‘How big is O’Dowd?’
Lottie thought for a moment, recalling his broad shoulders – a man used to hauling animals and feedstuff.
‘He’s a farmer. Worked alone. He looked strong and relatively fit, despite his age. But I can’t see him killing Emma.’
‘Why not?’
‘She came here after her grandmother was murdered and her mother left lying in a coma in hospital. She didn’t seek out her father. She came to O’Dowd. Why?’
‘Some prearranged code?’
‘Perhaps. But what danger did she pose that warranted her being killed?’
‘Maybe, like her mother, she knew something and was going to blab.’
‘Then we have to find out what that something was.’
Lottie turned to find that McMahon had divested himself of his coat and was sitting at the table, fingers tapping the grained wood. Even though the house had been thoroughly searched, she felt the need to do something. She began opening and shutting cupboard doors.
‘You won’t find anything,’ he said. Tap, tap, tap, his fingers continued.
‘You never know.’ He was grating on every nerve in her body. She stood back and visualised the scene as it might’ve been just before Emma was attacked.
Dinner dishes washed up. Draining board wiped clean. Accounting ledgers on the table. Her spectacles and phone on the floor. The floor. Dropping to her knees, Lottie lay flat on her stomach and looked around.
‘What in the name of…?’ McMahon began.
‘Shush.’
A horde of people had trooped through the house. Everywhere had been searched, fingerprinted; DNA collected. Had something been missed? Like a predator, Lottie crawled on her belly, arms outstretched as she moved towards the sink area. A gap, about three inches, between the cupboard and the floor. Reaching out her hands in front of her, she eased them into the space. They touched something solid. She flicked her fingers, trying to draw the object out.
‘It’s a book.’
‘More of O’Dowd’s accounts, no doubt. Did that man never hear of a computer?’
She heard McMahon shove back his chair. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor. An icy shiver escaped from the bottom of her skull and travelled down the nape of her neck. If McMahon wanted to pay her back for her enmity, now was the time. Get a grip, Parker. Her fingers edged round the corner of the book and she slid it towards the aperture. Blowing dust out of her nostrils, she grabbed it in her hand and sat back on her haunches.
‘Well, fuck me pink,’ she said.
‘Are you offering?’
Lottie swung round. Boyd was framed in the doorway, dousing a cigarette between his fingertips.
He nodded to McMahon.
Standing up and brushing herself down, Lottie didn’t bother to ask Boyd why he’d followed her. She was just glad he had.
‘What did you find?’ McMahon peered over her shoulder.
‘An old book.’
‘Probably down there since the kitchen was installed a hundred years ago. I’ll see you two back at the station. I hope you can come up with some answers for Emma’s involvement. I want to wrap this up as soon as I can.’
‘Wrap it up and get back to your castle,’ Lottie said, between gritted teeth. She knew he’d heard her by the force of the door banging after his exit.
Boyd said, ‘You know that blacklist management keep? I reckon your name is in the brightest of red letters, commanding top spot.’
‘It’s the same book,’ Lottie said.
‘What book?’
‘Have you an evidence bag?’
‘Out in the boot of the car. Why?’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s well contaminated by now.’ She laid the hardback on the table, stood it on its side and read the gold lettering on the brown linen spine. ‘Culpeper’s Complete Herbal. Similar to the one Marian had.’
‘Looks different.’
‘This hasn’t got the dust jacket.’ She flicked open the old pages, some with colour illustrations of plants; most lined in a tiny font. ‘Look, Boyd.’
Small cursive strokes in blue ink, now faded, at the top right-hand corner of the index page: Carrie King.
Seventy-Six
Sitting on a boulder on the shore of Lough Cullion, Arthur Russell scanned the dark horizon, then glanced behind him up the hill at the big old house.
Only one window had a light shining. He couldn’t see any shadows but he knew she was up there – looking out on the expanse of her once immense fortune. Marian had told him the story but he hadn’t believed her. When had that been? Back when she’d started her cursed study course. He’d thought she’d been making it all up. But now, after all that had happened, he suspected she might have been telling the truth. He should go to the guards and tell them. Shouldn’t he?
They already suspected him of murdering Tessa and possibly mutilating and killing Marian. If that was all, he might have told them. But then Cathal Moroney had arrived at his door looking for a comment on the murder of Emma. His daughter. His beautiful princess, who’d been taken from him by Marian and Tessa. His little treasure – his reason for living. And now she was gone. He drained the can of cider and pulled up the tab on another.
The black waves on the usually calm lake, now dappled with heavy raindrops, churned up an angry white froth and sloshed against his feet on the stony shore. The boat shed, to his left, appeared like a shroud in the darkness, beckoning him with a watery finger.
His tears mingled with corpulent raindrops as he heaved his guitar in its leather case higher onto his shoulder and took his first step into the water. The second step was harder. The third almost impossible. By the time he stopped counting, the water was swirling about his waist, pulling against him. He kept on going.
Seventy-Seven
Annabelle slid her phone from one hand to the other. Why hadn’t Lottie returned her call last night? If she wanted happy pills, she’d be here in an instant.
Cian was out. Again. His usual night-time forays. Hopefully he had another woman and he might disappear for good with her. God help her when she got to know the real Cian. Annabelle’s one regret was that she hadn’t held onto Tom Rickard when she’d had the chance.
Pacing the hallway, her eyes darting up the stairs, she knew she had to see what was hidden behind that locked door. Making up her mind without any thought for the consequences, she ran up the stairs. She’d try every conceivable combination and hopefully something would work.
At the top landing, she stared. The door to Cian’s study was slightly ajar. Could she be this lucky? No. Cian was too careful. But he’d left in an awful hurry. Had he really gone out? She felt her heartbeat reverberating in her ears. Quickly she flew back down the stairs. Checked the kitchen, the living and utility rooms. Opening the back door, she could see that the garage was open and empty. He was definitely out. And the twins were at after-school study.
Back up the stairs. Back to stand outside her husband’s study with its open door.
Forcing her feet to move, she sidled up to the door. Pushed it with her index finger. Waited as it slid inwards.
The sight before her stopped her breath and silenced her heart. Taking another step inside, careful to make sure that the door didn’t close and lock her in, she bit her lip and gripped her arms around her sides. She hadn’t been in here in recent months. She’d expected the computer, monitor and lights. But not to the extent that she now witnessed.
‘What is this?’ she whispered.
‘Mine,’ Cian said from behind her, and the door clicked shut.
Annabelle whirled around on the balls of her feet, eyes widening in terror.
‘I’m s-sorry… the… the d-door was open.’
‘It was a test, you dumb bitch. A test to see if you would respect my privacy. And do you know what? Come on, answer me. No? I’ll tell you. You failed!’
His balled-up fist didn’t connect with her face. Cian O’Shea wasn’t that stupid. Instead it thumped into her sol
ar plexus. Doubling over, she fell to her knees.
‘Cian, no… no. I saw nothing. Honestly.’ Coughing, she curled into a ball as he kicked out with his booted foot, catching her on the kneecap.
She felt his breath at her ear as he crouched down beside her.
‘There’s nothing to see. Just my work. It’s all that’s important to me in this world. My children and this. Not you. Do you get that?’
As he bit down on the lobe of her ear, pulling out the stud earring, she cried out again. ‘Please stop.’
‘You go around town, the important doctor following in daddy’s footsteps. But inside the walls of this house, you are mine. And you know I monitor your phone calls, so tell me why you were ringing that stupid bitch Parker last night? Don’t deny it, because I know.’
‘I didn’t get to talk to her. She didn’t pick up.’
‘That’s not the point, is it? The point is you fucking phoned her!’
‘I… I’m sorry.’
‘You will be.’
She felt his fingers tighten around her burned wrist; she sensed the blister bursting and pain shot up her arm and across her chest. ‘I wish I was dead,’ she cried.
‘Be careful what you wish for.’
A high-pitched beep sounded above her head and a screen burst into light.
‘Out you go,’ he said, pulling her by her damaged wrist and dragging her to her feet.
She looked into his mad eyes before he opened the door and pushed her outside. As the door closed, she heard him say, ‘One minute, please, I’m just getting rid of the dog.’
* * *
Walking around her office, Alexis tapped a manicured fingernail against her hip.
‘Who was that?’ she asked, working hard at keeping her temper even. She was fed up with phone calls. Nuisance individuals interfering in all she was trying to do. But this one was important.
‘Nothing for you to worry about.’
‘I know you don’t have a dog. I asked you a question!’
‘Just my wife. She’s gone now. No worries.’
‘I pay you well so that I shouldn’t have to worry. I insisted that no one else should know.’
‘No one knows. I guarantee it. She heard nothing. Do you want this update?’
Listening to his breath panting down the line, she picked up a cigarette and lit it, careful not to stand too close to the smoke alarm. Exhaling fumes through her nostrils, she eased relaxation into her body.
‘Please tell me the old woman is no longer a threat.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve more to be concerned about than her. I’ve discovered that someone else has a potentially damning file.’
‘Why are you telling me this? Go and get it.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘You are the computer geek; find it.’
‘It’s a hard copy. Compiled by hand, years ago. I got you the post-mortem file, didn’t I?’
‘I wasn’t aware there was another file in existence. What’s in it?’
‘I don’t know and I can’t go breaking and entering again. I prefer the technical stuff.’
‘You have to get it.’
‘No. I can’t do it. And that’s final.’
She walked more and more slowly, her finger-tapping becoming increasingly insistent against her Michael Kors black jersey dress. In front of the life-size portrait on the end wall, she stopped and allowed her hand to slowly glide over the ridges of oil left by the brush. An artist’s interpretation of the only person she loved. Letting her hand linger on the painted chin, then the eyes, she smiled. ‘I won’t let anything come back to haunt you.’
‘What?’
‘I wasn’t talking to you.’ She marched to her desk. Sitting down, she said, ‘But now I am.’
She could see the man pulling away from the camera. Shock? She would give him a shock.
‘You’re to get that file. Do whatever it takes. And make sure there are no more nasty surprises waiting to crawl out and slither into my world. You got that?’
‘But—’
‘No buts! Do you want me to divert my million dollars away from your piss-poor company? Because I will. And those lovely twins of yours – you really don’t want anything to happen to them. Do you? So lift your lazy ass out of that chair and get the file.’
She waited as he struggled to find a suitable retort. But she knew there was none. Money talked, and her money was now shouting the loudest of all.
‘Don’t you dare threaten my children.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.’ She reached out a finger to stab the monitor, and his image filled the screen. ‘Little man, you have no idea who you are dealing with.’
‘What did you just call me?’
‘Go and do as I ordered. I’m paying you well. And I want that file. That’s final.’
She jabbed the keyboard and the screen went black, plunging her desk space into darkness. Sitting back in her chair, she puffed on her cigarette and closed her eyes.
Seventy-Eight
When dinner was finished, Sean remained seated at the table.
‘Mam, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, Sean. How are you, though?’
‘I feel great, honestly. But you…’
‘It’s just this case I’m working on. It’s draining me.’
‘Chloe said a girl from her school was murdered. Is that what’s upsetting you?’
Lottie smiled wanly and reached out a hand, laying it on top of her son’s. ‘Yes, it is upsetting, because I have no idea why she was killed. It’s so sad.’
‘It’s not your fault, Mam.’
‘I should have looked out for her more.’ It occurred to her that she should be looking out for her own family more too.
‘Did you know she was in danger?’ Sean asked.
‘The fact that her grandmother had been murdered… well, I should’ve been more diligent with her care.’
‘Ah, Mam. Don’t beat yourself up over it. You can only do so much. You’re only one person. You can’t do everything for everyone.’
‘Sean, you are so wise at times…’ Just like his father.
‘But?’
‘But you need to do your homework. Please don’t spend so much time on those computer games. They’re not good for your brain.’
‘I got this really good one, Mam. You’d love it. A bit like GTA, but it’s set in Ireland. Guards and all.’
‘I hope I’m not featured in it.’
Sean smiled. ‘Actually, Mam, I think you are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s this woman guard and she is a real pain in the arse. Just like you.’
Lottie laughed. ‘Sean Parker, you take that back.’
‘She even looks like you. It’s so weird. There I am, playing this game, and the cop is just like my mam. Do you want a go?’
‘Maybe first I should solve a real crime. Go on. Do some homework and try to get to sleep early.’
‘Don’t I always?’
Without any warning, Sean stood up and wrapped his arms around Lottie, kissing her cheek. ‘You be careful, Mam. I don’t want to lose you too.’
She couldn’t answer. Just sat there staring at the door easing closed as her son left the kitchen. When had he grown up so much? As tall now as his father had been, and he was only fourteen. Her brave, strong son. Growing up to be just like his dad.
Linking her fingers, Lottie looked down at them. Long and freckled. Were they like her father’s? Was she like her father? What had he really been like? What drove a family man to pull the trigger of a gun and obliterate his own life and that of his family? She knew that his actions had indirectly caused the death of her brother Eddie. What had Peter Fitzpatrick been involved in for his life to end in such a bloody finale?
Her throat felt dry and she craved a drink. No. She had to think of her children and grandson. She couldn’t self-destruct like her father had. History couldn’t repeat itself.
Making up her mind, she shoved back her chair and ran up to her bedroom. Opening her bedside cabinet, she took out the bottle of vodka. Back down in the kitchen, she unscrewed the cap and watched the clear liquid swim through the plughole. When she turned round, Katie was standing in the doorway, rocking little Louis in her arms. Chloe lounged behind her. They were both smiling.
It was those smiles, more than anything, that gave Lottie hope for the future of her family. She took little Louis in her arms and inhaled his baby smell. She felt the soft pads of the palms of his hands beneath her fingers, and on either side of her, Katie and Chloe linking her arms.
Seventy-Nine
The reality of staking out a house was nothing like he had imagined. He’d been following the key players for ten months or more, and he still couldn’t get used to it. Couldn’t get used to being used. He parked his car half a mile away and walked through the terrain he had scoured on Google Maps. The flashlight from his phone lit up his steps and he was careful to hold it downwards so as not to alert any night owls of his progress. Not that many were out in the incessant rain.
Vaulting the back wall, he lowered himself easily into the garden. No lights on in the house. All in bed. Slowly he walked around the side, the drumming of the torrent masking his footsteps. No alarm system. But he already knew that. Better to be sure, though. Returning to the back door, he checked how the lock worked, then extracted a small toolkit from his wallet and got to work.
He knew the layout of the house. The drawings were online, attached to the developer’s planning application from seven years ago. Easy. Acclimatising himself to the lack of light, he waited for his eyes to focus via the illumination from the red digits on the cooker clock. Listened. The tinkle of water trickling through radiators on a night timer. The creak of furniture settling. The whoosh of the wind against the back door. Checking once more that the blinds were down and no one was moving upstairs, he switched on the torch again.
The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 26