The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(81)

‘And Carrie King. What was all that about?’

Kitty appeared to hesitate, though it was hard to see the old woman’s face.

‘I know nothing about her. Tessa dealt with that. Stan gave me the impression he was put out by it. But he let Tessa run the show.’

‘The files that were stolen. I suppose there were no copies kept.’

‘You suppose correctly, Inspector.’

‘And no one was ever apprehended.’

‘No one.’

‘Do you know why Tessa would have had a gun in her home?’

‘A gun?’ The old lady clutched a hand to her chest, catching her nylon blouse in a fist.

Lottie ploughed on. ‘It was an old Webley and Scott revolver. Used mainly by the Special Branch in the seventies. And by the IRA when they could get their hands on them.’

‘That’s another story,’ Boyd said.

‘Tessa,’ Kitty said, ‘wasn’t all sugar and spice. She was tough. A woman before her time, if I was to quote a cliché. Today, I think she would have made president. A crooked one, but she’d have made it.’

‘Crooked? How?’

‘She was in cahoots with a guard. And her brother thought he was Casanova. Ended up mucking out cow dung on a bankrupt farm.’

‘Brother?’ Lottie felt the cold wind whining down the chimney and rustling the newspaper in the grate. A shock of soot fell out onto the threadbare mat at her feet.

‘Well, it was said they were brother and sister but I suspect there may have been something more between those two. Too close for comfort they were.’

‘Is it Mick O’Dowd you’re referring to?’ Boyd asked.

‘It is. Put his hand up my dress once. First and last time he did it.’ Kitty patted her pleated tweed skirt down over her knee.

‘Tessa owned a lot of property and signed a cottage over to O’Dowd. Would you know about that?’

‘No. But like I said, property was currency.’

‘We can’t find Mick O’Dowd. Is there anywhere he would go to hide?’ Lottie said.

‘How would I know?’ Kitty sniffed indignantly, turning up her already wrinkled nose. At last Lottie could see her face, and noticed the old woman’s eyes blazing a cold shade of blue.

‘Just thought I’d ask.’

Kitty said, ‘But it was odd when Tessa had Marian.’

‘Odd how?’ Lottie leaned closer as the old woman’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

‘The child was the spitting image of O’Dowd. Something was going on between those two, mark my words.’

‘But…’ Pausing, Lottie tried to line up her thoughts. ‘I thought O’Dowd might have been in a relationship with Carrie King.’

‘O’Dowd got himself into a relationship with any woman willing to spread her legs for him. Pardon my vulgarity, but it’s the truth.’

‘What can you remember about Carrie King?’ Lottie wondered if Kitty had the same recollections as Buzz Flynn.

‘Carrie was a lost soul, God love her.’ Kitty shook her head and stared at the lifeless fire. ‘She abused herself and she allowed others to abuse her. Locked up in the asylum eventually. But she wasn’t mad. No, Carrie was plain sad. She’d stand outside the post office on a Friday, when the old lads would be picking up their pensions, looking for pennies to buy drink. Turned to prostitution in the end, poor girl.’

‘Where did she come from? Was she from Ragmullin?’

‘How would I know? God himself only knows where Carrie hailed from. She arrived one day, probably off the Dublin train. Wherever she came from, Ragmullin didn’t welcome her.’ Kitty seemed to swallow a sob.

‘You seem to have a lot of sympathy for her. Did you do anything to help?’ Boyd said. Lottie threw him a look telling him to shut up. He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Carrie was beyond help.’

‘You knew her personally?’

‘I didn’t know her. Made her acquaintance… once. She crawled on her hands and knees up that avenue out there… on a day not unlike today.’ Kitty was staring at the window. ‘Wind and rain. It was Halloween. I don’t remember the year, but it was awful miserable. We didn’t have all the razzmatazz you get nowadays. The only pumpkin we knew about was a turnip. Well, she looked like a turnip that day. Ready to pop out a baby.’

‘Why did she come here?’

Kitty turned and lifted her head as far as it would go. Lottie recoiled. A shot of venom would have been less poisonous.

‘How would I know?’ the old woman said. ‘She fell through the front door when I opened it. Walked the whole way from town, she had. Nearly two miles in the rain. How she didn’t die of pneumonia, I’ll never know. I hauled her in – I was forty years younger than I am today, and a lot straighter too – got her onto that very couch you’re sitting on now, and boiled the kettle for a cup of tea. I thought she was drunk or high, or maybe both. She was spouting gibberish. I can’t recall it now, but every sentence contained the words “Tessa” and “bitch”. I telephoned Stan and told him to get himself home.’

Kitty stopped speaking and Lottie tried to envisage what had happened. She knew she was dealing with something very dark.