Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller

by Patricia Gibney

  Lottie didn’t know why his words ‘little wife’ made her cringe, but they did. ‘Her name was Isabel.’

  ‘Of course.’ He scrunched his eyes, and his hair moved at his ears. ‘Tragic.’

  ‘I was told she worked here at one time. Did you know her personally?’

  ‘God, not personally. She was an employee for a while, a few years ago now. I have a very large staff all over the country, Inspector.’

  ‘Right. Did you know her family – her mother, say?’ They’d be close enough in age, she thought.

  He bit the side of his cheek. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Anita Boland.’

  ‘Let me see.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘She might be a customer. Has she renovated her house?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Had you any interactions with Isabel in recent times?’

  ‘I met her when she was debating over kitchen taps. I advised her to get the single-handed nickel-plated faucet. Tried to get her to go for the Quooker, but she said it was too expensive and they’d a lot more to do with the house and were saving.’

  ‘It must have been an unusual conversation for you to remember it so clearly.’

  ‘I remember the sales I lose.’

  ‘It seems odd to me, Mr Lennon, that as the head of this successful company you would be on the shop floor selling kitchen taps.’

  He laughed. ‘I like to know what’s going on, then I can make executive decisions on customers’ needs. I try to get around most of my stores at least once a month. Keeps the staff on their toes, too.’

  ‘Did Isabel pay cash for the taps she settled on?’

  ‘Charged them to their account, I imagine.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw either of the Gallaghers?’

  ‘Couldn’t rightly say, but Jack got a few bags of cement around Christmas, I think it was. I can check the account and email it on to you, if it’s okay with him. I wouldn’t like to go behind his back.’

  ‘Grand, ask him. He’ll probably tell you to contact his solicitor.’

  Lennon’s chubby cheeks paled. ‘He’s not … God, no. You can’t suspect he killed his wife, can you?’

  ‘I suspect everyone until I don’t.’

  ‘That must be tough on the family.’

  ‘Do you know Jack’s family?’

  ‘God, no. I meant his wife’s family.’ He tugged at his cuff again.

  ‘Thought you didn’t know them either?’

  ‘I meant in general, like.’

  Lottie picked up her bag from the floor making ready to wind up the conversation. This was a complete waste of her time. She noticed that Lennon appeared to relax as she stood.

  ‘Do you know Joyce Breslin?’

  ‘The woman who’s missing with her son? Heard about it on the radio earlier. Awful.’

  Lottie stared at him, waiting.

  ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell,’ he said, ‘but I can check the accounts.’

  ‘Does the name Kevin Doran ring any bells for you?’

  His face looked like it was frozen with his mouth half open. Slowly he shook his head. ‘Kevin … who?’

  ‘Doran. That’s the name we have, but it could be anything, if I’m honest. He worked on the Gallaghers’ house with Jack. A handyman from what I’ve gleaned so far.’

  ‘Sure anyone could be in and out of the shop and I wouldn’t know. I told you I’m not here all the time.’

  ‘Can you see if he has an account with you, then?’ She doubted very much there would be any Kevin Doran on Lennon’s books. ‘Or he might have signed something for Gallagher.’

  ‘I’ll check it out.’

  ‘Any way of doing that now, is there?’

  ‘No, I have to ask Carmel in Finance. I’ll get back to you.’

  She dropped her card on his desk. ‘My number and email are on that. I look forward to hearing from you.’

  At the door, she turned, pushed her bag to her shoulder and arranged her jacket over her arm. ‘Did anything happen here to force you to put in a word for Jack with Michael Costello?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Well, I found out he was an electrician.’

  ‘You said that, but I’m wondering if there was something else …’

  ‘It must be five years ago or more, but I’ll—’

  ‘Check it out. Thanks. I look forward to hearing from you.’

  She left him in the silence of his stuffy little office, worrying the hole in his sleeve.

  39

  A fog hung low on the hillside. Dervla climbed quickly but had to stop once or twice to find the trail she’d taken the day before. After fifteen minutes or so, she came to the tree shrouded in mist, its branches stretching out, calling her. Terrifying her.

  She shrugged off the old memories and talked down her fear. There was nothing here to hurt her any more. Still she glanced around furtively to make sure she was alone.

  Taking the little trowel from her parka pocket, she fell to her knees, the dew from the soft grass seeping into her joggers. She felt around at the base of the tree. Searched for a mound formed unnaturally. Disturbed earth. Her fingers glided over the grass and she noticed soil sneaking through. Had the sheep come across it just before she scared it away? Or had another human been searching?

  She began to dig. What am I doing?

  She thought she heard a sound behind her and swung round, her heart beating into her eardrums. A blackbird took flight from a branch, flapping its wings loudly and cawing like the fires of hell were burning its feathers.

  ‘Stupid bird,’ she said, but a cold sliver of fear glided over her skin, pushing up goose bumps. Like the times she’d been here when she was younger.

  No, stop, Dervla.

  She had to find more bones. She needed proof so that someone in authority would believe what she’d found. No one had ever believed her about anything she’d spoken about before, and that weighed heavily on her narrow shoulders. Well, she supposed she was apt to lie now and again, but this was different. This was someone else’s truth.

  She heard a soft thud as the trowel hit something. Dropping the tool, she flicked away the soil with her hands.

  It looked up at her. A little eyeless skull.

  Dervla screamed and stared.

  Tears streamed down her face until she wiped them away with muddy fingers. She couldn’t take it in, but she realised that what she’d been told before was true. There was something buried here. A child. She shook her head slowly.

  ‘Poor little thing,’ she cried, knowing she should have searched long before now.

  There was no way she could take it away from its burial site. It might bring her bad luck or something. Quickly she scooped up the clay and covered the little skull. Tugged at the grass around her knees and spread it on top of the mound. She stood and broke a branch from the tree and stuck it in the soil. A marker to remember where she’d found the last resting place of a child, though she knew she would find this spot in the dark. And it would haunt her dreams for eternity.

  She made her way back down the hillside, her mind a jumble of confusion. If she spoke about this, she was betraying a trust. If she didn’t, no one would ever discover what had happened to this little child. She weighed up her choices. This was evidence. Of a crime? She didn’t know. Was Kevin responsible? She didn’t know that either, but someone had concealed the body and that was enough for her.

  By the time she’d reached the foot of the hill, she had made up her mind.

  40

  Maria Lynch made up two bottles of formula for Holly and stood them on the counter to cool. She’d sent Anita to lie down after she’d rocked the crying baby to sleep in her buggy. Bored silly, she wandered into the sitting room, lifting ornaments, opening drawers, flicking through books, quietly snooping, but found nothing to inform the murder investigation.

  Jack Gallagher eventually returned from the station, blowing out smoke from a cigarette he’d dropped outside the front door.

  ‘You sti
ll here?’ His elbow thrashed into her arm as he pushed past her. Lynch tottered before righting herself. Unable to say if it was accidental or not, she followed him to the kitchen, where he noisily opened and shut cupboard doors.

  ‘Where the fuck are the mugs?’ he yelled.

  ‘Anita and Holly are resting. Keep it down.’

  ‘Piss off.’ He mauled one of the plates of sandwiches before stuffing a dainty triangle into his mouth.

  The kettle began to whine.

  ‘You need to put in water.’

  She leaned against the door jamb, arms folded, watching him. His agitation increased with each step he took, from the wall socket to the sink and back again. He found a mug, and grudgingly offered it to her. She shook her head. No way was she sharing a cuppa with him and his foul humour.

  ‘I can make it if you like?’ She approached the counter.

  ‘I can make my own tea in my own house, thank you very much.’

  ‘It’s not your house.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Did you do much to help Isabel at home?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Cooking, laundry. Hoovering, bathing Holly. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Listen here.’ He moved into her space. ‘I work every hour God gives me. She was the one at home all day with only a baby to occupy her.’

  Lynch stood her ground. ‘Isabel never asked you for any help?’

  ‘Why would she? She was well able to mind a house and a baby, so she was.’

  ‘It must’ve been hard for her, all the same. Isolated out there on the side of a windy hill, all day, every day, with no friends and only a baby for company.’

  He slammed the empty mug on the counter. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I’m trying to get a picture of what life was like for her.’

  ‘And how will that help you find who killed her?’

  ‘It’s like doing a jigsaw puzzle. Eventually we find a piece that doesn’t quite fit, and that gives us a lead.’

  ‘Sounds daft to me.’

  The kettle whistled and he made his tea, filling the mug to the rim with milk. He sat at the table, sloshing the liquid without wiping it up.

  ‘What was Anita’s relationship with Isabel like?’ Lynch stayed by the counter.

  ‘Now you suspect Anita as well?’ He shook his head wearily. ‘You haven’t a clue, do you?’

  ‘Did she visit your home often?’ Lynch said, unperturbed.

  He slurped tea and put the mug down. ‘Not that often. Don’t think Isabel talked to her much.’

  ‘Oh, why not?’

  ‘How would I know what goes on between women? The way I saw it, Isabel couldn’t wait to get married to get away from her mother. I never asked why because I was happy to have her with no strings, aka no mother-in-law, attached.’

  Lynch had formed the impression from Anita that she and Isabel had enjoyed a good relationship.

  ‘Surely Isabel must have said something about it. I know I tell my husband about every little argument I have with my family. A problem shared and all that.’

  ‘You didn’t know Isabel. She was quiet and intense. One of those women who found it hard to express her emotions.’ He stared at Lynch. She tried not to look away from his gaze, eyes dark enough to drill a hole in her soul. ‘But she was my wife and we loved each other.’

  ‘Why would someone kill her, though?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘You should have asked us about the television interview before doing it.’

  ‘I knew you’d stop me. You don’t know how hard it is to see things move so slowly and not be able to make an impact. I had to do something.’

  Lynch pushed away from the counter just as he suddenly stood.

  ‘You believe me, don’t you?’ He grabbed her arm. ‘That I didn’t kill my wife.’

  She shrugged off his hand. ‘I look at where the evidence brings me.’

  He seemed about to say something else, but a sound vibrated from the deep pocket in his jacket on the back of the chair. A flush brought heat to his cheeks and he turned, grabbed the jacket and went out the back door.

  Lynch watched him from the window. He was holding a small, narrow tablet, tapping the screen.

  The doorbell sounded.

  Garda Thornton had arrived to relieve her. Lynch was wanted back at base for a team meeting.

  She was glad to flee the claustrophobic house.

  41

  The team gathered in the incident room while Lottie checked over the photos on the board, her eyes drawn to the missing boy, Evan. She’d ordered divers to check the lake after the car had been found there, and a search of the woods had found no one.

  Where are you, Evan? She hoped to God he was alive and well cared for. So far the superintendent’s media briefing, the social media and news alerts and the checkpoints had had no success. No witnesses to the boy’s abduction or his current whereabouts, and so far, no sighting of his mother. Except for her car.

  She turned to face the room and the muttering hushed.

  ‘First of all, I want to discuss the disappearance of Joyce and Evan. Leaving aside for the moment the fact that we found her car, can we trace her movements yesterday?’ She paused and glanced at the fairly naked board to her right. ‘What type of mood was she in when she dropped Evan off at Bubbles Day Care?’

  Kirby said, ‘Sinéad Foley didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Evan was in good form and she said Joyce didn’t delay or chat.’

  ‘And she didn’t turn up at work at all?’

  ‘No. I checked that with Fayne’s café manager.’

  ‘So if she didn’t go to work, did she return home?’

  ‘I looked over the house-to-house reports from Loman Road, her estate. Her next-door neighbour was in her back garden most of the day, planting bulbs. She noticed nothing unusual. Still, it’s possible Joyce went home at some stage.’

  ‘There were signs there she’d started to pack,’ Lottie said. ‘And less than twenty-four hours after she was last seen by Sinéad Foley, we find her car. All traffic cams and CCTV are being checked to see if we can find where the car had been before that. But who’s to say how long it was abandoned at the lake. Any witnesses come forward?

  ‘Traced a couple of fishermen, but they used a different lane.’

  Lynch said, ‘Why not take her son that morning and leave then, if that was what she was doing?’

  This was what chewed at Lottie’s brain. ‘See if you can find out if she was followed, Kirby. Is there CCTV at the lake?’

  ‘Are you joking me?’

  ‘Does it look like I am?’

  ‘Sorry. I’ll check with the council. There might be hidden cameras to catch illegal dumping and antisocial behaviour. Can’t promise anything.’

  ‘I don’t want a promise, I want results.’

  ‘Sure.’ Kirby busied himself making a note.

  ‘It seems logical,’ Lottie said, ‘that Evan was taken by someone other than his mother. Have we traced the partner’s movements? Nathan Monaghan. What’s the exact time he arrived back in the country, and what time did he arrive in Ragmullin?’

  ‘I’ve been on to the port and the ship had docked by six p.m.,’ Boyd said. ‘Nathan Monaghan’s lorry was at the warehouse in Ragmullin by nine.’

  ‘What warehouse?’

  ‘AJ Lennon’s Hardware.’

  ‘What? I’ve just been talking to Lennon. Jack Gallagher used to work for that outfit years ago, and so did Isabel for a little while. ‘By the way, why would it take Monaghan that long to drive from Dublin on a Monday evening?’

  ‘Have you seen the traffic on the M50?’ Kirby said.

  Boyd said, ‘Here’s another interesting thing.’

  ‘Go on.’ Lottie folded her arms, waiting.

  ‘I checked out the car found at the lake. It’s not registered to Joyce Breslin. It’s registered to a company. Lugmiran Enterprises.’

  ‘Really? What link has she to
this company?’

  ‘I couldn’t find anything about them online, but I’ll check further. It might have something to do with Nathan Monaghan. Will I bring him in?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Phone him,’ Lottie said. ‘He was here last night, fingerprinted and DNA sample taken, but he wasn’t held under caution. He seemed glad of somewhere to put his head down. He left this morning. I got word that SOCOs are finished at his house.’

  ‘Here’s some news,’ Kirby said. ‘I did a quick search of the car at the lake and found an envelope down the side of the driver’s seat.’ He held up the evidence bag. ‘There was a scrap of paper inside with a typed address. The Occupier, 14 Castlemain Drive.’

  ‘In Ragmullin?

  ‘Yeah, it’s that enormous anonymous estate down by—’

  ‘I know the one. Continue.’

  ‘Well, I swung round that way. The house is as empty as a beer keg after Paddy’s Day. All closed up. A neighbour, Meg Collentine, told me it could be over two years since anyone was seen around.’

  ‘Did this Collentine woman know anything about the car?’

  ‘She didn’t remember it. She thought it was a family who lived there. She remembered seeing a woman and a couple of kids.’

  ‘Probably nothing to do with Joyce, then. She only has Evan. Where are this family now?’ Lottie felt Kirby was building up to something. She wished he’d get on with it.

  ‘God only knows. Australia or Timbuktu. Want me to follow up further?’

  ‘We’re short-staffed and under pressure, but see if you can find anything about the ownership of the house, and the car.’

  ‘The motor tax is over six months out of date. Insurance the same,’ Kirby said.

  ‘Any sign of Joyce’s phone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Get on to service providers. I want a log of her calls and texts. I’ll ask Nathan if he knows anything about it.’

  ‘Right, boss.’ He waved the evidence bag again. ‘There was a razor blade in the envelope too.’

  ‘What? Show me.’