Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘Who are you?’ He must surely be deranged. But hadn’t she known that all along?

  ‘Oh Joyce, darling, you know who I am.’

  ‘I … I don’t,’ she lied, trying to delay the inevitable. Trying to drown her terror in words. The fact was, she did know him and she knew exactly what he was capable of.

  ‘Doesn’t matter to me whether you do or you don’t.’

  ‘How did you find me at the lake?’

  ‘A tracker on your phone. But don’t get your hopes up. The phone and the tracker are now dust. No one will find you.’ His breath washed over her. She turned away, just as he added, ‘What will it be like to die not knowing if Evan is alive or dead?’

  The blade nicked the skin at the centre of her throat. She felt a sting.

  ‘You can do what you like to me, but please … don’t hurt my son.’

  Where was this bravado stemming from? She had lived so many years in absolute trepidation that this day would come, and now all of a sudden she felt strangely calm. Once she knew Evan was safe, she’d gladly succumb to whatever final torture this maniac had in mind.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he mocked, ‘I don’t think you are in any position to bargain. I can do what I like and you can’t stop me.’

  Another nick, deeper this time. Her body spasmed. It was going to be slow and painful. She could handle that. She welcomed it. Closing her eyes, she breathed through her nose, trying to transport herself to a different place. To believe that her son was safe and well, because the alternative was too cruel to imagine.

  The knife was lowered from her throat to her breast and the blade forced into her flesh.

  That was when she screamed.

  50

  ‘Will someone stop that snivelling brat? He’s getting on my tits.’

  ‘I want my mummy. I want my mummy!’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, you little shite.’

  Evan cowered like he’d seen animals do on television. He loved animals, but his mummy wouldn’t let him have a dog. He’d like a dog. A small one, because they had a tiny garden. Small dogs were more cuddly anyhow. He liked thinking about the dog, because thinking about nice things kept him from thinking about not so nice things. His mummy had taught him that. Mindfulness, she’d called it. A big word for a small boy, she’d said. Keeps the monsters out of your head. But now the scary monsters were out of his head and they were here with him.

  He wanted his mummy. He missed her. He started to cry again. No, he couldn’t do that. He would make the bad man angry, and his arms were already sore from being shaken.

  ‘What is wrong with that fucking kid?’

  Evan shrivelled into himself. The man used bad words all the time. It wasn’t nice.

  ‘Will you stop? He’s only four years old. He’s terrified.’

  That was the woman. She gave him juice and crisps. His mummy would be cross if she knew how much rubbish he was eating. But there were no cooked dinners here. He had to eat whatever he was given.

  Thinking of food made him feel hungry all over again. Roast chicken and mashed potatoes would be lovely. No, he needed to think of nice cuddly animals. Maybe a cat. A cat was small, and wouldn’t bite the furniture like a dog might do. A black one. Sooty. That was a good name for a black cat. That made him smile.

  ‘What the hell is he smiling about? Jesus, but the kid is giving me the willies. How long do we have to keep him here?’

  ‘Stop bloody moaning,’ the woman said. ‘It will be worth it.’

  ‘You’re impossible, do you know that? Make yourself useful. Get me another can. I’m parched.’

  Evan didn’t know if he should keep smiling or cry again. It was hard to know what to do to keep them from hurting him. He didn’t like being hurt. No one had ever hurt him before. That thought seemed to poke at a memory deep in his brain. He had been hurt before. Shadows floated behind his eyes and he tried to make the vision materialise.

  A phone rang somewhere.

  The grumpy man answered it, listened, said, ‘Yes, okay, if that’s what you want,’ and hung up. ‘Hold that can.’

  ‘Why? Who was that?’ the woman said.

  ‘The head-the-ball. About the kid. Move your arse.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Ah no. I never signed up for violence.’

  Evan crouched further into himself, wrapping his arms tight around his knees, squeezing as tight as he could, but he couldn’t stop the tears nor the wail that broke from his throat.

  ‘No, no, no. I want my mummy.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ the man’s angry voice said. ‘At least I won’t have to listen to that shite for much longer.’

  And Evan cried all the harder.

  51

  Lottie took the call informing her that a body had been discovered in a pool of stagnant water behind a newly constructed house at Bardstown. Kirby had just arrived back with news of finding the skeleton on the hill. He’d told her that SOCOs thought it might be a toddler. They’d cordoned off the site and the pathologist had been and left.

  Lottie’s heart felt crushed. Who would bury a little child on a windy hill under a fairy tree and leave it there without ceremony or recognition? It had to be murder. She hoped to God it wasn’t connected to her current investigations.

  Leaving Kirby behind, Boyd fetched the car and they made their way out to Bardstown, ten kilometres from Ragmullin and not far as the crow flies from Gallagher’s house.

  She entered through the hoarding surrounding the new building, Delaney Construction emblazoned on the green timber. This had been the location of Jack Gallagher’s first job on Monday morning, but he’d been unable to gain access.

  Walking up the shingle driveway, kitted out in her white boiler suit, she kept her head down, barely conscious of Boyd’s steps behind her. She speeded up, wanting to run, to take off, to be on her own when she viewed the body. How had she failed so badly?

  ‘Lottie, wait up.’

  She heard his voice like it was in the distance. She didn’t answer. Single-mindedly, she continued towards the lights that SOCOs had erected behind the two-storey new construction. It was only eight o’clock in the evening, but the light was fading as the sky darkened with rain clouds. She noticed the absence of birdsong in the trees surrounding the site.

  ‘The body isn’t going anywhere.’ Boyd’s voice broke through her brooding. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘It’s my fault.’ Her words were carried off with the breeze.

  She could have done more if she hadn’t been consumed by the murder of Isabel Gallagher and her mindless search for the ghostly Kevin Doran. Wasting time when she should have been looking for Joyce and her son. She felt a shudder travel the length of her body. She walked around the side of the house and approached the blue tent. Eerie shadows moved around inside, body shapes looming larger than normal on the canvas.

  Boyd gripped her elbow.

  ‘Listen to me, Lottie. It’s not your fault. It’s the fault of the murderer. You don’t have to feel any guilt and you certainly don’t have to look at the body.’

  She swung around on the ball of her foot. ‘Of course I’ve to bloody well look. It’s my job.’

  He pulled her close, lowered his head to lock his eyes with hers. She wanted to look away, but she also needed to feel his reassurance.

  ‘I know it’s your job,’ he said, ‘but I can do this.’

  ‘It’s just … I might have been able to prevent this happening. I should have spent more time and resources on the missing rather than the dead.’

  ‘You did all you could.’

  His hand dropped away and she thought she might fall over with the suddenness of his release. He was staring over her shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’ Turning around, she caught sight of Superintendent Farrell striding in their direction. ‘Ah, shit, this is all I need. A bollocking.’

  Farrell strode into their space. ‘This is a right fuck-up.’

  ‘I beg your
pardon?’ Lottie said, willing authority into her tone.

  ‘It wasn’t like looking for a needle in a haystack, was it?’ Farrell’s voice barrelled around the yard. ‘The body dumped right where Jack Gallagher was supposed to be working on Monday morning. God grant me patience.’

  ‘We don’t know how long the victim has been dead or how long the body has been here.’

  ‘But it is here! That’s the bloody point. And this place gives us a connection to Gallagher. What have you been doing at all?’ Farrell stamped her feet as if to incite heat into frozen feet, but it wasn’t that cold. Lottie thought it was an avoidance measure. Perhaps it was her Farrell really wanted to thump.

  ‘I’m about to look at the body,’ she said, inching away from her superior officer.

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, as I haven’t seen the body.’

  ‘Why are you standing here then? I need the information on my desk in one hour. I’ll have to organise a press release. The media will be rabid. All of Ragmullin will be up in arms over this incompetence. Get to it.’

  Farrell turned on her heel and was being driven away down the driveway before Lottie could utter an expletive.

  ‘Don’t let her get to you,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Everything she said is true. Why is the body here if it’s not a link to the Gallagher killing?’

  ‘Someone playing mind games with us?’ Boyd said.

  ‘The killer is clever.’

  ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘It’s a clear message and we need to decipher it quickly. We still have one more missing person to find.’

  She watched as he abandoned her and strode towards the tent. Attaching her face mask, she threw back her shoulders and, with a confidence she didn’t feel, followed him in.

  * * *

  The smell of early decomposition was rife in the air. With sombre eyes, McGlynn glanced up at the new arrivals.

  ‘I don’t need an audience,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s too cramped in here.’

  The tent had been erected over a section of a pond. Green algae lay like grease on the surface.

  ‘What can you tell us?’ Lottie folded her arms, determined not to be pushed around.

  ‘Looks like this area was excavated for future landscaping. The rain we had last week filled the hole and the water festered. It’s rancid.’

  Lottie couldn’t take her eyes off the partially submerged body.

  Glynn continued. ‘From what I can determine, there are multiple stab wounds. They appear similar to Isabel Gallagher’s on first glance, but there are differences.’

  She forced herself to look down at the body.

  Joyce Breslin lay naked in death, her dignity stripped away. Her feet pointed to Lottie’s own. The dark hair on her head, where McGlynn was stooped, fanned out like a floating basket, tarnished with green slime. Stab wounds were visible on the torso, and Lottie could see what McGlynn meant. A series of cuts traversed the body, particularly on the face and chest area. Skin was lifted as if it had been first poked, then sliced. A deep wound gaped on the neck.

  Lottie fought the urge to find a blanket and cover the woman’s nakedness. To restore some humanity to her. You wouldn’t dump a dog like this.

  ‘What in the name of God happened to her?’ Boyd said, rubbing his forehead as if he could erase the vision.

  ‘She’s dead,’ McGlynn said. ‘And not being smart, but that’s all I can tell you at the moment. No way of knowing which wound was the fatal one. There’s no blood here that I can see, but the pond will have to be drained. I believe she was killed elsewhere.’

  Lottie noted that the skin had a corpse hue. ‘Wherever she was killed, there must be a lot of blood. How long do you think she’s been dead?’

  She braced herself for McGlynn’s mantra of him not being God and all that. But he just shook his head. ‘Not long. A few hours, I’d guess. The pathologist will have a more accurate estimate.’

  ‘We need Jane to get here as soon as possible. I want the body removed and the pond drained. The boy … Evan, he could be in there.’ She held a gloved hand over her mask. The thought of the four-year-old’s body somewhere in the water turned her stomach.

  ‘I’m working as quickly as I can. If I had no interruptions, I’d be a whole lot quicker.’

  ‘Sorry. But thanks, Jim.’

  She glanced at Joyce’s feet. Hunkering down, she cocked her head sideways. Slivers of raised flesh coursed across the contours of the soles. Some old, most new.

  ‘See that, Boyd? Isabel Gallagher had similar marks on her feet.’ Standing, she drew her eyes up along the body, but was unable to see any further evidence of old wounds. Jane should be able to tell her.

  Outside the tent, she approached a group of three men huddled together. One was smoking and another was biting his nails. The third was staring into space as if wishing he was somewhere else.

  ‘Who found the deceased?’ she asked.

  ‘I did.’ The space-gazer. Mid thirties. Small build. Navy overalls and a hi-vis donkey jacket emblazoned with the Quality Engineering logo. A black woollen beanie covered his hair and ears. ‘Ciaran Grimes is the name. This is awful.’

  ‘Why were you here?’

  ‘Mr Costello sent us to see if we could get access to the site, to start the wiring in the morning. I called to Delaney, the builder, for the key. Jack could have done that the other morning, but he didn’t as far as I know.’

  ‘The body is way round at the back of the house. What brought you down there?’

  ‘Wanted a smoke and wandered about, so I did. That’s when I saw the feet poking out. Nearly chucked up my tea.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘My stomach is a bit stronger than that, so no.’

  ‘What time was it when you found her?’

  ‘I told the guard over there.’ He pointed to Garda Brennan, who was busy taking notes from another man, tall and well dressed, with a pair of spectacles plonked on top of his head holding his ginger hair in place. His beard looked like he’d run his hands through it multiple times. Michael Costello.

  Grimes caught her gawking. ‘That’s the boss man.’

  ‘I know who he is.’ Returning her attention to Grimes, Lottie said, ‘When did you find her?’

  He shifted from foot to foot. ‘Can’t be sure. Maybe around seven. I phoned Mr Costello and he told me to call the guards. I knew she was dead, so there was no need for an ambulance.’

  Lottie glanced back at the tent. ‘From where was the body visible, and what did you do exactly?’

  He shook his head, the beanie bobbing. ‘I didn’t see it until I was right up close. A fucker of a rat scampered up from the water when I threw the cigarette butt in. Sorry for the language.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Right. Sure doesn’t another one run out after the first. I nearly stood on the bastard. Jesus, I can tell you I jumped. Not that I’m afraid of them or anything, but I really don’t like the dirty buggers.’

  ‘So you saw her feet. Did you go any closer?’

  ‘I went in a bit to investigate. Sorry I did that now.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. If you hadn’t gone to look, God knows how long she’d have lain there undiscovered. How did you know she was dead?’

  ‘The stab wounds … it was obvious. I didn’t touch her.’ He dug his grubby knuckles into his eyes. ‘This is terrible.’

  Lottie looked around and noticed a container unit further down the site. ‘Do the builders have security cameras here?’

  ‘Nah. No need out here in the sticks.’

  ‘Okay. Has Garda Brennan taken your statement?’

  ‘She did that before she moved on to more important people.’

  ‘Mr Grimes, you are very important to this investigation. We’ll need your consent to take a sample of DNA and your fingerprints. Will that be okay?’

  He shunted from foot to foot. ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘I can get a warrant.’

  ‘Suppose it�
�s okay, then. I was wearing gloves anyhow.’

  ‘Thought you didn’t touch her?’

  ‘I … no … I mean …’

  ‘It’s okay.’ She walked off, leaving him staring after her.

  52

  At the station, Kirby washed his hands. Then he washed them again. Not that he’d touched anything while out on Misneach Hill, but he felt the evil of whatever had happened to that child eating under his skin. He dried his hands on a paper towel and went to the office.

  The bones had been removed to the morgue and there was no more he could do about them for now. He pulled up his chair and got to work checking the security footage from the gym where Dylan Foley claimed his key had been taken.

  ‘Shit,’ he groaned as the images loaded on the screen. There were no cameras in the locker rooms, just those mounted high up on the wall outside the premises.

  Hard as it was to admit it, McKeown was the best at the CCTV stuff, and he wasn’t here. Kirby found it hard to focus on the grainy outdoor images, but with Joyce Breslin’s body discovered and still no sign of her son, he needed to work quickly. There was a chance the boy was still alive. He scanned the fuzzy footage, finding nothing noteworthy. After a while, he gave up and began painstakingly reviewing his notes, focusing his concentration on the dead woman, Joyce.

  They had little or no background information. She was as elusive as Kevin Doran. If he could find out nothing about her past, he had to think about more recently.

  Where could she have been held? Sinéad and Dylan Foley’s house and Bubbles Day Care had been searched the night Evan went missing. So strike that out. Joyce and Nathan’s house on Loman Road had also been searched, with few results except for the spot of blood on the radiator and the razor blade beneath it. And the kid’s teddy bear was still on his bed. He scratched his head with a biro. Think, Kirby, think, he willed himself.

  He drew his biro down through the list of interviews in his notebook. Frank Maher. No way that old man had it in him to abduct and hide Joyce, let alone murder her, transport her body out of town and dump her in a pond at the back of a newly constructed house. Not that it would be any different if it was an old house. Then it struck him.