The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(7)

I so deserve this, she thought. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

When she had enough energy, she lathered shampoo and conditioner into her hair, rinsed off and stepped from the heated cube to the cold bathroom.

No towel.

Rushing to get one from her room, she banged her toe against the door jamb.

And so her day began.



* * *



Pulling down her hood at the door to the mortuary, which everyone called the Dead House, Lottie ran her fingers through her hair. Her head thumped like mad. Seriously, though, she had to get her act together. She knew how an isolated slip-up turned into a downward spiral. Did she really want to go down that rabbit hole again? No. But one swig could ease the pain. Or a pill, if she had one.

The rain had continued unabated during the night, and it had crashed against the windscreen as she’d driven the forty kilometres to Tullamore, where the state pathologist was located. Buzzed in, she hurried down the icy corridor with its antiseptic smell masking the underlying pungent scent of death.

Jane Dore had already started the post-mortem and was walking around the steel table that held the seventy-plus-year-old body of Tessa Ball.

‘Good morning, Detective Inspector.’ The pathologist’s voice was sharp and professional. ‘I’ll continue, if you don’t mind.’

‘Fire ahead,’ Lottie said, suiting up and perching herself on a high stool beside a stainless-steel counter. Jane Dore and her team worked to a set routine. Viewing, touching, poking, sampling, recording.

The room seemed to be tipping on its axis as Lottie said impatiently, ‘Any definitive cause of death? I’m assuming it is murder.’

Jane Dore turned and stared. ‘You and I know that in my business I don’t assume anything. I let the body tell me its story. And that is all I can work with.’

‘I know, but I’m kind of busy and I’ve a team meeting to get to, so it would help if you…’ Lottie’s voice trailed off; she was aware she was slurring her words. Jane Dore’s glare bored through her.

‘Go, if you wish. I’ll email my findings.’ She turned back and continued her examination.

‘Blunt-force trauma?’ Lottie offered. ‘That’s what you said last night.’

With a sigh, Jane walked over. ‘Okay. I can see your mind is elsewhere. I understand how busy you are, but I can’t be rushed. As it stands, I’ve prioritised Mrs Ball’s PM so that you’ll have something to work with.’

‘Thanks, Jane. Honestly, I appreciate it, but I don’t feel the best and—’

‘Cause of death will most likely be blunt-force trauma to the head. Satisfied?’

‘Thank you. Any indication of the type of weapon used?’

‘As I surmised last night, something hard and rounded, applied with great force. One strike. It either killed her or caused a massive stroke. I’ll know more later.’

‘Could it be the baseball bat we found at the scene?’

Jane stared. Lottie knew she couldn’t alienate the state pathologist. She needed Jane to do something for her. Off the books, so to speak. And if she stayed here while Jane was cutting up the body, she would contaminate more than their friendship. Her stomach contents were already settling into her throat.

‘Thank you,’ she said and made for the door. ‘One more thing. Sexual assault?’

‘I’ll take swabs, but I don’t think it likely. You’ll have my preliminary report this afternoon.’

With a final glance at the jaundiced-looking corpse, Lottie rushed from the autopsy room. The only consolation, as the rain drummed down, was that she hadn’t vomited all over the shiny stainless-steel counter or the white-tiled floor. No, she’d waited until she reached the car park to spew up between two parked vehicles.

No more drink.





Seven





The rain cleared a little and Ragmullin emerged from the mist, a smoky grey silhouette. The cathedral’s twin spires spiked the clouds to the right and the landscape deformity of Hill Point protruded to the left. Lottie’s one-time friend Doctor Annabelle O’Shea worked there. Pills. She needed a few Xanax to get her through the day – every day. Shaking herself to dislodge her cravings, she floored the accelerator and sped into town.

In her office, she tore off her jacket, hung it on the overflowing coat rack and headed to her desk.

‘Anything from Mrs Ball’s post-mortem?’ Detective Larry Kirby asked.

Lottie stopped mid-step, noticing the big, burly detective, his wiry hair standing on end, chewing on an electronic cigarette.

‘What’re you doing with that?’ she said.

‘Trying to give up the cigars.’ His fingers swallowed up the device and he pushed it into his shirt pocket.

‘I’ve nothing from the PM yet,’ Lottie said, pulling out her chair. ‘I thought you were on door-to-door enquiries?’

‘I was, but you called a team meeting for ten. I’m here. Is it still going ahead?’

Shite. In the space of the half-hour drive from Tullamore, she’d forgotten what she’d been rushing back for.

‘Of course it is. Incident room. All of you.’ She looked around. Her detectives were staring back at her. ‘What?’

Boyd leaned over her. ‘Are you okay?’