The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(75)

As Lottie stepped outside and the clouds gave way to another downpour, her phone vibrated in her pocket.

Shit. Moroney.





Sixty-Seven





The Joyce Hotel had commanded the centre of Ragmullin for over one hundred and fifty years. Having undergone many facelifts and name changes, it was currently named after the Irish novelist who it was said had once stayed a night in the establishment. As Lottie entered the lounge bar, it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dark interior.

‘Over here, Inspector.’

She squinted and turned on her heel. Cathal Moroney sat nestled in a red velour armchair nursing a pint of Guinness. A fake coal fire burned gas up a blocked-off chimney.

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me. Will you have a drink?’ He wiped froth from his upper lip.

‘A cup of tea would be nice.’

As he beckoned to the barman, Lottie sat opposite the reporter, wishing she had asked for a double vodka. But she needed her wits about her where Moroney was concerned. She pulled off her jacket, folded it into a ball and squashed it between the iron legs of the small round table.

‘You intrigue me, Inspector.’

‘I can’t say the feeling is mutual.’ She shifted on the chair, dipping her head slightly to avoid his scrutiny.

‘Can we be friends?’ He held out a hand.

‘Not on your life.’ She folded her arms. This was going to be painful. The barman arrived with a pot of tea, and without waiting for it to brew, Lottie poured the weak liquid into a cup. At least it might warm up her hands. ‘What do you want to speak to me about?’

‘No time for chit-chat, then?’

‘Come on, Moroney, you know how busy I am. Out with it.’

He sipped his pint. Slowly. Lottie felt her patience tip over. She stood up.

‘I’m leaving.’

‘I think you’ll want to sit down,’ he said, slapping his glass onto the table. ‘It’s about the drug link to these murders you’re investigating. And possibly your private investigation into your father’s death.’

Lottie stopped, bent halfway under the table retrieving her jacket. Raising her head, she glared at the reporter. If he didn’t try so hard, she might even go so far as admitting he could be handsome. She supposed he flossed his teeth and dyed his hair. Even a little Botox on the forehead to help his television appearance. For all that, his green eyes were bloodshot, probably from drinking whiskey alone in a one-bedroom flat at night, and his belly strained against his shirt buttons.

She sat back down. ‘Go on.’

‘Nothing for nothing,’ he said, curling his lip in a knowing smirk.

‘Thought as much.’

‘I want the inside track on these drug-related deaths.’

‘What are you on about?’ She wasn’t giving him anything.

‘I believe there’s an organised-crime element involved in the Ball and Russell murders. I’ve been working on a story for years and I think this is the apex of it. I want in.’

‘You’re delusional.’ Lottie poured more tea, well brewed now.

A waiter arrived with a plate of food on a tray. ‘Mr Moroney, you ordered chicken, mash, veg and gravy. That right?’

‘Good lad. Put it right there.’ Moroney made room on the table for the plate of food. ‘Hungry, Inspector? Can I order anything for you?’

‘No thank you,’ Lottie said. Her stomach growled in protest.

She watched Moroney dig a fork into the chicken, stuff it into his mouth and chomp with his white veneers. She realised she had never met him outside of his confrontational reporting work. But he might have information to help her, so she’d have to put up with his disgusting eating, for a few minutes at least.

‘My father,’ she said. ‘What makes you think I’ve been looking into his death?’

He tapped the side of his nose with his fork, leaving a streak of gravy behind.

‘It’s my business to know these things. So what’s in it for me?’

Sipping the cup of tea, Lottie gripped the handle tightly. She had to find out what he had, if anything. She made her decision.

‘If you tell me what you know, I’ll try to give you first call on whatever we discover with regard to the murder investigations. Before any other media outlet is informed. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Moroney.’ She clattered her cup to the saucer and made to get up again.

‘No… sit down.’ Moroney flapped the hand holding the knife. Reluctantly Lottie resumed her seat. Chewing, he said, ‘My father started out as a reporter on the local Tribune. Worked his fingers to the bone with black ink from the presses. Ended up owning the damn thing. Luckily, he didn’t live to see his life’s work taken over by a digital corporation.’

‘And what has that got to do with—’

‘My father was a meticulous reporter. Never lost the skill, even when he was managing a shitload of trouble at the paper. Kept files on everything and anything.’

‘And it’s all digitised now?’

‘Mostly, but not what I’m referring to.’

‘I don’t follow you, Mr Moroney.’