‘Told you, didn’t I?’ Weir said, smirking.
‘You did.’ Lottie turned to him. ‘Thanks for calling this in.’
‘Well, I felt it was my duty, seeing how you found a murdered girl yesterday.’
‘It might lead to nothing, but I have to treat this as a crime scene for the moment.’ She turned to Boyd. ‘We have to evacuate the depot. Immediately.’
Boyd got on his phone and called in reinforcements and the SOCO team.
‘You can’t be serious,’ Weir said, looking like he was sorry for reporting it.
Lottie said, ‘I’m very serious. Is this place locked at night?’ It didn’t make much difference, she thought. Access was manageable – up and over the wall.
‘It’s locked and a security van passes every fifty minutes or so. You mightn’t think it, Inspector, but this lot is very valuable.’ Weir smeared his face with an oily hand.
‘I don’t doubt it.’ She skirted round the puddle. Running her fingers along the old stone wall, she marvelled at the original workmanship.
‘Nineteenth century, so I’m told,’ Weir said.
‘Boyd?’ Lottie called him over. ‘I think this might be a bullet hole. McGlynn will need to see it. And get uniforms to clear the place.’
‘Ah for Jaysus’ sake.’ Weir paced in small fat circles. ‘This is my business. You can’t do that.’
‘I can and I am,’ Lottie said. ‘You too. Out.’
As the depot owner marched away across the yard, chuntering to himself, Lottie pointed to the wall. ‘Is it a bullet hole?’
Boyd inspected the mark. ‘Possibly. Could be our primary crime scene.’
‘Our victim still has the bullet inside her.’
‘Maybe he missed with the first shot.’
‘We’ll let SOCOs make an impression of the hole and poke around to see if there’s a bullet in there.’
‘You know what else it could mean, Lottie?’
‘Yes. There’s another body somewhere.’
They stayed on site until Jim McGlynn and his team appeared, suited up, equipment cases in hands.
‘Out, the both of you,’ McGlynn ordered. ‘Contaminating my scene.’
‘We didn’t know it was a crime scene, and it still might not be.’ Lottie turned away.
‘You know better, Inspector. Protective suits or go.’
Boyd tugged her elbow. ‘Come on. There’s nothing else to do here.’
Lottie had to agree.
* * *
‘Blood and a bullet hole. So where’s the body?’
Lottie rinsed her hands under the tap in the makeshift kitchen. Boyd flicked on the kettle and leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching her. She dried her hands.
‘Well?’
He shrugged. ‘It must be related to the girl in the morgue, one way or other.’
‘I hope it is, otherwise we might have a second victim.’
‘There’s no body there, as far as we know.’
‘When the whole area is searched, every car and scrap of a car, we might find more evidence.’ She got two mugs and spooned in coffee.
‘No milk,’ said Boyd, shaking an empty carton.
‘There’s definitely something there.’
‘Definitely no milk.’
‘Not milk,’ Lottie said. ‘At Weir’s depot. It’s easily accessible, despite his so-called security.’
‘So what?’
‘Ideal dumping ground or murder site.’
‘It’s in the middle of town. How could someone discharge a gun there? It’d be heard a mile away.’
‘Pick the right moment. Say, when a train is entering or exiting the station – you heard the noise. And if the gun’s equipped with a silencer, it’s just a loud pop.’
‘Ballistics will confirm or otherwise.’
‘And we need the blood type.’ Lottie eyed the black coffee in her mug. ‘Still no identification for our victim?’
‘Nope.’
Sipping the scorching liquid, she felt comforted by Boyd’s proximity even though he was wearing his serious face. She glanced at her watch and decided to call it a day.
‘I’m heading home. I’ll download a few files to a USB and study them there.’
‘Still content with breaking the rules?’
‘Yep,’ she said.
‘Need any help?’ His face broke into a wicked grin.
‘You never give up, do you?’
He smiled wryly. ‘I’m getting there, Lottie. Believe me.’
And as she poured her coffee into the sink, she believed him.
TWENTY
The house was tidy for a change. Katie and Sean had already eaten and were watching something loud and bloody on Netflix. Chloe had secreted herself in her room. Lottie was too tired to have an argument, so she let her be and fried a rasher and egg for herself.
After eating, she took out her laptop, inserted the USB and opened up Jane Dore’s autopsy report. Could the unknown girl have been killed in Bob Weir’s yard? She would love to have the ballistics and DNA reports but knew it could take days, even weeks. Unless Jane could pull a few strings, something she’d done before.
Scanning the report, Lottie skipped over the technical data and noted the victim’s vitals. Pregnant. Undernourished. Sexually active. Organs and brain normal. Bite mark on neck. Impression moulded. Swabs taken. Left kidney surgically removed. Precise sutures. Assume medical professional or at least surgically trained. Victim aged between eighteen and twenty-five. Possibly Eastern European or Balkan, determined by bone structure.
She closed the laptop and read through her handwritten notes. What had the girl’s story been? What motive could someone have for killing her? When had she had the kidney removed, and why? Had the killer known she was carrying a baby? Was it the killer’s child? Six-million-dollar questions. She needed to unravel the girl’s life to determine the answers. Hard to do when she didn’t have a name. Maybe, after all, they would have to release the death-mask photograph to the general public. Not a nice prospect. Especially if it meant she’d have to talk to Mister Congeniality himself, television news reporter Cathal Moroney. Perhaps she’d pass that one to Corrigan. Might be safer.
Exhausted and unable to think clearly, she put away her work and headed up the stairs to bed. She paused outside Chloe’s room, knocked on the door and waited.
‘Go away,’ Chloe said.
‘You said we needed to talk. I’m here now.’ Lottie kept her hand on the handle but didn’t venture in. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m tired. Goodnight.’
So am I, Lottie thought. ‘Goodnight so,’ she said. ‘Chat in the morning.’
She went to her room and lay on the bed, wondering if she was a bad mother not to have gone in and talked with her daughter. No, she thought, it would only end in a row. She eventually fell asleep to the sound of Chloe crying softly in the room next to hers.
TWENTY-ONE
The man shifted slightly in the long dry grass where he had been lying for the last hour and a half. He fixed his night-vision goggles and binoculars in line with the window, then returned to his rigid position. The railway tracks were a mere metre behind him, but he had no worries. The next train was not due until 6 a.m.
Stars twinkled high above and street lights cast a yellow hue into the night sky. He ignored his surroundings and concentrated on his target.
With the blinds up and curtains hanging out through the open window, he had a clear view inside. Her light was off but through his hi-tech equipment he could decipher her slender form lying atop her tossed duvet.
He conjured up her youthful beauty. Every strand of her blonde hair sparked electricity throughout his body. The smooth sheen of her face and the rise and fall of her breast – all images he registered and filed away for future perusal.
He didn’t want to be aroused. That wasn’t the object of his crusade. He was not the tempest; no, he was the calm after the storm. He would bring her peace. She would bring him pea
ce.
As he shifted uneasily, the hardness in his groin making his position unbearable, the grass around him rustled in the stillness. He froze. No one ventured down here at 4.47 a.m. Not on the canal and definitely not this far along the railway tracks. Slowly he lowered the binoculars and turned his head, coming face to face with a bright-eyed fox. He laughed. The animal scampered away.
A sign. Time to quit for the night. He packed up his equipment, slung the bag over his shoulder and hurried the length of the track, his hand thrust deep in his trousers, feverishly stroking himself. He knew there was only one way to truly gain relief, to expel the demons from within. Perhaps he should move her up his timeline, he thought, expelling small groans of pleasure with each breath.
Such was his fever of anticipation for the girl, when he arrived home, and before he could even unlock the door, his desire ejaculated in an orgasmic explosion.
He would sleep tonight.
The hood over Mimoza’s head smelled of vomit. She knew she was in the boot of a car, but they hadn’t travelled far when it stopped. Still in town, she felt. Please let Milot be cared for. No matter what they do to me, let my son be okay, she pleaded silently in the darkness. She thought she could smell his apple shampoo. Her chest constricted in panic. She had to be strong. For Milot.
Dragged from the car, she was pushed up a flight of steps and through an open door. When the hood was wrenched from her head, she ascertained that the vomit was her own. It had dripped and hardened along her chin and on her chest. Her breath came low and fast as she tried to calm herself.
A tall woman stood over her, arms folded, stiletto-clad feet wide apart. Mimoza struggled to her knees. A grey stripe streaked an intimidating line along the centre of the woman’s black-haired crown. A red dress floated out from the folds of flesh and a nipple protruded.
‘Up,’ the woman said in Mimoza’s language.
‘Wash?’ Mimoza asked, rising to her feet.
‘Don’t speak unless instructed.’ The slap cracked the skin below her eye. As she reeled backwards, rough hands grabbed her. The man with the crooked teeth. He spoke rapidly, turned and left.
At once Mimoza knew what type of place she was in and what was expected of her. She had been forced to work in such a place once before. Following the woman, she trailed through a patterned-wallpapered hall and up uncarpeted stairs. At the top, four doors, faux-pearl bracelets hanging on the handles of three. The woman opened the one without a bracelet, ushering Mimoza into a tiny bathroom. Soft music drifted from the ceiling.
‘You pee. Two minutes.’
‘Wash?’
The smack of a hand caught her on the side of her head.
‘Dare to answer back and you will be punished. Two minutes.’ The woman left, pulling the door closed behind her.
As a key turned in the lock, Mimoza stripped off her soiled clothing and sat on the toilet. Blood mixed with urine spilled from her body, and with it, excruciating pain, a reminder of Crooked Teeth Man’s violent sex attack before he’d brought her here.
Despite her distress, all she could think of was that she was trapped in one prison while her son was in another.
‘Oh Milot,’ she said aloud, ‘I’m so sorry.’
KOSOVO, 1999
The mosquitoes wouldn’t leave him alone. All his life they’d blighted him. He pulled the net tighter around his head and swatted his hand through the air. No good. Couldn’t sleep. He was lying on a bunk in one of the soldiers’ billets. They had been nice to him, allowed him to stay with them. On condition he stay quiet until they had time to tell their commanding officer.
He thought it might be around 3 a.m. but he wasn’t sure. He heard the multitude of mice scratching surfaces all around him. He hated them. Hoped they wouldn’t breach his curtain. He was more afraid of the vermin than being killed. If he was going to survive on his own he would have to learn new skills. Reading and writing and hauling buckets of water wouldn’t help him. What did the future hold for him now? Not much, he supposed.
The door opened and the soldier who had given him the packet of crisps came in.
‘Can you not sleep?’
The boy shook his head.
‘The doctor will have a look at you in the morning. Where were you heading to anyway?’
The boy shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t answer because he didn’t know. He’d never been further than his own village. Maybe he could say he was going to Pristina. Maybe he’d get work there. He was tall so he could pass for older than thirteen. He looked up at the soldier. He had kind blue eyes and a sweep of blonde hair on his forehead.
The boy said, ‘Pristina.’
The soldier said, ‘What’s your name?’
The boy remained mute.
‘Here’s a bottle of water. Drink, then sleep. I’ll have to inform the captain about you in the morning. He’ll decide what to do.’
The boy sipped the water and closed his eyes. A quiet blackness descended, and to the sound of hungry mice and buzzing mosquitoes he fell asleep.
DAY THREE
WEDNESDAY 13 MAY 2015
TWENTY-TWO
It felt good to apply a streak of Katie’s lipstick over her lips – her own was now a broken smudge in the bottom of a tube – and to run a comb through her hair. She was enjoying being back at work. Feeling alive again, she slapped away a pang of guilt. Escaping from her family and the troubles they threw at her wasn’t the trait of a good mother, was it? But she had to get on with it. She still had to talk with Chloe. She slipped the lipstick into her bag and turned to see Sean enter the kitchen.
‘Anything to eat?’ he asked, gazing into the refrigerator.
‘You’re up bright and early,’ Lottie said. ‘There’s cereal in the cupboard.’
Sean squeezed a milk carton and shook it. ‘Might be enough,’ he said, and went to get a bowl and the box of cereal.
‘You’re looking very smart today.’
Conversation with Sean was strained at the best of times. She hoped he might open up a bit more now that he was seeing a therapist. Coping with what he’d gone through in January had not been easy. Lottie knew he needed time to be himself again, but she wasn’t so sure that Katie needed the same. The girl had retreated into herself and looked awful. Lottie knew all about grief, but she hadn’t the words to comfort her own daughter.
‘Same rotten uniform,’ he said, munching. ‘I had a shower.’
‘Must be a girl.’
‘Mam, that’s gross.’
Lottie smiled as she watched her son spoon cornflakes into his mouth, slurping milk like a toddler. His blonde hair fell across his blue eyes, once bright and sparkling, full of life, now stony and strained. Stopping herself from rushing over to brush his hair back with her fingers, she touched his arm instead.
‘I’ll see you this evening. Have a nice day at school.’
‘Mam! How can anyone have a nice day at school?’
On the drive to work, Lottie thought about her job. She didn’t know what it would throw at her from day to day, and now that a girl had been murdered along with her unborn baby, it was her task to bring the killer to justice. Once she had solved this murder, her children would get all her attention.
As Lottie entered the office, Lynch jumped up, brandishing a page in the air.
‘I got one of our technical guys who’s an ace with languages to have a look at the letter.’
Lottie sat down, her good mood evaporating. ‘Anything different from what Petrovci told us?’ she asked.
‘Basically it’s the same. Someone called Kaltrina appears to be missing and the writer of the letter needs your help to escape.’
‘From what, though?’
‘You know what I think?’ Lynch brushed her hair out of her face.
‘That the Kaltrina mentioned in the note could be our dead girl. But no one fitting her description has been reported missing in the last week.’
‘I spoke about it briefly with Ben last night,’ Lynch said, ad
ding quickly, ‘without giving away anything confidential, of course. He thinks we should check if the girl who came to your house is in the direct provision system. Kaltrina too. Numbers have been increasing in recent months, with the refugees swarming through Europe. It’s possible that’s where they’re from.’
‘They are not insects, Lynch,’ Lottie said harshly.
Kirby raised his head from his corner, unlit cigar in his mouth. ‘The government can’t house our own people, let alone migrants.’
Lottie gave him an icy glare. ‘You should know better than to talk like that. And if you want to smoke that cigar, get the hell out of here.’
‘Sorry, boss.’
Kirby dragged his bulk through the door, leaving Lottie clenching her fists and shaking her head.
‘He’s only saying what others think,’ Lynch said.
‘I can do without that kind of attitude. And I’m sure you know that human rights groups condemn the type of inappropriate language you used a moment ago. So be careful.’
Lottie held Maria Lynch’s stare. Her detective broke away first.
‘Anyway, Ben told me that his department funds translators to work with the refugees and asylum seekers.’
‘Any of them up in the army barracks?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Okay. Did you dig into Dan Russell’s past yet?’
‘I’m working on it.’ Lynch clicked on something on her computer. ‘Wait a minute. Have a look at this.’
Rushing across the cluttered office, snagging the leg of her jeans against the corner of a box file, Lottie leaned down and peered at the screen.
‘Missing person report.’ Lynch tapped her pen. ‘Filed late last night.’
Lottie read quickly. ‘Maeve Phillips, aged seventeen. Possibly missing since last weekend, according to her mother, though only now being reported.’ She felt the blood drain slowly from her cheeks. ‘I wonder if—’
‘If she’s our Jane Doe?’
The Stolen Girls Page 8