DI Lottie Parker 06-Final Betrayal

by Gibney, Patricia

  She kicked the bag under the hall table and picked up her post. In the living room, she switched on the lamp. At least that worked. She slumped into her armchair, pressed the recliner and lay back, staring around at the empty space. Her arsehole of a husband – no, scratch that, her ex-husband – had taken almost everything. Said he’d paid for it, he was entitled to it. Well, no shit, Sherlock, she’d told him. Wrong move, Megan. He’d filed papers with his solicitor to get her to sell the house. He wanted money. She was fighting him like her life depended on it, mainly because he was just a greedy creep. And now he’d sent her another solicitor’s letter. Crumpling it up, she stuffed it down the side of the chair.

  Closing her eyes, she let the events of the day wash over her. Penny Brogan had been fired because she was stealing from the shop. But why was Amy Whyte still friends with her? They were a world apart in class. Not that Megan was a snob. But all the same, it rankled with her. Maybe it was because her ex-husband was a step below her in class. Make that a complete ladder, she thought.

  He was going to pay for making her life one big shit bowl. Then she thought of the nice detective she’d spoken with today. He was kind of cute in a sad sort of way. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Sixteen

  It was still dark outside when Conor Dowling rolled off his bed and got dressed on Tuesday morning. He bundled up yesterday’s work clothes to put in the washing machine, then brushed his teeth and splashed cold water on his face. Running a hand over his shaved pate, he knew there was nothing he could do to remove the extra years ingrained around his eyes.

  There was no sound from the living room, which his mother still used as her sleeping space. She was welcome to it, he thought, as he loaded the washing machine and went to scoop some powder out of the box. A few wayward grains settled in the bottom of the scoop.

  Oh God! He’d have to buy washing powder. With nothing else for it, he switched on the machine without any detergent.

  ‘Conor, is that you?’

  ‘Who else did you think would be in this dump at this hour of the morning?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Conor shook his head. He was speaking his thoughts out loud all the time now. Was he going demented? Maybe it was in his genes after all.

  ‘I’m putting on toast. Do you want some?’ he shouted back.

  ‘Toast? I want a bowl of porridge. Make it with milk. Don’t like that stuff you pour water on top of.’

  He knew they had no milk. He boiled the kettle. Tipped a tub of ready-made porridge into a bowl. She’d never know the difference, he thought. Even if she did, he didn’t care.

  As the kettle settled into a slow whine, he stared out at his shed, and wondered again why Tony had needed to invade his workspace.

  * * *

  Chloe Parker hated going to school, even though it was her final year. She would much rather continue working at the pub. She’d enjoyed her summer job at Fallon’s, but because she had a dictator for a mother, she’d had to give it up to don her hideous school uniform and head back through the gates of hell. She was so looking forward to the mid-term break.

  She kicked an empty Coke can ahead of her, grumbling beneath her breath.

  ‘What did you say?’ Sean switched his heavy rucksack of school books from one shoulder to the other.

  Chloe looked at her brother. He was a good head taller than her, and his blonde hair and blue eyes broke her heart every time she looked at him. He was the image of their dead dad.

  ‘I was just thinking that Katie has all the luck,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ Sean said.

  ‘Why not, dope?’ She connected with the can once again and sent it skidding from the footpath out onto the road under a car.

  ‘Well, for one, her boyfriend was murdered. For two, he left her pregnant. Three, she had to give up college to care for Louis, and now he’s getting to be a handful.’

  Chloe had to agree that Louis was a bundle of beautiful trouble, but she wasn’t giving in that easily. ‘Remember what Granny always says. “Every cloud has a silver lining.”’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’ Sean sighed and yawned.

  Chloe felt anger growing in her chest. He wasn’t even listening to her. No one listened to her any more. Properly listened, like.

  ‘Katie uses Louis as her excuse for everything. Twisting every situation to suit herself. She has Mam and Gran fawning over her with sympathy.’

  ‘You’re just jealous.’ Sean swallowed a snort.

  ‘Feck off, Sean Parker.’ Chloe kicked up wet leaves and walked on ahead of him.

  He said, ‘You have to make a drama out of everything.’

  As they reached Chloe’s school gates, Sean went to carry on towards his own. Grabbing his arm, pulling him to a halt, she said, ‘Wait a minute.’

  He stopped, looking nervously around at the swarms of girls strolling through the gates.

  Chloe said, ‘She gets to skive off college.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Katie, you moron.’ Chloe rolled her eyes. Shit, her PMS was brutal this month. She didn’t want to start bawling in front of her brother. He was two years younger than her and probably the most sensible of them all, when he wasn’t depressed. They really were an odd family.

  ‘Look, Chloe, I think she really wants to go back to college. It’s just that with Mam working and Gran getting on, she has no one to take care of Louis. Think of it from Katie’s point of view. She’s twenty-one years old and stuck at home with a baby.’

  ‘That’s just because she doesn’t push herself outside of her comfort zone. She could get Louis’ grandad to pay for childcare. He’s rolling in dollars. No, she’s a lazy bitch.’

  Sean took a step back. ‘You are jealous. You need to wake up. And I need to get to school. See you later.’

  Standing at the corner of the lane that led up by the canal, a shortcut to Sean’s school, Chloe blew out a breath of frustration. As she turned to enter the school gates, she felt uneasy. It was as if someone was breathing down her neck, causing the tiny hairs to stand to attention.

  She swirled around on her heel, scanning over the heads of the girls rushing to make it inside before the bell, staring after Sean’s loping figure disappearing into the distance. Then, shaking her shoulders, she slipped her rucksack of school books down to her hand and, biting the inside of her lip, walked slowly through the gates. She was late, but she didn’t care about that.

  For the rest of the day, she couldn’t shake off the feeling. And by the time school was over, she had her skin scratched red raw.

  * * *

  At the reception desk in Ragmullin garda station, Garda Tom Thornton flicked through last night’s call-out list. He was old enough to remember a time on the force when you could read the local newspaper, eat a sandwich, drink a mug of coffee and even smoke a cigarette at your desk.

  He’d often been paired with Gilly O’Donoghue, and he missed the young guard’s smile and the way she looked at Detective Kirby over her freckled nose. She’d been a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stale station. At least her murderer had been apprehended.

  Looking up as the station door opened, he realised that things had been too quiet. Ragmullin didn’t do quiet, he thought. He caught a whiff of Old Spice and was surprised to see a tiny woman tapping the counter.

  Putting on his sweetest smile, the one his wife of thirty years could see through straight away, Thornton said, ‘What can I help you with this fine morning, Mrs Loughlin?’

  ‘Have you been outside yet, young man? It’s pissing out of the heavens.’

  Garda Thornton was a bit taken aback by the eighty-year-old’s language, but he kept the smile in place. ‘So it is,’ he said, peering over her shoulder through the reinforced-glass door.

  ‘Now, young man, I want you to come with me. There’s been a lot of disturbances at Petit Lane lately. Druggies and junkies, or whatever the PC term is nowadays. All hours. Making a racket. B
anging on walls. Shouting and singing. You’ll need your coat. Come on, now.’

  Thornton watched as the old lady turned and headed for the door. ‘Mrs Loughlin? I can’t go with you. I’m on desk duty.’

  ‘I’m sure the desk can mind itself.’ Her brows knitted into a scowl. ‘And if not, get someone else to take care of it. I’m not leaving this another minute. You have to do something.’

  ‘Did you try the council?’

  A loud laugh filled the reception area and Mrs Loughlin hammered her long umbrella against the floor. ‘The council? Are you making a joke of me? That shower wouldn’t listen to Jesus himself if he came down off the cross and walked into their fancy new offices looking for a glass of water and a pair of trousers.’

  * * *

  Lottie felt refreshed after her morning shower, despite a night of disturbed sleep. Louis was coming down with a cold, and her fingers still smelled of Vicks VapoRub. She searched her bag for a pack of tissues and came up with baby wipes.

  As her computer screen blinked to life, she eyed her detectives out in the main office. Kirby looked like he’d slept in his suit, but then he always looked like that, didn’t he? She’d have to keep a close eye on him. Boyd was at the filing cabinet, taking files from a box on the floor and sorting them into the drawer. She felt a slow smile creep in at the corner of her lips. She liked the feeling he was giving her. Then she thought of Leo Belfield, and the smile slipped quickly from her face. She had to get to the bottom of what he was up to. Why wasn’t he answering his phone? For a few weeks during the summer he had plagued her with calls. But now he was uncontactable. A cold shiver of warning slithered down her spine. Something wasn’t right. Her gut was telling her, and her gut was never wrong. Or almost never. Then she remembered Amy Whyte and Penny Brogan.

  ‘Kirby?’ she called through the open door. ‘Any word on the two girls?’ His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was badly in need of a cut, or a wash at least.

  ‘Nothing new on the system. Will I put it out on social media now?’

  Lottie sighed. She stuffed the baby wipes back into her bag and went to his desk. The screen quickly flicked to black as his index finger clicked the mouse.

  ‘Are you with us, Kirby?’

  ‘Of course. Just a little slow this morning. Didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  ‘You and me both,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Why not?’ Boyd turned round, sleeves rolled up, files in both hands.

  ‘Louis has a cold.’

  Her phone vibrated in her jeans pocket. ‘That could be Katie. I told her to let me know if she has to bring Louis to the doctor.’

  Back in her office, she checked the phone.

  A message. But not from Katie. From Leo Belfield. Meet at one o’clock. Joyce Hotel.

  * * *

  Garda Tom Thornton had realised Mrs Loughlin was not going to listen to any excuses. He managed to bribe someone to cover the desk, then pulled on his heavy hi-vis jacket. By the time they reached Petit Lane, he was soused in sweat. For an old lady, she sure could walk quickly, he thought.

  ‘This is where I live.’ Mrs Loughlin pointed out the first house in the boarded-up terrace. ‘The others sold up like rats, and now look at the place. The economic crash put paid to the building plans.’

  Thornton looked. He walked by here most days on his way to and from work, and knew the history of the developer pulling out and leaving the council with egg on their faces, but he’d never given the terrace a second thought.

  He pushed open the gate of the house next door to Mrs Loughlin’s, and noticed she was standing out on the pavement scowling.

  ‘Not that one, the next one down,’ she said.

  ‘This one?’ Thornton moved to the third house in the row. It appeared even more derelict than the one beside the old lady’s.

  ‘I heard a noise last night,’ she said. ‘Not that I don’t hear it most nights. It’s just lads, and I know they mean no harm. Probably sheltering from the rain. I saw two of them, with hoodies up over their heads, arms full of plastic bags. Beer, I’d say. They were falling through the gate, dragging each other up to the door. One even had a wee in the garden.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ring it in?’

  ‘I’m blue in the face ringing these things in to you lot. I’m beginning to think you’re as bad as the council.’

  ‘So why call in this morning?’

  ‘The thing is, I saw two people go in, but only one came out. Unusual, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Right so.’ Thornton pushed his peaked cap back on his head and knocked on the door.

  ‘It’s open. How else do the junkies get in?’ Mrs Loughlin’s voice was laced with derision. ‘Go on. In you go.’

  ‘Did you enter the premises?’

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid? I don’t want to be leaving my DNA in there. What if there was a murder or something? You’d be knocking on my door mighty quick then, wouldn’t you?’

  Thornton’s head was beginning to thump. He made sure his gloves were firmly in place and pushed open the door.

  The smell wasn’t as bad as he’d been expecting, but there was a distinct fustiness emanating from the walls. The hallway was dim, lit only from the outside via the open door behind him. He chanced a look over his shoulder and noticed that Mrs Loughlin had retreated to the rusty gate. Taking another step inside, he felt his boots sticking to something. Oil? Or something more human? He shuddered and moved forward.

  That was when he saw two figures lying at the foot of the stairs. He leaned over the first one. As he put a gloved finger to the throat, the eyes flashed open. Thornton jumped back against the wall.

  ‘Jesus Christ. I thought you were dead. What happened? Are you okay?’

  He got a groan in reply. Moving to the second figure, he heard the moan before his fingers were in place. He was ready for the eyes to open, but they didn’t. At least both lads were alive. He’d have to check for injuries.

  Then the smell reached him.

  Seventeen

  The sirens wailed as the ambulances carried the two lads off to hospital.

  ‘Told you something funny was going on,’ Mrs Loughlin said, folding her arms and leaning on the wet wall.

  ‘So you did.’ Garda Thornton couldn’t get the sickly smell out of his nostrils. He itched to get back to the station and maybe find time to grab a quick shower.

  ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ she said.

  ‘That’d be grand, but I have to get back to the desk.’

  ‘The desk isn’t going to run away, is it?’

  ‘No, it won’t, but I have a job to do.’ Thornton looked up at the house and was struck by a recollection. ‘Mrs Loughlin, you said you saw two people go in and only one come out.’

  ‘I did,’ she said. Then she opened her mouth in a perfect O. ‘Someone else must have been in there. Someone who attacked those two poor boys before running off.’

  ‘Go put that kettle on,’ Thornton said. ‘I’m going to have another quick look inside.’

  ‘Here, take my umbrella.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll be grand.’

  As the old lady headed towards her home, Thornton moved up the footpath to the door of the derelict house. Was this more than two lads falling out over a bag of weed or a can of beer?

  Up the stairs he went, and as he climbed, the odour became more pungent and fetid.

  He knew it was not just dry rot he could smell. It was something rotting all right, but also metallic. Blood, he thought, though not the blood from downstairs. It was up here, and he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to find the source. But he had to see for himself.

  When he did, he plucked his radio from his uniform and, with a trembling voice, called the station.

  * * *

  Lottie zipped up her protective suit and fastened the ties of the mouth mask behind her ears. Then she followed Boyd’s long, lean figure under the crime-scene tape.

  ‘Why can’t people discover murder victims on a fine day?’ h
e said. She didn’t bother answering him, knowing it was a rhetorical question. As she passed him, he added, ‘And they could pick warmer and drier places to be found.’

  ‘Boyd, will you shut up?’

  Lottie dipped her head under the lintel, careful not to brush up against the door, which was hanging precariously from a single hinge. The weather-beaten wood bore evidence that there had once been a lock and a handle, but they were no longer there.

  ‘What were those lads doing in here anyway?’ Boyd continued, his voice like a sharp breeze on the back of her neck. She’d pinned her hair up this morning, disguising the fact that it was overdue a cut and colour. She pulled up the white hood. He was still talking. ‘This is no place for youngsters. What age do you think they are?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The two lads that Thornton found.’

  ‘How would I know that?’

  She sighed loudly and trudged up the wooden stairs, her protective booties snagging on the worn timber. In the time since Garda Thornton had called in the incident, uniforms had trampled all over the scene, one even vomiting in a corner of the landing, before they had realised the area needed to be preserved and the scene-of-crime officers called in. She would deal with the aftermath of their ineptitude in due course, but first she had to assess everything for herself.

  The house was one of a terrace of six. She knew this area had been earmarked for urban development years ago, with plans for retail units and a paved pedestrian area linking to new council offices. The offices, which looked like a giant aquarium, were the only thing that had been built. The terraced houses were slap bang in the centre of the plans, but something had happened to stall the project, and Mrs Loughlin had stubbornly refused to uproot herself.

  Lottie paused at the top of the wooden stairs and noticed the activity in the room to her left. She took a step towards it. In front of her was a bathroom with all its fittings plundered and removed, pipes standing forlornly from raised floorboards and the window boarded up. Two SOCOs were hunched over what she presumed was the body, lying where once a bath had stood. The stench of vomit at the doorway rose to her nostrils and she found that perversely it drowned out the smell of putrid flesh. Crime-scene tape hung across the doorway of another room to her right. She squeezed into the bathroom, leaving Boyd outside.