Page 77 of Hidden Daughters

‘You the police again?’

‘Erm, I am, but?—’

‘Told the last lot and I’ll tell you the same. He’s not here. Been gone years. No point in asking me again. I can’t change what’s true.’

‘Okay, Mrs…?’

‘If you’re police, you will know I’ve never been married. Gave my life to God’s work. I’d like you to leave and not to be disturbing me again.’ She made to shut over the door. Lottie put out a hand.

‘I apologise. I’d like to talk to you. I’m Detective Inspector Lottie Parker, but I’m here on holidays, so I’m off duty. A friend asked me to look up Robert Hayes.’ No harm in bending the truth a little.

‘What friend would that be? Another cop?’

Lottie figured the woman watched too many US crime shows, but she was sharp. ‘Would you mind if I came in? I could do with a glass of water. It’s so hot outside.’

The woman laughed. ‘Do you think I came down in the last shower? I’m not falling for that old trick. Say what you’ve come to say, then leave me in peace.’

‘First off, I’d like to know your name.’

‘Brigid Kelly. What do you want from me?’

‘I want to know where I can find Robert.’

‘Father Robert, you mean?’

That threw Lottie. Kirby’s missing man was a priest? Why hadn’t Mooney told her? Shit. ‘Erm, yes, Father Robert.’

‘He hasn’t been around in a long, long time. Father Phillip Lyons is here now. But he’s been in Lourdes the last few days. What else do you want to know?’

Lottie still felt like she’d been smacked. Robert Hayes was a priest. Or used to be one. Jesus. ‘When did Robert leave the priesthood?’

The woman wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘He didn’t leave. The bishop kicked him to kingdom come. And good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say. I reckon he must have dirtied his bib again, otherwise I wouldn’t have the guards calling to me after all this time, would I?’

‘What did he do?’

‘You are a nosy one.’ The woman shielded her eyes and appraised Lottie. Seemingly not finding any threat – or maybe she felt sorry for her – she said, ‘Come in. I didn’t tell the others much, because they seemed satisfied with the little I gave them. But I kind of like the look of you. You’re smart. Come on. We can go to the kitchen if you don’t mind watching me peel a few spuds.’

‘I can help, if you’d like?’

‘I’d like that very much.’ The woman held up her curved hands. ‘Arthritis is a curse.’

49

The kitchen was smaller than Lottie had been expecting. She had an image in her mind of what a priest’s housekeeper’s domain might look like. This tiny cramped room didn’t cut it. It smelled of lemon, which she figured was used to dampen down unpleasant odours.

She wondered how many kitchens she’d been in over the course of her career. Too many. Delivering bad news. Interviewing family members. Arresting suspects. Interfering in people’s privacy, their past, their future. Upending everyday lives. Part of the job. But today she wasn’t on the job, and she felt a slight tinge of guilt for disturbing the arthritic housekeeper.

‘I’ve been keeping house for priests for nigh on… well over thirty-five years. I worked in another parish before here. I know I must look eighty to a young one like you, but I’m in my sixties, as far as I know.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘I’ve had a hard life. And my arthritis is chronic.’ Brigid thrust a small black-handled knife towards Lottie. ‘This here is the knife I use for peeling the spuds. I can’t manage those scraper yokes. Not that I can manage this too well either.’

Lottie took the knife and squeezed her way towards the work counter in silence. A red plastic basin with a few small potatoessat in the sink. A saucepan on the draining board held two already peeled potatoes. She was stunned to think Brigid might only be in her sixties. The woman had the body and demeanour of a much older woman. A hard life did that? Or a cruel one? She summoned up her voice. ‘How many more will I peel?’

‘Whatever fits in that pot. Only myself here for dinner today. Father Lyons is home tomorrow.’

‘Take a seat, Brigid, and when I’ve these finished, I’ll make you a cuppa.’

‘I’m not an invalid, you know.’

‘I know, but there’s not much room for the two of us to stand here.’

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