The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘Thought we were told to keep her for—’

  ‘Don’t question me!’ Russell ceased pacing and stood toe to toe with the crooked-toothed man. ‘I trust no one.’ He flared his nostrils. ‘Not even you.’

  Fatjon kept his silence.

  ‘I want results,’ Russell said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fatjon turned to leave.

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Sir? The boy? What will I do—’

  Russell whirled round on his patent pointy-toed shoes. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck how you do it, but you better keep him quiet. And safe. That’s an order. Deal with it without any more dramatics.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  When Fatjon had gone, Russell smoothed down his moustache, picked up the dead girl’s picture, tore it in half and fed it into the shredder beneath his desk.

  Once his breathing had returned to normal, he looked at the card. Detective Inspector Parker. He knew he had to stop the nosy nuisance. He had too much to lose to have her fuck it all up now. He fingered the card and wondered about the name. Parker. She couldn’t be related to Sergeant Adam Parker. Could she?

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘So whose toes did you step on this time, Inspector Parker?’

  Lottie stood in front of Superintendent Corrigan. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ve had a call from the Department of Justice, the RIA.’

  ‘The IRA?’

  ‘Don’t play smart with me, Inspector. The Reception and Integration Agency. Apparently you’ve upset their coordinator here in Ragmullin, a Dan Russell.’

  ‘Really? I thought I was very polite. Sir.’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘It appears that when I step on toes, the guilty invariably jump around holding theirs, squealing.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  Lottie took a deep breath before speaking. ‘I didn’t give Mr Russell any reason to contact the department, this RIA. In any case, he’s managing the centre as a private enterprise. A new initiative, so I’m told.’

  ‘What did you do, Inspector?’

  ‘I showed him a photo of our murder victim. I wanted to know if she came from his facility, as he calls it.’

  ‘Why in God’s name would you think she came from there?’

  ‘No one has reported our dead girl missing. No reported abductions. No sightings. Nothing. If she’s not local, I thought, on a hunch, that maybe she was here illegally, or possibly an asylum seeker. If it’s the latter, the direct provision centre’s the logical place to ask questions.’

  Lottie debated telling Corrigan about the visit from Mimoza, but decided he was irate enough already without adding to it.

  ‘A hunch? One of your gut feelings? Those feckin’ things that got you and me into trouble last time. Tread softly, Inspector, very softly. I saved your job before, not so sure I can do it again. Please keep your feet firmly on your own side of the table.’

  Corrigan was a good man but Lottie knew there was only so much shite one person could shovel at him. And he’d already had a trailer load from her.

  ‘Any word on McNally’s whereabouts?’ he asked.

  Lottie had heard nothing further from Kirby. ‘Not yet. I’ll get to it.’

  ‘You do. Now go and find our killer.’

  Off the hook for the moment, Lottie wanted to find out everything she could about Russell. Now that he had complained about her, she had him firmly in her sights.

  * * *

  When she got back to her desk, she began writing up the Dan Russell interview. She hated paperwork but it was a core responsibility of her job.

  ‘That fellow got under my skin,’ she muttered, unable to concentrate.

  Popping her head over her computer, Maria Lynch asked, ‘Who? Superintendent Corrigan?’

  ‘Him too. But I’m talking about Dan Russell. He runs the direct provision centre in the old army barracks.’ Lottie could hardly hear herself speak above the drone of the photocopier. The place was never quiet.

  ‘Heard rumours about that DPC place,’ Lynch said, undoing her ponytail and running her fingers through her long hair.

  ‘What kind of rumours?’ Lottie was interested. She didn’t know much about the asylum-seeker or refugee population in Ragmullin.

  ‘My husband, Ben, you know he lectures in languages at Athlone Institute?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Some of the grad students teach English to the refugees and asylum seekers from time to time. They’ve told Ben that place is run like a prison camp.’ She wrapped her hair up in a bobbin.

  ‘Dan Russell appears to be getting above his station. Do a background check on him, please.’ Lottie stood up and went round to Lynch’s desk.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And could you do me a favour?’ Lottie held up a copy of Mimoza’s note. ‘I need this translated.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It was given to me yesterday by a frightened young woman who called to my home. She had very little English and I can’t be sure of the accuracy of Andri Petrovci’s translation.’

  ‘You showed it to Petrovci?’ Lynch looked up incredulously.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Do you think that was wise?’

  Not you too, Lottie thought. ‘Wise or not, that’s what I’ve done.’

  ‘Hope Superintendent Corrigan doesn’t find out you involved a suspect in something unrelated to the murder.’

  ‘He won’t if people keep their mouths shut.’ Lottie stared directly into Lynch’s confident little face. And if you tell him, I’ll know, she thought, because she was sure Boyd wouldn’t rat her out. She handed over the letter, then went in search of Kirby.

  EIGHTEEN

  The cathedral bells chimed four times in the near distance.

  Pulling Milot behind her, Mimoza walked across the yard to the cookhouse. The guard at the gate waved a hand in salute and smirked. A feeling of disgust assaulted her. Yesterday she had done what she needed to do. Sometimes you had to sell your soul to the devil and hope he would rent it back to you. Shaking off the memory, she pushed open the door and escaped inside.

  The cookhouse was buzzing with flies. Through glass-panelled walls, sunshine radiated unhindered over the women seated at wooden tables. Crockery clunked against trays and the chatter was a muted drone. Mimoza spied Sara sitting alone and made her way towards her.

  ‘What are you eating?’ she asked, dragging Milot up on her lap. Four p.m. was too early for dinner, but if you didn’t eat now, you got nothing until breakfast time. And she was hungry.

  Sara’s bony shoulders twitched as she twirled her fork around the puddle of watery spaghetti. Her eyes were too big for her petite dark face, her hair in raggedy plaits, swirling around her thin neck. She sucked the stringy pasta into her mouth. Suddenly Mimoza didn’t feel hungry any more.

  The canteen chatter dropped and rippled to silence as the glass door at the end of the room opened and two security guards made their way towards Mimoza’s table. Her body began to shake and she clasped her arms around Milot, pulling him to her chest protectively.

  The men halted. One of them gripped her shoulder, hauling her to her feet. Still she held onto the boy. Panic threatened to suffocate her. The man’s hand tightened on her shoulder, bone on bone. Cold shivers of steel cut through the cauldron of fire raging in her heart. With one swift movement he unlocked her hands from the boy and dragged her away.

  Milot cried out and the other guard pushed him towards Sara.

  Looking over her shoulder, Mimoza wailed, ‘Sara! Look after him.’

  She saw her son kicking wildly, attempting to follow her. The guard caught him by the arm, jerked him backwards, sitting him firmly on Sara’s lap.

  She could hear his screams long after she had been taken across the courtyard and thrown into the concrete room with no windows.

  Lying in the dark, Mimoza quelled her tears and tried to figure out what was going on. Feeling naked without her son by her side, sh
e listened because she couldn’t see a thing. Footsteps approached, the thin shaft of light slipping beneath the bottom of the door darkening as someone walked by. The footsteps faded. She strained to hear. No traffic, no birds. Deathly silence. Nothing permeated the solid walls.

  She lay on the floor with only her heartbeat for company.

  The man with the crooked teeth slammed his fist on the table.

  ‘I ask for one thing,’ he said to the two men in front of him. ‘And you mess it up.’

  ‘You said bring that Mimoza witch to be questioned.’

  ‘I did, but not in front of a full canteen and a screaming boy. Now they have all seen. How can I make her disappear? There are too many witnesses. Imbeciles.’

  The two guards remained tight-lipped.

  ‘Bring her to the interrogation room without causing a scene.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Pacing the room, Fatjon came to a halt in front of the men.

  ‘And do something about the boy. I can hear him screaming from here.’

  The pair left quickly.

  Where had that bitch Mimoza gone yesterday? Who had she spoken to? He needed to know, and soon. The big plan could not be jeopardised at this stage – not by a snivelling whore and her snot-nosed brat. There could be no more mistakes. But knowing his boss, someone would pay for mistakes already made.

  Fatjon bared his overlapping teeth at his reflection in the window. He had to make sure it wasn’t him.

  Mimoza heard the return of footsteps. The door opened, bringing with it the amber glare of fluorescent lights. Rough hands grabbed her and shoved her out.

  Up concrete steps and along a corridor of bare brick walls, single bulbs lighting the way. Five doors, then they stopped outside the sixth. The guards pushed her into a room similar to the previous one. A red-topped table with two chairs reminded her of her mother’s sparse kitchen a lifetime ago. She banished the memories before they could reduce her resolve to be strong. She had Milot to think of now. Standing erect, she hoped her posture would instil bravery.

  The man with the crooked teeth stood in the centre of the room.

  ‘Where did you go yesterday morning?’ He walked around her, so close, the musk of his body clinging to her skin as he moved.

  ‘I bring Milot to town. Ice cream. He want ice cream.’ Her eyes darted around as she tried to lock down her fear.

  ‘At seven a.m., huh? Truth,’ the man shouted, one of his teeth catching the light. ‘Tell the truth.’

  ‘I am.’

  He pushed her onto a chair. A lamp on the table flashed in her face.

  ‘Look at me.’ He thumped the table. The lamp shook. Mimoza did too.

  ‘I c-can’t see you.’ The brightness blinded her. Perspiration trickled down her nose. Be strong, she silently pleaded with herself.

  There was another man sitting at the other side of the table. She hadn’t heard him enter. She couldn’t see him properly because of the light from the lamp. His hands rested on the Formica. Did she recognise those hands? Something familiar? She couldn’t think with the light glaring in her eyes. When he moved his head, his unshaven chin jutted towards her.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked as he continued his silent vigil.

  ‘Who I am is not your concern.’ He spoke in her native tongue.

  ‘I told you where I went,’ she said.

  His voice. She thought she knew it. But where from? She recoiled into the hard chair as he stood up and moved behind her. He banged a chair down beside her and sat. His canvas trousers six inches from her knees. Reaching out, he ran a finger along her cheek. She flinched. The touch of his skin scuttled her blood through her veins. She was sure he could see her heart trying to leap out through her ribs. His hand trailed around the back of her neck and he screwed her hair in a knot. Pain leapt up her skull as he tightened his hold, pulling her face close to his. She smelled the sourness of his breath. Bile rose in her stomach and she struggled to keep it from releasing. Still she could not see his face.

  ‘I do not like to be crossed.’ His spittle rested on her lips, her cheeks. She forced her eyelids up and the vomit down. ‘I do not like liars.’ With a jerk he released her and she fell back on the chair. ‘I do not like you.’

  And then she did puke, a straight projectile flow of vomit onto his shirt.

  She welcomed the slap to her jaw and the thump to her forehead as she slumped to the ground, spitting acrid liquid out of her mouth.

  ‘You are a bitch,’ he said. ‘I will make you suffer. I will make your boy suffer.’

  ‘No, please no.’ Heat blazed through her body. ‘Not Milot. Don’t touch him.’

  Three sets of black boots on the concrete floor merged before they were raised and aimed at her stomach.

  She welcomed the pain if it could save her son. She welcomed the stars swimming behind her eyes, if only to blot out the face she thought she knew.

  And at last she welcomed the relief of darkness.

  NINETEEN

  Lottie eyed Boyd over the top of her computer and smiled. He cocked his head to one side and she noticed the slight upturn of his lips, the beginning of a question.

  ‘I’m only after noticing. Are you growing a beard?’ she said. The soft stubble, flecked with grey, matched his cropped hair.

  ‘No law against it last time I checked,’ he replied and returned to his work, averting his hazel eyes from her inquisitive green ones.

  She wasn’t letting him get away that lightly. ‘Did someone say it would suit you?’ She noticed a flush creep over his cheeks. Was there a woman in Boyd’s life? She hadn’t considered this.

  ‘You’re jealous, Inspector Parker.’

  He stood up and walked over to her desk. She leaned back in her chair and studied him. The sun sneaked a streak of light over his face.

  ‘Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other,’ she lied, turning away. She tapped loudly on her keyboard.

  ‘You’ll break it.’

  ‘Feck off, Boyd.’

  ‘You are jealous,’ he said, and rotated her chair so that she was facing him.

  ‘If I knew what there was to be jealous of then maybe I might be, but as I don’t know anything, how can I be jealous?’

  ‘The riddle queen of Ragmullin,’ he laughed, giving her chair an extra spin.

  She stamped her feet to the floor, halting the chair’s movement, and stood up. ‘Well, am I right? Is there a woman telling you to grow scruff on your face?’

  For an instant she was sure she read a sadness written in capital letters in his eyes before he shrugged his shoulders, went back to his desk and began tidying his files, which were already neatly lined up end to end.

  ‘You break my heart, Lottie Parker. You know that. You show no interest in me unless…’

  ‘Unless what?’ Suddenly the office was too hot. ‘Unless I’m full to the gills with alcohol?’ she prompted, indignation colouring her cheeks.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I never know where I stand with you.’

  ‘Like I already said…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Feck off, Boyd.’

  ‘Right so.’ He slammed the files into the drawer and stomped out.

  Lottie looked around at the empty chairs and equally empty office. Was she jealous? Of what? Or whom? Boyd hadn’t admitted anything. And why should he? He owed her nothing. I’m going mad, she thought. Stark raving mad.

  Boyd stuck his head back around the door.

  ‘We’ve got a call,’ he said, beckoning her with a nod.

  ‘What?’ Lottie stayed where she was.

  ‘Might be a crime scene.’

  She gave the keyboard one last thump before hurrying after him. Beard or no beard, she realised she needed Boyd. Whatever else happened, she needed him as her friend.

  * * *

  After negotiating the water main works on the narrow street outside the car dismantler’s depot, Lottie and Boyd were directed in through the gates. Met by the owner, Bob Wei
r, they walked along a gravel path lined with battered cars stacked five high, scarred metal shimmering in the sun.

  Lottie sniffed the late-afternoon air, inhaling a noxious whiff of oil and rubber. She pulled her T-shirt from the waist of her jeans and flapped air against her clammy skin.

  ‘Down this way,’ Weir said, ducking under a platform of disassembled vehicles.

  She wondered if they should be wearing hard hats. None had been offered. She and Boyd had to bend in two to get under the platform.

  ‘Over there,’ Weir said, pointing to the furthest corner of the yard.

  The entire depot seemed to shudder as a train in the station beyond the wall picked up speed and exited on the Sligo line. Following the direction of Weir’s plump index finger, Lottie scoured the ground until her eyes rested on a dark congealed pool. She held out her hand, keeping Weir back.

  ‘Council wouldn’t let me demolish it,’ he said.

  Lottie eyed him quizzically.

  ‘The wall. I wanted to erect a proper one. It’s ancient, falling down and disintegrating in places. Dangerous, so I thought. But a dipshit planner said it was something to do with heritage or some other shite. Cost me a fortune to stabilise it. And there’s still enough holes and gaps to make it a fucking short cut to the station and Hill Point Flats over there.’

  She saw what he was talking about. Easy access for cider parties. Or murderers. Hoping he wasn’t wasting their time, she walked past him, over to the puddle. Tar oozed underfoot and clung to shards of gravel already embedded in the soles of her shoes. She hunkered down to the pool, slipped on gloves. Dipping her finger, she scrutinised the rusty colour and beckoned Boyd over.

  ‘Blood,’ he said, stating the obvious. As usual.

  ‘Could be animal,’ she ventured. Holding her fingertip to her nose, she sniffed, getting a metallic odour.

  ‘I had pest control in only a few weeks ago,’ Weir protested, his face as red as his hair.

  Straightening up, Lottie stepped carefully over the pool, her eyes travelling the length of the wall behind it. It would be easy for someone to scale the corroded stones.