Page 53 of Hidden Daughters (Detective Lottie Parker #15)
When Mooney left the hotel to return to work, Lottie ordered another coffee. She scrolled through the bullet-point information Kirby had sent her about Robert Hayes. It included his old Galway address, which had yielded no result when the local guards had investigated it at Kirby’s request.
No harm in having a second look. She finished her coffee, then used the bathroom.
She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and was pleased to note that she looked a little healthier than usual.
The Connemara sunshine was good for her.
Or perhaps it was the sea breeze. Whatever it was, she knew she looked good, and that elevated her mood.
It returned to sombre when she answered a call from Boyd.
‘Grace is so upset,’ he said. ‘I know I told you that you can’t fix everything, but is there any way you can get Bryan released?’
‘I spoke with Mooney. I reckon they have something on him or they wouldn’t still be holding him. Mooney wouldn’t budge. But Bryan’s got a good solicitor, so he should be out soon.’
She finished the call and made her way to Bryan’s Range Rover.
It had dried mud splattered on the doors, bonnet and tyres.
The filthiest car she’d seen in a long time.
She punched Hayes’s old address into Google Maps and made her way there.
Slowly. Glaring sunshine blinding her. And traffic, damn traffic.
Robert Hayes had once lived out on the Moycullen Road according to Kirby’s notes. Up a leafy hill and at the end of a row of old two-storey detached houses, she came to one that bordered a small stone church. She parked and checked it was the correct address. Yep.
Beside the solid wooden door was an old wrought-iron bell with a piece of rope attached. She pulled the rope and waited.
A stooped, grey-haired woman who only came to Lottie’s shoulder appeared, squinting against the blinding sunshine.
‘You the police again?’
‘Erm, I am, but?—’
‘Told the last lot and I’ll tell you the same. He’s not here. Been gone years. No point in asking me again. I can’t change what’s true.’
‘Okay, Mrs…?’
‘If you’re police, you will know I’ve never been married. Gave my life to God’s work. I’d like you to leave and not to be disturbing me again.’ She made to shut over the door. Lottie put out a hand.
‘I apologise. I’d like to talk to you. I’m Detective Inspector Lottie Parker, but I’m here on holidays, so I’m off duty. A friend asked me to look up Robert Hayes.’ No harm in bending the truth a little.
‘What friend would that be? Another cop?’
Lottie figured the woman watched too many US crime shows, but she was sharp. ‘Would you mind if I came in? I could do with a glass of water. It’s so hot outside.’
The woman laughed. ‘Do you think I came down in the last shower? I’m not falling for that old trick. Say what you’ve come to say, then leave me in peace.’
‘First off, I’d like to know your name.’
‘Brigid Kelly. What do you want from me?’
‘I want to know where I can find Robert.’
‘Father Robert, you mean?’
That threw Lottie. Kirby’s missing man was a priest? Why hadn’t Mooney told her? Shit. ‘Erm, yes, Father Robert.’
‘He hasn’t been around in a long, long time. Father Phillip Lyons is here now. But he’s been in Lourdes the last few days. What else do you want to know?’
Lottie still felt like she’d been smacked. Robert Hayes was a priest. Or used to be one. Jesus. ‘When did Robert leave the priesthood?’
The woman wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘He didn’t leave. The bishop kicked him to kingdom come. And good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say. I reckon he must have dirtied his bib again, otherwise I wouldn’t have the guards calling to me after all this time, would I?’
‘What did he do?’
‘You are a nosy one.’ The woman shielded her eyes and appraised Lottie.
Seemingly not finding any threat – or maybe she felt sorry for her – she said, ‘Come in. I didn’t tell the others much, because they seemed satisfied with the little I gave them.
But I kind of like the look of you. You’re smart.
Come on. We can go to the kitchen if you don’t mind watching me peel a few spuds. ’
‘I can help, if you’d like?’
‘I’d like that very much.’ The woman held up her curved hands. ‘Arthritis is a curse.’