The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(76)

‘Cathal, please. Can I call you Lottie?’

‘No way, Mister Moroney.’

‘Jaysus, but you’re very contrary.’ He pulled his drink towards him and drained it to the dregs. Signalled the barman for another, sat back and folded his arms. He’d left the knife and fork resting on either side of the plate. Boyd would lose it if he saw that, Lottie thought, and smiled.

‘Nice smile,’ he said.

She dropped it and frowned.

‘Now where was I?’ he said.

‘Your father and his files.’

‘When I was growing up, he was always talking about this one story he had uncovered but couldn’t print. As a young boy I remember him being very angry about it. My mother used to shush him to stop him talking about it in front of me. He smoked a pipe and he would be sucking and pulling frantically on it, slamming papers around the desk he had built in the corner of the living room. Once I overhead him talking about two children. His words chilled me.’

‘What did he say?’ Lottie wasn’t sure there was any merit in listening to Moroney and his childhood recollections, but something was telling her to give him another few minutes. Especially as what he’d said so far resonated with what Buzz had told her.

‘He said, “Those little children didn’t deserve what happened to them, and neither did Sergeant Fitzpatrick.” I heard him say those words many times.’

Lottie moved to the edge of her chair, hands gripping the armrests. ‘What children? Who were they?’

‘I didn’t know then, but I do now.’

‘And they had something to do with my father?’

‘He mentioned them in the same sentence.’

‘How can you recall that? Surely you were just a child yourself?’

‘I knew you’d ask. That’s why you need to see the file I found among my father’s things. He ended up with dementia; died five years ago. A heart attack took him in the end. But even in his ramblings, these children were always mentioned in some context. And he was never allowed to print the story.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I have his original report in my possession. Attached to it is a formal letter from the garda commissioner threatening to close down the newspaper if the story saw the light of day.’

‘Jesus!’ Lottie sat back in her chair and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Was the story to do with these children or my father’s suicide?’

‘Both.’

‘Do you realise what you have in your possession, Mr Moroney?’

‘I do. And I think you suspect your father didn’t kill himself. At least not voluntarily.’

The barman arrived with Moroney’s drink and cleared away the plate and cutlery.

‘What do you mean?’ Lottie said, when he’d gone.

‘Do we have a deal?’ Moroney said.

She sat still, eyeing the reporter as he paused with his pint halfway to his lips. Could she really risk her job by going behind Superintendent Corrigan’s back? Perhaps she could feed Moroney inconsequential information. Something that was ready to be released anyway.

‘And I don’t want any shite from you,’ he said, as if he had read her mind.

‘Deal.’ She could get fired for this, but she had spent all her life trying to figure out why her father had killed himself, and the last four months actively pursuing it, getting nowhere. And today everything seemed to be flowing towards her like molten lava. ‘When can I see the file? Do you have it with you?’

‘You may think I’m stupid, but don’t underestimate me. I’ve spent years on this drug story; what can you give me on the murders?’

Thinking frantically, Lottie wondered how much information she could realistically release to a television reporter without the leak being attributed to her. Not much. She’d have to bluff Moroney.

‘I’ll pull together what I have and prepare a document for you,’ she said.

He took a notebook and pen from his breast pocket. Scribbled, then tore out a page. ‘This is my home address. Call to me tomorrow night. Say around eight. That will give me enough time to make a copy of my father’s file. If you don’t arrive with solid information, something concrete I can use, our deal is off. Is that clear?’

‘Clear,’ Lottie said, wishing she had Boyd with her to bestow reassurance that she was doing the right thing.

Somehow she knew what he would say: ‘Career suicide.’





Sixty-Eight





Lottie caught up with Boyd at the station and they drove to inform Bernie and Natasha Kelly what had befallen Emma Russell; even though they were not family, she felt a duty to them. She had decided it was best Boyd knew nothing of her conversation with Moroney. What he didn’t know wouldn’t worry him, as her mother was apt to quote.

The front door was open, rain sweeping in on the hall carpet. The car in the drive had the boot and four doors open.

‘What the…?’ Boyd said.

Lottie shoved by him and entered the house.

‘What’s going on, Bernie?’ She put out a hand to stall the woman’s progress towards the door with an armful of clothes.

‘I’m getting out of this hole of a town, that’s what I’m doing.’