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‘Who is after you?’

‘Go away.’

‘Why are they after you?’

‘Are you deaf, or what?’

‘Did you know the woman who died at the cottage?’

Silence once again. Broken only by sobs. A heart-wrenching sound. Guttural. Those were the only words Lottie could think of to describe the cries. She had no idea if the woman was genuinely broken or just putting on a damn good act.

‘Listen to me,’ she urged. ‘You’re not safe here. If I found you, anyone can. Come with me.’

‘Who are you anyway? A cop?’

‘Kind of, but I’m on holidays, so I can’t arrest you or anything.’ She didn’t say she could phone Mooney and he’d do the deed.

‘Where can you take me that will be safe?’

She hesitated before saying, ‘I’m staying with my…’ She couldn’t think what to call Bryan or Grace. ‘My sister-in-law. It’sa farm. Not far from here. I have a car. I think you could do with a cup of tea.’ Jesus, she was turning into her mother. Tea to solve the troubles of the world. ‘And some food.’

The woman surprised her by standing up quickly, nodding her head furiously. ‘I’m starving.’

For the first time, Lottie got a good look at her. Tall and slim. Thin even. Hair unwashed, hands filthy. And her face, dirty, weary and worn as she looked up from under short lashes to reveal mournful eyes. It was still difficult to pin an age to her. Thirties? She should have asked Mooney for a photo of Imelda Conroy, because it was possible that was who this woman was.

Lottie put out her hand and the woman took it, before collapsing into her arms.

33

Boyd invited Mooney in when he arrived at the door asking for Lottie. He made a pot of tea, mainly to keep from having to look at or answer the detective.

They sat at the kitchen table, where he’d sat earlier with Lottie.

‘She went into the village to see the dressmaker,’ he said once the tea was poured and milk added and he’d nowhere else to hide. ‘I told you that on the phone.’

‘She’s not there. I met your sister. Grace, isn’t it? She seemed annoyed with your fiancée.’

‘I’m annoyed with her myself.’ Boyd sipped his tea, deciding on what to say. ‘But with Lottie you learn to let her off to do her thing. You’d never win otherwise. You never win anyway.’ He tried to inject some humour into a situation that was anything but humorous.

‘Feck that.’ Mooney shoved back his chair with his legs. ‘Tell her from me that I don’t want her interfering in my investigation.’

Now was the time to stand up for her, thought Boyd, even though he was mad as hell at her and actually felt like throwing her under the bus. ‘You asked for her help. You asked her toattend the post-mortem with you. Whether you like it or not, you’ve whetted her appetite, and I’ve never known Lottie Parker to let a juicy bone drop.’

‘Jesus, you’re just like her. Talking in riddles.’

‘It’s catching.’

‘I better not bloody well catch it.’ Mooney tugged at his excuse for a beard, a surly scowl darkening his features.

Boyd grinned. ‘She’s one in a million, though. You seem a bit stretched on this investigation. What’s going on?’

‘Holiday time. Cutbacks. Stress. Who knows? No sign of the bigwigs cutting back on themselves, though.’

‘Same everywhere.’ Boyd gulped his tea, not really needing it after having had some earlier, but it allowed him time to formulate his next question. ‘Did you know that Lottie went to visit the old gardener at the convent this morning?’

Mooney straightened his back. ‘Do you know why she was there?’

‘No, but she said he was burning something in an oil drum. I reckon if she’s not with Grace at the dressmaker’s, then she returned to talk to the old man.’