Page 111 of Three Widows

Lottie stood into Orla’s space. ‘I believe these murders have something to do with whatever you were all up to in that group. Was it a front for something sinister?’

‘I’m not answering any more of your ridiculous questions, Inspector.’

‘Maybe Tyler is alive and is murdering women you knew. Or maybe, just maybe, you are killing the women he knew. Whatever the answer, you may have been the last person to see Helena. No matter how clever you think you are, I am smarter than you. I will rake over your life as if it were rotting leaves on the ground. Goodbye.’

Outside, she inhaled the warm air. She took one backward glance and saw Orla with her nose pressed to the glass, her mouth open in disbelief. Yes, she had overstepped the mark of professionalism, but sometimes you had to stir the boiling pot vigorously to see what spilled over.

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Where was Helena? Lottie sent a uniform to check her house, and the report came back that it was empty. She revisited her conversation with Orla but could not figure her out. Was she outright lying, or twisting the truth to suit her own agenda, whatever that might be? They had no clear suspect for the murders. She had already talked to Owen Dalton, and she decided it was time to speak with his husband. She had to be doing something rather than sitting waiting for answers to miraculously appear.

She headed over to Canal View. Frankie and Owen lived in a two-storey sandstone brick apartment block. The grounds were enclosed behind a sliding gate with an intercom. The gate was open. Good.

She inhaled the floral scent from the colourful window boxes. There was a bell, but she lifted the brass knocker, a Buddha depiction, and let it flap down. Instantly the door opened, and she looked up at Frankie Bardon, sunglasses resting on top of his bleached hair. She was reminded of an Australian surfer. She passed in by him when he stepped back to allow her to enter.

Pleasantly surprised by the plump cushions scattered around the floor, she searched for a chair. None. The decor was like a shrine, with golden glittered ornaments lining bookshelves and windowsills.

Frankie pointed to a large cushion. A beanbag, she discovered as she sank into it awkwardly.

‘You might want to take off your shoes,’ he said.

She noticed he’d removed his flip-flops as he plumped up a cushion.

‘I’m sorry. Will I mark your floor?’

‘No, but it’s more comfortable.’

Thinking of her sweaty feet, she said, ‘I’ll keep them on, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all. What brings you here?’

What indeed?

‘I spoke with Owen earlier today. He told me you two are married.’

‘Correct.’

Frankie removed his sunglasses from his head and slowly folded them into the pocket of his creased white linen shirt as he sank down onto a cushion opposite Lottie. She averted her eyes from his long, tanned and shaved legs, and stared at his sculpted face instead.

‘I want to know everything about Jennifer O’Loughlin.’

‘I’ve already answered all your questions. What has her death got to do with me?’

‘I’m conducting secondary interviews with everyone who knew her.’ Trying to wrong-foot him, she said, ‘Were you at home last night?’

‘Yes, I was. Finished work at five and have been here since.’

‘What time did Owen get home?’ She was grasping at straws, she knew, as she had no evidence to point her to either man having done anything illegal.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘After ten. And he was here all night until he left at six thirty this morning for his studio.’

‘And you were definitely here all night too?’

‘I had to be, to know that Owen was here.’

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