Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller

by Patricia Gibney

  In a zipped pocket she found a single lipstick, the only cosmetic in the bag. Ruby Passion. This, above everything else, filled her with an intense sense of sadness for the young woman. It would never again be hurriedly swiped across pale lips to add a spring of colour.

  Calling over a SOCO, she asked for all the contents to be bagged as soon as possible, then she scanned the kitchen, taking note of the landline phone on the wall beside the refrigerator. She made a mental note to check the call data with the provider. It was then that she realised she’d seen no sign of Isabel’s phone in her bag, her bedroom or anywhere else. No laptop or computer had been found yet either.

  Outside, she pulled down her hood and shook out her hair. She whipped off the mask and gulped air, unsure how long it would take to rid her lungs of the putrid scent of death.

  Boyd was comforting Anita, the victim’s mother, who was now sitting in the passenger seat of his car, door open, still refusing to leave the scene. Her bare feet were clad in paper booties, her shoes taken away for inspection. Her stylish black leather jacket was unzipped, and the cool breeze fluttered her white cotton blouse. She wore deep blue denim jeans. Late fifties, Lottie thought, and admired the woman’s style. Her own mother wore polyester trousers and knitted jumpers. But at the same time she had to acknowledge that Rose, in her seventies, with short silver hair, carried off her own look.

  As an ambulance with paramedics stood idle, Lottie noticed that the baby was wrapped in a multitude of coats Boyd had gathered from the assembled squad cars. Beneath those, she was clothed in a white forensic suit, the legs dangling downwards. Her clothes had been taken for analysis. Jesus, Lottie thought, I hope the killer didn’t touch her. She was sleeping soundly in her grandmother’s arms. Anita’s clothes would have to be analysed for transference too.

  ‘Take them to the station, Boyd. Get Anita a cup of tea and I’ll appoint a family liaison officer.’

  Anita’s eyes widened like saucers and she climbed out of the car.

  ‘No! I can’t leave my Isabel all alone in that awful house.’ She buried her face in the child’s curls. ‘Have you contacted Jack, her husband? He was at work. Quality Electrical, just outside Ragmullin. He’s an electrician. Oh God, I should have called him. I wasn’t thinking straight,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ve sent for him. He should be here soon.’ She’d sent Detectives Kirby and McKeown to the Quality Electrical premises to bring Jack Gallagher home.

  Anita held the baby tighter. ‘Holly comes with me. God knows what state Jack will be in. I can keep her calm and let him deal with his grief. Please.’

  A wood pigeon cooed in the uppermost branches of the trees that edged the garden, adding an eerie tone to the small gathering.

  Lottie said, ‘It’s okay, Anita, I’ll be here with Isabel. You go with Detective Sergeant Boyd.’ She turned to him. ‘Find someone who can make up a bottle for the baby. And get a paediatrician to look her over.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Anita’s voice trembled, and more tears dragged mascara down her ashen cheeks. She leaned against the car door.

  Lottie put out a hand to support the distraught woman. ‘You need to be strong, for yourself and your granddaughter. Holly, did you say?’

  ‘Yes. Image of my Isabel. She was born on Christmas Day. Isabel wanted to call her Noelle, but Jack insisted on Holly. Truth is, she was so happy the child was healthy, she’d have agreed to any name. She’d had a difficult nine months. Constantly ill. She lost a stone in weight. Poor pet. And now she’s … gone.’

  Anita Boland swayed, and Boyd held her securely, his arm around her shoulders. Lottie’s heart bled for her, thinking of the days and weeks ahead she’d have to endure. Finding her daughter’s body was just the beginning of the trauma.

  As Boyd eased the devastated woman to the car, he looked over his shoulder at Lottie, his eyes telling her he’d got this.

  Once they’d driven off, she walked around the bungalow. It was situated on an isolated piece of land around eight kilometres from Ragmullin, the nearest neighbour over half a kilometre away. It seemed to be an older house in the process of being renovated. The outline of an extension was marked out on the ground to the rear. A cement mixer, unopened bags of cement and a dome of sand stood to one side, and the path around the house was unfinished. Had they run out of money, or changed their plans? A ten-year-old black Volkswagen Golf was parked further down. The drone of a tractor spreading slurry hugged the sky in the distance. She could smell it hanging in the air.

  From the back door she watched the SOCOs working. There was no sign of forced entry and she had no idea if anything was missing from the house, but Isabel’s husband would know more.

  She checked her notes and saw that Jack Gallagher’s boss had confirmed he had arrived at Quality Electrical, on the outskirts of town, at 7.10 a.m. It was now 10.10. Anita Boland had found her daughter’s body and the crying baby just before nine o’clock, when she’d called round to care for baby Holly. Isabel had a 10.15 doctor’s appointment in Ragmullin and Anita said she’d arrived early to allow her daughter time to get ready. Isabel had phoned her last night and again at around seven that morning to remind her. Lottie realised she should have asked Anita if her daughter possessed a mobile phone. She’d ask the husband when he arrived.

  With no obvious sign of a break-in, she thought the door was most likely left unlocked as Isabel was expecting her mother’s arrival. Multiple stab wounds. The baby, unharmed. Someone she knew?

  Lottie made to return inside, but looked up quickly when she heard the screech of brakes on the road and the shift of gravel as a car drew up out front. She hurried around the side of the house, bracing herself to meet the grieving husband.

  5

  Joyce had just sent a quick text and turned so quickly when she heard the sound at the top of the stairs that she tripped over her pyjama leg and fell backwards, hitting the side of her head against the corner of the radiator.

  ‘Mummy. Are you okay?’

  The little boy rushed down the stairs, his pyjamas half on, half off. He insisted on dressing himself each morning and he was getting better at it, but being only four, he never quite managed.

  ‘Oh Evan, silly Mummy slipped on the floor.’ She hauled herself upright and picked up her son, bear-hugging him. ‘Breakfast first, then I’ll find your clothes for today.’

  ‘Blood, yuck.’

  She noticed the blood on his fingers as he drew away from her. Shit, she’d cut her forehead. There was a red streak on the corner of the hall radiator.

  In the kitchen, she fetched the cereal box and let him tip it into his bowl. She poured the milk herself. Enough mess to cope with for one morning.

  She chewed on the edge of a piece of toast she’d popped out of the toaster before it was hardly warm. Decisions. She swallowed without tasting and searched the laundry basket for a clean work apron. No. Not today. She threw it back into the pile and walked around the table.

  Her son was spooning milky Coco Pops into his mouth while humming to himself, oblivious to her turmoil. The envelope with the blade burned a hole in her fleece pocket. The warning terrified her. But it also strengthened her resolve. She’d have to leave.

  ‘Honey, eat up. I’m dropping you early to day care. I don’t want to be late for work. Okay?’ It was a few hours before she was due at the café, but she needed time to think.

  ‘Okay.’

  Rushing him caused him to upend the bowl. Chocolatey milk swam down his chin and onto his white vest.

  ‘Sorry, Mummy.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get your T-shirt.’ She found a clean but creased top. Only the collar would be seen under his sweatshirt. It would do.

  ‘Is Daddy coming home soon?’

  ‘Sure he is, sweetie.’ She pulled off his soiled vest and tugged the clean T-shirt over his head, then rooted around in the basket for his sweatshirt. Dirty.

  ‘Mum, it’s yucky.’

  ‘It’s fine for today. Trust me.�
�

  ‘Okay.’

  She feathered his hair with a kiss and hugged him tightly. ‘Go watch telly while I get dressed.’

  ‘Sure.’ He sounded a whole lot older than his years.

  Upstairs, she pulled a suitcase out of the closet. Throwing it on the bed, she unzipped it. What could she take? Where would she go? No, this was ridiculous. She needed to think clearly. First she had to drop Evan off.

  She ran a hand through her hair and it came away with a smear of blood. Her damn forehead. In the bathroom, she washed the cut, found a plaster and stuck it on. After brushing her teeth she ran a comb through her long black hair and wondered if she should dye it.

  And what would she tell Nathan? Could she leave without telling him what was going on? He wasn’t due home until later that evening from his driving job on the continent. Why was she so worried? Did she even trust him? After the envelope with the blades this morning, she knew the answer to that question. Joyce trusted no one.

  She pulled on jeans and a black shirt, glancing out the window. What was she looking for? She hardly knew her neighbours on the small estate. Wouldn’t recognise an unusual car. Wouldn’t know if someone was out of place. Someone who might be watching her. Shivering, she picked up her fleece and zipped it on. The envelope in the pocket made her skin crawl. Still, she had to keep it close, a reminder of the danger she and Evan were in.

  What next? First she had to drop off her son. He’d be safe at day care. Lots of little boys and girls to keep him occupied there while she decided what to do.

  Downstairs, she went into the sitting room.

  ‘Ready, sweetheart?’ She waved his jacket.

  Evan wasn’t watching cartoons. He was making a jigsaw puzzle in the corner by the bookcase. Good Morning Ireland was showing the news behind him, the sound low. Crime-scene tape fluttered at the end of a narrow road. Joyce couldn’t hear what the blonde presenter was saying. As she moved towards her son, a road sign flashed up on the screen: Cloughton 1 km.

  She looked around for the remote to turn up the sound.

  The reporter was standing by the crime-scene tape surrounded by shrubs and bushes. ‘Gardaí have yet to confirm the exact nature of their investigation, but a spokesperson told me that a female has been the victim of a serious assault. Locals say that a married couple, Isabel and Jack Gallagher, reside at the property, which is situated up along this road behind me. The house is subject to intense garda activity. More once we have it. Back to you in the studio.’

  Joyce was rooted to the spot.

  She knew why she’d received the envelope with the razor blade.

  She knew who lived in Cloughton.

  And she knew she was next.

  6

  Kirby and McKeown exited the car.

  ‘Where is he? Jack Gallagher?’ Lottie said.

  ‘He was on a job, fifteen kilometres from here,’ Kirby said. ‘We got his phone number from his boss, Michael Costello. I told him to head home. He’s on his way.’

  ‘Does he know? About his wife?’

  Kirby shrugged. ‘I informed him it was in connection with a break-in, but I’m afraid the media scrum at the end of the road will have broadcast the news by now. He might hear it on his van radio.’

  ‘Shit,’ Lottie said.

  ‘He should be here any minute,’ McKeown said. ‘Uniforms have his licence plate number and they’ll wave him straight through without interference from the media.’

  ‘Wait here for him. Inform me the instant he arrives. And don’t let him into the house.’ She looked over Kirby’s shoulder as another car arrived.

  Out stepped Jane Dore, the state pathologist, dressed in a navy trouser suit, a teal blouse adding a splash of colour. She joined Lottie and suited up in the tent that had been erected at the back door. Another tent was being assembled at the front door, and crime-scene tape delineated inner and outer cordons around the property.

  ‘Isabel Gallagher, aged twenty-nine,’ Lottie informed the diminutive pathologist. ‘Multiple stab wounds to her back. McGlynn’s waiting for you before he turns the body over.’

  ‘I heard her baby was in the room with her,’ Jane said as she fastened her mask and covered her hair with her hood.

  ‘She was found in her cot by her grandmother, who was first on the scene. Baby appears to be unharmed. That’s what we know so far.’

  ‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Jane said.

  Lottie led her inside.

  In the bedroom, Jane greeted the SOCO team leader and assessed the scene. ‘Have you moved her at all, Jim?’

  ‘Just to confirm death.’

  ‘Has a doctor been in attendance?’

  ‘Paramedics were first to arrive,’ Lottie said. ‘They knew straight away that the woman was dead, and the victim’s mother, a nurse, had checked for a pulse.’

  As Jane moved across the steel plates on the parquet floor, the room fell silent. No cameras whirring. Not a breath. Only the swish of the pathologist’s forensic suit.

  Lottie watched as Jane hunkered down and laid a hand softly on the neck of the dead woman.

  ‘I can’t give an accurate indication of time of death yet, but I’d say she’s been dead no longer than four hours, possibly only three. I’ll know more when I examine the body.’

  It was now eleven o’clock. Lottie said, ‘I’ve yet to interview the husband, Jack Gallagher, but it’s been confirmed that he arrived at work at ten past seven this morning. Isabel must have been killed shortly after he left home.’ Anita had found her around nine, which meant she’d died between seven and nine. Hopefully Jane could pin down the time of death more accurately later on.

  Jane said, ‘You can turn her over, Jim.’

  Gently McGlynn eased Isabel’s body onto her side and then onto her back.

  Seeing the woman’s face for the first time, Lottie gasped. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Haematoma, centre of the forehead,’ Jane said.

  ‘Attacked straight on.’ Lottie shook her head. ‘She saw her attacker.’

  Isabel Gallagher was thin-framed. Her arms, which had been beneath her body, were bony, with what looked like recent bruising. She was a small woman, maybe five two or three. Definitely no match for any sort of assailant, especially one wielding a knife and a heavy object.

  ‘A deep indentation to the throat,’ Jane continued. ‘Possibly the source of the majority of the blood loss. I’d estimate this quickly followed the head injury. The wounds on her back may have occurred post mortem.’ She lifted the pyjama top, and Lottie saw two more wounds sliced into the woman’s torso, along with considerable bruising.

  ‘Those bruises could have been from a struggle,’ she said.

  ‘Or the result of lividity. She died where she fell.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Off the record I’d say she was attacked front on, fell, throat cut, flesh sliced, and then flipped over onto her front and stabbed in the back. I need to open her up to tell you anything further.’ Jane glanced at McGlynn. ‘It’s okay to move her to the mortuary once you finish gathering what you can from on or around the body.’ She stood and inclined her head. ‘This is sick.’

  ‘I know,’ Lottie replied.

  ‘Just a minute.’ Jane crouched down again. ‘Tweezers, Jim.’

  Lottie watched as the pathologist peeled back two of the dead woman’s fingers and extracted an object with the steel tweezers. ‘What is it?’

  ‘An old-fashioned razor blade,’ Jane said.

  Jim held out an evidence bag and the pathologist dropped the blade inside.

  ‘Why had she got that in her hand?’ Lottie said, bewildered.

  Jane shrugged. ‘I’ll schedule the post-mortem immediately. We have to find the bastard who did this.’

  Lottie was shocked at the vehemence in her tone. The pathologist was usually professional, distant even, but something about a mother being killed in front of her baby had rattled her.

  Outside, a guttura
l scream broke through the stillness of the house.

  Jack Gallagher was home.

  7

  The navy blue van was parked haphazardly just inside the gate, driver’s door open. Restrained by Kirby and McKeown, Jack Gallagher twisted and turned, his face distorted, eyes wide, mouth gaping. His dark hair flopped about his ears and stuck to his forehead with the perspiration from his exertions.

  He was taller and broader than his wedding photograph suggested. Muscles strained under the cotton of his navy work shirt.

  ‘Let me through,’ he yelled, high-pitched, maniacal. ‘This is my house. My wife and daughter, are they still in there? Someone tell me the truth before I punch my way through.’

  Lottie faced him, shivering from the palpable energy of his anxiety. She hated this part of the job, but she was also angry. It was obvious Gallagher had heard something about his wife’s death. She’d wanted to keep it from him until the last minute in order to gauge his reaction. Too late now. She’d have to change direction.

  ‘Mr Gallagher. Jack. I’m Detective Inspector Lottie Parker. I’m the senior investigating officer. Please try to be calm.’

  ‘What happened?’ His body slumped and the two detectives relaxed their hold on his arms but stayed close to him.

  Lottie straightened her shoulders, on high alert in case he broke free and made a dash into the house. The old adage that it was usually the husband who did it flashed across her mind. She did not want him compromising any evidence they might later find.

  ‘Take a few seconds to catch your breath, and I’ll fill you in,’ she said.

  ‘Is Holly okay? They said Isabel’s dead.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘The vultures down the road. Tell me they’re lying.’