Page 137 of Final Betrayal

‘My memory is not what it used to be. Let me think.’ She pressed the glass to her forehead. ‘No. Nothing unusual really. Oh, was that the night Louise and her friend saw young Dowling after he’d assaulted and robbed Bill Thompson? It might have been, come to think of it.’

Lottie could feel Boyd’s eyes boring into her. He hadn’t seen McKeown’s text, so he had no idea what she was at.

‘Was your housekeeper an Asian woman?’

‘How did you know?’

‘We’ve found a body,’ Lottie said. ‘In a tunnel under the courthouse.’

The glass shattered on the wooden floor and Boyd rushed to catch Belinda before she hit the ground.

FIFTY-NINE

The old house looked like something out of a Dickens novel. Leo’s mother – well, the woman he thought of as his mother – used to read him the classics, and he thought Farranstown House could have comfortably housed Miss Havisham.

He walked around the outside, checking the gravel for any signs of recent footprints. The ground was mucky and wet, and the deep footprints of the uniformed officers who had checked it out when looking for Bernie made distinguishing anything of interest next to impossible. He stood on the doorstep surveying the landscape. The inky sky touched the lake in the distance, and a thin, pale stream sheeted the horizon in expectation of night.

No point in hammering on the door, he thought, and made his way around the side, checking through the darkened windows as he walked. All he could make out was sheeted furniture standing like ghosted sentries. He recalled Alexis telling him about a basement. In New York, most of these had an external door. He couldn’t see one here. He’d have to search inside, but he had no key. He lifted the latch in hope. No such luck. He put his eye to the keyhole. There was a key on the inside of the lock.

On the ground, he found a piece of wire and jiggled it around in the lock. After a couple of minutes he heard the key drop to the floor. Now he could get somewhere. He worked the piece of wire until he heard a click, and the door opened.

He pushed it inwards and stepped inside the house that he knew should rightfully be his. Flicking a switch, he was amazed to see the hallway slowly fill with muted light. That, at least, was a bonus. Closing the door behind him, he made his way into the spacious farmhouse-type kitchen.

Tendrils of icy cold swathed the stillness. His detective’s antennae were on their highest alert level. He knew he was not alone in the old house.

‘Are you in a hurry to get back to work?’ Kirby said.

‘I am, actually,’ Megan replied. ‘What are you doing here?’

He wanted to talk to her in a civilised setting, not out on her dark driveway.

‘It will only take a few minutes. You don’t have to make tea; I just want you to answer a couple of questions.’

He studied her face, her hair knotted at the nape of her neck, her camel coat and blue scarf. She wore flat-soled knee-length black boots. He thought she looked pretty.

‘I’m sorry. I have to go,’ she said. ‘I’m already late.’

‘Aren’t you going to close your front door?’

She fumbled in her bag for her keys as she pulled the door closed. She turned the key in the lock.

‘Look, Detective Kirby. You’re a nice man, but you’re going through a grieving process. I don’t think I’m the right person to help you. Maybe you should visit a therapist.’ Her voice was sharp and professional.

‘Do you have a pet?’

‘No.’

‘Is this where your father lived?’

‘Stepfather.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She died, must be fifteen years ago.’

‘And did you inherit this house when your stepfather died?’

She stalled beside her car. ‘Why are you asking me these questions?’

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