The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1)

by Patricia Gibney

  She introduced herself and held out her hand.

  Brown thrust his small hand into hers, a strong shake. He guided her into his office and pulled out a chair from behind a round desk. They sat.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ he asked.

  Was this council speak for Why the hell are you interrupting my busy schedule? He had a smile plastered over a stressed face.

  ‘I’d like to ask you some questions about Susan Sullivan.’

  His only response was a raised eyebrow and a flush of red up one cheek settling beneath his eye.

  ‘Was she due into work today?’ Lottie asked.

  Brown consulted an iPad on the desk.

  ‘What is this about, Inspector?’ he asked, tapping an icon.

  Lottie said nothing.

  ‘She’s been on annual leave since December twenty-third,’ he said, ‘and not due back to work until January third. May I ask what this is in connection with?’ Brown’s voice seemed tinged with panic. Again, Lottie ignored his question.

  ‘What does her job entail?’ she asked.

  A long-winded response revealed the deceased had managed planning applications, recommending them for approval or rejection.

  ‘The controversial files go to the county manager,’ he said.

  Lottie consulted her notes. ‘That would be Gerry Dunne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know if she has any family or friends?’

  ‘She has no family that I can recall and from what I can see Susan’s best friend is Susan. She keeps to herself, doesn’t mingle with the staff, eats alone in the canteen, doesn’t socialise. She didn’t even attend the Christmas staff party. If you don’t mind me saying, she is odd. She’d be the first to admit it. However, she’s excellent at her job.’

  Lottie noted Brown referred to Susan in the present tense. Time to break the bad news.

  ‘Susan Sullivan was found dead earlier today,’ she said, wondering what effect, if any, her next words would have on him. ‘Under suspicious circumstances.’

  Until the pathologist declared it, she couldn’t publicly announce a murder. Brown blanched.

  ‘Dead? Susan? Oh, my God. That’s terrible. Terrible.’ Beads of sweat pulsed on his forehead. His voice increased an octave and his body trembled. Lottie hoped he wouldn’t faint. She didn’t want the trouble of lifting him up.

  ‘What happened? How did she die?’

  ‘I’m unable to comment on that, I’m afraid. But do you have any reason to believe someone might want to harm Ms Sullivan?’

  ‘What? No! Of course not.’ He twisted his hands together like stress balls.

  ‘Can I talk to anyone here who knew Susan? Someone who could provide me with an insight into her life?’

  More than you’re giving me, she wanted to add. For some reason she felt he was not being totally honest with her

  ‘This is a shock. I can’t think straight. Susan is . . . was a very private person. Perhaps you should talk to her PA, Bea Walsh.’

  ‘Perhaps I should,’ said Lottie.

  Some colour had returned to Brown’s cheeks, his voice had lowered and the shaking ceased. He began wiping his forehead back and forth with a white cotton handkerchief.

  ‘I’ll talk to her now,’ said Lottie, ‘if you can arrange it. Time is important. I’m sure you understand.’

  He stood. ‘I’ll get her for you.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll definitely need to talk to you again. In the meantime, this is my card with my contact details, if you think of anything I should be aware of.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’

  ‘If you could direct me, please,’ she said, waiting for him to lead the way.

  He walked along the corridor to another office, a mirror image of his own.

  ‘I’ll get Bea. By the way, this is Susan’s office.’

  When he was gone, Lottie sat at the desk. She looked around the office. It was like Boyd’s. Pristine. No file or paper clip out of place; just a phone and computer on the desk. A flip-over calendar showed December 23rd, with the motto, The acts of this life are the destiny of the next. She wondered if Susan was now reaping her destiny based on what she had or hadn’t done in her life.

  A birdlike woman with a tear-stained face walked in and smoothed down her navy button-through dress with quivering hands. Lottie indicated for her to sit.

  ‘I’m Bea Walsh, Ms Sullivan’s PA. I can’t believe she’s gone. Mr Brown told me the awful news. Ms Sullivan had so much work to do. I was only after tidying her office and organising her files today for her return. This is awful.’

  She started to cry.

  Lottie assumed the woman was near retirement age, early to mid-sixties. A frail thing.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might want to harm Ms Sullivan?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I’ll need your help and the assistance of anyone you can point me to. I want to build up a profile of Ms Sullivan and her life, especially in recent times. People she met with, places she went, her hobbies, her loves, any enemies or people upset by her.’

  Lottie paused. Bea looked up expectantly.

  ‘Can you help me?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘I’ll do my best, Inspector, but I’m afraid I’ve very little information. She was a closed book, if you ask me. A lot of what I know is hearsay.’

  Lottie took some notes, though there wasn’t much to write. She would have her work cut out trying to establish just who Susan Sullivan was and, more importantly, why she was killed and who did it.

  James Brown rubbed his brow, wiping away sweat pooled in the shallow wrinkles on his forehead. He couldn't believe Susan was dead. Reading behind the inspector’s veiled words, he knew she had been murdered.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he said.

  He’d always assumed Susan would be around forever, ready to pick up the pieces every time he crumbled under the weight of their shared past.

  ‘Susan,’ he murmured to the walls.

  His eyes lost focus against the magnolia blandness and he closed them. Was this, Susan’s untimely death, because they’d begun to resurrect buried secrets?

  He tried to clear his mind. He had to protect himself; to put in motion the plan he’d concocted if something like this happened. He had prepared for something like this, but he didn’t think Susan had.

  Astute enough to realise that he and Susan were dealing with conniving, dangerous people, he’d documented everything from the very start. Unlocking a drawer, he removed a thin folder. He put it in an envelope and wrote a note on the outside. Then he placed it all in a larger envelope, addressed and sealed it. He slipped it into the post basket. The recipient would know if it didn’t need opening and to send it back per instructions on the note. If it did – well then, he wouldn’t know much about it, would he? He stemmed his panic and took out his mobile phone.

  There was nothing else he could do other than make the call.

  With trembling fingers he tapped a number in his phone. He began to speak, his voice strong and forceful, belying the tormented heart bursting inside his chest. Even as he spoke the memories refused to lie down.

  He said, ‘We need to meet.’

  1971

  The Mass servers were changing back into their own clothes when the tall man with the thick black hair and angry face walked into the room. The smallest boy had the fairest skin and lightest hair. A whippet on two legs. He looked up wide-eyed, as if to say, please don’t be looking at me, and pulled his threadbare jumper over a creased, once white shirt now faded grey, buttoned up to the neck.

  A bony hand, veins protruding, pointed at him.

  ‘You.’

  The boy felt his eight-year-old body fold into itself. His bottom lip quivered.

  ‘You. Come into the sacristy. I have work for you.’

  ‘But . . . but I have to get back,’ he stammered. ‘Sister will be looking for me.’

  The boy’s eyes widened and salty tears curled at the corners o
f his fair lashes. Fear expanded in his heart and the man seemed to grow in size before him. Through a watery haze he saw a long finger curling, calling him. He remained rigid, one shoe on and the other underneath the bench behind him. His beige socks creased around his ankles; their elastic, melted from too much washing, protruded like little white sticks in sand. The man moved and with a single stride his shadow fell on the boy, shrouding his body in darkness.

  A hand pinched his arm and dragged him through the wooden door. He silently pleaded with his eyes for the other boys to help but they gathered their remaining clothes in trembling arms and fled.

  Golden angels adorned the corners of the ceiling as if they had flown up there, become trapped and were unable to come down again. White alabaster gargoyles were interspersed with the angelic cherubs, their faces tired and drained. The boy tried to hide behind a high mahogany table in the middle of the room. The dark wood seemed to him to exude a deep, penetrating air of oppression.

  ‘What have we here, a scaredy cat? Are you a little girl, you whining good-for-nothing?’ the man shouted through his pale, pink lips.

  The boy knew no one would hear or come running to help. He had been here before.

  A rack of black cassocks swung in a swish of air as the man passed by to sit in a corner chair. The boy shivered violently as the adult’s eyes appraised him, like a farmer at market assessing a prize bull.

  ‘Come here.’

  The boy didn’t move.

  ‘Come here, I said.’

  He had no option. He walked forward, his feet heel to toe like a tightrope walker, limping slightly in his one shoe.

  The boy screamed as he was pulled between two bare knees, hands gripped him as robes were flung back.

  ‘Shut up! You are going to be a goody one shoe boy and do what I want.’

  ‘P-p-please don’t hurt me,’ the boy whimpered, tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t see, he was so close to the darkness.

  His head was thrust into a gaping void and he began to gag.

  Terror grappled with his breakfast of watery eggs in the bottommost pit of his belly. It rose like a tidal wave and exploded in a vomit of projectile yellow phlegm.

  The man jumped up, still holding him by the hair, and hit him with a thump to his ribcage, propelling him through the rack of swinging blackness. The boy slid down the far wall, a limp piece of flesh, bewildered and terrified.

  He couldn’t hear the names he was being called, as the blows came hard and fast against the side of his head, thickening the rims of his ears.

  He cried louder, his sobs thunderous.

  Then he soiled himself.

  And the angels sank deeper into the recesses of the alabaster ceiling as if they too were terrified.

  Five

  Cafferty’s pub on Gaol Street was two hundred metres from the council offices. Lottie was drinking thick soup, with lumps of chicken and potato soaking in it, warming her from her toes up. Boyd was halfway through massacring a house special sandwich that would have fed two normal people. But he wasn’t normal. He could eat anything, never putting on an ounce. The skinny bollocks, thought Lottie.

  It was late afternoon and a few die-hards who had braved the weather sat at the bar nursing their pints of Guinness and ticking off horses on crumpled newspapers. A widescreen television on the wall, sound muted, presented the races from England. No snow there.

  ‘Bea Walsh says Susan could’ve been a lesbian,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Ever tried it on with a woman, yourself?’ Boyd asked, unaware of the coleslaw stuck to his upper lip, forming a makeshift moustache.

  ‘I wish. Then, maybe, I wouldn’t have this awful memory of being in your bed six months ago.’

  ‘Ha. Very funny,’ he said. He wasn’t laughing.

  Lottie tried to dim the image of their drunken tryst. She hated to admit it but she’d enjoyed the warmth of his body beside hers that night – what she could remember of it. They’d never talked about it since.

  ‘Seriously though, Adam wouldn’t want you to be alone,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve no idea what Adam would have wanted. So shut up.’ Lottie knew she had raised her voice and was kicking herself for letting Boyd get to her.

  He shut up and continued eating his sandwich, muttering ‘bitch’ jokingly under his breath.

  ‘Heard that,’ she said.

  ‘You were meant to.’

  ‘Anyway, Bea said it was more than likely canteen gossip, just because Susan was a loner. People love making up stories about the quiet ones.’

  ‘What does that mean? Like a non-practising Catholic? Been there, done that, not for me any more?’

  ‘You know I’m not a lesbian, not even a non-practising one.’

  ‘You’re not practising anything since Adam died.’

  Lottie knew Boyd regretted saying it, the minute the words were out of his mouth. She said nothing, wouldn’t please him with a sarcastic retort, even if she could have thought of anything smart enough to say. Either way he was off the hook. For the moment.

  ‘Nice soup,’ she said.

  ‘Changing the subject.’

  ‘Boyd,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ve related to you what Bea Walsh, Susan’s PA, told me. As far as she knew Susan was originally from Ragmullin, spent years working in Dublin and returned here on a transfer two years ago. She also said no one could get close to her. She was a career-woman. Worked day and night, married to the job. She had to, in a man’s world, to get to where she was. Bea’s words, not mine.’

  ‘But she must’ve had some sort of a life outside of her job,’ said Boyd.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Have a life outside of the job?’ asked Lottie, finishing her soup.

  ‘Not really. Neither do you.’

  ‘I rest my case.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Finish up your sandwich, Sherlock. We’ll head to Parkgreen and see if Lynch and Kirby have found anything of interest in Sullivan’s house.’

  ‘Are you going to interview the head honcho in the council?’

  ‘Who?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘The county manager.’

  ‘Gerry Dunne’s not available until tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I take it you’re not too impressed.’

  ‘Take it any way you like.’

  ‘Depends on who’s giving it.’

  ‘Would you ever grow up!’ Lottie said.

  But Boyd was right. She was not impressed. They split the bill and left.

  They hurried up the street, leaning into each other, sheltering from the chill, their breaths rising and merging into one.

  Streetlights reflected off the snow and ice, throwing yellow ochre shadows on to shop fronts. It was freezing. Bitter was the topical word of the day. Those foolish enough to venture outside scurried past, their faces snuggled into scarves and hats, shielding their skin from the stripping wind.

  Rushing along the slippery pavement with Boyd, Lottie felt the polar air pierce through her clothing. At the station, Boyd started the car. Lottie sat in, rubbing her bloodless fingers together.

  ‘Put the heater on,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t start,’ he said and took off, skidding dangerously close to the wall.

  Just as well he has a badge, she thought, and as he drove she looked out at her town swathed in false purity, sinking into the evening darkness.

  Susan Sullivan had lived in a detached three-bedroom house, situated in a secluded estate on the outskirts of the ‘better end of town’. If there was such a thing any more.

  The area appeared quiet as they drove up. A few children, muffled against the weather, rode their Christmas bicycles up and down the frozen road, sneaking looks from under colourful hats at the two squad cars parked outside Sullivan’s gate.

  A couple of uniformed gardaí stood sentry. A car in the driveway was white with a week’s worth of snow. Blue and white tape, hanging loose on the front door, screamed Keep Out
, without actually having the words written on it. These were the only outward signals that something was wrong. Lottie felt like getting back in the car and going home.

  Detective Maria Lynch greeted them at the door.

  ‘Anything for us?’ Lottie asked.

  She sometimes didn’t know what to make of Maria Lynch, with her freckled nose, inquisitive eyes and long hair tied up childishly in a ponytail, always dressed smartly. She looked eighteen, but having served fifteen years in the force, she was closer to thirty-five. Enthusiastic without overdoing it. She was aware that Lynch was super ambitious and Lottie had no intention of falling into the female rivalry trap. But she had to admit to a slight jealousy of the domestic stability her detective possessed. Lynch was married, she assumed happily. It was said her husband cooked, hoovered, brought their two small children to school before he went to work and all that shite.

  ‘It’s an absolute tip in there. I don’t know how the woman survived in such a dump,’ Lynch said, wiping dust from her pressed navy trousers.

  Lottie raised an eyebrow. ‘That doesn’t gel with the image I formed of her after seeing her office and the people she worked with.’

  She stepped into the hallway with Boyd. The house felt crowded. Two SOCOs were busy and Detective Kirby’s rotund rear protruded as he rifled through the kitchen garbage bin.

  ‘Nothing in here but rubbish,’ Kirby’s voice gurgled, a large unlit cigar hanging from his lips, his bushy mop of hair like an antennae on top of his head.

  He grinned at Lottie. She scowled. Larry Kirby was divorced and currently cavorting with a twenty-something-year-old actress in town. More luck to him, she thought. At least it might stop his flirtatious glances at her. Despite all that, Kirby was called the lovable rogue within the force.

  ‘Put away that cigar,’ she ordered.

  His face reddened and he put the cigar into his breast pocket. Grunting loudly, he opened the fridge and inspected the contents.

  ‘And make sure the neighbours are canvassed,’ Lottie instructed. ‘We need to determine when Sullivan was last seen.’

  ‘Right away,’ Kirby said, slamming the fridge door shut and stomping off to give the order to someone else.