The Silent Ones: Could You Leave A Child Behind? (Chrissy Livingstone Book 3)

by Linda Coles

  “I know where she got my number from. It’s obvious now I think about it.”

  “Where?”

  “In the pub! I had to give my number when we booked, remember? In case we were late or something.” She slapped her palm to her forehead. “I knew there’d be a simple explanation somewhere.”

  As they passed by, Julie reflected on what she’d just said: it still didn’t explain it fully, not to her. “I’m not so sure it’s that simple actually.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You gave your number to the barman. How did Ciara end up with it?”

  That stumped her. She’d no reason to have seen it; it wasn’t like she worked there. Plus, it would have been a breach of privacy for someone to hand it over, or for Ciara to have taken it without permission. The table booking only half-answered the question.

  “I’m sure the full explanation will come to me at some point. Anyway, let’s get a move on before the café closes, I still haven’t had my frothy coffee yet,” she said, increasing her pace somewhat and leaving Julie trailing behind.

  By the time they arrived back at the house, the men were asleep in the living room, Adam on one sofa and Richard on the other. A book lay oddly on the floor, having landed as if it’d slipped off Richard’s chest as he drifted off, its pages bent back, uncorrected.

  “You’d think they worked in a coal mine or something, wouldn’t you?” Chrissy said, amused at the sight in front of them. “How tired are these guys of ours?” It was like a nursery for grown men. Richard’s mouth was open, a low gurgle coming from somewhere deep at the back of his throat. Neither was aware they were being observed by their loved ones. Chrissy dropped her bag on the coffee table and flopped down in a chair.

  “It’s a good job we’re not burglars, the family silver would be long gone.”

  Julie made herself comfortable in another chair and leaned her head back, closing her eyes. “The trouble with holidays is they can be tiring,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “I think I’ll have forty winks too, before we go for dinner later. Wake me up in an hour if I haven’t woken myself, would you?”

  Chrissy looked round the room at the three and, fuelled by her recent caffeine fix, decided to let the sleeping dogs lie and make herself comfortable on the lounger outside. She grabbed one of the fleecy blankets that were stored in a basket by the door and headed to the sunniest spot, out of the breeze. She pulled the fleece around her shoulders and stared out towards the Atlantic Ocean. The peacefulness of the property, the view, and some time away with Adam and her sister was just what she needed after such a hectic year. Her father would have liked the spot, and so would her mother, though since Chrissy was no longer on speaking terms with her, she hadn’t even considered inviting the woman along. Her father’s death had stirred up a rat’s nest of deceit and lies that both she and Julie were finally coming to terms with. She missed her father, no matter his sins, and as she gazed at the lowering sun, hoped he’d died a happy man.

  Chapter 17

  Bronagh Bowen had been running the sweater shop in Doolin for the last twenty years, give or take, and had been part of the friendly holiday community virtually all of her sixty-two years. Her own mother and father, both long gone now, raised her in the small coastal town along with her brother Brocc, who owned the garage in the village. The two, like many siblings, had had their fallings out from time to time but, on the whole, cherished a close relationship with each other and were in contact almost on a daily basis. Both now single, they kept each other company, though still led their separate lives and worked their own businesses.

  When Brocc received a call-out for his pickup truck to remove the mangled wreckage of a car off the road some twenty kilometres out of town, he put his jacket on as usual and headed out to the location he’d been given. It was a night like any other. That was until he arrived at the scene and spotted the registration plate that lay broken in two nearby in the grass. It was then he knew what the police would find when they checked the identification of the driver: it was his sister, Bronagh. Frozen to the spot and staring at the plate that lay before him, he wasn’t aware of an officer speaking, didn’t hear a word the young guard said until there were two officers stood alongside him. The arrival of the sergeant did the trick, and he did his best to focus on the man’s face, looking for a clue as to his sister’s fate: dead or alive. Glancing at the wreckage again, he wanted to ask if the woman driver had perished, but his tongue felt like it had doubled in size, unable to form words. He turned, still unhearing, towards the first guard that had arrived, before finally managing to get his words out.

  “Is she alive?”

  Brocc recognised the younger officer, Garda Drew Harris, from previous call-outs. His thinning hair moved gently in the stiff breeze and his bird-like nose glowed pink in the manufactured light of the emergency vehicles as he looked to his colleague.

  “She is, miraculously,” the older of the two said. “How do you know the driver is a female, though?” This was Sergeant Michael Staines, a man Brocc had worked with on numerous occasions, though none as close to home as this one was going to be.

  He breathed a deep sigh of relief. “That’s my sister’s car,” he said, pointing. “Bronagh Bowen. She has the shop, back in Doolin.”

  Again the two officers glanced at each other, the younger waiting for his sergeant to perhaps offer more information, keeping quiet himself by default.

  “You obviously didn’t recognise her, did you? How badly injured is she?” asked Brocc.

  “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t,” Staines said. “She’s pretty banged up, and we haven’t found a handbag, so no identification, so we didn’t know. She had to be cut from the wreckage and she’s on her way to hospital, but she’s conscious, just.”

  Brocc had always been a man of few words, no matter the occasion, and with the news Bronagh was alive, knew there was nothing more he could do but hope she pulled through. He nodded his understanding before adding, “Right, she’s in the best hands, so… I may as well get her car back. My yard then, I’m assuming?” He would keep himself busy. He kept his head bowed as he spoke, not wishing to make eye contact for fear of someone seeing the worry there. Brocc Bowen was a proud man.

  “Yes, nothing suspicious here, no other vehicle involved,” the sergeant added.

  Brocc nodded his understanding and set to work. The two officers watched on as the older man made a start on the removal of what was left of his sister’s vehicle, as he busied himself with gloves and chains and various levers to get it hoisted on board his truck. But Brocc was intrigued as to what had caused the accident, likely because it involved his kin. Normally he didn’t give it much thought, just cleared the aftermath away. It was always someone else’s family member.

  When he’d loaded up and preserved the wreckage as best he could, he presented himself to Sergeant Staines once more. Brocc had a question.

  “Michael, do you have any clue at all what happened here? Only there’s no power pole or tree to hit, and no other vehicle involved, no other debris that I can see.”

  “So far, no, not a great deal. There could have been a medical event, perhaps. Was Bronagh unwell at all? On medication?”

  “Not that I know of, no.”

  “On her phone, maybe, distracted with something. We see it all the time. A quick text can be deadly.”

  Brocc felt himself pale. “I doubt it. She was a good driver, conscientious.”

  “Well, it’s a good straight stretch of road, dark or not, and there’s nothing obvious right now. If there was another vehicle involved, and it left the scene, there’s likely evidence on her car. My gut is telling me it was solo though.”

  “Well, I’ll get this lot back and head off to the hospital I expect. Taken her to Ennis, have they?”

  “I believe so. Will you be all right?” Michael asked. He’d known Brocc for most of his life. A placid, unassuming man, a community member that blended into his surroundings but was often there qui
etly paying attention. There wasn’t much that escaped Brocc Bowen. He nodded silently and headed for the cab of his truck.

  Brocc pulled back onto the road with his sister’s mangled car on the back of his flatbed, and Michael Staines watched his tail lights disappear into the night. Finding out a family member had been involved in a serious accident was bad enough, but to find out by attending the scene unknowingly must be even more distressing. Drew Harris arrived beside him and said, “Poor sod, I hope she makes it.”

  Staines glanced down at something that had caught his attention, something his officer had in his hand. He pointed to it. “What’s that?”

  Drew lifted it so his colleague could see. “It’s a baby’s bottle. I found it just down the road slightly. I doubt it’s anything to do with this lot though,” he said, motioning with his hand. “There’s a pack of nappies too. I don’t think she has any children, so she’s unlikely to have grandchildren. I can’t see why she’d be carrying baby stuff.”

  Sergeant Staines nodded in agreement. “Curious” was all he said.

  Tuesday

  Chapter 18

  Chrissy and Julie were finishing a relaxing breakfast out on the deck in the morning sunshine. As usual a stiff breeze blew, though it seemed to have changed direction; normally coming straight off the sea, today it came more from the south-west.

  “That’s odd,” Chrissy said, gazing off into the distance, towards the castle.

  “Hmm?” Julie asked, not really paying much attention, intent on the gossip pages of her magazine.

  “Rupert. He’s been barking most of the time we’ve been sitting here, and now I think about it, I heard him last night too, which is unlike him. He’s been so quiet the whole time we’ve been staying here.”

  “Probably a rabbit that’s caught his eye.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Chrissy said slowly. “It’s been too constant. Plus, it sounds like he’s indoors and not in the garden.” Perhaps it was the direction the breeze was blowing that made it seem so much clearer. Noise carried on the wind. She stood to take a closer look, to see if the dog was bounding about outside, but it was a little too far to observe properly. All she could see was the single-tower castle and it looked quiet in the distance, save for the barking sound. There was no one to be seen, no movement to note. Just the dog yapping.

  “Pass me Richard’s binoculars, they’re by your elbow.”

  Julie did as she was asked, and Chrissy looked again. There was nothing to see, no dog, and all seemed quiet. Yet it wasn’t.

  “I might pop over,” she said, standing.

  “Maybe Ciara has accidentally locked him in and gone shopping?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Well, go over there then if you’re concerned.”

  Julie hadn’t taken her nose out of the magazine all through their brief conversation. Chrissy slipped her feet into her trainers, which were sat nearby. “I think I will,” she said, leaving Julie to soak up the contents of her magazine in peace. Without another word, she left her sister to it and stepped off the secluded back deck area where they’d both been sipping coffee.

  Doonagore Castle wasn’t far from their holiday home as the crow flies, but it meant a straight line across fields that held cattle. While Chrissy wasn’t frightened of the bunch of furry brown animals, she didn’t want to chance a bull being among them and it becoming upset at her intrusion. On the other hand, it seemed silly to get the car out for the short drive around to check on a barking dog. She looked down at her feet; her shoes would do the job if she ran – carefully. A bull would likely be more interested in a female cow nearby than her.

  It was another glorious morning and while it wasn’t a cold one, it wasn’t a warm one either. As she took off at a gentle jog, the only sound she could hear was the wind forcing its way past her ears, filling them with a constant loud whooshing that tuned everything else out, including the dog’s barks. Only when she turned her head to the side slightly did she get relief from the briskness of it, but she couldn’t jog and face a different direction at the same time. Not without falling over. A handful of woolly brown heads glanced her way, obviously undecided about whether to run or not, and if so, in which direction they should go.

  It wasn’t far to the boundary. Chrissy slowed her pace as she reached the perimeter stone wall of the tiny castle. Once she had reduced it to a walk, she could hear Rupert barking furiously, but now there was something else in the wind as she approached the door. Something even more concerning.

  It sounded like a baby crying. And not a whimpering cry either.

  Urged on by the realisation baby Flynn might also be in distress, she quickly passed under the stone archway and knocked on the front door.

  There was no answer.

  She called out, “Ciara! Lorcan! Are you home?”

  Still Rupert barked, much louder now she was only outside, and she could hear Flynn screaming at the top of his lungs. The boy was certainly distraught at something. Chrissy made her decision – she had to go in. She tried the handle; the door was unlocked. As she opened it further, a manic Irish terrier hurtled out and ran past her, but she took no notice. It was Flynn she was concerned about now.

  “Ciara! Lorcan!” she called again, but there was no reply. It appeared nobody was home. Following the sound of Flynn, she mounted the stairs two at a time and headed up to where the noise was coming from, his nursery, she assumed. She’d only been in the tiny castle once before and felt like she was intruding, but Flynn’s cries were not abating. It was easy to find his room, and she slipped inside. His crying stopped almost immediately as he realised someone was now in attendance. His face was the colour of a ripe strawberry and soaking wet from his tears. Two little rivers of thick goo ran from his nose and he hiccupped as he settled down a little. His dark hair was damp and stuck to his forehead. He must have got himself in a terrible state and appeared to be all alone.

  “Hey little man,” Chrissy said, cooing and reaching down into the cot for him. “What’s all the noise, are you okay?” She picked him up and held him close in comfort, his little body overly hot to the touch.

  “Where’s your mum and dad, eh?”

  Flynn could only blow a sticky wet bubble in response. Chrissy looked around the room, though for what she wasn’t sure.

  “Let’s see if anyone’s home upstairs, shall we?”

  Carefully, she carried little Flynn on up the stairs and checked the bedroom. There was no one else there, the place was empty. She glanced out of the window: no car; nothing but grass in one direction, the Atlantic Ocean in the other. Flynn gurgled and started to whimper, and Chrissy turned her attention back to the little boy.

  “It’s strange all right, little man,” she said. Patting his bottom gently, she noticed for the first time how wet he was. And how smelly he was. “Let’s get you changed into a dry nappy, that’ll make you feel a bit better, eh?” Heading back down to the nursery, Chrissy tried to come up with a reason why Flynn was all alone in the house, but couldn’t find anything that immediately fitted. She took Flynn back into his room and placed him in his cot for a moment. The sound of a dog bounding up the stairs broke into her thoughts as she pulled dry clothing and a fresh nappy from a drawer then lay Flynn on the changing mat nearby and took off his wet clothes. Rupert entered the room and sat quietly, watching.

  “Gracious,” she said in her soothing baby voice. “You have been busy.” It had been some years since she’d last changed a nappy, but she knew instinctively what a full one looked like and what an overfull one looked like. It was obvious the child hadn’t been changed for a while.

  “I think a quick bath is needed,” she cooed, slipping next door to put the plug in and turn taps on. A moment later, she was back. Tears filled the little one’s eyes again and he began to wail, and she did her best to soothe him. If he hadn’t been changed in a while, perhaps he hadn’t been fed either. Nothing added up. Where were his parents? Why such a full nappy?

  “You’re h
ungry, aren’t you? Let’s see what we can do about that.” Picking him up and laying him in his cot for safety, she paced downstairs to the kitchen. On the work surface, empty feeding bottles lay waiting to be filled, a tub of formula nearby. Creamy powder stared at her as if someone hadn’t wiped around after making his last bottle. When had that been? She was flummoxed. Quickly, she put the kettle on to heat up, made a bottle then took it back upstairs with her just as Flynn’s wailing cranked up again. She turned the bath taps off on her way and went into the nursery.

  “Shhhush, little man,” she said wrapping a semi-naked baby in a blanket from his bed and sitting with him in the nursing chair. “This will help,” she said, offering him the bottle. He drank greedily from the teat, so much so she had to gently pull it away from time to time to pace him, not wanting it all to come back up as vomit. It was acutely obvious he hadn’t been fed in some time. She wondered about his nappy again. And the strength of his hunger.

  Someone had abandoned him.

  Surely not?

  Right there and then, she couldn’t come up with any other explanation.

  Chapter 19

  When Flynn had devoured half of his bottle, Chrissy gave him a short break to wind him. She’d almost forgotten the water running earlier and since there was way too much for an infant, pulled the plug out and let most of it go. It gurgled noisily through the pipes of the ancient building and when there was just enough left for the little boy, she replaced the plug and returned to her charge.

  Her charge? There was no one else on the horizon for the boy, not at this point.

  “Ready for a little more?” she asked as she reached in to pick him up. She pulled the blanket closer around him and repositioned him in her arms. Two small hands reached up, instinctively knowing what a bottle meant for him and he resumed his feed at a slightly slower rate than a few moments ago. Chrissy focused on him while he fed, and when the bottle was finally empty, wondered if she should make another smaller one up. She was a little rusty on infant formula knowledge and had had to check the tin for the amount to give him and hope she hadn’t overdone it. Flynn gurgled his approval at his own full tummy and Chrissy was promptly rewarded with a wet belch that deposited milky goo over one wrist.