Page 156 of The Guilty Girl

‘Just drive the fucking car, Lynch.’

Lottie thought the phrase ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ didn’t appear to have been adopted by the neighbours. The Jones house stood out from the others as if it had been dropped from the sky and landed among ordinary residences. The tightly manicured lawn was bordered by a shingle driveway with a BMW SUV parked crossways in front of the steps. Lynch parked up behind it.

Palatial white pillars stood sentry at the red door, and the monstrous bay window to the right compounded the excessive grandeur. Lottie wondered if the interior decor was a match; if so, she’d need sunglasses to protect her vision when she went in.

‘Each to their own,’ Lynch said.

‘They can keep it.’ Lottie’s bones ached as she got out of the car. ‘Listen, if tea and biscuits are offered, we take hand and all. I’m bloody starving.’

‘Sure thing.’ Lynch looked puzzled. ‘Where’s the bell?’

‘Bang on the door.’

Lynch obliged. After thirty seconds, it opened.

‘What do you want now?’ Ivy Jones had a cupcake in one hand and a bottle of nail polish in the other. She wore a pair of white denim cut-offs and a long red shirt at least two sizes too big. Her feet were bare; only one had red polished toes.

‘We’d like a word.’ Lottie stepped in past the teenager. ‘This is some place.’

‘It’s gross,’ Ivy said, ‘but Mum loves it. Why are you barging in uninvited?’

‘We’d like to have a chat with you and your brother, with your parents present.’

‘We have nothing to say to you. Dad isn’t here. You should leave.’

‘You still have plenty to tell us, Ivy. And your brother is about to be charged with assault of a senior member of An Garda Síochána. We’ll wait here while you fetch your mother.’

‘Mum!’ Ivy stomped off, her bare feet flapping on the marble floor. She disappeared through the doorway at the end of the hall, banging it shut behind her.

‘She doesn’t seem too pleased to see us,’ Lynch said.

Lottie was staring at the floor. ‘Is this marble?’

‘Cold enough, anyway.’

Glancing around the hall, Lottie felt it exuded a faux-wealthy vibe. Were the Joneses trying to be something they were not? The wide staircase led up to a landing, or maybe she should call it a mezzanine. A crystal chandelier, which might even have been plastic, hung low, casting distorted rainbows on pink-wallpapered walls.

The door at the end of the hallway opened and a short woman with a plump smile walked towards them wiping her hands on a towel. She wore a pair of football shorts and a maroon jersey sporting a local club crest. Her feet were shod in a pair of UGG slippers.

‘Rita Jones, Inspector.’ Her hand was soft, still damp as she shook Lottie’s. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get to the station yesterday morning with Ivy. Couldn’t let the teams down. I’m a qualified referee, for my sins.’

‘Is there somewhere we can talk, Rita?’ Lottie was totally wrong-footed by this small, pleasant woman. ‘We’d like a word with Ivy and Oscar.’

‘What has he done this time? Come in here.’

She led them into the room with the obtrusive bay window. It had a clutter of furniture and a marble-tiled floor.

‘I swear to God,’ she lifted a throw from the couch, folding it over her arm, ‘that boy will be the death of me. I do everything in my power to keep him on the straight and narrow, but I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, do I?’

Lottie was about to agree, but Rita was on a roll.

‘Isn’t it sad about poor Lucy? Ivy was joined to her at the hip. Awful tragedy. What is the world coming to? Sit down and I’ll make tea. Or would you like coffee? Jim, my husband, installed all the mod cons, but I say you can’t beat a kettle, a tea bag and a large mug.’

Sitting on one of the red leather chairs, Lottie felt exhausted by Rita’s chatter. If the tea was to be a drama, she’d do without.

‘We’re fine, thanks. Is your husband around?’

‘He was here earlier, but he’s gone to train the under sixteens hurling. We’re both sport mad. But our two … enough said.’