‘That’s beside the point.’ Lottie dug her nails into the palm of her hand and gritted her teeth. ‘How come you have it?’
‘I’ve just remembered it all now. Susan let it fall into the soup. Ruined one batch completely. We had to make more. Such a hullaballoo.’
‘When was this?’
‘The evening before her murder. I put it in a bowl of rice in the hot-press. That’s what Susan said you’re supposed to do.’
‘Why didn’t she take it with her?’
‘We were busy, forgot all about the phone when we came back from our soup run. Then the poor soul was killed.’
‘And you kept the phone?’
‘She was murdered the next day,’ Mrs Murtagh explained, tears in her eyes.
‘You should’ve given it to me.’
‘I forgot I had it.’ She raised the teapot questioningly.
Lottie put her hand over her mug, refusing the gesture.
‘Susan is dead. Her secrets could help solve her murder. Can you get me the phone now, please.’
Mrs Murtagh rose slowly and went out to the hall. Lottie heard a cupboard opening and closing.
‘It’s hard to know what could be on it after the soaking it got.’ The woman returned and handed the phone to Lottie.
Not much, thought Lottie, putting it into a plastic bag before sliding it into her handbag.
‘There’s something else too . . .’ Mrs Murtagh began, rubbing her forehead.
‘Go ahead.’
‘St Angela’s. Susan mentioned there were two priests there.’
‘Go on.’
‘After she met Bishop Connor, she was in an awful state. She’d arranged to meet him to see if he could release records to help in her search for her baby. I thought she’d seen a ghost. Did I tell you that? She told me she recognised the bishop as a priest from her early days in Ragmullin.’
‘What?’
‘I’m telling you what she told me.’
Lottie struggled to get her head around the implications of what she’d been told. Of course Susan had been back in Ragmullin only a couple of years. She’d have had no reason to see the bishop before her arranged meeting with him. Did it also mean Bishop Connor knew two of the victims from their time in St Angela’s? He hadn’t mentioned it. Then again, it might not have been him at all. Something else for Kirby to pin on the incident board.
‘Susan and James looked out for each other over the years. You need to look out for them, now that they’re gone,’ Mrs Murtagh said.
Lottie stood up, desperately trying to batten down her anger.
The old woman wrapped the brown bread in tin foil. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, handing over the bread.
‘So am I,’ Lottie replied, placing the bread on the table. ‘And if you see Patrick O’Malley, contact me immediately.’ Before you forget, she thought. ‘I need to speak to him.’
Mrs Murtagh suddenly looked older than her age. Grasping the crooked handle of her stick, she walked Lottie to the door.
Lottie didn’t even say goodbye as she sat into Kirby’s cigar-stinking car.
Ninety-One
Sean opened his eyes. His head throbbed.
Attempting to sit up from the ice-cold floor, he found he was bound with a rope around his neck, his arms and legs similarly constrained. He struggled to remember where he was. What had happened? He lay still and listened. No sound. He thought hard. Memory flashed and dimmed. The man pushing him through the door, knocking him to the ground and . . . and that was it.
He twisted around, trying to see something, anything. Enveloped in darkness, he focussed his eyes but it was blacker than anywhere he’d ever been. His stomach bubbled with fear and terror crawled under his skin.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. No way of getting his hand to it, and he realised the bastard hadn’t taken it, so maybe he’d missed the knife. Couldn’t tell. Tears flitted unshed at the corners of his eyes. It didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do now. Suddenly he was a little boy, all bravado disintegrating with the realisation of the hopelessness of his situation.
And he began to cry, like the boy he was at heart.
Ninety-Two
Lottie paced the cramped office, after dispatching Susan’s phone to the technical geeks.
She informed Kirby what Mrs Murtagh had said about Susan recognising Bishop Connor.
‘I told you to let me kick the shite out of the lying bastard,’ Kirby said.
‘Quick word?’ Lynch touched Lottie’s elbow.
‘Just a minute, I need to call home.’
She phoned Chloe. ‘How are things there?’
‘Fine. Sean went into town earlier on.’
Lottie said, ‘Why’d he go to town?’
‘He hasn’t stopped complaining about his PlayStation so maybe he wanted to check out a new one?’
‘Put him on.’
‘He’s not back yet. Probably gone to Niall’s house. I texted him to see what he wanted for lunch. He didn’t text back.’
‘Probably no credit.’
‘Typical,’ laughed Chloe.
‘Message him on Facebook.’
‘Why didn’t I think of that, Mother?’ Chloe said with mock sarcasm.
‘How’s Katie?’
‘Thick. As usual. Any sign of Jason?’
‘I’m working on it,’ Lottie said. ‘Let me know when Sean gets home.’
‘Will do.’
She hung up and turned to Lynch, ‘You wanted to ask me something?’
‘I want to talk to you about Derek Harte. Is now okay?’
‘I need something to distract me. Go ahead.’
Lynch folded her arms, a file clasped to her chest. ‘I reviewed all the paperwork, examined his statement again, then I ran a check on him.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I think we’ve fucked up, Inspector. Big time.’
‘Oh shit.’
Lottie pulled two chairs over to a hissing radiator and they sat beside the heat. Lynch flipped through the file on her knee.
‘Harte told us he works in a school in Athlone. We assumed he was a teacher.’
‘But he’s not?’ Lottie stared at Lynch. ‘For God’s sake!’
‘He’s not registered as a teacher anywhere. But he does odd jobs. The last known place was St Simon’s Secondary School in Athlone. He gave false information on his application and an address in Dublin. I searched PULSE. Found him.’
‘Convicted of something?’
‘Served five years of an eight-year sentence for the abduction and sexual assault of a minor. Released from Arbour Hill prison eleven months ago.’
Lottie mentally weighed up the enormity of Lynch’s revelation. Whose fault was this mess? Her own, everything was her responsibility as senior investigating officer. She would definitely be hauled in front of the chief superintendent, if not the garda commissioner. Corrigan would explode. And Lynch would escape without blame. Shit! As for the school, they mustn’t have checked him out at all. What about Garda Clearance certification? What a mess.
‘Christ almighty,’ she shouted. ‘Why wasn’t this discovered days ago? I can’t tolerate incompetence. And to think I empathised with the little prick in his fake grief. I’ll kill him myself when we catch up with him.’
‘I’ve checked out the address he gave us. He rents a bedsit.’
Lynch handed Lottie a photograph of the convicted Derek Harte. He looked totally different from the grief-stricken man who had found the body of James Brown. Shaggy beard, long hair. Dark, dead eyes. The bastard. He had now soared to number one on her suspect list.
‘Give me the good news,’ Lottie said, throwing down the photo and pulling at her worn sleeves, feeling a tightness in her chest. She began to cough.
‘Are you all right?’ Lynch asked.
Lottie tried to answer, but couldn’t. Lynch fetched a paper cup, poured water from the dispenser.
‘What’s wrong?’ She handed the cup to Lottie.
Lottie sipped and felt the wave ebb.
‘You’re exhausted,’ Lynch said.
She didn’t want Lynch’s sympathy.
‘It’s only a cold. Find Harte. You and Kirby chase him down. Before Superintendent Corrigan gets wind of this latest fuck-up.’
‘Straight away.’
‘Print off his history. I need to know what we’re dealing with.’
Lynch scooted through the door, ponytail slapping against her shoulders.
Lottie glanced out the window, over the road at the cathedral, standing majestic in the afternoon sepia fog. The streetlights were warming up. The scene appeared surreal. Just when she thought she had everything connected, she was thrown another curve ball.
And she had things to discuss with her doctor, other than a cold. She opened her drawer, picked up the silver pendant she’d found at St Angela’s, pocketed it, banged the drawer shut.
Ninety-Three
Annabelle O’Shea looked as extraordinary as usual. An impeccable navy skirt suit, a white shirt with the hint of a red bra visible through the sheer silk. Making a statement, Lottie thought. After her five-minute walk on icy footpaths to the doctor’s Hill Point surgery, she was soaked in sweat.
‘I didn’t have time to make an appointment.’
‘You look dreadful. Sit down.’ Annabelle offered a chair to Lottie before perching on her leather-topped desk. ‘I have your prescription.’
‘I haven’t time to go to the pharmacy. Can’t you give me a few pills? Just for now.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Annabelle enquired. She leaned back to a cabinet behind her, extracted a couple of boxes, read the labels and handed one over.
Satisfied it contained benzodiazepine, Lottie pocketed it and took the small plastic bag from her pocket and placed it on the desk.
‘This is yours,’ she said, pointing to the silver pendant in the bag. ‘Explain how I came to find it under a bed in St Angela’s.’
Annabelle glanced at the pendant, face inscrutable. Lottie imagined her friend’s brain whirring, formulating what she thought might be a satisfactory answer.
‘This is not mine,’ Annabelle said, pushing it away from her.
Lottie’s laugh broke up with a cough.
‘Others might believe you, Annabelle O’Shea, but I don’t.’
The doctor picked it up again. ‘I’m sure lots of people have a similar pendant.’
‘I haven’t time for games and I’m definitely not in the mood,’ Lottie said.
Annabelle threw the jewellery down on the desk, stood up and walked to the door. Short, sharp, steps. ‘You got what you came for. Please leave.’
Lottie remained seated, turning the small plastic bag round in her hand.
‘Tell me, Annabelle. I want to know.’
‘If it is mine, what does it matter to you?’
‘Because St Angela’s is part of my investigation into the murders in this town.’
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Annabelle. Tell me.’
‘Okay. Calm down.’
Annabelle sat. Lottie did too.
‘I go there, now and again. With my lover,’ Annabelle said.
‘Who’s this lover?’ asked Lottie, blowing her nose, too loud in the confined space.
‘You don’t need to know that.’
‘I do.’
After a pause Annabelle said, ‘Tom Rickard.’
‘What?’
‘He said he’d leave his wife,’ Annabelle said. ‘When we had enough money to set up together. He’s always involved in some scheme or other.’ She paused, closed her eyes and then opened them wide. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m getting weary of him.’
Lottie snorted her disgust. ‘Same as always. Wanting what you can’t have. Never stopped you, though.’
‘Not everyone can have the marriage you had.’
‘But what about Cian . . . your children?’
‘But what, Lottie, what? You think it’s just me.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘You do, don’t you? You think I’m the only one fucking around in their marriage?’
‘You’re a bitch,’ Lottie said, leaning over the desk.
‘You know me. I take what I want, and I wanted Tom Rickard.’
‘Were you with him the day of the Sullivan and Brown murders?’
‘Probably. When was that again?’
‘You know right well it was December thirtieth.’
‘Mmm . . . let me see.’ She checked her computer diary. ‘Yes, I believe we were together then. Some meeting of his was cancelled and I wasn’t working, so we met up.’
And a few more puzzle pieces slid into place for Lottie. ‘That’s why he couldn’t provide a definitive alibi. He didn’t want to betray you.’
‘Didn’t want his wife to find out.’
‘You should’ve told me this when I spoke to you about Susan Sullivan.’
‘You never asked.’
‘Clever answer,’ Lottie said. She’d had enough of Annabelle, her secrets and lies. She rose and went to the door. ‘Sometimes you can be too clever for your own good.’
Annabelle was silent.
‘When did you last meet him?’ Lottie asked.
‘Two days ago.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I think.’
‘At St Angela’s?’
‘Of course.’
‘I pity you, Annabelle. You have brains, money, a good family and here you are acting like the spoiled brat I always knew you were. Goodbye.’
Outside the doctor’s surgery, Lottie leaned against the wall until her breathing returned to normal. Tom Rickard could have saved her a lot of trouble if he’d been truthful with his alibi from day one. She started walking back to the office.
Sirens were blaring down by the train station as she crossed the canal bridge. The water was frozen, a sheet of snow glistening on it under weak lamps. Blue lights flashed beyond the old carriages. She hurried down the hill and through the town, oblivious to the still twinkling Christmas lights forlornly inviting non-existent customers to venture through shop doors. Cold chewed into her bones but she was too numb in her heart to feel it on her skin.
On the steps of the Garda Station, a black crow stood on the snowflakes, his beak, hard and grey, claws long enough to pluck an eye out of its socket. Flapped his wings once, but didn’t move. Lottie felt him staring as she walked up the steps. An icy shiver travelled the length of her spine and she knew what people meant when they spoke of foreboding.
The chattering in the incident room dropped a decibel when she entered.
‘What’s up?’ she asked. Oh God, she thought, gripping her sides with her folded arms. ‘Boyd?’
‘No,’ Kirby said, twisting in his chair.
‘Well, are you going to tell me?’
‘We found another body,’ he said.
‘Jason?’ Lottie sat down quickly.
‘No. A body was found beyond the old railway carriages, in one of the dilapidated terraced houses.’
‘I hope it’s not O’Malley.’ She got up and walked around the desks. ‘He was looking like one of our most likely suspects.’
Lynch said, ‘The body was probably there for a few days. The face, gnawed by vermin. One arm missing and two fingers gone from the other hand. The toes too. A bag of bones and rags.’ She spoke in the abstract, not referring to the body as a human being. It helped distance the horror.
‘It better not be O’Malley,’ Lottie snapped. ‘According to Mrs Murtagh, that area was one of his haunts.’ She banged the desk in frustration. ‘Is there any indication yet if it’s murder?’
‘Possibly hypothermia,’ Lynch said. ‘The state pathologist is at the scene. Will we head down there?’ She grabbed her coat. A soft murmur of activity resumed as detectives returned to their work.
‘You go. I’ll stay here.’ Lottie gripped the back of her chair, hoping they hadn’t another murder on their hands. If O’Malley was dead, who was left to answer her questions? Would St Angela
’s’ evil remain secret forever? She hoped not.
‘Did you track down Derek Harte?’ she asked.
‘He’s not at either of his addresses and his phone is dead,’ Lynch said at the door.
‘Find him.’ Lottie went to find solace at her desk.
‘And get me the journalist, Cathal Moroney.’
Ninety-Four
It must be getting dark outside, Sean thought, because he was much colder now. He hoped his mother was out looking for him. Would she even know he was missing? He hoped so.
He heard footsteps, strained his ears. The door opened and a shaft of muted light silhouetted the man framed in the opening.
‘How is my young man?’ The voice was hoarse and gruff.
‘What . . . what do you want? Where’s Jason?’ Sean asked.
‘Ah, no patience, the youth of today.’ The man tut-tutted and entered the room.
Sean felt the ropes and chain loosening. Dragged to his feet, he stumbled, then straightened up. But his knees buckled once more. The man’s arm crested under Sean’s, leading him from the room. Let the bastard think he was weaker than he actually was.
The man halted outside another door and opened it. Sean felt a push in his ribs and staggered inside. The stench of vomit filled the air. Squinting, he tried to see in the darkness. On the concrete floor, Jason was lying in a foetal position, his hands covering his head. His chest and feet were bare and his jeans open at the waist.
‘You wanted to see Jason. There he is,’ the man said, trudging over to the boy on the ground.
Jason didn’t move a muscle and Sean wondered if he were asleep or even dead. What was going on? Should he run? In the time it’d take him to find his way out, Jason could be dead. Instinctively, he knew the bastard was going to kill both of them.
Urging up a well of energy, Sean quickly ran back into the hallway, pulled the door and turned the key in the lock. Maybe he was consigning Jason to his death, but if he had this chance to escape, he was taking it.
He breathed a sigh of relief leaning against the door, then turned to find his way out of the building. And stopped. The man was standing in front of him, a rope in his hands.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 33