I look down at the gown they’ve put on me.
I want my twin.
I want my own clothes.
They were all burned in the fire.
What fire?
The one your mother started, or maybe you did it?
I didn’t do anything.
No one answers me.
Are the voices I hear only in my head?
I begin to cry. Big kids don’t cry.
But I’m just a little kid.
Little kids should be seen and not heard.
I want my mummy…
Or do I?
Day Two
Six
A new day. Same old shit. Lottie’s head ached and her mouth felt like something had slept in it overnight. She spied the empty vodka bottle lying like a discarded doll on the bed beside her.
Dragging her weary limbs into the shower, she avoided looking at her face in the mirror. Confusing the direction of the dial, she felt her body being blasted with freezing water.
‘For feck’s sake!’
She twisted the switch the correct way and stood to one side in the small glass cubicle until she felt warmth come from the stream of water. Stepping under the flow, she closed her eyes and breathed out, blowing a soft spray of water up to her nose. Feeling slightly dizzy, she leaned with the palms of her hands against the slippery tiled wall and allowed the water to hammer her spine.
I so deserve this, she thought. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
When she had enough energy, she lathered shampoo and conditioner into her hair, rinsed off and stepped from the heated cube to the cold bathroom.
No towel.
Rushing to get one from her room, she banged her toe against the door jamb.
And so her day began.
* * *
Pulling down her hood at the door to the mortuary, which everyone called the Dead House, Lottie ran her fingers through her hair. Her head thumped like mad. Seriously, though, she had to get her act together. She knew how an isolated slip-up turned into a downward spiral. Did she really want to go down that rabbit hole again? No. But one swig could ease the pain. Or a pill, if she had one.
The rain had continued unabated during the night, and it had crashed against the windscreen as she’d driven the forty kilometres to Tullamore, where the state pathologist was located. Buzzed in, she hurried down the icy corridor with its antiseptic smell masking the underlying pungent scent of death.
Jane Dore had already started the post-mortem and was walking around the steel table that held the seventy-plus-year-old body of Tessa Ball.
‘Good morning, Detective Inspector.’ The pathologist’s voice was sharp and professional. ‘I’ll continue, if you don’t mind.’
‘Fire ahead,’ Lottie said, suiting up and perching herself on a high stool beside a stainless-steel counter. Jane Dore and her team worked to a set routine. Viewing, touching, poking, sampling, recording.
The room seemed to be tipping on its axis as Lottie said impatiently, ‘Any definitive cause of death? I’m assuming it is murder.’
Jane Dore turned and stared. ‘You and I know that in my business I don’t assume anything. I let the body tell me its story. And that is all I can work with.’
‘I know, but I’m kind of busy and I’ve a team meeting to get to, so it would help if you…’ Lottie’s voice trailed off; she was aware she was slurring her words. Jane Dore’s glare bored through her.
‘Go, if you wish. I’ll email my findings.’ She turned back and continued her examination.
‘Blunt-force trauma?’ Lottie offered. ‘That’s what you said last night.’
With a sigh, Jane walked over. ‘Okay. I can see your mind is elsewhere. I understand how busy you are, but I can’t be rushed. As it stands, I’ve prioritised Mrs Ball’s PM so that you’ll have something to work with.’
‘Thanks, Jane. Honestly, I appreciate it, but I don’t feel the best and—’
‘Cause of death will most likely be blunt-force trauma to the head. Satisfied?’
‘Thank you. Any indication of the type of weapon used?’
‘As I surmised last night, something hard and rounded, applied with great force. One strike. It either killed her or caused a massive stroke. I’ll know more later.’
‘Could it be the baseball bat we found at the scene?’
Jane stared. Lottie knew she couldn’t alienate the state pathologist. She needed Jane to do something for her. Off the books, so to speak. And if she stayed here while Jane was cutting up the body, she would contaminate more than their friendship. Her stomach contents were already settling into her throat.
‘Thank you,’ she said and made for the door. ‘One more thing. Sexual assault?’
‘I’ll take swabs, but I don’t think it likely. You’ll have my preliminary report this afternoon.’
With a final glance at the jaundiced-looking corpse, Lottie rushed from the autopsy room. The only consolation, as the rain drummed down, was that she hadn’t vomited all over the shiny stainless-steel counter or the white-tiled floor. No, she’d waited until she reached the car park to spew up between two parked vehicles.
No more drink.
Seven
The rain cleared a little and Ragmullin emerged from the mist, a smoky grey silhouette. The cathedral’s twin spires spiked the clouds to the right and the landscape deformity of Hill Point protruded to the left. Lottie’s one-time friend Doctor Annabelle O’Shea worked there. Pills. She needed a few Xanax to get her through the day – every day. Shaking herself to dislodge her cravings, she floored the accelerator and sped into town.
In her office, she tore off her jacket, hung it on the overflowing coat rack and headed to her desk.
‘Anything from Mrs Ball’s post-mortem?’ Detective Larry Kirby asked.
Lottie stopped mid-step, noticing the big, burly detective, his wiry hair standing on end, chewing on an electronic cigarette.
‘What’re you doing with that?’ she said.
‘Trying to give up the cigars.’ His fingers swallowed up the device and he pushed it into his shirt pocket.
‘I’ve nothing from the PM yet,’ Lottie said, pulling out her chair. ‘I thought you were on door-to-door enquiries?’
‘I was, but you called a team meeting for ten. I’m here. Is it still going ahead?’
Shite. In the space of the half-hour drive from Tullamore, she’d forgotten what she’d been rushing back for.
‘Of course it is. Incident room. All of you.’ She looked around. Her detectives were staring back at her. ‘What?’
Boyd leaned over her. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course I am. Why?’
‘You seem a bit… rattled.’
‘I’ll show you what rattled is.’
Detectives Boyd, Kirby and Lynch shuffled out of the office. Lottie waited until they had disappeared before sitting down and pulling out her desk drawer. She rifled through the mess. One, she thought. Even half of one. Dragging out files and pens, she ran her hand over the bottom of the drawer. Nothing. Yanked it out and turned it over. Yes! Sellotaped to the underside she found half a Xanax. Her safety net. As she tore it from the sticky tape, it began to crumble. No, she thought, I need you. Glancing around to ensure she was alone, she shoved the pill, still stuck to the tape, into her mouth. She let her tongue suck the residue and then spat out the tape. Catching sight of her reflection in her computer screen, she wondered who the wild woman might be. She looked a sight.
Standing up, she grabbed a bottle of water from Boyd’s desk, gulped it down and headed for the incident room.
* * *
The notice boards were back in place, lining the end wall of the incident room. Hanging side by side, the death-mask photograph of Tessa Ball and an image from Emma’s phone of her mother, the missing Marian Russell.
‘Do we know if any of the blood at the scene is Marian Russell’s?’ Kirby asked.
‘This is real life, not CSI,’ Lottie said. ‘It’ll be days before we hav
e the analysis. SOCOs are still on site this morning.’ She pinned up photos of Russell’s kitchen.
‘Looks like a riot occurred,’ Kirby said.
Lottie turned to rebuke him, but instead she said, ‘Tessa Ball. Blunt-force trauma to the back of the head. Marian Russell. Last seen by her daughter Emma around six thirty p.m.’ She tapped Marian’s photo. ‘We’ll try to get a better photograph later today.’
‘Did Marian kill her mother and skip town? Or was Tessa Ball in the wrong place at the wrong time?’ Boyd asked.
‘We can only work with the facts we have. Tessa Ball lived alone, across town, in St Declan’s Apartments. No mobile phone in her handbag. A wallet with fifty-five euros and loose change. Keys, and reading spectacles in their case. A prayer book with a multitude of memoriam cards, and rosary beads.’
‘A bible thumper,’ Kirby said.
Lottie closed her eyes, counted to three and continued. ‘One of the keys opens the car parked outside the house, and we can assume the other is the key to her apartment. We’ll carry out a search there. We also need to trace her last known movements.’
Boyd piped up. ‘Report just in from McGlynn. SOCOs have recovered a phone from the car.’
‘Good. Get the data analysed.’
‘Will do.’
‘What does Emma have to say?’ Detective Maria Lynch asked.
‘She was very distraught last night. You’ll have a transcript later of my interview with her.’ Lottie eyed Boyd and smiled. A reminder for him to type it up. He nodded.
‘Is the family liaison officer with her?’ Lynch said.
‘I’m glad you asked. The regular FLO is on sick leave. I was going to suggest maybe you could stand in for her, Detective Lynch.’
‘Oh, no. I know I have the training, but I’ve so much work to be doing.’ Lynch flicked through the files on her knee.
‘Will you do it for today, please? Emma is at the Kellys’ house. You can head over after we finish and see what you can get out of her.’
Lynch tugged at her ponytail, not a bit happy. Tough shit, Lottie thought. She didn’t trust Lynch. The reason stemmed from a long time ago and she didn’t want to think about it. Not now, anyway.
‘So that’s agreed,’ Lottie said. ‘Have we an address for Arthur Russell?’
Boyd said, ‘He’s been staying at a Bed and Breakfast. I spoke with the landlady. He’s there at the moment.’
‘We’ll go and have a word with him.’
‘It’s not likely he had anything to do with the attack.’ Boyd again.
‘Why not?’ Could he not shut up and let her get on with it?
‘Doesn’t make sense. If he did it, he’d be long gone by now.’
Lottie thought for a moment. ‘We need to check where he was last night, and then we can look at means, opportunity and motive.’
Superintendent Corrigan appeared at the back of the room.
‘Go ahead, Detective Inspector Parker. Don’t let me interrupt you.’ He leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his large stomach.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Lottie said, dropping the sheets of paper she’d been holding. She didn’t trust herself to bend down to retrieve them. Her head was swimming enough already.
Boyd moved to pick them up. She cut him with a look. He sat back down.
‘Looks like a domestic to me,’ Corrigan said.
‘Looks can be deceiving.’ Did she really just say that to her superintendent?
‘I feckin’ know that,’ Corrigan said, staring straight at her, rubbing a hand over his bald head.
Maybe she should have stayed in bed.
‘Until forensics are complete, we’re not in a position to speculate,’ she said. ‘Post-mortem is occurring as we speak, but the state pathologist confirmed that blunt-force trauma to the head is the most likely contributor to Mrs Ball’s death.’
‘Blunt-force trauma? With what?’ Corrigan asked, unfolding his arms and striding through the room towards Lottie. He jabbed a thick finger at the crime-scene photo. ‘Show me.’
‘We found a potential weapon outside the back door, sir.’ Lottie pointed to a grainy night-time photograph. ‘It’s being forensically examined.’
‘A baseball bat. This is Ragmullin, not feckin’ Chicago. Who owns the bat?’
‘We haven’t determined ownership. Yet. Sir.’ Digging her nails into her palms, she repeated a silent mantra. Keep the fuck calm.
‘You seem to have determined feck all.’
‘We’re working flat out, sir.’
‘Not flat out enough. I want Russell in a cell before the day is out. And I want his wife found. Can you determine that, Detective Inspector Parker?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then get to it, the feckin’ lot of you.’ With a smug sniff, he straightened his shoulders and marched out of the door.
‘What was all that about?’ Boyd asked.
‘A load of bollocks,’ Kirby said.
‘He’s the boss,’ Lynch said.
‘I’m the boss of this investigation,’ Lottie said, throwing her arms upwards in despair. ‘Will someone track down Mrs Ball’s friends and interview them? Kirby? And find out who owns that baseball bat.’
He nodded.
Her phone rang. Desk sergeant.
‘What’s up, Don?’ Lottie asked.
‘There’s a Bernie Kelly in interview room one. She’s been there this half-hour. Did you forget about her?’
‘Shit!’ Lottie gathered up her papers, phone between ear and shoulder. ‘I’ll be down in one minute.’
As she left the incident room, she said, ‘Lynch, head over to the Kellys’. I don’t want Emma Russell left alone. Boyd, come with me.’
Kirby said, ‘What will I do?’
‘Find Tessa’s friends and the owner of that baseball bat.’
‘Can I fly to Chicago?’
Eight
‘I’m so sorry for keeping you, Mrs Kelly.’ Lottie pulled out a chair and sat facing Bernie Kelly, who was sitting with her arms folded. She looked to be mid-forties, a thick layer of foundation obscuring her natural colour and eyebrows pencilled in. Her lips were pale. Lipstick forgotten or by design? Lottie didn’t know, but she knew an attack was imminent.
‘Do you think I’ve nothing to do and nowhere to be? Thirty-five minutes I’ve been sat here.’
Received, over and out. Her strawberry-blonde hair was matted to her scalp and her mac-type jacket was still dark from the rain.
‘Please accept my apologies, but we’re at the beginning of a murder investigation. It’s a bit chaotic. I’m sure you can understand.’ Smile in place, Lottie switched on the recording equipment.
‘What’s with all that stuff?’ Bernie nodded toward the machine. ‘I’m not a suspect, am I? Do I need a solicitor? I only came in because you asked.’
‘And I appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule.’ See how that sits, Lottie thought. ‘Now, what can you tell me about Marian Russell?’
‘There’s not much to tell.’ Bernie shrugged her shoulders, a shadow of indifference falling over her green eyes.
Lottie eyed Boyd from the corner of her eye. Not one of those interviews, she hoped, where she had to extract a statement word by word.
‘What can you tell me?’
‘Like I said last night, I don’t think Marian has been too well.’
‘In what way?’
‘You know.’ Bernie pointed to her temple. ‘Up here.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Bernie sighed and lowered her eyes. ‘She became reclusive. Wouldn’t go out any more. At one time we used go to the pub for a drink on Friday and Saturday nights. The only place she goes now is work. When she’s not there, she stays at home. Won’t even answer the phone to me any more.’
‘What does Emma have to say about her mother?’
‘Emma is a bit harsh at times. I don’t think she gets that Marian could be depressed. She’s always been a daddy’s girl. She blames
her mother for the trouble at home, not her father.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘I’m sure you can access the court files. Marian took Arthur to court and got him barred from the house.’
‘We will get the files, but it would help if you could tell me what you know.’
Bernie leaned over the desk conspiratorially. ‘Beat her black and blue. Saw the bruises with my own eyes.’
‘How did you see them?’
‘Emma came crying into my house one evening, saying her mammy had made her daddy mad and she thought he was going to kill her. That’s the only time I’ve heard her speak ill of her father.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Got my phone and ran to their house. The door was wide open. Marian was curled up in a ball beside the cooker and Arthur was marching around the kitchen with a poker in his hand.’
‘Had he hit her with the poker?’
‘I don’t know what he hit her with, but she was fierce frightened. I said to him, “Arthur Russell, you get out of this house. I’ve called the guards.” I hadn’t, but maybe I should have.’
‘What happened then?’
‘He turned round and glared at me like a wild bear – not that I’ve ever seen a wild bear – then dropped the poker and ran out the back door. I got Marian to a chair. She wasn’t bleeding, just badly bruised. Said she didn’t want a doctor or the guards. Asked me to keep Emma at mine for the night and to call her mother.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I did as she asked.’
‘And you didn’t report the incident?’
‘Marian told me not to.’
‘You said you thought Marian was depressed. What way did you notice that, besides her not going out for a drink with you?’ If Marian was in fear of an abusive husband, it was understandable that she might retreat into herself, but it didn’t mean she had to be depressed.
‘I’m not sure I should speak ill of the dead…’
‘We have no evidence to suggest Marian is dead.’
‘I mean her mother. Tessa Ball.’
The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 3