No Safe Place(Detective Lottie Parker #4)(2)
Who the hell was he?
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
The cheek of him! There was an unwritten protocol on the six a.m. commuter service. No one annoyed anyone else. They were all in the same predicament. Up at all hours, half asleep, coffee hastily prepared and poured into travel mugs. Phones, earbuds, laptops and Kindles the only accessories of this tribe. So why the hell couldn’t he shut up and let her sleep? Once they reached Maynooth, the carriage would begin to fill up and she could ignore him totally. For now, though, she couldn’t.
His eyes were a cool blue. His hair was concealed under a knitted beanie. His fingernails were clean. Manicured? She wondered for a moment if he was a teacher. Or maybe a civil servant or a banker. She couldn’t tell whether there was a suit jacket or a sweater under his heavy padded jacket, but she knew from previous mornings that he wore jeans. Blue, with an ironed crease down the centre of the legs. God, who did that any more? His mother? But he looked a little old to be still living with his mother. A wife, then? No ring. Why was she even thinking about it? A tremor of unease shook her shoulders, and immediately she felt afraid of him.
Closing her eyes, she allowed the music to invade her consciousness and the chug of the train to comfort her, hoping for sleep to help her through the next hour and ten minutes. And then she felt his foot touch her boot. Her eyes flew open and she drew back her leg as if scalded.
‘What the hell?’ she croaked. The first words she’d uttered since awakening that morning.
‘Sorry,’ he said, his eyes piercing blue darts. His foot didn’t move.
And Mollie knew by the tone of his voice that he was anything but sorry.
* * *
He looked kind of cute, Grace thought. The way he bugged the woman who just wanted to sleep. She couldn’t help smiling at him. He didn’t notice her. No one did. But she didn’t care. She really didn’t.
She curled her fingers in her childish-looking mittens and shrugged her shoulders up to her ears, wishing she could pretend to sleep. But she was never any good at pretending. What you see is what you get. That was what her mum always said about her. And now she was stuck living with her brother for a month. Not that he was around too often. Thank God, because he was awfully fussy.
She looked down at the empty seat beside her to make sure her bag was still there. No one ever sat beside her until it was standing room only. I’m not going to bite you, she wanted to say, but she never did. She just smiled her gap-toothed smile and nodded. A nod usually put them at ease. You’d think I was a serial killer, the way some of them look at me, she thought. She couldn’t help her anxious fidgeting, and she didn’t care about what anyone thought, one way or the other.
I am me, she wanted to shout.
She remained tight-lipped.
Three
‘Chloe and Sean! Do I have to make myself hoarse every single morning? Up! Now!’
Lottie turned away from the stairs and shook her head. It was getting worse rather than better. At least next week they would be on mid-term break and she could escape to work without ripped vocal cords.
She unloaded the washing machine. The laundry basket was still half full, so she threw in another load and switched on the machine, then lugged the damp clothes to the dryer. At one time, her mother, Rose Fitzpatrick, used to do a little housework for her, but that relationship was more strained than ever before, and now Rose was feeling poorly.
Sipping a cup of coffee, Lottie allowed it to soothe her nerves. She swallowed three painkillers and tried to massage her back where the stab wound was doing its best to heal. Putting the physical injuries aside, she knew the emotional scars were embedded on her psyche forever. As she gazed out at the frosty morning, she wondered if she should fetch a sweater to keep out the cold. She was wearing a black T-shirt with long sleeves, frayed at the cuffs, and a pair of black skinny jeans. She’d dumped her trusty Uggs last week and was wearing Katie’s flat-soled black leather ankle boots.
‘Here, Mother,’ said Chloe, strolling into the kitchen. ‘I think you might need this today.’
‘Thank you.’ Lottie took the blue hoodie from her seventeen-year-old daughter. She noticed that Chloe was wearing pale foundation and a smoky eyeshadow with thick black mascara. Her blonde hair was tied up in a knot on top of her head.
‘You know you’re not allowed to wear make-up to school.’
‘I do. And I’m not.’ Chloe fetched a box of cornflakes and began shovelling them into her mouth.
‘And that’s lip gloss. Come on. You don’t want to get into trouble.’
‘I won’t. It’s not make-up. Just a soft sheen to protect my skin from the cold air,’ Chloe said, picking cornflake crumbs off her sticky lips.
Lottie shook her head. Too early for an argument. She rinsed her mug under the tap. ‘I’m just warning you in case the teachers notice.’
‘Right!’ Chloe said and turned up her nose. So like her father, Lottie thought.
‘I worry about you.’
‘Stop fussing. I’m fine.’ Chloe picked up her rucksack and headed for the door.
‘I can give you a lift if you like.’
‘I’ll walk, thanks.’
The front door shut loudly. Lottie wasn’t at all convinced her daughter was fine. Being called Mother still rankled. It grated on her nerves, and Chloe knew it. That was why she did it. Only in times of extreme tenderness did she call Lottie Mum.