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

by Patricia Gibney

  Sally sidled up to Patrick, leaning into him. Though the air was cold, he wore thin pyjamas and she could feel heat rising from his body.

  ‘Patrick, what’s going on?’ she whispered.

  He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and led her to the right, along the last row of kneelers. He pulled her into the corner behind a wooden confessional. Someone else was there. Two people. She almost screamed. Patrick looked at her, anger flaring in his eyes. She held her breath, hoping the scream would die somewhere in her belly.

  As her eyes became accustomed to the shadows cast by the candles, she recognised the boys in the corner. James and Fitzy. Patrick shoved her in beside them and they huddled together. She wanted to ask a thousand questions but kept her silence. Patrick continued to hold her hand. She was glad.

  A low hum rose to a crescendo then fell again. She widened her eyes and bit her tongue between her teeth, willing herself to be silent.

  The priest bowed, up and down, chanting. A curtain, at the side of the altar, opened. Brian stood there, naked, his body crisscrossed in deep, red welts. She looked away, then back again and tightened her hold on Patrick’s hand in case he might leave her there. The priest stood up and beckoned Brian to him. The naked boy shuffled forward, arms tight against his sides. He must be freezing, Sally thought.

  The boy was pushed to his knees and the priest enclosed him in the gold cape. She couldn’t bear it and this time she did scream.

  Patrick clamped a hand over her mouth. Father Con swung round, his nakedness emblazoned by the candle light. His eyes were black. This frightened Sally more than the fact that they were all in deep trouble.

  ‘Run,’ Patrick shouted, dragging Sally behind him.

  She ran, Fitzy clipping her bare heels. James brought up the rear. As they raced up the stairs, the image of Brian imprinted itself on her brain. Naked body. Open mouth. Dead eyes.

  In the room with two doors they stopped to catch their breath. Sally began to cry. Fitzy put his arm around her shoulder. James stood beside Patrick, uttering over and over, ‘Jeepers creepers. Jeepers creepers.’

  ‘What was he doing to Brian?’ Sally asked, but she knew. Father Con had forced her to do the same thing numerous times. She couldn’t quell the image of the boy with his mouth open and the white stuff stuck to his lips.

  ‘He’s a big shite, that’s what he is,’ Patrick said.

  ‘I’ll burn the bastard with one of them frigging candles. Burn him in the goolies,’ Fitzy said. His voice echoed off the walls.

  Sally heard the fear crawling around in their breathing, smelled it oozing from their skin. It manifested itself so painfully clear, she believed she could see it, touch it even. She listened at the door, hoping the priest hadn’t followed them. She didn’t like the dark.

  ‘We have to do something,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yeah,’ Patrick said, ‘like what?’

  ‘I mean it. Honestly. What can we do?’ Sally sobbed, gulping down her tears.

  The slap of bare feet thumped up the stairs. She swirled round and saw the whites of the boys’ eyes shining in the moonlight. Terror had struck them immobile.

  ‘Lads, what are we going to do?’ she cried.

  James began to sob.

  DAY SEVEN

  5th January 2015

  Sixty-Four

  Detective Sergeant Larry Kirby was tacking computer-printed photographs to the board in the incident room when Lottie arrived just after five thirty a.m. She hadn’t slept well and a bitch of bad humour was itching to escape.

  ‘You’re up early,’ she said, placing her lukewarm coffee on the windowsill and pulled off her jacket.

  She’d left her car at the station the night before but the walk into work had done nothing to brighten her mood. She stood beside Kirby. Cigar smoke clung to his clothes, like dirty socks in the bottom of her laundry basket. She was glad she’d cleared all the laundry last night. One less chore to worry about.

  ‘Didn’t go to bed, so I didn’t have to get up,’ he said, clumsily pushing thumbtacks into the photographs. His tobacco-stained fingers were too large for the small steel pins. One fell on the floor, joining a multitude already gathered there.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Decided to reorganise the incident board. It’s a week since all this started.’

  ‘Don’t remind me. Do you want me to do that for you?’

  Kirby shook his head.

  Lottie shrugged, picked up her coffee and sat down behind him.

  ‘Tell me what I’m looking at.’ Maybe she should have brought a coffee for him. He looked like he could fall asleep any minute.

  ‘Photos of the main players in our drama,’ he said.

  She scanned the board. So far, he had Patrick O’Malley, Derek Harte, Tom Rickard and Gerry Dunne hanging crookedly side by side. He held the bishop’s photo in one hand, a tack in the other.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ she advised.

  He looked at her, his grey-haired belly showing through an open button halfway down his creased, off-white shirt, a spotty tie poking out of his jacket pocket.

  ‘And why not? After your episode with him yesterday, I think he’s the star of the show.’

  ‘Superintendent Corrigan might have something to say about that,’ said Lottie. ‘After all, they are golfing friends.’

  She hadn’t returned his call last night. She’d be in for a bollocking soon. Hopefully Mrs Corrigan had sent her husband out with a smile and a full stomach this morning.

  ‘To hell with him,’ said Kirby, sticking a thumbtack squarely in the bishop’s neck, as if he couldn’t be arsed jamming in three more pins. He stepped back and admired his handiwork. A tired grin crawled up his face toward bloodshot eyes, like a creamy head forming on a pint of Guinness.

  ‘They’re not really suspects,’ said Lottie.

  ‘They’re the next best thing.’

  He slumped into a chair. They sat in the silence of the morning. She handed him her coffee. He took it, raised it in a mock toast and drank.

  ‘We’ve a very narrow spectrum of candidates,’ he said, looking up at the lopsided display.

  ‘We could add Mrs Murtagh, Bea Walsh, and Mike O’Brien the bank manager,’ she said, ‘then we have the sum total of all the people we know about who knew the victims. Christ, it’s like Brown and Sullivan lived in an enclosed order of nuns.’

  ‘Shit, where did I put O’Brien?’ Kirby rooted around a pile of papers on the chair, found what he was looking for and pinned another photograph on the board.

  ‘What about Father Joe Burke?’ asked Boyd as he walked in, his cropped hair glinting under the fluorescents, fresh from his morning shower.

  ‘What about him?’ asked Lottie, her defences bumping tiny goosepimples up on her skin.

  ‘He was first on the Sullivan crime scene after Mrs Gavin, the cleaner,’ said Boyd, sitting down beside Kirby. He had a mug of coffee in his hand. Lottie took it from him and drank.

  ‘We better get a photograph of Mrs Gavin too,’ she said, unable to disguise her sarcasm.

  ‘Let’s be serious here for a minute,’ said Kirby.

  Lottie knew Kirby didn’t like anyone denigrating his work into a sideshow. He was over-tired.

  Kirby pointed at Derek Harte’s photo.

  ‘Lover boy could have killed the priest, Father Angelotti, in a jealous rage,’ he said. ‘Then killed Brown when he found out.’

  ‘But why kill Sullivan?’ asked Boyd.

  Kirby glared at him. ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Yet,’ Lottie added.

  ‘Next, we have Tom Rickard. Property developer extraordinaire,’ said Kirby. ‘Acquired St Angela’s for a song. Got a Material Contravention of the development plan pushed through the council, probably with a bribe, so he can build anything he likes on the site. Once his friend, Gerry Dunne, grants planning permission.’ He pointed over at the victims’ photographs. ‘The two council employees could’ve been trying
to stop him or maybe were running a blackmail caper. Hence, the large sums of money transferred into their bank accounts, some of which resided in Sullivan’s freezer box. Brown called Tom Rickard, before he met his maker. With both Sullivan and Brown out of the way, he can give everyone the finger behind their backs.’ Kirby jabbed his thick forefinger at the photo of Rickard.

  ‘For a minute, let’s assume you’re right, where does Father Angelotti fit in?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ said Kirby, scratching his head of wiry hair. ‘But he might’ve been following the money.’

  ‘Continue,’ said Lottie, getting more interested in Kirby’s little drama.

  ‘Speaking of money . . . Mike O’Brien.’ Kirby studied the photograph for a second. ‘He knows who transacted the monies into the victims’ accounts. Is he a middleman? I don’t know. Maybe we should look at him more closely. And then we have our mutual friend, Bishop Connor.’

  He paused for effect, then continued. ‘He sold St Angela’s below its market value. Who is to say he didn’t get a fat brown envelope bursting with euros, straight from Rickard’s paw? We should check his freezer too.’ He laughed at his own joke, then smothered it with a cough. ‘Back to Father Angelotti. Why was he here? I don’t buy this “finding himself” shite. He came here for a reason.’

  Lottie said nothing. She was thinking of her late night conversation with Father Joe. She looked out at the sleet, beating against the window, eating up the frost. A day in sunny Rome might be a good idea.

  ‘I still think Father Joe Burke’s photo should be up there,’ said Boyd, the bone securely between his teeth.

  ‘Put it up then,’ Lottie said, prickly as a thorn bush.

  ‘Touchy this morning, Inspector,’ said Boyd.

  ‘Don’t you two start,’ said Kirby, his eyes drooping with exhaustion.

  ‘Did I miss anything?’ asked Maria Lynch, entering the room, her ponytail bobbing from side to side. She had a bag of croissants in her hand.

  Three sets of eyes turned to her.

  ‘No,’ came the synchronised reply.

  Superintendent Corrigan followed Lynch, spraying spittle over the seated detectives before words even reached his mouth.

  ‘Detective Inspector Parker!’

  He stood, hands on hips, legs apart, his face as flushed as Kirby’s. So, he hadn’t been sent to work with a fry.

  ‘Sir?’ Lottie queried.

  ‘My office.’

  Corrigan turned on his heel and headed down the corridor.

  Handing Boyd the coffee, Lottie mentally formulated responses to the inevitable questions. Prepared for the fight, she followed Corrigan into his office.

  ‘Before you say anything, sir—’ she began.

  ‘No, Inspector Parker,’ he interrupted, raising his hands. He sat down on his leather chair, air hissing out under his weight.

  ‘Before you say anything, don’t feckin’ feed me excuses. I don’t want to hear them. Are we clear?’

  Lottie nodded, not trusting the words that might find their way to the tip of her tongue.

  ‘You better have a good reason for upsetting Bishop Connor. Again.’

  ‘Was that a question, sir?’ So much for keeping her mouth shut.

  Corrigan’s spectacles slipped down his sweaty nose, his eyes bulging over them, the top of his head like a boiled egg about to be cracked with a hot spoon.

  ‘Explain yourself. Before I get the chief superintendent to suspend you.’

  ‘Suspend me?’ This was serious. Shit. ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ he said, his voice reducing the size of the room.

  She held her breath before blurting out, ‘I want to go to Rome.’ Might as well go for the full monty, she thought.

  ‘Ro . . . Rome?’ Corrigan stammered. ‘Do you want to insult the feckin’ Pope now?’ He pushed his spectacles back into place.

  Lottie kept her mouth firmly shut.

  ‘And sit down. Sit down, for God’s sake. Standing there like a giraffe lost in the feckin’ zoo.’

  Lottie sat.

  ‘Are you stupid?’ Corrigan raised his hands despairingly. ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘I need to go to Rome,’ Lottie chanced again. ‘I think Father Angelotti is the link to the Sullivan and Brown murders. And the answer to that link is in Rome.’ She hoped she sounded convincing, because she didn’t know what Father Joe had uncovered. She continued before Corrigan could interrupt. ‘I need to see St Angela’s records. Two children were murdered there, almost forty years ago, and two of our victims were resident there at that time. I believe those records may help establish a motive. They should be archived in the Dublin Archdiocese but for some unknown reason they’ve been transferred to Rome. So I need to go to Rome.’

  ‘You’re either drunk or mad,’ Corrigan said. ‘And I can’t smell alcohol so it must be the latter.’

  ‘That’s a no, is it?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  ‘Can I explain where I’m coming from?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘You can’t even explain where you’re going to,’ Corrigan thundered. ‘But I’ll explain something to you, Inspector Parker.’ He stood up and paced around her. ‘We are a week into these investigations and so far you’ve come up with sweet Fanny Adams. I’m giving daily press conferences, talking a load of shite, because you, Boyd, Kirby, Lynch and the other clowns in your circus out there are too busy playing stick the feckin’ tail on the feckin' donkey photos to give me any answers. The people of Ragmullin are scared shitless. The murderer is out there laughing at us and what do you want to do? To go arsing around feckin’ Rome. Hah!’

  He ceased his tour round her and sat down, more air escaping. Lottie wondered if it was from the chair or his arse.

  ‘There’s a logical explanation and I’ve a gut feeling—’ She stopped mid-sentence as Corrigan’s cheeks flamed purple.

  ‘I don’t want any bullshit about women’s intuition or gut feelings, do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And stop harassing Bishop Connor. If I see his name appear on my phone again, I’ll have you suspended before I answer the call. Are we on the same page, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Lottie said, biting back that Connor might be ringing for a round of golf.

  ‘And stay away from Tom Rickard too.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Now get out and do constructive work, if you still know what that means.’

  Superintendent Corrigan took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, and when he replaced them, Lottie was halfway out the door. She heard his words as she retreated.

  ‘Rome me feckin’ arse.’

  Sixty-Five

  Tom Rickard chewed his breakfast. Vigorously.

  ‘Jason never came home last night,’ Melanie said.

  ‘I know.’ Rickard stuffed a sausage into his mouth.

  ‘I’m worried,’ she said, refilling his mug from a red Le Creuset teapot. ‘He often stays out, but after what went on last night, you know . . .’ Her voice cut as sharp as the knife he was holding.

  Rickard raised his head, picked a piece of egg from between his teeth and swallowed it.

  ‘He’ll be home soon enough.’

  ‘You never hit him before, even when he was little. Not so much as a slap. What got into you? And in front of his girlfriend. You are despicable.’

  Running his tongue around his teeth, Rickard lifted the fork and finished his breakfast. He stirred three spoons of sugar into his tea and gulped it loudly.

  He said, ‘He’s hanging out with the wrong sort. I’m going to put a stop to it this very day.’

  ‘You do realise there’s a murderer out there and our son has disappeared.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘He probably spent the night wrapped around that young one.’

  ‘Like you? Where did you take off to late last night?’

  ‘Don’t go there, Melanie.’ Rickard watched her through
the tines of his fork.

  ‘You hit our son, then you do your disappearing act,’ Melanie sneered. ‘Were you with your perfume blonde?’ She sniffed the air as if he carried around the other woman’s scent.

  Rickard refilled his cup. He wondered how many pieces the teapot would shatter into if he threw it at the wall. Or maybe at her head.

  A phone rang in the hall. Rickard got up to answer it, thinking it had just saved him from an act of madness.

  Katie Parker awoke with a headache banging behind her eyes. She pulled her phone from under her pillow. No missed calls. No texts.

  She tapped Jason’s number. Why had his father been so angry?

  Voicemail. His voice laughed through the message. ‘Hey bud, I’m obviously not able to take your call, don’t bother to leave a message. Ha. Ha.’

  Katie smiled.

  ‘Hi hon. Hope you’re okay. Ring me when you wake up. Love ya.’ She hung up, then sent him a text with two lines of happy emojis.

  She nuzzled into her pillow and groaned as more memories of last night hit home.

  She’d called her mother a drunk.

  She buried her head under her duvet and moaned.

  Tom Rickard stared at the phone in his hand. His son’s mobile; it quickly registered with him that Jason had left last night without it. It stopped ringing. He saw the name ‘Katie’ on the screen and the voicemail icon flashed.

  He listened to the girl’s words, realising Jason had not spent the night with her. He looked at the boy’s phone in his hand. Jason went nowhere without it. So where was he?

  Going back to finish his breakfast, Rickard figured he hadn’t hit the little prick half hard enough.

  Jason Rickard woke to scratching sounds above his head. Tried to sit up. Couldn’t. His hands and feet were tied with a rope, wound up his torso and around his neck. Tremors convulsed his body. Fuck, fuck, double fuck. What happened? He tried to remember but his mind was blank.

  He moved his neck a little, trying to see around him. Nothing. Dark. Black. He turned his head. The rope tightened at his throat. Pain throbbed as if a beetle had burrowed through his ear and lodged in his brain. He realised he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey.