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‘The sick bastard.’

‘But you can’t be blinkered. You don’t know that he is the murderer; he’s just a person of interest at this stage. Don’t lose sight of the bigger picture.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I’m not sure, but as my mother used to say, don’t put all your eggs in one basket.’

‘You think there’s someone else I should be looking at for these murders?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, but Bryan was here so he did not kill Brigid Kelly. Has anyone else come to your attention in the course of your investigation?’

‘Not a one, though the possibility still exists that Imelda is on a killing rampage.’

‘But why?’ Lottie had met the girl in distress after Mickey Fox was killed. Could she be a killer? Anything was possible. ‘What’s her motive?’

‘If she was born in the convent, that laundry, she could be avenging her mother’s incarceration. Even her own birth. Shit, I don’t know.’

‘I’ll try to find out more about her,’ she said.

‘You will do no such thing. Leave this to me and my team. I only told you about Brigid’s death because I wanted to know what you’d been doing there. I’m warning you. Stay out of my investigation.’

‘You could do with some help.’

‘No, I don’t need any more help because my bloody super is after calling in hotshots from Dublin, and that’s all I fucking need. Apologies for the language.’

‘No need to apologise. I’d be raging too if that happened to me.’

Mooney’s body seemed to deflate, then inflate with anger again as quickly. ‘Talking of my super, he’s pawned fucking Councillor Wilson off on me. That man is now living in my frigging ear. When things seem bad, they’re usually a whole lot worse.’ He shook his head and took a pack of cigarettes from his creased suit pocket. ‘I better go. I’ve to find that Hayes prick. Oh, and I’ve had your car brought back.’

Lottie watched him light a cigarette, button his jacket, smooth down his beard and walk off around the side of the farmhouse. She wanted to help him. Had offered her assistance. He’d rejected it. But that wasn’t going to stop her. No way. This had to do with the convent laundry. Something had stirred a killer. She just needed to figure out what that was and she would be on the right path. And she had a feeling it was all down to Imelda Conroy and her blasted documentary.

‘Lottie?’

Looking up, she saw Grace standing at the back door with a mug in her hand.

She made her way towards her. ‘Coming.’

‘I made the sergeant a coffee, but he seems to have left.’

‘I’ll take it, Grace.’ Lottie held out her hand.

‘Well I made it for him, so you can go in and make your own. And don’t forget I have my final dress fitting in an hour. You have to come with me.’

Shit, Lottie thought. Stuck in a dressmaker’s – that was all she needed.

57

The dressmaker worked out of a mid-sized cabin structure located beside a pub at the end of Spiddal village. Net curtains draped the one large window and the glass panel in the door.

‘Aren’t you cutting it a bit fine, Grace?’ Lottie asked.

‘I’m not cutting anything. The seamstress does that.’

She tried not to roll her eyes. ‘I mean the wedding is this Sunday. What if the dress isn’t right? You haven’t much time to rectify it.’

‘It will be grand. I’m just collecting the dress. I got it all sorted the other day when you were supposed to be with me but then you let me down.’ Grace looked at her pointedly.

Without rising to the barbed remark, Lottie said, ‘Why do you need me today if you’re only collecting it?’