Final Betrayal

by Patricia Gibney

  Lottie and Boyd escaped before Vera Dowling could slam her stick into either or both of them.

  ‘For a woman with chronic arthritis,’ Boyd said, ‘she sure has strength.’

  Fifty-Eight

  Lottie asked Boyd to draw up a request for a search warrant for the Dowling premises, and as she tapped her phone screen to check with her mother once again, Sam McKeown appeared at the door.

  She cancelled the call. ‘Did you find something?’

  ‘Your daughters’ phones.’ He held up two evidence bags. Through the plastic she could see what she knew for certain were Katie and Chloe’s mobile phones.

  Her heart lurched and bile rose into her throat. ‘Where were they found? Where are my girls?’

  ‘They were in a rubbish bin outside the Clerk lounge bar, across the street from the courthouse. I’ve asked uniforms to access all the security footage from businesses, but with the area still sealed off following the accident, it will take time. Obviously we’re trawling council CCTV for yesterday’s relevant timeline.’

  ‘How can two girls disappear just like that?’

  ‘You know how, boss, without me spelling it out for you.’

  She knew. She said, ‘The network of tunnels may have been used. I want the drawings and maps on my desk.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to find someone to get me that information. But it’s hard.’

  ‘My daughters’ lives are at stake. Don’t tell me something is hard.’

  He opened his mouth and shut it again.

  ‘Why are you still standing there?’ She clenched her hands so tightly the knuckles turned white. The urge to thump them into a wall was overwhelming. ‘Did you speak with that Miranda girl at the salon?’

  ‘There’s an officer with her at the moment taking her statement. But can I say something?’ He pulled at his awkwardly rolled-up shirtsleeves. ‘I’ve made some connections, and I wanted to run them by you. It’s nothing to do with Bernie Kelly or your girls, but … Anyway, will I leave it until later?’

  She needed something to focus on. ‘Tell me, McKeown.’

  ‘In Penny Brogan’s appointment book, Kirby found that Belinda Gill, Cyril’s wife, was a regular customer. Do you think I should speak with her?’

  ‘I’ll do it. But wish me luck trying to extract a coherent word out of her.’ Lottie recalled how Belinda had downed glasses of gin when she’d called following Louise’s death.

  ‘Also, the transcript from Louise’s laptop makes interesting reading. This course she was doing, it seems to have screwed with her brain.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Her work appears to be all about miscarriages of justice, with a large concentration of words devoted to the Conor Dowling case.’

  ‘Did you read over the Thompson file?’

  ‘I did. Yes. Kirby gave it to me.’ He shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Shit, Lottie thought.

  ‘You discovered something I missed ten years ago?’

  ‘Maybe not you. But I think Superintendent Corrigan directed the investigation the way he wanted it to go.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ But she had thought this herself earlier.

  ‘He was a strong supporter of Cyril Gill’s project.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean diddly.’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘We’ve received official confirmation that the body of Cyril Gill has been recovered from the accident site.’

  ‘A dead man can’t answer any questions.’

  ‘He sure can’t.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Jim McGlynn is ready to extract the body from the tunnel. Says it will be an arduous business.’ McKeown took a deep breath. ‘He reckons it could’ve been there for up to ten years.’

  ‘How can he know until it’s been examined by a forensic anthropologist?’

  ‘Apparently there was a dated receipt in the shirt pocket.’

  ‘The body was decomposed. Only bones and rags left. Surely a receipt from ten years ago would have disintegrated?’

  McKeown’s eyes widened; he was eager to relay his information. ‘McGlynn tried to explain to me the way the human body decomposes. Something about how bodily fluids follow gravity, seeping downwards. The receipt was in the remnants of the front shirt pocket. Therefore it was preserved.

  ‘Jesus.’ Lottie scratched her head, trying to digest what McKeown said. ‘A receipt for what?’

  ‘He said he’d get someone to drop it off. I just took the call.’

  ‘Okay.’ She studied him. He looked like he wanted to say something else, and she ran her fingers over the evidence bag containing her daughters’ phones. ‘What is it, McKeown?’

  ‘Just trying to read my handwriting here. Oh, yes. McGlynn thinks from the bone structure that the body might be of Asian origin. And it’s female. Just in his opinion, he said.’

  Lottie tried to make sense of this. ‘I know you’re up to your proverbial, but could you do a quick search on the missing persons database? An Asian woman, missing for ten years.’

  * * *

  Leo Belfield checked the email when it pinged on his phone. Detective McKeown had sent him a new description of Bernie. He studied the image. He thought he had seen someone like that in the distance a few hours earlier. He leaned against the shopfront and scanned the street. It was busy. But he missed the noise and rush of New York. Once he had righted his wrong over losing his half-sister, he decided he no longer wanted anything to do with his heritage or Farranstown House. Lottie Parker was welcome to their fractured family history. But maybe he should take one more look out there.

  Pushing himself away from the wall, he went to fetch his rental car. A drive into the countryside might just activate his detective’s brain into motion.

  * * *

  Kirby had been at Megan’s house yesterday, but now he remembered it from the Bill Thompson file. Megan still lived in her stepfather’s home. He’d had no reason to make the connection before.

  As he stepped from the car, he lit a cigar and took a deep drag. Coughed out the smoke and looked around. Trees surrounded the old two-storey building. The lights from the canal walkway cast yellow shadows on the bare branches. He wondered how Louise and Amy had seen Conor Dowling in this area. And what were they doing out this way late at night? They’d only been fourteen years old at the time. He’d have to read their witness statements again.

  The ground floor had a bay window, and a garage attached to the house. He noticed that the blue paint on the front door was cracked and peeling. Megan wasn’t keeping the place very well, he remarked to himself. Not that he could talk.

  He rang the bell. Listened. Waited. Rang it again. He walked around to the back of the house and hammered on the door there. He heard a sound. Like a muffled yelp. Did Megan have a dog? He had no idea. Maybe he’d have been better off checking her Facebook page.

  He put his ear to the door.

  Silence.

  Lighting his cigar again, he walked back round to his car. He took a pull, puffed out the smoke and stopped. Could something have happened to Megan on her break from work? Shit. He moved over to the garage. It was timber, double-doored. On one door there was a small silver handle with a Yale-type slit. He tried it. Not a budge. Nothing was that easy.

  As he turned to leave, he heard the muffled sound once more. The front door opened and Megan stepped out.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  * * *

  Lottie wanted to be anywhere but in this house, oozing money and coldness.

  She eyed Boyd, willing him to take the lead, but he was staring at the marble floor. Glassy-eyed, Belinda Gill poured herself a cup of water from a dispenser on her massive black fridge.

  ‘I know this is an awful shock. If there’s anything we can do, just let us know.’

  ‘I think you’ve done enough already. First you come to search my murdered daughter’s room, and then you arrive to tell me my husband is dead.’ She look
ed wildly around the mausoleum of a kitchen. ‘I need a proper drink.’

  ‘Sit down, Belinda. We need to talk to you.’

  ‘You’d better come through to the living room.’

  Lottie and Boyd followed the woman and stood waiting as she poured herself a large brandy. They weren’t offered anything, though Lottie felt she could do with a drink to still the racing in her chest. So far she had resisted the urge to drown her anxiety in alcohol. She wasn’t sure how long that would last.

  ‘At least Cyril died doing something he loved.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘His job. Louise first, work second. I didn’t even register.’

  ‘It was an accident, Mrs Gill,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, call me Belinda. I ceased being Mrs Gill a long time ago. Cyril was an entrepreneur in more things than building projects.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Boyd said, and Lottie caught his confused glance. She felt the same way.

  ‘Women,’ Belinda said. ‘He liked them all, except me.’

  Lottie tried to get the conversation on track. ‘Do you recall any trouble he may have experienced with the project he was pioneering a decade ago?’

  ‘That pie-in-the-sky development that almost bankrupted him?’ She snorted. ‘Yes, I remember. Cost him a fortune buying up property before he even had a deal. Then Bill Thompson stuck his oar in and scuppered the whole thing.’

  ‘Really?’ Lottie hadn’t heard anything about that. She’d been aware that Thompson opposed the project, but that was all.

  ‘He stood up at a public meeting and denounced Cyril in front of half the town. It was enough to damage Cyril’s reputation. The council pulled the project. That was the end of all the work he’d put into it. He’d been planning it for three years. And it just took one mouthpiece to shatter everything.’

  ‘That mouthpiece being Bill Thompson?’ Boyd said.

  ‘Yes. He got his come-uppance, though, didn’t he?’ Belinda laughed but it turned into a sob, so she poured another drink.

  ‘Do you think Cyril might have had anything to do with the attack on Mr Thompson?’

  Belinda looked at Lottie like she had three heads. ‘Cyril was devastated, but not enough to beat up an old man and rob him of a few measly grand. Didn’t that Dowling lad do it?’

  ‘He was convicted, but new information casts some doubt on it. Unless Cyril got him to—’

  ‘Don’t you dare sully my husband’s name.’

  The irony was clearly lost on Belinda, Lottie thought. ‘Conor Dowling worked for your husband back then. Did you know him?’

  ‘Cyril wouldn’t let me have anything to do with his business.’

  Lottie detected a note of derision in the woman’s voice. ‘So he sidelined you in all his business dealings?’

  ‘Correct.’ Belinda slumped into the nearest plush armchair. Lottie and Boyd remained standing awkwardly in the centre of the large room. ‘But I knew young Dowling.’

  Lottie’s phone vibrated with a text. ‘Sorry, I have to check this.’ Her head pounded and she felt ill when she saw Sam McKeown’s name. Could there be word on Katie and Chloe?

  She opened it and read it. Nothing to do with the girls, but interesting all the same. She returned her attention to Belinda.

  ‘How did you know Conor Dowling?’

  ‘He was always hanging around here. Going over drawings and plans with Cyril. He was working as an apprentice draughtsman or something. Cyril took more of an interest in the lad than in his own daughter then. Always wanted a son, he said, but after I had Louise, he wasn’t interested in me enough to try for another.’

  Lottie decided to change direction. ‘Do you employ a housekeeper?’

  ‘No.’ Belinda’s eyes slid into two dark lines. ‘Why?’

  ‘But you used to, isn’t that right?’

  Belinda got up and filled her glass, then wandered around the room running one finger along surfaces as if checking for dust. ‘You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t already know.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I’ve had many housekeepers over the years. To whom are you referring?’

  ‘I don’t have a name yet, but it was ten years ago. Thought you might remember.’

  ‘We did have a young lady working here. She went out one night and never returned. We had no home address for her, or contacts. No one ever came looking for her.’

  ‘Did you report her missing?’

  ‘We didn’t know she was missing. She just went out and never came back. We assumed she’d got a job elsewhere.’

  ‘Without taking her belongings?’

  Belinda shrugged. ‘Cyril sent whatever she’d left behind to a charity shop.’

  ‘Oh, and how long did he wait before getting rid of it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about the night she went missing?’

  ‘My memory is not what it used to be. Let me think.’ She pressed the glass to her forehead. ‘No. Nothing unusual really. Oh, was that the night Louise and her friend saw young Dowling after he’d assaulted and robbed Bill Thompson? It might have been, come to think of it.’

  Lottie could feel Boyd’s eyes boring into her. He hadn’t seen McKeown’s text, so he had no idea what she was at.

  ‘Was your housekeeper an Asian woman?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘We’ve found a body,’ Lottie said. ‘In a tunnel under the courthouse.’

  The glass shattered on the wooden floor and Boyd rushed to catch Belinda before she hit the ground.

  Fifty-Nine

  The old house looked like something out of a Dickens novel. Leo’s mother – well, the woman he thought of as his mother – used to read him the classics, and he thought Farranstown House could have comfortably housed Miss Havisham.

  He walked around the outside, checking the gravel for any signs of recent footprints. The ground was mucky and wet, and the deep footprints of the uniformed officers who had checked it out when looking for Bernie made distinguishing anything of interest next to impossible. He stood on the doorstep surveying the landscape. The inky sky touched the lake in the distance, and a thin, pale stream sheeted the horizon in expectation of night.

  No point in hammering on the door, he thought, and made his way around the side, checking through the darkened windows as he walked. All he could make out was sheeted furniture standing like ghosted sentries. He recalled Alexis telling him about a basement. In New York, most of these had an external door. He couldn’t see one here. He’d have to search inside, but he had no key. He lifted the latch in hope. No such luck. He put his eye to the keyhole. There was a key on the inside of the lock.

  On the ground, he found a piece of wire and jiggled it around in the lock. After a couple of minutes he heard the key drop to the floor. Now he could get somewhere. He worked the piece of wire until he heard a click, and the door opened.

  He pushed it inwards and stepped inside the house that he knew should rightfully be his. Flicking a switch, he was amazed to see the hallway slowly fill with muted light. That, at least, was a bonus. Closing the door behind him, he made his way into the spacious farmhouse-type kitchen.

  Tendrils of icy cold swathed the stillness. His detective’s antennae were on their highest alert level. He knew he was not alone in the old house.

  * * *

  ‘Are you in a hurry to get back to work?’ Kirby said.

  ‘I am, actually,’ Megan replied. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He wanted to talk to her in a civilised setting, not out on her dark driveway.

  ‘It will only take a few minutes. You don’t have to make tea; I just want you to answer a couple of questions.’

  He studied her face, her hair knotted at the nape of her neck, her camel coat and blue scarf. She wore flat-soled knee-length black boots. He thought she looked pretty.

  ‘I’m sorry. I have to go,’ she said. ‘I’m already late.’

&n
bsp; ‘Aren’t you going to close your front door?’

  She fumbled in her bag for her keys as she pulled the door closed. She turned the key in the lock.

  ‘Look, Detective Kirby. You’re a nice man, but you’re going through a grieving process. I don’t think I’m the right person to help you. Maybe you should visit a therapist.’ Her voice was sharp and professional.

  ‘Do you have a pet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is this where your father lived?’

  ‘Stepfather.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She died, must be fifteen years ago.’

  ‘And did you inherit this house when your stepfather died?’

  She stalled beside her car. ‘Why are you asking me these questions?’

  ‘Did you receive a note from Conor Dowling to deliver to Amy Whyte?’

  ‘You’re talking utter rubbish. I can give you the number of a therapist if you’d like.’

  She opened the car and sat in.

  Kirby leaned on the open door. ‘Can I have a look around your house?’

  ‘No you cannot. Just leave.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m going.’

  ‘Good. I’m heading back to work.’

  She slammed the door and Kirby had to jump out of the way as she reversed out onto the road and drove off with water splashing from the potholes.

  He watched her go before making his way to his own car. He threw his phone on the seat, then sat in and returned his attention to Megan’s house.

  * * *

  She emerged up the stairs from the basement like a shadow creeping out of a coffin. All in black, her hair shorn and her skin an unusual pallor.

  ‘I thought she would find me before you,’ she said.

  Leo leaned against the kitchen table, wondering how he was going to handle this.

  ‘Where are Lottie’s girls?’

  ‘You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?’

  As she took a step onto the flagstones, he noticed she was twisting a rope round and round her hand. The end of it was shaped like a noose. He prayed she hadn’t already killed them.