Page 37 of Her Last Walk Home

She made her way across to him and he handed her the device. Laura’s image, head and shoulders, depicted a beautiful young woman, eyes shining bright and hair swept seductively behind one ear, resting on a bare shoulder.

‘Right One Modelling,’ she read. ‘Is that local?’

‘Might just be a website.’

‘Someone took her photo. Someone posted it with her details. Someone has a base, even if it’s an attic or a shed. What else can you tell me about the site?’

McKeown left his iPad to one side and pulled his laptop towards him. ‘The photographer’s name and logo are imbedded on the bottom right of the photo. Greg Plunkett. It’s a relatively new modelling and photographic agency in town. It might be worth a shot. I’ll just check Facebook.’ He tapped away. ‘Shit. There’s a closed group here with Plunkett as administrator.’

‘And?’

After a few moments, he said, ‘It looks to me like some sort of escort agency.’

‘Really?’ Lottie racked her brain to figure if this was illegal or not. ‘Has this photographer got an address?’

‘He has an office in Barrack Lane.’ McKeown turned the laptop around so she could see the screen.

‘Send me the details. Boyd, you’re with me on this.’

‘Hey, I found it,’ McKeown said petulantly. ‘Shouldn’t I go?’

‘Don’t “hey” me, Detective McKeown,’ she said.

‘Apologies.’

‘You need to dig into this Greg Plunkett and find out if his modelling is a front for sex workers.’ She marched back to the front of the room. ‘Also, Garda Brennan is at Laura’s house. Join her there and as diplomatically as possible see if the mother knows about the modelling or if Laura was with an escort agency.’

He nodded, but his face told her it was the last place he wanted to be. Tough.

‘Kirby, go back to the building site and get more information on John Morgan. I can’t meet the super without something to tell her.’ She looked around. ‘You go too, Lei, and continue with the door-to-door and the site workers. Populate the board. I can’t be looking at empty spaces with the photos of two murdered people staring at me.’

‘Sure, boss,’ the two men said.

‘Anything from forensics? Those small footprints around Laura’s body?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Boyd said.

‘What about the dirt under her nails? Has the lab reported back?’

‘Not yet. It was only yesterday and?—’

‘Kirby, follow up with the lab, and SOCOs too. Boyd, are you ready? We’re going to grill this Greg Plunkett.’

33

He had shaved off his beard. The girl had seen him last night and he couldn’t risk being recognised by her the next time. He sat at the kitchen table and watched the young woman robotically serve up breakfast. She was too thin and fragile-looking, not that anyone would notice. She never went outside. Lack of vitamin D, maybe.

He felt as if something dreadful was about to happen. He used to regularly have feelings of foreboding, but it had been a long time since the darkness had fallen like a weight behind his eyes.

He slipped his phone out of his pocket and tapped the news app. He closed his eyes, hoping there wasn’t anything in the first few posts about the dead woman. When he opened them, he glanced at the headlines. She’d been demoted to the second level of interest. The first report was about the death at the Pine Grove housing development.

A tight grip of fear seized his chest and he struggled to breathe. Tapping into the story, he brought up the image of a house encircled with garda tape. Scrolling, he read quickly. The body had been found in a show home. A labourer from GCConstruction. No name yet. But he knew who it was. He’d known when he’d first heard reports yesterday.

He shut off the phone as the girl placed a plate in front of him.

The fried eggs had broken on the pan and looked like a flat, greasy omelette. He rarely showed aggression in the house, especially when he was due to work. But he couldn’t help himself. All the years of suppression, of bending toherwill, suddenly rose like a torrent, and he lashed out at the captive woman and screamed.

The strangled sound that came from his lips caused her to drop the spatula on the tiles she’d spent an hour scrubbing at six o’clock that morning. Grease splashed up on the cupboard doors and micro dots stained her legs. Hurriedly she picked up the offending article just as he lifted the plate of food and flung it at the wall behind her. She ducked automatically, though her reflexes of late had been slow. Too long cooped up in a small space. Too long with her mouth taped shut. Too long being forced to be subservient.

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