The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  Sean had been through too much. She needed to cut him some slack. She went back and unplugged her phone, glancing at the time. After 1.30. Late for callers.

  ‘Is she home?’ she asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mother… Mum.’

  ‘She’s out.’

  ‘Go back to your PlayStation or whatever you do in that den of yours.’ She smiled.

  Sean’s face relaxed. ‘I’ll go with you,’ he offered.

  ‘Okay.’

  Together they hurried down the stairs and Chloe opened the front door.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ she said. Barefoot, she walked out to the front wall. Looked up and down the road. ‘No one.’

  ‘I definitely heard the bell.’

  ‘How could you hear anything with those monster headphones?’ Chloe pointed to where they were hanging around Sean’s neck. ‘World War Three could erupt and you’d hear nothing. You imagined it.’

  Marching back up the stairs ahead of Sean, she glanced into her mother’s room. Empty.

  ‘Wonder where she is.’

  ‘Probably out on a case,’ Sean said.

  ‘What’s all the noise?’ Katie said, coming out of her room.

  ‘Nothing. Go back to sleep. The two of you.’

  Chloe closed her bedroom door. Lying on her bed, she wondered if someone had in fact been at the door. And she remembered the feeling of being watched just before Sean burst into her room. Clutching the sheet to her throat, she turned out the lamp. But she couldn’t sleep. She posted on Twitter all night long, hoping he would reply. Where was he? And for the hundredth time that night she wondered: where was Maeve?

  The man moved out of the shadow of the neighbour’s garden and smiled to himself. She’d looked so beautiful with her frightened face and flowing hair. Maybe he should have stayed there at the door. Waited for her to open it. Grabbed her round the waist and pulled her body into his. The thought spread a feeling of longing from his chest to his groin, and he hurried to where he could sate his salacious appetite.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Tonight was different. Maeve Phillips felt it, even though nothing had yet been said. She hoped whatever was in store for her didn’t involve the room with all the blood. She’d tried not to think of it since she’d collapsed there and been dragged back to her cell. Her prison cell.

  How long had she been here? A few days? A week? She had no idea. But now something was going on. Rushing footsteps up and down the corridor outside her door. Muffled voices, low whispers, then shouts. The voices sounded male but she couldn’t be sure. She wished they’d at least left the light on. The narrow gleam from beneath the door offered only shadows.

  She closed her eyes and wished for the thousandth time that she had her phone. Would Emily or Chloe be missing her? She’d told Emily she’d fill her in with all the gossip on Monday. What day was it today? No idea. She had lost all concept of time. If her own mother failed to raise the alarm, Chloe surely would do so. She was a detective’s daughter; she would know what to do. She’d miss her at school. She’d miss her on Twitter. Or would she? Maeve wept at the hopelessness of her situation. She had been so trusting. So stupid. As she wiped away her tears, she was grateful for one small thing. So far he hadn’t hurt her. But how long until he did?

  The door opened loudly. She darted up.

  ‘Let me out. Please. My mother needs me.’ She stretched out her hand towards the figure in front of her.

  He grabbed and twisted her arm up her back until she screamed.

  ‘Calm down, little darling. Tonight is your lucky night.’

  KOSOVO, 1999

  He slept for the twenty-kilometre drive into the city of Pristina. The jeep jerked to a stop, causing him to wake with a jolt. The door slammed and the captain jumped out.

  The boy stared up at the sign over the door of the building: Klinikë. Most of the surrounding tall buildings had satellite dishes pulsating from their walls like varicose veins. There were so many, he stopped counting.

  His eyes drawn to the two-storey clinic, he asked, ‘Is captain ill?’

  ‘He has to see if the doctor will check you over.’ The soldier reclined the seat and closed his eyes.

  The boy closed his too. He didn’t want to be looking at the two girls curving their legs around a lamp post doing their best to attract the soldier’s attention.

  The captain returned. ‘Come with me,’ he said, gesturing the boy out of the car.

  Looking at his soldier friend, the boy pleaded with his eyes.

  ‘You better go, lad,’ the soldier said, straightening up. ‘I’ll be waiting here for you.’

  The boy clambered over the seat and climbed out of the door. He didn’t know why, but he had an unnatural feeling of terror, even worse than when the men had raped and murdered his mama and sister.

  Gulping down his fear, his eyes filling with tears, he read the letters on the green canvas badge taped across the soldier’s chest. He didn’t understand what they said but the letters imprinted themselves on his brain. He knew he would remember his friend for the rest of his life. However long that might be.

  DAY FOUR

  THURSDAY 14 MAY 2015

  THIRTY-THREE

  Lottie had walked to work rather than driving, in a bid to clear her head after a restless night. It hadn’t worked.

  Following the morning conference with her incident team, she briefed Superintendent Corrigan with information for his press conference. She was glad he was still handling the media, because she had no immediate wish to renew her acquaintance with Cathal Moroney.

  ‘You don’t have much of anything, do you, Inspector?’ Corrigan turned up his nose at the page of scant notes. ‘Any evidence suggesting the body could be this missing Maeve Phillips?’

  ‘No evidence, sir. I don’t think it’s her.’

  ‘You should hand the missing person file over to a new team so you can concentrate on finding the murder victim’s identity. After all, you are the senior investigation officer.’

  Tell me something I don’t know, she thought. ‘I’ll hold on to the missing person for a few days, sir.’

  ‘A few days, then hand it over. I’m going to release this photo to the press.’

  ‘Maeve Phillips’ photo?’

  ‘No, the unidentified murder victim. Didn’t I just say we need to find out who she is? The way I see it, you have nothing so far. A whole lot of nothing gives me feckin’ nothing to tell the media.’

  Lottie couldn’t disagree. ‘Right, sir.’

  Walking down the corridor to her office, all she could think of was the photo of the black-haired girl with the diamond stud in her nose. Maeve Phillips.

  Back at her desk, she noticed the report detailing the examination of Maeve’s laptop. Nothing unusual had been discovered. English essays on Word and maths on Excel. The laptop wasn’t set up for internet. Maeve must do her online stuff on her phone, she thought. Where was her phone?

  ‘Kirby, did we find anything on the whereabouts of Maeve Phillips’ phone?’

  Kirby lifted his head from his computer. ‘It’s taking a while because it’s switched off. I’ll try spinning a few lies and see where it gets me.’

  ‘Any word on those friends of hers in Dublin?’

  ‘I got a colleague in HQ to check them out. All sound people but none of them has had any contact with her for ages.’

  ‘Dead end there so. Any luck with the school?’

  ‘No one has seen her all week. Principal rang the mother. Stupid bitch didn’t appear to know her own daughter was missing.’

  ‘No need for name-calling. Tracy Phillips is an alcoholic, and alcoholism is a disease, in case you didn’t know.’

  ‘Sorry, boss.’ Kirby ducked his head back to his work.

  Lottie wasn’t letting him away that easy.

  ‘Did you find out where Jamie McNally is?’ That made her think of Boyd. Where was he this morning? Maybe Jackie had hooked up with him after all.

 
; ‘He’s gone to ground. We’ve a record of him entering the country last Wednesday. Nothing since. Jackie Boyd’s been spotted around town. No sign of McNally.’

  ‘He wouldn’t leave Jackie in Ragmullin unattended. He has to be nearby. Keep digging.’

  ‘Will do.’ Kirby stood up with a mug in his hand and wobbled.

  ‘Hard night?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Do you know where Boyd is?’

  Kirby shook his head and escaped out the door without a word.

  ‘What’s going on around here?’ Lottie asked, raising her arms to the ceiling.

  Lynch lifted her head. ‘Must be the heat.’

  Opening up her emails, Lottie clicked on the murdered girl’s post-mortem report and read it again. Who are you? Why has no one reported you missing? Why did the killer wash your bullet wound?

  ‘Any DNA results back?’ she asked Lynch.

  ‘Not yet. SOCOs found no bullet in Weir’s wall. So whoever fired the shot took the bullet with them.’

  ‘Or it’s the one in the victim. If not, there has to be a reason for it.’

  ‘Someone shooting rats? Probably Bob Weir himself.’

  ‘Do you honestly think he’d have called it in if it was him? He doesn’t like the disruption,’ Lottie said.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Lynch. ‘Did you do anything else about that letter you got from the girl, Mimoza?’

  ‘She hasn’t been in contact since. Maybe she was chancing her arm or something.’ Now that Lottie thought about it, she got an uneasy feeling that she’d neglected it. ‘Wonder where she is now.’

  ‘And who is she with?’

  ‘Probably with the girl who was waiting for her at the end of my road. Very mysterious.’ Lottie twiddled a pen between her fingers, thinking back to Monday morning. So much had happened since then.

  ‘What I’d like to know is why she came to you,’ Lynch said.

  ‘I have no idea. But it’s a bit odd that the note’s written in Albanian and the guy who found the body is from Kosovo. Isn’t Albanian one of the official languages in that country?’

  Saying this aloud made Lottie think about it for a moment, and she felt the beginnings of a churning in her stomach. She said, ‘Maybe I should have another word with Andri Petrovci.’

  ‘Maybe you made a mistake involving him with the note,’ Lynch said.

  ‘Maybe you haven’t enough work to be doing.’

  ‘I’ve plenty, thanks.’

  ‘Do it then, and let me get on with mine.’

  ‘I was just saying—’

  ‘Don’t, Lynch.’

  Lottie shoved back her chair, picked up her bag and got out of the office before she said something that would result in a harassment tribunal.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Mimoza eased herself out of bed and walked slowly to the washbasin, tugging back the curtain to allow in light. A brick wall maybe a foot from the window blocked any view. She looked down. Too high up to jump. The gap too narrow anyway.

  Dampening a cloth, she rubbed away the dried semen from between her legs. Why did this place allow unprotected sex? The main attraction, she supposed, for frustrated old men and the young uninitiated, who didn’t want or couldn’t wait to slide the rubber on before ejaculating.

  Searching the wardrobe for clean underwear, she glimpsed the man’s wallet that she’d picked up last night. She took it out, opened it up and quickly counted the money with trembling fingers. Less than a hundred euros. Bank cards and an ID badge. Her eyes widened in surprise as she slowly read the words. Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd. Her translation wasn’t good, but she was sure that meant he was a policeman.

  If only she’d known who he was. If only. Would he come back for his wallet? She hoped so, because Mimoza knew this detective might be her only escape route from captivity. Especially since it appeared the woman police officer had done nothing with her note.

  She would have to come up with a plan before he returned. She was sure he would come back for it. Once he remembered where he had lost it. He might wait until after dark, so nobody could see him, unless of course he had an official reason to return.

  Could she put a message inside the wallet? But what to write with and on? She spied the few items of make-up on the small locker. The eyeliner pencil would have to do. She unscrewed the cap and checked it was working by marking the palm of her hand with a black line. Sitting on the bed, she looked at the bulky curtains. Too heavy. But her sheets were white cotton.

  She stood up. This might be her only hope. But he had been so drunk, would he even remember her? She had no other option but to try it.

  Dragging the sheet loose from the mattress and biting down on the material while yanking at it with trembling hands, she felt it give, heard a tear. Dust mites floated into the air as she inspected her handiwork. The rip was close enough to the hem and she tore a strip from one edge to the other. Then she carefully folded the end of the sheet back around the bottom of the mattress, hoping no one would notice her destruction.

  Flattening out the strip on the bed, she took the eyeliner pencil and began to write, in her own language because she couldn’t write well in English. When she’d finished, she folded it into the smallest wad she could manage, slipped it into the cash flap and placed the wallet on the floor under the bed.

  Looking round her tomb-like abode, she silently prayed that this Detective Boyd would remember where he had been last night. And she hoped he would be brave enough to return. It might well be her only hope of ever seeing her son again.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The morning heat was giving way to a welcome breeze, raising dust into the air at an alarming rate. Lottie clamped a hand over her mouth and walked around the barrier towards the man in the yellow singlet.

  He stood up tall from his work and wiped a gloved hand over his forehead. Removing his protective goggles, he tipped back his safety helmet.

  ‘You not allowed here. Danger,’ he said, and stepped out of the trench to the road.

  Lottie hoped her smile might melt some of his antagonism, but he remained tight-lipped and grim. Shit.

  ‘I was wondering if perhaps you’d thought any more about the note? The one written in Albanian.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure you don’t know anything about the girl mentioned in it, Kaltrina?’ She studied his face, waiting for a reaction. It was marble-like. Unmoving. Even his eyes didn’t blink. Staring. Silence. Except for the constant buzz of flies in the heat.

  ‘Help me out here, Andri,’ she said, hoping her informality might work on him.

  ‘Why you want help? You police. You look.’

  ‘I don’t speak the language. You do.’

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘Ask around? Ask your people.’

  ‘My people? Who you mean?’

  Lottie tried a smile. ‘We think the girl you uncovered in the ground is a foreigner. No one has reported her missing. We don’t know who she is. We are stuck. Please, can you help?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Why not?’

  ‘I not do work for you.’ He tugged his helmet forward onto his forehead, pulled on his goggles and stepped back into the trench.

  Walking away, swatting the flies, Lottie was just about to text Boyd to come and meet her when a message came through from Dan Russell.

  Detective Inspector. Seven tonight. I’ll pick you up at the greyhound stadium. Don’t forget.

  She sighed. Perhaps if she met him she could work him out better. What was he really up to? She sent him a brief text agreeing to his plans and hurried back to the office, all thoughts of a late breakfast disappearing.

  At her computer she read up as much as she could discover on Russell, which wasn’t a whole lot more than Lynch had found out. Thirty years in the army, rising to the rank of commandant, retiring in 2010. He had established his business, Woodlake Facilities Management, in 2012. It seemed to be making a handsome profit. She closed down her
search, thinking how he had travelled just about far enough under her skin to start an itch. And she didn’t like how that felt.

  She wondered again if Russell had ever served with Adam. He’d answered her question evasively when she’d asked, but there was no way of finding out anything online, though Russell’s overseas dates seemed to confirm that the two men had been in Kosovo at the same time, serving under the NATO flag on peacekeeping duties. She clicked into an article about the Kosovo conflict. Mimoza had written her letter in Albanian, so it might have a tenuous link to the investigation. Flicking from article to article, she scanned them without fully absorbing the stories of human tragedy and murder.

  When eventually she raised her head, it was lunchtime. A morning wasted. She phoned Boyd. He said he’d meet her in Cafferty’s. She grabbed her bag.

  ‘I’m going to grab some lunch,’ she told Lynch, who had buried her head behind a mound of door-to-door reports. All yielding absolutely nothing.

  * * *

  Boyd was standing at the counter in Cafferty’s with house-special sandwiches and a pot of tea for two when he discovered he didn’t have his wallet.

  ‘When did you have it last?’ Lottie asked when he returned to their small round table in a corner of the bar.

  Every morning, once he had dressed, he put his wallet into his trouser pocket. He couldn’t remember doing it this morning. He couldn’t remember even seeing his wallet.

  ‘It’s Kirby’s fault,’ he muttered, eyeing the overflowing sandwich, his appetite suddenly taking a dive and the contents of his stomach rising up his throat.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You look a bit green. I know Kirby is used to benders but I don’t think you are. And you’ve missed a morning’s work.’

  ‘If I want a lecture I’ll visit my mother, thank you very much.’

  ‘Touché.’

  Boyd bit into the sandwich and swirled around a mouthful of tea to wash it down.