The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(83)

‘You know, Lynch,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘You know, Kirby,’ she said, ‘that’s a dangerous thing.’

‘This Mick O’Dowd character. I can’t figure him out at all. If he had something to do with the fire or the drugs found there, wouldn’t he have been five hundred miles away at the time rather than reporting it and sitting waiting for us with no alibi other than his blasted cattle?’

‘Maybe it’s because he had nothing to do with it.’

‘But then Emma is killed on his farm and he disappears.’ He took a deep pull on his e-cig and let the vapour exit through his nostrils. Catching Lynch raising an eye, arching her eyebrow, he said, ‘And don’t even think about telling me to stop smoking this.’

‘I wasn’t going to. But I hope Superintendent Corrigan doesn’t arrive,’ Lynch said. ‘Back to Emma. If she went to O’Dowd’s voluntarily, then she thought she was safe there. So there has to be some connection between Emma’s family and O’Dowd, and the only thing I’ve found so far is his name in brackets next to Tessa’s on Marian’s family tree.’

‘That and the fact that the cottage he owned once belonged to Tessa Ball. Wait a minute.’ Kirby stood up and rooted through files on his desk. Not finding what he was looking for, he started thumping his keyboard. ‘Here it is.’

‘Here what is?’

‘There’s a map accompanying the folio number for the cottage.’

He stood beside the photocopier that doubled as a printer.

‘Come on. Come on.’ He tapped his foot on the floor, as if that would speed up the process. ‘Here.’

At his desk he lined up the pages of an outline property map. Lynch joined him to examine it.

‘That’s the folio number for the cottage.’ He pointed to the plot of land where the cottage was situated. ‘And that there is O’Dowd’s farm. We can assume he owns that. So why did Tessa transfer to him the piece of land with the cottage?’

‘Maybe because it was next door to him and she wanted a few quid, and he wanted to expand?’

‘But he didn’t expand. A drug king from Dublin moved in. Started a cannabis grow house.’

‘Perhaps he was fed up with farming. Wanted to branch out.’

‘That means he knew about the illegal activities. So why not let someone else report it when it went up in flames? That’s what’s stumping me.’

‘He reported it because he didn’t know what was going on. Maybe Tessa maintained overall control.’

‘Used him as a patsy?’

‘Yeah. Look and see who owned the farm before O’Dowd.’

‘I can’t see it from this. I’ll get back to land registry… Wait a minute, Lynch.’

‘What now?’

Kirby pointed to the map on his screen. Dragging the mouse, he zoomed in. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That there is Lough Cullion. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Lynch said, sitting forward.

‘And there is Dolanstown, O’Dowd’s farm, the cottage.’

‘Agreed.’

‘And that, on the other side, is Carnmore.’

‘I think I see where this is leading.’

‘Marian and Arthur Russell lived in Carnmore. And the land backs on to Dolanstown. Not accessed by road because of the new road. But the two are back to back.’

‘What’s that?’ With a pen in her hand, Lynch pointed to a square on the edge of Carnmore.

‘A big house?’ He zoomed in. ‘Feck this.’ He closed off the screen, brought up Google Maps. ‘That’s better.’ He keyed in Carnmore. ‘Okay. This is what you were looking at. It is a house.’

Lynch read from the screen. ‘Farranstown House.’

‘I recognise it.’ Kirby said. ‘I’d better ring the boss.’

‘I’m the boss.’ McMahon strode into the office, wet coat dripping water from his arm. ‘What is it I need to know?’

‘With all due respect, sir,’ Kirby said, ‘it’s nothing to do with the drugs angle. Just a little digging we were doing into land ownership. Nothing for you to concern yourself with.’

‘That is tantamount to insubordination. You had better tell me.’





Seventy-Three





The windows were as old as the house.

Kitty leaned on the window seat, pressing her face against the glass and looking out at the red hue tinting the darkness until the tail lights of the car disappeared at the end of the drive. As the black veil of night descended again, she withdrew back into the living room. The fire was struggling to ignite, but she wasn’t concerned enough with the cold to bother with it any further.

With the aid of her stick, she left the room and hobbled down the stone-floored hallway to the kitchen. In the darkness, from memory and by touch, she made her way to the phone hanging on the wall beside the bolted door that led to the old cellar.

Lifting the receiver, she hit the speed-dial button and waited for the pick-up.

‘I can’t lie for you any more. I think the prophet of doom is landing on your shoulders as we speak. I’m sorry.’

She hung up before there was time for a reply.