Page 27 of Hidden Daughters (Detective Lottie Parker #15)

Sitting on the top stone step, Lottie waited for her pulse to stop racing.

Definitely should have brought Boyd along.

He knew about her phobia. One she had been unsuccessful in overcoming.

She could stare down a maniac with a lump hammer in his hand, stand her ground before a knife-wielding thug, but the scuttling of mice or their larger cousins always caused her to run.

Maybe she should have a quick look around upstairs to ease her fears. There the windows allowed more light in, so she’d no longer be dependent on a narrow torch beam.

Moving out of the basement, she closed over the door. That was when she smelled something rancid and heard harsh laboured breathing behind her. She turned, ready to accost whoever had followed her.

‘Hey, lady, not so fast. I’m not here to hurt you.’

‘Jesus, you scared me. You shouldn’t creep up on people.’

The man held up his two empty hands. Pleading? Or demonstrating to her that he held no weapon? He licked his lips through his white scruffy beard, which did little to help her determine his age.

‘What are you doing here?’ His voice was as gravelly as his skin.

‘Snooping.’

‘I can see that.’

‘And can I ask what you are doing here?’

‘Keeping an eye out for snoopers.’ There was no trace of mirth in his tone. She reckoned he was deadly serious.

‘Do you have some claim on the convent?’ She walked a little away from him. He smelled bad. Unwashed.

‘Used to be the gardener here, back in the day.’ He grinned, one tooth and blackness.

‘Oh, so you were here when the convent operated as a laundry?’ She retraced her steps towards him, now interested in this strange man.

‘Aye. The nuns were good to me. Not so good to others. None of my business. And I don’t like people ferreting around in places they have no right to.’

‘I just wanted a look. It’s part of our country’s history.’

‘That’s what the other one said.’

‘What other one?’

‘No one pays a blind bit of heed to the convent for donkey’s years, and then two of you appear out of nowhere within a week of each other. Are you working with her?’

‘With who?’

‘That’s a no, then.’ He lit up an unfiltered cigarette, and the distinctive waft of cannabis hit her in the face. ‘You should be on your way, lady.’

‘Okay, I’m leaving, but I’m interested in who else was here recently.’

‘None of your business if she has nothing to do with you.’

Should she play the detective card? Scare the shit out of him? No, it would take a lot more than the threat of the guards to scare this man.

‘I’m Lottie.’ She braved holding out her hand, half hoping he wouldn’t accept it. ‘Who are you?’

He paused as if debating making physical contact. He moved his smoke from his right hand to his left and eventually took her outstretched hand. His was cold and hard. Like the eyes she found staring back at her.

‘Mickey Fox,’ he said. ‘Pleasure, I’m not sure. Why are you here?’

‘I told you. I was just snooping. What about you?’

‘Worked here for forty years and the nuns pay me a retainer to keep an eye on the place.’

‘But the order is no longer in existence.’

‘The order might not be, but some of the nuns are still around and the bishop has deep coffers.’

‘Would you be able to give me details? I’d like to talk to them.’

‘Private and confidential.’ His grin bordered on salacious, which she found disturbing.

‘Are there any records still here?’

‘Records? The other one asked that too. There’s nothing left. Place was stripped to its floorboards. And even some of them were taken too.’

‘What did you tell… the other woman?’

‘Same as I’m telling you. She was more of a snoop, though. Didn’t pay any heed. Took off up them there stairs.’ He pointed to the stone staircase behind her. ‘I followed her, of course, in case she stole something.’

‘Thought you said there’s nothing left.’

‘Might be something I missed.’

She smirked. ‘So it was you who stripped the place bare.’

‘Only returned things to their rightful owners.’

‘Those who no longer exist?’

‘You said that, not me.’

She tried to follow his cryptic logic. ‘When you followed the woman around this place, was she scared?’

‘Not a bit. A right amateur sleuth Mel was. I made her tea in my caravan back in the woods. Told her a few lies and off she went, happy as Larry.’

‘Was she a detective?’ She banked the woman’s name.

‘Not at all. But I’d say you’re one. That makes me wonder what you’re doing out here. Did Mel send you?’

‘Who’s Mel?’ Draw him out, she thought.

‘Come on, lady. You know right well, don’t you? She sent you here. All talk of a grand exposé on some documentary. Silly girl. Nothing left to expose. All the secrets are out in public. Hounded the nuns away. Inquiries and commissions did me out of any respectability I may have once had.’

Now Lottie was silent, her mind in turmoil.

His revelations were both enlightening and sickening, because she believed the Mel he was talking about was Imelda Conroy, documentary-maker.

And she had been brutally murdered in a holiday cottage not far from where Lottie stood with this strange old man.

‘Can you tell me exactly when Mel was here?’

‘Last week sometime. I don’t keep a diary. Hardly know what day it is most of the time.’

‘Did you report back to the nuns? The ones who don’t exist?’

‘Now you’re pulling the mickey.’ He laughed, a bawdy sound that reverberated in the hollow space. ‘My name may be Mickey, but I haven’t had it pulled for a long time. Don’t suppose you’d?—’

‘Mr…’ What was his name again? She hid a grin at his attempt at a joke. ‘Mr Fox. I take offence at your crudeness.’

‘That’s the trouble with the world today. No sense of humour.’

‘And I suppose your nuns had a great sense of humour. Laughing all the way to the bank while poor unfortunate girls, through no fault of their own, were incarcerated here into a life of hard labour.’ She paused to take a breath, her mood darkening suddenly with her rage-fuelled words.

‘No fault of their own? You’re deluded, lady. Those girls were sinners. Each and every one of them. And they got what they deserved.’

Despite his words, Lottie felt there was a lack of certainty in his tone. Was he trotting out what some might refer to as a party line?

‘Did Mel get what she deserved?’

‘What do you mean? She was satisfied once I showed her the basement laundry. And off with her she went.’ He hesitated as if he’d caught the unspoken words in her question. ‘Did something happen to her?’

‘You could say that, Mr Fox. Good day to you.’

She sidestepped, needing to get away from him. To put a physical space between them.

With a final glance at the oppressive building, the walls leaning over her, she scooted by him.

She had to talk to Detective Mooney.