Page 27 of Final Betrayal

He’d often been paired with Gilly O’Donoghue, and he missed the young guard’s smile and the way she looked at Detective Kirby over her freckled nose. She’d been a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stale station. At least her murderer had been apprehended.

Looking up as the station door opened, he realised that things had been too quiet. Ragmullin didn’t do quiet, he thought. He caught a whiff of Old Spice and was surprised to see a tiny woman tapping the counter.

Putting on his sweetest smile, the one his wife of thirty years could see through straight away, Thornton said, ‘What can I help you with this fine morning, Mrs Loughlin?’

‘Have you been outside yet, young man? It’s pissing out of the heavens.’

Garda Thornton was a bit taken aback by the eighty-year-old’s language, but he kept the smile in place. ‘So it is,’ he said, peering over her shoulder through the reinforced-glass door.

‘Now, young man, I want you to come with me. There’s been a lot of disturbances at Petit Lane lately. Druggies and junkies, or whatever the PC term is nowadays. All hours. Making a racket. Banging on walls. Shouting and singing. You’ll need your coat. Come on, now.’

Thornton watched as the old lady turned and headed for the door. ‘Mrs Loughlin? I can’t go with you. I’m on desk duty.’

‘I’m sure the desk can mind itself.’ Her brows knitted into a scowl. ‘And if not, get someone else to take care of it. I’m not leaving this another minute. You have to do something.’

‘Did you try the council?’

A loud laugh filled the reception area and Mrs Loughlin hammered her long umbrella against the floor. ‘The council? Are you making a joke of me? That shower wouldn’t listen to Jesus himself if he came down off the cross and walked into their fancy new offices looking for a glass of water and a pair of trousers.’

Lottie felt refreshed after her morning shower, despite a night of disturbed sleep. Louis was coming down with a cold, and her fingers still smelled of Vicks VapoRub. She searched her bag for a pack of tissues and came up with baby wipes.

As her computer screen blinked to life, she eyed her detectives out in the main office. Kirby looked like he’d slept in his suit, but then he always looked like that, didn’t he? She’d have to keep a close eye on him. Boyd was at the filing cabinet, taking files from a box on the floor and sorting them into the drawer. She felt a slow smile creep in at the corner of her lips. She liked the feeling he was giving her. Then she thought of Leo Belfield, and the smile slipped quickly from her face. She had to get to the bottom of what he was up to. Why wasn’t he answering his phone? For a few weeks during the summer he had plagued her with calls. But now he was uncontactable. A cold shiver of warning slithered down her spine. Something wasn’t right. Her gut was telling her, and her gut was never wrong. Or almost never. Then she remembered Amy Whyte and Penny Brogan.

‘Kirby?’ she called through the open door. ‘Any word on the two girls?’ His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was badly in need of a cut, or a wash at least.

‘Nothing new on the system. Will I put it out on social media now?’

Lottie sighed. She stuffed the baby wipes back into her bag and went to his desk. The screen quickly flicked to black as his index finger clicked the mouse.

‘Are you with us, Kirby?’

‘Of course. Just a little slow this morning. Didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘You and me both,’ Lottie said.

‘Why not?’ Boyd turned round, sleeves rolled up, files in both hands.

‘Louis has a cold.’

Her phone vibrated in her jeans pocket. ‘That could be Katie. I told her to let me know if she has to bring Louis to the doctor.’

Back in her office, she checked the phone.

A message. But not from Katie. From Leo Belfield. Meet at one o’clock. Joyce Hotel.

Garda Tom Thornton had realised Mrs Loughlin was not going to listen to any excuses. He managed to bribe someone to cover the desk, then pulled on his heavy hi-vis jacket. By the time they reached Petit Lane, he was soused in sweat. For an old lady, she sure could walk quickly, he thought.

‘This is where I live.’ Mrs Loughlin pointed out the first house in the boarded-up terrace. ‘The others sold up like rats, and now look at the place. The economic crash put paid to the building plans.’

Thornton looked. He walked by here most days on his way to and from work, and knew the history of the developer pulling out and leaving the council with egg on their faces, but he’d never given the terrace a second thought.

He pushed open the gate of the house next door to Mrs Loughlin’s, and noticed she was standing out on the pavement scowling.

‘Not that one, the next one down,’ she said.

‘This one?’ Thornton moved to the third house in the row. It appeared even more derelict than the one beside the old lady’s.

‘I heard a noise last night,’ she said. ‘Not that I don’t hear it most nights. It’s just lads, and I know they mean no harm. Probably sheltering from the rain. I saw two of them, with hoodies up over their heads, arms full of plastic bags. Beer, I’d say. They were falling through the gate, dragging each other up to the door. One even had a wee in the garden.’

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