* * *
When she opened her eyes, for a moment she didn’t know where she was. She pulled her legs underneath her and knelt up. At last she could draw breath. Her hands. What was on her hands? She looked around. The floor was covered in powder. The soup packets had burst open. It was splattered everywhere. Had she done that? Of course she had. Mad, mad woman!
In that moment, she didn’t care how many resolutions she had made; she needed a drink.
Katie rushed in, Louis in her arms.
‘Mam, there’s something wrong with you. Are you drunk?’
‘No, I’m just exhausted.’
‘I can’t stand living here. Do you know that? I’m going to have to leave. I don’t care what you say. I have to get out of this house.’
‘Don’t be stupid. Where can you go? You’ve no money. And it’s raining.’ Lottie wondered who was talking. Surely it wasn’t her?
‘My son has a grandad.’
‘What? Tom Rickard? Don’t be daft, Katie.’
‘Mam, we need to talk.’ Katie sat herself at the table.
Lottie dragged herself over and sat down. ‘Tom Rickard doesn’t know about Louis.’
‘I traced him. Emailed him. And he wants to see his grandson. You can’t cope with us all here, so in a few weeks I’m going to take Louis to visit him.’
‘After all I’ve done for you and little Louis! I’ve been so worried about you. You can’t just up and leave.’
‘It will only be for a holiday. Nothing’s finalised. I just sent a few emails.’
‘Louis is too young.’
‘No he’s not. I’ve applied for his passport.
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can. I did. Mam, we need a break from each other. I need a few weeks away. You need the space too.’
Lottie felt her mouth opening and closing. No words came out. Only a few minutes ago she’d been half wishing them out of the house, and now she didn’t know what was going on. Be careful what you wish for. Sure.
Sixty
Boyd was standing on the doorstep.
‘Are you going to invite me in, or what?’
‘Or what,’ Lottie said, opening the door wider.
‘Is it raining in there?’
‘I’ve just got out of the shower. Come in.’
He shoved a brown bag containing a plastic bottle into her hand, shuffled out of his jacket and made for the kitchen. ‘Something smells good.’
‘You’re an awful liar. Dinner is well over. Unless you’d like some Pot Noodles.’
‘I’d rather be shot than poisoned any day,’ he said, sitting at the table.
‘Make yourself comfortable.’ Lottie inspected the bottle. ‘Diet Coke? No wine in Tesco?’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘You’re in some mood tonight.’
‘Pot and kettle.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I… Lottie, give me a break. I just came round to see if you’re doing okay. After today, you know…’
‘I’m fine.’ She chewed the inside of her lip, not liking where the conversation was headed.
‘That’s not what Katie… Shit!’
Bottle of Coke in one hand, a glass in the other, Lottie stared open-mouthed at him. She hadn’t expected that. ‘What are you saying? Come on, Boyd. Out with it.’
‘It’s nothing. Katie rang me. Said you were having a meltdown and would I come have a chat with you.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ She handed him the glass. ‘You should have brought wine.’
‘Thanks.’ He twisted it around in his hand.
She poured a glass for herself. Her phone rang. She glanced at it. Saw the caller ID.
‘Are you not answering it?’ he asked.
‘It’s only Annabelle. She can leave a message. I suppose Katie contacted her too. She’s probably checking up that I didn’t take an overdose.’
‘Don’t be so disparaging. People care about you. Sometimes you reach a stage where you have to admit you need help, and when it’s offered, you should take it.’
‘So it’s Dr Phil sitting at my table, not my friend Boyd.’
‘I am your friend. Don’t you get it, Lottie? You had a bitch of a day today, a horrible week, and you need to talk about it. No use burying your head in the sand.’
They sipped their drinks to the sound of Louis whimpering and Katie soothing him in the other room, and the rain bashing against the windows.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. No one can understand,’ Lottie said.
‘Try me.’
She kept her eyes downcast, swirling the Coke in the glass.
‘I’m drowning, Boyd. That’s what it feels like. I have this feeling inside, just here.’ She drummed her chest with her fist. ‘It’s consuming me. I feel so selfish. I can’t love anyone. Not even my children. Do you know why?’
‘Tell me.’ His face was etched with concern; his eyes swimming with unspoken words.
‘I’m afraid,’ she said, lowering her eyes from his gaze. ‘If I love, I will lose. And I can’t lose them. Not my children. Oh God, if anything happened to them, to any one of them or to little Louis, I’d throw myself into Lough Cullion. Can you understand that?’
‘I understand that you love your children and Louis. You love them so much you’re afraid to reveal it. You think that if you show how much you care, you’ll get hurt or you’ll hurt them. This is life, Lottie. We all get hurt. But we are the grown-ups. We can handle it. Right? You loved Adam, then he died. And that is your only problem. You don’t know how to cope with the guilt.’
‘Guilt?’
‘Maybe not guilt. Maybe it’s fear. I’m not Dr Phil, but I believe you’re so consumed with a fear of losing all you love that you push everyone away. There’s this giant barrier, like a… like a force field around you, repelling each and every person you care for. You need to break it down, Lottie, or it will break you.’
She smiled weakly. ‘Thanks, Boyd. You’ve put into words exactly how I feel.’ She knew he was so right. Her fear of loss meant she kept him away too. ‘Now no more talk about me. I’ll be fine.’
A soft silence descended on them.
‘I can’t understand why Emma was killed,’ he said at last. His words immediately brought a chill to the room. It settled on Lottie’s shoulders.
‘Maybe she saw or knew something,’ she said. ‘I suspect there’s something about the night Tessa was murdered that we’ve missed. We’ll go back over every bit of evidence in the morning. I won’t rest until this is solved.’
‘Stop. Don’t beat yourself up. Whoever killed her wanted to wipe that whole family out. They’re on a mission and I don’t think you or anyone else would have stopped them.’
‘But why? We need to dig beneath the surface of this.’
The front door opened and closed.
‘Well, if it isn’t himself… Boyd. Am I right?’
‘Hello, Mrs Fitzpatrick.’ Boyd stood and shook her hand.
Rose dropped her umbrella into the sink and shifted out of her raincoat, handing it to Boyd to hang up in the hall. ‘It’s an awful night to be out.’
‘What has you out in it?’ Lottie asked, taking no notice of Boyd’s cautionary look from behind her mother’s back.
‘Dropped in to see if everything was all right.’
Had Katie called her mother? She was going to kill that girl.
‘Everything is fine. Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘I heard about that poor child. Tessa Ball’s granddaughter. Terrible business altogether.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Boyd offered.
Lottie glared. It was her house!
‘Sure, why not?’
As Boyd filled the kettle, Lottie asked, ‘Did you hear Marian Russell died today too?’
Rose paled. ‘No, I never heard that.’
‘Are you sure you can’t tell me anything about Tessa and her family?’
‘I’m sure.’
>
‘She was a solicitor in the seventies and eighties. You or Dad have any dealings with her?’
Lottie studied her mother. Rose’s hand shook slightly, but her eyes were focused straight ahead, unwavering.
‘I can’t recall that we had anything to do with her.’
‘Dad’s will, maybe?’
‘No. You know he left everything to me. And once I’m gone, it’ll be yours.’
‘Mick O’Dowd. Do you know him?’
Rose shook her head. ‘Can’t say that I do. Why? What did he do?’
‘I don’t know yet. I think maybe he was an old boyfriend of Tessa’s.’
‘I doubt that very much. She had no time for anyone other than her daughter, Marian. Spoiled that girl rotten, she did. Compensating for the loss of her husband at such a young age.’
Lottie searched for the insinuation, but couldn’t find it. Rose was quiet. Too quiet. Lottie studied her mother. She seemed to be lost in her own world, a film of tears shrouding her eyes.
‘Mother, what’s wrong? Are you okay?’
Shrugging off Lottie’s hand, Rose stood. ‘I’d better get home. You’re in good hands here.’
‘Kettle’s almost boiled,’ Boyd said.
Rose smiled. Trust Boyd to get her mother on his side.
‘Next time.’
At the door, Rose turned. ‘Mick O’Dowd? A right ladies’ man in his day, if it’s the same fellow I’m thinking of.’
‘Lives out by Dolanstown,’ Lottie said.
‘That’s him.’
‘We think he might have killed Emma,’ Boyd said.
‘Emma? He wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head.’
‘Why not? Did he know her? She was killed at his farmhouse. He is one of our suspects.’
‘He wouldn’t hurt that girl. You’d better look elsewhere.’ Rose stepped out into the rain, opened up her umbrella then closed it again before the wind could take hold of it.
‘What do you mean?’ Lottie asked her mother’s departing figure.
‘Do you want a lift?’ Boyd offered.
‘I have my car.’ And Rose disappeared out onto the road.
Lottie stared at Boyd as the rain beat in on top of them.
‘Close the door,’ Boyd said.
In the kitchen, seated at the table, they sat in silence digesting what Rose Fitzpatrick had said.
‘First she knew nothing, then she knew an awful lot. I can’t figure her out at all.’
‘Could Mick O’Dowd have been the writer of Tessa’s love letters?’ Boyd said.
‘It’s all a bit mad. And I really think my mother isn’t well. Did you notice how pale she is?’
‘A bit thinner, maybe.’
‘I’m going to have a word with Annabelle about her. Book her in for a check-up.’
‘Did Annabelle leave you a message?’
‘I never checked my phone. She’ll ring back if it’s urgent, but knowing her…’
‘Lottie? You need a check-up, never mind your mother.’
‘Don’t start. Finish your drink, then I’m going to bed.’
Boyd drained his Coke, and Lottie took the glass and put it in the sink. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
He got up and headed for the door. ‘You know, if what your mother insinuated is correct, then Marian Russell could’ve been Tessa and O’Dowd’s daughter.’
‘There’s no point in speculating. Whether she was or not, what relevance can it have to anything we’re dealing with?’
‘Maybe nothing, or…’
‘Or maybe everything. At this stage, we don’t know. Goodnight, Boyd.’ She gave him a quick hug.
Chloe came down the stairs. ‘I’ve an appointment with my therapist in the morning. But don’t worry, I can go on my own.’
‘See you,’ Boyd said with a wink.
‘Bye,’ Chloe said.
Lottie locked the front door and switched off the sitting room light.
‘Hey, I’m going to watch some telly,’ Chloe said.
‘Don’t be up half the night,’ Lottie warned as her daughter passed her in the hall, rolling her eyes like only a teenager could.
Lottie’s heart stopped for a moment. There was one Ragmullin teenager who would never roll her eyes again.
She reached out and touched Chloe’s arm. The girl stopped. ‘Are you okay now, Mum?’
Lottie gripped her middle child in a hug, and received one back. Holding Chloe at arm’s length, she said, ‘Once I have my family, I’ll always be okay.’
‘Good. You scared us earlier. You are a good mum, if a little wacky at times.’
‘Thanks for that, Chloe.’
‘Any time. Now can I watch the telly?’
‘And you’re okay too, aren’t you?’
Chloe turned up her sleeves. Lottie gulped at the sight of the old scars ridged along her arms. But there were no fresh cuts. ‘I’m doing fine. And I know I’ve to talk to my therapist or to you if I ever feel that bad again.’
‘And Sean and Katie? Are they okay?’
‘Mum, you need to ask them, not me.’
Lottie gave Chloe one last squeeze and watched her beautiful, intelligent daughter walk tall into the sitting room.
Yes, she really must talk with Sean and Katie.
But first she needed to sleep.
Sixty-One
Alexis sat at the head of the long table, where she could see her seated guests. They lined the length of it, eight on each side. Sixteen of the most influential people in New York’s computer gaming industry. The place that had been set at the end of the table, facing her, remained empty. As it had done for the last few weeks.
But her child would return. Once things were sorted.
It was an important time. A busy time. She needed to ensure she sorted out the mess in Ragmullin. A mess that was now threatening the world she had spent her life building up. A mess that she had fled from forty years ago, hoping she was leaving it all behind forever. She should have known that the death of an inconsequential garda sergeant in 1975 would one day resurrect itself; that skeletons would fall out of closets and come knocking on her door. Bones had been resurrected, and it was then her worries began in earnest.
Not that his death had much to do with her. No. It was what had happened the year before it that caused her intense worry. But after the discovery of the boy’s bones last January, Alexis knew it was the one thing that could unhinge the old woman to reveal what she might or might not have suspected for years. And Alexis needed to be in control of all possibilities. Plans had been put in place. But as it turned out, she’d been blindsided. No matter what happened now, she had to make sure her child never found out.
As laughter mingled with the rise and fall of the chatter around the table, Alexis tuned it out and devised the next steps she must take.
This time the past would stay buried.
She could not risk losing the child.
Once was enough for that to happen.
She would make damn sure it would not happen again.
The Eighties
The Child
That’s what they call me. The Child.
Do they not know I have a name? I did have one once. So long ago, I don’t even remember it.
Doesn’t matter now. I can be who or what I want to be.
I’m working on the farm now. A farm? Ha, that’s a laugh. I even laugh when I say it. It’s just a patch of ground within the high walls surrounding the asylum. Yes, I can call it an asylum now. Because that is what it is. This is where I have been abandoned. I’ll most likely die within these walls.
But today I am outside.
Johnny Joe shows me how to sow herbs. Herbs that heal, he says. Pity he didn’t use them on himself. The mad old man with his crooked brown fingers and his smoke-ridden cough.
I don’t think about my mother much any more. The voices have stopped calling her name. Maybe she is dead. Or maybe someone released her. Why didn’t they release me? Has everyone forgotten
that I’m here? I asked a nurse one day when I’d be going home. She laughed and mussed up my hair.
‘You’re never going home.’
‘Why not?’
‘Your home was burned to the ground, you mad child.’
‘I’m not mad. Not like the others. I just want to get out.’
‘The only way you can get out of here, child, is when whoever signed you in comes back for you and signs you out.’
‘Why haven’t they come back?’
‘I think they’ve forgotten you exist.’
And she walked away from me.
I think of that conversation as I place another seed into the gnarled old hands of Johnny Joe. I watch his fingers curl over the little source of life before he drops it on the dry earth. I spread the clay over the seed with my fingers and dip them into the pot for another one. We repeat this process six hundred and sixty-five times before I start to cry.
He looks up at me, the whites of his eyes yellow. He grabs my hand and raises it to his lips. I think he’s going to bite my fingers off. But no, he gently kisses the tips of them.
‘No crying in here, child. The time for crying is done. The devil is all around us. Crying won’t keep him away. He is in your very soul. Now back to work.’
I hand him the final seed.
‘Six hundred and sixty-six.’
Day Five
Sixty-Two
The morning awoke with a sepia sky, the clouds low and watery. The storm died with the night but it left a trail of destruction in its wake.
Lottie was in the station before any of the others. No sign of McMahon, either. She flicked through the news on her phone app.
Farming land in the midlands had flooded; rivers had burst their banks and overflowed. There was a special report from Ragmullin. Cathal Moroney, with his flashy white teeth. The lower end of the town was now sinking in the waters of the river. The greyhound stadium was a mini lake; all racing cancelled for the foreseeable future. One picture showed mucky brown water streaming from the front of Carey’s electrical shop; a plastic-covered washing machine bobbing just inside the door. The council had a Boil Water notice in place as Lough Cullion, the drinking water supply, had been contaminated with run-off from surrounding farms.
The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 20