Page 101 of The Altar Girls

‘The post-mortem results show she died as a result of trauma from a car accident.’

‘She didn’t drown?’

‘No.’

‘So those injuries might have occurred before the crash?’

‘Nothing like that in the pathologist’s report.’

Boyd scratched his head, clenched his hands into fists and stood, the chair shooting back against the wall in the tight space.

‘I need to see her.’

‘That can be arranged.’

‘What’s going on with dragging the river?’

‘Nothing. Like I said on the phone, there was no evidence of—’

‘That means jack shit. She’s my ex-wife and she disappeared with my son over three months ago. This is the first I’ve heard about her in that time. So where is my son?’

‘Sit down, Sergeant.’

‘I want you to get off your arse and find my son.’

‘Since your call, I’ve put out alerts for him.’

‘Where was she staying? It has to be somewhere local. Have you even begun to search?’

‘Until she was identified, we had zero to go on. Now we can begin with appeals. And then—’

‘Was there anything in the car to point you in a direction?’

‘Nothing. No ID. No handbag. But the windscreen was smashed and that kind of thing could be miles away by now. The river flows directly from Ballina to the sea.’

Boyd blew out his cheeks. Where should he start? His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and glanced at it before killing the call. Lottie could wait.

‘Organise with the morgue staff for me to look at her body and I’ll see what I can find out in the meantime.’

‘We have it in hand. There’s nothing for you to do here. Maybe you should go home and—’

‘And what?’ Boyd placed his hands on the table and leaned towards Duncan. ‘Sit and wait? No thanks. You have my number. Keep me informed.’

He shoved the chair against the table and left the room without a backward glance. He felt for Duncan. He’d been in his position too many times to count. Desperate relatives could scupper an investigation. But this was his family and that made it different. This was personal.

Outside, he stood on the steps and looked up and down. There wasn’t much snow here; the wind blowing inland from the sea probably kept it at bay. The paths were cleared, but a mixture of salt and sand crunched underfoot as he walked over to his car. A seagull opened its mouth in a loud squawk, eyeing him suspiciously, and a small posse of reporters stood to one side, huddled against the cold. Cigarette smoke rose and flatlined above their heads in the still air. He could do with a cigarette. Badly.

‘Can I bum one off you?’

A gangly ginger-haired man, not unlike Prince Harry, moved forward waving a pack in his fingerless-gloved hand. Boyd recognised him as the reporter from the news.

‘Enda Daniels. Take two if you like. I’m trying to quit.’

‘I did quit, but it’s a long road.’

‘Aren’t they all? You’re not local, but you look familiar.’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd.’ He twirled the cigarette between his fingers and decided not to smoke it. ‘Based in Ragmullin. What can you tell me about the car crash in the Moy?’

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