Page 118 of The Guilty Girl

‘Do you know anything about it?’ she said. ‘They aren’t giving much detail on the news.’

‘Not a thing. Really, that’s the truth.’ Fuck, he was sounding defensive.

‘You were there Friday night, same as I was,’ Richie said to no one in particular. ‘Must have happened later on.’

‘Yeah, I wanted to go over a few things with you. You know, for the interviews with the guards,’ Noel said, glancing towards Brontë, hoping Richie understood that he wanted to talk in private.

‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Brontë said. ‘You boys go ahead and talk. I’ve baby things to check out on Instagram.’

She whipped out her phone from the deep folds of her dress and made a show of scrolling. She had no intention of moving. Noel brought his mug to the sink and leaned close to Richie.

‘We need to talk,’ he whispered. Then, a little louder, ‘Thank you for the coffee, but I have to run. Give me a call.’ He turned to Bronte. ‘Good luck with the baby.’

As he made his escape, he felt the pair of them tracking him with their eyes. Escape? No, he had nowhere to escape to. He couldn’t outrun his conscience, and he’d been unable to discuss his dilemma with Richie. He had to talk to someone or he might end up jumping into the canal in the hope that the reeds would swiftly throttle the last breath of air out of his lungs.

He’d never be so lucky as to have a quick death.

He’d have to pay for his sins first.

56

Lottie’s phone pinged with a text from Boyd as she was climbing the stairs to the office. She’d left Kirby to settle Hannah in the interview room to await her mother’s arrival. She glanced around to make sure Superintendent Farrell wasn’t lurking before she read the message.

Boyd’s words were interesting, she thought as she pocketed the phone. Terry Starr had returned to Ireland, having spent less than a day in Malaga. Good to know, but why had he been in Spain in the first place? Had he known Lucy was dead when he left Ireland? If so, was there something about the girl’s murder that had caused him to flee? But then why had he come back?

She parked her questions and moved quickly to her office to examine Lucy’s phone. After a call to Mary McAllister, she stared at the selection of numbers she’d written down, crossing her fingers that one of them might unlock the phone. She didn’t want to waste time sending it upstairs to the tech team.

She had fetched a spare charger from lost and found, and with the phone plugged in, she thought her luck might be changing for the better when the second combination worked: Albert’s date of birth – month and year. Feeling pumped, she began.

A multitude of apps appeared on the home screen, but she went directly to the photograph icon and tapped it open. The series of selfies confirmed, as Lynch had discovered, Lucy’s obsession with herself. Pouted lips. Demure eyes, shaded by false lashes. Hand on chin. Hand holding hair high above her head. Lucy and Ivy, cheek to cheek. Their hands raised in peace signs above their heads. Two pretty girls. They seemed to be joined at the hip.

She scanned a selection of selfies taken at the fateful party. Was there a time in the day when either of the girls appeared without make-up? It felt like such hard work. Lottie herself struggled to find time to shower and brush her teeth in the mornings, never mind lash on foundation.

Concentrating on the job at hand, she scrolled backwards.

The photos taken before the most recent batch of selfies caused her breath to stall in her throat. She could make out the edge of a door jamb. The photos appeared to have been snapped though a gap in the partially open door. All were of Hannah Byrne. Dressed in jeans and sweater. Undressed. Knickers and bra. Simple mismatched underwear. Lottie doubted Lucy and Ivy would ever commit such a fashion misstep, and she admired Hannah for seemingly disregarding conformity, though she reckoned the girl would never have been able to afford the luxurious underwear evident in some of the photos of the other two girls.

It was clear that Hannah had been getting ready for the party in the guest bedroom situated between Lucy’s room and the room where her body was discovered. Scrutinising each photograph, Lottie shifted on the chair, becoming more uncomfortable as she scrolled through the images. They constituted unadulterated voyeurism. All taken on Lucy’s phone; all taken without Hannah’s knowledge. Had they been snapped for mischief or malice?

She tugged at her ear, as if it could help her see what she was missing. Why had Lucy shared Hannah’s image? Opening WhatsApp, she found twelve groups. Lucy was a busy girl. She’d sent the most revealing photo of Hannah, the one Cormac had shown her, to eleven of the groups. The names in each group would have to be cross-referenced.

It was easy to see how, in a state of excitement at shaming Hannah, she had not thought to exclude her prey. What could she gain by sending out the image? Notoriety? Attention? Hannah’s humiliation and isolation? Lottie had a feeling something much more ominous was at play. And why had Lucy listed Hannah in one of her WhatsApp groups if she wasn’t a friend?

Glaring at the offending photo, Lottie was filled with mortification and shame for Hannah, who had been exposed in such a manner. Then rage set in. The photo showed Hannah staring in the mirror trying unsuccessfully to pout, one hand holding her hair in a haphazard topknot. She had removed her bra and discarded it on the bed behind her. Her body was lean and athletic, but her chest was almost flat. Was this what Lucy had hoped to ridicule her for?

There was a time when Lottie couldn’t imagine why a seventeen-year-old girl would do such a thing to another person, but over the years, experience had broadened her imagination to the point where very little shocked her. That was too sad.

The only WhatsApp group that hadn’t been sent the image consisted of Lucy’s parents. She’d titled the group ‘The Olds’.

Kirby walked into the office, jacket draped over his arm, shirt unbuttoned at his collar, tie askew. ‘Some dope has the heating on in the building. What is the point?’

‘I wondered why it was so warm.’

‘We freeze our balls off during the worst of the winter weather, and when the sun shows half its face, the heat comes on miraculously.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Sorry, boss. I don’t mean you have balls … Oh, you know what I mean.’