‘Hard to know. It’s been very warm over the last few days. We’ll have to defer to the state pathologist for exact time of death.’
‘Right.’
‘But I bet he hasn’t been here long. Someone would have noticed.’
‘There was an under-twelves final played here yesterday evening,’ Boyd said. ‘There would have been a big crowd around. So he must have been killed and left here later than that.’
Scanning the area, Lottie noticed small black cameras nestling in the eaves of the clubhouse roof.
‘Kirby, see if you can locate the caretaker. We need that security footage. Boyd, we need a tent to protect the scene. And where are the SOCOs?’
‘Still at the canal,’ he offered.
‘Call McGlynn,’ she said. ‘Get him to assign a team over here. And phone Jane Dore. We need to get this body into a cold room soon.’
Two bodies in one day. What was happening? At least they had a suspect for the baby’s death, even though they had lost her. But this boy? Who was he? She sighed at the final indignity of being dumped in an area for rubbish bins, despite someone’s attempt to beautify the area by planting flowers. She wondered then why flowers had been placed around his head.
She went to the bins and with gloved hands lifted the lids. Rubbish and recycling.
‘Someone needs to search these. There might be evidence dumped in them.’ She hadn’t much hope of that, but at this stage you never knew what you were dealing with. ‘He was left out on display, Boyd. No effort made to hide the body.’
‘His killer wanted him to be found.’
She looked up into his eyes, dancing nuts of hazel. ‘Is the killer sending us a message?’
‘I hope not, because if they are, there may be more deaths like this poor lad.’
Fourteen
‘You little bastard,’ Kirby said under his breath as he sat down in the interview room. As usual, there was no air in the confined space, and he felt the effects of his cigar-smoking creaking through his arteries. Fonzie Ahern sat opposite him, his mother by his side.
‘Excuse me, Detective,’ she said. ‘No need for that language.’
‘I specifically told you not to upload anything to YouTube.’ He glared at the boy.
‘Actually, it was you who put the idea into my head.’
Kirby blew out his cheeks, trying hard to keep his temper pinned down and air in his lungs. ‘I saw the time of the upload. You did it before I arrived on the scene.’ He sighed. Their tech team were now trying to get the video removed. But he knew it would already have been copied and viewed thousands, if not millions of times, all over the world. The whole team had seen it. Lynch had thrown up on the spot. Something about the display of a snuffed-out human life on film was almost harder to accept than witnessing it first-hand.
‘Detective, we are here voluntarily so my son can make a statement, so either get on with it or we’re going home.’ Mrs Ahern grabbed her son’s hand.
‘Right so,’ Kirby said. ‘What time did you arrive at the clubhouse?’
Fonzie appeared serious now, all bravado sucked out of him by his mother’s hand on his.
‘During the holidays there’s not much to do, with no school, you know. It must’ve been around two o’clock. Chan got some cans from his dad’s restaurant and we just hung out behind the clubhouse. Drinking. Watching videos and listening to music on our phones. That kind of thing. Causing no trouble to no one.’
‘Minding your own business?’
‘Exactly.’ Fonzie smiled up at him. ‘Then, around half three, Chan said he had to go to work. He helps out in his dad’s restaurant. We gathered up the cans and put them in a bag, and rather than bringing them home, Kylie went to throw them in the bin.’
‘That was good of you.’
‘My son learns all about recycling and saving the earth at school. He’s a good lad.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Kirby said sincerely. But he didn’t say anything about the underage drinking. It wasn’t the time for that lecture.
‘And then …’ Fonzie continued, ‘Kylie screamed.’
In Interview Room 2, Lynch was sitting across from Kylie and her mum.
‘So you approached the bin with the cans,’ Lynch said. ‘Then what happened?’
Kylie sniffed and wrung her hands into a knot. Her mother squeezed her shoulder.
‘I … I was about to lift the lid, to throw in the bag, when I saw …’
‘Go on, Kylie,’ Lynch said. ‘You’re doing great.’
The girl nodded. ‘I dropped the lid because something caught my eye. I nearly puked right there. Thought it was a dead cat or something. I should have just turned away without looking …’
‘Did you approach or touch the body?’
Kylie raised her head, her eyes wide with astonishment. ‘What? No way. I couldn’t … I couldn’t move. I screamed, and then Fonzie came running around the corner and grabbed me before I fainted.’
‘Is Fonzie your boyfriend?’
‘Are you joking me? We’re just friends.’
‘Did you recognise the deceased?’
‘The what?’
‘The dead boy.’
Kylie shook her head violently. ‘I hardly looked at him.’ She crumpled into her mother’s chest like a little girl who’d been told a horror story and might never sleep again.
‘Is that all?’ her mum asked. ‘I really need to get my daughter home.’
‘Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?’
Kylie sniffed. ‘I’m not sure, but I think I recognised his hair.’
‘And after Kylie screamed, what did you do?’ Kirby said.
‘Ran around to see what was wrong,’ Fonzie replied. ‘Caught her just as she was about to faint.’
‘And it was you who called 999?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not before you filmed the scene, though.’ Kirby would never understand teenagers’ obsession for snapping everything and anything.
The boy didn’t answer. Hung his head. Bit his lip, his goatee looking like a disguise that had gone wrong.
‘Can we leave now?’ his mother asked.
‘Did you know him?’
‘Who?’ Fonzie raised his head, eyes wide and still.
‘The dead boy.’
A loud gulp. A nod.
Kirby leaned across the table, adrenaline pumping a red flush up his face. ‘You knew him? You recognised him?’
‘I never realised people could look so different when they’re dead.’
‘Go on.’
‘I think … Mikey got his hair dyed blonde at the tips. Said it was cool.’
‘Mikey who?’
‘Jesus, Fonzie!’ Mrs Ahern turned to look at her son. ‘Not Mikey Driscoll?’
Fonzie nodded. The hard boy, now broken, tears flowing down his cheeks.
‘Who is he?’ Kirby asked the mother.
She blessed herself. ‘The Driscolls live at the back of ours, in Munbally Grove. I can’t remember the number. You can find out, can’t you? Oh God, his poor mother. This will kill her.’
‘What’s the mother’s name?’
‘Jennifer Driscoll. We call her Jen. At the bingo. She goes every night. Wouldn’t miss it. Never wins much. I don’t either,’ she added quickly. ‘Poor Mikey. I heard he scored the winning goal yesterday too. Oh, this is just too awful for words.’
Kirby ended the interview and escorted mother and son out of the station with a caution not to say anything to anyone until the victim’s relatives had been informed.
Now that they had the dead boy’s name, there was a poor mother’s heart ready to be broken. He was glad he wouldn’t be tasked with that job. That was one for Lottie Parker.
And then he realised the boy was from the same estate as Hope Cotter.
Fifteen
The trees along the roadside blurred, making her feel dizzy. The radio was blaring unintelligible music and her uncle was banging the steering wheel in time
to some rhythm only he was aware of.
‘Where are we going?’ Hope said. She felt so sick, she wondered how she hadn’t already thrown up in his car.
‘Somewhere safer than Ragmullin,’ Robbie said. ‘Don’t you be worrying. You just need to get your memory back. I still find it hard to believe you can’t remember what happened to your baby.’
‘I’m telling you the truth. Not knowing, it’s driving me insane.’
When she’d arrived home, feet oozing sores and clothes covered in blood, her uncle had grilled her about the baby and how her pregnancy had ended. She couldn’t give him any answers. She knew he didn’t believe her, but he’d said the guards had been around, and told her to wash quickly, change and pack a bag for herself and Lexie.
By the time she was ready, dressed in clean jeans and an old hoodie, and had Lexie sorted, the car engine was spluttering and his own bag was in the boot. He’d locked the front door and bundled them all into the car.
Now she was on the road with no idea whether she had successfully escaped the veil of evil that had shrouded her life, or if she was being catapulted head-first into a new horror show. Lexie cuddled into her chest, her thumb in her mouth, asleep.
Hope knew she had no choice.
She had to trust her uncle.
Sixteen
Jennifer Driscoll was tall and slim, dressed in black and yellow gym gear. Her smile was wide as she opened the door, though her green eyes were tinged with something Lottie couldn’t quite put her finger on. She estimated the woman was aged about thirty.
‘Come in, come in,’ Jennifer said, as she walked into a small kitchen by the front door. ‘Sit down. I’m sure you’re here to ask about Hope Cotter. Poor girl. Heard she’d done a runner. And little Lexie. Cutest child you’d ever see. Even cuter than my Mikey when he was a baby.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall as she filled the kettle. ‘Mmm, he should be home by now.’
Lottie raised an eyebrow in Boyd’s direction. ‘Where has Mikey been, Jennifer?’ she said.
‘Call me Jen. He stayed at his friend Toby’s last night. Getting a bit old for sleepovers now, I told him. He said he’d be home in time for tea today. They had a soccer final and I knew I’d be going to the bingo, so that’s why I let him stay over. I heard today that he scored the winning goal. He’s a good kid.’
Lottie thought she saw a hint of sadness in the woman’s eyes. Was she regretting putting her bingo before her son’s triumph? She’d have a lot more regret in a couple of minutes.
‘What’s Toby’s surname?’ Boyd said.
‘Collins.’ Jen pulled out a chair and sat down. Lottie watched the woman’s eyes travel from Boyd’s face to her own. Reality dawning. ‘You’re not here about Hope, are you?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Lottie said.
Jen stared hard before her hand flew to her mouth.
‘Not Mikey,’ she cried. ‘Please, dear God in heaven, don’t let anything have happened to my boy.’
This was going to be hard.
‘Jen?’ Lottie reached out and placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. ‘Is there anyone I can get to come and sit with you?’
‘Don’t tell me.’ Hysteria had replaced the smile. ‘Oh, Holy Mother of Jesus in heaven! Tell me.’
Lottie gestured for Boyd to say the dreaded words no parent ever wanted to hear.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Driscoll,’ he said. ‘Earlier this afternoon, the body of a young boy was found at the rear of the soccer clubhouse.’
‘You’re wrong. It’s not my Mikey.’ She jumped up. Sat down again. ‘Wait a minute. I’ll ring him.’ She stabbed her finger at her phone. After a few moments, her face paled even further. ‘He … he’s not answering. I’ll call Toby.’ More thumbing of the phone pad before she held it to her ear. ‘Hi, Toby, don’t want to worry you, but is Mikey with you?’
Lottie watched intently. She knew the answer as the animation faded from Jen’s face and the phone dropped to the table.
‘He … he says Mikey didn’t stay with him last night. Doesn’t know where he is. Jesus Christ. Fuck.’ She picked up the phone again.
Lottie put out her hand to quell the woman’s movement.
‘I know this is hard to take in. Please listen to me.’ She waited until Jen raised her head. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. We believe the body might be that of Mikey. But we need to make a formal identification. Do you have a recent photograph?’ She knew this wouldn’t be much use, but it would give Jen something to focus on while Lottie gathered her thoughts on what to do next.
The phone was in Jen’s hand again. She sniffed away tears, flicked through photos and showed Lottie the screen.
‘That’s my Mikey. He’s a good boy, a beautiful boy. My baby.’
‘Can I send this to my phone? When was it taken?’
‘Yesterday lunchtime.’
Lottie stared at the image of the boy with his hand raised over his head making rabbit ears. A broad grin on his face. Shoulder-length dark hair dyed blonde at the ends.
‘What age is he?’
‘Eleven. Almost twelve. It’s his birthday next month. He doesn’t want a party. Knows it’s too expensive to organise. A pair of football boots, that’s all he wants. Cost me as much as a party.’ She laughed; then, as if she realised there would be no birthday and no one to wear the boots that were wrapped in gift paper under her bed, she crumpled to the table, her shoulders convulsing as sobs broke from her mouth. ‘It’s not Mikey. Not my Mikey.’ Her voice rose a maniacal octave. ‘You’ve made a mistake.’
Lottie turned the phone to Boyd. He nodded. Confirmed it was Mikey Driscoll who was now on his way to a cutting table in Jane Dore’s morgue.
‘Jen? Give me the number of someone to come over to you. Please,’ Lottie said. Her inquiries before they had left the station had confirmed that Mikey’s father was no longer on the scene.
‘Next door. Dolores will come in.’
Boyd got up to fetch the neighbour. ‘What number?’
‘Twenty-four.’
Alone with the distraught woman, Lottie went round the table and put her arm around Jen’s trembling shoulders. She knew how she herself had felt when Sean had been abducted; if anything happened to any of her children, she would be insane with grief. Could she even go on living?
Thinking of Jen’s mental state, she said, ‘Who is your doctor? You need a sedative.’
‘I want to see him.’
‘Tell me his name and I’ll call him.’
‘Not the doctor. Mikey. I want to see my son.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. Not at the moment. We’ll take his toothbrush and maybe something else that will provide us with DNA, for comparison purposes.’
Jen raised her head from the table, her eyelids drooping with the weight of her tears. ‘I never asked. About this … this body you have. How did he die?’
Lottie wasn’t sure, though the state pathologist at the scene had suspected strangulation. There was no way she could tell Jen, not yet anyway. She said, ‘The death is being classed as suspicious.’
‘He didn’t … you know … kill himself?’ Jen collapsed in a heap again, her head banging against the table.
‘No, Jen, he didn’t kill himself.’
Boyd arrived with the harried-looking neighbour. She was about Jen’s age, but there the resemblance ended. Dolores was flabby and her tracksuit was straining against the ripples of fat at her waist. Boyd had briefed her outside, and she immediately rushed over to her friend and folded her in her arms.
‘Phone her doctor,’ Lottie said. ‘There’s a family liaison officer on the way.’
And she knew they hadn’t enough FLOs for all that had happened today.
Seventeen
Toby Collins looked out of his bedroom window as the car drew up outside. A man and a woman got out and approached the front door of the house. He was one hundred per cent sure they were guards. He racked his brains wondering why they were at his house. Why
had Mikey’s mother sounded so odd on the phone, asking where Mikey was? Had Mikey told lies about him? Probably.
But then his thoughts shifted. It had to be something to do with his brother. He slid off the bed and turned around to see Max standing in the doorway.
‘There’s two bastard guards downstairs. Da says they want to talk to you. You keep your big trap shut. Do you hear me?’
Toby nodded. He knew better than to blab about anything. Max wouldn’t hesitate to throttle him. He’d tried once before, when Toby had told Ma about the little bag of weed he’d found under Max’s pillow. He’d only been looking for cash. Learned his lesson that day.
Downstairs, he entered the living room. His dad was standing with his back to the unlit fireplace. The man and woman were by the window. Toby gulped and shoved his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms. The woman turned towards him. She was tall, dressed in skinny jeans and leather boots. Her white T-shirt looked grubby, and she had a jacket tucked under her arm and a raggedy leather bag slung over her shoulder.
‘Toby? We want to talk about your friend Mikey Driscoll.’
What were they on about? Why would they be asking about Mikey? He thought of the phone call from Mikey’s mum. Something weird was going on.
‘What about him?’
‘Sit down,’ his dad said. ‘All of you. You detectives are making him nervous.’
Toby sat on the nearest armchair and his dad sat opposite. The detectives remained standing. Now that he was sitting down, Toby felt like the two were giants in his small world. He was so nervous. He hoped he wouldn’t cry, but he had done nothing wrong. At least he didn’t think so.
‘Toby, my name is Lottie,’ the woman said. ‘We just want to know when you last saw Mikey.’
‘Has something happened to him?’ Toby said.
‘Answer the damn question,’ his dad snapped.
‘Mr Collins, please let us handle this,’ the detective said.
Tell Nobody: Absolutely gripping crime fiction with unputdownable mystery and suspense Page 6