The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘Hmph!’

  Arms folded across saggy breasts beneath a black T-shirt. Jeans, too tight, in tan leather boots. She looked anywhere from fifty to a hundred. Framed with long black hair, her face sagged in mounds of white flesh. Boyd physically shook himself. What had he been thinking of letting Kirby bring him here? Not thinking at all, that was what. God damn you, Kirby, he silently swore.

  The woman looked him up and down. ‘With the fat man? Yeah?’ A low, gravelly voice. Hundred a day, probably.

  ‘Yes,’ Boyd replied. ‘Sometime after midnight. I think. My wallet?’

  She laughed then, breasts wobbling under the knitted ribs of her T-shirt, cheeks flopping up and down.

  ‘No wallet. I sorry,’ she said when the guttural chuckles ceased.

  ‘Can you look again? Please?’

  ‘Not here.’

  Boyd glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching before he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. ‘I’m with the gardaí and I’m asking you to look for my wallet.’

  ‘Police? Hah! No frighten me. I show your boss, yes?’ She pointed to the small camera nestled in a cobwebbed nook above the door.

  If it even works, Boyd thought, but he released her, shook his head and walked back down the steps. It was useless. Now he’d have to declare his ID card lost and apply for a new one. He only hoped it wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands. That scenario didn’t bear thinking about.

  At the bottom step, he turned. ‘I will have to tell my superiors about this.’

  The woman paused before beckoning him with a curled finger. The door creaked inwards. He hurried back up.

  Inside, she slammed the door behind him. The vivid flowers on the wallpaper shouted out at him. Jesus, he thought, what the hell brought me to this place? The woman sidled past him in the narrow hallway. He flinched from the touch of her skin. She opened a door and ushered him into a small room. Worn couch and a small coffee table scattered with magazines normally stored on the newsagent’s top shelf.

  ‘Wait.’ She pulled the door closed behind her.

  He had no other choice.

  ‘Bitch, where is his wallet?’

  Mimoza shrugged her shoulders and stared at the woman who called herself Anya. Shrinking into the pillow, she scrunched her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms about her legs. She had to act innocent with this woman or she might never get to see her son again. She couldn’t let Anya know she had found the wallet or she might check inside it. Better if she just found it herself.

  ‘Tall, skinny man. Here last night. Policeman. Lost his wallet. I ask other girls. They not see him. You see him?’

  Mimoza shook her head.

  Anya grabbed her by the arm. ‘My girls, they see nothing. You. You with big eyes. I know you see something.’

  She released Mimoza’s arm, flicked down the sheet and pulled the pillow out from behind her before slapping her across the back of the head. Mimoza squeezed her eyes shut as Anya dragged her by her hair to the floor. The woman flipped the mattress. Finding nothing, she stooped down and peered beneath the bed.

  ‘Ha!’ she squealed.

  Holding her breath, Mimoza watched Anya open the wallet. Silently she prayed that the hidden note would not be discovered. She watched as Anya removed a fifty-euro note and folded it between her breasts. Seemingly satisfied, she closed the wallet and left the room.

  Mimoza began to pray. She prayed that the tall, skinny policeman would help her.

  ‘Today lucky for you.’

  The woman waved the black wallet in front of Boyd’s face. For a moment he thought she might snatch it away as he reached for it. But she relinquished her prize easily. He checked to make sure his ID was still in its flap before shoving the wallet into his pocket, vowing never again, no matter how drunk, to venture through the doors of a brothel.

  Outside, he chanced a glance up at the windows. The curtains were drawn. It might as well be a deserted building for all the life it exuded. He remembered the wretched young girl with her pleading eyes and a sadness settled into his heart where moments earlier he had felt anger. As he walked in the cool evening breeze towards the footbridge, he wondered what her story was. He knew he had enough to be doing without worrying about her, but he considered it might be wise to contact some of the lads working in the vice squad. Yes, that was what he would do.

  At first Lottie couldn’t see Petrovci anywhere.

  Fearing she had lost him, she decided to turn left towards the canal and caught sight of his yellow singlet immediately. She broke into a run. By the time she reached the brow of the hill, he was almost at the town’s main bridge, having made his way through the cherry blossoms along the canal pathway. She knew he lived in Hill Point and that seemed to be where he was headed.

  Glad of the rising breeze, she hurried on, gaining on the tall foreigner with each step. He never looked behind him, so she was sure he hadn’t noticed her. Waiting for a moment under the old stone bridge to allow him to cross the footbridge up ahead, she was sure he was heading for his flat. She couldn’t remember the exact block or apartment number so she speed-dialled Lynch. Then, with the phone clamped to her ear, she walked on as nonchalantly as she could, keeping Petrovci in sight.

  Lynch read out the full address as Lottie walked. When she put the phone away, Petrovci was nowhere in sight. Her breath caught in her throat. Where had he got to?

  That was when she saw Boyd.

  He was walking around a corner, across a cobbled square, metres away. Without knowing why she was doing it, Lottie ducked behind a set of concrete steps. Boyd was hurrying away from the general area where Andri Petrovci lived.

  She should have stepped out and confronted him. Asked what he was doing. Should have just said, ‘Hello, fancy meeting you here.’ But she didn’t. She remained hidden as he passed by with his head bowed, seemingly deep in his own thoughts.

  Straightening up, Lottie froze. Was there someone behind her? She felt a whisper of air on her neck. She held her breath, closed her eyes. Shivers engulfed her body and her hands trembled violently. A dribble of perspiration rolled down her nose. She sniffed it away. It felt like minutes but it was only a couple of seconds before she turned. No one.

  She looked all around. No one near. No one running away. Her imagination? In those few seconds, all motivation for following Petrovci evaporated.

  Coming out from her hiding place, she advanced up the steps to get a better view. She noticed how close Hill Point was to Weir’s car dismantler’s yard. Scanning the height of the stacked junk cars, she thought how it would be an ideal hiding place for a body. Now that the whole area was cordoned off and out of bounds to the public, she decided there would be no harm in getting each and every bit of scrap metal searched again. Thoroughly this time.

  Assuming Petrovci was now ensconced in his flat, Lottie knew she had no authority to knock on his door, to search his home, but she would keep him firmly fixed on her radar.

  She headed back to the station wondering about Boyd. Had he been one step ahead of her, marking Petrovci as a prime suspect? Or was his not-yet-ex-wife Jackie residing around here? Lottie thought it was probably the latter. She intended to ask him.

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘Got it,’ Boyd said, throwing his jacket over the back of his chair.

  ‘Your wallet?’ Kirby asked. ‘You went back up there? You’re an eejit.’

  ‘Don’t even talk to me.’ Boyd began tidying up the paperwork on his desk. ‘Did you get anything from the residents in the Columb Street area?’

  No answer.

  ‘Jesus, Kirby, out with it.’

  Kirby scratched himself. ‘You told me not to talk to you. Anyways, there’s one flat with a wall-mounted camera, at the front gates of the block. I’m going back up there later to see if the resident is home. Might be something on it.’

  ‘If it even works. Who lives there?’

  ‘Willie “the Buzz” Flynn. Retired from the local newspaper. Must be eighty if h
e’s a day.’

  ‘Buzz Flynn? What’d he be doing with CCTV?’

  ‘He was always getting robbed. I advised him to get the little camera set up a few years back.’

  ‘Good. We could do with a break,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Fancy a pint?’ Kirby wheezed as he rotated his chair.

  ‘Not that kind of break… Oh, forget it.’ Boyd flicked off his computer and swallowed a mouthful of water from a bottle.

  ‘One pint.’

  ‘No. Never again. Not with you, anyway.’ Boyd drained the water, squashed the bottle, screwed on the lid and threw it into the recycle bin.

  ‘Don’t be an arsehole.’ Kirby shuffled his feet into his sandals and bent down to buckle them. ‘You got your wallet back; what’re you complaining about?’

  ‘That place, where we went after the pub. We should be raiding it, not servicing it. Fuck’s sake. Makes me feel like a lowlife shit.’

  ‘Live and let live. That’s my motto.’

  ‘It’s not right.’

  ‘What’re you going to do about it? Call the vice squad? The National Immigration Bureau?’

  Boyd paused, thinking.

  Kirby said, ‘They’ve bigger fish to fry than a little whorehouse in Ragmullin. There’s one in every town in Ireland. The bureau is after the sharks, not pinkeens.’ He bent down to rub his sore foot.

  Boyd stood up, banged his chair against the desk and headed for the door. Looking back over his shoulder, he concluded that Kirby was a sorry excuse for a guard. But wasn’t he himself just as bad? He hadn’t slept with the girl but he couldn’t shut out the image of her melancholic eyes.

  With one last shake of his head in Kirby’s direction, he left for home. Hopefully he could get some peace and quiet there. And ditch his lingering hangover.

  FORTY

  There was no sign of Boyd, Kirby or Lynch in the office when Lottie arrived back at the station. She sat at her desk to write a report of her interview with Andri Petrovci. Her own thoughts and assumptions. Just in case all hell broke loose during the night and she couldn’t remember it in the morning. Anything was likely to happen. Garda Gillian O’Donoghue had left a transcript on her desk. Lottie read over it again. She was convinced Petrovci knew something about Maeve Phillips.

  Before going home she checked in with the staff in the incident room. A few detectives were talking on the phones. No sign of her own crew.

  On the whiteboard, the photo of the latest dead girl had been pinned up. The face seemed too decomposed to be of any help in identifying her. Lottie hoped the body might give them a clue as to who she was and who was carrying out the killings, if it was the same perpetrator. Of course it was. How many psychos were out there burying bodies under the street? Only one, she hoped. Maybe Jane Dore had had time to prioritise the PM. Lottie rang her to check.

  ‘Nothing of interest at the site,’ Jane said. ‘But the victim has a gunshot to her back, exited just below the chest. Unfortunately the heat accelerated decomposition but I can determine that she has a scar from her abdomen up over her hip and around her back. Just like the first victim.’

  ‘Oh my God. And was the bullet wound washed, like the first victim?’

  ‘Looks like it. I’ll start the PM in the morning. Eight a.m. if you’d like to attend?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Lottie said. ‘Why can’t you do it now? I can be there in half an hour.’

  ‘No can do. Wonder of wonders, I’ve a dinner date at seven.’

  ‘Delighted for you,’ Lottie said. Shit, she’d forgotten all about Dan Russell, her own dinner date. A quick look at her watch: 7.15. Oh well. There was no time for it now. ‘See you in the morning, Jane. Enjoy your night out.’

  Calling over a couple of the detectives, Lottie instructed them to organise another search of Weir’s yard in the morning.

  She glanced up at the board.

  A second body with a washed bullet wound and a scar. Another missing kidney?

  ‘Dear God, I hope not,’ she whispered to herself but she knew it was more than probable.

  As she left, she wondered if she should ring Russell to apologise but then thought that leaving him hanging might be better for him.

  * * *

  As she walked towards the greyhound stadium, Lottie saw Dan Russell sitting in his big black Audi. On double yellow lines, engine running. It was a race evening and traffic was building.

  She crossed the road. He lowered the window. Hunkering down beside the door, she said, ‘Got delayed at work.’

  ‘Half an hour late. You could have given me a call.’

  ‘I should give you a parking ticket.’

  ‘How about dinner tomorrow?’

  ‘Honestly, you know what, I’m actually too busy at the moment. We’ve found another body, so let me ring you when things die down.’ She stood up to go.

  ‘Another body?’ he repeated. ‘That’s awful. I’ll drop you to your door.’

  Oh what the hell, Lottie thought, and went around to the other side of the car. The coolness of the interior was welcome. Rich bastard.

  He said, ‘Where’s your house?’

  She pointed to the estate across the road. He swung the car in a U-turn and she directed him where to stop.

  ‘So this body you found, is it a murder?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  He stared straight ahead. ‘Are you going to question me about this also?’

  Not wanting to give him any information, she decided to change the subject.

  ‘You mentioned you remembered Adam. Did you work with him?’

  Russell idled the engine. ‘I did, actually. Overseas.’

  Silence filled the car. Since Adam’s death Lottie had alienated herself from Adam’s military friends, though somehow she doubted Dan Russell had been a friend.

  ‘Tell me more,’ she said.

  ‘How about you give me a shout tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Why are you stalling?’

  ‘There are things you should know about your late dear husband. Things you might not want anyone else knowing. But I’m not going to speak about it now.’

  She got out of the car. ‘You can forget about dinner. I’d rather starve.’ She slammed the door.

  He rolled down the window electronically. ‘I honestly think it would be a mistake not to listen to what I have to say.’

  Leaning against her front wall, she watched as he put the car in gear and drove off. No screech of brakes or dust cloud rising in his wake. His slow departure made his words feel all the more threatening. Dan Russell was playing her, playing some sick game, and she didn’t want to be part of it.

  But she knew she would eventually listen to what he had to say, no matter how compromising it might turn out to be.

  * * *

  The takeaway pizza had been a hit with the kids. At last Lottie had witnessed smiles on all three faces. For a few minutes. It was after nine by the time she’d tidied the kitchen and folded away the washing her mother had hung on the clothesline during the day.

  ‘I’m going to sit in the garden to check over my emails for a bit. Shout if you need me.’ She stood in the hallway and listened. Murmurs of assent greeted her.

  With a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit, she sat at the patio table, iPad on her knee and the moon visible in the still bright sky. She had tried to keep busy so she wouldn’t think about Russell and his words. She thought instead of a second murdered girl who might be missing a kidney. She knew that until the pathologist confirmed it or otherwise, there was no point in speculating.

  The sound of a loudspeaker from the stadium permeated the air along with the hum of a lawnmower droning in tune to the whistling birds, nesting for the night. Glancing around her garden, she wished she had green fingers. It could do with flowers, colour, a total makeover. Adam used to tend it. She hadn’t time. Sean? He was too engrossed in his PlayStation to be bothered. Sometimes he cut the grass but only if she bribed him.

  Sipping her tea, sh
e flicked through her iPad. Couldn’t concentrate. Adam. She would love to know more about his time in Kosovo. He’d travelled there in 1999, just as the war had finished, with an advance international unit under NATO command, and he’d returned there again a year later. Two trips and he’d spoken little of his time away. Or maybe he had and she hadn’t been listening. Back then, she realised, she’d been too consumed with work and two small children to be interested in Adam’s tales. Chloe had been less than a year old the first time he’d travelled. They’d debated it at the time, but they’d needed the money. And Adam was military to the core, so she wasn’t going to be the person to put a halt to his overseas tours of duty.

  ‘Mam!’

  Chloe stood at the back door, her face white, mouth open.

  ‘What is it?’ Lottie jumped up, ran to her. ‘Are you okay?’

  A little boy poked his head from behind Chloe’s knees.

  Lottie pulled up short, eyes wide, her breath catching in her throat.

  Chloe said, ‘He was at the front door. All alone. Crying.’

  Kneeling down, Lottie held her hand out to the boy. ‘Milot?’

  He retreated back behind her daughter’s leg.

  ‘Milot, honey. What are you doing here? Where’s your mother?’

  The boy stuck his thumb into his mouth. No tatty rabbit. How did he get here? Where had he come from? A multitude of questions swamped her brain. She looked up at Chloe.

  ‘Did you see anyone else? How did he reach the doorbell?’

  ‘He knocked.’

  ‘There had to be someone with him. Did you look?’

  ‘I saw no one when I opened the door, just the little fellow.’

  ‘You sure?’

  With a shrug of her shoulders, Chloe lifted Milot into her arms and strolled inside. Grabbing her phone, Lottie followed.

  ‘Who do you call about this?’ Chloe asked. ‘At this hour?’

  Lottie poured milk into a mug and offered it to Milot. He turned his face to Chloe’s shoulder, refusing the drink. He was wearing only a scruffy white T-shirt and navy shorts, his feet stuffed into soft white shoes with no socks. It was a balmy night but not warm enough for a child to be wandering the streets half-clad.