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

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘Detective Sergeant Boyd analysed the victims’ bank statements,’ Lottie said.

  ‘We need to know where the money was coming from,’ Boyd said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ O’Brien’s eyes darted between the two detectives.

  ‘There are amounts of up to five thousand euro hitting their accounts regularly, over the last six months,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Almost thirty thousand each,’ Lottie said. ‘Who was giving it to them?’

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ O’Brien said, a hint of arrogance sharpening his tone.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Lottie said. ‘These people were murdered and this money appears to come from one account into both of theirs. I need you to tell me who paid it.’

  ‘No,’ O’Brien answered, twisting the diamonds tighter into his cuffs.

  ‘No, what?’ Lottie raised her voice.

  ‘No, I can’t tell you.’ O’Brien straightened his tie. The dandruff on his shoulders seemed to intensify and a sweaty odour oozed from his armpits.

  ‘These two people are dead,’ Lottie thumped the table. ‘Release the information or—’

  ‘Or what, Inspector?’ O’Brien flashed a smug smile.

  ‘Or I’ll get a warrant.’ Lottie stood.

  ‘You do that.’ O’Brien pushed back his chair and stood up also. He was half a foot smaller than Lottie and maybe ten to fifteen years older than her.

  ‘Mark my words, Mr O’Brien, we will be back,’ she warned.

  ‘You have their bank statements. I can’t do anything else. Within the law.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me about the law.’

  ‘Believe me, I wasn’t trying to.’

  Lottie stepped towards O’Brien and looked down at him.

  ‘I’m beginning to think this town is full of stonewalling, obstructive little shits,’ she hissed.

  ‘See you at the gym later,’ O’Brien said with a short wave to Boyd, snubbing Lottie.

  ‘Maybe,’ Boyd said, turning to leave.

  ‘Sweaty little bollocks,’ Lottie muttered and followed Boyd out of the office.

  ‘Language, Inspector,’ Boyd said.

  ‘I can’t believe you actually share a gym with him.’

  ‘And he coaches Ragmullin under-twelve hurlers.’

  ‘Thank God Sean now plays under-sixteen.’

  ‘O’Brien’s not all that bad,’ Boyd laughed.

  ‘Could’ve fooled me.’

  With a swing of her shoulders Lottie power-walked up the street ahead of Boyd.

  Thirty-Six

  As the afternoon darkened, the thaw evaporated as quickly as it had arrived and a freezing fog descended, adding greyness to the already dull atmosphere.

  Boyd began compiling the warrant documents and Lottie strode down to the shop at the end of the street. She bought the newspaper and a packet of crisps.

  A grainy picture of herself accompanied the headline ‘Paedophile murdered?’

  Moroney’s interview was redrafted for all who had missed the debacle on television. She’d refused to watch it but Boyd had filled her in on her five seconds of unwanted fame. A PR disaster was how Corrigan continued to describe it, between expletives. Boyd had also related that piece of information to her. All they’d found in James Brown’s house were pornographic photos and images on his laptop. Nothing to suggest paedophilia. So the most likely scenario was that Moroney had overheard idle speculation and twisted it to suit himself. Fuck him to hell, she thought.

  She needed a breakthrough in the case. Something to wave as a peace offering in front of Corrigan. But what? Maybe Jane Dore had found something. She hoped so.

  She got keys from the duty sergeant, took a car from the station yard and headed out into the fog.

  At the Dead House, Jane Dore boiled a kettle and poured water over two camomile teabags.

  ‘Please tell me you have something significant,’ Lottie said, welcoming the tea’s warmth. The forty-kilometre drive to Tullamore had eased her temper but not the thumping in her head.

  ‘I haven’t carried out the post-mortem on the body from the garden yet. However, initial tests indicate that the fibre from the scene matches the rope found around James Brown’s neck.’

  ‘Great. Evidence to link the murders. Anything else?’

  ‘The word Pax is inscribed on the inside of the ring. Latin. Translates as “peace”.’

  ‘Is it a wedding ring?’

  ‘Wrong finger, but that doesn’t mean anything one way or the other.’

  ‘A wedding ring could have the word “love” on it or even the spouse’s name.’ Lottie twisted her own gold band with Adam’s name engraved on the inside. Her name was on his ring. In his coffin. She hadn’t thought of keeping it. Another regret.

  Jane said, ‘I’ve never been married, so what do I know?’ She smiled wistfully. ‘Not for want of trying mind you. Never met anyone who could put up with my terrible working hours, not to mention my job.’

  ‘He’s probably our missing priest,’ Lottie said, putting the cup on the desk. She took out Angelotti’s photograph and showed it to the pathologist.

  ‘Same bone structure,’ Jane said and brought Lottie in to see the body. They compared the dead man’s bloated face with the young vibrant one in the photograph.

  ‘Could be him,’ Lottie said, turning away from the corpse.

  ‘I think you’ve found him,’ the pathologist said. ‘But that’s just my opinion.’

  ‘The priest’s hairbrush is gone to the lab. DNA should confirm it for us,’ Lottie said.

  ‘That will take a while but I’ll let you know once results are in.’

  ‘Any estimate on time of death?’

  ‘Going by weather reports and the preservation of the body, I estimate Christmas Eve or before. Not after, because that’s when the snow and ice began in earnest.’

  ‘It’s a starting point.’

  Lottie held a hand to her rumbling stomach. ‘I have to get back to Ragmullin. And I need to eat.’

  ‘The only way to cure a hangover,’ the pathologist said, sipping her tea.

  ‘Do I look that bad?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jane said with a laugh. ‘I’d join you for food, but I have to start cutting. Your Superintendent Corrigan is chomping at the bit.’

  ‘And I’m trying to avoid him,’ Lottie said as she left the mortuary.

  The fog had lifted and shadows swept down over the road as she drove back to Ragmullin. A silver frost glistened along the grass verges in the headlights. Once again, temperatures had plummeted below freezing.

  Using her hands-free she called Bishop Connor.

  ‘I think I’ve found your missing priest,’ she said.

  ‘Thank God. Is he all right?’ the bishop enquired.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Lottie said, crossing her fingers on the steering wheel. A little white lie might rattle his cage.

  ‘What . . . that’s awful. Where . . . how?’

  ‘Do you have any idea why someone would want to murder Father Angelotti?’

  ‘Murder? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I thought you might enlighten me. Why was he really in Ireland?’

  ‘Inspector, this is a great shock. I do not appreciate insinuations that I have been economical with the truth.’

  ‘I didn’t insinuate anything.’ Lottie smiled to herself as she listened to the bishop’s voice rise. Was it panic?

  ‘Sounded like it to me,’ he said. ‘I will talk to your superintendent about you.’

  ‘Join the queue,’ Lottie said and disconnected the call.

  Bishop Terence Connor closed his eyes and listened to the dial tone on his phone. He now had one hell of a mess to deal with.

  Opening his eyes, he walked to the window and squinted into the darkness. A game of golf would be nice, but it could be weeks before the greens would be playable. Golf was his escape mechanism. To walk on the grass, hit the ball, lose himself in his strokes and putting averages. Then again, h
e could always drive up to the National Gallery to see the Turner exhibition. He treasured fine art. He appreciated delicate wine and gourmet food. He was a man of expensive tastes. He could afford it.

  Angelotti was gone. His body had been found. That was a good thing. Wasn’t it? That priest had been trouble from the day he arrived. Bishop Connor knew Rome was meddling in his affairs. So much for smokescreens about the young priest 'finding himself'. He was no fool. Angelotti was sent on a mission.

  Realisation dawned on him that, after all that happened over the last few days, Angelotti’s death could now give him more to worry about than dwindling parish funds and abuse compensation court cases. He could do without Inspector Lottie Parker unearthing things that didn’t concern her.

  He needed to talk to Superintendent Corrigan.

  Thirty-Seven

  The kitchen was clean when Lottie arrived home shortly after seven.

  Sean sauntered in.

  ‘You okay, Ma?’ he asked. In a rare moment of tenderness, he wrapped his arms around her.

  ‘Work pressure,’ Lottie said, hugging her son.

  ‘Chloe was like a bitch all day,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t mind her,’ she said. ‘I’ve to talk to her.’

  ‘Are you ever going to cook again? Like you used to.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Where was her son heading with this conversation?

  ‘You know. Proper food. Like when Dad was alive.’

  Lottie’s chest constricted. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I loved those dinners. Actually I’m fucking starving now.’

  ‘Don’t use that language in this house.’

  ‘You use it,’ Sean said, withdrawing from his mother.

  ‘I know I do, but I shouldn’t and neither should you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘I mean, I’m sorry for mentioning Dad.’

  ‘Oh, Sean, don’t ever be sorry for talking about your dad.’ Lottie felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. ‘We should talk about him more often.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I get it hard sometimes so I try to block out the past.’

  ‘I know. But I think about him every day.’

  ‘That’s a good thing.’

  ‘And I miss him.’

  There were tears in her son’s eyes. Lottie gave him a tight squeeze and kissed his forehead. He didn’t pull away.

  ‘You’re just like him,’ she whispered into his hair.

  ‘Am I?’

  She held him at arm’s length. ‘The fecking image of him.’

  ‘Now look who’s swearing.’

  Both of them laughed.

  ‘Okay. I’ll cook something,’ she said, regretting her impetuous ditching of the food her mother had cooked that morning.

  ‘Yes!’ Sean said, giving her a high five.

  Lottie laughed again. He could twist her round his little finger. Just like Adam.

  ‘Where’s Katie?’ she asked. ‘She can give me a hand, now that Chloe’s in a sulk.’

  ‘In the sitting room. With her boyfriend.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  Sean escaped without answer, clambering upstairs to his PlayStation world.

  Lottie headed to the sitting room. The door was firmly shut. She listened. No sound. Opened the door. Darkness. She flicked on the light.

  Katie’s voice roared, ‘I warned you, Sean. Get out.’

  ‘Katie Parker!’

  ‘Oh, it’s you Mam,’ Katie said, untangling herself from the arms of a boy.

  Lottie recognised the pungent scent in the air.

  ‘Are you smoking weed?’

  ‘Don’t be such a prude, Mam.’

  ‘Not in my house you won’t.’

  Lottie couldn’t believe it. What was her daughter up to?

  ‘And who is this? Are you going to introduce me?’ She folded her arms so tight she hurt her damaged ribs.

  ‘This is Jason,’ Katie said, pulling her sweater down over her jeans. She sat up straight on the couch, wrapping her hair in a knot at her slender neck. The boy loped to a stand, his legs unsteady, Calvin Klein boxers showing at the waist of his frayed jeans. He held out his hand.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Parker.’

  He was as tall as Katie, hair to his shoulders and a black Nirvana T-shirt stretched tight over a muscled chest. A wooden stud pierced one ear and he had the general air of being unkempt.

  ‘Katie, I need your help in the kitchen.’ Lottie left the room without waiting for an objection. How was she going to handle this? Carefully, she warned herself. Very carefully.

  Katie walked into the kitchen with a lazy, stoned walk.

  ‘I don’t want a lecture,’ she said.

  ‘You’re old enough to know what that stuff can do to you. And, it is illegal. I could arrest you.’

  Katie giggled, her dilated pupils swathed in a glaze.

  ‘Who is he anyway?’ Lottie asked, throwing potatoes into the sink under running water. The hint of vodka wafted up from the drain. She began peeling furiously.

  ‘Jason.’

  ‘I got that bit. Jason who?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know him.’

  ‘Who are his parents? Maybe I know them.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know them either,’ Katie said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Where did you get the drugs?’ Lottie asked, dropping the potatoes into the pot with a splash.

  ‘It’s only a bit of weed.’

  Lottie turned.

  ‘Weed is a drug. It’ll shrink your brain to the size of a pea. You’ll end up in a psychiatric hospital banging your head off the wall. I’m telling you here and now, missy, you better get rid of it. And quick.’

  ‘It’s not mine. It’s Jason’s. I can’t get rid of it.’

  ‘Get rid of him, then,’ Lottie said, knowing she was talking irrationally.

  ‘He’s my friend.’

  Katie’s hair fell across her eyes. Her father’s eyes. All her children had his eyes. Memories of Adam had haunted Lottie all day.

  ‘I’m concerned about you,’ Lottie said.

  ‘There’s no need, Mam. I’m fine. Most of my friends smoke a bit. I’m not stupid.’

  Sensing her daughter’s fatigued state, Lottie decided it was not the right time to have this conversation. When would there ever be a right time? But tackling the source of this weed was definitely going on her to-do list.

  ‘Here, chop these,’ she said, taking three peppers from the cupboard.

  ‘What are you cooking?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ Lottie said.

  Katie left with Jason. Before the food was cooked.

  ‘We had dinner already,’ Katie said.

  Lottie said, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out.’

  The door slammed without further discussion. Lottie sprayed air freshener throughout the sitting room, to mask the weedy scent, thinking about how quickly she was losing control of her children. One thing was sure, she would now have to monitor Katie and her friends more closely. The thought filled her with exhaustion.

  She craved sleep but because of last night she was afraid to go to bed. After pouring a glass of water she sank into her kitchen armchair with her legs curled beneath her. She switched on her iPad, logged into Facebook. It had been weeks since she’d checked it.

  ‘Holy Jesus,’ she muttered when her news feed burst into life. One hundred and fourteen notifications. Probably all ‘Happy Christmas’ and ‘Happy New Year’ shit. She hadn’t fourteen real friends, let alone over a hundred. There was one personal mail and one friend request red flag. She tapped the friend request first.

  ‘What the . . .?’ Lottie blinked, put her glass on the floor, kicked out her long legs and sat up straight. Susan Sullivan. The name, no photograph. Why had Susan Sullivan sent her a friend request? She glanced at the date of the request. December fifteenth. Was it even the murdered woman?

  She didn’t know Susan Sullivan, h
ad never heard of her before the murder, but Susan had met with her mother. Had Rose mentioned her? Probably. But why didn’t the woman contact her at the station?

  She tapped ‘friend accept’ and accessed the woman’s account. Still active.

  There was nothing on the page, just like their profile of the murdered woman. She’d joined Facebook on December first. Lottie tapped in, wondering what friends Susan had.

  None.

  No status updates, no likes or shares either. What had possessed her to set it up? Lottie picked up her glass and sipped the water slowly, craving a shot of vodka. Maybe she could sniff the sink.

  She tapped her private messages. Susan Sullivan. Again. She read the short missive from the dead woman.

  Inspector, you don’t know me or anything about me but I remember reading about you in the newspaper and I’ve spoken with your mother. I would like to meet you. I have some information that I believe will interest you. I look forward to hearing from you.

  That was it.

  After staring at the iPad for a few minutes, Lottie reached for her phone and called Boyd.

  ‘I got a message from Susan Sullivan,’ she said.

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘I’m stone cold sober.’

  ‘The dead don’t speak.’

  ‘Believe me, Boyd, this one did.’

  ‘You are definitely drunk,’ he said.

  ‘Just come over. Now. I assure you I am sober.’

  Thirty-Eight

  Boyd sat in Lottie’s kitchen, spooning Pot Noodles into his mouth, with one hand on her iPad.

  ‘I wonder why she didn’t follow it up?’ he asked. ‘Or contact you at the station.’

  ‘It’s very odd. I want to know what information she had.’ Lottie leaned over Boyd’s shoulder. ‘Those noodles smell vile.’