‘We’re engaged to be married, Superin— Deborah.’ Gosh, it felt awkward addressing her boss informally. ‘I don’t wear an engagement ring. It doesn’t seem appropriate, you know, being a widow and all.’ Why was she making excuses? ‘Boyd was diagnosed with leukaemia last December. His treatment has taken a lot out of him, but the latest results are showing improvement.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Farrell ran a hand along her chin, almost manly.
‘He has responded well to treatment. According to his oncologist, that’s as good as they’d hoped for at this stage.’
‘I heard his mother died recently.’ Farrell leaned her head towards Lottie, dropped her hand from her chin, both elbows on the desk,
‘Yes,’ Lottie said. ‘She was buried yesterday.’
‘How has that affected him?’
Fiddling with the cuffs of her scruffy T-shirt, Lottie wondered about all the questions. Farrell’s voice was soft and soothing. A great tone for extracting information from witnesses and suspects alike. Which category did Lottie fall into? Why was she even here, answering questions about Boyd? Farrell could bring him in and grill him if she felt the need.
‘Honestly, he’s fine.’ She shifted uneasily.
‘Do you think he’s up to a return to work?’ Farrell persisted.
Damn, Lottie thought. Now she was being put in an awkward position. Boyd had mentioned in passing that he’d asked his consultant about returning to work part-time, but she hadn’t really been listening. She thought it’d be good for his emotional and mental state do be doing something meaningful again, but was he physically up to it? How would it affect her team? Maria Lynch was back from maternity leave and Sam McKeown had not been reassigned to Athlone yet. She didn’t want to upset the equilibrium. But also, she couldn’t watch Boyd struggle. The chemotherapy had caused some side effects. How to be diplomatic? she wondered.
‘I think it’s a matter for his doctors,’ she said eventually, worrying a hole in her thin cotton sleeve. Farrell’s eyes were like a pair of bullets bearing down on her.
‘Mmm. I wanted an insider’s knowledge, but I see you don’t want to betray an emotional interest. I get that, and—’
‘No, it’s not that at all,’ Lottie blurted. ‘I actually want to leave personal issues aside and look at this professionally.’
‘I’m beginning to doubt that.’ Farrell’s friendly demeanour fell away and her mouth flatlined.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Lottie said.
‘I don’t think it’s going to work.’
‘What’s not going to work?’ She was floundering now, hands on the desk, almost pleading, because she knew exactly what was going to come out of Farrell’s mouth next.
‘You working with Detective Sergeant Boyd. I’m trying to give you an out here, but you’re not grasping it at all.’
Lottie shook her head. Had she missed something in the conversation?
‘I’m not sure I follow you, Superintendent,’ she said, dropping the Deborah shite.
‘I thought you were cleverer than that. You disappoint me.’
‘You’d better explain what you mean,’ Lottie said defiantly.
Farrell picked up the tie from the desk and slid it under her shirt collar. With deft fingers she had it knotted and in place in four seconds flat, effectively shrinking her neck. ‘You can tell me Boyd isn’t ready to return to work, even part-time; if not, either you or he will have to be transferred to another district. Emotions can’t come into this job. What’s it to be?’
Resisting the temptation to tell Farrell that her epaulette was undone, Lottie stood and slid the chair under the desk. She wasn’t about to fall into the baited trap. ‘I believe it’s a matter for you to decide.’ With her hands resting on the padded back, trying to still her jittery fingers, she added, ‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all.’
Escaping out the door, she leaned against the wall. She closed her eyes and waited until her breathing returned to normal.
‘You okay, boss?’ Kirby waddled towards her.
‘What are you doing up here?’ she said.
‘The super asked to see the report on the drone body.’
‘What’s a drone body?’
‘Shit, sorry. Forgot you didn’t know about it. Will I fill you in before I talk to …?’ He nodded towards the door.
Lottie gripped his elbow and steered him back down the corridor.
‘Yes, you damn well better fill me in.’
Eight
Kevin O’Keeffe’s first self-imposed duty of the day was to remove the recyclable materials and trash from the utility room and bring it to the wheelie bins outside. He attacked this daily chore with gusto.
With his hands sheathed in disposable gloves, he lifted the lid off the first bin and pulled out the clear plastic bag. He punched the side of it lightly, twisting it around in his hand as he peered through the clear plastic. It looked okay. Food remnants wrapped haphazardly in newspaper. The waste management company had yet to provide brown bins for food waste, and much as it pained him to have to do it, he went out the back door and deposited the bag in the black rubbish bin. The smell of bleach erupted when he lifted the lid. He kept his bins clean, hosing them inside and out after each collection.
Next he opened the small indoor recycling bin. It was empty. That was odd. Surely there should be cardboard, food cartons and plastic wrapping from vegetable trays? What was Marianne up to now?
Back out in the morning sunshine, he opened the blue bin lid, smelling the bleach again. There on the bottom was the bag he had expected to find inside. As he brought it back in with him, he noticed something leaking, trailing brown liquid behind his footsteps. Upending the bag, he spilled the contents on the kitchen floor. Among the shredded papers and flattened boxes, he found the offending article. A Coke can, not properly drained, though in fairness it had been scrunched up.
‘Marianne!’ he bellowed.
‘In here.’ Her voice drifted from the living room, where she had set up a little office for herself.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ He held up the can.
Sitting at her desk, she glanced over her shoulder. The sun streaming through the window highlighted her brown hair. It looked shinier than normal. He wondered if she’d had it dyed without asking him first.
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’ She gave him that half-smile, the one where he never knew whether she was mocking him or admiring him.
Slamming the can on top of the paper she’d been working on, he swivelled her chair around so he stood behind her and laid his gloved hand on the nape of her neck. Just the barest of touches, but he felt her shy away, bending her head, moving out of his reach. He pinched her skin tighter, snagging the short hairs at the base of her neck.
‘I do the recycling, not you, and this is why.’ He nudged the dripping can.
‘Kevin, don’t be ridiculous. The bag was full, so I put it out.’
He felt the heat flush up his neck and flare on his ears like sunburn. He balled his hands into fists, his skin sweating beneath the synthetic gloves. Her voice grated on his nerves. It sounded like an out-of-tune piano. High-pitched. Unnatural. Whiny.