‘Weren’t they friends?’
‘They were, I suppose. I don’t know.’
‘Had he any other friends?’
Victor shrugged. ‘Let me think.’
Lottie breathed in a sigh and noticed Boyd light another cigarette. He offered it to Victor, who took it and nodded his appreciation.
‘There is one lad that he used to hang around with a lot when we lived on the estate. But I think he was more Mikey’s friend than Kev’s. Toby something. What the hell is he called? Collins. That’s it. Toby Collins.’
‘We know of him,’ Boyd said.
‘He has a brother. Big lad. Must be seventeen or eighteen. Tough-looking git.’ Victor looked up. Wide eyes, disbelieving. ‘You don’t think this brother could have abused my son? I’ll kill the bastard myself. Maybe he killed Kev and Mikey. My own son, and I didn’t know …’ Victor crumpled up on the chair.
Lottie said, ‘Were there any other adults who took an interest in Kevin? Teachers, or people associated with the football team, for instance?’ She knew she was leading him, but she had nothing else.
‘I thought they were all good men to volunteer their time to help a team that was going nowhere …’
She wondered if the abuser was also the murderer. Most likely. Though she had no evidence to suggest or deny it, she didn’t think Victor had abused his own son. Or Mikey Driscoll, for that matter. But he’d have to be investigated all the same.
‘Your son, Mr Shanley, when his body was found he was wearing brand-new football shorts. When we looked in his room, we didn’t notice anything similar. I can show you a photo to see if you recognise them.’
‘You’d have to ask Sheila that, and I don’t think she’s in any fit state for questions. Where are the clothes he was wearing?’
‘They haven’t been located.’
‘Okay. I’ll ask Sheila later, and let you know.’
‘I’d appreciate that. Thank you. One other thing. Do you know Hope Cotter?’
‘No, but I heard her name on the news. Something to do with that dead baby.’
‘What’s your relationship to Jen Driscoll?’ Quickfire. Catch him off guard.
He raised his head and glared through his tears. ‘Are you insinuating something other than a working relationship?’
‘Just asking.’
‘What went on between me and Jen, it’s ancient history and has nothing to do with the death of my son or hers.’
‘What did go on?’
‘Just a fling. A few years ago. We work together. It’s all over. Don’t say anything to Sheila. She doesn’t know about it.’
‘Did you know Jen’s husband?’
‘He’s been out of the country for the last ten years. I don’t think caring for a child was ever on his horizon.’ He stood up and walked inside.
‘Where were you going with that?’ Boyd asked.
‘Maybe his relationship with Jen sparked a murderous streak in someone else.’ Lottie gathered her bag and jacket. The clouds were beginning to congregate into one black mass above her head. It was time to talk to Sheila Shanley.
Victor cleared the house of people in three minutes flat. Lottie watched him as he hustled and bustled everyone out, taut muscles beneath his shirt quivering with pent-up anger.
Sheila took a sip from a tumbler. Lottie smelled the brandy. Inhaled its aroma. Beat back the urge to ask for one. This was going to be a tough interview.
‘Out with it,’ Sheila said, her words slurring.
As Lottie was about to begin, Victor butted in.
‘Sheila, they’ve discovered something very upsetting. It’s to do with Kev.’
‘He’s dead. Is that not upsetting enough?’ Her eyes glazed over.
‘Perhaps we should have this conversation later,’ Lottie said, recognising the signs of too much alcohol in the distraught mother. She tried to catch Victor’s eye.
‘You’ve cleared out my house for a reason, so ask your questions.’ Sheila held out her glass. Victor picked up the bottle from the floor beside the armchair and poured a hefty measure.
‘I’m sorry to be blunt, Sheila, but we suspect that Kevin was the victim of abuse.’
‘I never laid a hand on him.’
‘Not that kind of abuse,’ Lottie said, hoping Sheila would understand what she meant. She did.
‘No way. My son was never … No! I would’ve known.’
‘The post-mortem confirms it. And I hate to have to ask these questions, but it may be relevant to why he was murdered.’ She paused and watched as the woman’s anger gave way to horror.
‘I didn’t know. Oh my God, my poor boy.’
‘Sheila, can you think of anyone who might have done this? Someone Kevin tried to avoid, maybe? Anyone?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sheila turned to Victor. ‘You were off screwing your skinny bitch. Sweating it out in that kip of a gym. And now I hear that some bastard was abusing our son.’
As if the exertion of her words had acted as a catalyst, Sheila visibly deflated. Lottie could see it as surely as if the woman’s body was a balloon with the air whistling out.
Her voice nothing more than a fluttering of words, she went on, ‘You never knew where Kev was or what was going on. I tried my best. I really did.’
Victor was burning the carpet with a circle of disbelieving footsteps. ‘I’m sorry. I should have been home more often. If I’d known something like this was going on … But you and your drinking … you weren’t watching out for him either.’
Lottie knew she had to take control of the situation. She glanced at Boyd, then leaned her head to one side, nodding to the door. ‘Take Victor to the kitchen.’
Alone with Sheila, she said, ‘You knew about Victor’s affair?’
‘Yes. I knew. But I swear to God, I never knew about anyone doing anything to Kev. I can’t think straight. Who would do that to a defenceless child?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘Can you get me a drink?’ Pleading eyes from behind her wild ginger hair.
‘I will. But first I need some answers. When did you first notice a change in Kevin’s behaviour?’
Sheila ran the back of her hand over her nose, sniffed, picked up her son’s photo and stared at it.
‘He became more withdrawn maybe about a year ago. It was a running battle to get him to school. I could count on one hand the number of times he had his friends over.’
‘Did you do anything about his behaviour? Besides moving out of Munbally?’
‘I thought maybe he was depressed. I know he was only ten at the time, but I was so worried. I even brought him to the doctor.’
‘And what did the doctor say?’
Sheila straightened up in the chair. ‘Kevin just cried and cried. The doctor said perhaps some counselling would help, but Kev refused to go to anyone else. I just put it down to his age.’
‘Do you think it could be someone from your old estate?’
Sheila wrung her hands. ‘He never said anything. Why didn’t he tell me?’
Victor came back in with Boyd. He said, ‘I’m so sorry, Sheila. I should have realised there was something seriously wrong with Kev.’
‘You were always at work. All those late sessions. Well, that’s what you told me. But I know different now.’ Her voice was flat, no emotion.
‘You were drinking a lot,’ Victor said.
‘That was your fault. You and Jen Driscoll.’
Lottie said, ‘You mentioned earlier that Kev disappeared one night. Tell me about that.’
Sheila struggled to catch her breath. ‘It was about a month ago. He came home in the middle of the night. Wouldn’t say where he’d been. I confiscated his phone. I checked it. There was nothing on it. You have it now. Maybe you’ll find something.’
Lottie had one last question.
‘Sheila, this might sound odd, but do you recall how many pairs of football shorts Kevin had?’
Sheila looked up from beneath her
reddened eyelids. ‘I’m not sure. They should be in his kit bag. Why? Is it important?’
‘There was just one green Munbally kit in his bag. But don’t worry about it for now.’ Lottie couldn’t bring herself to show the devastated mother the photograph of the last item of clothing her son had worn. She looked at Boyd. He shook his head. No more questions. ‘We’re leaving now. I think you and Victor need to have a chat. And if you can think of anything, contact me immediately.’
Lottie was at the door when she heard a soft whisper come from the broken woman. She turned back and crouched down beside her.
‘Do you think … Oh, God in heaven,’ Sheila whispered. ‘Could Victor have done this to our boy?’
‘Don’t worry, Sheila,’ Lottie said. ‘I will find out who did it.’
Fifty-Six
Toby sat on the floor beneath his window and gripped his knees to his chest. He was sure someone had been calling his name. He wished Max would come home. He’d even go to the shop and get him a chicken fillet roll if he wanted it.
He wasn’t sure what time his ma had said she’d be home from work today. And his dad was out. He thought of Hope and Lexie. Playing in the town park like nothing had happened. The way she’d stared at him. The sound of her voice when she’d said his name. It gave him goose bumps. He’d been right to run, hadn’t he?
Mikey, what would you do?
The smell of the burned toast that he’d eaten for his lunch rose up the stairs. The taste of it lingered on his tongue and at the back of his throat. He rubbed the floorboards with his finger until the skin reddened and started to bleed. He stuck it in his mouth and sucked the blood.
Outside. The screech of car brakes.
He knelt up and peered over the sill. A car turned the corner at full speed. Gone. But someone called his name again. Not from downstairs. It was from outside.
He slid to the floor. Gripped his legs tighter together, bit the top of his knee through his tracksuit.
It was a woman’s voice, maybe a girl’s. A high whisper, but still he heard it, above the rumble of the cars on the main road and the bark of a dog and the sounds of kids playing carelessly on the green.
He listened. Got back up on his knees. Grabbed the windowsill. Waited. He heard the voice again. This time it called, ‘Max!’
Slowly he peeked over the ledge. Through the grimy glass into his garden. She stood there at the gate, looking up at him.
And then she beckoned. Hurried and frantic.
He shook his head.
No way was he going down there. No way. Not down to her, anyway.
He sat on the floor, dragged his shoes across and put them on. Didn’t even bother to tie the one with the laces.
Slowly he looked out of the window again. No one there. She was gone.
He had to do something before he ended up like Mikey and Kev.
He had to go out.
He had to find out.
Sean cycled like the devil himself was behind him. He’d nearly died, seeing his mother standing on the Duffys’ doorstep with Boyd. What was that all about? The dead baby?
As he headed up the road to his gran’s house, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He stopped and checked it. Barry.
We need to talk, the text said.
‘No we don’t,’ Sean said to the rain that had started once again.
He was still thinking of how Barry had treated Toby. It hadn’t been nice at all. And then the incident outside the pub that Chloe had told him about. Making up his mind there and then, he decided to go over to Munbally and find Toby and tell him he was sorry. His mam would be proud of that.
Turning the bicycle around, he headed back into town. This would be his good deed for the day. Maybe for the whole year.
Yeah!
Fifty-Seven
There was no one home at Jen Driscoll’s house, so Lottie and Boyd drove round to Robbie Cotter’s. Kirby had rung to say that his talk with Jacinta Barnes had yielded the news that Hope and her family had returned to Ragmullin.
Lottie knocked on the door, transferring her anger to her knuckles. No answer. Banged louder. Shouted through the letter box.
‘Come on, Lottie, there’s no one there.’
As she turned, a car drew up by the footpath. Robbie Cotter got out, loaded with paper bags. She could smell fried food.
‘Mr Cotter,’ she said.
‘Er … Detectives. Hello.’
‘Can we come inside?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’ He fidgeted with the bags, locked the car and tried to edge past Lottie. She blocked his movement.
‘Your niece is wanted for questioning in connection with the death of a baby boy found in the canal on Monday morning. Now, we can either do this the hard way, or you can let me in to speak with Hope.’
‘Don’t you need a warrant or something?’ he said.
Boyd moved into Robbie’s space. ‘Open the door.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Robbie placed the bags of food on the step and opened the door. ‘Hope?’
‘No need to warn her,’ Lottie said, and stepped by him into the hall.
Silence.
‘They might be up in Lexie’s room,’ Robbie offered.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Boyd ran up.
‘No one here.’
A draught of air whistled into the hallway. Lottie moved into the kitchen.
‘Boyd! Down here, now.’
The kitchen door was wide open. She ran into the overgrown shoebox-sized garden. She couldn’t see a gate.
‘Can you get out this way?’ she said to Robbie.
‘Over the wall. There’s a laneway.’
She ran through the long grass and heaved herself up on the wall. Looked up and down. The lane was empty. She returned to Robbie.
‘Where are Hope and Lexie?’
‘They were here when I went for food.’
‘How long ago did you leave?’
He glanced at his phone. ‘Maybe half an hour. But I went into the bookie’s, so it could have been longer. God, I don’t know.’
‘Mr Cotter, you’ve been aiding a person of interest in a murder investigation. I should take you to the station for questioning.’
‘But you won’t, because you need me here in case Hope comes back.’
‘And when I find them, Lexie is being taken into care. I’m calling Child and Family Services. This is no way to raise a four-year-old.’
‘Hey, hold on a minute. Lexie is well taken care of. And no matter what you think, Hope didn’t kill her baby. I’ve had a good chat with her. I know her. She didn’t do it.’
‘She told me herself that she killed someone.’ She spied Boyd walking back up the garden, a small pink bicycle in his hand. She rounded on him.
‘When you’ve finished tidying the garden, radio for someone to get over here immediately. And they are not to let Mr Cotter out of their sight.’
She marched back through the house.
There was nothing here to help her.
Hope was in the wind. Again.
Hope was standing at the bus stop outside Supervalue. She had no money. She watched a homeless man wrapped in a blue sleeping bag with a little dog by his feet. A hat with coins in it too.
No, she couldn’t steal from this poor guy.
She had run out the back door with Lexie in her arms, the weight of her daughter bearing down on her already painful abdomen. They had no coats. Nothing. Only the clothes they stood up in.
‘Mummy, I’m hungry. I want chicken nuggets.’
Hope felt her heart constrict. What was she to do? Who could she go to for help?
She waited as the bus for Dublin drew in to the kerb and the commuters loaded themselves on. A blast of heat from inside the vehicle hit her in the face as she peered in.
‘Are you getting on?’ the driver shouted down from his seat.
Hope shook her head, tightened her hand on Lexie’s and walked away.
There was only one person she knew of who m
ight be able to help her. Much as she didn’t want to talk to him, ever again, she knew she had to.
‘Come on, Lexie,’ she said.
She trudged past the Joyce Hotel and on down Gaol Street, carrying way too much pain in her heart and in her body. No one turned to stare. No one knew who she was, even though her photo had been on the news. She was anonymous in her own town. And that was a good thing. She continued under the crane at the courthouse but her steps slowed as her breathing became laboured. The exertion of the last few days was catching up with her.
‘Are you sick, Mummy?’ Lexie asked.
‘Not really. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll be fine.’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘I know, but it’s only another little bit. You’re a brilliant girl, and I love you so much.’
He hadn’t been at home when she’d called over earlier, so there was only one other place she knew where she might find him.
Past the greyhound stadium, she took a right and headed up towards the old tyre recycling depot.
Max Collins was her last hope.
Sean had almost given up when a lad on a pony pointed out the Collins house. He leaned his bike against the wall and walked up to the door. Why was he here? To apologise? But he hadn’t done anything wrong. That had been Barry. Then he remembered the terror in Toby’s eyes. He had to do something.
No one answered the door. Ah well, I tried, he thought. As he returned to his bike and got ready to cycle away, a hand grabbed the handlebars.
‘Not so fast, shithead.’
Sean looked up into the face of a teenager with sunken eyes and drooping lids. He gulped. ‘Sorry, I was just looking for Toby.’
‘Toby? What you want with him?’
‘Nothing.’
The teenager bared his teeth. ‘Tell me what you want with my brother or I’ll wrap the wheels of your fancy bike around your neck.’
‘He … he was upset, yesterday. I just called round to see if he was okay.’
‘Everyone is upset. Did you know there’s a killer going around looking for young boys? Fellas just like you.’
Sean felt his guts rumble and slide down to the bottom of his stomach. Toby’s brother was now eyeing up the bike.
Tell Nobody: Absolutely gripping crime fiction with unputdownable mystery and suspense Page 21