Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller

by Patricia Gibney

  Frank had never seen her so put out about anything. The car. Was it to do with the car? Surely not.

  ‘When you get home, will you see if you can find the details of who bought that car? Don’t want those guards around here again.’

  ‘Details?’ She was by the door, her lips trembling. ‘Why?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? They want to know who bought it.’

  ‘Sure how would I know that?’

  ‘You did the Best Deals thingy on the computer. Got me five grand. Remember?’

  ‘Oh. Right. Not sure I kept anything, but I’ll have a look.’

  ‘They asked if I knew Joyce, too.’

  She paled and gripped the door jamb. ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  She hurried out.

  Frank rose slowly, noticing the thick scum on the soup. Damn it to hell. He should have kept stirring. He pushed the saucepan to the back of the stove and followed his niece.

  ‘What’s wrong? You can tell me, Dervla love.’

  But she was already gone.

  ‘Youngsters nowadays, Bosco. I’ll never understand them.’

  Why did he still think of her as a teenager? She was thirty-five, for God’s sake. She didn’t want to worry him, but when he’d mentioned the car, Jesus, she thought she’d have a heart attack right there in his stifling kitchen. And then Joyce. Why were the guards asking about her?

  She hung up her coat, opened the refrigerator and whistled with relief. Thank God the bone was gone. She wouldn’t be able to spend another night in the house if it was still there.

  One good deed done. She’d been anxious about visiting the garda station, but the inspector had been nice. She’d read about her in the local paper a while back. Seemed like a decent sort. And the burly man who’d taken her statement was like a teddy bear. She smiled, recalling his pudgy face and wild curly hair, and the constant tapping on his shirt pocket. She’d forgotten his name, but she wouldn’t need to see him again so it didn’t make any odds. Once she’d described the tree on Misneach, he’d said he knew exactly where she was talking about, so she wouldn’t be needed to go with them.

  There was little to eat in the fridge, so she got a bowl of cornflakes. Water would have to do, as she was out of milk. She used cold boiled water from the kettle and sat at the table spooning the soggy flakes into her mouth like a child.

  As she ate, her arm itched. She didn’t want to scratch it or it would bleed again. That made her think of Kevin. Damn Frank. Why had he to go and mention Kevin? Maybe she should contact him. Bad idea. This was partly down to him, and there was no room for Kevin, or anyone like him, in her life.

  She switched on her iPad and scrolled through the news to see if there was anything about a robbery or a car crash. Why hadn’t he filled out the forms for the change of ownership? The dumb fool. But she knew he was no fool. She shivered, hunching up her shoulders to hide the chill, and kept scrolling. Her finger hovered over the screen as she saw the wedding photograph under the headline Mother of one slain in her own bedroom.

  She tapped the screen to bring up the full story that she’d seen on the telly, then squeezed the photograph to make it bigger, zooming in on the dark eyes of Jack Gallagher and the happy eyes of Isabel.

  She scrolled to the next article, about a missing boy and his mother.

  Now she really must talk to Kevin.

  48

  Maria Lynch was well and truly pissed off by the time she returned to Anita’s house.

  Garda Brennan took one look at her and said, ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look like shit.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Martina.’ Lynch headed for the sitting room. ‘Where’s Anita?’

  ‘The little one wouldn’t settle, so she took her upstairs. I think they both fell asleep. Poor woman is overwhelmed.’

  ‘I don’t blame her. Any sign of Jack?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird.’

  ‘Did you hear from McKeown?’

  Martina blushed. ‘Why would I hear anything from him?’

  ‘Give me some credit. Everyone and their dog knows you two have a thing going.’ Lynch eased her aching body into one of the more comfortable armchairs.

  Squirming, Martina said, ‘Will I make a cup of tea? Something to warm you up?’

  ‘Ben filled me with coffee, thanks,’ Lynch said, thinking of her husband’s fussing. He hadn’t wanted her to return to work, but she was glad of the excuse to escape the bedlam of their house.

  ‘Honestly, in the beginning I didn’t know Sam McKeown was married.’

  ‘But when you found out, you didn’t end it, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Big mistake.’

  ‘We all make mistakes; the trick is to learn from them and not make them again.’

  ‘I’m trying,’ Martina said. ‘I love my job and don’t want to balls it up over a married man. Was it you who phoned his wife?’

  The front door opened and shut.

  ‘Jack’s back,’ Lynch said.

  Gallagher walked in with a large brown bag stained with vinegar, oozing the smell of a chipper.

  ‘You two look mighty comfortable,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you be out hunting the prick who killed my wife?’

  Lynch glared.

  Martina stood. ‘I’ll put on the kettle.’

  As she disappeared, Jack slammed the bag down on Anita’s good coffee table and stood in front of the fireplace.

  Lynch didn’t care for him towering over her, but in all honesty she hadn’t the energy to stand. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘It is when a man ends up in the canal after you pushed him in.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I followed you. I saw it with my own eyes. Who was he?’

  He seemed to relax, as if he’d made up his mind about something, and sat down. Lynch looked longingly at the brown bag.

  Leaning back on the cushions, he ran a hand over his forehead. ‘Kevin Doran. The guy who did odd jobs for me around the house. I told your inspector about him yesterday. Don’t know why you haven’t brought him in.’

  ‘We couldn’t bloody well find him!’ Lynch raged. ‘What went on between you?’

  ‘He followed me. Must have been watching the house.’

  ‘You should have called me.’

  ‘I wanted to know what he was up to. I told him you were asking about him. Lost my head for a minute and grabbed him. Next thing I know, he’s flailing about in the water, so I cut my stick out of there.’

  ‘And left me to fish him out.’

  ‘Really? Sorry about that.’

  Was that a smirk? She thought it was. ‘He might press charges for assault.’

  ‘No he won’t.’ He looked at her then, as if seeing her discomfort. ‘You look a bit pale.’

  She wasn’t buying the fake nice guy act. ‘What was the conversation about?’

  ‘Are you listening to me? There was no conversation. Where is he now, anyhow?’

  ‘He left the hospital before Inspector Parker or I could interview him.’ Shit, she shouldn’t have told him that. ‘Tell me what you two were talking about.’

  He stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth. ‘You saw us, so you know there wasn’t time for a conversation. He was fixated on Isabel. You need to find him. Arrest him.’

  ‘Where can we find him?’

  ‘I gave your inspector his phone number. That’s all I have. Can’t you get him that way with all your technical wizardry?’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘If I knew that, I’d be there wringing his neck.’ He stood and picked up his chipper bag. ‘Damn, these are gone cold. I’m putting them in the microwave. Would you like a few chips on a plate?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  He left her alone. Lynch thought about the tea that Martina was taking ages to make. And then she recalled how casually Gallagher had mentioned wringing Ke
vin Doran’s neck. He was one cold customer.

  Kevin made his way back to his van, walking in his wet clothes along the canal from where he’d been plucked earlier. She must have been a detective, he thought, the woman who’d saved him. Had she been following him, or Jack? It made his leg itch thinking the gardaí were asking about him. Shit. If they knew who he was, did they know where he lived? And if they knew all that, had they discovered his role in everything?

  He shivered, his damp clothes sticking to his skin. He still had a cannula in his hand.

  Fuck Jack Gallagher. He should never have approached him. It was stupid. Almost fatal.

  The van was where he’d left it, under the trees across the road from Anita’s house. Though he’d lost his keys in the water, he found the spare set taped behind the front wheel. He opened the door and slid inside. His phone was on the dash and he was glad he wouldn’t have to buy a new one. They were cheap anyhow, not going to break the bank. He laughed, thinking how he’d never had to use a bank when he had plenty of hidey-holes for his cash at his cottage.

  He drove home, his head dizzy, forcing his eyes to focus on the road. No point in getting pulled over for tax or insurance by an overzealous garda. Not now.

  At the cottage, he parked under the oak tree before making his way through the long grass to the front door. He had a spare key hidden beneath a tuft of earth, and he congratulated himself on this pre-planning exercise he’d devised when he’d first felt the fear.

  ‘I know nothing,’ he whispered, and entered the darkness.

  A sense of loneliness hugged his shivering skeleton as he stripped off his clothes and searched for something to wear. After finding an old tracksuit, he dressed and set about taking the cannula from his hand.

  With a grubby roll of plaster beside him, he tugged the needle from his flesh and swallowed the pain. The blood streamed down his hand, so he held his arm aloft and wound the plaster round, tearing it with his teeth. He wrapped a tea towel around the mess.

  His vision blurred and his hands trembled when he’d finished. He should lie down, but he had things to do. What had he to do?

  He shook his head from side to side. Think, Kevin. A shiver raced up his arm and across his shoulder blades, and his whole body shuddered.

  The blurriness refused to fade. He rested his head on the table among the bloody cloths and plasters and closed his eyes. He was fast asleep when his phone vibrated with a message, scattering the mice from the floor into the walls.

  It was hours later before he awoke.

  49

  The little bone was dispatched to Jane Dore at the Dead House. Lottie knew it could not belong to Evan. There was no way, if the boy was dead, he’d be reduced to bone so quickly. Jane told her they might need an anthropologist to take a look at it. That cost money. The super would have a coronary with an already overrun budget. At least get me DNA or something, Lottie had implored the pathologist.

  Kirby had filled her in on Dervla’s statement. He knew the area. She sent him off to check it out, telling him to bring Garda Brennan with him.

  Kirby picked up Garda Brennan from Anita’s house and headed out to Misneach.

  ‘Do you walk a lot?’ Martina asked.

  He wasn’t sure if she was mocking him, but giving her the benefit of the doubt, he said, ‘I’m able to climb a hill on my own; don’t know why the boss wanted you along.’

  ‘I think it’s because I did a CPR course.’ She grinned.

  ‘Ha ha. Very funny. I was up here a couple of times for the Sun God festival.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were into that lark.’

  ‘There’s a whole lot you don’t know about me,’ Kirby said. ‘Is Detective Lynch babysitting Gallagher again?’

  ‘Yeah. I made them tea and escaped.’

  ‘Correct move.’

  ‘I might have been better off there than having to climb a bloody hill. It’ll be getting dark soon and I’m not sure I like the prospect of being stuck up here all night.’

  ‘Not even with me for company?’

  ‘Those SOCOs scare the shite out of me, the way they can deal with all that blood and gore.’

  Kirby threw a glance over his shoulder to see the two technicians and another uniformed garda bringing up the rear.

  ‘This is a waste of time and effort,’ he said.

  ‘But it could be Evan buried here.’

  ‘Boss says the bone is old.’ He pointed. ‘Up there. That’s the tree Dervla Byrne mentioned. Come on.’

  He tried not to huff on the last leg of the climb. It wasn’t that high really, but he was overweight and unfit. Why had he tried to be bloody Joe Wicks in front of Martina? Though now that he looked at her, she was struggling a bit too.

  The branches of the tree, with their flowering buds, stretched outwards like they were protecting a special treasure buried beneath the roots. The stone wall encircling the tree was falling down in places, rocks spread around with moss and grass growing over them.

  ‘I can see where she was digging,’ Kirby said. ‘Bad attempt at replacing the soil. We’re lucky the sheep haven’t been back.’

  ‘How do you know they haven’t?’ Martina said.

  ‘Well, I don’t, but … feck it.’

  He indicated the site to the SOCOs and stood back to let them begin. Dervla had said she hadn’t to dig down too far. The SOCOs unpacked their tools and got to work.

  ‘It’s sad and horrific to think someone buried a little kid here,’ Martina said quietly.

  Kirby glanced at her, surprised to see tears gathering.

  ‘Abandoned a little body and walked away,’ she whispered. ‘What type of monster does that?’

  ‘The world is full of monsters, and unfortunately most of them look just like you and me.’

  ‘Found something,’ the shout came.

  Kirby moved forward. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A tiny skull.’

  ‘That’s what the young woman found. Anything else? Clothing? Something to give us a clue.’

  He watched as the SOCO slowly brushed the soil from the skull. He felt Martina move closer, her body shaking with emotion. Or maybe it was just the chill that blew around the side of the hill.

  ‘Yeah, there’s more bones, possibly a full skeleton. Ah, Jesus Christ.’

  ‘What is it?’ Kirby hunkered down, still keeping a little distance so as not to compromise anything they might find.

  ‘It looks to me like a disposable nappy. They can take two hundred years to decompose. This poor little thing wasn’t even potty-trained.’

  A cry from behind Kirby made him turn around, and he saw Martina sink to her knees in tears.

  Joyce had no real idea of the passage of time. She was hungry and thirsty, with a weakness eating into her muscles. Her knees and shin bones creaked when she tried to move. How much longer would she be kept here, trussed up and immobile? Her mouth was dry; she felt all the mucus in her throat had turned to sand. With the tight gag, the skin around her mouth and jaw was cracked.

  She must have dozed, because her eyes flew open as the gag was being removed. Gulping air, she wobbled even as she leaned against the wall, her legs trussed. She could smell him. Something familiar tingled at the back of her brain. A trace of dust lined her lips where his finger had lingered while he loosened the rag.

  Then he spoke.

  ‘Missing your little boy?’ He tugged her hair at the nape of her neck, drawing her head backwards. Still in darkness.

  ‘What did you say?’ Her voice didn’t sound like her own. A frog’s croak, no longer a chicken squawk.

  ‘Your little shining light, is that what you call him?’

  ‘Don’t mention him. He’s just a child.’

  A bottle was held to her lips. At last! She gulped greedily, spluttered, and the water spurted out of her mouth.

  ‘Fine, if you don’t want it, I don’t care.’ He let go of her hair and her head fell forward like an unsupported puppet.

  She coughed. Trie
d to speak. On the third try she formed a hacking sentence. ‘You better not touch a hair on his head.’

  ‘His head doesn’t concern me. He’s a bleeder too. Just like you.’

  Her mind raced. No. Was he winding her up? Evan was with Nathan. She mustn’t fall into this trap.

  ‘You’re wondering if it’s possible for me to really have taken him. Let me tell you this for a fact, you will die without knowing.’

  Why was he such a cruel bastard? And how could she think about anything when he held her life in his hands? Her son’s life too.

  ‘Help me.’

  The blade glinted in the narrow shaft of light that sliced through the crack between the door and its hinges. She felt in the weariness of her bones that her life was nearing its end. She would welcome the release from years of torture and pain. The only light in it all had been her son. She had to believe he was safe and unharmed.

  Her captor was still talking. She tried to concentrate on his words. To find some little hope to cling onto. Somehow, through the haze of pain, she felt she knew him.

  ‘I often wondered what motivated you to keep on living. Anyone else in your position would have strung a rope around their neck and ended their miserable existence.’

  ‘I never give up.’ She was surprised at the steel in her voice, and in that instant she vowed she wouldn’t beg for her own life. She’d only beg for her son’s.

  ‘That’s obvious,’ he laughed, ‘or you’d be long dead. Sorry I didn’t think of this sooner. Would have saved me a lot of trouble.’ The sound of his laugh drove a spear of fear into her chest. He wasn’t human. He didn’t care about life, only pain and death.

  She squinted, trying to see his face, but it was sheathed in darkness. His voice, though? She was sure she knew it, though it was obvious he was trying to disguise it. She tried to add a face to it, but the ringing in her ears blocked out all recognition.

  ‘You’re going to kill me?’

  ‘Course I am.’ He laughed again, a sinister twang lacing the sound. ‘I relish the prospect of lifting pieces of your skin, bit by bit, and watching your blood seep down the blade and fall to the ground.’