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

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘How . . . how . . .?’ Sean stammered, his feet grounded to the floor.

  The man grabbed his arm and twisted the rope in a knot around Sean’s wrist and around his hands. Sean kicked out, catching the man’s knee. He’d aimed for the groin. Missed. Turning, he pulled on the rope, trying to get away, all his energy concentrated on escape.

  ‘Stop it,’ the man wheezed, catching Sean and doubling the rope around his waist, restraining his movement instantaneously. Now disabled, Sean collapsed against the man.

  ‘Where did you come from? How did you—?’

  ‘Did you ever hear of a room with two doors?’

  The key turned and the door opened once more. Sean was pushed inside.

  ‘Have a nice chat,’ the man said. ‘I’ll be back.’

  There was no sound from Jason. Arms still bound, Sean crawled over to him.

  ‘You okay, bud?’

  Jason groaned, sounding like an animal caught in a trap. Sean had heard a sound like that once before, the only time his dad had taken him hunting. What would a hunter do, if he were trapped? Thoughts twisted around in his head and he switched his mind to his PlayStation games. Maybe he would find an answer in the virtual world – he always won in that domain. Closing his eyes, he gently laid his bound hands on Jason’s shoulder.

  ‘We’ll get out. Don’t worry,’ he whispered. But he wasn’t so sure.

  Ninety-Five

  ‘Did our tech guys find anything on Susan’s phone?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘They’re working on it,’ Kirby said. ‘But I doubt there’s anything different to what we got from the service provider. The only calls were to and from work. She didn’t appear to be into texting. Oh, and Tom Rickard is ringing here every five minutes.’

  ‘We’ll get Jason’s disappearance on the six o’clock news. You have a photograph?’

  ‘Got this off the lad’s Facebook page,’ Kirby said, waving a photo at Lottie. ‘Not a bad-looking kid. Ugly tattoo though. Is your Katie going out with him?’

  ‘I suppose she is,’ Lottie said, tired of small talk. At least Boyd had a knack of lightening a banal situation. She missed him. She took up her phone to ring the hospital.

  Corrigan put his head around the door.

  ‘Cathal Moroney is at the desk asking for you,’ he said, pointing an accusatory finger at Lottie.

  ‘It’s okay. I want to see him. About Tom Rickard’s son,’ Lottie said, putting away her phone.

  Cathal Moroney edged by Corrigan into the office.

  ‘How did you get up here?’ Lottie stood up.

  ‘I smiled at the lovely young one at the desk,’ Moroney said.

  Corrigan backed out of the office. Kirby gathered a couple of files and shuffled off after him. Moroney sat himself at Boyd’s desk without being asked. Lottie was about to object but decided she needed Moroney on her side.

  ‘What’s this about another body?’ Moroney switched on his phone recorder. ‘Can I get my camera crew to the scene?’

  ‘In a minute. First I need your help,’ Lottie said, trying to be polite. ‘And turn that off.’

  Moroney made a dramatic display of holding up his phone and putting it in his inside jacket pocket. ‘How can I be of service?’

  She showed him the photo of Jason Rickard.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Moroney asked.

  ‘I hope not. He’s the son of the developer, Tom Rickard, Rickard Construction. He’s missing and we need help in locating him. Can you run a story on the evening news?’ She passed over the details.

  ‘Is this connected to the murders?’

  ‘Not that we’re aware of.’

  ‘Is it on Facebook and Twitter?’

  ‘Yes. We’re monitoring social media for any response. I’d appreciate some television coverage.’ It was galling her to be nice to Mr Mega Watt.

  She handed him another photograph. ‘We’re also looking for this man.’

  ‘I recognise him.’ Moroney tapped the picture. ‘Can’t put a name to the face though. Did he used to have a beard?’

  ‘Derek Harte,’ Lottie said.

  ‘The bollocks who abused that kid up in Dublin six or seven years ago? Isn’t he behind bars?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘A convicted sex abuser and a missing teenager. Come on Inspector, I didn’t come down in the last shower. Enlighten me. Why do you want his mug-shot on the news?’ Moroney leaned over the desk, a spark of interest glinting in his eye.

  Lottie had to be careful with her words. Realistically she couldn’t say he was a suspect, she might be sued. Better to keep the reporter in the dark on that issue.

  ‘We are concerned for Jason Rickard’s safety. We need to locate Derek Harte. Can you help us?’ she smiled, sweetly.

  ‘Certainly,’ Moroney said. ‘Your face is healing up nicely, Inspector.’

  ‘Just concern yourself with the faces in those two photographs, Mr Moroney.’

  After eventually getting rid of Moroney, Lottie found Chloe and Katie standing outside her office.

  Chloe held a pizza box and a two-litre bottle of Coke.

  ‘We thought you could do with an energy boost. Bet you haven’t eaten all day,’ she said.

  ‘You’re just like your granny,’ Lottie said, ‘and of course you’re right. I haven’t eaten.’

  She led the girls into the office. ‘Where’s Sean?’ she asked.

  ‘Haven’t seen him,’ Chloe said. ‘Must be at Niall’s.’

  Katie sat herself at Boyd’s desk. ‘Mam, where could Jason be?’

  ‘We’re looking for him. Don’t you be worrying.’

  Chloe perched on the edge of Lottie’s desk. ‘He’s probably having a weed party somewhere. You’re just jealous.’

  ‘Girls, please. I’m tired. Don’t start.’ Lottie placed the box on her desk and dished out slices of warm pizza. She was hungry but in no form for eating. She ate it, anyway.

  The girls were silent, eyes downcast. Guilt welled up inside Lottie. She wished she could spend more time at home. She thought of the mothers who had abandoned their children to St Angela’s. Her own mother had abandoned Eddie. Was she as bad? Did it run in her genes?

  ‘Wish Sean was here,’ Chloe said.

  ‘Sean is fine,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ll ring him now.’

  ‘Leave a voicemail if he doesn’t answer,’ Chloe said.

  ‘Sean, you better ring me back or, if you’ve no credit, message the girls on Facebook. I’m giving you five minutes.’

  Chloe said, ‘You are so intimidating when you’re mad, Mother.’

  ‘No I’m not.’ Lottie smiled.

  ‘First Jason, now Sean,’ Katie said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Chloe said, slamming the pizza box shut.

  ‘Don’t be crazy Katie, it’s only five o’clock.’ Lottie wiped her hands on her jeans and called a taxi to take her daughters home. Should she be worried?

  ‘Do you think . . . Is Sean all right, Mam?’ Katie asked. ‘I’m so freaked out over Jason.’

  ‘They are fine. Now go home and wait. I’ll get my mother to call round.’

  ‘No!’ Chloe said. ‘We’ll be fine without Granny. You’ll be home soon, won’t you?’

  ‘Things are a bit hectic at the moment but I promise, as soon as I can escape, I’ll be home.’

  ‘First Jason, now Sean,’ Katie repeated, walking down the corridor with Chloe.

  Lottie rubbed her hands up and down her arms trying to ease the rising goosebumps. Sean better be home when the girls got there. Her phone rang. Father Joe’s name flashed up on the caller ID.

  ‘I hope this is important,’ Lottie said, curtly.

  ‘Just checking in to make sure you got home safely,’ he said.

  ‘I’m busy. I have to go.’ Lottie hung up. She didn’t need further complications in what was already a minefield of a day.

  The phone rang again. Father Joe’s ID. She sent the call to voicemail.

  ‘Are you not getting that?’ Kirby asked, haul
ing his bulk through the door.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I’ve the printout from Susan Sullivan’s phone. Same info we got from the service provider.’

  ‘So, no leads there.’

  ‘But we’ve accessed her photographs.’

  ‘Really? I suppose you’re going to tell me there’s nothing of interest in them either.’

  ‘There’s just the one.’ Kirby handed Lottie a print.

  There wasn’t a photograph in Susan Sullivan’s house but she had one on her phone. Curious woman, Lottie remarked to herself.

  A shady colour photograph of a tiny baby. Light hair and thin cheeks, eyes closed. Was this all Susan was left with? The only image the poor woman had of the child she’d given birth to? And where did she get the photo from?

  Holding the picture, Lottie felt sadness for the murdered woman and her fruitless quest for her child. She hoped she could at least bring Susan’s killer to justice.

  ‘Any word on the body at the railway?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘It’s been removed from the scene,’ Kirby said.

  Her mobile rang.

  Boyd.

  ‘I remembered something.’ His voice was low and brittle.

  ‘You should be resting.’

  ‘I’m tied to this bed with tubes and wires. I’m going nowhere.’

  ‘Good. You need to get better. Soon.’ Lottie couldn’t dwell on the image of an incapacitated Boyd. ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘Not much, but I sensed there was something familiar about my assailant. I still can’t pinpoint what exactly. He was fit and strong. I got a good kick at him and I think my fist connected with his jaw. So whoever it is, he could have a bad limp or a bruised face.’

  ‘I’ve got a bruised face,’ Lottie said, feeling a weight lifting for the first time that day.

  ‘I imagine yours is prettier than his.’

  ‘Thank you, Boyd. You’re a tonic.’

  ‘I could do with one.’

  ‘I’ll keep a look out for fit guys with bruises and limps.’

  Boyd laughed weakly.

  Lottie saw the missed call flashing on her phone with Father Joe’s name. ‘Boyd, can you remember who else might have known you were going to visit Father Con?’

  ‘I took your call when I was at the gym.’

  ‘The gym? Could anyone have overheard you?’

  ‘Sure. There were lots of people around. Mike O’Brien even gave me his pen to write with.’

  ‘Mike O’Brien?’

  ‘Yes, Lottie, and a whole bunch of other people. Don’t jump to conclusions just because you don’t like him because of his dandruff.’

  Lottie’s stomach stirred. Maybe it was the pizza or maybe, just maybe, Father Joe was in the clear. Where did that leave Mike O’Brien?

  ‘I’ll have to find out where O’Brien went after the gym,’ she said.

  ‘Wish I was there to help you.’

  ‘Me too,’ Lottie said and hung up.

  Maria Lynch came up behind her.

  ‘Here’s the information on Derek Harte.’

  Lottie began to read. She noticed his date of birth: 1975. Something clicked in her brain.

  ‘I need to see the copies of the Rome ledger records.’

  She sucked in her lips, looking at the picture of Derek Harte, his personal details printed underneath.

  Lynch spread out the pages. Lottie hadn’t had time to analyse them since getting back from Rome and now she ran her finger down the entries and stopped at one. The reference number. She raised her head.

  ‘What is it?’ Lynch asked.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Lottie checked the date of birth on the file again.

  ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’ asked Lynch, looking over Lottie’s shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know what it means,’ Lottie said and closed her eyes.

  Ninety-Six

  Looking up, Lottie was surprised to see Jane Dore standing in the office.

  ‘Hi, Jane, anything wrong?’ Lottie frowned. Why was the state pathologist visiting the station?

  ‘I’ve finished at the railway. I thought you might like to know.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lottie said, still not understanding why Jane was here.

  ‘I did a quick preliminary examination of the body at the scene. There’s no tattoo on the inside thigh that I could see. The body is in a bad state so I’ll know for sure when I do the autopsy.’

  ‘What?’ Lottie sat up straight. She wracked her brain trying to recall if O’Malley told her he had the tattoo. She was sure he did. ‘I thought it might’ve been Patrick O’Malley.’

  ‘Whoever it is, my guess is he succumbed to hypothermia,’ Jane said. ‘Though, I don’t normally do guesses.’

  Lottie laughed tiredly.

  Jane smiled and handed Lottie her phone.

  ‘What’s that?’ Lottie asked, squinting at the dark image. It was a photograph.

  ‘This was in the vicinity of the body.’

  ‘I can’t make it out.’

  ‘Wait a minute. I’ll email it to you,’ Jane said and sent the photo from her phone. ‘The body was in an area used by a number of vagrants. Sleeping bags, crates, cardboard, plastic bottles, you name it. SOCOs found this inside a sleeping bag. I thought it might be important enough for you to see it straight away.’

  Lottie clicked her email, bringing up the attachment. Handwriting. She read the words and they bolted through her.

  ‘Is it relevant to the recent murders?’ Jane asked, placing a hand on Lottie’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m not sure. It might concern an old crime,’ Lottie said. In an effort to prevent further questions and to shake off Jane’s hand, she asked, ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘I better get back to the Dead House. It’s filling up faster than Tesco on Christmas Eve.’

  Lottie tried a smile. It didn’t work.

  ‘You’re exhausted,’ Jane said.

  ‘Long day.’

  Lottie printed the picture. When she looked up, Jane was gone.

  Kirby and Lynch were watching her.

  ‘What does it say?’ Lynch asked.

  Lottie picked up the page from the printer and read.

  ‘Dear Inspector, the red-haired boy killed with the belt was called Fitzy. You need to find Brian . . .’ The words trailed off as if the nib had broken or the author no longer had the will to write. The page, smudged and crimpled, pencil strokes shaky.

  Removing the old file from her drawer, Lottie slid the note under the photograph of the boy. He’d been missing for almost forty years but was still smiling in his school shirt. She ran her finger over the freckled nose, then closed the folder. Was he Fitzy, the boy murdered in St Angela’s? Dear God, she hoped not, because then it would be too personal.

  She wondered if Sean was home yet. Tried his number again. No answer. ‘I’m so going to kill you, Sean Parker,’ Lottie said to the phone in her hand. And still nothing on Jason Rickard’s whereabouts either.

  She had to find Patrick O’Malley.

  They found Derek Harte first.

  Ninety-Seven

  Uniformed gardaí brought Harte to the station, an hour and a half after the six o’clock news aired. Moroney’s television news report had stirred the public and a stream of phone calls resulted in locating Harte, almost by accident.

  Lottie and Kirby sat in the warm, sticky, interview room. Harte had agreed to the recordings and waived his right to a solicitor.

  ‘Mr Harte, at 19.13 this evening, sixth of January, you were apprehended attempting to gain access to a property belonging to the late James Brown. Can you inform us as to your reasons and intentions in doing so?’

  Lottie sat across the table, eyeing Harte. It was difficult to conceal her loathing, as she recalled the heinous crime for which he had spent five years behind bars. Abduction and abuse of a minor. His smug face added a hint of insult. He rubbed his hands incessantly. She wanted to slap him, to make him stop. I
nstead she fingered a pill out of the pack in her jeans pocket and slipped it into her mouth. She needed to maintain control of her emotions. And locate Jason Rickard, and find out what her son was up to. She shifted uneasily. She should have asked Lynch to carry out the interview with Kirby. Too late now.

  Harte remained silent, breathing through flared nostrils, short, sharp bursts, a sly sneer flushing his cheeks.

  ‘I haven’t time for this,’ Lottie said, crashing her chair back against the wall. She leaned across the table, grabbed him by his shirt, pulled him towards her. Kirby jumped up, ready to intervene. Harte’s mouth curled into an ugly snarl.

  She saw then the reality of his personality as his facade faded, revealing a cruel and sadistic pervert. The real Derek Harte. Tightening her hold, she shoved her knuckles against his throat until his face reddened. She didn’t care that it was being recorded. He was scum.

  ‘This is brutality,’ Harte spluttered, his first words since he was apprehended. ‘Maybe I might get that solicitor.’

  Lottie drove her hand deeper against his Adam’s apple, wanting to do damage, to leave her mark. If Boyd was here, he’d have pulled her back already and they’d have a laugh over it later. Giving Harte one last shake, she thrust him back into his chair. She’d have paced if there’d been enough room. Kirby was in the way. No option but to pick up her chair and sit down.

  ‘Where is the boy?’ she asked, through gritted teeth. The urge to choke him was overwhelming. Concentrate.

  ‘Boy? I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he sneered.

  ‘You like young boys, teenagers.’ Lottie slid Jason Rickard’s photographs across the table.

  He glanced down, then quickly looked up at Lottie. ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘Why do I not believe you?’ Lottie took back the photograph. ‘The posters in James Brown’s house, did you put them up?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Why did you wrangle your way into his life?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘It is my business. I could arrest you for murder.’

  ‘Arrest away. You’ve no evidence.’ Harte tapped his index finger on the table, gritting his teeth. ‘Because I didn’t do it.’