Page 49

‘No. But he was scared. Genuinely petrified.’ Not quite, she thought, but near enough.

‘Leave it, Lottie. Go to the dressmaker’s and meet Grace. Have a coffee with her and chinwag.’

She grinned. ‘Have you ever known Grace Boyd to chinwag?’

‘No, but there’s a first time for everything.’

‘Tell me where she is and I’ll join her.’

‘Not so fast. Finish the conversation about the gardener.’

She knew she’d have to tell him something to pacify his interest. ‘The only thing he mentioned was a nun called Assumpta. I’ll pass it on to Mooney.’

‘Do that, then walk away from it. It’s not your case, Lottie. Nothing to do with you.’

‘But it might have something to do with Bryan.’

‘Don’t go there. Leave it to Mooney.’

‘Sure. Did you make this tea?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘It’s rotten.’ She brought the mug to the sink and poured the tea down the drain. ‘I’ll find Grace and have a coffee with her.’

She kissed his cheek and left the house, with absolutely no intention of going anywhere near a dressmaker’s.

She drove back to the convent to do what she should have done earlier. She had to ask Mickey about Mary Elizabeth, Bryan’s teenage sweetheart. That was the reason she’d gone there in the first place. Not that an empty shell of a building had given her any answers. It had only thrown up more questions.

She parked out front and made her way through the maze of trees and bushes. It was a hazy kind of dark, with nature’s canopy blocking out daylight.

As she approached the clearing where his caravan was located, the trees seemed to shudder all around her before coming alive as a flock of birds rose like a black cloud into the sky, cawing and squawking. A tiny trickle of fear travelled the length of her spine. They’re only birds, she told herself. But it wasn’t the feathered friends that made her stop.

There was no smoke from Mickey’s clearing. No sound other than the birds flying away, leaving a breath in their wake. She sucked it in, held it. Listened. On high alert.

‘Don’t be daft,’ she said aloud, exhaling, and her words echoed in the silence.

Inching forward, she wanted to shout out Mickey’s name, but some inherent instinct held her back.

In the clearing, the barrel had ceased its smouldering. The caravan door stood wide open, the plunger and container on the ground by the step. He mustn’t have got to unblock the toilet yet, she thought.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

‘Mickey? Mr Fox? I’m back.’ Silly. Of course she was back. But there was no sign of the man.

Stealthily, her gut now on high alert, she crept forward into the clearing. She smelled it before she saw it. Burning flesh.

He lay on a bed of grass and leaves. His eyes wide open, staring heavenwards through a gap in the foliage, his mouth a silent scream.

‘Mickey!’

She made to run forward, but stopped. This was no accident. She knew that deep in her heart. It was a crime scene, and she must tread carefully. She had no gloves or any other protective clothing, but she had to check if he was still alive.

Crouched by his side, she held two fingers to his throat. No pulse. She’d known that already. His upper body showed evidence of burning. Blood on the grass around his head. Someone had knocked him out, maybe. Or perhaps the blow to his head had killed him. Why, though? Why do this to an old man? Because he knew something? Something the killer didn’t want being made public? Did the killer know Mickey had been visited by the guards? A lot of questions, and then the one she had dared not think.

Had her visits to the convent put Mickey Fox in the cross hairs of a killer?

Surely not.