Page 84 of Hidden Daughters (Detective Lottie Parker #15)

The interview room was large and airy, but the air-conditioning unit was on too high and Mooney felt his skin prickle from the cold air.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, and thanks for coming in, Councillor Wilson,’ he said.

He was trying, he really was. He might not like the man, but Denis Wilson had lost his wife in a brutal attack, so he had to demonstrate some sympathy.

The detectives that the powers-that-be had drafted in had allocated him the task of interviewing Wilson.

They were of the opinion that a serial killer was their target, not a grieving husband.

‘I had no choice,’ Wilson said. ‘Those detectives at my house said I had to talk to you. Anyway, I want someone to arrest and charge the man who did this to my Ann. I know who killed her. I just need to convince you.’ He fixed Mooney with a stare before straightening his cravat.

The detective wondered how a grieving man kept himself so neat. Then again, Denis Wilson always had his appearance just so. The bruising around his eye was the only thing that pointed to all not being rosy.

‘Who are you referring to?’

‘You know right well I’m referring to Bryan O’Shaughnessy. You should arrest him. This time charge him with multiple murders, including that of my precious Ann.’

‘Did you see him enter your home?’

‘No, but it has to be him.’

‘Why has it to be him?’

‘You wouldn’t have arrested him for the other murder if you didn’t have something on him.’ Wilson flicked his cravat and a tiny diamond sparkled in its centre.

‘If I had something on him, I would have charged him. Denis, you need to stop this vendetta.’ Mooney had to get the man back on track. ‘Where were you last night?’

‘I went home after that prick punched me. Ann wasn’t there. I thought she was missing. I shouldn’t have reported that, because she was just late. She came home and you arrived after that. You know all this.’

‘What happened after I left?’

‘I got drunk as a skunk, if you want to know. I passed out on the couch. Never heard a thing. All O’Shaughnessy’s fault.’

‘You look fine this morning. No hangover?’

‘My wife is dead. I’m in shock. I don’t know which way to turn. This…’ Wilson pointed to his suit, his shirt, his cravat, ‘this is what I do well. Image. Projection. Inside I’m dying, second by second. You need to find her killer.’

Mooney found it difficult to muster any sympathy for him. ‘Your wife was murdered while you were at home. I need you to give me a timeline of last night. What did you and Ann do?’

‘I told you, I got drunk.’

‘I’m sure you remember some of the evening. Did you eat?’

‘This morning? No.’

Was he being deliberately obtuse? ‘I meant last night. What did you both do after I left?’

‘I didn’t eat. Ann probably did. I don’t know. I marinated my brain in whiskey to stop me from jumping into the car and driving out to take the head off O’Shaughnessy.’

‘Drink-driving wouldn’t look good for your PR machine.’ Mooney couldn’t help himself.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Ann mentioned something about your PR people and how you didn’t like anything derailing a well-oiled machine.’ Mooney was well aware she hadn’t said all that, but Wilson didn’t need to know it.

‘She looked out for me. She is… was a stellar wife.’ Wilson seemed to realise what he was saying. ‘I looked out for her too.’

There wasn’t a hint of a tear in his eyes. Not a touch of emotion. It was like he was reciting a prepared script. Mooney wouldn’t put it past him to have got one of his PR people to draft his words for this interview. Stop, he warned himself, he was being unduly cynical.

‘When did you realise things weren’t right? That there was something wrong?’

‘This morning. I woke up on the couch and she wasn’t hovering over me. Usually she’d wake me with a cup of coffee.’

‘Did you usually drink yourself into oblivion and end up sleeping on the couch?’

‘You are twisting my words, Sergeant. There wasn’t a sound in the house. Just the tick of the stupid clock on the mantel. I dragged myself up the stairs to have a shower. I thought she must have slept in or maybe she’d left for work. I know she’s really busy with the wedding season and all that.’

‘So now you are upstairs.’ Mooney tried to visualise Wilson in a state of intoxication, but it was impossible. The man was always so prim and proper. ‘Where did you go first?’

Denis closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Into the bedroom. She wasn’t in bed. The sheets were rumpled and I figured she was up and gone to work even though it was so early.’

Mooney noted that Wilson seemed to have a problem calling his wife by her name. ‘How did that make you feel?’

Denis dropped his head, looking down at his perfectly manicured fingernails. ‘I thought she was mad at me for getting drunk. I decided to have my shower and then I’d phone her to tell her I was sorry.’

Wilson didn’t strike Mooney as a man who would lower himself to apologise to anyone, least of all his wife. ‘Go on.’

‘I grabbed a towel from the cupboard and had my shower. In the en suite.’

‘Okay.’ Mooney thought it was convenient for him to have showered.

No evidence to be gathered from his body or skin.

Not that he was a suspect, according to those in authority on the case.

And just because Mooney didn’t like him didn’t make him a killer either.

He needed to get the facts and move on. ‘When did you go to the main bathroom?’

‘I showered, shaved and dressed. The main bathroom door was ajar. I hadn’t noticed it on my way up. We hardly ever use that bathroom. Not since we had the en suite installed. Used up a spare bedroom for that. She was a bit put out about it at the time. Not that it matters now.’

‘Right, so you noticed the door open. Why did that strike you as odd?’

‘We keep all the doors shut to conserve the heat in the house. Not that we have the oil on in this weather, but it’s a habit.

I went to shut the door and something caught my eye.

That’s when I saw her there. In the bath.

God, I will never get the image out of my mind.

It was horrific. How could someone do that to another human being? ’

‘A psychopath or sociopath, perhaps?’ Mooney thought that Wilson was displaying characteristics of both. Or maybe he just wanted that to be the case, such was his distaste for the man.

‘It was awful. I never want to see anything like that again. I will be traumatised for life.’

Selfish bastard, Mooney thought. ‘Did you move or touch anything in the bathroom?’

‘What? No. I went in and checked if she was breathing, but I knew, I knew she was gone.’

‘How did you check? Did you touch her?’

‘Of course I did. I held my fingers to her throat, but there was no pulse. No one could survive the burns she’d got.’

‘We didn’t find the source of the boiling water in the bathroom. How do you think she was scalded?’

‘Isn’t that your job to figure out?’

Tears were now lodged in Wilson’s eyes. Maybe Mooney should reassess his assumptions about the man.

‘Can you remember anything else that might help us?’

‘Not at this time.’ A single tear rolled down his face. His PR team would be happy, Mooney thought, though he might have a heart after all.

‘There doesn’t appear to have been any evidence of a break-in. Do you lock the doors at night?’

‘I told you I passed out drunk. Maybe she forgot to lock up.’

It was on the tip of Mooney’s tongue to tell the man that his wife’s name was Ann.

He thought of what she had spoken to him about in her kitchen last night.

She was to come in this morning to tell him about Imelda Conroy.

And Imelda had Ann’s phone. Who was to say she hadn’t the keys to Ann’s house too?

Shit.

SOCOs had been given free rein in the Wilson house, Mooney noted when he returned.

The other detectives had retreated to the incident room in HQ to assess what they had.

Mooney preferred to be hands-on. The niggle he’d felt about Imelda having the Wilson house keys had flared into a full-blown rash.

Though his skin wasn’t red or itchy, he still found himself scratching his arms under the protective clothing.

He examined the locks on the doors, now blackened with forensic dust, but found no evidence of forced entry.

He’d already known that, but no harm to double-check.

He could do with having Lottie Parker here with him.

She was a shrewd detective and her investigative prowess was renowned, but she was a bit of a loose cannon.

He was lucky to be allowed in himself, so having her around was a non-runner.

In the kitchen, SOCOs had found hidden at the back of a cupboard a prescription bottle for Ann containing five anti-anxiety pills. The script was for six. What good were six pills? He backed out and entered the living room.

He went to the drinks trolley. The whiskey bottle was three quarters full.

Was there an empty bottle somewhere? Looking through the cabinets, he found no more alcohol.

In the utility room he noticed two bins, one for rubbish, one for recycling.

Nothing of interest in either, the SOCO told him.

On the counter beside a basket of washed laundry there were two empty wine bottles.

No whiskey bottle. And he was informed that SOCOs hadn’t removed any bottles.

Had Denis lied? Possibly. But why? That was the question burning a hole in his brain as he looked around for Ann’s door keys. In the hall on a pottery dish he saw a single Toyota car key. She drove a Toyota. No house key. SOCOs had not come across it either.

There were too many things not making sense right now and he had few answers to his questions. The one thing he knew for sure was that last night Imelda Conroy had had Ann Wilson’s phone. She’d made a call to Lottie Parker. They needed to locate that phone.

He called the office and organised a young garda, dubbed a computer nerd, to do whatever he needed to do to find the phone. It might just lead him to the elusive Imelda Conroy, which in turn might give him the answers he craved.

Then again, Imelda had phoned Lottie, so maybe he should talk to the inspector again.

That thought did not fill him with the joys of life.