Susan Sullivan was on her way to meet the one person she was most scared of.
A walk, yes, a walk would do her good. Out into the daylight, away from the suffocation of her house, away from her own tumbling thoughts. She pushed in her iPod earphones, pulled on a dark woolly hat, tightened her brown tweed coat and faced into the biting snow.
Her mind raced. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t distract herself, couldn’t escape the nightmare of her past; it haunted every waking minute of her day and invaded her night like a bat, black and swift, making her ill. She had tried to make contact with a detective in Ragmullin Garda Station, but had received no reply. It would have been her safety net. More than anything she wanted to learn the truth and when she had exhausted all the usual channels she decided to go it alone. Perhaps it would help exorcise the demons. She shivered. Walking faster, slipping and sliding, not caring any more; she had to know. It was time.
With her head bent low into the breeze, she trudged through the town as quickly as the frozen footpaths would allow. She looked up at the twin spires of the cathedral as she entered through the wrought iron gates and automatically blessed herself. Someone had thrown handfuls of salt on the concrete steps and it crunched beneath her boots. The snow eased and a low wintery sun glinted from behind dark clouds. She pushed open the large door, stamped her numb feet on the rubber mat and, as the echo of the closing door muted, she stepped into the silence.
Removing the earphones, she left them dangling on her shoulders. Though she had walked for half an hour, she was freezing. The east wind had cut through the layers of clothing and her scant body fat could not protect her fifty-one-year-old bones. Rubbing her face, she streaked a finger around her sunken eyes and blinked away the water streaming from them. She tried to refocus in the semi-darkness. Candles on the side altar illuminated shadows along the mosaic walls. Weak sunlight petered through the stained glass windows high above the Stations of the Cross and Susan walked slowly through the sepia haze, sniffing the aroma of incense in the air.
Bowing her head, she sidled into the front row, the wooden kneeler jolting her joints. She blessed herself again, wondering how she still had a modicum of religion after all she had done, all she’d been through. Feeling alone in the silence, she thought how ironic it was that he had suggested meeting in the cathedral. She had agreed because she believed there would be plenty of people around at that time of day. Safe. But it was empty, the weather had kept them away.
A door opened and closed, sending a whoosh of wind up the centre aisle. Susan knew it was him. Fear numbed her. She couldn’t look around. Instead, she stared straight ahead at the candle above the tabernacle until it blurred.
Footsteps, slow and determined, echoed up the aisle. The seat behind her creaked as he knelt. A fog of cold air swarmed around her, and his distinctive scent vied with the incense. She raised herself from her kneeling position and sat back. His breath, short sharp puffs, the only sound she could hear. She felt him without him having touched her. At once, she knew this was a mistake. He was not here to answer her questions. He would not give her the closure she craved.
‘You should have minded your own business.’ His voice, a harsh whisper.
She could not answer. Her breathing quickened and her heart thumped against her ribs, reverberating in her eardrums. She clenched her fingers into fists, knuckles white underneath thin skin. She wanted to run, to get away, far away, but her energy was spent and she knew it was now her time.
Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes and his hand closed around her throat, gloved fingers tracking a line up and down her loose flesh. Her hands flew up to grab at his but he swatted her away. His fingers found the iPod cable and she felt him twisting it, curling it about her neck. She smelled his sour aftershave and she became totally aware then that she would die without ever knowing the truth.
She squirmed on the hard wooden seat and tried to pull away, her hands tearing feverishly at his gloved fingers, only succeeding in causing the cable to cut tighter into her skin. Attempting to gulp breaths, she found she couldn’t. Warm liquid burned between her legs as she wet herself. He pulled tighter. Weakened, she dropped her arms. He was too strong.
As her life choked away beneath the tightness, in a strange way she welcomed the physical pain over the anguished years of mental affliction. Descending darkness extinguished the flame on the candle as his hand jerked once, then twice, and her body slackened and all fear eased from her being.
Within those last moments of torment she allowed the shadows to lead her to a place of light and comfort, to a peace she had never experienced with the living. Tiny stars pinpricked her eyes before blackness washed in a wave through her dying body.
The cathedral bells chimed twelve times. The man released the pressure and pushed her body to the ground.
Another blast of freezing air travelled up the centre aisle as he left with speed and in silence.
‘Thirteen,’ said Detective Inspector Lottie Parker.
‘Twelve,’ said Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd.
‘No, there are thirteen. See the bottle of vodka behind the Jack Daniel’s? It’s in the wrong place.’
She counted things. A fetish, Boyd called it. Boredom, Lottie called it. But she knew it was a throwback to her childhood. Unable to cope with a trauma in her early life, she had resorted to counting as a distraction from things and situations she couldn’t understand. Though now, it had just become a habit.
‘You need glasses,’ said Boyd.
‘Thirty-four,’ said Lottie. ‘Bottom shelf.’
‘I give up,’ said Boyd.
‘Loser,’ she laughed.
They were sitting at the counter in Danny’s Bar among the small lunchtime crowd. She felt little warmth as the coal fire roared up the wide chimney behind them, taking most of the heat with it. The chef stood at the carvery stirring a thick skin off the top of the gravy in a tray beside his Special of the Day – wizened roast beef. Lottie had ordered chicken in ciabatta. Boyd had copied her. A slight Italian girl lounged with her back to them, watching bread brown in a small toaster.
‘They must be plucking the chickens the time these sandwiches are taking,’ said Boyd.
‘You’re putting me off my food,’ said Lottie
‘If you had any food to be put off,’ said Boyd.
Forgotten Christmas decorations twinkled along the top of the bar. A poster, Sellotaped to the wall, advertised the weekend’s band, Aftermath. Lottie had heard her sixteen-year-old daughter, Chloe, mention them. A large ornate mirror proclaimed in white chalk last night’s special deal – three shots for ten euro.
‘I’d give ten euro for just one, this minute,’ said Lottie.
Before Boyd could respond, Lottie’s phone vibrated on the counter. Superintendent Corrigan’s name flashed on the incoming call.
‘Trouble,’ Lottie said.
The little Italian girl turned round with chicken ciabattas.
Lottie and Boyd were already gone.
‘Who could want this woman dead?’ Superintendent Myles Corrigan asked the detectives standing outside the cathedral.
Obviously someone did, Lottie thought, though she knew well enough not to utter this observation aloud. She was tired. Perpetually tired. She hated the cold weather. It made her lethargic. She needed a holiday. Impossible. She was broke. God, but she hated Christmas, and hated the gloomy aftermath even more.
She and Boyd, still hungry, had rushed to the crime scene at Ragmullin’s magnificent 1930s cathedral. Superintendent Corrigan briefed them on the icy steps. The station had received a call – a body had been discovered in the cathedral. He immediately swept into action-man mode organising the crime scene cordons. If it proved to be a murder, Lottie knew she was going to have trouble extricating him from the case. As detective inspector for the town of Ragmullin, she should be in charge, not Corrigan. For now, though, she needed to put station politics aside and see what they were dealing with on the ground.
Her superintendent spouted instructions. She scrunched her shoulder-length hair into the hood of her jacket and zipped it up without enthusiasm. She eyed Mark Boyd over Corrigan’s shoulder, caught him smirking and ignored him. She hoped it wasn’t a murder. Probably a homeless person with hypothermia. It had been so cold recently she didn’t doubt for a minute that some unfortunate had succumbed to the elements. She had noticed the cardboard boxes and rolled-up sleeping bags hugging the corners of shop door nooks.
Corrigan finished speaking, a sign for them to get to work.
Having navigated her way through the gardaí activity at the front door, Lottie strode through the secondary cordon set up in the centre aisle. She ducked under the tape and approached the body. A gaseous smell came from the tweed-coated woman wedged between the front row kneeler and the seat. She noticed an earphone cable round the neck and a mini lake of liquid pooled on the floor.
Lottie felt the urge to put a blanket over the body. For Christ’s sake, this is a woman, she wanted to shout, not an object. Who is she? Why was she here? Who would miss her? She resisted leaning over and closing the staring eyes. Not her job.
Standing in the chilly cathedral, now bathed in bright lights, she ignored Corrigan and made the necessary calls to get the experts on site immediately. She secured the inner area for the Scene of Crime Officers.
‘State pathologist’s on her way,’ said Corrigan. ‘Should only take her thirty minutes or so, depending on the roads. We’ll see how she calls it.’
Lottie glanced over at him. He was relishing the prospect of getting stuck into a murder case. She imagined his brain conjuring up a speech for the inevitable press conference. But this was her investigation, he shouldn’t even be part of her crime scene.
Behind the altar rails, Garda Gillian O’Donoghue stood beside a priest who had his arm around the shoulders of a visibly shaking woman. Lottie made her way through the brass gates and approached them.
‘Good afternoon. I’m Detective Inspector Lottie Parker. I need to ask you a few questions.’
The woman whimpered.
‘Do you have to do it now?’ the priest asked.
Lottie thought he might be slightly younger than her. She’d be forty-four next June and she would put him in his late thirties. He looked every inch a priest in his black trousers and his woolly sweater over a shirt with a stiff white collar.
‘I won’t take long,’ she said. ‘This is the best time for me to ask the questions, when things are fresh in your minds.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But we’ve had a terrible shock, so I’m not sure you’ll learn anything worthwhile.’
He stood up, extending his hand. ‘Father Joe Burke. And this is Mrs Gavin who cleans the cathedral.’
The firmness of his handshake surprised her. She felt the warmth of his hand in her own. He was tall. She added that to her initial appraisal. His eyes, a deep blue, sparkled with the reflection of the burning candles.
‘Mrs Gavin found the body,’ he said.
Lottie flipped open the notebook she’d extracted from the inside of her jacket. She usually used her phone but in this holy place it didn’t seem appropriate to whip it out. The cleaner looked up and began to wail.
‘Shush, shush.’ Father Burke comforted her as if she was a child. He sat down and gently rubbed Mrs Gavin’s shoulder. ‘This nice detective only wants you to explain what happened.’
Nice? Lottie thought. That’s one word she’d never use to describe herself. She eased into the seat in front of the pair and twisted round as much as her padded jacket allowed. Her jeans were eating into her waist. Jesus, she thought, I’ll have to cut out the junk food.
When the cleaner looked up, Lottie surmised that she was aged about sixty. Her face was white with shock, enhancing every line and crevice.
‘Mrs Gavin, can you recount everything from the moment you entered the cathedral today, please?’
Simple enough question, thought Lottie. Not for Mrs Gavin, who greeted the request with a cry.
Lottie noticed Father Burke’s look of sympathy, which seemed to say – I pity you trying to get anything out of Mrs Gavin today. But as if to prove them both wrong the distraught woman began to speak, her voice low and quivering.
‘I came on duty at twelve to clean up after ten o’clock Mass. Normally I start at the side,’ she said, pointing to her right, ‘but I thought I saw a coat on the floor at the front of the middle aisle. So, I say to myself, I better get cracking over there first. That’s when I knew it wasn’t just a coat. Oh Holy Mother of God . . .’
She blessed herself three times and attempted to stem her tears with a crumpled tissue. The Holy Mother of God wasn’t going to help any of them now, thought Lottie.
‘Did you touch the body?’
‘God no. No!’ said Mrs Gavin. ‘Her eyes were open and that . . . that thing around her neck. I’ve seen corpses before but I never seen one like that. By Jesus, sorry Father, I knew it was a dead person.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I screamed. Dropped my mop and bucket and ran for the sacristy. Collided head first with Father Burke here.’
‘I heard the scream and rushed out to see what was going on,’ he said.
‘Did either of you see anyone else around?’
‘Not a soul,’ said Father Burke.
Fresh tears escaped down Mrs Gavin’s cheeks.
‘I can see you’re very upset,’ Lottie said. ‘Garda O’Donoghue will take your details and arrange for you to get home. We’ll be in touch with you later. Try to get some rest.’
‘I’ll look after her, Inspector,’ Father Burke said.
‘I need to talk to you now.’
‘I live in the priest’s house behind the cathedral. You can get me there any time.’
The cleaner leaned her head into his shoulder.
‘I ought to go with Mrs Gavin,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ Lottie relented, seeing the distraught woman ageing by the second. ‘I’ll be in touch later.’
Father Burke nodded and, supporting Mrs Gavin by the arm, he led her across the marbled floor toward a door behind the altar. O’Donoghue followed them out.
A gust of cold air breezed into the cathedral as the Scene of Crime Officers arrived. Superintendent Corrigan rushed to greet them. Jim McGlynn, head of the SOCO team, offered him a precursory handshake, ignored small talk and immediately began directing his people.
Lottie watched them working for a few minutes, then walked around the pew, as close to the body as McGlynn would allow.
‘Appears to be a middle-aged woman. Wrapped up well for the weather,’ Lottie said to Boyd, who was standing at her shoulder like a persistent mole. She moved back toward the altar rails, partly to view from a good vantage point, mainly to put distance between her and Boyd.
‘Hypothermia’s not an issue here so,’ he said, stating the obvious to no one in particular.
Lottie shivered as the serenity of the cathedral was decimated by the heightened activity. She continued observing the work of the technical team.
‘This cathedral is our worst nightmare,’ said Jim McGlynn. ‘God himself knows how many people frequent here every day, each leaving a piece of themselves behind.’
‘The killer picked his location well,’ Superintendent Corrigan said. No one answered him.
The sound of high heels clipping up the main aisle caused Lottie to look up. The small woman rushing toward them was dwarfed in a black Puffa jacket. She jangled car keys in her hand and then, as if remembering where she was, dropped them into the black leather handbag on her arm. She shook hands with the superintendent as he introduced himself.
‘State pathologist, Jane Dore.’ Her tone was sharp and professional.
‘You’re acquainted with Detective Inspector Lottie Parker?’ Corrigan said.
‘Yes. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ The pathologist directed her words to Lottie. ‘I’m anxious to get the autopsy underway. As soon as I can declare this one way or the other, the sooner you can officially spring into action.’
Lottie was impressed with the way the woman handled Corrigan, putting him in his place before he could start a sermon. Jane Dore was no more than five foot two, and looked tiny beside Lottie, who stood without heels at five eight. Today Lottie wore a pair of comfortable Uggs, jeans tucked untidily inside them.
After donning gloves, a white Teflon boiler suit and covering her shoes, the pathologist proceeded to carry out the preliminary examination of the body. She worked her fingers under the woman’s neck, examining the cable embedded in her throat, lifting her head and concentrating the examination on the eyes, mouth and head. The SOCOs turned the body on to its side and a stench rose in the air. Lottie realised the pool congealed on the floor was urine and excrement. The victim had soiled herself in the last seconds of her life.
‘Any idea on time of death?’ Lottie asked.
‘My initial observation would indicate she died within the last two hours. Once I complete the autopsy, I’ll confirm that.’ Jane Dore peeled the latex gloves from her petite hands. ‘Jim, when you finish up, the body can be removed to Tullamore mortuary.’
Not for the first time Lottie wished the Health Services Executive hadn’t relocated the mortuary services to Tullamore Hospital, half an hour’s drive away. Another nail in Ragmullin’s coffin.
‘As soon as you can declare the cause of death, please inform me immediately,’ Corrigan said.
Lottie tried not to roll her eyes. It was obvious to everyone that the victim had been strangled. The pathologist only had to officially class the death as murder. There was no way this woman had accidently or otherwise strangled herself.
Jane Dore dumped her Teflon garments into a paper bag and, as promptly as she had arrived, she left the scene, the echo of her high heels reverberating in her wake.
‘I’m heading back to the office,’ Corrigan said. ‘Inspector Parker, get your incident team set up immediately.’ He marched down the marble floor behind the departing pathologist.
The SOCO team spent another hour around the victim before expanding their area of operation outwards. The corpse was placed into a body bag, zipped up and lifted on to a waiting gurney, with as much dignity as could be attached to a large rubber bag. The wooden door creaked as they exited. The ambulance blasted out its sirens, unnecessarily, as its patient was dead and in no hurry to go anywhere.
Lottie pulled up the hood of her jacket and clasped it to her ears. She stood on the snow-covered cathedral steps, leaving behind the hum of activity. Every nook would be searched and every inch of marble inspected.
She breathed in the cool air and peered skywards. The first flakes of a snow flurry settled on her nose, and melted. The large midland town of Ragmullin lay still beyond the wrought iron gates now swathed with blue and white crime scene tape. Like herself, the once thriving factory town struggled to awake each day. Its inhabitants muddled through the daylight hours until darkness sheathed their windows and they could rest until the next mundane day dawned. Lottie liked the anonymity it offered, but was also aware that her town, like many others, had its share of secrets buried deep.
The life in Ragmullin appeared to have died with the economy. Young people were fleeing to Australian and Canadian shores to join those lucky enough to have escaped already. Parents bemoaned the fact of not having enough money for daily essentials, not to mention an iPhone for Christmas. Well, Christmas was over for another year, thought Lottie, and good riddance.
The drone of the ring-road traffic seemed to shake the ground, though it was two kilometres away, which denied retailers a passing trade. She looked up at the trees labouring under the weight of snow-filled branches and scanned the grounds in front of her, knowing instinctively they wouldn’t find any evidence. The earth was frozen and the soft snow hardened as quickly as it fell. The morning Mass-goers’ footprints were encased under another layer of snow and ice. Gardaí, clutching long-handled tongs, scoured the grounds for clues. She wished them luck.
‘Fourteen,’ said Boyd.
The smoke from his freshly lit cigarette clouded around Lottie as he invaded her space. Again. She stepped away. He moved into the spot she’d vacated, his sleeve brushing against hers. Boyd was tall and lean. A hungry-looking man, her mother once said, turning up her nose. His brown, hazel-flecked eyes lit up an interesting face, strong and clear skinned, with ears that stuck out a little. His short hair was greying quickly. He was forty-five and dressed in a spotless white shirt and grey suit beneath his heavy hooded jacket.
‘Fourteen what?’ she asked.
‘Stations of the Cross,’ Boyd said. ‘I thought you might have counted them, so I got in before you.’
‘Get a life,’ Lottie said.
There was a history between them and she cringed at her drunken memory, distilled with the passage of time but still present on the periphery of her consciousness. Other things had come between them too – she got the inspector job that Boyd had sought. It didn’t bother him most of the time but she knew he’d relish the chance to lead this investigation. Tough shit, Boyd. She was delighted with the promotion because it meant she didn’t have to commute the sixty kilometres to Athlone each day. The years she’d been based there had been a nuisance; though she wasn’t sure if being back working with Boyd in Ragmullin was more of a nuisance. But on the plus side, it meant she was no longer dependent on her interfering mother to check in on the children.
Boyd childishly blew smoke rings into the air and she turned away from the smile curving under his inquisitive nose.
‘You started it,’ he said. With one final pull on his cigarette he went down the steps and headed for the Garda Station across the road.
Lottie smiled despite herself and walking carefully, so as not to fall on her arse in front of half the force, she took off after the long lanky Boyd.
A few people were queuing in the reception area. As the duty sergeant tried to keep order, Lottie skipped by and hurried up the stairs to the office.
The phones were ringing loudly. Who said good news travels fast? What about bad news? Travels at the speed of light.
Sniffing the stale office air, she glanced around. Her desk was a shambles, Boyd’s as neat as a TV chef’s kitchen. Not an ounce of flour anywhere, well, not a file or a pen out of place. Clear signs of OCD.
‘Neat freak,’ Lottie muttered under her breath.
Because of the on-going renovations, she shared an office with three other detectives – Mark Boyd, Maria Lynch and Larry Kirby. Landlines, mobile phones, photocopier, clanking oil heaters and the trooping through of every guard who needed to use the toilets gave the room an air of chaos. She missed her own space where the silence allowed her to think. The sooner the work on the station was finished the better.
At least the place was buzzing, she thought as she sat down at her desk. It was as if the events in the cathedral had stripped away layers of fatigue and boredom, revealing men and women ready for action. Good.
‘Find out who she is,’ Lottie instructed Boyd.
‘The vic?’
‘No, the Pope. Yes, the victim.’ She hated when he used CSI language.
Boyd smiled to himself. She knew he was gaining the upper hand.
‘I suppose you already know who she is.’ She moved files from one side of her desk to the other, looking for her keyboard.
‘Susan Sullivan. Aged fifty-one. Single. Lives alone in Parkgreen. Ten-minute drive from here, depending on traffic, about a half-hour walk. Worked in the county council for the last two years. Planning department. Senior Executive Officer, whatever that means. Transferred here from Dublin.’
‘How did you find out so quickly?’
‘McGlynn discovered her name Tippexed on the back of her iPod.’
‘So?’
‘I googled her. Got information on the council website and checked the Register of Electors for her address.’
‘Was she carrying a mobile phone?’ Lottie continued searching her desk. She could do with a map and a compass to find things.
‘No,’ Boyd said.
‘Send Kirby and Lynch to search her home. One of our first priorities is to find her phone and anyone who can verify her movements today.’ She discovered her wifi keyboard on top of the bin at her feet.
‘Right,’ he said.
‘Any next of kin?’
‘Doesn’t appear to be married. I’ll have to dig further to find out if she has living parents or any other family.’
She logged on to her computer. While she felt excited, Lottie silently cursed all the activity the investigation would generate. They had plenty of work to keep them busy – court cases dragging on, a traveller feud – and New Year’s Eve tomorrow would bring its usual late night trouble.
She thought of her family. Her three teenagers, home alone. Again. Maybe she should ring them to make sure they were okay. Shit, she needed to do grocery shopping and noted it in her phone app. She was starving. Rummaging in her overflowing drawer, she found a packet of out-of-date biscuits and offered them to Boyd. He refused her offer. She munched a biscuit and typed up her initial interview with Mrs Gavin and Father Burke.
‘Do you have to eat with your mouth open?’ Boyd asked.
‘Boyd?’ Lottie said.
‘What?’
‘Shut up!’
She stuffed another biscuit into her mouth and chewed loudly.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Boyd said.
‘Inspector Parker! My office.’
Lottie involuntarily jumped at the sound of Superintendent Corrigan’s thunderous voice. Even Boyd looked up when the door banged, rattling the lid on the photocopier.
‘What the hell . . . ?’
Straightening her top, she pulled a sleeve over her thermal vest cuff and banished biscuit crumbs from her jeans. She flicked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear and followed her boss through an obstacle course of ladders and paint cans. Health and Safety would have a field day, but really there was little complaint. Anything was better than the old offices.
She closed the door behind her. His office was the first to be renovated; she smelled the newness of the furniture and the whiff of fresh paint.
‘Sit,’ he commanded.
She did.
Lottie looked at fifty-something-year-old Corrigan sitting behind his desk, stroking his whiskey nose. The paunch of his belly pressed into the timber. She remembered a time when he was trim and fit, bombarding everyone with healthy living ideas. That was before real life had overtaken him. He bent to sign a form and she saw her reflection on his domed head.
‘What’s going on out there?’ he barked, looking up.
You’re the boss, you should know, Lottie thought, wondering if the man knew how to talk in a normal tone. Maybe loudness came with the job.
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
She wished she was still wearing her jacket so as to bury her chin deep into its padding.
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ he mimicked. ‘You and bloody Boyd. Can you not be civil to each other for five minutes? This case will soon be officially a murder investigation and you two are snapping at each other like feckin’ five year olds.’
You haven’t heard the half of it. Lottie wondered if Corrigan would be shocked if he knew the truth.
‘I thought we were being very civil to each other.’
‘Bury the proverbial hatchet and get on with the job. What have we got so far?’
‘We’ve established the victim’s name, address and place of work. We’re trying to find out if she has any next of kin,’ Lottie said.
‘And?’
‘She works with the county council. Detectives Kirby and Lynch are cordoning off her house until the SOCOs get there.’
He continued to look at her.
She sighed.
‘That’s it, sir. When I organise the incident room, I’ll head down to the council offices to try to paint a picture of the victim.’
‘I don’t want any feckin’ painted pictures,’ he roared. ‘I want this solved. Quickly. I’ve to do an interview in an hour with Cathal feckin’ Moroney, from RTE Television. And you want to paint a feckin’ picture!’
Returning Corrigan’s glare, Lottie masked her true emotions with an impassive glaze, an expression she’d mastered after twenty-four years in the force.
‘Set up an incident room, establish your team, assign someone to the Jobs Book and email me the details. Call a team conference early tomorrow and I’ll attend.’
‘Six o’clock in the morning?’
He nodded. ‘And when you learn anything, let me know first. Go on, Inspector, get cracking.’
She did.
An hour later Lottie was satisfied everyone knew what they had to do. The foot soldiers commenced door-to-door enquiries. Progress. Time to find out more about Susan Sullivan.
She escaped into the pelting snow.
The county council administration offices, housed in a new state of the art building in the centre of Ragmullin, were a five-minute walk from the station. Today, it took Lottie ten minutes on the icy footpaths.
She surveyed the large glass construction. It was like a monster aquarium with a shoal of fish inside. Glancing up at the three floors, she could see people sitting at their de
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
