Page 28 of Hidden Daughters (Detective Lottie Parker #15)

Walking quickly to her car, Lottie was glad to escape from the desolation she’d felt oozing from the convent walls.

A prison. That was what it reminded her of.

Not a modern one like Castlerea, with stainless-steel fittings and plastered walls, but something from the novels of Dickens.

Newgate or Dartmoor. Or the old Irish prisons like Spike Island.

After driving down the weedy avenue, she turned onto what constituted the main road.

It was little more than a lane. At last she could breathe normally.

Mooney. She had no contact number for him.

Damn. He was probably based in Galway city.

Bryan might know him. Then again, Bryan O’Shaughnessy was a Connemara sheep farmer, so how or why would he know Mooney?

Her phone blared loudly in the silent car, and she leaped in her seat. Unknown number. She pressed the hands-free button and waited without speaking.

‘Is that Detective Inspector Lottie Parker?’ A semi-familiar gruff voice.

‘I was just thinking of you, Detective Sergeant Mooney.’

‘Great minds and all that.’ He laughed, and it was a joyous sound compared to Mickey Fox’s raspy tones.

‘How can I help you?’ She drove on a little before stopping at the side of the narrow road, at a field gate. ‘Just pulling in the car. The audio’s coming and going. Bad coverage.’

‘Lucky to get any coverage at all out here.’

‘Are you at the scene?’

‘Just came back to it an hour ago. Look, I could do with your insight. This is more complicated than I first thought.’

‘Being scalded by kettles of boiling water in a bath isn’t complicated enough?’

‘It is, but there’s more. Can you come by the holiday cottage?’

‘Sure. I can be there… Shit, I actually don’t know where I am. I’ll have to get my bearings.’

‘Give me some idea of your location and I can direct you.’

‘I’ve just left a convent. Used to be a laundry. One of those?—’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Where do I go?’

He established her general whereabouts and spouted directions.

‘See you in fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘Oh, and by the way, you’re still only here in an advisory capacity.’

‘Got it.’

She drove on, and the call dropped.

A thick mist rose from the sea, giving an eerie atmosphere to the three whitewashed stone cottages. She had to park a good way down the tree-lined lane, such was the number of parked garda cars and the forensic technical van.

Delaney, the clipboard guard, had been replaced by an enthusiastic young female garda, who allowed her through once she’d checked with Mooney. The only proviso was that she wasn’t allowed to enter the cottage.

Lottie signed in and stood on the stoop. Waiting was not one of her stronger points, but she couldn’t argue. It wasn’t her crime scene.

Mooney came out and, without divesting himself of his protective gear, wordlessly indicated that she follow him.

She trudged behind him as he rounded the cottage. The small, square garden was enclosed by low stone walls, greening patio slabs on the ground and a weatherbeaten wooden table with chairs. He pulled one out and sat. She did likewise, hoping SOCOs had examined them.

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Nothing of note was found out here.’

He rustled a cigarette pack from inside the folds of his Teflon boiler suit, and a lighter appeared with it. Lighting up, he inhaled, then exhaled a cloud of smoke. He coughed but didn’t speak.

‘Look, Sergeant Mooney, I haven’t got?—’

‘Matt, call me Matt.’

‘What’s going on, Matt?’

‘It’s not her.’

‘Who’s not who?’ She scrunched her eyes. He had her confused. ‘The dead woman?’

‘Aye, it wasn’t Imelda Conroy in that bath.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Hundred per cent. We checked online. Passport, driver’s licence, her website. All that shite. Wrong age demographic. Conroy is in her thirties, and according to the pathologist who attended at the scene, the dead woman is possibly in her fifties. It’s not her.’

‘Then where is Imelda Conroy?’

‘No idea.’

‘Car?’

‘She had a car. Registration number was on the cottage rental form. Matches vehicle licence records. But no car here.’

‘And it’s not her body. Shite, this is a curveball.’

‘You’re telling me.’ He stubbed out his cigarette under the sole of his shoe. Glancing over at her, he caught her staring. ‘Told you, it’s okay. SOCOs have been and gone from out here.’

‘And inside? Did they find anything?’

‘Apart from the lead for a laptop, they also found a phone charger plugged in beside the bedside locker. No phone, though, like I said. A few blank pieces of paper scattered around, giving me nothing to go on. A lone hoodie hanging in the wardrobe. Few bits of clothing in a rucksack. Other than that, zero.’

‘Fingerprints, DNA?’

‘All gathered and being analysed and fed into the system. Takes time for results.’

‘Any idea who the victim could be?’

‘No one reported missing. Not yet, anyhow. So no, I’ve no idea.’

‘You need to interview the neighbours, if there are any, and?—’

‘Being done as we speak. I’m not a total amateur.’

‘I wasn’t implying that. Sorry. I’m just working through what I’d do.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

She knew he would ask anyhow. ‘Sure, fire away.’

‘What were you doing up at the old convent?’

She didn’t think it would do any harm telling him why she’d been there. Yet she was apprehensive. Too soon for confessions or revelations.

‘I don’t think my reason for being there is relevant to your investigation. It was a private excursion. Curiosity. You know yourself.’

‘But it’s a coincidence, and I don’t like them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve learned that Imelda Conroy was making a radio documentary about the laundries.’

She digested his words. According to Mickey Fox, Imelda, aka Mel, had been at the convent the previous week.

Should she inform Mooney? Perhaps she’d wait a while.

‘There’ve been loads of podcasts, television shows, documentaries made over the years.

I don’t see what any of it has to do with me having a gander around an old convent.

’ But then she felt the hairs stand up on her arms. She knew what he was going to say before he said it.

‘Imelda was making a documentary with particular emphasis on the Sisters of Forgiveness.’

‘Who are they?’ She stood, then sat again, trying to get her thoughts in a straight line. She wasn’t any good at lying. And it wasn’t right to keep information from Mooney, but she was loath to divulge what she’d learned.

He said, ‘The same nuns who ran the convent you were at earlier.’

‘Okay. But why did you ask me here?’

‘The post-mortem is taking place shortly. I’d like you to observe with me.’

‘Is that even allowed?’

‘It is now.’