Little Bones: A disturbing Irish crime thriller (The Cathy Connolly Series)

by Sam Blake

  ‘What happened exactly?’ They’d been so busy this morning Cathy had only caught snippets of the story from Thirsty and the other lads as they’d arrived.

  O’Rourke paused, his scowl deepening. ‘He shot a guy at the Holiday Inn near JFK, close range, body was locked in the guy’s boot in the car park. Could have been there for weeks if some woman’s dog hadn’t gone mad – he was supposed to be on a business trip.’

  ‘And they’ve got a positive ID on the suspect already?’

  O’Rourke nodded. ‘The FBI has been developing state-of-the-art facial recognition software. They matched the CCTV image of our man checking in to their database, but the ballistics match was the clincher. Guy’s name is Angel Hierra, plenty of previous: aggravated burglary, GBH – just the sort of tourist we need.’

  Cathy nodded, taking it in. ‘He shot his father?’

  O’Rourke rubbed his palm over his eyes. ‘Yep. Old man was in his seventies, had the shit beaten out of him, then a shot to the back of the head. Execution style. Very angelic. FBI reckon Hierra went straight from there to New York and found his mark. He probably thinks he’s safe for a few days at least – apparently the father lived miles from anywhere, was a bit of a recluse. He might never have been found either if he hadn’t made an appointment for his life-insurance rep to call out.’ The irony wasn’t lost on O’Rourke. ‘God only knows why he’s come here though. I’d have gone to South America. Warmer.’ He paused again, shaking his head half to himself.

  ‘Angel? What sort of name is that?’

  ‘Mexican, from Las Vegas. They’ve all got bloody mad names out there. Must be the sun.’ O’Rourke pulled a face. ‘Did Thirsty give you his description?’

  Cathy nodded. ‘Six foot, dark, freaky eyes. I’ll check the photo when I’m back at the station. They sure he’s here?’

  ‘He got sloppy, or maybe he’s just overconfident. I very much doubt he’d have expected the father’s body to be found or for the Feds to get involved so quickly.’ O’Rourke half-smiled, she could almost hear him thinking – sometimes the cards fell in their favour. ‘So we know the second victim’s passport and credit card were used to hire a car at Dublin airport. We picked the vehicle up going over the toll bridge. Card was used again to purchase coffee and a map at the service station on Rochestown Avenue this morning and, wait for it, to buy a kitchen knife in Tesco’s. The lads are going through those CCTV tapes now.’

  ‘How the hell did he get through immigration?’

  O’Rourke stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, jangling his change, his face clouded in thought. ‘Feds were quick but not that quick. Victim was Hispanic, same weight, age about right. You know what passport photos are like.’ He paused. Cathy could almost see the connections forming in his brain. ‘I want everyone on the alert.’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus, we’ve got no bloody DS with Griffin injured, I’ve got every spare mule out looking for this Angel character, and here we are with a whole new case. I haven’t even got the plastic off my office chair yet. And,’ O’Rourke drew the word out, ‘you were right. Thirsty knew what Saunders was on about.’

  Cathy could tell from the look on his face that the news wasn’t good.

  ‘In 1973 the body of a newborn baby was found in an alley in Dún Laoghaire.’ O’Rourke paused, turning pale as he sucked in his breath between clenched teeth. ‘It had been stabbed forty times with a knitting needle.’

  ‘Feck it.’ Cathy’s hand shot to her mouth, the details of the case tumbling into her head. ‘The Murphys. They lived in White’s Villas. Three of the kids committed suicide, in the end. Jeez, I never even thought of it.’ She paused. ‘One of them jumped off the cliff at Killiney, body was found wedged behind a wall at the DART station. I’d only started secondary school then.’

  ‘That was one of the brothers, wasn’t it?’

  Cathy nodded. The body had been found by workmen, had raked up the whole story again. ‘Do you think this is connected? The abuse? The parents were touting their kids, all of them.’

  O’Rourke frowned. ‘The girl was eleven, the one that had the baby? Those bones looked old to me . . . What age do you reckon Zoë Grant is?’

  ‘Early thirties?’ It wasn’t much more than a whisper. ‘The Murphy girl claimed she’d had another one afterwards, that they’d buried it in the garden.’

  O’Rourke nodded. It had happened a long time ago but it was one of those cases. And not just because of the horror, the abuse, but because no one had ever been brought to trial, and then, when the mother of the child had turned up to spill the whole story, the files had gone missing . . .

  ‘I don’t care what we find here, Cat, this investigation is going to be run right. Nothing gets lost, nothing mislaid. Nothing.’ O’Rourke was talking more to himself than to her, had his eyes fixed on the ground like he was running the press reports, the internal gossip through his head. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection before Saunders said it. The press won’t be so slow – they’ll have a field day if they hear that the bones of a baby have been found in Dalkey again – they’re going to give us enough of a pasting over this bloody Hierra character walking right through immigration.’ O’Rourke’s steel-blue eyes met Cathy’s. ‘This goes nowhere. I’m going to have a chat to Thirsty, to the Techs – the details of this one are need-to-know only. I don’t want any leaks.’

  Nodding, Cathy bit her lip. During her four years in uniform and two as a detective, she’d seen plenty of dead bodies in various states of disrepair, sights that would haunt most people, but the Dalkey baby case, as the press had dubbed it, had been about as bad as it got. Like this one, when she’d first heard about it, it had creeped her out, made her feel incredibly sad. Children trusted the adults around them to provide food and warmth, love and protection. And when that trust was betrayed . . .

  Older officers often muttered about every detective having a weak point, a case that gave them nightmares. Cathy crossed her fingers behind her back, hoped to God that this case wasn’t it for her.

  ‘If it was Zoë Grant’s child and something similar happened, she’ll be pretty badly damaged.’ O’Rourke’s voice was low, communicating his own struggle with the situation.

  ‘Assuming she knew the bones were there, she obviously didn’t expect us to find them or she’d have got here a whole lot quicker when she heard about the break-in.’

  O’Rourke grimaced. ‘Indeed. And quite how or whether the break-in is connected to the bones, God only knows. Can’t see how though, more likely a bizarre coincidence.’

  Cathy bit her lip. She didn’t believe in coincidence. But then again, the last place they’d think to search after a forced entry was the hem of anything, let alone a wedding dress.

  ‘But what’s with the dress?’ Cathy’s voice came out sounding more desperate than she intended. She shuddered – maybe this was better than ending up in a plastic carrier bag in an alley, or being buried in the garden . . . the thought of a tiny corpse dumped into cold damp soil sent chills up her spine . . . but a wedding dress? ‘Why stitch a baby’s bones into the hem of a wedding dress for God’s sake? Whoever did it must be an absolute nutter.’

  Before O’Rourke could answer, the Guard who was stationed in the front garden appeared around the side of the van.

  ‘She’s here. Just drove up, looks like she’s having a panic attack.’

  5

  It was cold in Bethnal Green. And grey. A sort of non-stop greyness that covered London like a dirty woollen blanket. Emily Cox pulled the front door of their four-storey Georgian terraced house behind her and hooked her straw-coloured bob behind her ear. Despite the hooded, fur-lined parka she was wearing, Emily felt chilled. Who’d have believed that the weather was so much better in Boston? Gritting her teeth against the spectre of depression that followed her like a shadow, Emily reached determinedly for the positive.

  For now London was home; and it had plenty to offer to make up for the damp, dreary weather. Bethnal Green
was a wonderful hotchpotch of colour and culture that billowed across the grey like a multicoloured sari. She’d found a job easily – occupational therapists were always in demand – and Tony was really happy too in his new role as consultant psychiatrist at St Thomas’s Hospital, which had been the ideal next move for him. She’d made friends, everything was perfect. Almost.

  Hitching the leather handles of her basket onto her shoulder, Emily headed across the road, past Bethnal Green Tube station, and on down to the bright lights of the street market that crowded along the Whitechapel Road.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Cox. What can we do you for?’

  The fruit and vegetable seller greeted Emily with a huge smile as she reached his stall, striped red and white plastic sheeting flapping noisily behind him in the stiff breeze.

  ‘My old mum said to say hello when I saw you,’ he said. ‘She’s doing salsa dancing now, says she’s going to knock ’em dead when she goes on her coach tour.’

  Emily laughed out loud, her mood lifting. ‘Make sure she doesn’t overdo it or she’ll need to get the other hip done too!’ Her Donegal accent was distinctive against the cadences of the East End.

  ‘That’s what I keep telling her, Mrs C, but will she listen? “Super Gran”, my boys call her.’

  His boys. A sense of longing clawed at her heart. Emily skirted swiftly around the thought. ‘Would she come and do a demonstration for the lunch club? Show them what a difference doing the exercises makes?’

  ‘No problem, Mrs C, I’ll ask her.’ Leaning over, the fruit and veg man picked up an orange from the display in front of him, spinning it high into the air, catching it easily in his huge hand. ‘How about some of these lovely oranges today? Sweet enough even for you I reckon, Mrs Cox. Oi! What are you –?’

  Without breaking for breath, the fruit and veg man switched from flirting to roaring, and dodged out from behind the stall. Emily spun around to see him pounding after a youth in a hooded sweat top who was weaving through the oncoming crowd, making for Whitechapel Tube station, an old-fashioned handbag shoved under his arm.

  The whole event must only have taken a second, but Emily felt like she was watching it in slow motion, the sight of the fleeing youth sending a chill to her core. In a series of freeze frames Emily’s mind flicked through images stamped onto her memory: leaves falling at her feet, the boy in the hoody bumping into her, jostling, grabbing her bag. Then the pain. Waking in the hospital, dazzling white, the odour of bleach sticking in her throat.

  Dizzy, feeling the crowd close in around her, Emily steadied herself on the edge of the stall. Dark shapes, dark and pale faces merged into one. Then an elderly Indian gentleman was heading towards her, helping an even older lady through the tight knot of onlookers. The old lady was trembling violently, her pale blue eyes full of tears, unfocused.

  It took Emily a moment, but then she recognised her.

  ‘Mary? My goodness, what happened?’ She hurried to slip her arm around the old woman’s waist; her body was featherlike, so fragile that Emily felt she might snap.

  The fruit and veg man’s assistant took charge. ‘’Ere’s a chair, let’s get ’er sat down. That’s right, mind the boxes. Don’t want you having a tumble.’ He briskly pulled out a folding canvas chair, guiding them into the back of the stall. Moments later another stallholder appeared with a polystyrene cup of hot tea.

  ‘That’s the ticket; need something sweet after a shock like that.’

  Lowering the old lady into the chair, Emily slipped her basket off her shoulder and bobbed down in front of her, her brown eyes filled with concern. She blew on the steaming tea before guiding it to Mary’s lips. After a few seconds, the colour began to return to her cheeks, but Mary’s face remained bewildered, her fear raw. And Emily was sure Mary didn’t recognise her from the church, from the flower-arranging group Emily had been running as part of their outreach programme for the elderly. Taking the half-finished cup, Emily put it safely on the ground, gently rubbing Mary’s freezing hands in her own.

  ‘My bag, he took my bag. I need to find it – my keys . . .’ Mary tried to struggle up from the chair, her eyes wide with panic.

  ‘Don’t worry about that now, just sit down for a minute; you’ve had a bad fright.’

  ‘Is this it, Mrs?’ The fruit and veg man appeared behind them, a blue vinyl handbag in his huge hand. Mary’s relief was palpable.

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you so much. What’s your name?’

  ‘No problem, Mrs. And it’s Johnny – Johnny Rotten they call me down here. Think they’re being funny, with the fruit and that.’ If she hadn’t been so worried about Mary, Emily would have laughed. Johnny continued, ‘Got him down by the Tube – couple of bobbies have him now. I don’t think he had a chance to open it.’

  Looking up at him towering above her, Mary’s voice was suddenly smaller, exhausted. ‘Oh thank you, thank you.’

  ‘No problem, love. Just you have a good look and make sure nothing’s missing.’

  Her hands still shaking, Mary manipulated open the worn silver catch on the frame of the bag, slipping her hand inside to check the contents. ‘Oh thank goodness, I think everything’s here. Thank you so much, young man, you don’t know what it means to get it back.’

  Surprised by her soft ladylike accent, Johnny gave Mary a curt nod, blushing. ‘Better get you home, I think. Are you nearby?’

  ‘You’re just on Roman Road, aren’t you, Mary?’ Emily looked to Mary for confirmation. ‘We’ll get a cab.’

  ‘Goodo. I’ll pack you up a box. Bit of vitamin C’s what you need after a scare like that.’

  Mary started to refuse, but he shook his head.

  ‘No arguments.’

  As the black cab pulled up outside Renmore House, a squat red brick building, railings council blue, Emily reached for her purse, but the cabbie shook his head.

  ‘No need for that, I’m a pal of Johnny’s and I heard you fixed up his old mum right proper with your exercise classes. I’ll bring that box of fruit in.’

  Helping Mary slowly through the door of the flat, Emily could hear the cabbie putting the box of fruit down in the kitchen, the slosh of water as he turned on the tap and filled the kettle. He stuck his head out as they passed the kitchen door.

  ‘Kettle’s on, I’ll leave you to it, love. I’ll let Johnny know you got home safe.’

  Emily smiled, about to thank him again, but a moment later she heard the front door close gently, the lock clicking into place.

  Helping Mary into a worn velour armchair, so big it seemed to swallow her up, Emily was surprised to see that the living room of the one-bedroom flat was almost bare. Apart from the sofa and chairs and a tiny portable television in the corner, there was little to suggest that anyone lived here at all. Before Emily could think any more about it, she heard the kettle click off.

  ‘Let me get that tea, it’ll warm you up.’

  Leaving Mary clutching her bag to her chest, Emily discovered that the kitchen was as spartan as the living room. And Mary’s fridge was empty too. A small carton of milk in the door, a piece of cheese and a pork chop congealing on a plate. Turning to look at the crate of fruit and vegetables on the table, Emily felt a tear of gratitude prick her eye. Johnny didn’t know it, but if the fruit could keep that long it looked like it would feed Mary for a year.

  Suddenly Emily felt a hand on her arm. Mary had followed her into the kitchen, her face flushed, eyes bright.

  ‘He was here again, I can smell his cigars.’

  Surprised, Emily looked around, sniffing the air. Damp, the stale odour of unwashed floors. Definitely no cigars. Before she could reply, Mary chuckled, ‘He’s a devil, you know, with those cigars, and that hat, my goodness, such style.’

  Taking Mary’s arm, guiding her gently back towards the living room, Emily sat her down again in her chair, bobbing down beside her. ‘Who was here, Mary?’

  Mary shook her head and a flash of anger crossed her face. ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it? It�
��s all finished now. It’s her fault. She wanted him for herself, sent me away.’ Then, her voice cracking with bitterness and despair, ‘It’s all her fault, all of it . . .’

  ‘It’s OK, Mary; I’m here, it’s OK.’ Concerned and slightly shaken, Emily stroked her arm, worry pricking at her like a needle. Mary had been a bit confused when she’d met her at her class. It wasn’t unusual amongst the elderly people she dealt with, but she had never been this bad. It was as if the attack had triggered her memories to tangle themselves with the present, like reels of thread unravelling in a box.

  The moment passed and Mary became calm, as if her frayed edges had been neatly turned in, hidden from view. When Mary spoke again, she was coy, confiding, her voice soft, wistful. ‘He’s French, you know. So charming. A count. The society papers love him.’ Then, as suddenly as she had slipped from the here and now, she was back as if nothing had happened, shivering, her face fearful again. ‘Could you bring my shawl, dear? It’s in the bedroom.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her brow creased with worry, Emily patted Mary’s arm. She’d need to get Tony to see her. She was quite sure the trauma of being attacked in the street was doing nothing for Mary’s obviously delicate mental state.

  ‘I’ll be right back with it and we’ll get the tea in the pot.’

  Crossing the narrow hall to the bedroom, her mind half on the lack of food in the flat, half on Mary’s attack, on her talk of cigars and a French count, Emily pushed the door open. And stopped dead, a gasp of surprise caught in her throat.

  The tiny room was dim, illuminated by the light falling from the hallway behind her, from a crack in the thin curtains where weak sunlight shone through. But it was enough to see that the floor was piled with hundreds of plastic bags, crammed full with a jumble of what appeared to be clothing. Patterns and plains, chintz and brocade, the stench of stale fabric made Emily gag for a moment, the contrast between the meagre contents of the rest of the flat and this room, stuffed to bursting like the back room of a charity shop, somehow shocking.