Page 100 of Final Betrayal

‘He didn’t deny it.’

‘He didn’t do it.’

‘He offered no alibi.’

‘How could he? I was working back then. Nights in the hospital. I used to be a nurse’s aide. He was home. Alone.’

‘Was he, though? He never said he was.’ It had niggled Lottie at the time that Conor had offered no explanation for his whereabouts the night of the assault on Bill Thompson. In the end, with lack of forensic evidence and no denial from the accused, it was the two eyewitnesses who had swung the case.

Mrs Dowling set her mouth in a thin straight line and eyed her. ‘He didn’t do it. He had no access to a gun. Did you ever find the weapon? Did you ever find the money? Look around you, Inspector. Do you see any sign of wealth here?’

Lottie shook her head and shrugged. It didn’t mean anything. He could have the money buried, awaiting an appropriate time to dig it up. They never did find out how much had been stolen, but bar staff estimated it could have been ten thousand euros. Bill Thompson hadn’t brought home the takings every night. Usually only on a Sunday. And it had been a busy weekend. Conor Dowling had regularly frequented the pub. He knew Thompson’s routine. Louise Gill and Amy Whyte had sworn they’d seen him rushing from the direction of Thompson’s house that night. He never denied it. Never said a word. But Lottie was confident the right man had been jailed.

‘Here, take this piss away. Trying to poison me, are you?’

Taking the mug, Lottie went back to the scullery. She looked out at the back garden as she swilled the tea down the sink. The outside area was neater than the front, but the overhanging trees could do with being cut back, not that she knew anything about gardening. The wooden shed appeared out of place, like it had been dropped from the sky. One side was slightly lower than the other, as if it had sunk into the ground. A large padlock hung on the bolt. Why? What was in there that needed protection from theft? Not an expensive lawnmower, she thought, seeing as the grass was so long. Hiding something? More than likely.

An ache drummed behind her eyes as she decided on the best approach to get Mrs Dowling to allow her access to the shed. She could just open the back door and go out to have a look, couldn’t she?

‘What are you doing in there?’ The voice sounded closer and Lottie jumped when she turned round. Vera was standing in the doorway, leaning on her two walking sticks.

‘You’re snooping, you sneaky bitch.’

She straightened her shoulders, ignoring the pain shooting down her spine. ‘I was wondering what you keep in your shed?’

‘Conor’s stuff is in there. And it’s none of your business.’

‘What stuff?’

‘You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? If you want to look, get a search warrant. Now before I kick you out, tell me why you’re asking all these questions.’ Mrs Dowling leaned against the door jamb and pointed a walking stick at Lottie’s chest. But she wasn’t letting herself be intimidated by a fetid crone.

‘Four young women were murdered this week. I need to validate Conor’s alibi.’

‘Get out, scum pig.’ Mrs Dowling raised the other stick and Lottie ducked as it swung through the air. ‘Get the hell out of my house with your insane accusations.’

‘I didn’t accuse him of anything. I just need to know?—’

‘Go, and don’t come back. You can rot in hell and take your accusations with you.’

Mrs Dowling’s eyes blazed and Lottie felt her cheeks burn from the angry heat. She’d made a mess of this. Her head throbbed and her bones felt like jelly. She was leaving, but not without a last attempt.

‘I want to know where Conor is now, where he was two nights ago, where he was Saturday night, and I want to know what’s in that shed.’

‘You’re a nosy bitch. Piss off and don’t come back unless you have a search warrant.’

Leaving the front door open so the older woman would have to walk along her hall to close it, Lottie moved slowly to the car. She looked across the road and saw a shape behind the curtains. Tomorrow she’d have the neighbours canvassed to see whether Conor had been at home when he said he’d been, though past experience told her she’d get nothing from them. But the little shit with his crazy mother wasn’t going to best her. That’s if he wasn’t already buried beneath the courthouse rubble.

FORTY-SEVEN

Lottie was desperate to get home, but first she needed a phone. There would be a spare one at the station. Her mind was in such disarray that she hadn’t thought of it before. She drove around by the ring road and snaked along with the traffic at the railway bridge. She wondered how Penny Brogan’s family were faring. She really needed to call to them; it was going on tomorrow’s to-do list.

Parking haphazardly, she jumped out of the unmarked Mondeo and ran through the spills of rain. Inside the station she headed to the storeroom and checked out a Samsung. She had no contact numbers but at least she had a phone. Before heading off again, she made her way to the office. It was still empty, Boyd’s desk the neatest of the lot. Hopefully he’d be sitting there before too long. She gulped down her emotion and went into her own office to try and figure out how the phone worked.

She should make a report on her visit to Dowling’s home. She was interested in finding out what Conor Dowling had in his garden shed. But how would she get a warrant? A gut feeling wasn’t enough. She’d have to sleep on it.

There was a stack of pages on her desk with a Post-it on top signed by Sam McKeown. The new guy. She hadn’t yet had a chance to get to know him. Once this was over, she’d have more time for introductions and familiarity, she thought with a grimace that made her stitches hurt.

As she flicked through the photocopies, she recognised pages from Louise Gill’s notebooks.

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