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

by Patricia Gibney

Lottie kept shaking her head. She couldn’t waste time listening to him.

  ‘When was the last time you laid eyes on Lily?’ Boyd said.

  ‘I don’t know if I can answer that with any accuracy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She was often in the village. She sometimes played with the Bannon boys. So I don’t rightly know when I last saw her.’

  ‘Yesterday, maybe?’ Lottie said.

  The priest leaned his chin on one finger dramatically. ‘I can’t say for certain.’

  ‘You’re refusing to answer me?’

  ‘I’m saying I can’t say for sure when I last saw her.’

  Lottie made for the door.

  Boyd said, ‘A young man took his own life a few weeks ago in Doon forest, by the lake. Did you know Robert Brady?’

  With her hand on the door, she watched as the drama drained out of Father Curran’s face.

  ‘That name is unfamiliar to me.’

  He clamped his lips shut and showed them out without another word. He didn’t need to say a thing. His face told her he had uttered a lie.

  Chapter Thirty

  After leaving the village, Boyd drove them to Fiona’s rented house in Ragmullin. It was situated in an upmarket area, on the Dublin side of the town. Constructed in the last ten years, its garden was still unfinished, with cement blocks and sand piled into one corner beneath a dusting of snow. A deflated yellow football lay inside the wall. Builders were working on new houses to the rear.

  Lottie pulled on a forensic suit and went inside. McKeown was busy searching through a cabinet in the living room and Kirby was mooching around in the kitchen.

  ‘Find anything?’ she said.

  ‘It’s very bare,’ Kirby replied. ‘Anyone could have lived here and you wouldn’t know a thing about them. No photos or posters. Not even in Lily’s room. No personal effects or jewellery either.’

  ‘Fiona was getting married and moving out,’ Lottie said. ‘Maybe she already had her stuff in the cottage.’

  McKeown looked up from his task, perspiration glistening on his pate. ‘We’ve been through the cottage already. There’s nothing there that could belong to Fiona or her daughter. We only came across male clothes and stuff.’

  ‘Any sign of her wedding dress?’

  ‘It’s upstairs. Hanging on the front of an almost empty wardrobe,’ Kirby said.

  ‘Then the dress she was found in had to have been brought by the killer into the abbey. How did no one notice it?’ Lottie folded one arm around her waist and rested the other on top.

  ‘It could have been hidden in a patient’s room, or another staff member’s locker.’

  ‘Have you checked out the staff?’

  ‘Yes. All accounted for from the start of Fiona’s shift to the fall from the roof,’ McKeown said.

  ‘It’s not a very secure building. Anyone could have walked in,’ Kirby pointed out.

  ‘With a wedding dress hanging over their arm?’ McKeown scowled. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I was just saying,’ Kirby said.

  Now wasn’t the time to reprimand him over the photo under Fiona’s locker, though Lottie itched to have it out with him. No, finding the little girl safe was more important. She picked up a bundle of newspapers from a chair. Five copies of the local paper, the Tribune.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said, flicking through them.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘There are quite a few here.’

  ‘Maybe she forgot to put out her recycling bin.’

  ‘You’re missing my point, Kirby.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Lottie put down the papers. ‘I don’t know.’

  As she went up the stairs, she was still bothered by the newspapers. In what she supposed was Fiona’s bedroom, she saw the off-white wedding dress hanging on the wardrobe. Full-length, long-sleeved, with a high neck and pearl buttons down the back. A very different style to the one in which the body had been found. Wedding dress retailers needed to be checked out, to trace its purchase.

  She opened the wardrobe door. Finding very little inside, she scanned her eyes over the room. Impersonal. That was the word that sprang to mind. Also, bare.

  In Lily’s room, she used the same word again. Plain pink duvet cover and pillowcases. Matching curtains. Her clothes were neatly hung up and her shoes arranged in a row beneath the window. There did not seem to be enough clothes for a child of her age, even though there were plenty at Colin Kavanagh’s house. McKeown had said there was only male clothing at the cottage. Where was all their stuff?

  Two books on the bedside cabinet; no toys. Lottie felt her heart lurch as she thought of her grandson’s toys. She immediately felt sorry for a child she’d never met. She hoped desperately that no harm had come to the little girl.

  Back downstairs, she told Kirby to bag the newspapers. ‘Are you nearly finished?’

  ‘There’s nothing here, boss,’ he said.

  ‘I know, and that’s what’s bothering me.’

  It was well into the afternoon by the time Lottie and the team gathered in the incident room. She recapped the last thirty-odd hours.

  ‘Regarding Cara Dunne, have we anything back from forensics on fingerprints or DNA?’

  ‘It’s too soon,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Keep on at them.’ She stifled a yawn. Food! She needed to eat, and soon. ‘Toxicology reports are pending on both Cara and Fiona’s bodies too.’

  ‘We found nothing at Fiona’s house except the wedding dress.’ Kirby said.

  ‘Yes, apart from the wedding dresses, the only other connection between our victims is that Fiona was a nurse at Ballydoon Abbey and Cara Dunne regularly visited a sick nun there. We need to clarify whether the two women ever met or talked. Then we have the missing locks of hair from each body and the locks of hair recovered on or in the possessions of both women.’

  ‘Explain, please,’ Kirby said.

  Lottie pointed to the photographs. ‘This lock of blonde hair was found in the underwear of Fiona Heffernan. In her bra, to be exact. It has been sent for analysis, but to the naked eye it looks like Cara’s. The state pathologist has confirmed that a section of Cara’s hair had been clipped from the base of her skull. She also found that a lock of Fiona’s long black hair had been cut from her head. That has yet to be found.’

  ‘Perhaps it will be on the next victim,’ McKeown said.

  Lottie stared at him to see if he was making a joke, but his face was serious.

  ‘It’s likely Robert Brady was the first victim,’ Boyd said, eyeing McKeown.

  ‘I’m coming to Brady,’ Lottie said, and turned to the room. ‘Boyd and I searched Cara’s flat earlier. There we found, in the folds of her nightdress, a lock of ginger hair. It’s possible it came from Robert Brady.’

  ‘I worked that case,’ McKeown said. ‘Everything pointed to suicide.’

  ‘I need a fresh pair of eyes on it. Kirby, find out all you can about Brady. If he was the first to die at the hands of this killer, there has to be a link to Cara and indeed Fiona.’

  ‘We can’t even find a link between the two women, apart from the fact that they both had a slip of hair cut off and were dressed in wedding gowns,’ Kirby grumbled.

  Lottie folded her arms and leaned against the wall. ‘There has to be something, however inconsequential it may appear to be.’

  McKeown stood and walked to the board. He stood beside Lottie, the minute stubble on his head sparkling under the artificial light. He loosened his tie and pointed to a photograph of the abbey.

  ‘Fiona worked there. Cara visited a patient there. Who did you say she was?’

  ‘Sister Augusta. I interviewed her earlier.’ Lottie straightened her back. ‘See if you can link Brady to the abbey too.’

  ‘Right, boss.’ McKeown returned to his seat, stretching his long legs out in a gap between two tables.

  ‘The state pathologist has confirmed that a lock of hair was found in Robert Brady’s pocket,’ Lottie said.
‘In light of the current cases, it’s likely he did not commit suicide.’ She eyed McKeown pointedly. He didn’t blink.

  ‘If we follow that line of thought,’ he said, his voice deadpan, ‘there could even be a victim before Robert Brady.’

  ‘It’s possible, but we have no idea who that hair belonged to,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Right,’ McKeown lowered his head. ‘I might have missed something on the Brady case, so I’ve started to rework it. Before you assigned it to Kirby, I may add. I found an article in the Tribune. The issue published the week after Brady’s body was found has a photograph of the scene. The photograph is credited to Ryan Slevin.’

  Boyd bolted up straight. ‘There you have your link.’

  ‘What link?’ Kirby said, as if waking up from a slumber.

  ‘Ryan Slevin took the photograph of the Brady scene,’ Boyd said, ‘and then his fiancée is murdered and her child goes missing.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking,’ McKeown said.

  Boyd shot a glance at McKeown and Lottie wondered if there was animosity between her detectives. She hadn’t time for infighting. Turning her attention to the board, she said, ‘Do we have a photograph of Brady?’

  ‘I’ll get one,’ McKeown said.

  ‘Any update on the search for Lily Heffernan?’

  ‘The super is gung-ho on press releases and television appeals. No sighting of the kid as yet, and we found no clues at the house. All the teachers, parents and pupils at her school have been interviewed, as has everyone connected with the after-school club and the dance school. Nothing so far.’

  Lottie thought for a moment. ‘Giles Bannon is the manager of the dance school. He’s married to Zoe, Ryan Slevin’s sister. Ryan was to marry Fiona today.’

  ‘Everyone is related to everyone else in small towns and villages,’ Kirby said.

  ‘I know, but I want Bannon interviewed.’

  ‘I interviewed him this morning,’ McKeown said, ‘after Shelly Forde.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Bannon was in his office sending emails at the end of the dance class. If we need to dig further, we’ll have to secure a court order to seize his computer and phone.’

  ‘But where was he when Fiona met her death? Where was he when Cara was strung up?’ Lottie turned to the board, lacking in photographs of suspects. ‘He’s a person of interest in Fiona’s death now. Boyd, call him in. I want to personally interview him. Say it’s a follow-up on Lily.’

  ‘Right,’ Boyd said.

  ‘And Shelly Forde. Did she have anything enlightening to say?’

  ‘Nothing to add. Just the same stuff about the rush of kids at pick-up time. And the register only being signed by some parents. She didn’t see anything unusual and she has no recollection of Lily leaving the theatre.’

  Lottie said, ‘Trevor Toner mentioned he thought he saw someone hanging around the theatre during the class. Anyone else mention that?’

  ‘No,’ McKeown said.

  ‘When I spoke to Sister Augusta earlier, she said, “It’s all about the child.” I think it’s worth bearing that in mind.’

  ‘Something to do with Father Curran?’ Boyd said.

  ‘Who is Father Curran?’ Kirby said.

  ‘He’s Ballydoon’s parish priest. He was to officiate at the marriage of Fiona and Ryan. He comes across as old-school Catholic. But when I asked if he knew Robert Brady, he clammed up. See what you can find out about him.’

  Kirby scribbled a note.

  ‘I also want a background check on Colin Kavanagh,’ Lottie added as she sorted her files and papers into a bundle. ‘And make sure we get a DNA sample from Steve O’Carroll.’

  ‘Right, boss,’ Kirby said. ‘What about the wedding dress?’

  Lottie gathered the files to her chest and thought for a moment.

  ‘McKeown, find out where Cara bought her wedding dress. See if the one she was wearing was hers or something the killer brought with him. And find out where Fiona bought her dress, then trace the dress she was discovered in. Maybe it will lead us to her killer.’

  Or it could be like a star in the sky, she thought. Something you know is there but is totally unreachable.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Beth parked her car outside the garage her father had owned for twenty-something years. He’d only closed it down last year, citing loss of earnings, with no one interested in buying second-hand cars any longer. The boom had returned for some people, but not all, she thought sadly.

  As she stepped onto the pavement, she was surprised to see a man walk from behind the building and head for a silver BMW.

  She coughed loudly into her hands and rubbed them together.

  ‘Cold day,’ she said redundantly.

  The man stopped walking.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She had no idea why he was snooping around the garage.

  ‘It’s very cold indeed.’ He zapped the lock open and made to sit into the car.

  She noticed it had a current registration. Doing the figures in her head, she reckoned it was worth about fifty grand. Probably more if he had all the bells and whistles in it, which he most likely had.

  ‘Were you looking for Christy Clarke?’ She moved closer to the glistening monstrosity of German engineering.

  ‘I was. But he’s not there. Do you happen to know where I might find him?’

  She was about to say she was Christy’s daughter, but a knot twisted in her gut and stopped her. He must know who she was, but she wasn’t giving him any advantage. Her journalistic senses were on the highest alert.

  ‘Can I give him a message from you?’ She was trying to draw him out.

  He waved her away. ‘It’s okay. I’ll track him down myself.’

  As she watched him drive away, she wondered why Colin Kavanagh was looking for her father.

  After finding Christy’s car parked at the rear of the garage, Beth made her way inside and called out, ‘Dad? Are you in here?’

  Her voice echoed back at her. She flicked a switch and the light tube flickered a couple of times before the showroom was bathed in brightness.

  ‘Dad?’

  No answer.

  She made her way around the cars, wondering why they hadn’t been offloaded when the garage had closed, or why the bank hadn’t repossessed them. The door to the office was shut. She put her hand on the handle but didn’t depress it. Some internal warning system was clanging bells in her head, telling her to turn away. To run. To get the hell out.

  She laid her ear against the door and listened. Silence.

  ‘Dad? Are you in there? I’ve been worried sick about you.’

  She had no idea why she was talking to a wooden door. Stalling. She was the only living being in here. Now what had made her think that? But she knew. She knew before she opened the door that something horrific was on the other side.

  Taking a deep breath, she swallowed her fear and entered the office.

  The scream left her before she knew she had even opened her lips. A surge of vomit shot from her stomach to her mouth and she clamped a hand firmly there, keeping it from spewing outwards. Swallowing the acidic liquid, she found she was rooted to the spot. The urge to run to her father’s side was overwhelming, but she couldn’t move.

  She sank to her knees and pulled her phone out of her pocket. Then she dialled 999.

  The garage door was guarded by a uniformed officer, while another garda hunkered down beside the young woman who was seated in the squad car. Lottie jumped from the car before Boyd had time to pull the handbrake. She raced over to the squad car.

  ‘Beth,’ she said, addressing the tearful girl. ‘I think you should see a doctor. You’ve had an awful shock.’

  When the two red eyes cut through her, Lottie turned and walked to the garage.

  The uniformed garda signed her in.

  ‘No one enters unless I say so,’ she told him. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  The garage was old-fashioned. No moder
n double-height glass walls with coffee machines and reception desks here. It was obvious even to someone who knew little or nothing about cars, as she did, that Clarke’s Garage had been unable to compete with the glossy showrooms in Ragmullin. She noticed, however, three Mercedes lined up along one wall and two BMWs at the other end. Not old bangers then. Odd.

  ‘What type of car business did Clarke run?’ she asked Boyd.

  ‘High-end, if this lot is anything to go by.’

  ‘You’d imagine when he closed down that he’d have sold the cars.’

  ‘Perhaps the bank took the garage and left everything here.’ Boyd glanced around, his eyes gleaming as he inclined his head to look in the window of the nearest Mercedes. ‘Or maybe he was just a useless businessman.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lottie said. ‘Where’s the body?’

  Boyd led the way to a door to their left. A man with a medical bag in his hand was on his way out.

  ‘I confirmed the death,’ he said and kept walking.

  ‘Who is he?’ Lottie said to the uniformed garda standing at the office door.

  ‘Local GP. We called him when the body was discovered.’

  ‘And Beth found the deceased?’

  ‘Yes, the young lady called 999. I was first on the scene. She was in a bad way.’

  ‘She was inside the office?’

  ‘On her knees at the door. Poor thing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lottie said, and entered the office.

  The man lying across the chair was definitely dead. That much she could see from the lack of a face. Blood spatter on the wall behind him.

  ‘Gunshot?’ she said.

  ‘There’s a shotgun by his hand,’ Boyd said. ‘McGlynn is on his way.’

  ‘We’d better not venture in any further. McGlynn will have my guts for garters.’

  ‘You’re right there. But there’ve been plenty of people traipsing through here in the last few minutes; he’d have no reason to have a spat with you in particular.’

  Lottie scanned everything that was visible to the naked eye. ‘I’d be inclined to call it a suicide, but after the two murders yesterday, we can’t be sure, can we?’