Page 166 of The Guilty Girl

‘Ever look in the mirror?’ Martina said quietly.

‘That’s uncalled for,’ Sarah snarled.

Lottie said, ‘Fetch your coat, Sarah. You’re coming with us.’

‘Why? I gave you what you wanted.’

‘Believe me, this is just the beginning. Come on.’

‘Who will mind my cat?’

Lottie was so enraged, she was seconds from losing control. ‘You should have thought of your stupid cat before you crept into shower rooms and took photographs of young girls to sell to a man as warped as yourself.’

Silently Sarah fetched a jacket. Lottie grabbed her by the elbow and shunted her out of the door behind Garda Brennan.

As they walked to the car, she glanced up at the apartment window.

The black cat stared down at her. She’d have to make calls to get him looked after. She wasn’t so furious as to leave the animal to fend for himself. But she was very fucking close to it.

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With Sarah Robson in custody, Lottie dispatched a squad car to bring in Noel Glennon. Still no news on Terry Starr or the McAllisters. All the alerts were out and she wanted them found soon.

She steadied herself with deep breaths before she could bring herself to trawl through Sarah’s photos. Tears gathered in her eyes and she fought to control her emotions; to remain professional despite the images breaking her heart.

This is my job, she reminded herself. I can make a difference. Suitably motivated, she continued.

The photos were date-stamped, going back six years. Most of the girls looked like they were first-year students, twelve- and thirteen-year-olds.

‘Children just out of primary school groomed by depraved adults.’ She spoke her thoughts aloud to ground herself. The images constituted child abuse, but how many of these girls had ended up in Terry Starr’s clutches?

‘Groomed and abused,’ she reiterated.

There were a couple of hundred photos and she swiftly examined each one to see if she recognised any of the girls. She found a very young Ivy Jones, and then Lucy McAllister. Both naked in what looked like school showers.

As she scrolled on, she recognised another girl. Partially clothed, standing in a locker room. Flat-chested, long, lean legs. She was aged about thirteen in the photo. Hannah Byrne.

Lottie jumped up, knocking her chair against the wall, and paced around the tight space. This case was so much more than drug dealing. What to do next? Tell Farrell? Yes. But not yet.

Sitting down again, she made her decision and phoned the Garda National Protective Services Bureau, which specialised in sexual abuse crimes. She spoke to a sympathetic inspector, Fred Reilly, who was in charge of the online child exploitation unit, and forwarded the images to him.

‘Rest assured,’ he said, ‘if even one of these images has been distributed electronically, my team will locate them. But it will take time.’

‘Appreciated,’ she said. ‘Liaise with your colleagues in Spain. There’s a possible connection to Malaga.’ She recounted what she knew. ‘I need the names of these girls, Fred, and of those involved in their exploitation and abuse. I have a few suspects who are genuine flight risks. I’m lacking airtight evidence to allow me to issue arrest warrants.’

‘I’ll put a team straight on it. Minute we find anything, you’ll be the first to know.’

Thanking him, she hung up, powered off her computer and went to the incident room.

The fading light was dim outside the window, a dark and dreary summer evening. More like winter, with bulging clouds of rain on the horizon. Lottie had no idea of the time. Her stomach had given up growling in protest about lack of food. The thought of eating after seeing the images of those young girls filled her with nausea. She didn’t want to think of how their photos had been used, or how many of the girls had ended up being groomed and sexually abused.

Kirby and McKeown sat at laptops at the end of the room, heads down, working away. Lynch was still at the Joneses’ house awaiting someone to relieve her.

At the incident board, Lottie moved from one photo to the next, tapping each one with her finger. Victims, witnesses and suspects. All marked up in their relevant columns. She now knew that some witnesses were also victims, and at least one suspect was a victim too.

‘You okay, boss?’ Kirby joined her, stale cigar aroma hanging in the hot, airless room.

‘I’m hungry, tired and wired. My mother is in hospital and I should call to see how she is. I’m missing Boyd and his wisdom, not to mention a hug.’

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