Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7)

by Patricia Gibney

  She’d have to check the locker room herself, Lottie thought. ‘Thanks, Jane.’

  ‘That’s not what I brought you out in this awful weather for, though.’

  A tingle began between her shoulder blades as she watched the pathologist move to the top of the table to stand behind the victim’s head.

  ‘Join me,’ Jane said.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ Lottie peered at Fiona Heffernan’s long dark hair.

  Spreading it out in a fan, Jane said, ‘Do you notice anything?’

  Lottie shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what I’m supposed to see.’

  Parting the hair further, Jane pointed to a section close to the right-hand side of the skull. ‘See there?’

  ‘Yes!’ Lottie peered closer. ‘There’s a clump of hair missing. Did someone pull it out?’

  ‘No.’ Jane moved her fingers closer to the scalp.

  Lottie could see what the pathologist meant. ‘Someone cut out a piece of her hair?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Lottie exhaled. ‘Perhaps she did it herself?’

  ‘The lack of growth tells me this was done just before death.’

  ‘She cut a chunk of her own hair and then threw herself off the roof?’

  ‘Did you find a chunk of hair, as you call it?’ Jane said.

  Lottie eyed Boyd over her mask. He was lounging at the door, having failed to venture any further. She wondered why. He wasn’t usually squeamish. ‘Can you find out?’

  He said, ‘I’ll check with SOCOs, but I don’t think any hair was found.’

  ‘The body was clothed in a wedding dress and underwear. Bra and knickers,’ Jane said. She moved to a bench and picked up a small plastic evidence bag. ‘I found this lodged in the victim’s bra.’

  ‘That looks like hair,’ Lottie said, taking the bag. ‘Human?’

  ‘It is,’ Jane said.

  ‘Fiona’s?’ Lottie asked, but she knew it did not belong to the woman on the cutting table.

  ‘It’s blonde.’

  ‘Whose?’ Lottie suspected that Jane knew, because her eyes were twinkling with excitement.

  ‘I can’t be sure without a DNA match, and there are no roots with which to carry out analysis …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But to my eye, it looks very like Cara Dunne’s hair.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus. What the hell?’ Lottie stared over at Boyd, who looked as dumbfounded as she felt.

  ‘Come with me,’ Jane said. She walked briskly towards an adjoining room and pointed Lottie in the direction of a second body. Cara, with her chest neatly stitched up. Standing at the woman’s head, Jane parted the hair and held up the evidence bag.

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Lottie felt her head buzzing with this new information. ‘Someone cut a piece of Cara Dunne’s hair, and that same piece of hair was found on Fiona Heffernan’s body.’

  ‘Seems so.’

  ‘And there’s a piece of Fiona’s hair missing that you have yet to find?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Lottie’s brain whirred in confusion. ‘We’d better do a fingertip search of the abbey. If we don’t find Fiona’s hair there, then it could be that someone else is a target, or … there’s already a third body somewhere.’

  ‘And if you have a third body, you have—’ Boyd began.

  ‘A serial killer.’ Lottie turned to look at him.

  ‘That’s not all,’ Jane said.

  ‘Shit.’

  At an evidence drawer, the pathologist extracted yet another tiny bag.

  ‘More hair?’ Lottie felt her jaw slacken. ‘Where did that come from?’ She examined the hair through the transparent plastic. ‘It’s not blonde like Cara’s, or jet black like Fiona’s. It’s kind of a dirty brown. This doesn’t make any sense.’

  Jane filed the sample back in the drawer. ‘Follow me.’

  Lottie walked in the pathologist’s footsteps to her office, Boyd trailing in their wake.

  Jane clicked on the computer. ‘We had a suicide victim. Found two weeks ago. Robert Brady, aged thirty-six.’

  ‘Out at Lough Doon,’ Lottie recalled.

  ‘Yes. He was found suspended from a tree in the forest. He’d been there maybe a week. The attending doctor deemed it suicide immediately and the body was cut down and brought here for a post-mortem. As no foul play was suspected, I was not involved.’

  ‘What has this got to do with my victims?’

  ‘The post-mortem was carried out by my assistant.’

  ‘Tim Jones?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m at a loss to know where this is headed, Jane.’

  ‘Tim agreed on suicide. Plain and simple. He brought me the file to ensure he’d done all that was required. I read it and agreed. Nothing suspicious. The only odd thing was the handful of brownish hair found in the pocket of the trousers.’

  ‘Did it belong to the dead man?’

  ‘I don’t know. It wasn’t suspicious at the time, and he’s well buried now. But when I discovered that locks of hair had been cut from Cara and Fiona, I remembered that detail.’

  Lottie leaned back in her chair, stared at the cracked ceiling. After a few seconds, she lowered her eyes to look into Jane’s. ‘Was any of the victim’s hair cut off?’

  ‘It wasn’t noted in the post-mortem report.’

  ‘Can I see the report?’

  ‘I’ll email it to you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She stood up and moved to the door. ‘What do you think we’re dealing with here, Jane?’

  ‘I actually have no idea.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The young woman standing at reception grabbed Lottie as she was keying in the code to enter the bowels of the station.

  ‘Hey, let go.’ Lottie twisted her arm, bracing herself for an attack.

  ‘You’re Detective Lottie Parker.’ The young woman dropped her hand.

  ‘Detective Inspector, if you must know.’

  ‘Can I have a word? Just for a minute.’

  Lottie glanced at the desk sergeant, who shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m awfully busy. Make your complaint at the desk.’

  ‘It’s not a complaint. I tried ringing earlier.’

  Lottie squinted at the young woman. She was dressed in a green parka jacket, the furry hood resting on narrow shoulders. She’d seen her somewhere. Recently? She wasn’t sure.

  ‘Are you a reporter?’

  ‘Yes, Beth Clarke. I work at the Tribune. That’s not why I’m here, though. Please. Just a minute of your time.’

  Lottie acceded to the request with a shrug. She told Boyd to go on ahead as she opened a door to her right. A small interview room, more like a cupboard, used mainly for form-filling.

  When they were seated, the room clouded with whatever scent Beth Clarke was wearing. Lottie welcomed the fact that it distilled the odour of death clinging to her skin from the mortuary.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ She studied the emotions flickering across the young woman’s face. This was a mistake. Why was she a sucker for distressed individuals? ‘Beth, I’d appreciate it if you told me why you’re here. As I said, I’m extremely busy.’

  ‘It’s my d-dad. I c-can’t find him.’

  Oh, here we go again, Lottie thought. She was about to direct the young woman out to the front desk, but something stopped her. A yearning in her eyes. They were so inky, they were almost black. What was really troubling Beth Clarke?

  ‘Your dad? What’s his name?’

  ‘Christy. Christy Clarke. He was at home last night when I went to bed … at least I think he was. But he wasn’t there this morning.’

  ‘And where do you live?’

  ‘Ballydoon village. Dad owns the pig farm on Doon Road. Do you know it?’

  ‘Is it close to the abbey?’

  ‘Our farm backs onto it. There’s been a lot of trouble over run-off – effluent – seeping into the river, but Dad is adamant it’s not coming from our place.’

 
Lottie’s inquisitive brain wanted to ask about the trouble, but she had to get to the crux of the matter. Beth seemed a little more relaxed now.

  ‘What age is your dad?’

  ‘He’s … I’m not sure. Fifty-five or something. Old, anyway …’

  Lottie grimaced. ‘Is your mother at home?’

  Beth’s pale cheeks flared bright red. She dropped her head. ‘My mother left us, years ago. I think she ran off with another man.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to be sorry. I try not to think of her, if I’m honest. Apparently she’s back now. Living in Ragmullin. I don’t want to talk about her, though.’

  ‘No problem.’ Lottie folded her arms. ‘Have you looked around for your dad?’

  ‘He’s not in the house or on the farm. There’s no sign of his car, either. I asked in the village and I even went to the garage my dad used to run. It’s closed down now but he’s not there anyway.’

  ‘Look, Beth. I don’t want to sound heartless, but your dad is a mature adult and has probably just gone off to clear his head for a few hours. He might be here in town, or he could have gone to Dublin for the day. Why don’t you go home and wait for him? Keep ringing his phone. I’m sure he’ll contact you eventually.’

  Beth stood up so quickly the table shuddered in the confined space. ‘You don’t understand. He’s been under so much pressure lately. The taxman’s been hounding him. He can’t balance the books. The pigs are neglected. He’s neglecting himself. He’s hardly left the house in weeks except to go to the shop in the village. This is totally out of character and—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lottie held up her hand, ‘but he has to be missing for at least forty-eight hours before we can class him as a missing person. Go home and wait.’ She knew it sounded harsh, but she had murders to deal with, and a missing child. Standing, she said, ‘I hope you understand.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Spittle landed on Lottie’s chest from the angry young woman. ‘You have alerts out for the little girl. Why can’t you do it for my dad?’

  ‘It’s different for children. You’re a reporter. You know the way things work. If you’re that concerned, why don’t you put his photo on your Facebook page and get your friends to share it. I’m sure someone will spot him.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  The door slammed.

  Lottie remained standing in the small room for a moment, the sound reverberating in her ears. She knew she should be heading up to the incident room to digest Jane Dore’s information, but instead she ran to the front door of the station. Beth was nowhere to be seen. Before she knew what she was doing, she was standing at the counter in the offices of the Tribune.

  ‘Can I speak with Beth Clarke, please.’ She showed her ID.

  The young woman looked behind her to the open-plan office, where files and newspapers were strewn in bundles over the floor. ‘Anyone seen Beth?’

  ‘I’m here.’ Beth Clarke came out of a door marked Toilet. ‘What are you following me for?’

  ‘I want to ask you about Ryan Slevin.’ Lottie noticed the older man in the corner raise his head.

  ‘Ryan’s not in,’ Beth said. ‘His fiancée died yesterday, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Can you confirm that he was at work yesterday?’

  The older man stood. ‘I’m the senior editor here. Nick Downes. Yes, Ryan was in yesterday, though he left early.’

  ‘How early? Why?’

  Downes shrugged. ‘Something to do with his wedding. Can you remember what time it was, Beth?’

  ‘Afternoon sometime.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You should ask him yourself.’

  ‘Is he here today?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Beth said, and moved away from the desk.

  ‘Tell me, Beth, in your opinion, was Ryan in love with Fiona?’

  ‘That’s a funny question. He was getting married, wasn’t he?’

  ‘People get married for all sorts of reasons, not necessarily love.’

  ‘Gosh, you are one cynical woman.’

  Lottie bristled. ‘I’m trying to get a picture of the man who was about to marry a young woman who has died suddenly.’

  ‘Looks to me like you want to fit him up.’ Beth sat at a desk piled high with newspapers and rested her feet on a bundle on the floor.

  ‘Beth,’ Lottie said. She wished she didn’t have to talk over the counter, but no one seemed eager to let her into the general office. ‘I’m sorry you can’t find your dad. I know you’re mad at me, and I understand, but I can’t do anything at the moment.’

  ‘I’ll look for him myself.’

  ‘He could be back at home now, for all you know.’

  ‘He’d ring me if he was. I left enough messages. Years ago, my mother left me in the dead of night. Dad saw what that did to me. I don’t believe for one second he would do the same.’ Beth’s eyes flared before she turned back to her desk and switched on her computer.

  ‘Are you any relation to Eve Clarke?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  There was nothing further to be gained here. Lottie turned on her heel and made her way out onto the street. The thought she carried with her back to the station was that Beth Clarke was hiding something. She was either covering for Ryan Slevin or holding a candle for him. Either way, Lottie would find out.

  At the station, Boyd directed Lottie to the interview room.

  ‘Steve O’Carroll, Cara’s ex-fiancé, is waiting for us.’

  ‘With his solicitor?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Boyd made the introductions for the recording and Lottie studied the man seated on the other side of the table. O’Carroll had his hair tied back. His suit was black and his shirt white, worn like a uniform – pressed and pristine. He was thirty-seven, according to the copy of his passport in front of her.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to this chat, Mr O’Carroll,’ she said.

  ‘You needn’t think I’m going to be taken in by your chumminess. I know how this works.’

  ‘Are you happy to begin without your solicitor?’ She saw his eyebrow arch and knew he was consumed with curiosity. He wanted to know what she knew. She would have to be careful not to fall into his trap.

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Right so. You’ve worked at the Railway Hotel for how many years?’

  ‘It’s all here.’ He handed over his employment record, which he’d brought with him.

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been there eight years. Good place to work?’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘You began as a barman and are now assistant manager. No manager vacancies come up?’

  He squirmed on the chair, but his lips turned up in a smile. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Ever thought of trying a different hotel? Some of the big ones up in Dublin or over in London?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Is this relevant?’

  ‘I’m just curious.’ She was trying to get a handle on his personality, and so far, he was giving nothing away: his hands on his lap beneath the table, his face grim as a headstone.

  ‘Don’t waste your time on me, Inspector. I had nothing to do with Cara’s death.’

  ‘How long had you known Cara Dunne?’

  ‘Maybe three years.’

  ‘You were engaged to her.’ A statement.

  ‘I was.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘A year.’

  ‘And you broke up three months ago, is that correct?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were no longer compatible.’

  ‘How did you reach that conclusion?’

  ‘Is this relevant?’ he asked for a second time.

  ‘Answer me and I’ll know.’

  After a sigh, he trained his eyes on a spot above her head and said, ‘She changed. Became possessive and a right nag. Bossing me around about the wedding and st
uff. We argued. End of story.’

  ‘So you broke it off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did Cara take that?’

  ‘Not very well.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘As far as I know, she’d been off work since. Took up religion big-time.’

  ‘And how do you know all this? Was she in contact with you?’

  ‘She never left me alone. Every single day. Calls. Texts.’

  ‘Did she harass you at work?’

  He ran a hand over his mouth and nose and sniffed, then replaced his hand under the table. ‘No. She never called to the hotel. She’d booked it for our reception. I asked her to slow down. But no. Full steam ahead she went, like a runaway train.’

  ‘It all became too much for you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why did you propose to her in the first place?’

  A slight smirk itched at the corner of his lips. ‘I got walked into it, didn’t I? A few drinks one night, and she says how nice it’d be to have a ring on her finger. I agreed, thinking I was in love. Wrong. She focused on this mad wedding, saving like mad; wouldn’t even go out for a drink with me. If I’m honest, she became a boring wagon.’

  Lottie cringed at his choice of words, but let it slide. ‘Surely you knew her well enough before then?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Cara was a thorn in your side. You did something about it and—’

  ‘Hold on there a minute.’ He smacked the table. ‘I never said that. Don’t be jumping to the wrong conclusions.’

  It was the first real emotion Lottie had seen from him. Consternation, or fear?

  She picked up a copy of his clocking record from the hotel. ‘You clocked in at ten o’clock yesterday morning. Where were you before then?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘What time did you get up?’

  ‘Jesus, I don’t know. The usual. Eight o’clock.’

  ‘And what did you do from eight a.m. until ten?’

  ‘Had a wank, jumped in the shower. Then I got dressed. Cooked my breakfast and ate it. Washed the dishes and left for work.’

  ‘Did you drive or walk to work?’ She knew he lived on the outskirts of town. An easy ten-minute walk, but taking account of the bad weather, more like fifteen.

  ‘I drove. I’ve my own parking space in the yard.’