She glimpsed lights in the distance. Car lights, she thought. The pressure returned on top of her and she was captive to the blood-stained ice. She could smell body sweat as he lowered his mouth to her ear.
‘Think of your children, Detective Inspector,’ he said, his voice high above the wind. He landed a sharp thump on the side of her head.
She tried to turn. He struck her again.
The lights of the approaching car flashed once, then twice and she felt her body lighten as the weight holding her down disappeared. She heard the car stop, a door opening.
‘You all right, missus? I think I scared him off.’
‘Take me home,’ she moaned.
Twenty-Two
‘She’s not answering her phone,’ Chloe said.
‘If I’d known she was going to work this late I could’ve gone to a party.’ Katie sounded angry. ‘Anyway, you only want her for takeaway money.’
‘No, smart arse,’ Chloe said. ‘I want us to be a family tonight.’
‘Try the station,’ said Sean. ‘And stop fighting or I’m going to bed.’ He switched off the television.
‘Hey, I’m watching that,’ Katie said, raising her head.
‘Will you two shut up,’ Chloe said. ‘Come back, Sean.’
In the hall, Lottie stared at her son. All three were at home. On New Year’s Eve. Even Katie.
‘Mam! What happened to you?’
Sean rushed to her. Lottie squeezed his arm and he linked her into the sitting room. She sat into the armchair beside the unlit fire. The heating appeared to be running full blast. She didn’t care.
‘Mother? I was just phoning your work,’ Chloe said. She and Katie stood, staring.
‘It’s nothing to worry about. Someone jumped me in the industrial estate.’ Lottie rubbed her hand across her nose. It came away with blood on her fingers.
‘I’ll call a doctor,’ Chloe said, concern traversing her young features.
Lottie wiped blood from her face with trembling fingers.
‘I’ll be fine. I don’t think anything’s broken.’ She hoped her nose wasn’t; if it was, she knew the pain would be a whole lot worse.
Three worried faces, all looking at her.
‘It’s okay. Honestly. I just need to wash.’
She didn’t want to think what might have happened had the taxi not arrived on the scene. The driver had told her he’d only seen the back of the attacker running toward the old carriages down by the disused railway track. He wanted to follow. She just wanted to get home. To see her children. To make sure they were safe. The taxi driver had duly obliged.
‘I’ll get you a cup of tea,’ Chloe said.
‘I’ll help,’ Katie said.
Sean sat on the arm of the chair.
She was glad to have her children around her. They were safe and so was she. For now.
‘No tea,’ Lottie said. ‘I need to go to bed. We’ll get a takeaway.’
She looked around. No handbag. The mugger had fled at the screech of the car brakes but had not got away empty handed. He wouldn’t get rich on the contents of her bag. Thank God she hadn’t been foolish enough to bring the cash from Susan Sullivan’s freezer. Small mercies and all that, she thought.
‘There might be enough change in the kitchen jar,’ she said, gingerly rising from the armchair.
Slowly, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, ignoring the clutter of clothes covering the floor and hanging on the open door of the wardrobe. After undressing tentatively she stepped into the shower, allowing the hot spray to ease her pain and cleanse her cuts.
Towelling down her warm flesh, she appraised her wounds. At worst she had a broken rib, at best bruised ribs. A deep cut lacerated the bridge of her nose. No break. Another fainter cut had settled beneath her left eye. She’d be some sight tomorrow, she figured, when the bruising erupted.
Her arms ached and her throat was raw, the skin on her neck already turning purple. He’d almost succeeded in strangling her. She consoled herself – she had fought back. Desperately. Why had Susan Sullivan not fought to save herself? Jane Dore had reported little or no defensive wounds. What kind of person has no instinct for survival? Lottie could not understand it.
She threw her clothes from the bed to the floor and eased her head on to the pillows. Needing someone to talk to, besides Boyd, she scrolled through her phone contacts for the number of her long-time, occasional friend. Lately, she hadn’t seen much of Annabelle O’Shea, one of her oldest friends and the exact opposite of Lottie. Gym, yoga and whatever other fancy exercise you could think of – Annabelle engaged in it. Lottie couldn’t be bothered wasting so much time on herself. Voicemail instructed her to leave a message. She didn’t. Hanging up, she pulled the duvet over her aching body and wished for sleep.
She lay awake a long time, her hand on the Argos book, thinking of James Brown with his pornographic bedroom walls and Susan Sullivan with a sitting room full of newspapers, a fridge with frozen money and a house depicting nothing of her life. And her own faceless attacker. All the time, reverberating in her brain, were the words ‘think of your children’. She had been targeted. Why?
For the first time in years, Lottie felt fear itching beneath her skin.
Boyd worked late, reading the pathologist’s report to the sound of the cathedral bells signalling the dawn of a new year.
He opened the online planning files and began cross-referencing details against the ghost estate files. Methodical, painstaking work. Work he was good at. It kept his mind off other things. Off other people. Off one person in particular.
Succeeding in finding nothing, he went home and powered up a sweat on his turbo bike. His frustration helped pump adrenaline until his chest almost caved in.
He gave up, lit a cigarette and sat on his stationary bike, smoking. Intermittently, the room lit up from the effervescent fireworks in the night sky. And he was alone.
At four a.m. Lottie’s mobile phone binged. She squinted at it on the locker. The number was unfamiliar.
A text.
May the New Year bring you peace.
She texted back. Who is this?
A few seconds later, a reply popped up.
Father Joe.
She smiled and fell into a fitful sleep; dreamed of blue eyes, crosses in circles and a rope tightening round her throat until she awoke bathed in a cold sweat. She dragged herself into the shower, stood beneath hot water, then, wrapping a towel loosely about her bruised body, she lay on the bed.
Sleep did not return.
January 1st 1975
The girl woke up with a terrible pain in the bottom of her stomach.
She dragged herself out of bed and screamed as the agony increased in waves.
‘Holy Mother of God. Oh, Jesus Christ,’ she shouted.
Her mother ran into the room.
‘What’s all the commotion about?’
She stopped at the sight of blood and water pouring down her daughter’s legs. All of a sudden she knew what was going on. She blessed herself then went to the girl. She put her lying on the bed.
‘What have you done?’
The girl screamed. And screamed again.
Her mother looked on in horror while her daughter produced her one and only push and her grandchild entered the world.
The baby cried.
Both of them cried.
Neither of them knew what to do.
So they cried some more.
‘I’ll get a midwife,’ her mother said. ‘And the priest. He’ll know what to do.’
‘No!’
The girl screeched, a shrill and terrified wail of terror.
DAY THREE
1st January 2015
Twenty-Three
‘Happy New Year to me,’ Lottie said as she raised the kitchen blinds.
With the darkness outside she stared at her bruised image reflected in the glass. She ran her fingers through her hair, thinking she needed to get it cut and coloured. The chestnut dye was grow
ing out and a thin grey line was beginning to appear on the top of her head. But she had more to worry about than looking like a badger. Shit, she looked like she’d gone ten rounds with Ragmullin’s Olympic boxer.
Checking her phone, she read the night-time text from Father Joe Burke. She hadn’t replied. Just as well. He’s a suspect, she thought.
Busying herself tidying the kitchen, she squashed up empty Coke bottles and folded the pizza box into the recycling bin. Two nights in a row her children had eaten junk food. It wasn’t good enough. She had to go to the supermarket. She hoped Tesco would be open, it being New Year’s Day and all that shite. She opened cupboard doors making a mental note of what she needed. Everything.
Then she remembered she had no wallet, no cards, no nothing.
Placing the last two Weetabix in a bowl, she sat at the table thinking of her attacker. Could he be the one who murdered Sullivan and Brown? Was he trying to kill her? She shook off that notion. She had to think of her children.
Her children. Chloe was under pressure at school. Katie struggled with continuous college assignments and had locked her out mentally since Adam’s death. And Sean, spending all day long on his PlayStation. Lottie despaired. How could she cope with them and her job? Maybe she should ask her mother to look in on them. But their last row was still too raw.
Sighing, she poured coffee into a mug and milk on her cereal. It plopped out in thick lumps. Gagging at the sour smell, she sipped black coffee. A cigarette would be nice, she thought, as the pain in her head intensified. She searched a drawer for painkillers, found a Xanax, so she swallowed it instead. Hugging her aching sides, she wished her pain away.
Her children would probably sleep until midday. A rude awakening awaited them next week. Back to school.
For her – work.
By the time she reached the station, Lottie’s mood was as cold as the icy wind whipping her face on the walk into work.
‘Kirby. Lynch,’ she commanded, pulling off her jacket as she entered the cramped office.
The two twisted round in their chairs, looked at each other, then back at Lottie.
‘My office!’ Shit, this is my office now, she thought.
Boyd was sitting at his desk, chatting on the phone. He looked up at her, then at Kirby and Lynch standing to attention. Kirby tapped his pocket for a cigar he couldn’t smoke inside the building, his head looking like it was bulging with a hangover, and Lynch had pulled her hair into a sober ponytail. Lottie nodded at Boyd to disappear. He hurriedly finished his call.
‘Jesus, what happened to you?’ he enquired.
‘Nothing.’ Lottie threw her jacket on the back of her chair, avoiding his intense gaze.
‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Did you walk into a couple of ladders down the hall?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘I wouldn’t like to see the other fellow.’
‘Give it up, Boyd. It was just some mugger in the industrial estate, down past the old grain store. Probably one of the railway junkies looking for money. Got my handbag.’
‘Are you all right? Did you report it?’ he asked. ‘Don’t suppose you did.’
‘It’s nothing to get uptight about.’
‘Tell me where it happened and I’ll get someone to take a look for your bag.’ Boyd sat on the edge of her desk.
Lottie relented. ‘Last night, I went to Susan Sullivan’s house to have another look around. That led to something I wish to discuss with these two. Walking home through the industrial estate, I was jumped.’
‘Why didn’t you report it?’
‘That’s what I’m doing now.’
She filled Boyd in on all the details she could recall, gave him the taxi driver’s card to follow up on anything he might have seen.
‘And check in with the uniforms who were guarding Susan Sullivan’s house in case they noticed anyone around last night.’
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Boyd said, getting his jacket.
A photocopier whined unattended, shooting out paper which was accumulating at an alarming rate. Lottie switched it off and turned her attention to Maria Lynch and Larry Kirby.
‘Those cuts look bad. You sure you’re okay?’ Lynch asked, concern etched in her eyes.
‘I’m fine.’ Lottie folded her arms, standing directly in front of them. ‘How well did you search Susan Sullivan’s house?’
‘Thoroughly,’ the two detectives replied in unison.
Lottie looked from one to the other.
‘Not thoroughly enough. Who checked the fridge freezer?’
‘I did,’ Kirby volunteered, a worry line furrowing a trough along his forehead. Last night’s whiskey was oozing perspiration bubbles into the ridges. His breath stank. Lottie took a step back.
Lynch’s shoulders dropped and her mouth creased into a straight line.
‘Guess what? No, don’t even try,’ Lottie said, as Kirby opened his mouth. ‘I found a bundle of money, quite a lot actually, frozen in a bag. In the freezer. What do you say about that?’
‘Someone must have put it there after we’d searched,’ said Kirby, struggling. ‘All I saw was ice cream.’
‘Did you look behind the ice cream? Did you take out the ice cream?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Kirby traced an imaginary line on the floor with his black leather, unpolished shoe.
‘I’m disappointed in you,’ Lottie said. ‘Both of you.’
A sharp pain wrenched her ribs, forcing her to sit down. Her mood for anger subsided. She was too sore to be annoyed any longer.
‘In future I don’t want anything like this to happen. You don’t need me to tell you, botched searches are unacceptable.’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ Lynch said. She was biting her lip but her eyes were flaring anger.
Lottie knew Detective Lynch would not want this black mark against her impeccable record. It could spell trouble down the career line, but Lottie was the direct line manager and that meant reprimanding people for unacceptable work. There were more important things going on here than Maria Lynch’s ambitions.
Kirby said nothing, just hung his head with a hangdog expression. Lottie understood then how a twenty-something year old might fall for him – probably felt sorry for him. She dismissed them both and they scuttled off.
Boyd returned and threw a pharmacy paper bag on her desk.
‘Don’t take them all at once,’ he said. ‘You’re lucky Boots is open today.’ He switched on the photocopier before sitting at his desk.
‘You’re a lifesaver.’ She quickly swallowed three painkillers. ‘Haven’t you got work to be getting on with?’ she asked, logging on to her computer.
‘Indeed I have,’ he said and began noisily banging his keyboard.
Her chin resting on her hand, Lottie sat watching Boyd and listening to the photocopier in the otherwise quiet office. Suddenly, she felt the need for someone to hug her, to hold her tight, to soothe away her aches. She almost reached out to Boyd, but didn’t.
Twenty-Four
The Ragmullin grapevine was wrapping itself into knots but Cathal Moroney, a journalist with RTE, the national television station, couldn’t find anything worth reporting. He flicked through his empty notebook. He was hungry for a new angle on the murder and suspected suicide.
He’d interviewed some of the victims’ colleagues but they knew nothing. He wanted the human-interest story; a story to awaken his tired audience. He wanted the scoop of a lifetime.
He kept asking himself the question everyone was asking. Were the deaths connected through planning? And was Brown murdered? If it turned out to be two murders, was there a serial killer stalking this tired midlands town? He began to sweat at the thought. Now that would be a story and a half.
Warming his hands around an early morning cup of coffee, he listened to the gossip in McDonald’s. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone was talking shite.
He noticed a huddle of gardaí at a table in a corner near the toilet
s. Everyone knew Cathal Moroney, but this group was so engrossed in their own conversation, they didn’t notice him. He slid into the dimly lit corner behind them and sipped his coffee. Listening. And he heard. Something new. It just might be the story he was waiting for. He just needed a formal comment.
He checked his phone and contacted his source.
Lottie planted her two feet on her desk and rested her head into her interlocked hands. The painkillers had eased her throbbing ribs and she’d stuck a plaster over the cut on her nose.
The preliminary technical reports did not offer much hope. DNA was found in the vicinity of Sullivan’s body. Masses of skin cells and hair. All logged, ready to be cross-referenced. And probably weeks before any results, if ever.
James Brown’s forensic reports were not in yet so she glanced through the preliminary autopsy reports. Maybe he did kill himself, she thought with a yawn, but what about the grazed fingers and contusion on the back of his head?
Her jaw ached and pain weakened her knees so she dragged her feet to the floor and stood up, attempting a stretch. She felt hungry. Maybe Kirby could get her a Happy Meal. She eyed the grumpy detective across the room. Maybe not.
Her phone rang.
‘Inspector?’
‘Yes, Don,’ Lottie answered the front desk sergeant.
‘Cathal Moroney from RTE is here for a statement. Superintendent Corrigan is delayed this morning but he said you’re to talk to him. He’s okayed it with the press office. I put Moroney in the conference room. Will you talk to him?’
No, I won’t, she wanted to say.
‘I’ll be right there,’ she sighed and headed down the stairs.
‘Inspector.’ Moroney flashed his megawatt TV smile. ‘I’m delighted you could give me a few moments of your precious time.’
‘A few minutes is all I have, Mr Moroney.’
‘Call me Cathal,’ he said, taking her hand in his, forcing a contact Lottie had not offered. The cameraman, standing behind Moroney, adjusted his lens and pointed it towards her.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 10