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

by Patricia Gibney

‘Tell me about Susan and James.’

  ‘We tagged along together, the three of us. In St Angela’s.’ He smiled. ‘We were friends with another lad too. I can’t remember his name. Do you know, a lot of them changed their names when they got out? I couldn’t be bothered. James neither, I suppose.’

  ‘How long was Susan in there?’ she asked.

  He looked confused.

  ‘In St Angela’s,’ she added.

  ‘I don’t know. It could’ve been a year, it could’ve been more or less. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know how long I was there.’

  ‘What did you do all day in St Angela’s?’ asked Lottie, scribbling notes.

  ‘We went to school in the mornings after Mass. In autumn we picked apples.’

  ‘Apples?’ Lottie dipped her chin and raised her eyes.

  ‘The nuns made apple jelly.’

  ‘To eat?’

  ‘To sell,’ said O’Malley. ‘There was an orchard there. We used to pick the fallen apples off the ground. If you got punished for something, you had to pluck the maggots and flies out of the mushy ones. Bad luck if you were afraid of maggots,’ O’Malley said with a short laugh, but Lottie noted his eyes were deathly serious.

  ‘Apple jelly,’ mused Lottie, remembering the glass jars, cloth lids held in place with rubber bands, on the breakfast table in front of her mother.

  ‘Yes, Inspector,’ said O’Malley. ‘I remember the year Sally arrived. That was a bumper year for apples. Not a good one for us though.’

  August 1975

  ‘Sort through that basket of apples, Master Brown,’ the tall priest said, pointing to a bruised pile of fruit.

  ‘Please Father, I don’t like worms. Don’t make me do it,’ said James.

  The priest stretched to his full height. The boy cowered, as if expecting a slap.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Sally.

  Patrick stood beside Sally and another boy called Brian. She had an apple in her hand. It was bruised and black. Patrick thought she might throw it at the priest. A bastard, that’s what Father Con was. They all knew it. They were all afraid of him.

  Patrick watched warily as Father Con stepped towards James and extended his hand into the basket. He plucked an apple, scrutinised it and threw it back. He took out another. This one was almost in mush, a maggot sucking on the flesh. He thrust the fruit towards the boy. James kept his trembling arms wedged to his sides.

  ‘Eat it,’ the priest shouted, shoving the apple under the boy’s nose. ‘Eat.’

  ‘Don’t make him do it,’ Sally cried.

  ‘You shut your mouth,’ the priest said.

  Patrick gripped Sally’s arm. There was no point in them all getting punished.

  ‘I said eat!’

  James held out his hand but was barely able to hold the apple. His fingers were white to his wrists. He dropped it, turned and ran.

  ‘This is your fault,’ said the priest, grabbing Sally’s hair.

  She screamed. Patrick froze in his shoes. James reached the end of the orchard and shrunk into the brick wall.

  The priest grabbed Brian by the arm. ‘You will take Brown’s punishment.’

  Then he pulled Sally towards him.

  ‘Girl, get that apple and make Brian eat every last morsel.’ His voice was a sinister whisper. ‘I’ll be watching.’

  Whatever was in his eyes, Patrick saw it terrify Sally into silence. She held the apple to Brian’s mouth. The boy shrieked.

  ‘Please,’ Sally said, pleading with Brian, tears flowing down her face.

  ‘No,’ Brian screamed.

  She shoved the apple into his open mouth.

  The priest pulled tighter on her hair. James ran back up towards them. Patrick stood motionless.

  ‘Again,’ Father Con said. ‘Again!’

  Sally pushed the apple into the boy’s mouth and a black worm wriggled at the corner of his teeth. Her eyes widened in horror. She dropped her hand and the fruit lodged in the boy’s mouth, stifling his screams.

  Patrick stood still as Sally turned to him.

  Pleading.

  But he couldn’t move.

  O’Malley’s eyes were closed, deep in his reminiscences.

  ‘That’s horrific,’ Lottie said. Her skin crawled from the images he’d painted and she clenched her fist. ‘Who was this Father Con?’ She looked at the name she’d written.

  ‘A bollocks, that’s who,’ O’Malley said, rage flaring his eyes wide open. ‘A scourge, a fucking plague.’ He paused. ‘Sorry for the language, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you know his full name?’

  ‘Only knew him as Father Con.’

  ‘Was this Brian the friend you mentioned?’

  O’Malley laughed. ‘Brian was no friend of ours, Inspector.’

  ‘And you don’t know his full name either?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ He sat in silence for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was a painful creaking sound. Dear God, thought Lottie, had he more to tell?

  ‘Sally and James,’ O’Malley said. ‘They weren’t the first to be killed, mind.’

  Lottie locked eyes with him, while he dredged up another memory from the depths of his being.

  August 1975

  Patrick heard Sister Teresa screaming. Then he heard the commotion. Nuns running up and down the corridors. Children rushing out of their rooms. Everyone wondering what was going on. A baby was missing from the nursery. Whose baby?

  Patrick felt a terrible fear tie his chest into a knot. He hoped it wasn’t Sally’s eight-month-old tot. Not that Sally was ever allowed into the nursery to visit. The nuns saw to that.

  Everyone searched for hours, adults and children, until they found the baby nestled in a basket, underneath an apple tree, surrounded by fresh, smooth-skinned apples. The cord from a boy’s pyjama bottoms was wrapped tight around the tiny neck.

  The children stood huddled together as a weeping Sister Teresa clutched the chalk-white, doll-like body to her chest. She swept slowly through the hushed crowd, which spread apart like the Red Sea for Moses.

  As they watched the nun walk up the steps, Patrick held one of Sally’s hands and James held the other.

  ‘Jeepers creepers,’ said James.

  ‘Crap,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Is it my baby?’ asked Sally.

  No one let her see the body. No one told Sally anything.

  Patrick squeezed her hand. She squeezed his back and the two boys led her inside.

  ‘Were the gardaí called in?’ Lottie asked O’Malley.

  ‘Are you mad or what?’ he said, his tongue flicking in and out of his mouth as if searching for his cold sores. ‘Herded into the hall like animals, we were. Told us it was a tragic accident, so they did. Liars. And we were frightened enough to keep our mouths shut.’

  ‘What happened after that?’ Lottie asked, a little too loudly, unable to mask her disbelief.

  ‘They buried the kid. Under one of them apple trees.’

  ‘And Sally?’

  ‘She convinced herself her baby had already been adopted. But no one would confirm or deny that was the case. Thinking it was already gone kept her from going mad in that place.’

  ‘Had you any idea who did this, back then?’

  ‘Sure how would I know, Inspector,’ O’Malley said. ‘Maybe the priest. Or that Brian fella. After all, it was Sally who shoved the apple into his mouth. Anyway, I don’t know. The terrible thing is, they blamed it on another boy. A red-headed whippet tearaway. Younger than us, he was.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Can’t remember. My head is a bit addled with the drink, you know.’

  He pointed to a patch of skin just below his eye.

  ‘But I do remember him sticking a fork in my face one time. Could’ve blinded me, but for some reason, we became something like friends. Not real friends. Respect for each other maybe. Hard to explain.’ O’Malley stared at a point on the wall above Lottie’s head. ‘Poor bastard.’

  Lottie’
s brain was swimming with all this new information.

  ‘They killed him too.’ O’Malley’s voice was soft in the silence.

  ‘What do you mean? Who killed who? When?’ Lottie asked, confusion constricting her thought process.

  ‘Ah, it was months later. Winter time. Fierce cold it was. Beaten to a pulp he was. Buried him beside the baby in the orchard.’ O’Malley’s head sank into his chest.

  Lottie wondered for a moment if he was making it all up. But she concluded the man was too distraught to do that. What had gone on in that place? Who murdered the baby and who murdered this nameless boy? Who was the baby? Was it Susan’s? A flood of questions crackled at the tip of her tongue without being spoken.

  She watched O’Malley, his eyes boring a hole through the wall, and she knew he had said all he had to say. He moved his head and looked at her and she felt his deep brown eyes peer into the back of her skull.

  ‘We used to call it the night of the black moon,’ he said.

  ‘The black moon,’ said Boyd. ‘I think I heard of that.’

  ‘I can tell you, we might have been afraid before that boy was killed, but it was nothing to the fear we carried around with us after that.’

  ‘And you don’t know who he was?’ Lottie asked again.

  He shook his head. ‘Must’ve blocked it out.’

  ‘If it comes back to you, let me know.’ Conundrum time. She glanced at Boyd. He looked as stymied as she felt.

  O’Malley gave her a tired nod.

  She glanced down at the name she’d scribbled on her pad.

  ‘Do you know where this Father Con is now?’

  ‘I hope he’s dead.’

  ‘And Brian, do you know what happened to him?’

  ‘I never liked him and I always had my suspicions about him and the dead baby. So I hope he’s dead too.’

  Lottie stood beside Boyd outside the station door watching the hunched O’Malley shuffle through the snow on his way down the street.

  Boyd lit a cigarette. Lottie took it from him. She inhaled and he sparked up another for himself.

  ‘That was some hell-hole,’ she said.

  ‘St Angela’s?’

  ‘Yeah. Jesus, how many lives did it wreck?’

  ‘You only have to look at Patrick O’Malley. The poor shite.’

  ‘And how many more are out there, like him?’ Lottie asked. ‘I think Susan Sullivan was haunted all her life by her experiences, and probably Brown too. But at last I’m convinced there’s more to this case than planning permission.’

  ‘You’re sure their past is a factor?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘Of course it is.’ Lottie was adamant. She knew Boyd wasn’t convinced.

  He said, ‘Two apparent murders, almost forty years ago. I can’t see how they can be linked to the murders we have now.’

  ‘I can’t either. Not at the moment.’ Lottie stamped out her cigarette.

  ‘I wonder who this Father Con is and where he is,’ Boyd said.

  ‘In jail, if he’s lucky.’

  ‘I’ll run his name through PULSE and see what turns up,’ said Boyd. ‘But without a full name, I don’t hold much hope.’

  ‘Find out what you can about that soup kitchen too,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Is this O’Malley a suspect?’

  ‘God help him, but he has to be in the frame. Somewhere. He’s linked to Brown and Sullivan through their shared past. We better keep an eye on him.’

  ‘I don’t think he could be sober long enough to kill anyone.’ Boyd attempted to blow smoke rings but they died in the air.

  ‘And he’d leave a trail of skin behind him to fill every forensic lab in the country.’ Lottie glanced toward the cathedral and jumped as the bells rang out ten chimes.

  ‘I’m going to visit our developer friend, Tom Rickard,’ she said.

  ‘Shake his tree and see what falls out,’ said Boyd, dousing his cigarette in the snow.

  ‘And I’ll have to find out how Bishop Connor fits into all this.’

  ‘Ask your priest when you find him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t act all innocent with me, Lottie Parker. I think you’ve taken a shine to Father Joe.’

  ‘Your imagination is so vivid, Boyd, it’s blinding me.’

  Lottie zipped her jacket and hurried down the street before Boyd could see the flush on her cheeks.

  Fifty

  Tom Rickard was letting her know he was busy, rattling desk drawers, stacking files in front of him and tapping his keyboard. Simultaneously.

  His eyes appeared closer together, scrunched in a scowl.

  ‘I can do without your interruptions,’ he said, shuffling out of his suit jacket. He rolled his shirt sleeves, slowly and methodically, up to his elbows.

  Ready for battle, Lottie surmised, wondering how he had ever spawned a son. Then again, he was a rich bastard. Sometimes money could compensate.

  ‘Why did you buy St Angela’s?’ she asked, without any preamble.

  She had caught him on his way into work, hoping he might have a hangover like almost everyone else she’d encountered this morning. He wasn’t impressed with being doorstopped. Reluctantly he had allowed her a few minutes of his precious time.

  ‘That’s none of your business.’ Rickard ceased fidgeting.

  ‘I have two murder victims, both of whom worked on the planning application for the property you bought from Bishop Connor. I also have a dead priest. And you tell me it’s not my business?’

  ‘It’s simple,’ he said. ‘I bought St Angela’s because I happen to believe it’s a prime site for development. I’ve sunk a lot of money into this project and I stand to make profits from it in the future. I don’t appreciate you getting involved in my business affairs.’ He gave the drawer one last thump and folded his arms.

  ‘It is my business, if it helps me find a murderer.’ Lottie paused for effect. ‘Tell me, why did James Brown contact you after Susan Sullivan was murdered?’

  ‘Are you deaf? I’ve already told you I didn’t speak with him.’

  ‘The call lasted thirty-seven seconds,’ Lottie persisted. ‘You can say a lot in thirty-seven seconds.’

  ‘I did not speak with the man,’ Rickard said, his voice slow and determined, his veneers flashing.

  ‘Maybe it went to your voicemail. Did you check?’

  ‘I did not speak with him,’ he said, a snarl curving his mouth upwards.

  ‘How much did St Angela’s cost you?’ Lottie changed tack.

  ‘That’s definitely none of your business,’ Rickard said, unfolding his arms and thumping his desk.

  Lottie smiled. Shaking the tree was working.

  ‘Mr Rickard, I’ve discovered you purchased St Angela’s for no more than half its market value.’ Bea Walsh had supplied Lottie with this news. ‘That information might interest the financial gurus in the Vatican. I hear they’re hard up for funds. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re out of your depth, Inspector. It’s of no concern to anyone how much I paid for that property.’ His nostrils flared like an enraged bull. ‘I don’t see how this has anything to do with your investigations.’ His face was getting redder by the second.

  ‘I beg to differ,’ Lottie said, calmly. ‘With the burden of expense this parish is carrying, I think the media will be very interested in your little deal.’

  ‘You better discuss it with Bishop Connor then.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  Lottie felt like she was in a schoolyard sparring match. Rickard was adept at wheeling and dealing, and playing his cards close to his chest. She preferred to go straight to the suit of hearts.

  ‘I think you bought St Angela’s with strings attached,’ she said.

  ‘Think what you like.’

  ‘So who was at that meeting at your house yesterday morning?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Do you deny there was a meeting?’

  ‘I don’t hav
e to confirm or deny any such thing.’ He opened and banged a drawer once again.

  ‘Were you ever in St Angela’s?’

  ‘I own the damn place. Of course I’ve been in it.’

  ‘I mean as a child, a young lad. Were you ever in it back, oh I don’t know . . . in the seventies?’

  ‘What?’ Rickard puffed out his cheeks, heightening the colour from red to purple sweeping up his jaws, and threw his hands upwards.

  ‘Were you?’ Lottie noticed damp patches seeping from his armpits. The room was beginning to hum with the smell of his sweat.

  ‘No. I never set foot inside St Angela’s until I became interested in acquiring the property.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Lottie wasn’t convinced. But she’d no way of proving it, not at the moment anyway.

  ‘You can mmm all you like,’ he mimicked.

  Lottie smiled her sweetest smile and asked, ‘On another matter, do you know your son is dabbling in drugs?’ She wasn’t about to let him away scot-free.

  ‘What Jason does or doesn’t do has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘On the contrary it has everything to do with me, because Mr Rickard, much as it galls me, he happens to be in a relationship with my daughter.’

  She watched Rickard intently. His mouth opened to fire a reply, but he stopped as if realising what she had said. The first sign of uncertainty crept into the lines around his tired eyes and his lips slackened. He got up and walked to the window. She had wrong-footed him, at last.

  ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘Yes. My daughter Katie.’

  Rickard turned round to face her, the wintery sun behind him silhouetting his rounded belly now slack without his waistcoat to hold it in. Distant traffic sounds reverberated from the street below.

  ‘What my son gets up to or gets up his nose has no bearing on anything. And hear this loud and clear, Inspector Parker, I had nothing to do with those murders. If you continue to harass me I will report you.’

  You and everyone else, Lottie thought. She had heard enough from Tom Rickard. She stood up too.

  ‘I hope you’re not challenging my professionalism. Because, I can assure you, Mr Rickard, I will get to the bottom of this in an honest and transparent way. I don’t operate the way you run your business.’