Feverishly he flicked through his notes. The vacant house at Castlemain Drive. The address they’d found in the envelope down the side of the seat of Joyce’s car. The car registered to Lugmiran Enterprises. So far they’d found out that Lugmiran was a shell company registered in Jersey. He’d contacted the Criminal Assets Bureau to investigate. CAB had told him shell companies were near difficult to link to any individual.
He couldn’t help thinking that it had to have something to do with Joyce’s death. Why register a car to a shell company if there wasn’t something dodgy going on?
He grabbed his keys and shuffled out of his chair. Looking around for someone to bring with him, he realised everyone was at the Bardstown crime scene. A few minutes was all it would take, and then he would feel like he’d done his best. After all, he was certain the house was empty.
* * *
Number 14 Castlemain Drive was like a creature with blacked-out eyes. Switching off the car engine, Kirby lit a cigar and cracked open the window, watching and listening as he smoked. The estate was silent in the dusk. No children about, except for a couple of teenagers hanging out by a green electrical substation box located beside a wall at the turn in the road.
He coughed, breaking the stillness. Stubbing out the cigar, he left the car.
At the front door, he automatically rang the bell. Not waiting for a response he knew wouldn’t come, he walked to the rear of the house and peered through the slit at the bottom of the window. It was dark, with only the hue of street lights casting shadows. The wooden Venetian blind was almost down to the windowsill. Not a thing moved.
At the back door, he shaded his eyes and pressed his nose to the glass. Beyond the six small frosted panes he saw the outline of appliances, but no movement. It was well and truly empty. The door looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. All the same, he felt a nagging urge to get inside.
By his feet he spied a red brick covered in moss. It might have been used to keep the door open during hot weather, or maybe not. Picking it up, he debated what he was about to do. There was no reasonable cause to force entry. No reports of antisocial behaviour. Nothing to prove the necessity to commit an illegal act.
‘Fuck it.’
He smashed the block into the bottom corner pane, and listened. No alarms. No lights flashing on. No running feet. No shouts from neighbours. Just the hum of traffic from the main road and the scuttling of a cat through the grass. He hoped it was just a cat.
Dropping the brick, he pushed in the remaining few shards of glass. After donning a pair of nitrile gloves, he eased his arm inside and depressed the handle. Exhaled a long relieved breath as the door eased inwards.
‘This is a wild goose chase,’ he muttered. But in he went.
Stepping over the broken glass, he paused in the dimness to find his bearings. He was in a utility room. Washing machine, dryer, cupboards. A door hung open. He tried the light switch, but there was no electricity. Figures, he thought, seeing as whoever lived here had abandoned the place years ago. He flicked on his pencil torch and proceeded further inside.
A kitchen. Shadows screamed up and down the walls as he shone the torch around. Leaning over the sink, he pulled the cord, raising the blind to let in a little more of the dying evening light. But the dusk had painted the sky a sad pink, and it added only a sliver of illumination.
What was he hoping to find? It didn’t seem plausible that Joyce had been held here. Obviously no one had been inside the house in years.
He trained the torch to his feet and swept it outwards. The linoleum appeared to be stained, but it could be his imagination. He cast the light over the kitchen cabinets and countertop. A few drawers hung loose, and one cupboard door was open. A dresser stood by the wall behind the table, doors shut. Nothing else caught his attention as he did a quick inventory.
The refrigerator, with no electricity, contained rotting food, and the smell caught at the back of his throat. Worse than an autopsy, he thought as he held a hand to his nose and shoved the door shut with his foot.
The table was covered with broken crockery. More beneath it. He was about to right an upended chair when he stooped to see better. A brown stain had hardened into the linoleum. Blood? If it was Joyce’s or Evan’s, it would not be presenting like tanned leather. They’d only been missing since yesterday. This stain was not recent.
Pushing further into the house, he glanced into the living room. Nothing struck him as unusual. He grabbed his chest as it tightened, and cursed the cigars. But he knew the tightness was in apprehension for what he might discover.
Upstairs, he felt totally spooked.
A watery drip, drip, drip bored a tunnel into his brain until he found the offending tap in the en suite situated off the main bedroom. Luckily the plug wasn’t in the sink, but the smell of stagnant water was in the air. He turned off the tap, but still it dripped. Glancing around, he noticed the shower tray was coloured brown, a slow, intermittent trickle from the shower head. It too looked like dried blood. What the hell had happened in this house?
Backing out, he scanned the bedroom. King-sized bed, unmade, with sheets trailing to the floor; wardrobe doors open, clothes hanging off hangers and more scattered on the floor.
Main bathroom next. The smell from the toilet churned his stomach. A trail of dried liquid led down the side of the bowl and across the floor. The bath was empty.
Kirby steeled himself. Two more rooms.
The first one surely belonged to a child. Perhaps a little boy. A model plane hung from the light shade; bedclothes with a dinosaur print. A young child, though, because it wasn’t a bed. It was a cot. Fuck.
His brain pinged with warning. Unless he was totally mistaken, he had walked into an old crime scene. He’d check the final room, then call it in.
Outside the next door, the smell was unmistakable. Stale and musty. Like stagnant metallic water. Blood? His torch beam revealed a little girl’s room. One corner stacked with cuddly toys. A colourful unicorn mobile hung over the pink cot. He stepped closer, his heart thumping like a high-speed train. There were no blankets. But the mattress …
‘Oh no,’ he groaned.
The torchlight picked up the dark brown stains of dried blood. He trained the light along the floor. A brown trail from the cot to the door, staining the pink fluffy carpet. No mistaking it.
‘What the hell happened here?’
Out on the landing again, he listened, looked towards the ceiling at the loft hatch. Not a sound; only the thumping from within his own chest. There was no way he’d fit up there, but it was obvious no one had been in this house for a long time.
Down in the kitchen, he assessed his surroundings in a new light. Something awful had happened to the occupants of this house. Something that had caused the survivors to disappear. At least one of them had been badly injured or killed. The baby from the cot with the pink unicorn mobile?
With his heart breaking, he called it in.
53
Four-year-old Evan was still missing.
Lottie knew they were rapidly running out of time to find the boy alive, and she prayed that his little body wasn’t at the bottom of the pond where they’d found his mother.
She waited on site while SOCOs used industrial-sized pliers to break the chain lock on the yellow steel container behind the house. She stood behind them as they shone torches inside. Blood. She knew instantly that this was where Joyce had been held captive and murdered.
Leaving them to do their forensic examination, she got Garda Brennan to drive her to Michael Costello’s office, as he’d told her it might be the best place to talk. She’d formed the impression he was rattled by the discovery of the body.
Costello was as accommodating as he had been when she’d spoken to him before. He pulled out a chair for her and poured her a generous mug of black coffee. She welcomed the caffeine hit, gulping it down. Not too bad. She noticed he hadn’t offered coffee to Garda Brennan, or a chair to sit on.
Boyd had in
sisted on staying on site, wanting to be the first to know if anything was found there in relation to the missing boy. She hoped he was making progress with the builder, Trevor Delaney. He then had to interview the owner of the house. She’d sent uniforms to the station with Ciaran Grimes and his colleagues to record formal statements, along with taking DNA samples and fingerprints.
‘I’m totally shocked by all this,’ Costello said, his eyes gleaming from behind his spectacles. She had to admit he looked upset.
‘When was the last time anyone had access to the site?’ she said.
‘The builders had been pulled onto another project while we were to do the electrical work. There was a mix-up over gaining access, and because of Isabel’s murder, I only followed up with Delaney today. I was anxious to get the job started tomorrow, so I sent Ciaran out this evening to make sure we could enter the site.’
A text came from Boyd. None of Delaney’s crew had been on site since the previous Friday. Uniforms were conducting interviews. The house owner was in Dublin for medical reasons.
‘Do you think Jack could have gained access somehow?’
‘He said he couldn’t on Monday morning; that’s why I sent him on another job.’ Costello tugged at his beard, which gleamed under the tube lighting. ‘Do you think he’s involved in this woman’s murder too?’
‘I don’t know what to think right now, Mr Costello.’
Her phone vibrated in her pocket again. She slipped it out. Glanced at the caller. Kirby. He could wait.
‘You trust all your staff?’
‘I do. I’ve never had to question their honesty or loyalty.’
‘Emergency services were called at seven ten p.m., after Ciaran Grimes discovered the body. Why did he call you first?’
‘He wanted to know what he should do. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.’ He tapped the edge of his spectacles.
‘And where were you when he called?’
‘I was here. Haven’t been home yet. I told him to call 999 then I drove out to Bardstown. Poor Ciaran was in an awful state.’
‘I’d say he was.’
‘Inspector, I can assure you he had nothing to do with this.’
‘You’re probably right, but right now two of your employees are connected to two murders. Isabel worked here. Has Joyce Breslin any connection to you or your business?’
‘Is that the victim’s name? The woman who was missing with her son.’
She still had to inform Nathan. ‘I just want to know if you know her.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘I saw her photo on the news. Oh God. Her little boy. What is he? Four? Awful to think what might have happened to him.’ He stopped and stared intently at Lottie. ‘You don’t think he’s in that pond, do you?’
She held his gaze. ‘I’m exploring all possibilities, but I believe and hope he is still alive. Thanks for your time, and if you think of anything that might help us, please call me.’
She stood. Garda Brennan opened the door.
‘Of course,’ Costello said. ‘And I’ve not forgotten about giving you a quotation for that rewiring job.’
‘Thanks,’ Lottie said, though it was the furthest thing from her mind right now.
She followed Brennan down the stairs.
* * *
Outside Quality Electrical, Garda Brennan waved her phone. ‘Inspector, I think you need to check your messages. Detective Kirby is trying to reach you.’
‘He can wait.’
‘It’s important. He’s at the house on Castlemain Drive.’
‘What house?’
‘The address that was in the envelope with the blade. The one in Joyce Breslin’s car.’
‘Oh, right. What about it?’
‘He thinks it’s a crime scene. He’s waiting there for SOCOs to arrive.’
‘Evan?’ Lottie was afraid to breathe.
‘It’s not recent, according to Detective Kirby.’
Lottie tugged her hair as if the stinging of her scalp could make her think straight. She phoned Boyd. ‘You’re sure Delaney Construction have nothing to do with Joyce’s body?’
‘Positive,’ he said. ‘Trevor Delaney has an airtight log system for his employees. All accounted for. His crew are in the clear.’
‘Who does that leave us with? The house owner?’
‘He’s in a Dublin hospital. Not him.’
‘Get uniforms to canvass the neighbours.’
‘Being done as we speak. No one lives too close, but there’s a few further down the road to be called to yet.’
‘Okay. What about the container?’
She could hear Boyd flipping pages of his notebook. ‘It was used for storing the builders’ tools and equipment. It’s likely Joyce was held and murdered there. It will take SOCOs some time to examine. They’ve called for more lights.’
‘Talk to Jim McGlynn. Tell him to send someone, anyone, to 14 Castlemain Drive. Kirby thinks it’s an old crime scene.’
‘Really? SOCOs were out on Misneach Hill, too. McGlynn will blow a gasket.’
‘Can’t be helped. Evan is still missing. When you’re done there, you’d better go see what Kirby has found.’
‘What about you, Lottie?’
‘I’ve to tell Nathan Monaghan we’ve found his partner. Then I want to shake the truth out of Jack Gallagher. He’s been conjuring up disappearing acts, and right now, with very few people to put in the frame, getting the truth out of him might help me find Joyce’s missing son.’
‘Monaghan could be involved, or Dylan Foley.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know, Boyd.’ She hung up before he could reply.
54
Lottie could see that Nathan had been crying even before he opened the door.
She stepped inside and followed him to the kitchen, where he sat on the nearest chair. The room was cold. Curtains open. She drew down the blinds, swished over the curtains and eyed the tearful man. Garda Brennan made herself comfortable leaning against the door.
‘I’m afraid I’ve some bad news,’ Lottie began.
He sniffed loudly and ran a hand under his nose. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? You can tell me. I’ve been preparing myself all day for bad news.’
‘Bad news about whom?’
‘Evan. They killed him, didn’t they?’
‘I’m afraid you’re confused,’ she said. ‘I’m here about Joyce.’
‘Joyce?’
‘You thought I was talking about Evan. Why?’
‘He threatened me with Evan. He never mentioned Joyce.’
He looked up then. His eyes widening and his mouth drooping as if realising he’d made a mistake but couldn’t figure out what he’d said wrong.
‘Care to tell me who you mean by he?’
He seemed to gather himself when he saw the look on her face. Straightening his shoulders, he said, ‘No comment.’
On guard, Lottie thought.
‘I’m sorry to have to inform you, Nathan, that earlier this evening we found the body of an adult female. We’ll need you to make a formal identification, but unfortunately, I’m in no doubt that it is Joyce’s body.’
‘Joyce? Dead? I don’t understand.’ He gulped. ‘How did she die? Where is she?’
‘I can’t give you much information at this time, but it’s clear she was murdered.’
‘Murdered? How?’
He was like a bloody robot, and her head ached. ‘I can’t tell you at the moment. We need to make contact with her family. We haven’t been able to trace any relatives. Is there someone we should call?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. We never really talked about her past or family. I don’t think she had anyone.’
‘You sure? Think, Nathan.’
He gazed at a point above her head, trance-like.
She coaxed, ‘What is it?’
‘You could try locating Evan’s father.’
Lottie felt like the floor had capsized beneath her. She glanced at Garda Brennan, whose
eyes bulged incredulously.
‘Are you telling me you’re not Evan’s father?’
He shook his head, tears flying, lips quivering.
‘Who is, then?’
‘Joyce never said. She got upset when I broached the subject. Said I was Evan’s dad now. I was happy with that.’
‘Christ almighty, why didn’t you tell us before? He could be involved in their disappearance.’
‘How was I to know it was important?’
‘Of course it is! You sure you don’t know the name?’
‘I don’t, honest.’
‘Right.’ She wasn’t convinced, but decided to let it go under the circumstances.
‘I think someone else might be involved, though.’
‘Who? Talk to me, for pity’s sake.’ Her tolerance levels deserted her and she had to push her hands deep into her pockets to keep from throttling him.
‘Now is the time to be honest with me, Nathan. Did you have anything to do with Joyce’s death? Why did you think Evan was dead?’
His whole body deflated as he hugged his waist, arms tight around each other. ‘He … he threatened me over Evan. Oh God, it’s all my fault.’ He opened his mouth to let out a shriek before folding into himself, sobbing.
Sitting forward, Lottie felt every hair on her arms rise to attention, as if a bugle had sounded. ‘You have to calm down and tell me what you know. Look at me, Nathan.’
He raised his red eyes and stared vacantly.
‘Who made threats?’ she said.
‘Dermody.’ Another sniff.
‘Who is Dermody?’ She looked over at Brennan, and the young guard shrugged at the new name in the mix. Two steps forward and ten back.
Nathan rubbed his elbows, nails digging into bone. ‘Chris Dermody. I don’t know who he is, but sometimes I have to … I suppose you’d say I do jobs for him. You know, like when I’m driving. Secretly.’
Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller Page 24