Page 94 of The Guilty Girl

‘You never know. Are we sure it’s Liz’s car?’

‘Yeah, even though the licence plates are scorched beyond recognition, it has to be hers. The chassis number will confirm it.’

‘Jake couldn’t have burned it. His body was found before the car was set ablaze. Another blind alley we’ve walked into. What am I missing here, Kirby?’

‘Motive?’

‘Exactly.’

‘With traffic and dash cams, I can work backwards from the time it was found to trace its movements.’

‘Work on it with McKeown.’

Kirby groaned and puffed out his cheeks, ready to launch into a criticism of his colleague.

She’d heard it all before. Holding up a hand to shush him, she said, ‘See what you can find out without killing each other. I’ve enough of that carry-on with my girls at home. But first we’re going to the boxing club. No better time to see what Jake got up to with Ragmullin Goldstars.’

The boxing club was located in what had once been a gym in the defunct squash club building.

Kirby strolled in her wake. ‘This place is in shocking condition.’

She scuffed her shoes through the weeds sprouting between the cracks on the pavement. ‘It could certainly do with an overhaul. I heard it’s earmarked for houses.’

‘It’s such a small site, but I suppose developers would have us living in matchboxes if they could make a quick euro. Heard they’re after the old army barracks too.’

Lottie stopped outside the door, noticing the cracked paint and the natural wood poking through. ‘I need you to concentrate.’

‘Sure, boss.’

Inside, she located the gym. The air was stale and smelled of sweat. The high, narrow windows allowed in little light, and fluorescent tubes hung from chains high overhead. The centre of the floor was taken up with a boxing ring, and three punchbags swung from hooks secured to the ceiling. A series of weights lined the floor to their right. A couple of lads sat on benches in a corner. A man in baggy grey tracksuit bottoms and a shiny blue basketball vest marched up and down in front of them, shouting.

‘Hello,’ Lottie said, flashing her ID. ‘Can I have a word?’

The youngsters seemed relieved as their tormentor turned to face her.

‘You’ve just ballsed up an intense training session.’

‘Sorry about that.’ She wasn’t. ‘What’s your name, sir?’

‘Barney Reynolds. I coach these wastes of space. How can I help you?’

He grabbed a towel from the bench, twisting it around his thick neck, his greying hair damp from perspiration. The muscles on his upper arms protruded like taut ropes. A crooked nose, obviously broken a number of times, accentuated a scar from his ear to his mouth. It gave him a perpetual unnatural smile.

‘Anywhere private we can talk?’ she asked.

Reynolds sighed. ‘The office. Follow me.’

The office turned out to be a room so small it must have been originally a cupboard.

‘It says inspector on your ID. What brings someone as important as yourself here?’ Reynolds’ voice was husky; probably a damaged larynx. She estimated he was in his fifties.

‘I’m enquiring about Jake Flood,’ she said, keeping it vague, and leaned against the only filing cabinet in the room.

‘Jake?’ Barney said, his face unmoving. ‘Haven’t seen him since Friday.’

‘What can you tell me about him?’ She wondered if he knew the boy was dead.

‘Jake is a talented kid. Likes to win. He’s not perfect, but he’s getting there. If only …’ He seemed to think better of what he was about to say and pressed his lips in a tight line.