The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(58)

‘He’s been released,’ Lynch said, raising her head from her computer.

‘Who?’ Lottie, Boyd and Kirby said together.

‘Arthur Russell,’ Lynch said. ‘Superintendent Corrigan said, quote, we “couldn’t pin a straight line on a seam to hold it together”, unquote. Said the Chief Superintendent told him we had nothing new other than circumstantial evidence, so he’s been released.’

‘Ah, for Christ’s sake!’ Lottie jumped up, knocking the files from her desk to the floor.

‘And we have to hand everything over to the drugs unit. Pronto. Superintendent’s word, not mine,’ Lynch said.

Lottie slapped the lid of the photocopier down and switched off its hum. On her way back to her desk, she knocked over a stack of box files.

‘Who do you think is going to sort that lot now?’ Boyd asked.

‘Sorry. I’ll do it later.’ She flopped back onto her chair and held her face in her hands.

Silence reigned in the office. Everyone afraid to breathe. All waiting for the next outburst.

‘I’m really sorry,’ Lottie said. She took a few deep breaths and looked up. ‘Okay, Kirby. Tell me about Kitty Belfield.’





Fifty





After getting rid of his solicitor, Arthur headed for Danny’s Bar. He needed a pint. He needed a feed. Hell, he only needed a pint.

As he walked down Main Street, his bare head getting clipped by useless umbrellas, the rain sheeted down and he realised the guards still had his coat. Or was it his coat? He’d have to go back to the digs and check. After he’d had his pint.

Outside the door to Danny’s, he stopped. Sirens and commotion sounded towards him from Friars Street. He stared through the rain. Two fire engines were parked haphazardly across the road, figures frantically unfurling hoses. Water was everywhere. The deluge from the storm must have caused the river that wended its way through the town to burst its banks.

A thought struck him about the night old Tessa was murdered. About his jacket. Shit, he thought, I have to find Emma.

Abandoning all thoughts of his much-needed pint, he ran back up the street.





Fifty-One





To pacify him, once he’d put the dog outside in the yard, Emma ate the dinner of mashed potatoes, beans and a fried egg. She tasted none of it, just let it slide into her tummy.

‘I’ve to check the heifers,’ O’Dowd said. ‘Will you wash up?’

She nodded.

‘Keep an eye on the cameras. Can’t be too careful, you know. With all that’s happened.’

She glanced at the small television in the corner, beside the refrigerator, with its split screens showing the gate, yard, barns and sheds. She cleared the table as he pulled on his wellington boots and went out the back door, calling for Mason.

She filled the sink with water, then, unable to find any washing-up liquid, scrubbed as best she could to get the grease off the pots, wishing she was back home, where she’d gladly stack the dishwasher for her mum without a row. Holding back a sob, she dried the dishes and put them in the cupboard. She looked at the pile of accounting books he’d stacked up on the centre of the table.

The square panes of glass rattled and sheets of rain hammered against the window behind her. Feeling in her jeans pocket for her phone, she thought of the call she had made earlier. Maybe she should have waited. Was there still too much danger around? Taking the phone out, she sat at the table to dismantle it. She snapped out the battery and then the SIM card. Her fingers shook from fear and cold and she dropped the card. Where had it gone? She scanned the floor. Nothing. Maybe it was still on the table. As she searched around the pile of books, she noticed one sticking out obliquely. Lifting the stack, she pulled it towards her. It looked familiar. Opening it, she glanced at the name inscribed on the inside cover. A gasp of recognition escaped her lips. What was going on? Just who the hell was O’Dowd?

She tugged off her spectacles, wiped them with the end of her shirt and replaced them on her nose. Picked up the book again. Wind crashed against the window and rain pounded like pellets on the tiled roof. Emma sat still. Waiting. Listening. Shivering.

The door opened.

‘What is this?’ she said, vaulting up from the chair, waving the book.

She stopped. Felt the blood drain not just from her face, but from her entire body.

The first punch knocked her back across the table. The book flew out of her hand and her phone crashed to the floor. The second smashed her spectacles into her face, glass shattering, cutting her skin and breaking her nose.

Emma Russell never felt the third blow as she slipped into unconsciousness.





Fifty-Two





Kirby pulled a chair across and sat beside Lottie’s desk. She felt like asking him for a hug, just to feel human contact, but thought better of it. A sense of loneliness descended on her shoulders and she longed for one of her pills. Impossible to sneak one with them all looking at her like she should be locked up.

‘Kitty Belfield,’ Kirby began as he flicked over pages of his notebook.

‘Just the outline,’ Lottie advised.

‘Her husband Stan Belfield was a partner with Tessa Ball in the firm of solicitors, Belfield and Ball. This was from the sixties to the early eighties. Closed up shop in 1982.’