Page 15 of The Guilty Girl

‘I’ll get on to it once I can get away.’

Lottie didn’t relish the task of setting up interviews with hung-over teens accompanied by their parents or guardians, but it had to be done. ‘Tell me more about the woman who found the body.’

Lynch checked her notebook. ‘She’d already been escorted home when I arrived. Sarah Robson. She’s a cleaner. Don’t know much more than what uniforms got from her initial interview.’

‘I’ll need to have a word with her.’

‘The medic advised her to take a Valium.’

‘Okay.’ Lottie was thinking she could do with a Valium herself right about now. ‘I’ll interview her later. Hopefully she’ll be fit enough to answer more detailed questions then.’

‘I’ll ask Garda Brennan to locate Ivy Jones for an interview. Ivy is Lucy’s best friend.’

‘Great, I’ll begin with her then. You start with the laptop.’

Lynch looked around anxiously. ‘When will reinforcements arrive?’

‘When indeed?’ Lottie said.

A long day beckoned.

11

Ivy Jones came to the station voluntarily, accompanied by Garda Martina Brennan. Garda Brennan had collected her from her home following Lottie’s call. Ivy’s mother, Rita Jones, consented to her daughter being interviewed without her presence, saying she was sorry but she had to referee an under-twelves camogie match. It was the county final and she just couldn’t skip it, even though she was horrified by what had happened to Lucy. Her husband was working all weekend, preparing a presentation for a work conference.

The girl trembled uncontrollably. Garda Brennan fetched her a cup of sweet tea while they waited for Lottie to get settled.

Ivy never uttered a word, just continued to shiver.

‘Garda Brennan can get you a soft drink if you don’t like the tea,’ Lottie said.

Shaking her head, Ivy picked at the pink polish on her long nails and kept her head studiously downward, her bunched-up dark hair flopping to one side. The girl was pretty in an understated way and it was obvious she’d worn heavy make-up the night before. There were still traces of eyeliner around her eyes and she’d missed cleansing the foundation from around her ears. Fake tan streaked her arms, her white T-shirt similarly stained. She wore blue skinny jeans and white running shoes.

‘I know this must be difficult for you, Ivy, but I need you to tell me everything you can remember about last night.’

‘I … I don’t remember much. I had a lot to drink. Don’t tell my mum that.’ She shook so much her untidy hair fell from its moorings and settled around her shoulders.

‘For Lucy’s sake, you have to try to remember. Think of her poor parents.’ Lottie could have sworn Ivy snorted, or maybe she was just swallowing a sob. Whatever it was, it put Lottie on alert. ‘Do you not like the McAllisters?’

A shoulder shrug. ‘They’re adults, and I don’t much like anyone older than me, including my own parents. Sorry, shouldn’t have said that. TMI.’

Too much information, Lottie thought. Instead of delving into that relationship, she decided time was of the essence. She needed pertinent facts. ‘Tell me what you do remember.’

Another shrug. Lottie stemmed an urge to put her hands out and hold the girl still.

‘It was good,’ Ivy said. ‘The party, like. Everyone was there. Well, everyone who mattered to Lucy. But there were a few I wouldn’t have invited and then there were the ones who just turned up.’

‘Who might they be?’

‘Does it even matter now? Lucy is gone. She’s … was my best friend.’ Loud sobs crowded the airless interview room.

Handing over a box of Lidl tissues, Lottie waited impatiently, her foot tapping the floor, her knee beating off the underside of the table.

‘How long have you been friends with Lucy?’

Ivy dabbed her eyes and blew her nose, then balled up the tissue and left it on the table before pulling another from the box.

‘Since junior infants. We were in the same class the whole way through … hic … primary school. We took the same subjects in secondary. We’ve just … hic … finished our Leaving Cert exams and Lucy decided to throw a party to celebrate, and …’ Another balled tissue rolled onto the table.