He poured two more fingers of whiskey and drank greedily. The door opened and Jason sauntered into the room, hand in hand with Katie Parker. Melanie was behind them. Rickard stared at the young girl, seeing only her mother.
‘I think you should go home, missy,’ he said, pointing with his tumbler.
‘Why?’ asked Jason, his arm encircling Katie.
‘Because her mother is a fucking detective inspector, that’s why.’
‘That’s not a good enough reason,’ said Jason. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Don’t you dare question me,’ Rickard roared, stepping closer to the pair.
‘Well, you don’t question me,’ Jason said, pulling Katie tighter to his side.
Tom Rickard clenched his fist, reached out and struck his son on the cheek. The glass tumbled from his other hand to the ground and smashed. He hit the boy a second time, full on the jaw. Jason fell to the floor.
Katie screamed, turned and fled.
Fifty-Nine
Lottie stacked the dinner plates into the dishwasher, swept the floor and put the second load of the night into the washing machine. Clothes were drying on all the downstairs radiators and she turned up the boiler thermostat. The house was hot and the fresh scent of fabric conditioner floated around in the heat.
Stifling a yawn, she stretched her arms and thought about what else she had to do at this hour of the night. Looking around the kitchen, she felt comfortable in her own house. It wasn’t a palace but it was her haven; a home for her and her children. She wished she could be here all the time. Not an option. Maybe she should ask her mother to do a few hours’ housework? Then again, maybe not, she thought grimly. But she knew, in reality, she would have to make up with Rose soon. After all, she was her mother and she did love her, despite all Rose had done in the past. If only she could get to the truth of the matter. Another item for her to-do list. She replayed the conversation she’d had with Rose about Susan Sullivan. Maybe the murders had something to do with Susan’s search for her child?
The front door opened, banged shut and footsteps thumped up the stairs.
‘Katie?’ Lottie called.
No answer. She went after her daughter and found her sobbing into her pillow. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Lottie put her hand on Katie’s shoulder.
‘You’re sopping wet. Did you walk home?’ She wiped flecks of snow from her daughter’s hair.
‘It’s your fault,’ Katie sniffed. ‘You and that job of yours. You’ve ruined everything for me. As usual.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Lottie knew the girl was quite possibly half-stoned earlier in Danny’s Bar, but her eyes were now wide with anger. Streaks of mascara blackened her chalk-white cheeks and the child Lottie had once nurtured was nowhere to be seen. She had no idea how to cope with Katie’s dope smoking, though she was damn good at advising junkies’ mothers she met through her job. She needed to address the issue. She would have to talk to that Rickard kid and get him, and his drugs, far away from her daughter. Boyd would help.
‘Missus Detective Inspector,’ Katie spat. ‘You think you’re so important, sitting in the pub with your three stooges. All grand and powerful. You know what? You’re only a drunk. That’s what you are. A drunk! You’ve ruined my life.’ She buried her face into the pillow, smothering her cries.
Lottie jumped up, the words causing her skin to sting like an allergic reaction. She couldn’t speak. She wrung her hands, biting back humiliation. She counted the posters on the wall. She counted the cubes of eye shadow on the dressing table. She counted the shoes lined up beside the bed. She looked around the room wildly. Panic and hurt pushed tears to the corners of her eyes. She wanted to reassure and comfort her daughter, but she didn’t know how.
Katie raised her head from the pillow.
‘Jason’s dad hit him tonight,’ she whimpered, once again the little girl Lottie knew and loved. ‘I eventually got a taxi, after walking for miles. In the snow. In the dark. I was so scared.’
‘Oh my God. You should’ve called me. Here, I’ll help you out of those wet clothes and then you go to sleep.’
‘Why would he hit him?’ Katie sat up and struggled out of her damp jacket.
‘I don’t know why people do these things,’ said Lottie. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
All she could think of was her wild daughter walking along the lake road on a dark winter’s night. And three murder victims lying in Jane Dore’s Dead House.
Had she taught her kids nothing?
Sixty
After Jason stormed out of the house, Tom Rickard watched Melanie turn away from him, a mixture of fear and disgust contorting her face.
His hand trembled as he poured another whiskey. Never in his life had he hit his son. What had possessed him to do it now? No matter what was going on in his business dealings, it was no justification for striking the boy.
Maybe he should just have another drink.
He loosened his tie and gulped the amber liquid.
Answers were like snowflakes on the window, disappearing before he could grasp them.
He hated his father.
In the instant the punch had connected with his jaw, Jason detested him more than anything or anyone in the world.
He’d run out of the house, rushed past his car, shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and marched off down the avenue. He’d turned on to the main road without knowing where he was going. He just needed to get away. He hoped Katie was all right. Shit, he’d let her walk home alone. In the dark. He stopped walking. He should ring her. Oh my God! He’d left his mobile at home on the hall table, with his keys.
And he’d left without his jacket. The snow was soaking through his T-shirt, into his body, clinging like a second skin. He was still stoned, but he couldn’t go anywhere without his phone.
Turning to go back home, car lights lit up the road behind him. Realising he was walking on the wrong side, Jason stepped into the ditch to allow the car to pass. It slowed to a stop and the window rolled down.
‘Need a lift, son?’ the man asked, leaning across the passenger seat.
Jason thought he recognised him. A friend of his father’s? The man from the bar? He couldn’t be sure with the haze swarming around in his head. But he wasn’t about to refuse a lift.
‘Thanks. I don’t know where I’m going, though.’
‘No bother,’ said the man. ‘Neither do I.’
Jason opened the door and sat into the warmth. The man smiled, shifted the gears and drove. The wipers swished back and forth and the man clicked on the radio, drowning out the repetitive hum.
They drove through the night with the clear tone of Andrea Bocelli filling the silence. As snow fluttered and died, a sharp frost descended and a bright moon rose from behind the clouds. Jason shivered to the haunting strains of the blind man singing and he knew how it felt.
Sixty-One
Mrs Murtagh parked her Fiat Punto and hoisted her rucksack up on her back. She struggled with the large flask and plastic cups stuck out at an angle from the top of the bag. She hobbled on her walking stick, thinking how strenuous it all was, without Susan to help.
She missed Susan. Why was she killed? Hopefully it was nothing to do with any of their unfortunate clients. Poor desperate people. Concealed during the day from the eyes of the unseeing and uncaring people of Ragmullin, they blended into the bricks and mortar of the town. At night, they were the streetscape.
The air temperature quickly dropped to minus figures. Her breath hung in the air, preceding her as she shuffled along the icy footpath toward Carey’s Electrical Shop. She set her flask on the ground. Patrick O’Malley was usually here, whether he was drunk or asleep.
Looking around, she saw no sign of him. Checked her watch. Same time as every other night. Keeping a regular timetable had been Susan’s idea. Give these people at least one thing they could depend on, she’d said.
Mrs Murtagh sighed deeply. She picked up the flask and walk
ed further down the street to her next wretched customer. With any luck, Patrick wasn’t lying frozen to death somewhere.
More than likely, she thought, he was dead drunk.
Sixty-Two
The building was dark, its windows sunken, hollow holes in the concrete.
‘What’re we doing here?’ asked Jason, blinking his eyes open. Shit, he’d fallen asleep.
‘Somewhere for you to kip for the night,’ the man said, idling the engine.
‘No way. Bring me home. I need my phone. I’ve to check my girlfriend’s okay.’
‘I’m sure she is fine. Who is she anyway?’
‘Katie. Her mother is a detective.’
‘Really?’ The man was silent for a moment. ‘How interesting.’
‘I should go home,’ said Jason, his body trembling with the cold.
‘I thought all you youngsters loved adventure. I want to show you around. Give you a history lesson.’
‘It’s late and I hate history,’ said Jason. He sat up straight as the man manoeuvred the car, headlights dimmed. He couldn’t get a good look at him but he seemed familiar somehow.
‘Ah, but this will be an interesting lesson,’ the man insisted. He switched off the engine.
‘It’s very dark,’ Jason said, trying not to sound like a little boy.
‘Come on,’ said the man, getting out of the car.
Jason got out and hitched his damp jeans to his waist.
The man turned on his phone’s flashlight and walked up the steps towards the large solid door. Jason stood on the bottom step, undecided. Not wanting to be left outside alone in the dark, he followed.
The door creaked as the man pushed it open with his shoulder. He hurried inside. Sweeping the light around the marbled hallway, he shouted, ‘Honey, I’m home.’
He laughed. The sound, loud and ugly, echoed around the walls. And he walked toward the staircase. The wooden banisters seemed to evoke some memory in him; he stroked the timber with his fingers and laid his cheek down, as if feeling the smoothness underneath.
Jason toyed with running back down the steps, out the gate and home. But his father had been a total jerk. His jaw still throbbed from the impact of the fist. He craved a joint. Hell, if Katie was with him, they’d have some laugh at this shithead kissing the staircase.
‘Up here,’ the man said, walking up the stairs, leaving Jason in a wake of darkness.
A loud shriek echoed high above their heads.
‘What’s that?’ Jason ducked.
The man sniggered.
‘Only the wind whistling along these old corridors,’ he said. ‘Or birds. Never know which. Come, I want to show you something.’
Jason, cold and wet, itched to see what was up the stairs. Anger at his father fuelled his resolve. He stomped up the stairs.
What harm could it do?
Sixty-Three
Lottie’s phone rang at quarter to midnight.
She was going over her case notes, cursing the fact that she’d left Mrs Murtagh’s brown bread in Boyd’s car. Superintendent Corrigan’s name flashed on the screen. She ignored it. Too late to listen to a tirade. The phone stopped. Instantly, it rang again. Knowing Corrigan wouldn’t give up, she answered without looking at the caller ID.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘That’s a very official-sounding greeting.’
Lottie smiled and folded up her notes.
‘Father Joe. Good to hear from you.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘Slow is an understatement.’
‘Come visit me in Rome. The weather is beautiful. Cold with blue skies.’
‘Sounds nice. But—’
‘You’re wondering what I’m doing ringing you at this hour, right?’
‘Mind reader.’
He laughed. ‘How’re you keeping?’
‘I’m okay,’ Lottie lied.
She wasn’t okay at all. She’d cradled Katie to sleep before returning to the kitchen with her daughter’s words reverberating in her brain. A drunk? Was the girl correct? Wasn’t that what she’d become since Adam died? She controlled it most of the time but not totally and she was becoming more dependent on her pills. Great role model for her teenage children. She sighed.
‘You’re not okay. I can hear it in your voice,’ he said. ‘Come to Rome. I’ve sourced interesting information. You need to look at it, first hand.’
‘Have you uncovered another Da Vinci code?’ joked Lottie.
‘Not quite. I found St Angela’s records. They’re in a secure location, all hard copy. It would be impossible to photograph them to fax or email. It would take forever. And if I was caught I’d be excommunicated. In all seriousness, you need to look at them yourself. Could you swing it with your superintendent?’
‘Not a chance,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ve been stepping clumsily on your bishop’s toes. I think he’s reported me again.’
‘You’re only doing your job.’
‘He is Superintendent Corrigan’s golf buddy.’
‘If I were you I’d stand very hard on said bishop’s toes. Believe it or not, he’s not the goody two shoes he makes himself out to be.’
‘Do you honestly think what you’ve found will help?’
‘I don’t know. But it will provide you with background information. Fill in a few gaps, maybe.’
‘Bishop Connor is definitely being economical with the truth,’ Lottie said.
‘I’m not surprised, after the documents I’ve seen.’
‘You have me interested now. Anything relating to Father Angelotti?’
‘I met a friend of his. He thinks maybe Father Angelotti was sent over there to keep an eye on Bishop Connor; not the other way around, as we were led to believe.’
‘Then Father Angelotti goes and gets himself murdered.’
Father Joe had piqued her interest and now she wanted to see what he had found. She wanted to see him.
‘Lottie, the stuff I’ve seen here tells me there might also be another reason why Father Angelotti was in Ragmullin.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m not comfortable discussing this on the phone,’ Father Joe whispered.
‘Are you in bed?’ Lottie asked.
‘Now who’s the mind reader?’ He laughed. ‘I’ve to go. I hear my roommate coming up the stairs.’
‘Not got your own room?’
‘I don’t intend being here long enough to warrant having my own place,’ he said. ‘Just bunking in the Irish College for a couple of nights. Lottie, see what Superintendent Corrigan says, okay?’
‘Right. Will I get you on this number?’ She looked at the line of digits on the screen.
‘Leave a message if I don’t answer. I could be saying Mass.’
Lottie imagined his smile.
‘Good night, Lottie.’
She said goodnight and disconnected the call.
She tidied up the last of her notes and went upstairs to check on Katie. Fast asleep. She feathered a kiss on her hair and went to switch off the lamp. A photograph on the locker, framed with seashells, caught her attention. She lifted it up to have a better look. The five of them. Lanzarote. Four years ago. The last time they’d had a holiday together. She ran her finger over the dusty glass. All smiling. Happy. Taken as they began a jeep trip up Timanfaya volcano.
She slumped down on the bed and Katie sighed in her sleep.
The photograph had stirred a vision of a time when things were so different. Routine, secure and loving. Conflict raged inside her. She was torn between her stable past and uncertain future. Three years and she couldn’t let Adam go. But contemplating flying to Rome to meet up with a priest she’d only met a week ago made her think that maybe the wheels on her wagon were well and truly coming off.
30th January 1976
Sally cried in her sleep and awoke.
She half-expected to see her mother standing at her bed. It was Patrick.
He put his finger to his lips and made a shus
hing sound. She sat up, inquisitive as to why he was in the girls’ dorm. She scanned the room through the darkness, hearing only the soft murmur of sleep.
‘Come with me,’ Patrick whispered, yanking off her blanket. ‘I need to show you something.’
She crept out of bed, pulling her flowery flannelette nightdress tight to her chest. He didn’t give her time to fetch her dressing gown.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘Ssh,’ he said and grabbed her hand.
Outside the dorm, a muted light escaped from beneath a dusty lampshade hanging over the staircase. The duty nun’s room was at the opposite end of the corridor and Patrick led Sally down to the second floor. They crept to the end of the hall and through a door. She had not been here before. They scurried in the darkness and he opened another door heralding a short passageway. Moonlight shone through the three windows, lighting up their faces like corpses. An archway lay before her.
She stopped.
‘I’m afraid, Patrick.’
He turned and, still holding her hand, said, ‘This is serious, Sally. Please. You have to see it.’
She sighed and allowed herself to be led through the archway, down the narrow, stone staircase. Her feet were cold. She had forgotten to put on her slippers. On the bottom step, Patrick paused. They were in the chapel. She turned to look at him. He shook his head, a warning to be silent. This was the first time she’d come this way.
She noticed the altar lit up with burning candles and she smelled their grease. Then she saw Father Con. She gripped Patrick’s hand tighter. The priest was kneeling on the steps of the altar, wrapped in a heavy cream and gold cape, the one he wore for benediction. His hands, outstretched toward the mosaic of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus, in an alcove in front of him. His long leather belt was sitting on top of his neatly folded clothes, on the step.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 24