Page 5 of Three Widows

What was it? Something yellow with black on top? It looked like material. He blew more smoke from his nostrils. A hacking cough squeezed his chest. Two crows rose from the yellow mound and circled before flying off.

Graham stubbed out his cigarette and stared. The air was still, the only sound the hum of traffic out on the dual carriageway and the whirr of the hydraulic lift at Bay 13.

‘Dammit,’ he muttered, and lifted his leg over the thin wire fence.

Underfoot the ground was soft, and tyre tracks from the carnival vehicles had left ruts an inch deep in places. Rain had been incessant for the duration of the carnival, and though the weather was fine at the moment, the clouds bulged ominously.

As he neared the object of his interest, another crow swooped low, cawing loudly. He shooed it off by waving his hands. The closer he got, the more laboured his breathing became, and he felt a finger of fear track a line down the nape of his neck. It couldn’t be, could it? No. He wanted to turn and run back to his lorry, drive home to Dublin and leap into bed beside his girlfriend. Maybe the heat from her body would dispel the ice-cold fear that nestled at the base of his skull, causing the hair to stand up on his neck.

His hand was reaching for his phone in his back pocket as he came to a halt. Long red hair fanned out around her porcelain face, which he could see had been damaged badly. The birds? Her arms and legs were at awkward angles, as if she’d fallen from a height. He couldn’t see any blood, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been spilled. He just wasn’t close enough, but still he felt too close for comfort. Young. Around his own age maybe? Graham was twenty-seven, and this unfortunate creature looked no older than that. But he’d heard that death returned your youth.

The yellow he’d seen from the cab of his lorry was her light cotton dress. Thin straps, halfway down her arms. Her feet were bare. Dirty, as if she’d run through mud. Or been dragged? Then he saw the small round hole in the side of her temple.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ he muttered, and hit 999 into his phone, his trembling sweaty fingers sticking to the screen.

‘Hello? Yes. The name is Graham Ward. I found a dead woman. I think she was shot.’

The clouds opened, and rain spilled from the sky in big fat drops.

4

Lottie Parker woke at five a.m. After a quick shower, she dressed, wondering what the weather would be like. She glanced out the window. It looked like rain, so she pulled on a pair of ankle boots, just in case she had to hit a muddy crime scene. Best to be prepared for the worst.

Her mother, Rose, was in the kitchen.

‘Mother! What are you doing up at this hour?’

‘I put in a wash. I know how busy you are.’

‘I did the laundry last night.’

‘I had to do my own sheets. They should be finished by now.’

Lottie watched her mother ambling over to the machine, taking out a sheet, duvet cover and pillow cases. Sopping wet. She’d used the wrong setting. Now Lottie would have to put them through a long spin.

‘I’ll finish them off,’ she said tetchily.

‘I know how to wash a few sheets!’

‘Why don’t you make a pot of tea? I’ll put them in the dryer.’

‘I’m able to hang them on the line, missy.’

Lottie hated being called missy. ‘Fine.’

She couldn’t mask the annoyance in her tone, because she was bloody well annoyed. It was 5.30 in the morning – her me time – and she hated confrontation, especially this early.

‘If you want to do it that badly, you can.’ Rose dropped the basket.

As Lottie picked it up, she realised there was no fresh smell. ‘Did you put in detergent?’

‘Oh, so now you think I’m stupid as well as losing my mind. Give it here.’ Rose snatched the basket and marched out the back door.

Snapping on the kettle, Lottie leaned her head against the wall cupboard. She couldn’t figure out if her mother’s mind had deteriorated further, or if it was her own lack of patience that fuelled the tension between them. Whatever it was, work could only be better than conflict at home.

Abandoning the idea of making coffee, she swiped up her bag and phoned Boyd on her way out the door.

She sat with Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd in the car outside Millie’s garage. The windows were fogging up as the rain began to beat mercilessly down. So much for the washing her mother had hung on the line.