Tell Nobody: Absolutely gripping crime fiction with unputdownable mystery and suspense

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘I’ve dispatched a crew to ask questions. But we’re so stretched with the other investigations, it will take some time.’

  ‘She’s been abducted. Lexie said so.’

  ‘Gilly, the child is only four. Maybe her mother had had enough of—’

  ‘Shh. Will you stop talking like that in front of her.’ Gilly cradled the little girl to her chest, resting her chin on her head.

  ‘Suits you,’ Kirby said, and exited before Gilly could retort.

  ‘Mummy loves me,’ Lexie said.

  ‘I know, sweetheart.’

  Gilly was sure someone had taken Hope. She just wished Lottie would return quickly. She would understand. After all, hadn’t she been through the same thing last year? Then she remembered how that had turned out, and she pulled the child even closer to her.

  ‘Where’s my mummy?’

  I wish I knew, Gilly thought. Aloud she said, ‘She’ll be back for you soon, petal.’

  As Toby rounded the corner, the first thing he saw, lying inside the front wall of his house, was a bicycle with a buckled wheel. Barry Duffy’s? No, he wouldn’t have the neck to turn up here, he thought.

  A youngster was screaming in hysterics from a house to his left. Bouncing up and down on an old couch in the front garden. Toby shook his head. He’d love to escape Munbally. His teachers at school were always telling him that if he studied hard in secondary school, he could make something of himself. But Toby didn’t agree. He’d seen too much in his short life. He knew it would take a lot more than studying hard. He needed something else. Something he’d never had. Luck.

  He stubbed his Converse on a crack in the footpath and almost fell head over heels. As he steadied himself, he caught sight of his front door opening and a boy running out. Toby leaned in against the low wall, hoping to make himself invisible, but failing. The boy picked up the bike and began walking it towards him. Toby sighed with relief. It wasn’t Barry.

  ‘Hi, Toby. I remember you from yesterday. I’m Sean.’

  ‘Why were you in my house?’ Toby found his voice. From somewhere deep within him, the fear had released his vocal cords.

  ‘Looking for you, bud,’ Sean said. ‘Met your brother.’

  Toby groaned. Max. Again. ‘Wh-what did he say?’

  ‘Nothing much. Scared the shit out of me. He’s a bit of a monster, isn’t he?’

  Toby smiled. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’d better get this bike fixed before my mother sees it. Might bring it to Kenny’s Cycles. Do you want to walk with me?’

  Toby was going to say yes, but then remembered he had to speak to Max. And he didn’t want to chance running into Barry Duffy.

  ‘No, I have to get home.’

  ‘Look me up on FIFA. We can have a chat. Okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ Toby said, and watched until Sean and his bike had disappeared around the corner.

  He turned towards his house. Max was standing on the doorstep.

  ‘Little prick, I want a chat with you,’ Max yelled.

  Toby dropped his head but didn’t move. He didn’t like it when Max was angry. It only meant one thing. A slap or a thump. He turned and looked at the youngsters bouncing on the couch in their garden. He eyed the corner around which Sean had walked. At the end of the terrace of houses that curved around the green, he noticed a lad on a bicycle pedalling like mad towards him.

  Barry Duffy.

  Oh no.

  Toby Collins made his decision.

  Sixty-Two

  With the hood of his windcheater pulled up, Rory Butler speared the spade into the ground. Despite the drizzle, the soil was still hard. He applied more pressure, his work boot slipping off the edge of the tool onto the ground.

  ‘Ouch!’ He felt the ligament in his ankle tighten, but it was only a niggle. He jammed the spade in again.

  ‘This is a long way from your shiny London office,’ came a voice from behind him.

  He swung round.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, dropping the spade.

  ‘I had to get out of the house. I can’t work. I can’t do anything. Oh Rory.’

  He looked at her, no jacket and her hair stuck to her face. Pitiful. He folded her into his arms and patted her head as if she were a child.

  ‘Come inside,’ he said. Before anyone sees you, he thought.

  There was still no one at the Driscoll house. Lottie posted two uniforms on the street outside and headed for Rory Butler’s.

  Outside his house she stood on the step with Boyd. No answer.

  ‘Let’s go around the back,’ she said.

  She followed in Boyd’s footsteps, taking the route Rory had brought them yesterday.

  The air was fresh from the fall of rain and the garden furniture was damp. There was no one sitting under the canopy. Lottie peered in through the large glass doors. ‘Appears deserted.’

  ‘But there are two cars out front,’ Boyd said.

  She tried the handle, pulled then pushed. The glass door opened.

  Stepping inside, she shouted, ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

  ‘We’d better go,’ Boyd said. ‘No point in aggravating a suspect.’

  ‘We need to speak with him.’ She ventured towards the open-plan living area, ran her fingers along the automated integrated units. Nothing sprang forth. She moved to the hallway. Looked up the mahogany spiral staircase.

  ‘Anyone up there?’ No reply. ‘Wonder where the housekeeper is?’

  A door banged somewhere in the house. Then she heard the engine of a car burst into life.

  She looked at Boyd. He turned and ran through the living room and out the back. Lottie opened the front door in time to see a car speeding away.

  ‘How the hell …?’ Boyd came running around the side of the house.

  ‘Must be another exit,’ Lottie said.

  ‘What are you doing in my house?’

  She twirled round to find Rory Butler standing behind her.

  ‘Mr Butler, the very man. We were looking to speak with you.’

  He walked out barefoot onto the damp step, shirt swinging open above tight jeans, hair unruly. Lottie could see the lines around his eyes creasing in annoyance, and she had a feeling he had been angry long before she trampled muddy footprints through his house.

  ‘I have nothing further to say to you, Detective Inspector. You are trespassing in my home. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave.’ He turned back into the house.

  ‘I do mind.’ She followed him inside, with Boyd close behind. ‘Who was that who left in such a hurry?’

  Butler rounded on her. ‘None of your business.’

  But he didn’t tell her to get out.

  ‘Where’s Helen today?’ Lottie trailed after him into the kitchen. Stainless steel top to bottom and snow-white tiles beneath her feet. She felt a little guilty about her damp boots, but only for a moment.

  ‘I gave her the day off.’ He filled a mug from a coffee pot. Didn’t offer her any.

  Lottie dragged a chair from the breakfast bar and sat down. Boyd lounged against a wall beside the door. She wondered about the guest who had made such a quick getaway. Someone who was aware they’d arrived and wanted to avoid them? Or someone Rory wanted to keep secret? Curiosity was running furiously through her blood.

  ‘Rory, please sit down for a moment.’ She was trying her best to be pleasant.

  ‘I’m fine here.’ He stood in front of the glittering refrigerator.

  ‘You left London under something of a cloud,’ she continued.

  ‘Is that a question?’

  ‘It’s a statement. You embezzled money from your own company.’

  ‘The charges were dropped.’

  ‘Because your father paid off your debts.’

  ‘Nothing to do with you.’

  ‘And Jennifer Driscoll?’

  For the first time since they’d entered the kitchen, Lottie noticed a flicker of unrest in his demeanour. His eyes were suddenly wary.

  ‘What a
bout her?’

  ‘She worked for you for three years.’

  ‘If you know all this, why are you here?’

  ‘What was your relationship with Jennifer?’

  ‘You are barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘It has absolutely nothing to do with Mikey.’

  ‘I never said it did. I’m wondering if she’s the reason you came back to Ragmullin.’

  ‘I told you. I returned because I wanted to renovate my grandfather’s house.’

  ‘And you ended up coaching a boys’ soccer team.’

  ‘I explained all that to you this morning.’

  ‘A team that included Mikey Driscoll, Jennifer’s son. Who, tragically, is then murdered.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ He put the mug, still full, into the sink.

  ‘You tell me, Mr Butler. What was your real interest in Mikey Driscoll?’

  Butler began buttoning up his shirt, as if only just realising it had been open. Lottie averted her eyes from his well-toned chest.

  He paused, one button from the bottom, and appeared to be thinking up the best way to reply.

  ‘Mikey was Jen’s son. He was a great footballer. Small for his age but he could mesmerise a team with his footwork. I had no interest in him other than coaching him. I’m so sorry this awful thing has happened, but …’ His voice faltered before he continued. ‘I had nothing to do with his death.’

  ‘Do you know where Jennifer Driscoll is now?’

  The look of surprise was evident on his face as he widened his eyes. ‘Jen? I presume she’s at home, preparing for her son’s funeral.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Inspector, I have no idea why you’re asking me about Jen.’

  Boyd stepped forward. ‘Was that her car we saw leaving just now?’

  ‘Car?’

  Boyd sighed. ‘Your innocent act doesn’t do anything for me, Mr Butler. It might work with young lads on the football pitch or ladies in nightclubs, but not with detectives investigating the murders of two young boys, both of whom were known to you. In fact, if you want to know, it makes you look damn guilty.’

  ‘Guilty of what?’ Butler squared up to Boyd. ‘Are you accusing me of murder?’

  ‘Not accusing you of anything,’ Boyd said. ‘Yet.’

  Lottie watched the exchange, noted Butler’s body language when confronted by Boyd. She was surprised when the younger man appeared to suddenly wilt before her eyes. He sat down, ran his hands through his hair, clutching the ends of it like he wanted to tear it out from its roots.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, his voice breaking.

  ‘Help us understand,’ she said.

  He looked up at her then, eyes filled with unshed tears.

  ‘What is it you need to tell us, Rory?’

  He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t kill anyone, least of all Mikey. You see, no one knew. No one.’

  ‘No one knew what?’

  ‘Mikey … he was my son.’

  Sixty-Three

  Boyd made fresh coffee for the three of them, and they sat at the breakfast bar, Rory facing the two detectives.

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ Lottie said.

  ‘We were just kids, Jen and I. Not long finished school. We’d known each other before I left for the UK with my parents. But when she completed her Leaving Certificate, she followed me. We’d been writing, and ringing each other. Just good friends, you know. I’d got a job in my father’s insurance company and she needed work, so I persuaded Dad to give her a job in the office. Billing and filing. That type of thing.’ He sipped his coffee.

  ‘And?’ Lottie said.

  ‘And we were the best of friends. Went drinking and clubbing in Kensington. Jen, well, she was astounded at the glamour and glitz of city life. We used to … we dabbled in cocaine. It was in all the clubs and I had money. Or so I thought until the drugs became a habit.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not any more, Inspector, I learned my lesson. Eventually.’

  ‘What lesson might that be?’

  ‘I stole from my father’s company to fund my drug habit. That wasn’t the wisest thing to do. He didn’t know it was me, so he went to the police. But when I owned up, he bailed me out, dropped the charge and sent me here. Gave me the job of restoring Grandad’s old house. And I actually love the country life. This, all here, is mine if I want it. So Dad says.’

  ‘What has any of this got to do with Jen Driscoll?’ Boyd said, seemingly impatient to get to the crux of the tale. But Lottie found herself interested in Rory and his London story.

  ‘Go on. Tell it in your own time,’ she said, and smiled at him, hoping Boyd got the message to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘Jen and I, we weren’t an item back then. Not now either, I hasten to add. We were friends. But one night, we were so high we ended up sleeping together. The next day, we were mortified by what we’d done, but never for a second did I suspect she might be pregnant.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘She upped and left. Said she missed Ireland. Wanted to go home, and that’s what she did. She broke off all contact. After the incident with the money, my dad signed me into a rehab unit. I stayed clean until three years ago. When my grandfather died, I lapsed again. That was when I stole the money from the company. And now, here I am.’

  ‘And Jen? How did you make contact again after all those years?’

  He was silent so long, with his head bent over his mug, that Lottie wondered if he had fallen asleep. At last he raised his head.

  ‘There was another reason why I lapsed three years ago, besides the death of my grandfather. You see, Jen emailed me. Said she was in dire straits. She had no money. Her marriage had failed and she had a son.’

  ‘And she told you that you were the father?’

  ‘That’s what she said. The timeline added up. I had no reason to doubt her.’

  ‘And you do now?’

  ‘No. Not at all. I believe Mikey was my son.’

  ‘You’ve known this for the last three years. How did you handle it?’

  ‘I came home and gave Jen some money, but she didn’t want Mikey to know anything about me. Mikey believed Derek, her ex-husband, was his dad and she didn’t want to upset him. Mikey was going through a troublesome time. I realised the only way I’d have contact with him was through the coaching. Jen wasn’t happy, but there was nothing she could do.’

  ‘Why did she tell you at all?’

  ‘Because she needed the money. She told me about the difficulties of living on a council estate, and said she was trying to make a better life for our son. Emotional blackmail, you’d call it.’

  ‘And you never told Mikey?’

  Butler shook his head. His shoulders were heaving and Lottie felt like putting her arm around him.

  Boyd said, ‘I find it hard to believe that you just accepted Jen’s word for it. I know I’d have got a paternity test.’

  ‘How could you say such a thing? The boy is dead. I never got to be his dad and now you’re insinuating that Jen was lying. You are low.’

  ‘I was only saying—’

  ‘Boyd! That’s enough,’ Lottie snapped.

  But Butler had already lunged across the table and grabbed Boyd by the collar of his suit jacket. As he drew his arm back, Lottie caught it, wrenching it up behind his back. Boyd was on his feet in seconds and pulled Butler close by his shirt, ripping the buttons.

  ‘You have a temper,’ he spat. ‘Is that what happened with the boys? You only meant to comfort them but you couldn’t help your hands going around their necks. Is that it? Is it?’

  Lottie twisted away with Butler in her grasp. ‘Get out, Boyd. Leave this to me.’

  ‘He’s liable to attack you too,’ Boyd said.

  ‘I can handle myself. Just go.’

  When Boyd had marched away and banged the door, she relaxed her hold and Butler slumped to the floor. She stepped back and stood at the gia
nt window, looking out at the calmness of the garden.

  ‘Did you kill Mikey and Kevin, Rory?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Did Jen tell you something you didn’t want to hear? Something that spurred you to violence?’

  ‘Something?’ he murmured. ‘Like what?

  She turned. He was sitting with his back to the bar, his knees up to his chin, arms wrapped around them. She knelt down in front of him.

  ‘Maybe Boyd is right. Maybe Jen came here on Sunday night and told you that Mikey wasn’t your son. That she was having an affair with Victor Shanley, Kev’s dad. And maybe, just maybe, the veil of red anger we’ve just witnessed descended and you had nothing but murder on your mind.’ Even as she said the words, Lottie felt they did not ring true. The boys had had no injuries. Their murders did not appear to have been committed in anger. She was sure they were the victims of someone who was slow and methodical.

  Butler sobbed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘She was here Sunday night, wasn’t she?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And what had she come to tell you?’ She kept her voice low and soothing, trying to get him to open up.

  ‘I can’t say.’ He looked up at her, his eyes glassy, and shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you. I made a promise.’

  ‘What can be so important that you can’t reveal it to me? It might help clear your name.’

  ‘My name doesn’t need clearing, Inspector. No, not my name.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ This conversation was going around in circles and was beginning to make Lottie queasy.

  He stood up so quickly she slipped backwards. He put out a hand and pulled her upright, his grip sweaty and slippery.

  ‘Unless you have something concrete with which to charge me, I have no more to say to you.’ The change in his demeanour was instantaneous. ‘And I will be reporting your sergeant for assault.’

  * * *

  ‘That wasn’t very helpful,’ Lottie said, sitting into the car beside Boyd.

  He was smoking a cigarette, with his arm leaning on the open window.

  ‘The softly-softly approach wasn’t working, so I thought maybe brute force might wake him up. It seems to me that there is something dark lurking beneath the false tan of Mr Butler. Don’t you think?’