Page 17 of Three Widows

While he fumbled for the phone in his pocket, she opened the pantry cupboard. Only non-perishable foodstuffs. Apart from the garden, the place was like a show home.

‘It’s not for sale that I can see,’ Boyd said. ‘We need to talk to the neighbours. They might know where she’s gone and when she left.’

‘Any clothes in the wardrobes? Cosmetics in the bathroom?’

‘Some.’

She ran upstairs to see for herself.

The wardrobes held an eclectic mix of clothing. High-end fashion, to complement the style of the house. It was obvious that Jennifer would not be seen out in a sale dress three sizes too big. Something was off. There was no way of knowing if a handbag or shoes were missing. Or what Jennifer was wearing when she left, and whether she was indeed their murdered woman.

She noticed a range of expensive branded cosmetics on the dresser. The bathroom had deeply coloured wall tiles depicting a jungle scene. The taps on the shower and sink were black chrome. Pristine. In the cabinet, she made no significant discovery. Paracetamol and some sort of herbal anti-anxiety pills. Toothpaste and a battery-operated branded toothbrush. Smile Brighter. Wherever she was now, Jennifer either had a spare toothbrush with her or she’d left without one.

After a quick knock on the neighbours’ doors, they met back at the car. It was really a job for uniforms, but Lottie needed to know one way or the other, and quickly, if Jennifer O’Loughlin could be the dead woman.

‘Anything?’ she asked Boyd.

He switched on the engine. ‘Not many people at home this time of day. Those I did speak to hadn’t seen her around for a few weeks. No one could pinpoint exactly when they last saw her. It appears she told no one that she intended to head off. Not that anyone chatted with her much. How did you get on?’

‘The only noteworthy thing I learned is that she’s a widow. Her husband died two years ago. One neighbour told me that Jennifer had the house completely refurbished just a month after his death.’

‘That seems a bit quick.’

‘Grief affects everyone differently.’ She knew how Adam’s death had affected her, and felt an affinity with Jennifer.

‘What age was the husband when he died?’

Lottie checked her sparse notes. ‘According to one neighbour, Damien O’Loughlin was around thirty-five years old when he died from oesophageal cancer.’

‘Do you think this O’Loughlin woman is our victim?’

She scrunched up her eyes against the sun, squinting at the empty house. ‘It’s possible. But if so, where has she been for the last month?’

‘Good question,’ Boyd said.

‘And why was her back door left unlocked?’ Her phone vibrated in her bag. ‘What’s up, Lynch?’

‘Our victim is definitely Jennifer O’Loughlin. Frankie Bardon just emailed over her photograph from her personnel file. Hair colour’s different, but there’s no doubt she’s our dead woman.’

‘See what you can find out about her and her husband, Damien. He died two years ago.’ She hung up and looked at Boyd. ‘We need to get SOCOs out here.’

‘You could have thanked Lynch.’

‘Are you saying I’ve an attitude problem?’

‘No, but you need to hone your people skills.’

‘Why don’t you hone your fuck-off skills?’ She folded her arms in a huff.

10

At thirty-three years of age, it wasn’t the first time Helena McCaul had woken up disorientated on a floor. She glanced through splayed fingers to get her bearings before sitting up. She was in her son’s room. Panic gripped her chest and squeezed like a vice.

As she pulled herself onto her knees, she spied the vodka bottle, and the reality of her situation came swirling back to her like an unstoppable tornado. Exhaling, she picked up the bottle and shoved it behind the Winnie-the-Pooh bear on top of the wardrobe.

She’d had a bad nightmare, recalled the harsh breathing in her ear. Had she taken vodka on top of everything else? She checked the bottle again. Three quarters full. That meant a quarter was gone. Maybe that was from another night. Her memory failed her. At least she was relatively okay. She needed to wash the stale, sweaty smell from her body and brush her teeth for at least five minutes.

Under the cold jet of water, she shuddered. She turned the switch around to full heat and waited for the stream to dispel her goosebumps. A memory flooded to the surface of her mind. Had she been that drunk that she’d hallucinated someone grabbing her, choking her, blocking her airway with a hand? Her mother, Kathleen, was forever telling her she had an active imagination, that she was delusional. Maybe it was true.