Page 65 of Final Betrayal

‘How could she afford her apartment if she was just a cleaner? I imagine the prices are sky high over there,’ Lottie said.

He shot up out of the armchair and leaned over her. ‘If you’re insinuating what I think you are, you have some cheek. Cristina is a beautiful person. She has an aura about her. I had no relationship with her other than to compliment her on her work and hand over her wages. So you can squash that idea.’

A sting of discomfort shot through Lottie. She hadn’t even thought that Whyte could have been in a relationship with Cristina, just that he might have paid for her apartment. But now that he’d planted the seed of that idea, she couldn’t uproot it.

‘Does she keep any personal items here?’ Boyd said, and Lottie silently thanked him for defusing the situation before she said something she would regret.

‘Just the cleaning stuff. It’s in a cupboard in the utility room. Has something happened to Cristina?’ A streak of unease skittered across Whyte’s face.

‘Can we take a look?’ Boyd said. ‘If you don’t mind.’

Whyte led the way out the door, through the kitchen and into the utility room, which was as big as Lottie’s entire kitchen.

They found nothing of interest in the baskets of cleaning products, all neatly stored away. As Lottie shoved a basket back in, it snagged on something. Getting down on her knees, she ran her hand over the shelf and dragged out a small old-fashioned mobile phone.

Holding it up, and dropping all familiarity, she said, ‘Is this yours, Mr Whyte?’

THIRTY-THREE

Kirby was still hungry. He missed having Maria Lynch around to have lunch with. He should call and see how she was getting on with the new baby. But not now, not yet. He had no idea how to make small talk about stuff like that. He’d spent all morning collating information from house-to-house inquiries in relation to the Whyte and Brogan murders. Nothing unusual had jumped out at him. As usual with this town, no one knew anything.

As he moved to the photocopier, he felt the little box shift in his trouser pocket and his chest tightened. He gripped it tightly, feeling the soft velvet beneath his fingers, and his heart broke all over again. The surprise he’d planned for Gilly. The ring he’d ordered but never got to give her. Just yesterday, the jeweller’s had called to say it was ready for collection. He could have said it was too late; he didn’t need it any longer. But he didn’t. Instead he’d gone in, paid the balance and taken the little blue box home with him. He couldn’t find the willpower to open it up, to stare at the cluster of diamonds on the white-gold band.

She was gone. She’d never known of his intentions. Never got to answer his unasked question. Would never slip the ring on her freckled finger. He gulped back a sob, glad that everyone was out of the office. Working. Unlike him. He needed to do something or he was going to go stark raving mad.

He took his hand away from the box of shattered dreams, found his coat and trudged out of the office and out of the station.

He had to eat.

As Boyd drove back to the station, Lottie leaned her head against the window. When they reached the Dublin bridge, she sat up straight and looked down into the valley of her town. The cathedral’s twin spires, the Protestant church’s single one, and what Sean called the hangman’s crane over the courthouse. They all stood as if holding up the businesses and homes that nestled in their shadows. In a few years, she thought, there might be a little more life in Ragmullin.

‘You didn’t have to be so cynical,’ Boyd said, interrupting her musings.

‘What do you expect? When you have a grieving father lying through his teeth.’

‘Richard Whyte wasn’t lying.’

‘Oh come on, Boyd. He tried to pretend he knew nothing about that phone. But he did. I was studying his expression. He didn’t think we’d find it. And then he got all flustered, saying it must have been Cristina’s. Do you know what I think?’

‘No, but you’re going to tell me.’

‘I think it’s Amy’s secret phone. And now I have it.’

‘And do you think it will lead you to her killer?’

She didn’t answer, just leaned her head against the glass again. The traffic lights turned green and Boyd put his foot to the floor.

‘Lottie, it was in the cupboard with the cleaning products, so chances are it belongs to Cristina.’

‘We’ll have to wait until our technical guys have a look at it.’

‘Right.’

‘What’s eating you now?’ she said.

‘Nothing, and you still have to tell me why you’re avoiding McMahon.’

‘It’s about Bernie Kelly. The media broadcast about her escape. I was accosted by Cynthia this morning. Needless to say, shit from the fan is swirling around McMahon at the moment.’

---