Page 60 of Final Betrayal

‘Someone dead, I presume.’ Conor tried to be flippant, but Tony’s words had sent a dagger of unease plunging through his chest. He threw down the cigarette and ground it out with his muddy boot. ‘What’s Cleary going to do about it? This could jeopardise our jobs, you know.’

Tony rounded on him. ‘Is that all you have to say? Some poor eejit got locked down in that tunnel and probably starved to death, and you’re worried about the job? You’re worse than Cleary.’ He made to walk away, but Conor caught the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him back.

‘If the guards come snooping around, they’re going to look no further than me. They’ve already brought me in for questioning about those two women found dead at Petit Lane. They’ll try to pin this on me too.’

‘Don’t be such a dick. You’ve been in prison for ten years. This has nothing to do with you.’

‘I know, but try telling that to my probation officer. It won’t look good. They want to pin every fecking death that happens in this town on me.’

‘You’re always thinking of yourself. Why don’t you get out of Ragmullin then? Go somewhere else.’

‘And what about my mother?’

‘She managed for the last ten years without you, didn’t she?’

Conor watched Tony move away from him, then stop and look back before continuing on.

His eye was drawn to Bob Cleary. He had to find out what was in the tunnel.

THIRTY-ONE

Lottie completed the paperwork on the coin she’d found at her home and dispatched it for analysis. Then she glanced at the boards in the incident room. Nothing new had been added by the night crew. She hoped Louise Gill’s disappearance wasn’t linked to Amy’s death. But the odds were stacked that way.

Kirby was eating a sandwich out of a plastic wrapper. He lifted a slice of bread to peer in at the soggy cheese, and she noticed there was no butter on it. Her heart almost broke for him.

Drawing Boyd to one side, she said, ‘Cyril Gill was down in reception when I arrived.’

‘Oh, and what’s all that fuss with the reporters outside?’ Boyd leaned against the wall, settling in for a chat.

She sipped her coffee, made a face and put the cup down on a desk, then steered him out through the door. Spying McMahon turning the corner, she pulled Boyd by the hand and escaped down the stairs.

‘Parker!’ McMahon’s voice reverberated off the walls like an echo.

‘Lottie.’ Boyd stalled. ‘You’d better talk to him.’

‘No. There’s a friend of Amy Whyte’s missing. Cyril Gill’s daughter, Louise. Those two girls were the key witnesses in Conor Dowling’s trial. Come on. We can’t waste time.’ She threw the car keys to him. ‘You drive.’

Outside, he stood at the car, leaning over the roof. ‘I’m going nowhere until you explain.’

A window opened two floors above them. McMahon shoved his head out. ‘Parker. Come back here this instant.’

‘Please, Boyd,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I think Louise could be in real danger.’

Boyd unlocked the door.

With one leg inside, Lottie glanced up at her red-faced superior shaking his fist out the window. She’d have to say something.

‘Be back in five,’ she called up. ‘Emergency.’ She slid in and slammed the door. ‘Lights and siren, Boyd.’

‘What for?’

‘Impression.’

She told Boyd to switch off the siren when they turned onto Main Street, having successfully negotiated the swelling crowd of satellite news vans parked at the front of the station. She sank into the seat, her feet snagging on empty cans and smelly food wrappers.

‘Your car is a dump,’ he said.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

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