Page 152 of Hidden Daughters

She had to keep him talking. She needed Bryan to move away. But he seemed to be stuck in a stupefied state. A knot of doubt twisted in her gut. Had Mooney got this all wrong?

‘Then I am sorry for your loss,’ she said.

‘You don’t sound like you mean it.’

‘I do. I met and talked with Ann. She was a lovely woman, but she was damaged.’

‘What do you mean? There was nothing wrong with her.’

‘You spent a lifetime controlling her,’ Lottie said, ‘but was she really the best person for you by your side going forward?’ She hated belittling Ann, but she had to poke for a reaction.

‘You are out of line,’ Wilson said, looking around. Was he searching for a way out of the conversation or a way out of the yard?

Just you wait and see how far out of line I can go, she thought.

‘That may be so,’ she said, ‘but I think you are obsessed with your image. And maybe Ann was not the most suitable person to be a parliamentarian’s wife. She was beautiful, but she was nothing more than a dressmaker. Wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny at Dublin Castle tea parties, would she?’

Bryan, move, she silently implored, but he kept his head lowered, immobile.

‘I will have you dismissed from the force.’ Wilson’s face turned puce. Not a pretty sight. It matched his stupid cravat.

‘Others before you have tried,’ she said with half a laugh, ‘so I wish you luck with that.’

This incensed him. She could see him working to keep his temper in check. The air seemed to drop low around them, shrouding them from reality.

‘Are you purposely trying to get fired?’ he said.

‘No, I’m trying to help you own up to your actions.’

‘Are you mad?’ he spluttered. ‘You are a spiteful bitch, that’s what you are. You can’t bear to see anyone do well for themselves.’

‘Mr Wilson, I don’t know you, so I have no personal grudge against you. But I don’t like people who get others blamed for their actions.’ Time to end this charade. ‘Do you know a man called Robert Hayes?’

His face paled. Good. She appeared to have wrong-footed him. His confused expression was fleeting before he righted it.

‘I’ve heard of him. He was a local priest out Moycullen way,’ he said. ‘Got kicked out of the clergy. Rumour had it that he interfered with children.’

‘I can’t say if that was true or not, but I’m referring to incidents much further back. The Sisters of Forgiveness,’ she said. ‘The convent laundry. Knockraw industrial school. Now do you know Robert Hayes?’

He leaned his head to one side, appraised her with a quizzical gleam in his eye. ‘I really think you have lost the plot.’

His grip on Bryan must have loosened, because the farmer suddenly twisted and with an extended arm landed a punch to the councillor’s stomach. Wilson bent over in two before regaining his equilibrium. Bryan caught hold of his shirt collar and tugged him backwards. The shirt ripped, came away in his hand. Wilson turned around, sparring with his fists, and knocked Bryan to the ground.

Lottie stood open-mouthed, staring at the burn scars streaking across the skin on the councillor’s back. Bad burns. Deep and old. Decades old.

She shook herself out of her stupor and leaped forward, grappling with him, but she had no cuffs to restrain him, no weapon to impair him. He flung her off, then turned, spittle dripping from his lips.

‘You are one fucking bitch,’ he snarled, curving his hand into a fist, ready to make contact with her face.

She heard footsteps rush around the side of the house as she prepared to fend him off.

Mooney grabbed Wilson’s arm and twisted it up his back.

‘I’ve been dying to do this for a long, long time,Councillor.You are under arrest for the murders of Assumpta Feeney, Mickey Fox, Brigid Kelly and Ann Wilson.’

87

Grace dressed Bryan’s head wound with a handful of plasters while Lottie made a fresh pot of tea. Boyd stayed with Sergio in the living room. Wilson had been taken away in a squad car. Mooney remained to tell her some of what he had read in Assumpta’s notebooks. When she had the teapot and cups on the table, Grace took over and Lottie and Mooney went outside.

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