Lottie rang the doorbell.
She heard the clang of a chain being freed from a lock, and the door opened.
‘Hello, Toby. Can we come in for a few minutes?’
She noticed the boy’s face turn pale with wariness.
‘It’s okay. Nothing to be afraid of. I only want to talk about your friend Mikey. Is that all right with you?’
He bit his lip and opened the door wider.
The distinct odour of weed lingered in the hall, but the boy’s eyes appeared clear, despite the dirt on his face, the state of his T-shirt and the rip in his jeans. His black Converse trainers, one without any laces, slapped against the floor tiles as he led her into the kitchen.
‘Are your parents around?’ she said as Boyd loitered beside the door.
Toby shook his head. Despite his height, he looked younger than eleven. A child, unable to halt the growth spurt. She instantly felt a deep sorrow for him. She pulled out a chair.
‘Sit down, Toby.’
He slid onto it. Obedient. Lottie sat down opposite him.
‘I just want to have a little chat with you. You know I’m trying to find whoever did that horrible thing to your friend?’ She shouldn’t be talking to him without a parent present, but she knew she could put up with the consequences if she got something from him.
He nodded. Fidgeted with his hands under the table. She noticed his shoulders quivering.
‘Were you friends with Kevin, too?’
A nod.
‘The three of you. You, Mikey and Kev. Were you all best friends?’
A shrug of the shoulders. What did that mean?
‘Do you know why Kev’s family moved out of Munbally?’
A head shake.
‘Toby, why can’t you talk to me?’
The boy’s shoulders shrugged again and he looked up at her and then at Boyd. His mouth hung loose and his eyes swelled with terror. He was afraid to talk, Lottie realised. Shock? Or something else?
She chanced one final question. ‘Do you know Hope Cotter?’
Toby jumped up and ran from the room, his face as white as a sheet.
* * *
Kirby had checked the McDonald’s CCTV footage by the time Lottie and Boyd returned.
‘Just had a quick look,’ he said. ‘I’ve scribbled down the times relevant to people who may be of interest.’
Lottie looked at the list. ‘So, Mikey leaves the restaurant at nine ten p.m. Followed by Wes Finnegan a minute later. He’s the bus driver?’
‘Correct.’
‘Then Rory Butler at nine sixteen.’
‘Right. And the Duffys at nine eighteen.’
‘Any sign of Bertie Harris?’
‘I’ve footage from another camera to look at yet. This info is just from the side door.’
‘Anything look suspicious to you?’
‘I’ve checked from the time the crowd started to enter, right up to nine thirty, when most had left. The atmosphere seemed jolly and happy. Mikey was sitting on his own most of the time. Odd, seeing as he was the match-winner. But it is a bit blurry and I’m only seeing what went on at one side of the restaurant.’
‘Okay. Have a full report in the morning. Any word from Athlone?’
‘I got a phone number for this Jacinta Barnes. Was going to give her a call, see what she has to say and maybe drive over.’
‘If she seems to be economical with the truth, head on over, but don’t waste valuable time that you could be spending on important CCTV.’
‘Righto, boss.’
Forty-Two
At seven o’clock, Gilly O’Donoghue handed over to Garda Thornton. At last her day was done. She headed downstairs to the locker room to pick up her bag and jacket. She was looking forward to having a cool drink with Kirby later. That put a smile on her face.
Outside, she walked straight into the bus driver who had reported the theft. What was his name? Des or Wes or something.
‘Did you pick him up yet? The thieving bastard?’
‘I’m off duty now, sir.’
‘I just want to know if you got him.’
Gilly turned around as the man tugged on the strap of her bag. He dropped his hand immediately. She recalled his name then.
‘Mr Finnegan, you need to understand that we’re dealing with the deaths of two young boys, and things are quite hectic. I will look into your stolen cash tomorrow. But now I have to go.’
Marching off towards her car she had a quick look over her shoulder. He was still standing there holding a cigarette, sweating buckets, his mouth hanging open.
She drove out of the station and made her way down Main Street. She pulled up at the traffic lights, urging the red to turn green.
It was the scar that made her look twice. Exactly the same as the one that Wes had described. The teenager was walking along the footpath, hood up. As he crossed the road to head down Gaol Street, she saw his face. She was still in uniform. She could stop him. And then what?
When the lights changed, she took a right and drove slowly. At the courthouse, a giant crane hung precariously across the road. She parked up on the footpath and watched the boy in her rear-view mirror, hood pulled up despite the warmth of the evening. Maybe she should follow him. That might get Finnegan off her back.
She watched him meander down Gaol Street, and when she was sure of the direction he was taking, she took off after him.
At the greyhound stadium, she parked on double yellow lines. It was race evening and the area was buzzing with people and dogs.
She kept watch in her mirror. He had to walk this way. There was no other option. Unless he had spotted her. But suddenly, there he was. Strolling along as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Well, Birdy, I know all about you, she thought. All that they had on PULSE, in any case.
She followed his route with her eyes. He passed her and turned into the industrial estate. Not much there, she thought. A few retail outlets and empty units, along with the road that circled the town, its tributaries criss-crossing back up to Main Street. Gilly’s inquisitive nose had helped save an abducted young woman a few months ago, and it was once again itching with curiosity.
Putting the car in gear, she pulled out onto the road. By the time she’d negotiated the roundabout and driven into the industrial estate, Max Collins had disappeared.
‘Where did you go?’ she muttered in frustration.
After driving up and down twice, she gave up. He could be anywhere, and she was hungry. Kirby was calling round and she was cooking. Slimline tonight, my friend, she thought.
The events of the day lay heavy on Lottie’s shoulders as she opened the front door of her mother’s house. She heard the sound of voices coming from the living room. She couldn’t face them yet. She needed to wash away the stench of death and the tears of broken families.
Rushing into her bedroom, she was immediately assaulted by its onslaught of nostalgic claustrophobia. Too many years she’d spent lying on that bed staring at the flowered wallpaper, which was still adorned with her posters of pop stars who were no longer stars and definitely not popping. Stripping off her clothes, she pulled on her mother’s dressing gown and ran to the bathroom. At least in the new house she’d have an en suite. That’s if she got to claim the largest room before either of the girls did.
Stepping out of the robe, she set the shower to full power and stood under the trickle of water. She needed to check that out in the new house too. Maybe she’d go for a run later and pop round. Anything to escape the constant chatter and rows. She closed her eyes and let the water slowly wash away the day.
Not that easy. She saw the baby. Defenceless. Dead. Why? By whose hand had he died? Who had slipped him in among the reeds hoping his little body might never be found? She’d have to speak to Father Joe again, about the girl he’d mentioned, the girl that she was sure was Hope Cotter. And why had Toby baulked the minute she’d mentioned Hope’s name? Poor boy, he was in a state of trauma. He needed help. She’d speak with his p
arents. Tomorrow.
She stepped out onto the cold tiled floor and realised she’d forgotten to bring in a towel. Pulling on the robe, she ran back to the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her. Something else for her mother to give out about.
The shower was strong, and Toby closed his eyes and stood there letting the water pound down. The detective woman had scared him. Why was she asking about Hope?
‘To-by. To-beee … Come out. We want to pee-pee.’
He switched off the water.
His little sisters, Meggy and Kim, were outside the door. They were two lovable nuisances. He dried himself and pulled on clean underwear and the grass-smudged jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing all day. Didn’t want his ma complaining about the amount of washing he generated.
Tugging a comb, thick with Max’s hair, through his mop, he ran his fingers along the shaved edges above his ears. He’d have to use his dad’s razor to tidy it up. He’d ask Max to do it. If he could catch him in a good mood.
He unlocked the bathroom door. The landing was empty. The little witches. He could hear someone moving around in the kitchen. His ma must be home. At least he wouldn’t have to mind his sisters.
In his room, he sat on his bed and thought of Mikey and Kev. Then he thought of Rory. He’d be devastated, wouldn’t he? Rory had looked out for them. But was that all there was to it? Coach caring for his players? Or was there something else? No. Rory was good. Wasn’t he? He stopped the older lads picking on them, not that it happened much to Toby. Mikey had stood up for him too. He smiled, thinking how it would have been different today if Mikey had been with him. Barry shitface Duffy wouldn’t have got away with pushing him around like that.
A shudder rattled Toby’s shoulders and suddenly his skin froze. Inside, it was like he’d eaten beans and his belly was filled with curling wind so that he wanted to belch or fart or maybe just scream.
It was like a bird pecking at the back of his brain.
Telling him …
Telling him what?
To tell?
No.
Toby knew he could never do that.
He switched on his PlayStation. Well, it was really Max’s because he’d paid for it, last Christmas. Probably killed him to spend the money, but Toby was grateful.
He brought up YouTube. Kev had loved YouTube. He was so into music. Toby noticed the trending video and clicked on it.
He blinked his eyes. It looked like a blurry copy of an original and it was only thirty seconds long. He hit the replay button. Oh God, he thought. That’s Mikey. Dead. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
He had to get out.
The old tyre recycling depot, which had closed down two years ago, acted as Max’s unofficial hideout. He sometimes stayed in the hostel on Kennedy Street, on the occasions when his dad kicked him out, but this was his secret go-to location. He was thin enough to ease between the doors held with a linked chain and lock. Once inside, he blinked to focus his eyes in the darkness and made his way to what had once been a partitioned office.
The floor safe was still intact and he’d had keys made. He opened it up and took out his earnings. Counted it all. He added the money he’d stolen from Wes Finnegan’s bus. Soon he would have enough. But he wanted to have more than enough. It wasn’t greed. It was survival. To ensure his escape forever. For the two of them.
The old corrugated doors screeched and the chain lock strained. Hurriedly he secured his money, locked the safe and hid the keys.
Looking out through the broken glass partition of the office, he saw the man enter. Max stood tall and his heart hardened. This was a job; he was no longer lost and vulnerable like he used to be. Only a select few knew where to find him. Slowly he left his hiding place.
‘Over here, you scum of the earth. Quickly. No slacking. Run.’
Max stood unmoving. You can wait, shithead, he thought.
‘I said run, you lazy tart.’
A fifty-euro note was held out.
Max moved forward.
‘I hear you have a younger brother.’
‘Fuck off,’ Max said, watching as the note was waved in front of him.
‘That’s no way to speak to your elders. You need to learn some respect.’
Max stuck his hands into his jeans pockets. There was no way anyone was getting their slimy paws on Toby.
The face before him smirked. ‘Toby. That’s his name, isn’t it? I know you’ve been thieving. I know you need money. There’s plenty more where this came from.’
Max said nothing.
The money was pocketed. ‘I want Toby. I’ll be back tomorrow night. And you’d better bring him to me. If you don’t, I might start looking at one of your little sisters.’
‘You keep your filthy paws off my sisters.’
‘Do what I say, then.’
‘How much?’ Max heard himself ask.
Forty-Three
‘Are you working tonight?’ Lottie asked as Chloe walked into the kitchen dressed in tight jeans and a white shirt with the top three buttons undone. She could see the red lace of her bra peeking out.
‘Yeah, I am.’ Chloe munched on a raw carrot.
‘But it’s Tuesday.’
‘Gosh, I’m so lucky to have a detective mother.’
‘Leave her alone,’ Rose piped up. She was combing her short silver hair at the mirror out in the hall.
‘She’s my daughter,’ Lottie said. ‘I didn’t think they’d be busy midweek.’
‘I was asked to come in, and I’ll get paid, busy or not.’ Chloe dumped the end of the carrot into the bin.
‘Put that in the compost,’ Rose said.
‘Has she eyes in the back of her head?’ Chloe whispered to Lottie.
Lottie smiled at her daughter. ‘Don’t be late. Here. I’ll give you money for a taxi.’
‘Have my own money, thanks.’ Chloe pulled on a denim jacket and swaggered out of the kitchen.
‘Don’t be late.’
‘You said that already. Bye, Gran.’ The door banged.
‘You need to give your kids more leeway. They’re growing up.’
Lottie bit back her retort. She wasn’t in the mood for a row with her mother. She’d pulled on running bottoms and a Nike top after her shower. She’d only just eaten dry lasagne that had spent the better part of the day in the oven, but she needed to get out.
‘I’m going for a run.’
‘You’ve just eaten.’
Tell me something I don’t know, Mother. She hoped she hadn’t said that out loud as she made for the front door.
She paused. ‘Where’s Sean?’
‘He’s over at his friend’s house.’
‘What friend?’ Lottie felt the hair on the back of her neck stand to attention.
‘Barry. The lad he went fishing with yesterday. Any news on that unfortunate baby?’
‘No news.’ She pulled the door closed behind her and walked slowly down the path. Once she was out on the road, she started to jog. She wasn’t at all sure about Sean’s friendship with Barry. Jen Driscoll had said that Dr Duffy was involved with the under-twelves soccer team. Another interview to add to the list. She would ask the good doctor about his motives then. And Rory Butler had better turn up tomorrow, or she’d be issuing him with an arrest warrant.
She rang Boyd to see if he would run with her. He answered but said he was out. She hung up without asking what ‘out’ meant. An aching loneliness replaced the fatigue in her bones.
She inhaled the scent of cut grass. Eyeing the sun dipping behind the fields to the rear of her mother’s house, she remembered that she’d been planning to run down to the new house to see how Ben was getting on. That was an idea. She began a slow jog, and with each step she found a renewed energy, her steps becoming fluid and strong.
She passed the old tobacco factory, noting signs of recent construction. Maybe at last the town was picking up. At the Dublin Bridge, she could see the crane standing tall at the courthouse, like gallows hanging o
ver the townscape. Before she realised where she was going, she found herself at the entrance to Munbally Grove. And in the evening air, she smelled something she couldn’t identify.
She slowed down slightly but continued to jog. Down through the maze of houses, built so close she imagined you could hear your next-door neighbour boiling a kettle or snoring during the night. Children were playing football in one of the small green areas in front of a semicircle of houses. Parents standing guard at their front doors. That was what she could smell. Fear.
Her heart tightened and she had to count her breaths to keep moving. A baby and two boys had been murdered, and it was her responsibility to find the killer or killers. The burden of that task was more evident as she felt the pull of scared eyes tracking her movement.
She had to get out of here.
Turning right, she found herself on an identical close. She made another right. Up towards the football pitch and clubhouse. Where they’d found Mikey Driscoll. It was dusk, with the yellow hue of the street lights casting long shadows over the pitch. She paused at the gate, peered over at the crime-scene tape her officers had erected, swinging lightly in the soft breeze.
Tugging the gate, she saw it was locked. Pity it hadn’t been locked on Sunday night. She climbed the small wall and vaulted down into the grounds. At the rear of the clubhouse she looked around. Tried to see the scene through the eyes of the killer.
What made you bring the boy here? You didn’t kill him here, we know that, she thought. Jane Dore had told her that Mikey’s and Kevin’s bodies had evidence they had been murdered elsewhere. She looked up at the cameras. Why take the risk of moving a body? Unless you knew they couldn’t capture your image from there. Hopefully Kirby would have something for her in the morning.
Dipping under the garda tape, she stood where she imagined the killer had stood after laying Mikey Driscoll on the grassy bank. Among the waste bins. Was there a subliminal message there? Detritus beside growth. The body laid out among the flowers, ready to be found. Not hidden. Not dumped in one of the bins. She pressed her fingers into her temples. And then thought of Kevin Shanley. Out on a rock at the lake. Also surrounded by a halo of flowers. She shook her head. There was something in that thought but she couldn’t figure it out. Maybe in the morning, when her brain was fresher. Yes, Mikey Driscoll, I will find who did this to you, and to Kevin Shanley. And then she remembered the baby dumped in the canal.
Tell Nobody: Absolutely gripping crime fiction with unputdownable mystery and suspense Page 16