The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘There’s no mice in my house, Lottie. I’ve got those electronic sensors to keep them out. You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes, Mother. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ Lottie said and hung up.

  And now she was wide awake and prowling her kitchen like a lioness. She took a once-white T-shirt from a bundle of folded clothes in the utility room and, dragging off her sweaty one, slipped on the clean cotton. It was like cardboard, having been first soaked in the deluge and then dried to a crisp in the sun. But at least it was clean and smelled fresh.

  She felt a growing urge to drown herself in alcohol but knew she couldn’t. Her children were in their bedrooms and she ran up the stairs to check on them. Milot was fast asleep in Katie’s room. Tomorrow she would have to sort things out for him. She didn’t even care what Superintendent Corrigan would say when he found out. Maybe she should ring him to see if he was feeling better. Not tonight. Too late. Tomorrow. Everything could wait until tomorrow. In her own bedroom she took her last half-Xanax from her locker drawer and swallowed it dry.

  Back in the kitchen, her phone vibrated. She paid no heed to it. It stopped. Silence. She filled a glass of water from the tap and sat down in the armchair again, folding her legs beneath her. She placed the photograph face down on one knee and Mimoza’s envelope on the other. Taking out the badge, she felt its rough edges between her fingers then laid it on the arm of the chair. Only then did she turn over the photograph.

  Adam in a strange living room, dressed in his overseas uniform. A pregnant woman and a girl stood either side of him. His arms were draped lightly over both their shoulders. Two small boys at his feet. Another little girl, maybe aged two or three, sitting among them. Adam wore a smile broader than she ever remembered.

  She studied the photo more closely.

  Who were they?

  Why was Adam with them?

  Who had taken the photo and why hadn’t she seen it before?

  And the badge. How had Mimoza got it? Why had she brought it to Lottie?

  Her mind thrummed with the mystery of it all. She noticed the faded orange numbers in the bottom right-hand corner of the photograph. A date.

  Her phone buzzed again, and when she didn’t pick up, it vibrated with a message.

  She took no notice of it. It was as if she were in a different sphere. She sat there until the moon dipped low in the sky and the sun began its morning journey upwards.

  When her mother had peered around her door earlier, Chloe had pretended to be asleep.

  All day long she’d lain in bed and fretted about Maeve and what might have happened to her. She knew the girl was in danger, that was if she was still alive. But how could she tell her mother? What could she tell her? Every scenario she encountered meant revealing the pain she herself was enduring, and she wasn’t ready to tell anyone about that. Not yet. She certainly couldn’t burden her mother with it.

  But how could she raise the alarm about Maeve? She had no concrete evidence about what might have happened to her. Did she? Of course there was him. Was he really dangerous? He had frightened the life out of Chloe all right, but she couldn’t make up her mind if that made him evil or not.

  Tapping her phone, she brought up Twitter, put #cutforlife into the search. No, she warned herself. Don’t look at it. Don’t engage with him. She thrust the phone beneath her pillow.

  She turned over in bed and stared at the ceiling. She lay like that with her eyes open until the light of dawn burst through her window.

  Boyd looked on as Jackie finished her bottle of wine and proceeded to raid his refrigerator of beer. He sipped a vodka and tonic, hoping to be alert to her seduction.

  ‘You’re here an hour, Jackie, and all I’ve heard is how soft the sand is, how hot the sun is and how fab the shops are in Malaga. Talk to me about McNally and why he’s come back to Ragmullin.’

  She shooed him along the couch and sat down beside him. She’d long since thrown off her shoes and changed out of her tight jeans and into one of his shirts. She stretched her tanned legs across his.

  ‘Time enough for talk,’ she said, pouring beer into her wine glass.

  ‘I think you’ve had enough to drink.’

  ‘You’re still trying to be the boss of me,’ she sulked. ‘No change there.’

  Boyd yawned. ‘I’m tired. I’ve work in the morning.’

  ‘On Saturday?’

  ‘It’s all hands on deck twenty-four/seven until we get the murderer. If you’re not going to talk, I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Great suggestion.’ She drained her glass and stuck her bare foot into his crotch.

  Boyd jumped up. ‘I’ll get a blanket. You can sleep in my bed.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘No, I mean I’ll take the couch.’

  When he returned with a spare duvet, Jackie was biting her lip, tears flowing down her cheeks. Raising his eyes to the ceiling, Boyd silently cursed and sat down beside her.

  ‘Why did you come back? Why do you need my help?’

  She wiped her nose in the sleeve of his shirt and slurred, ‘It’s Jamie. He’s different. I’m scared.’

  Boyd scoffed. ‘You ran off with him. You knew he was a low-life criminal. What’s changed?’

  Sniffing, she said, ‘I’m not sure. He’s involved in something gross. He’s being a bollocks.’

  ‘Jesus, Jackie, McNally always was a bollocks and he was always into shady dealings. You said he was smuggling women. Can you tell me about it?’

  ‘I don’t know anything. He just said he was coming to Ragmullin to sort out something that had got out of hand. He mentioned a brothel run by someone called Anya. That’s all I know.’

  Shit, Boyd thought. How was he going to nail McNally for this without implicating himself?

  ‘How do you want me to help you?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Can I stay here?’

  ‘For tonight only. I’ll see if I can find out anything concrete on McNally tomorrow. Where is he staying?’

  ‘We’ve a room at the Parkview Hotel, but he’s hardly been there since we arrived. I don’t know what he’s up to.’ Jackie threw her arms around Boyd’s neck. ‘You can protect me.’

  Boyd recoiled from her drunken lunge. He took the glass from her hand, gently extricated himself and rested her down on the couch. By the time he pulled the duvet over her, she was asleep.

  Grabbing the bottle of vodka from the counter, he went to his room, leaving the door open.

  Maeve Phillips had thought she was dead. Opening her eyes to the dark, she whimpered. No, not dead. Not yet. Tensing her arm, she tried to move. She could feel the cool cotton of a sheet, damp from her perspiration. Silently she prayed for someone to take her away. She thought death would be a welcome release.

  A soft scratching in the ceiling above her head kept her awake.

  Gulping down tears of pain, Maeve remained powerless against the night-time creatures that were invading her mind.

  KOSOVO, 1999

  The mice were everywhere. The boy was more afraid now. Not of the mice. Of the captain, and that creepy doctor. He was even afraid of the boy who had drawn a finger across his throat in a death threat.

  Suddenly a mouse ran across his face. He shouted out. The soldiers in the room curled up laughing. He felt his face heat up.

  His soldier friend came and sat on his bed.

  ‘I’m going home soon, so you need to be a bit braver.’

  ‘I go with you?’

  ‘No, son.’

  Son? The soldier had called him son again. The boy smiled. ‘Please. I go with you.’ He pursed his lips in a sulk.

  ‘Not possible. You know what? You remind me of my baby daughter with that pout of yours. I’ve two little girls waiting for me at home.’

  The boy said nothing, but a feeling of intense jealousy flushed his cheeks.

  ‘Look, you’re a strong boy. You’ll get plenty of work in Pristina. But I will miss you.’

  The soldier flicked his name badge
from his shirt. The boy held his breath.

  ‘Here, have this. Remember, I’m your friend. You can pretend to be a big strong warrior.’

  Smiling widely, the boy took the badge, pride pumping through his heart. Maybe his friend would change his mind. Take him home with him.

  The smile died on his lips when the soldier stood up, saying, ‘I hope there’s a good family somewhere who will take you in.’

  The boy’s heart deflated. No one wanted him.

  The soldier pulled his rifle to his shoulder and kicked out at the fleeing mice as he left the room.

  Feeling the stiff green canvas in his hand, the boy traced his fingers over the thick stitches of the soldier’s name. He wondered about the strange little family the soldier had brought him to visit last night. Would they take him in? Probably not. They looked too poor. But his soldier friend had given them money to buy food. He’d even got the boy to take a photograph of them all. Would he show it to his baby daughter when he got home?

  Jumping out of the bunk, he stepped straight down on top of a mouse. He hated the chicken farm.

  He had to get out of here.

  Soon.

  DAY SIX

  SATURDAY 16 MAY 2015

  FIFTY-FOUR

  ‘What’s this?’ Jackie asked.

  Boyd raised himself on his elbow then flopped back down on the bed. His brain hopped around in his skull. Through the open door he saw Jackie in the living room, wearing one of his shirts open to the waist, naked underneath, with his wallet in her hand.

  ‘What’s what?’ he asked.

  ‘This?’ She held up a plastic evidence bag.

  Boyd jumped out of bed, the thud of his feet on the floor resonating in his head. He pulled his trousers on over his boxers and moved towards her.

  ‘What gives you the right to go through my things?’ He swiped the bag from her and then his wallet. Scrunching the plastic bag back into the leather, he said, ‘Get dressed.’

  She placed a hand on his shoulder, pulled him close and ran her bare leg up along his.

  Pushing her away, Boyd turned and reached for the kettle. ‘I’ve to go to work.’

  He turned on the tap, the flow of water drowning out Jackie swearing and stamping through to the bedroom. He almost didn’t hear the doorbell.

  ‘Shit. Could that be McNally?’ he said.

  ‘If it is, he’s a greater detective than you are.’

  Jackie was dragging on her skin-tight jeans. Boyd lunged into the bedroom and grabbed her by the elbow.

  ‘It better not be. What are you playing at?’

  ‘Pity you weren’t this riled last night.’ She twisted away from his grip and pulled her top on over her head.

  Hastily he zipped up his trousers and dragged on a shirt.

  ‘Coward,’ she said, smoothing down her hair.

  The bell shrieked out a persistent ring.

  ‘Open the fucking door!’ Jackie shouted as she searched for her bag.

  Sighing loudly, Boyd did as he was told.

  A man he’d only ever seen in a mug shot stood outside. Darkly tanned, hair slicked back and wearing a black three-piece suit despite the morning heat. Jamie McNally reached in and punched Boyd in the face. He was slammed back against the wall and watched through a swelling eye as McNally stormed into his home.

  Gathering his wits quickly, Boyd followed. ‘I didn’t invite scum into my house. Get out or I’ll arrest you. Both of you.’

  Gripping Jackie by the wrist, McNally stuck his face into Boyd’s, but Boyd grabbed his tie and pulled him closer.

  ‘Get your hands off her and get the fuck out of Ragmullin. Otherwise, I promise I’ll have you behind bars. Assault of a detective, breaking and—’

  ‘You and whose fucking army?’ McNally broke free of Boyd’s grasp and pursed his lips into a snarl. ‘I’m back to help out a friend because you lot can’t do your fucking job. Do ya fucking hear me?’

  As spittle landed on his face, Boyd couldn’t stop himself; he lashed out, catching McNally on the side of the head.

  Before McNally could fall to the floor, Jackie clasped his arm and pushed him towards the door.

  ‘I’ll get you, you skinny fuck-face,’ McNally said over his shoulder.

  ‘You need to listen, Marcus,’ Jackie said. ‘Listen to what’s being said.’ And she followed McNally.

  ‘Jackie! Wait! Where…’

  But she was gone. With McNally. Had she a choice? Maybe he should have done more to protect her. Fuck.

  After slamming the door, Boyd leaned against it. He didn’t know what to make of the confrontation, and despite his confused feelings for Jackie, he feared for her. Why hadn’t he arrested McNally? Shit.

  Glancing at his reflection in the hall mirror, he knew he was going to have a serious black eye.

  He headed to the shower.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Lottie walked into the office.

  ‘Boyd!’ she yelled.

  ‘Yes?’ He entered, phone in hand.

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘What’re you on about?’

  Grabbing him by his shirtsleeve, she careened him back out the door and down the stairs to the deserted locker room. Leaning against her battered locker, she folded her arms and glared.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said with a sniff. ‘I can smell it. You’ve got the beginnings of a black eye and you’re twisting your hands like it’s going out of fashion.’

  It unsettled her that he wouldn’t look at her. His lips remained sealed.

  ‘Talk to me,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve fucked up.’ Boyd took a step back and sat on the wooden bench in the centre of the room.

  Lottie unfolded her arms and sat beside him. ‘That’s a new one.’

  ‘I’m serious. The photograph you pinned up in the incident room yesterday of the girl and the little boy…’

  ‘What about it?’ Lottie asked. This wasn’t what she’d expected.

  ‘It’s that girl you were looking for, isn’t it? The mother of Milot?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Where did you get the photo?’

  ‘Dan Russell. Remember I met with him yesterday; he eventually admitted that Mimoza was resident in the centre but that she’d disappeared with her son. There’s something not quite right…’ She stopped, recalling how Boyd had started the conversation. She stood up. ‘Wait a minute. How did you know that photo was of Mimoza? You’ve never met her. Have you?’

  Boyd ran trembling fingers through his hair. ‘I think… I think I might have met her. I’m not sure, but—’

  ‘Jesus, Boyd. Where? Is she okay? When did you see her?’

  Boyd’s shoulders slumped and he took out his wallet. From it he extracted a small plastic bag and handed it to her. She sat back beside him and turned it over in her hands.

  ‘What’s this? Evidence?’

  ‘It’s a message of some sort. Written on a piece of cloth. I can’t understand the language. You’ll need to get it translated and forensically analysed.’

  Lottie stared and waited for more.

  He said, ‘The other night, Wednesday I think, I got drunk with Kirby. We ended up at this place over on Hill Point.’

  ‘What place?’ She had a bad feeling about this.

  ‘Some sort of… brothel.’

  ‘For fucks sake, Boyd. You didn’t go in? Did you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You did?’ The reality hit her like a slap in the face. ‘And Mimoza… she was there?’

  ‘I didn’t know who she was at the time. Nothing happened… I think… I’m sure. I left.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  Lottie struggled to sideline her feelings for Boyd and the fact that he’d visited a whorehouse. Jesus! Mimoza’s well-being was the most important thing now. But Russell had said she was in the DPC, so how could she be in a brothel? Bracing herself to be shocked, she immediately switched into professional mode.

&nb
sp; ‘Tell me about the girl and how you got this note.’

  And Boyd told her.

  * * *

  Boyd parked the car and led Lottie to the apartment where the brothel was located. Normal life was evident around her. Children on bicycles, squealing. Two women chatting across a yard through open windows. A man with his head under the raised bonnet of a car while a little boy handed him tools from a plastic container. Daily routines continued while evil lurked behind closed doors, she thought, as Boyd climbed the steps of a grimy-looking block of flats.

  ‘You know I should have brought Lynch or someone else with me besides you. Both of us could end up in deep shit,’ she said as Boyd pressed his finger to the bell. They waited a while but there was no answer.

  Lottie put her hand to the door. It creaked inwards. Glancing back over her shoulder at Boyd, she stepped into the hallway.

  ‘Hello? Anyone home?’ she shouted. Her voice echoed back at her.

  ‘Lottie…’

  ‘Shh.’ Putting her finger to her lips, she stepped further into the gloom.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ Boyd said.

  She went into the room at the end of the hall. Empty. Up the stairs, Boyd trailing. They tried each of the doors.

  ‘No one home, so,’ he said.

  Was he relieved? Scowling, she asked, ‘Which room was she in?’

  He indicated the open door. ‘I was on the stairs. I didn’t—’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t even try to justify your actions.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘Jesus, how do men come into dingy places like this?’

  She pulled on protective gloves. After giving the room a quick check, she lifted back the sheet, tugged it from the end of the mattress. As she shook it out, she noticed the ripped hem.

  ‘She wrote on a piece of this.’ There was nothing under the bed or in the room to warrant further investigation. ‘I don’t suppose it’s worth getting forensics in here.’

  Boyd just shrugged, head drooping. ‘I doubt it. But what spooked them to leave?’

  ‘You, Boyd. You did. You leaving your wallet behind. God damn it. How are we going to find her now?’