‘The drugs unit lads will be down here so,’ Boyd said.
‘Corrigan will be a mile up our arses.’
‘And theirs.’
‘I need to think about all this. Incident team meeting first thing in the morning. We have to find out exactly what this ungodly mess is all about.’ She stood up and got her jacket. ‘I’m going home.’
‘I’ll do further searches. See what I can find out.’
‘Check with the drugs unit. Lorcan Brady might be on their radar.’
‘And Arthur Russell? Will I bring him in for questioning again?’
‘Yes. The coat and the receipt are new evidence. See what he has to say for himself.’
‘I’ll get Kirby to sit in with me. Enjoy the rest of your evening,’ Boyd said, without looking up.
She didn’t answer, just left him there with the murmur of the radiators cooling down for the night.
Thirty-Five
It was dark and the church bells were chiming seven when Lottie stepped outside. Almost blown away, she gripped the railing to steady herself before heading round to the yard for her car.
‘There you are.’
Lottie groaned. ‘You again.’
Cathal Moroney fell into step beside her, trying to keep hold of a massive golf umbrella.
‘Off the record,’ he yelled against the wind. ‘Please.’
‘You can say please, thank you, kiss my arse all you like, but I’m not making any statement on anything.’ She clamped her mouth shut and searched her bag for her keys.
‘It’s drugs-related, isn’t it?’
‘No comment.’
‘I heard Lorcan Brady is involved.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ Shit.
‘I knew it!’ he said triumphantly as a gust of wind took hold of his umbrella.
Lottie turned and stuck a finger in his chest. ‘You know nothing until you get an official comment. Got it?’
‘I want to speak to you about it. You see, I’m doing my own investigation into drugs in rural towns and I think—’
‘You can stop right there, Moroney.’ At last her fingers closed on the keys in the bottom of her bag. She held them aloft and pointed to the gate with them. ‘This is private property, and if you don’t want me to arrest you, I’d advise you to leave. Right now.’
‘You’re making a big mistake, Inspector.’ Moroney grabbed his umbrella with both hands. ‘When you realise that, come talk to me. I have a lot of information you might be interested in. Historical stuff. Think about it.’
Lottie bent down to open her car. Maybe she should talk to the journalist. See what he had. If anything. But when she turned around, he was running out the gate after his umbrella.
Not meant to be, she thought. But as she drove home, the car swaying through the deserted streets, she wondered if she’d been foolish not to listen to him. As her mother was used to saying, ‘Time will tell.’
Thirty-Six
Arthur Russell sat down heavily on the steel chair and faced the two detectives, listening as they went through the formalities and fiddled with the recording equipment.
‘Any chance of a decent cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘I came in voluntarily without my solicitor. The least you can do is get me a cuppa.’
‘Do you want us to call your solicitor?’
‘Tea with two sugars would be grand.’ He needed something in his bloodstream to keep him focused. Fat lot of good the solicitor had done him so far. He’d listen and keep his trap shut.
The chubby detective with the bushy hair, the one who called himself Kirby, returned with the tea. Russell savoured it, even though it was in a paper cup. At least it was hot. The sugar surged through his brain. More than two, he thought. These boys wanted him alert.
‘Do you have any idea where your daughter is?’
He hadn’t been expecting this. ‘What are you talking about? Didn’t you tell me she was at that Kelly one’s house?’
‘She was. But she appears to have run away from there. Have you seen her?’
Russell went to stand up. The burly detective pushed him back down. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Emma? I’m leaving. I need to look for my girl.’
‘Sit down, Mr Russell. Do you know where she might be?’
Hyperventilating now, he tried to get the words out of his mouth. ‘Try my studio… shed. She sometimes comes round and listens to me play music. I was at work and came straight here when you called. She might be there.’
‘We checked. She’s not there. She took Natasha’s bicycle earlier, and Natasha said she might have gone to her boyfriend. You know about that?’
‘Emma doesn’t have a boyfriend.’
‘You sure?’
Running his hand furiously across his head, he tried to think. No, he’d never heard Emma mention anyone. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Lorcan Brady. Mean anything to you?’
‘Don’t think so.’ His brain was too tired to compute. Lorcan Brady? He thought he’d heard of him, but he wasn’t about to tell these two eejits.
‘Does this belong to you?’ Boyd placed a folded black jacket, in a plastic bag, on the table.
‘I had one like that,’ Russell said. He put down his cup and pulled the bag towards him. ‘Looks too new to be mine. It’s not mine.’
An A4 page was put in front of him. In the centre he could see a photocopy of a receipt.
Boyd said, ‘Do you want to change your story about what you did on the night Tessa Ball was murdered?’
Pushing the page back to the detective, Russell said, ‘Why would I change it? It’s the truth.’
‘You said you went straight back to your digs after your shift ended. This tells us you didn’t.’
Russell tugged at his beard. ‘I had a pint, okay? No crime in that.’
‘Two pints. Who was with you?’
‘No one. I ordered two together. Quicker that way.’ Russell looked from one detective to the other. He knew they were thinking he was talking a load of shite.
The bushy-haired one snorted.
‘What’s so funny?’ Russell asked.
‘I do that myself sometimes.’
‘There. Told you so.’
Boyd said, ‘You never mentioned having a drink. Why?’
‘I forgot. Never thought about it until you showed me the… receipt.’
‘So we find your jacket in the house and your fingerprints on the murder weapon. Can you explain that?’
‘Murder weapon?’
‘Baseball bat. The one belonging to your daughter.’
Thinking that offence was his best method of defence, Russell said, ‘So what if my fingerprints are on the baseball bat. I bought the darn thing!’
‘And the jacket?’
‘It’s not mine.’
‘Your receipt was in the pocket.’
‘I said it’s not mine.’
‘The receipt?’
‘No, knobhead, the jacket.’
‘But you said you had one just like it. The bar manager said it looked like yours when he confirmed to us that you bought the two pints.’
‘It might look like mine, but it isn’t. Go look around my digs and you’ll find mine. It’s older than that and it was wet from all the rain. I hung it up there.’
‘I have an inventory of everything in your room at the B and B. No jacket.’
‘That’s a load of bollocks.’
‘It’s a fact.’
‘Screw you.’ Russell folded his arms and sat back in his chair. Little and Large were not going to pin Tessa’s murder on him. ‘No matter how many times I actually thought of killing the old crone, I didn’t do it.’
‘You admit you had murderous thoughts?’ The bushy-haired one had woken up.
‘Right now, I want to murder the two of you. Going to arrest me for that?’
‘Do you admit to having a drink at Danny’s the evening of the murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘On your own?’
&nb
sp; ‘Yes.’
‘And you own a black North Face jacket?’
‘I won’t say another word without my solicitor.’
‘Thank you, Mr Russell.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘I’m sorry. We’ll call your solicitor, and now that we have this new evidence, you will be arrested in connection with the murder of Tessa Ball. So unless you start telling us something useful, you’ll be here for a while.’
Arthur eyed the two detectives as they switched off the recording device. Sealing the discs and whatever else they had to do. He drained his tea. Ran his finger around the bottom of the cup and licked off the remaining sugar.
As he was being led from the interview room to await his solicitor, he glanced at the plastic evidence bag containing the jacket. Arthur Russell knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. And it had nothing at all to do with the sugar in his tea.
Thirty-Seven
Annabelle O’Shea took a deep breath and shook off the feeling of foreboding as she opened the front door. Her hand throbbed and her legs were so sore she felt like she’d walked miles.
She poked her head around the sitting room door. Her seventeen-year-old twins, Pearse and Bronagh, were watching a US basketball game on the television. Not a sign of a school book. Two bags of popcorn lay open on the coffee table. She hoped they tidied them up before Cian came downstairs.
‘Hi, Mom,’ Bronagh said, waving her hand in the air without turning round.
‘You’re home late,’ Pearse said, standing up.
Annabelle hugged her son and he began tidying up the coffee table. She mussed up her daughter’s long hair. ‘Why don’t you both go to your rooms and make a start on homework?’
The twins gathered up their school bags, switched off the television and disappeared up the stairs. She made her way to the kitchen.
It was sparkling clean. Cian had gone into overdrive. She sighed. He did that after each outburst. All contrite. Thinking he could make things better by cleaning the house. The scent of citrus clung to everything, making her eyes water.
For a moment she wished he was dead. No, she shouldn’t be thinking that. She thought of Lottie Parker, struggling through widowhood, trying to raise three teenagers and a grandchild and deal with a battleaxe mother who only helped out when the mood took her. I’m the lucky one, Annabelle told herself.
Dropping her handbag and the plastic bag of groceries she’d carried from the car onto the table, she pulled out a chair and sat down. Waiting for Cian to come down the stairs demanding his dinner. His domesticity hadn’t extended to cooking. She felt like ordering a takeaway. Chinese. Maybe Indian. That would be nice. If Cian was penitent enough after yesterday, he might agree. But his outbursts were becoming more frequent and his remorse less genuine. Since he’d found out about her affair with Tom Rickard, he had morphed into something that appeared more animal than human. Had his anger and violence always been simmering beneath the surface? Had she been too caught up in her own world to notice?
He appeared in the doorway. No smile. Hands clenching and unclenching. She braced herself for the onslaught, praying it would only be verbal. He wouldn’t dare touch her with the children in the house.
‘You’re late.’ His voice a whispered snarl.
‘The surgery was busy today. This rain has everyone sniffling with colds. Not that I can give them anything for a cold. Doesn’t stop them appearing at my door, though.’ She held his gaze. Dark unwavering eyes stared back at her. She knew she was babbling on. ‘Did you have a productive day?’ she added.
‘What do you think?’ He shut the door behind him.
Annabelle closed her eyes, tiredness seeping through her bones, pain throbbing in her burned hand.
‘Look at me,’ he said.
She felt his fingers jerk her chin upwards, and her eyes flew open.
‘Cian. Stop. You’re hurting me.’ She tried to unlock his hand from her face. He squeezed harder. ‘You’ll leave bruises,’ she muttered through pursed lips.
‘I want you to relate your day to me. Minute by minute. Leave nothing out. I’ll know if you’re lying.’
Ever since he’d found out about her affair, he’d kept tabs on her like she was a felon and he a detective. With little choice, she related her day’s activity. Leaving out Lottie’s visit. No need for Cian to know about that.
The slap across the back of her head caught her unawares.
‘Liar,’ he said, his lips close to her ear.
‘I’m telling the truth. I’ll get my diary up on my laptop. You can check.’
‘I know your diary. It’s linked to mine.’
Annabelle tried to breathe normally. He was too close. She should have known a computer geek like her husband would have access to all her data. But Lottie hadn’t been registered in her diary. She’d just shown up. There was no way Cian could have known about her.
She said, ‘So then you know who was in and out all day.’
‘Lottie Parker. Why didn’t you mention her?’
He released her chin.
Annabelle stilled her hand from reaching to soothe her aching flesh. ‘I need to put dinner on, unless you’d like a takeaway?’
‘Don’t attempt to change the subject. I asked you a question.’
How could he know about Lottie? Had he been following her?
‘She wasn’t in my diary because she just turned up. Before surgery started. What’s the big deal?’ Be brave, she encouraged herself.
‘I’ll tell you what the big deal is. You’re a lying, cheating whore. And I am in control of your life now. Not you. If you do one thing, one little thing without telling me, you will never set eyes on those two again.’ He nodded towards the ceiling.
‘I get the message.’
His hand clutched her shoulder and his fingers pinched into the bone. Around her throat they crawled, tightening with each movement. She dared not breathe. She tried to stare him down, but had to blink. A lump choked her up and she couldn’t gulp it away. His fingers pressed tighter. Her legs jellied and her knees buckled.
Then just at the moment when she felt she must surely pass out, he eased the pressure and removed his hand.
Putting his lips to her ear, he sucked hard and gnashed his teeth into the lobe. She squealed but managed to suppress a scream.
‘I’m watching your every move,’ he sneered. ‘Every. Single. Move.’
He released her and she collapsed against the table, trying to catch her breath. When she heard the door close behind him, she ran and vomited into the sink.
* * *
He entered his study and locked the door behind him.
‘Bitch! Stupid bitch,’ he said, sitting down at his computer consoles. He had four screens. One for work, one for gaming, one to check on the webcams spread throughout the house and the other for the webcam in her office.
He checked her phone. Usual trivia. He was sure she hadn’t got a new lover. But he was leaving nothing to chance this time. Not after that bastard Rickard had snared her.
No, Cian O’Shea was leaving nothing to chance.
He flicked on a screen, tapped a folder and brought up the photographs.
‘You are going to pay,’ he said.
But first Lottie Parker needed to be alienated.
Thirty-Eight
She was home a little earlier than usual. Didn’t make any difference. The house was still the same. Her family was still the same.
Sean shouted down the stairs. ‘Mam? Do you know anything about photosynthesis?’
‘Ask Chloe or Katie.’
‘They won’t help me and this homework has to be in for tomorrow.’
Lottie rested against the door. Closed her eyes. Took a deep breath.
‘Sorry, Sean. I know nothing.’
A screech from the baby alerted her to the fact that he was in the sitting room. She poked her head around the door. Katie was lying on the floor, fast asleep, little Louis swaddled in a blanket in the crook of her arm.
/> Lottie lifted him up without waking her daughter. Cuddling the little boy to her chest, she brought him to the kitchen. She snapped on the electric heater and glanced at the clock, wondering where Chloe might be. Finding a full bottle of formula beside the steriliser, she sat in her armchair and began to feed the baby. Maybe her own rumbling tummy might soothe him.
As Louis sucked at the bottle, Lottie thought how this serenity was a million miles from the hectic day she’d endured. Work–life balance. Wasn’t that what management expounded? She doubted any of the suits resident on the top floor lived the life she did. And then there was Moroney, with his bloodhound nose, sniffing for a story, and her mother still refusing to tell her anything about her dad’s death.
Her grandson’s blue eyes closed and she admired the length of his lashes. She thought of Jason Rickard, the child’s father. Tom and Melanie had a right to know about their grandchild. She had to talk to Katie about it. Soon. Tomorrow, maybe.
‘Are you going to cook any dinner?’ Sean swung through the kitchen door, his head almost touching the lintel. If he grew any taller, she’d have to raise the roof. She smiled. Was it the baby relaxing her?
‘I’ll finish feeding him and then put something on.’
‘I can get stuff from the freezer,’ he offered.
She supposed this was easier for him than trying to do his homework.
Sean disappeared to the utility room and returned with a frozen pizza and a bag of oven chips.
‘Which switch is for the oven?’
* * *
Sean fed everyone. Chloe arrived home. In a tantrum, she pounded up the stairs and banged her bedroom door behind her.
‘Boy trouble?’ Sean said, and escaped to his own room.
Lottie was thinking of asking Chloe about Emma. The girls had been friends at one stage, though Emma was a year ahead of Chloe in school. But did she want to involve her daughter in a case again? No, maybe not, especially after the last time.
Katie put Louis into his buggy and pushed him up and down the hall trying to get him to sleep.
The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 13