Both the Duffys were at home. Lottie had no idea if Barry was there or not, but he wasn’t her concern at the moment.
‘You’re lucky to find me here. I work a half-day on Wednesdays,’ Paul Duffy said, leading the two detectives into the pallid-looking living room.
Lottie welcomed the sparseness and breathed in the clean air. Stark contrast to the odour of Wesley Finnegan’s hovel. Duffy was dressed in a tailored cream shirt, no tie, blue jeans and flip-flops. Flip-flops? She could hear the rain thundering against the window.
Julia rushed in behind them, long black hair flowing loosely around her face. ‘Tea, anyone?’ she said.
‘No thanks,’ Boyd said.
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll have a cup,’ Lottie said. They needed to speak to Paul without interruption.
When Julia left to rustle up the tea in some distant corner of the house, Lottie took a seat opposite the doctor as he eased himself into an armchair. Boyd pulled up a high-backed chair and sat erect, his legs crossed at the ankles, mirroring Duffy’s posture.
‘Barry is coping fine now, so how can I help you? Any nearer to catching whoever dumped the baby in the canal?’
Lottie sat back in her chair. Why did she feel as if he was reprimanding her?
‘The baby wasn’t just dumped. He was murdered. And we’re not here about the baby or your son.’
‘What then?’ Duffy uncrossed his ankles and leaned forward, feet planted firmly on the floor.
‘Two young boys have been found murdered, and—’
‘I know. It’s terrible.’
‘You’re the team physio, is that right?’
‘Oh, not in any official capacity. I just help out. Carrying water most of the time.’
‘Dr Duffy, we are interviewing everyone who was in contact with the dead boys. We are trying to establish who last saw them and—’
‘Stop right there.’ He held up his hand. ‘I only helped the team on a voluntary basis. Not a board member or anything like that. I became involved when Barry used to play, and I stayed on when he gave up. He helps out too.’
Lottie kicked her bag under her chair and leaned forward. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions. In an official capacity,’ she added, using his own words. ‘We can talk here or at the station. The choice is yours.’
He folded his arms, his crisp shirt wrinkling with the movement. ‘Go ahead.’
Before Lottie could utter another word, the door opened and Julia bustled in with a trolley holding teapot and china cups. She looked from one to the other. ‘Am I interrupting?’
Parking the trolley between the chairs, she began to pour. Once they all had their cups filled, she dispensed milk from a jug and sat down.
‘Mrs Duffy,’ Lottie said, ‘we are interviewing your husband. Would you mind if we talked to him in private?’
‘But we keep nothing from each—’ Julia began.
‘Just go,’ Paul commanded. ‘I’ll call you when we’re done.’
His wife stood up and slammed her cup back down on the trolley, spilling the tea, then turned and walked silently out of the room.
‘Sorry about that,’ Paul said. ‘Julia can be a little intense at times. I’m sure you’re almost finished here anyway.’
‘We haven’t even started,’ Boyd mumbled.
Lottie shot him a look to keep quiet. She knew from experience that this interview could go belly-up in an instant.
‘We were talking about the soccer team. When did Barry give up?’ She was trying to put Duffy at ease before she embarked on the difficult questions.
‘Barry has nothing to do with this,’ he said.
Lottie held his stare, and won out.
He said, ‘My son played each age division up to under-sixteens. But last year, he decided to quit the game. He stayed on to help out a bit with the younger teams and that’s why I maintained my involvement.’
‘Why did he quit?’ Boyd said.
‘Outgrew it, I’d say. Didn’t give a reason.’ Duffy turned to Lottie. ‘You have a son, Inspector. I’m sure you know what teenagers are like. A new interest every five minutes.’
She nodded, and thought of Sean being here for dinner last night. She’d have to ask him what he thought of the family. ‘What role do you currently hold with the younger teams?’
‘Rory asked me to help out whenever I’m available.’
‘Rory Butler?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you two good friends?’
‘Acquaintances.’
‘And you’ve been involved in youth soccer for a few years?’
‘Is that a question?’
‘It is.’
‘I’ve just told you I was involved up through the ranks with Barry.’
Lottie put down her cup but remained leaning forward. She decided to get to her point.
‘Tell me about the football shorts.’
Duffy didn’t blink. His hand was steady. Just a slight bite of his lower lip.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Wes told us.’ Feck, she thought. She shouldn’t have said his name.
‘Finnegan? The bus driver? That man – well, he’s just the lowest equation in humankind.’
Lottie glanced at Boyd. He shook his head. He was leaving it up to her.
‘I take it you don’t like him?’ she said.
‘What’s to like? I wouldn’t trust him an inch. What did he say about me?’
‘He said nothing about you. Just mentioned that you encouraged the boys to wear matching white football shorts, even while training. Said it demonstrated their commitment to the team. Which to me doesn’t make sense at all.’
‘So what? I don’t understand what it has to do with the boys’ deaths.’
Lottie ignored the question. ‘You don’t deny supplying the team with football shorts?’
‘Most of those boys are from poor backgrounds. Little or no money coming into their homes, and what there is, the parents drink or shoot up their arms. I donated money to the club for new training kit, but with Bertie Harris running things, I never saw much improvement in their gear.’
‘You admit you bought the boys new football shorts?’
‘I can’t recall exactly, but I probably did, among other items of kit. That doesn’t make me a murderer.’
‘Why would Wes Finnegan have some of that kit in his possession?’
Duffy leaned back, opened his mouth wide and laughed. ‘I have no idea. You’re the detective. You will have to find that out for yourself.’
‘Where were you on Sunday night, Mr Duffy?’ Lottie said. He was really getting up her nose now.
‘I went to the match, joined the team in McDonald’s. Then I went home. Julia can corroborate that.’
‘And Monday night?’
‘I was here. With Julia.’
‘And Barry. Where was he?’
‘My son has nothing to do with this. He was unfortunate to find that baby’s body. Please don’t think you’re going to drag him into anything else. I think you should leave.’ He pointed to the door.
‘I’d like to speak with Julia.’
‘What for?’
‘To verify that she can corroborate your alibis.’
He rose swiftly for a man of his size. Lottie was not about to be wrong-footed. She stood also, but in her haste, caught her foot in the strap of her handbag and almost toppled over. Boyd caught the back of her jacket and hauled her upright.
‘Sorry about that.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’ll just have that word with Julia.’ She moved to the door, but Duffy reached it before her.
‘Leave Julia out of this. She’s under a lot of pressure, what with Barry and all that business with the baby. He’s been through enough. We all have.’
‘Mr Duffy, you are a person of interest in the investigation into the deaths of two young boys. Your cooperation would be appreciated, if you wish to be eliminated from the inquiry.’
Duffy sigh
ed, opened the door and shouted, ‘Julia? Come here, please.’
She appeared almost instantaneously, rubbing her hands in a white fluffy towel.
‘The detectives would like you to confirm that you were with me on Sunday and Monday nights.’
‘I was.’ Julia gulped. ‘With him, I mean.’
‘And do you wash the team kit?’ Lottie asked.
‘I take turns with some of the parents.’ Julia’s eyes slid to her husband, who was standing behind Lottie’s shoulder.
‘Did you collect the kit on Sunday?’
Paul Duffy moved out past Lottie and stood beside his wife, putting his arm around her shoulder. Protective or possessive?
‘The boys kept their jerseys on after the match. They were so pumped up to have won,’ Paul said. ‘Now, we have things to be doing.’
Walking to the front door, Boyd said, ‘Do you buy the kit yourself, Paul, or does Julia do it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Julia said.
‘We mainly purchase online,’ Paul said.
‘What?’ Julia pulled away from her husband. ‘What are you talking about?’
Lottie smiled. ‘The two murdered boys were wearing similar new football shorts. It’s odd, because Kevin Shanley no longer played for the team. We have reason to believe your husband purchased the shorts. Did you not know that?’
‘Paul?’ Julia said, her mouth drooping along with her eyes.
Duffy squeezed her shoulder and turned to Lottie. ‘Good day.’
As they walked out onto the porch, two lads came riding bikes up the drive in the rain. Lottie’s stomach lurched when she recognised Sean with Barry, and she had no idea why she suddenly wanted to get her son out of here and home.
‘Sean,’ she said as the boys drew close. ‘I think your granny had plans for today. Maybe you should head back.’
Sean appeared to look relieved. ‘See you later, Barry,’ he said, and pedalled furiously back down the drive.
In the car, Boyd turned to her. ‘What was that all about?’
‘When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.’
Fifty-Four
Rory Butler sat on the large stone and looked out at the calm waters of the lake. The activity to his left had ceased, but he could see the crime-scene tape hanging unattended around the slab where Kevin’s body had been discovered. He thought of Mikey. Poor Mikey.
He shook his head and looked to his right. Beyond the trees and wild bushes. His grandfather had told him it had been an ice house. Used before the time of refrigerators. Covered in ivy and vegetation, its door was invisible to the naked eye, unless you were right up beside it. Only a handful of people knew of its existence. His grandfather had done some work extending it, but Rory had no use for the place. He was glad the guards hadn’t investigated further, because it had nothing to do with them. And he had learned the hard way that some things were best left secret. That was what he’d been told anyway. A long time ago. He had enough problems without bringing the guards back to his doorstep.
He put down the mug of cold coffee and stood, breathed in the fresh air. He listened to the chirp of the birds in the branches all around him. The sound should have been soothing. But it wasn’t.
He wondered if he had done the right thing in coming back to Swift House, returning to Ragmullin with the weight of the past awaiting him.
He picked up the mug as a soft sheen of drizzle began to fall and headed back up the track to the house he now called home.
Barry opened the refrigerator and scoured the contents for something edible. Something that wasn’t pulped into juice.
‘Go to your room, Barry,’ his mother said.
‘But I want to go back out. It’s so fucking boring in here.’ Barry shut the fridge door empty-handed and discovered his error when the slap caught him on the side of the head, propelling him into the wall.
‘Barry! Language!’
His father stood framed in the doorway. ‘Do what your mother says. Go to your room.’
‘Why?’ Barry demanded.
‘Listen to me,’ his mother said. ‘I don’t want you hanging around with that detective’s son any more. He’s not the right kind of friend for you. Okay?’
He caught his father staring at him and knew that now wasn’t the time to begin another argument. But they could piss off, the both of them. They were not going to dictate who he should have as friends. They had done that all his life. Now it was his time to choose.
Tramping up the stairs, he made as much noise as was possible in his soft-soled trainers, and made sure to give his bedroom door a good loud bang.
Fifty-Five
‘We might as well call to the Shanleys now,’ Lottie said.
Boyd headed for Greenway. ‘Did I imagine the atmosphere in the Duffy house?’
‘Well if you did, that makes two of us. He seems to be a very domineering character. I feel sorry for Julia. She appears to be terrified of him.’
‘You think so?’
‘Do you not?’
Boyd stretched and yawned. ‘I can’t put my finger on it. But something is definitely off.’
‘Tired?’ Lottie asked.
‘Julia?’
‘No, smart-arse. Are you tired?’
‘A bit. This case is draining.’
‘I know. I seem to be spending my life talking to grieving people and obstructive witnesses.’ She glanced at him. ‘What did you do last night?’
‘Went out for a pint.’
‘Where?’
‘Jesus, Lottie, does it matter?’
‘Just making conversation.’
‘If you must know, I went to the Joyce.’
‘You don’t normally drink there.’ She couldn’t let it go.
‘Felt like a change of scenery. Somewhere I wasn’t likely to bump into anyone who knew me.’
‘Like me?’
‘Doesn’t always have to be about you, Lottie.’
Suitably chastened, she slammed both feet into the footwell and turned to stare out of the side window. The town melded into a kaleidoscope of colour as Boyd sped through.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s okay. I was just being nosy. Thought maybe you were out celebrating your divorce.’
‘I wasn’t.’ He seemed to soften. ‘What did you do?’
‘Went for a run. I’m so unfit. Might go for another one tonight. Care to join me?’ She stole a look at him. His strong profile unwavering as he drove.
‘Not sure what I’m at tonight. I’ll let you know,’ he said, and turned into Greenway.
All the curtains were drawn at the Shanley house. A black net twisted into a bow with a white card pinned to the door proclaimed their loss.
Victor led them into the living room. Relatives and friends, seemingly from every corner of Ireland, were gathered in mourning.
‘When can we have our Kevin home? We need to organise his funeral,’ Victor said.
‘Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’ Lottie said.
He guided them through the throng to the kitchen, which was similarly crowded. He opened the back door. The garden had a small concrete patio with table and chairs, a barbecue in a corner. Everything was dripping from the earlier rain. The sun nudged a cloud, and a stream of light caused the wet to steam.
‘Nice area,’ Boyd said.
‘Low-maintenance,’ Victor said. ‘Can I have my son home soon?’
‘I’m afraid we have no news of when his body can be released,’ Lottie said. ‘As soon as I know, I’ll inform you.’
Victor got a towel and wiped down the chairs. They sat, and he said, ‘Mind if I smoke?’
Boyd lit a cigarette too, but much as she yearned for a hit of nicotine, Lottie declined and satisfied herself with the secondary smoke.
‘Victor,’ she said, ‘we had some disturbing news from the state pathologist regarding Kevin.’
‘Disturbing? What do you mean?’
She blew out her cheeks and gathered her
thoughts. How best to approach this? Straight out with it, she decided.
‘During the post-mortem, the pathologist discovered that Kevin had been the victim of abuse. Not recent,’ she added, ‘historical.’
Victor’s mouth hung open, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. He reached up with both hands and clutched his head. Then he slumped back on the chair.
‘I knew there was something. But never, not in my worst nightmares, did I think it was anything like that. My poor boy.’
‘When did his misbehaving start?’ Lottie said.
‘Before we moved from Munbally. We thought it was the estate. There’s a lot of drugs and stuff going on. Bad for a young lad. So we decided to move. But Kev didn’t change. If anything, he became more withdrawn, and at the same time disruptive.’
‘In what way?’
‘Nothing was right for him. Sheila said it was part of growing up. But I felt it was more than that. Now I know.’ His hand stilled, cigarette halfway to his mouth. ‘That’s when his mother started drinking in earnest. Jesus Christ. Did she know?’
‘I have to speak to your wife,’ Lottie said.
‘But abuse? Who? Why? I don’t understand. This will kill Sheila.’
‘Can I get you a glass of water?’ Lottie asked. She needed to calm him down, otherwise she would get nothing from him.
‘No, no.’
‘Do you feel able to talk about it?’
‘I have to, haven’t I?’
‘Who do you think might have been close to your son? Can you give me a list of names?’
‘No one. Not that I can think of straight off. His mother might know, but Jesus, you can’t go in there asking her those kind of questions.’
‘I’m asking you.’
Victor closed his eyes, tears squeezing out beneath short lashes. ‘Poor Kev. What must he have gone through? And we were punishing him. Taking his phone off him. Locking …’
‘Locking him in his room?’ Lottie nudged.
‘Yeah. After the time he stayed out most of the night. What must he have thought of us? Why didn’t he tell me?’
‘Do you think maybe he told Mikey Driscoll?’
‘Mikey? Why would he tell him?’
Tell Nobody: Absolutely gripping crime fiction with unputdownable mystery and suspense Page 20