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

by Sam Blake

  He stood slightly back from the foot of the ladder, steadying it.

  ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  ‘Well, there’s no point in me going up first, is there? If I slip and land on you I’ll kill you. At least if you slip, I can catch you.’ His mouth twitched.

  ‘I bet. Right, move over.’ She pulled a pair of latex gloves out of her jeans pocket and pulled them on. For a split second, her hands on either side of the ladder, Cathy wondered if she should really be doing this. She was pregnant. Surely she was supposed to take things easy, sit about drinking tea, not go around climbing ladders. But she wasn’t exactly in a position to back out now. She took a deep breath, pushed the worries away.

  It only took her a second to get to the top. Her gloved hands flat on the hatch, Cathy pushed gently.

  ‘It’s stuck.’ Cathy pushed harder, then, balling her fist, gave it a thump in one corner. Yielding with a squeak, it moved. ‘We’re in.’ She levered the flat wooden panel upwards and slid it into the space beyond, darkness gaping above her. A musty, damp smell hit her, coating the back of her throat. Stale. Fetid. Her stomach reacted immediately. Fantastic.

  ‘Here you are.’ Passing up the torch, O’Rourke stood with his hands on either side of the ladder, his foot on the bottom. Trying to focus on something other than nausea, for a split second Cathy wondered if she should test his skills and slide down into his arms. Sliding down ladders was one of her party tricks, perfected in lightning attacks on her brothers’ tree house when retreat was as important as the element of surprise.

  Brushing aside the thought, she switched the torch on, swinging the beam around the roof space. The light bounced off a chimney breast of crumbling red brick, illuminating the rafters above, the steep pitch of the roof vaulted like a church. She moved up a step until her head and shoulders were inside, running the beam around her in a slow arc. The attic was floored, at least partially, raw wooden boards reaching away towards a huge water tank at the back of the house, beside it a pile of trunks and boxes, a travelling rug, thick with dust, slipping off one end. Levering herself up to sit on the edge of the hatch, Cathy looked down.

  ‘There’s a load more boxes up here. They all look pretty old.’

  ‘Are there boards over the joists? Can you climb up?’

  ‘Yep, all looks pretty safe. It’s freezing though. You’ll need a jacket.’

  Cathy swung her knees out of his way as O’Rourke followed her, his head appearing as she stood up. ‘What, and ruin an Armani suit clambering around an attic? I’ll risk the cold.’

  Moments later they had wedged the torch onto the top of the water tank and were looking at the boxes.

  ‘These haven’t been touched for years. Look, there are steamship stickers all over this one, Cobh to New York, Dublin to Liverpool. Whoever they belonged to certainly got around.’

  O’Rourke tried to lift the catches on the trunk. The hinges protested, squeaking. Kneeling down, levering the lid with both hands, he lifted it, sending an ancient umbrella slithering onto the boards. He hardly noticed, immediately intrigued by the contents. Inside was what looked like hundreds of twists of tissue paper. He picked one up, unwrapped it.

  ‘Lead soldiers. Good God, there must be thousands in here. They’re worth a fortune.’

  Kneeling on the edge of the pool of light, Cathy looked up from her contemplation of a black Gladstone bag.

  ‘Should we get a team up here to do this properly?’

  O’Rourke didn’t turn as he answered, was still absorbed in the soldiers. ‘We’re OK for now. No point in dragging a load of lads out on a hunch. It’ll cost a fortune for one thing. Let’s keep going.’ He looked up, scanned the attic, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. ‘There’s not that much here. Only really this pile. I doubt she was up here to get a set of golf clubs.’ He nodded towards a bag leaning against the side of the chimney breast, the woods hooded, webs dripping with dust linking them together like power lines.

  Finally getting the catch on the Gladstone to open, Cathy sat back on her heels, her bubble of excitement bursting unceremoniously. She sighed audibly.

  ‘You’re right. I can’t see anything she’d be after up here. Look, this is full of medical instruments, must have been a doctor’s bag. Who do you reckon it belonged to?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be hard to check. Does it look like it’s been used recently?’

  Cathy shook her head, closed it, dusting her hands together. Despite the gloves she was feeling uncomfortable, dirty. ‘Feck it, I was so sure she was coming up here.’

  ‘Don’t give up yet, we’ve only just started. Look, there’s a paraffin lamp over there, see if it’ll light.’ Indicating a lantern hanging from a rafter, he rooted in his pocket and threw a book of matches at her.

  She caught the matches deftly and stood up, her legs tingling with cramp.

  Unhooking the lamp, she tipped it forward, the thin metal handle cold against her glove. ‘How do you do this? The glass is filthy. I can’t even see whether it’s got a wick.’

  ‘Here, give it to me. God, haven’t seen one of those in years. My gran had them all over her house, didn’t hold with electricity.’

  Standing up, brushing down the knees of his trousers, O’Rourke grabbed the torch and strode over to her, his footsteps loud, echoing. Turning the lamp around, with a deft twist he tweaked a lever at the side with his thumb. Miraculously the glass moved, grating on the rusty body, lifting to allow the candle inside to be lit. The match flared, lighting both their faces, now only inches apart, uniting them in a warm pool of light. Cathy played it in under the edge of the glass, trying not to get distracted by his closeness, by the heat of his arm through the fine cotton of his shirt, by his aftershave, a scent out of place in the damp air. After a moment the wick spluttered into life.

  ‘That’s better. Very cosy.’ O’Rourke waited for a moment to make sure the wick had caught light properly. ‘That’s not going to last long. Have a quick look around behind the chimney while I go through these boxes. If there’s anything interesting we’ll get Thirsty to drop in some decent lights, and come back with the right gear on.’

  Cathy lifted the lantern by its handle as she moved back towards the boxes. ‘I feel like Florence Nightingale.’

  O’Rourke shook his head, amused. ‘Not in those boots, more like Pussy Galore.’

  She turned, arching her eyebrows, feigning shock, opened her mouth to point out that she was a good little convent-school girl, quickly changed her mind. Better not to go there. Instead she said, ‘Us girls have to hang on to some semblance of femininity in this job, you know . . .’

  O’Rourke turned to look at her over his shoulder. Up and down. Like he was looking at her naked. Checking out just how feminine she was? She felt herself blushing again. Cathy lowered the lantern, hoping her face would be hidden in the shadows. She carried on hastily, as if she hadn’t noticed, ‘And, these boots have rubber soles – ideal for running in – and steel heels . . .’

  Wide-eyed, O’Rourke threw a look at her, trying not to laugh. ‘Got the picture, I definitely don’t need an illustration of the benefits of steel heels, thanks.’ His smile was teasing. ‘And for God’s sake don’t drop that thing or we’ll both be toast.’

  Heading around the chimney breast, any excuse to beat a retreat, Cathy stepped carefully, making sure the planks were sound before she put her weight on them. Behind her, she could hear O’Rourke closing the lid of the trunk and sliding the first of the boxes onto it. Cathy glanced over her shoulder: he was fully absorbed, pulling open the interleaved flaps on the top. Maybe it was all in her head. A cobweb danced across her cheek. She brushed it away, shivering involuntarily. Whatever about her satisfying her curiosity, this place was seriously creepy. She was starting to get that feeling she’d had as a child when she’d woken at night and discovered that the landing light had been switched off.

  There wasn’t much to see behind the chimney breast – a box of china, blackened with grime and spiders�
�� webs; a rug, rolled inside out, its hessian backing pale in the lamplight. Ducking as the rafters sloped, Cathy lifted the lantern as high as she could to check out the corners of the attic. To her right the floor boarding ended abruptly, the joists running away to the corner of the house, the spaces between in shadow. She caught a whiff of dead mouse, the odour pungent, unmistakable. Why had she been so sure Lavinia Grant was coming up here? Why on earth would she have wanted to?

  She swung the lantern to her left, the light falling on the arm of a bucket armchair, its seat sagging, holes in the faded brocade covering, its horsehair stuffing teased out. Mice again, or rats. Lovely. About to turn back to O’Rourke, Cathy lifted the lantern again. Something had caught her eye. Something solid and squat stuck in behind the chair. Cathy paused – why stick something there when you had the whole attic to store stuff?

  Moving forwards, Cathy bumped her head. Hard.

  ‘Argh, shit!’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fine, fine. Just hit my head. There’s something here.’

  Cathy put the lantern down a safe distance away from the armchair and, crouching, shuffled into the corner. She hesitated before touching the chair, half expecting a flurry of movement as its residents ran out. Nothing, thankfully. Her gloved hand on the arm, she tried to slide it forward. It was heavy, the legs catching on the uneven edges of the boards, unwilling to move, unwilling to reveal its secrets.

  ‘I think I’ve found something.’ This time Cathy’s voice was positive, definite, brought movement from behind the chimney breast. About to try the chair again, Cathy suddenly thought better of it. Whatever about scrambling around attics, she was pretty sure wrestling with heavy objects was a no-no when you were pregnant.

  ‘Give me a hand, will you?’

  O’Rourke was right behind her. ‘Move over, what are we doing?’

  ‘There’s a suitcase crammed in behind the chair, right in under the eaves. You’d never see it unless you were really looking.’

  ‘Well done, Sherlock.’ Laying the torch on the floor, O’Rourke grasped the arm of the chair, and heaved it out – it was wedged hard under the roof joists. Obviously whoever had put it there hadn’t intended it to be moved. He leaned over the arm as Cathy crawled in behind to retrieve the suitcase; she could hear him breathing above her, hear her own heart loud in her ears.

  Was this what Lavinia Grant had been after?

  It was small, old, an ordinary overnight case, or one that might have held a travelling salesman’s samples: brown leather, scratched and battered like it had been well used, the corners rough, worn even though they had been reinforced. And the whole thing was thick with dust.

  ‘That’s not been touched for years, phew,’ O’Rourke said, sneezing as Cathy pulled it out, anticipating weight, but it was lighter than she expected. Disappointment welled inside her.

  ‘Feels empty.’

  ‘Lay it down, let’s have a look. Hang on though, I’ll get some newspaper to put under it. Don’t want to lose anything.’

  In a second O’Rourke was back with an old newspaper, still folded where the reader had turned the pages. Shaking it out like a tablecloth, he fanned the sheets over the boards. Normally Cathy would have pored over it, fascinated, but right now she wasn’t going to stop and read the headlines. Holding the case by the thick leather handle, she laid it gently on its side.

  ‘OK, catches, two; brass. Very, very rusty.’

  Using her thumbs, Cathy tried to push them back, her face creased in concentration.

  ‘Nope, you have a go.’

  O’Rourke’s hands were strong, but he still had to apply some pressure.

  ‘There we are.’ One flicked open suddenly, the other rising more slowly, bizarrely, as though it was in slow motion. He looked up at her, meeting her eye. Cathy could read his mind, could feel the tension zinging between them. He eased back the lid, the leather groaning.

  The smell hit her first. Instantly she recoiled, her hand over her mouth and nose. Feeling her move behind him, O’Rourke glanced over his shoulder, surprised.

  ‘It’s not that bad, just a bit stale.’

  Cathy shook her head, her stomach turning. It was worse than bad, deeper, something much more sinister. Like a bully’s whispered threat. She put one hand out unconsciously to lean on O’Rourke’s shoulder. Warm, safe, solid. And drew in her breath.

  The bones. It was like the smell she’d got in the bedroom, musty fabric, old perfume and – she was sure – something else.

  O’Rourke’s voice brought Cathy back to her senses.

  ‘So this is where all the family photos are. She didn’t burn them.’

  The case was lined with green tartan shot with red – cheerful, jolly even. An elasticised pocket at the back was apparently empty. But the main section was anything but. It was crowded with a tumble of black-and-white photographs, different shapes and sizes, some with frilly edges, some plain-cut. One, much larger than the others, was in a dimpled, once white card presentation cover, silver scrolling catching the light of the torch. Bundled up to one side, like it had been stuffed in, in a hurry, was a piece of fabric – part of a scarf or a shawl? Dark purple, cashmere or wool, a fine weave, the pattern lacy. But Cathy’s eyes were on the photographs.

  ‘What are they of?’

  Reaching for the torch, O’Rourke held it up, playing the beam over the first photo in his hand. It showed two girls standing side by side, squinting at the photographer as if the sun was bright behind him. One was a few years older than the other, much taller, slimmer, her bones sharper. Both wore summer dresses, pin-tucked with puff sleeves. Cathy had never been much good at history but the dresses looked pre-war at least. The older girl’s expression was serious, a half-smile on her lips like the whole episode was a test. In total contrast, the little one was smiling broadly like someone had just told a joke, her hair a halo of curls pulled into a pair of haphazard plaits. There was very little background, but from the foliage it looked like they were in a garden.

  ‘Who do you reckon that is?’

  Cathy fought to concentrate, unable to move any closer, unable to really give the photos her full attention. She shook her head. Neither girl looked familiar. Still hanging on to his shoulder, she felt her thoughts getting jumbled. The smell. And the strength of his muscles as they rippled beneath his shirt.

  O’Rourke tossed it back into the pile, reached for the fabric, turning it over gently. Cathy recoiled, the movement releasing the smell, jangling like keys in a door.

  She was going to puke. She felt him tense.

  On the underside of the fabric was a dark stain. Black, like tar.

  ‘We need to get this examined.’ His voice was urgent.

  ‘Is it blood?’

  He shrugged and Cathy’s hand recoiled at his movement, suddenly self-conscious. She pressed her clenched fist into her breastbone. She couldn’t puke now.

  ‘Could be. Doesn’t look like paint, that’s for sure.’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s on the lining of the case too, looks like it soaked through.’ Gently, O’Rourke lifted the photographs to one side, inspecting the base of the case. ‘But it doesn’t seem to have got onto the photos, so perhaps they were put in later.’ He paused, quiet for a moment, the silence dignified, respectful. ‘At least it’s one step up from a plastic bag in an alley . . .’ He trailed off, replacing the fabric carefully. About to close the case, he picked up another photograph, the one in the white folder, flipping it open.

  ‘Whoa, recognise her?’

  It was a wedding photograph – the bride smiling broadly, her hand on her headdress as the wind lifted it; the groom, dashing in a bow tie and tails, had his dark hair slicked back, a pencil moustache twitching above a steely smile. Like Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. It took Cathy a moment, recognition nagging before she twigged. It was Lavinia Grant. Much younger, more attractive, her dark hair curled around her face in a forties style.

  ‘Jesus.’ Cathy’s hand fell away from her m
outh.

  ‘What?’ O’Rourke looked up at her, then back to the photograph.

  It took her a moment to spit it out, but the more she looked, the more she was sure. It had been tangled on the floor and she hadn’t seen it for long, but the fabric, the lace . . . ‘That’s the dress. She’s wearing Zoë’s wedding dress.’

  28

  ‘That you, Cat?’

  ‘Who else would be answering my phone at eleven o’clock at night, Steve Maguire?’

  Wrapped in a towel, her mobile to her ear, Cathy flicked off the bathroom light and headed for her bedroom. The lads were all out – Decko down in Templemore on a course, the others either in the pub or working. For once Cathy had been glad of the peace and quiet, had made herself a bowl of cornflakes and watched a repeat of Friends after O’Rourke dropped her home. Then taking advantage of the rare moment of privacy, she’d taken her phone and Bluetooth speakers into the bathroom and had a very, very long bath.

  For the first time in what felt like ages she’d relaxed, really relaxed. With the appointment booked at the Well Woman Clinic she had suddenly felt that she didn’t have to obsess about the mess she was in – at least not until next week. She’d always believed firmly that there was no point in worrying about stuff until it happened, and the relief of having the appointment booked was, well, just that: total relief. She knew it wouldn’t give her all the answers, but it did give her some breathing time. Breathing time she really needed. At last it felt like she had a plan, wasn’t just freewheeling headlong into God knew what. If only it was that easy.

  There would be plenty of time for worrying when she’d spoken to the doctor.

  She heard a car accelerating somewhere close to where Steve was standing, laughter in the background. Where on earth was he calling from?

  ‘So how can I help you, Steve, or is this a social call?’

  ‘Just touching base.’ Steve sounded breathless, like he was walking fast. Probably on the way home from the pub himself.

  ‘So how’s Miss Grant?’ Cathy fought to keep her voice offhand, to give the impression that her interest was purely professional.