Page 102 of The Guilty Girl

Scrolling again, he came to Hannah Byrne. He had her number saved under ‘Jasmine’, because of her delicate beauty. Should he call her? Would she even answer him? Could she be the person being questioned?

He needed to be one step ahead of the guards. His freedom depended on knowing everything relevant to the case. But he was at a disadvantage. He couldn’t talk to anyone without raising suspicion. In other words, if anyone talked, or the guards found what was buried as deep as the dark web, he was basically fucked.

He blew smoke rings into the sky. Maybe he should pretend to come clean. Try to secure immunity for himself if he became a witness. But he knew if he said anything, he wouldn’t live long enough to concoct evidence against anyone.

Lucy McAllister’s death was testament to how far some were prepared to go to protect themselves. And he was part of it.

As he watched the smoke ring dissolve, his phone rang.

When he saw the caller ID, he dropped the cigarette and nearly puked into the ashtray.

His past was catching up with him.

Yes, he was well and truly fucked.

48

The Brook Hotel apartment being used by the McAllisters had lost the neatness of the day before. The smell of fried food hung in the air and the table was littered with takeout boxes. Cardboard tubs of congealed rice with what looked like a chicken curry floating in a grease-topped sauce.

When Lottie arrived, Detective Maria Lynch informed her that Albert had left.

Mary McAllister indicated with a wave of her hand for Lottie to sit on a chair close to her. They were facing the window, which looked out over the playground in the town park.

‘Children playing on swings and slides,’ Mary said. ‘Their mothers engrossed in idle chit-chat. Little do they know the anguish and torment ahead of them.’ Her voice was a monotone, and Lottie wondered if she’d taken a sedative.

‘I’m so sorry this has happened to Lucy.’

‘I’m not talking about murder. I’m talking about the act of raising a child through their teenage years to adulthood.’ She whirled around so fast Lottie leaned back, expecting a blow. But it was as if Mary had punched her with two dark blue orbs. ‘Lucy was not an easy child.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been thinking all night. She changed after her tenth birthday. It was as if the terrible twos resumed at ten and carried on into the terrible teens. We fought and argued non-stop. She threw tantrums and I let myself down by shouting back at her, making her angrier. Now, when it’s too late, I regret all those times I lost control.’

‘Life is full of regrets. Don’t let this awful act tarnish the good times you had with your daughter.’

‘Don’t you see? That’s just it. I can’t think of many good times. We were on a collision course from the day she was born.’

‘Why was that?’

‘She never took to me. Refused my milk. I had to bottle-feed her when all my friends were breastfeeding theirs. When she took her first steps, she toddled to her dad, not me. When she started school, she wanted him to drive her, not me. It eased for a few years, but then after her tenth birthday it was a downward spiral between us. Albert could do no wrong and I could do no right.’

‘Girls and their daddies.’ Lottie tried a wry smile, recalling how her children had idolised Adam.

‘He bought her everything she coveted. As she grew older, toys became devices. The newest and most expensive on the market – iPads, phones, laptops. Lucy had the best of bloody everything. And she appreciated nothing. Albert still doted on her.’

Lottie saw the simmering resentment straining for release. Mary’s face was flushed, hands clenched so hard her knuckles turned white, but her eyes were dry. Was she jealous of Lucy stealing her husband’s attention? Or was it something more sinister?

‘I spoke to a few people,’ Lottie said, struggling to find words to calm the woman. ‘From what I can gather, they seem to think Lucy was a sad girl. Do you agree with that sentiment?’

‘Sad?’ Mary stared at her before turning away to resume her vigil at the window. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

Following her gaze, tracking the squealing kids in the playground, Lottie said, ‘I think what they meant was that she was hiding how she really felt.’

‘Don’t be fooled. I knew her better than anyone. Lucy was the consummate actress. She switched it on and off depending on whether she wanted to impress or ridicule. But she was my daughter. I loved her, and in her own awkward way she loved me too.’ Mary turned to look at Lottie. ‘This may seem odd to you, Inspector, but I’m going to miss the noise she carried with her through the house. The stomping of feet on the stairs, the tirades of abuse she hurled at me, the mugs she broke against the wall. I’d take all that in a heartbeat if I could have her back again.’

‘Why do you think she was so angry with you?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I truly don’t know.’