Toby felt his heart beat a little faster. He was going to start stuttering, and if he did that, he knew his father would lash out at him. He wished his mother was home. He glanced at the digital display on the television. She’d still be at work. Her shift at the hotel didn’t finish for another two hours.
‘Toby?’ The woman was looking at him.
He bit his lip and lowered his eyes. ‘M-Mikey played in the match yesterday. He … he scored a b-brilliant goal. We … we all went to McDonald’s afterwards. A treat from Mr B-Butler.’ He looked up.
‘He’s the team coach,’ his father explained.
‘Mikey went with you?’
‘Everyone was there. It was p-packed.’
‘Did Mikey come home with you?’
Toby eyed his dad before shaking his head. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘He wanted to … to stay over. S-said he’d told his ma. But I hadn’t asked mine because she was at work. I told him I’d have to check with her first.’
‘And when did you tell him this?’
Toby shrugged, feeling a little more confident. He had to stop stammering or he would get a clout from his dad. ‘Sometime after the match. I can’t remember when.’
‘Did you and Mikey leave McDonald’s together?’
Toby gulped, tried to think back to the previous night. ‘No. I’d changed my mind. I was going to tell Mikey he could come to mine for the night. But then I couldn’t find him anywhere.’
‘Where had he gone?’
Toby wrenched his hands into fists, kneading his knuckles. ‘I thought he must have gone home.’
The two detectives looked at each other. Toby watched them. The man had been scribbling in his notebook. Now he put it away and hunkered down.
‘Toby, you’re not in any trouble, but you need to tell us the truth.’
‘I … I am … I did.’
‘The whole truth?’
Toby didn’t trust his own voice any more. He nodded.
‘Leave the lad alone. He told you what he knows. Will that be all?’ Toby’s dad stood up.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Toby sank back into the rough armchair. The detective rose to his feet, towering over his dad.
‘If you remember anything else, tell your dad to call us,’ he said.
Toby nodded. ‘That’s all. I swear. Is M-Mikey in trouble?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ the woman detective said.
* * *
Once the detectives had left, his dad closed the front door behind them and returned to the living room.
Toby hadn’t moved. He felt his dad’s hand on his shoulder. He looked up into the hard, glassy eyes.
‘Are you telling the truth?’
‘Y-yes, Dad.’
‘If your friends want to stay over, you have to ask first. Didn’t I tell you that?’ He waited a beat. ‘Answer me!’
‘Yes, you did. And I told him he couldn’t come.’
‘But you told those two detectives that you’d changed your mind.’
‘I felt sorry for Mikey. He’d scored the winning goal and his ma wasn’t even there. He has no one else. I’m his best friend.’
‘That’s enough of this shite. Go to your room.’
Toby escaped and ran up the stairs. In his room, he climbed over the bed and leaned on the sill, looking out of the window. There were kids playing ball on the green, screeching and roaring. There was no sign of the detectives.
He returned to his PlayStation. The only luxury he was allowed. He eyed his phone. It was an old Samsung his ma had given him when she’d got an upgrade. It didn’t even have Wi-Fi. He picked it up and checked to make sure he hadn’t missed a message from Mikey. Nothing. Just the call from Mikey’s mother earlier.
He booted up Call of Duty. Mikey wasn’t online. He was always online during the holidays. Earlier, Toby had thought his friend had been pissed off with him about last night and that was why he wasn’t playing. Now, he wondered: where was Mikey?
As he took command of a gun and began sneaking around the side of a virtual building, it struck him that his own family hadn’t been at the match to see him either.
The door opened. Toby turned his head. Eighteen-year-old Max stood there.
‘Well, what did the pigs want?’
Eighteen
‘That young fellow, Toby, is scared shitless of his dad,’ Boyd said as he started the car.
Lottie thought about the encounter. ‘He’s definitely scared of something.’
‘We will need to talk to him again.’
‘Yeah, but let the dust settle first. Let’s drive down to number fifty-three before we head back to the station,’ Lottie said. ‘See if Hope has returned home.’
‘I doubt it very much,’ Boyd said, but he swung along the narrow road around the back of the estate and into the horseshoe of houses where the Cotters lived, an exact replica of the one they’d just left. ‘Didn’t Mrs Driscoll say she heard she’d done a runner?’
‘Yeah, well, I’m hoping she meant from the hospital.’ She thought about Mikey Driscoll’s body. ‘At this moment in time, we have to class Hope Cotter as a suspect in the boy’s death.’
‘I thought she killed the baby?’ Boyd said, as a piebald horse with a boy on its back made its way up the road.
‘She said, “I think I killed him.” She could have meant Mikey.’
They got out of the car and Lottie hammered the door. No answer. ‘Where the hell are they?’
‘Did you really expect her to run home and then hang around waiting for you?’
‘She has a little girl,’ Lottie said. ‘I’m worried for Lexie’s welfare. I should have reported them.’
‘Too late now.’
‘You can be so reassuring when you want, you know that, Boyd?’ she said sarcastically, before jumping over the rickety fence and banging on the door of number 54. Boyd knocked at 52 with its barred and shuttered windows.
Lottie stood back as the door eased open a crack. Two brown eyes gleamed out from the darkness, blinking in the sudden sunlight.
‘What you want?’
‘We’re looking for Robbie and Hope Cotter. Your neighbours. Have you seen them today?’
‘I saw no one.’
‘Please, Miss …?
‘Who are you, anyway?’
Lottie placed her foot in the doorway, just in case, then showed her ID.
‘Pigs. What do you want with next door? They cause no trouble.’ The woman edged the door closed.
Putting her hand on the jamb, Lottie conjured up a smile. ‘I just need to speak with them. It’s very urgent.’
A cry from inside caused the woman to turn round. ‘Shh. I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘Miss?’
‘I honestly haven’t seen them today. So, if you take your foot away, I’d like to go back to watching my kids.’
When the door had closed, Lottie looked over at Boyd. He shrugged his shoulders. The Cotters were gone.
‘Back to the office and we’ll see if anyone else has found them.’ She slammed the car door. ‘And we need to get someone to drop Mikey’s toothbrush to the lab. It’s a pity we can’t talk to Toby Collins alone. I want to know what he’s afraid of.’
‘He’ll have to wait. We have a whole football team to interview now. Spectators and anyone else associated with it. And then there’s the crowd who were in McDonald’s last night.’
‘We’ll get CCTV footage from there.’
‘Send Kirby. He always fancies a Happy Meal.’
‘Boyd, this is serious.’
‘I am serious.’
‘So what happened to Mikey Driscoll last night?’
‘Some lunatic grabbed him from outside the restaurant and murdered him?’
‘Boyd, just drive. I need to think.’
Nineteen
Pulling his hood up to shield his face from passers-by, Max Collins headed out of the estate, along the canal and into town. He crosse
d the road and entered Fallon’s pub. He had a five-euro note and some loose change in his pocket. Time to do some thieving. It had never come naturally to him, but he had to do it if he wanted to survive. If he wanted to escape. There was a time when Jim Fallon, the landlord, would have let him drink for free even when he was underage, but not any more. That said, Max was going to chance it.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he slid his long tobacco-stained fingers, nails bitten to the quick, under the rim of the hood, and smoothed down his hair. Letting the hood down, he undid the zipper, noticed the state of his T-shirt and zipped it up again.
‘Hi, Jim,’ he said, sitting onto a stool.
‘I thought I barred you,’ Jim said, his face a mirror of his grumpy voice.
‘That was my twin brother.’
‘I’m not serving you, and you don’t have a twin brother.’
‘I could have, you never know.’ Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror behind the optics, Max thought he wouldn’t serve him either.
‘Come on, Birdy. Don’t make me throw you out.’ Fallon rubbed the glass in his hand furiously with a threadbare cloth before adding it to the selection on the counter behind him.
Max hated his nickname. It had started in school. Something to do with the fact that his nose looked like a crow’s beak. But he let it go for now.
‘A pint. Just need to gear myself up for … you know what.’ Max noticed Fallon flushing bright red and smiled to himself.
‘I don’t know what, and I don’t like your insinuation.’
‘A pint.’ Max put the money on the counter.
With a sigh, Fallon retrieved the glass he’d dried, pulled a pint of lager and slammed it on the counter, splashing it over Max’s hand. ‘Keep your dirty money, Birdman. Drink up, then leave me alone.’
Raising the glass in mock salute, Max watched as Fallon headed to the other end of the bar. He just about tolerated being called Birdy, but he hated Birdman.
His reflection continued to haunt him. A scar through his eyebrow he’d got from a bottle when he was ten, an indent in his cheek the result of another bottle, broken this time, when he was twelve. His teeth, yellow and chipped, self-inflicted, from three years of crack cocaine usage. He drew his finger along them as if the action could negate the effects. He’d tried; God, but he had tried. Last year, aged seventeen, he’d stopped, cold turkey, in an attempt to save himself. But he knew, being on the ladder below the lowest rung of human existence, there wasn’t much hope of redemption. Still, he had planned to make something of his life. Something he could achieve while lying in the gutter looking up at the elusive stars. He remembered that some famous guy had once said that, but he couldn’t recall who it was. Sometimes it was hard even to know who he was.
The hum of chatter seemed to disappear as the door to the bar opened. Max quelled the urge to turn around. He’d wait until he could see who it was in the mirror. But he felt the hand on his shoulder before he raised his head, fingers digging into the cotton of his jacket. He knew those fingers.
Birds sang in the tree on the footpath outside the pub.
But Birdy would not sing tonight.
He only hoped he would live to see another day.
Twenty
Hope settled Lexie into the single bed, nestled her comforter under her chin and watched as the little girl rubbed the label up and down. Smoothing her hair, she kissed the child’s forehead and went down to the kitchen. Every footstep she took was utter agony.
‘You’re not staying here long,’ Jacinta Barnes said, buttoning up her purple velour cardigan.
‘Can I make a cup of coffee?’ Hope asked, ignoring Robbie’s ex-girlfriend’s sour face.
‘Sit and I’ll do it. You won’t know where anything is.’ Jacinta lit a cigarette and busied herself with the kettle and mugs. As she moved around, her arse wobbled in the tight tracksuit that Hope figured was at least two sizes too small.
Hope stared at Robbie. ‘Why did we have to come here to Athlone?’ she whispered. ‘I did nothing wrong.’
‘When detectives knock on my door asking questions, I know you’ve done something wrong.’
‘What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’ She sat at the table and pulled Jacinta’s cigarettes towards her. ‘Mind if I have one?’
‘I do, but go on.’ Jacinta slammed three mugs on the table. ‘What did you do?’
Lighting up the cigarette, Hope took a drag. It made her feel even dizzier than she was already. The pain in her abdomen was unrelenting, and she knew she was losing too much blood.
‘I did nothing.’ But what had happened to the baby that had been growing in her belly? She scrunched her eyes shut and beat her forehead. ‘At least I don’t think I did. I can’t remember.’
She felt Robbie take her hand away. She looked at him.
‘What?’
‘Where’s your baby, Hope?’
Gulping down a sob, she stood up and shook her head. Her eyes were tearless, her heart heavy and her womb empty. ‘I don’t know.’ She put the cigarette in the ashtray and took the mug of coffee from Jacinta. ‘I’m going to sit with Lexie.’
Fear crawled up her spine as she climbed the stairs with their worn carpet and squeaky boards. The door creaked as she pushed it open, and Lexie sat up in bed and held out her hands.
‘Mummy, I’m scared.’
Putting down the mug, Hope took her child in her arms. ‘Don’t be frightened, sweetheart. I won’t let anything happen to you.’
‘Where are we?’
‘We’re safe, Lexie.’
As her daughter fell asleep in her arms and her coffee turned cold, Hope prayed that she could rid herself of the noxious influences that stalked her life.
He had told her she was evil. She had believed him. But the priest with the sad blue eyes had said she was good. Who was right?
She lay down on the hard bed and held her daughter tight. Lexie was the most important person in her world. They could do what they liked, but she would fight to the death to protect her little girl.
She needed to get out of here. Somehow she had to snatch the car keys and sneak out past Robbie and his ex-girlfriend.
Once it was dark.
Twenty-One
With everyone mobilised to search for Hope Cotter, and scores of interviews ongoing in the Mikey Driscoll case, there was nothing for Lottie to do except type up her notes about Hope’s appearance at the station that morning.
Nothing showed up on the PULSE database for her. A few traffic misdemeanours for her uncle, Robbie Cotter. Nothing for Mikey Driscoll or Toby Collins either, or for their parents, though there was a warning against Toby’s brother, Max, for possession of Class C drugs. For his own use. Let off with a warning.
As she tried to concentrate, her eye was drawn through the open doorway to the outer office. Voices carried to her ear as Boyd slipped an envelope from his post pile and opened it. He extracted the pages and began to read them.
‘What’s that?’ Kirby asked, tapping the top of his computer monitor.
‘You’re the nosiest bastard around,’ Boyd said.
‘That’s why I’m a detective.’
Holding the papers aloft, Boyd said, ‘I’m a free man.’
‘At last.’ Kirby jumped up. ‘This means drinks, a celebration.’
‘What are we celebrating?’ Lottie called from her office.
‘Boyd got his divorce,’ Kirby said. ‘At last.’
Lottie feigned disinterest by lowering her head to her work. Why hadn’t Boyd told her this was going on? For years he had resisted divorcing his estranged wife, Jackie, who now resided somewhere in the south of Spain. What would this cost him? Financially he wasn’t wealthy, she knew that. But emotionally, what would it do to him? Now that he was finally free, would he once again direct his attention to her? Or would he seek out a new soulmate? She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.
‘You’ve gone very quiet.’ Boyd was standing in the doorway.
>
She roused herself from her musings. ‘Nothing for me to say. Have you that report written up?’
‘What report?’
‘See, you’re slacking. Get back to work, Boyd, and don’t be annoying me.’
As he moved away she was sure she heard him say, ‘Thick arse.’
* * *
She decided to escape the office to fetch something to eat. She needed her strength if she was to investigate the case of the unidentified baby and the suspected murder of Mikey Driscoll. She decided on Danny’s Bar rather than Cafferty’s. Most of the squad frequented Cafferty’s, and she needed a quiet few minutes alone in the company of a cool white wine. No, she decided, too early for that. A coffee would have to suffice.
The interior of the pub was dark, and she squinted, refocusing her eyes after the outside light. A few men sat on bar stools drinking pints, and a couple of women with handbags at their feet were ensconced in a corner, near the door.
She walked through to the lounge. It was quiet. She beckoned to the young woman behind the bar and ordered coffee and a sandwich. As she turned towards a comfortable seat, the couple at the end of the bar caught her eye.
No, it couldn’t be, she thought. She lowered her head and made for the corner. Once she was seated and her coffee arrived, she chanced another look. It was him. Boyd. In deep conversation with a dark-haired woman. The cut of the hair was familiar, and when the woman threw back her head in a laugh, Lottie felt her heart sink all the way down to the soles of her feet. She had to get out. Unnoticed.
Throwing a few coins on the table, she got up quickly and fled the pub.
As she walked back to the station, she kept wondering why Boyd was having a drink with the journalist Cynthia Rhodes. The scene had looked nice and cosy. Too cosy for comfort. What the hell was that all about?
Shit!
And she was still hungry.
Boyd eyed Cynthia Rhodes with unveiled suspicion. Had she followed him into the pub? Or was it, as she claimed, a happy coincidence? Whatever the truth was, he wasn’t going to let his guard down. He had been on the point of ordering food when she took charge of the stool next to him.
Tell Nobody: Absolutely gripping crime fiction with unputdownable mystery and suspense Page 7