Page 114 of Final Betrayal

‘Being impulsive must run in your genes.’ Boyd took a long drag on his cigarette and watched the smoke hang in the air.

‘Don’t you dare, Boyd. I want nothing to do with that family. Come on. We need to check in with the station.’

As they drove away, her eye caught the shadow of the lifting equipment over at the courthouse. Smoke billowed into the air. She had yet to discover if Cyril Gill was dead or alive. And then there was Conor Dowling to think of.

Detective Sam McKeown wasn’t sure he was going to stick it much longer in Ragmullin. Everyone seemed to have an issue with someone or other. He pulled up the next disc of CCTV footage, forwarded it to the relevant time and leaned back in the chair to watch. He’d been through it all once and found nothing. The worst job in the world.

As he clicked the mouse, the time slid by on the screen. 01:00. 01:30. He yawned. 01:35. He sat up straight. Clicked the mouse again. Zoomed in. He could see the grainy image of a parked car. He’d seen it on the first run-through. But now a shadow caught his eye. Two shadows. Out of shot, at the rear of the car. He zoomed in again, trying to get a look at the number plate. It was covered in mud. Intentional or unintentional, he did not know.

He clicked the images forward, slowly this time. The shadows moved out of shot. At 03:02, one shadow reappeared and the car disappeared. It had been parked in such a position that the doors were not visible and he could not see the driver. Whoever it was knew exactly where the cameras were. He pulled up the traffic cams for the same time, but the car seemed to have disappeared. There were no cameras outside the houses where the first two bodies had been found. He brought up the council office cameras and scanned for the relevant times. Again, nothing.

He moved on to Monday night. Saw the two young men stumble across the car park towards the disused dwellings. Backed up the tape. Kept rewinding it. A shadow moved along the perimeter wall of the car park towards the council offices. And then it was gone. What the hell? It was too large for an animal, so it had to be human.

He pulled up the incident report from Monday night. Someone had been in the house when the two lads arrived. They had been attacked and one person had run out, according to Mrs Loughlin. He twisted the heels of his hands into his eyes, then opened them wide. Concentrate, he told himself. Think.

Forwarding the tape slowly, he kept his eyes glued to the wall. Waiting. Watching. Then he saw it again. The shadow moved in the opposite direction and disappeared.

It might be nothing, and then again it might be something. He printed off screen shots and went to tell Kirby.

Kirby’s eyes felt like they were about to fall out of his head. The lines of print on the pages morphed into each other. He’d let himself down with Megan. It had been a silly move on his part. What difference did it make that she had been married to Tony Keegan? She was right. It had absolutely nothing to do with him. They’d only had a couple of coffees. You’re a total arse, he told himself.

He blinked and turned a page. Garda reports were so boring.

Bill Thompson. Sixty-four years old. Publican and councillor. Interesting. Kirby hadn’t heard any mention over the last few days that Thompson had been a councillor. He made a note. Continued to read. Turned the page. And then he saw a name that made the breath catch at the back of his throat. Surely that couldn’t be right. It had to be a mistake. Or was it? He looked around, wishing Lottie was here. But neither she nor Boyd had appeared yet.

Why hadn’t someone made the connection before now? He picked up the file to bring to McKeown.

McKeown was already standing behind him with a sheaf of pages in his hand.

‘You have to see this,’ they both said in unison.

FIFTY-TWO

Lottie found Kirby and McKeown sitting side by side at Kirby’s desk, their heads down, reading.

‘Any news on my girls?’

The two men looked up.

Kirby spoke. ‘No, boss. Nothing at all.’

‘I’ve phoned all their friends and they haven’t been seen. Have you coordinated searches?’

‘Superintendent McMahon wouldn’t okay them. Spouting about budgets and KPIs. Said the cost of running the murder investigations had sent his neatly balanced spreadsheets off the page. And he wants to see you.’

Lottie turned and bumped into Boyd. ‘I’m going to have a word with McMahon.’

Boyd caught her by the elbow. ‘Wait up. Don’t go storming the castle just yet. Let’s see what we have first.’

‘I don’t have my daughters.’

‘I mean you’d better be armed with up-to-date information on the murders. That’s his priority and you know it.’

‘Not mine and you know it.’

‘Be sensible. We need to get up to speed.’

She slumped against a desk and sensed the eyes of her three detectives on her. The heat was oppressive, and with the palpitations in her chest and the strain of worry in her brain, she felt weak-kneed. Boyd wheeled out a chair and she sat.

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