put this to bed! Right?’

An unenthusiastic murmur rippled through the assembly. Maria Lynch sat with her phone in her hand, texting. Kirby lounged back on two legs of his chair, puffing on his e-cigarette. Lottie wasn’t entirely sure it was allowed indoors, but now wasn’t the time to raise it. The rest of the detectives and uniformed gardaí were equally unmotivated. And Boyd was glaring.

‘Come on. We have a couple of murders to solve and we’re not going to do it by sleeping on the job.’

‘A couple?’ Lynch looked up, pocketing her phone.

At last they were engaged.

She pointed to Tessa Ball’s photograph. Not the death-mask one – her driver’s licence photo, where she looked like a human being. The two pictures hung side by side on the board.

‘Okay. So far this is what we have. Tessa Ball, aged seventy-six. Retired solicitor. Signed her house over to her daughter Marian Russell five months ago. Up until then, Tessa had lived there herself. She then moved to an apartment beside the defunct St Declan’s Hospital.’

Kirby shuffled uneasily on his chair. They all had memories of what had happened last May inside the corroded walls of St Declan’s.

Lottie outlined the details of the assault, concluding with, ‘Death was blunt-force trauma to the back of the skull, causing a fatal brain aneurysm. A baseball bat found outside the back door is consistent with the weapon used. Traces of Tessa’s DNA were found on it. Also fingerprints that we can attribute to Marian and Arthur Russell and their daughter Emma. Russell says he bought the bat as a gift for Emma about five years ago—’

‘Odd gift for a young girl,’ Boyd interjected.

Ignoring his comment, Lottie continued. ‘No other fingerprints or DNA were found on it. Either the killer wore gloves, or he may be a lot closer to home.’