Final Betrayal

by Patricia Gibney

  Lottie couldn’t believe the detachment in the woman’s voice. It was like it hadn’t registered with her that her daughter was dead.

  ‘I’m afraid we suspect she was murdered, though it has yet to be confirmed by the state pathologist. Can you tell me how she was behaving recently? Did you notice anything unusual or concerning?’

  ‘Do you think she killed herself?’ The glass was pointed at Lottie in an accusatory fashion, clear liquid spilling down the side.

  ‘I’m trying to build up a profile of your daughter that might lead us to who did this and why.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  Lottie looked at Boyd for support.

  He said, ‘We can’t divulge details yet, but we really need to learn all we can about Louise.’

  ‘I don’t know a whole lot, to be honest. Suppose you want to see her room?’

  ‘Yes please. But can you answer our questions first?’ Boyd said soothingly.

  Belinda sipped her drink and seemed to consider. ‘Louise was a troubled girl. Ever since that business over Mr Thompson’s case. I was sure she was depressed, but her father wouldn’t believe me. I secretly arranged counselling for her, but she didn’t buy into it. She only ever listened to her father.’ She paused. ‘Why do you think I drink? I can’t stand the man.’

  ‘You could leave him,’ Lottie said.

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  She decided to abandon that conversation. Her main concern was to discover what she could about Louise. ‘What was Louise’s relationship with Cristina Lee like?’

  ‘Cristina Lee? I’ve never heard that name mentioned. But I don’t know much about Louise’s friends. She didn’t really talk to me.’

  ‘Did she get any unusual letters or notes recently?’ Lottie was thinking of the threatening note she’d discovered in Amy Whyte’s bedroom.

  Belinda sipped and shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can I search her room?’

  ‘I’ll take you up.’

  Lottie made for the door. She couldn’t wait to get away from the woman. Something in her demeanour clanged warning bells in her head. She thought it might be because Belinda reminded her of when she herself had been snared by the talons of alcohol after Adam died. Or was it something else entirely? She didn’t know.

  Boyd rolled his eyes as they waited for Belinda to refill her glass before she led the way up the winding staircase. She stopped outside one of the doors on the wide landing.

  ‘That’s her room. I think I’ll lie down for an hour. If you have to take anything away, please bring it back in one piece.’ She disappeared behind a door at the end of the landing.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ Boyd said.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  Stepping into the young murdered woman’s personal domain, Lottie was immediately gripped with a sense of loss for Louise. A sense of loss that her mother had not displayed. She was standing in the preserve of a twenty-five-year-old girl who was never going to lie on her bed again, or flick through her phone, or complete her university course.

  The room was tidy. In the wardrobe, clothes hung in neat lines. The dressing table had everything lined up perfectly. The bed covers were rumpled, with a T-shirt and jogging bottoms draped across them. Possibly used as nightwear. On the window seat Lottie spied a laptop, notebooks and a ring binder.

  ‘This must be her coursework,’ Boyd said, picking up a folder in his gloved hands.

  ‘Must be, Sherlock.’

  Lottie glanced out through the window. A trio of magpies sat on the bare branches of a tree. She tried to remember the rhyme, but it escaped her. Instead, she concerned herself with the laptop. It was charged and switched on, and password-protected. ‘Shit. We need the password.’

  ‘Her mother might know.’

  ‘I doubt it very much. The technical crew can have a look at it.’

  ‘Or you could ask her father.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Lottie wasn’t sure she wanted to talk to Cyril Gill any time soon.

  ‘Do we need anything else?’ Boyd asked.

  She couldn’t help but feel the distance his tone was placing between them. She was wrong to have yelled at him at the station, but the day had been stressful. McMahon was gunning for her. Cynthia Rhodes knew stuff she shouldn’t. Bernie Kelly was prowling around on the loose. And to cap all that, they had two more bodies.

  ‘Her phone.’ Lottie found the jewel-encrusted iPhone lying on the pillow. She tapped the home key. Like the laptop, it required a passcode.

  She bagged the phone. Boyd did likewise with the laptop. Then, while he flicked through the pages of the notebooks, she took a quick look around the en suite bathroom. She opened the mirrored cabinet above the washbasin without looking at her appearance. Toothpaste, electric toothbrush, hair serum, small bottles of shower gel. No medicines of any sort. No contraceptive pills either. She shut the cabinet.

  Returning to the dressing table, she inspected each bottle of expensive perfume and nail polish. The drawers held an assortment of jewellery still in the boxes they’d been bought in. The remainder were filled with underwear. All luxurious, though there was nothing flimsy or erotic.

  ‘No sign of a coin. No note,’ she said.

  ‘Her death may not be connected to Amy and Penny,’ Boyd said.

  ‘It has to be. There were coins left with the bodies. It is the same killer.’

  As Boyd lifted a black leather-bound Moleskine notebook, Lottie heard something fall to the floor.

  ‘What was that? Don’t move. Stay where you are,’ she instructed him as the hairs on her arms tingled.

  ‘Not going anywhere.’

  She got down on her knees and searched around his feet. ‘Something fell out of the notebook. I heard it.’

  ‘You’re imagining things.’

  She scrabbled around under the bed. Nothing. Eased her hand beneath the bedside cabinet. Feeling something through the latex of her gloves, she dragged it out and lifted it up to the light.

  ‘A coin,’ she said triumphantly.

  Thirty-Seven

  His mother’s voice carried out to the hall door before he’d hardly had a chance to step inside.

  ‘What are you doing home at this hour of the day?’

  ‘We were let off early,’ he lied, and put one foot on the stairs. He’d been lucky. This time. His solicitor had got him released immediately. The guards had had no evidence to hold him on.

  ‘Come here!’

  He sighed and went into the sitting room. His senses were now accustomed to the stench and dirt but his eyes could not deny the vision of degradation. He really should get his mother into a care home. How had she managed while he’d been away? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  ‘What?’ He remained standing behind her.

  ‘Come over here where I can see you.’ She tapped her walking stick on the floor beside her.

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  Back in the hall, he draped his jacket on the banister and went to the kitchen. He needed a drink. The fridge only held a carton of milk. Instead he poured a glass of water from the sink tap, drained it, then went back to his mother.

  ‘Okay. I’m here. What’s all the rush for?’

  ‘I need a wash.’

  For the first time since he’d left prison, he noticed the balding patches on the top of her head. Pink scalp peeked out in odd spots, and the strands of hair that remained were oily and plastered to her head. Suddenly he realised that in the two months since he’d been home, she hadn’t had a proper wash or shower. No wonder the room smelled putrid.

  He straightened his shoulders, preparing himself for a battle he could do without after the day he’d just had. ‘Mam, I think you need a proper carer. I can’t work and look after you.’

  She said nothing. He took that as a good sign.

  He hunkered down, stared into her watery eyes. ‘Would you consider a care home? I can make enquiries and—’

  Th
e first smack of the walking stick caught him above the ear and knocked him backwards. The second smashed across his knees and he fell on top of the commode, turning it over. Urine spilled across the floor and seeped into his jeans. He wondered why she wasn’t using her catheter.

  ‘Wh-what did you do th-that for?’ he stammered, and rubbed a hand over his head trying to find the wound he knew must surely be there.

  ‘You will not put me in any home. Do you hear me? This is my house. If anyone has to go, it will be you. Good-for-nothing jailbird. Thief. Murderer.’

  ‘I didn’t murder anyone, you crazy bitch.’ He tried to stand, wanting to exude the impression of bravery. But she was the one person in the world who could reduce him to a snivelling wreck.

  ‘Is that the type of respect you learned in prison? Who do you think you are, calling your only living flesh and blood crazy?’

  She was standing now. Leaning heavily on the stick she had wielded so strongly a moment ago, and Conor wondered if it was all an act. He’d hardly seen her on her feet in the last two months. But as she stood, her knees wobbled and she fell back into the rancid armchair.

  ‘You break my heart, Conor. Crushing your poor mother’s spirit with talk like that.’

  He was saved from offering an insincere apology by a knock on the door. As he moved, she raised her stick again.

  ‘Send them away. I want that wash. Now.’

  He eased out of the room and opened the front door. Tony bundled in past him.

  ‘Put the kettle on and tell me all about that long-legged detective.’

  Conor groaned, but for once he was glad of Tony’s presence.

  * * *

  Lottie stemmed her anger at Dowling’s release and stared at the photographs of the four victims on the incident board. On the second board someone had pinned photos of Richard Whyte and Cyril Gill.

  ‘Who put those up there?’

  The detectives in the room all muttered and shrugged their shoulders. The new guy put up his hand. ‘I did, Inspector.’

  ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘Sam McKeown.’

  ‘Where’s Kirby?’

  Her new detective shrugged. She thought he looked handsome, in a rugged sort of way. Square jaw, neatly shaved head, eyes as green as her own. His shirt was creased, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She hoped that was a sign he was a hard worker. Time would tell.

  She was about to unpin the two fathers’ photographs, then thought better of it. Leave them there. She opened a file and took out Conor Dowling’s photo, pinning it alongside the others.

  He was their only real suspect.

  ‘I want to know every single thing about Conor Dowling. What he got up to in prison and what he’s been up to since he was released.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ McKeown said.

  She went back to her office. Boyd had dropped a bag of notebooks and folders belonging to Louise Gill on her desk. Hopefully she would find something. Through the open door she saw him sitting at his desk fiddling with Louise’s laptop.

  ‘Thought you were going to send that to technical.’

  ‘I’m having a go first.’

  ‘You haven’t the first clue how to unlock it.’

  ‘At least I can remember my password without having to write it on a Post-it,’ he said without raising his head.

  She grimaced at his dig. She couldn’t even think of a retort. She opened the plastic bag and took out one of Louise’s notebooks. ‘Where’s Kirby?’

  ‘Maybe he went out for something to eat.’ He looked up at her. ‘I’m kind of peckish myself. Fancy anything?’ Then he grinned.

  ‘Perhaps later.’ She smiled back at him. Maybe the day would improve. Maybe not.

  * * *

  ‘How are you doing, Mrs D?’ Tony said, sticking his head into the sitting room and just as quickly extracting it. ‘What’s that whiff?’ he said to Conor.

  ‘Shh. She’s in a foul mood.’ Conor switched on the kettle and shook the milk carton to make sure it wasn’t sour.

  ‘Foul smell, if you ask me.’

  ‘I didn’t ask, so shut up.’ He placed two mugs on the table. ‘What happened after I left?’

  ‘What are you whispering for?’ Tony said. ‘Oh-oh. You haven’t said anything to Mommy dearest?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, and she won’t have to know if you keep your gob shut.’ Conor eased the door closed with his boot.

  ‘I’ll have a cup of whatever you’re making.’ His mother’s voice was still audible from the sitting room. Conor ignored her and sat at the table.

  Tony eyed him expectantly. ‘Go on. What did the detective want? Nice set of legs on her. I like them skinny. How about you?’

  ‘Shut up, Tony. She’s a pig. And she’s the one who got me put away.’

  ‘Thought it was the witnesses who did that.’

  ‘Those two little bitches.’ If he was still in prison, Conor would have spat on the floor, but he thought better of it and kept his mouth closed.

  ‘Two little bitches who are now dead.’ Tony attempted to fold his arms over his girth, but gave up and placed his hands in his lap.

  ‘Yeah, well, your skinny-legged detective thinks I might have had something to do with it.’

  ‘Really?’ Tony dropped his eyes, and Conor noticed the colour rise up his cheeks.

  ‘Afraid to be friends with me now that I could be a serial killer?’

  ‘No. Not at all. Jesus, man. This is all … too weird.’

  Seeing Tony at a loss for words, Conor realised how serious the situation could get. If Inspector Parker was out to pin these murders on him, how was he going to stop her? He’d need Tony on his side.

  ‘For your information, I didn’t kill them.’

  ‘Where’s me tea?’ His mother’s voice had risen to a screech.

  ‘Coming.’ Conor threw a tea bag into a mug. ‘Here, you bring it in to her,’ he told Tony.

  ‘Ah man. I’ll puke my ring up. Can you not smell it?’

  ‘Oh, fuck off then.’

  Taking a biscuit from an opened packet, he brought it with the tea to his mother.

  ‘What about a plate?’

  Biting down a retort, he went back for one, then returned to sit with Tony.

  ‘She’s doing my head in,’ he complained, grabbing a biscuit from the pack before Tony ate them all. ‘What about the body in the tunnel?’ he said, anxious to change the subject.

  ‘What about it?’ Tony said, crumbs sticking to his stubble.

  ‘Is Cleary going to report it? What happened after I left?’

  ‘Not a lot. The boss was in a state. Shouting and roaring about his daughter. He was looking for you. Screaming that he was going to string you up.’

  ‘Me? Just because I’ve served time, everyone has me tagged as a mass murderer.’ When Tony remained silent, Conor added, ‘Cleary said nothing to him about the body in the tunnel?’

  ‘He didn’t have a chance to get a word in edgeways.’

  ‘I think he should forget it’s there and continue with the job. We all need the work. If that body’s reported, the site will have to close.’

  ‘I think the boss is more concerned about the murder of his daughter than some old bones that’ve probably been down there for a hundred years.’ Tony slurped his tea, then dunked the remainder of his biscuit into the liquid.

  Conor was about to say that the rags of clothing on the bones didn’t look like they were a hundred years old, but he decided to say nothing. He’d have a word with the foreman. He couldn’t lose this job. Then again, maybe Gill would sack him anyway. He heard his mother calling him.

  ‘Conor? Take this cup away before I let it fall. My poor hands are in bits.’

  ‘Tony. Be a best friend and get it for me.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Please? And I’ll forget that you messed up my workshop.’

  ‘I didn’t mess it up, you wanker. Some friend you are.’ Tony grabbed his jacket and was out the front doo
r before Conor got another word out.

  ‘Is Tony leaving already?’ Vera shouted as the cup shattered on the floor.

  Conor clenched his hands into tight fists.

  Thirty-Eight

  Bernie Kelly waited and watched.

  Leo Belfield was going round in circles, looking for her in all the wrong places. She kept tabs on him. Cat-and-mouse stuff, but she was so much cleverer than him. She should pity him, but she carried not a shred of sympathy in her heart. He had thought he was bribing her for information when she was stringing him up and down like a puppet.

  Once she saw him re-entering the Joyce Hotel, she was free to roam. She had plans for him, but not just yet. Her half-sister Lottie Parker was going to pay dearly for incarcerating her with the lunatics who had pled insanity. Bernie wasn’t insane. She was just a very clever woman. She laughed, then realised that people were starting to look at her and tugged the cord on her hood, tightening it around her face. It was a dark evening and that suited her just fine.

  She headed in the direction of Lottie’s house.

  * * *

  Rose knew that Katie was fed up with her hovering around, but she had to stay until Lottie got home. Sean and Chloe had been safely delivered from school in a taxi. None of her grandchildren had any idea why their mother had arranged it. But Rose was relieved.

  ‘Granny, why don’t you go on home? We’re fine,’ Katie said.

  Glancing at a basket of laundry, Rose got out the iron and ironing board. ‘I’ll do this before I go.’

  ‘Mam doesn’t iron. The wrinkles fall out of most of our stuff once we put it on.’

  ‘In my day you wouldn’t go outside the door without a crease pressed into your trousers.’ She slid the iron up and down the arm of one of Sean’s school shirts.

  ‘That was like a million years ago,’ Katie laughed.

  ‘Less of your cheek, madam. I’m not that old.’ But I am, Rose thought. The return of Bernie Kelly had aged her. She felt like someone had turned her bones to sawdust. How was she going to tell Lottie?

  ‘Gran, I know you wouldn’t tell me earlier, but did Mam ask you to come over today?’

  Rose hung the shirt on a hanger and picked up a creased T-shirt belonging to Lottie. How could she wear clothes unironed? ‘Why do you think that?’