She listened to the long pause, his breathing soft and gentle.
‘Do you ever have doubts, Joe?’
‘I went through a crisis of faith once and had to take a sabbatical. It helped.’
‘The time you found out about your mother?’
‘Before that. About eight or nine years ago. I was going through a difficult time. I left the priesthood for a year.’
‘What did you do?’ she said. ‘Sow your wild oats?’
‘I had a good time. Met some nice women, if you want to know. But I missed the Church. I returned refreshed.’
‘That’s good.’
‘You never make anything easy for yourself. Talk to Boyd. No point in beating yourself up when you don’t have the whole picture.’
‘Thanks, Joe.’
‘I wasn’t being cynical.’
‘I wasn’t either. Honestly, thank you. It’s good to talk.’
‘You’d better get some sleep. I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘About Boyd?’
‘No, about Father Curran,’ he laughed.
‘Oh, right. Thanks. Goodnight, Joe.’
She sat with the phone in her hand and thought about the conversation she’d just had. But her mind was like a reel of unconnected wires. She couldn’t find the end of one to help unravel the lot. Just like my life, she thought, her eyelids weighing heavy.
Chapter Forty
He walked around in a tight circle. Cold air followed in his wake. The windows rattled as rain pelted against them. The snowstorm had turned and the rain didn’t seem to be letting up any time soon.
Reaching across the bench, he pulled the stand towards him. His table. His worktop. He chuckled to himself as he took a mouthful of coffee. It had cooled sufficiently so as not to burn his sensitive mouth. Setting the mug down, he thought that perhaps he should buy a fancy coffee machine. One of those ones that used little pods. The coffee always smelled nicer out of them. But he knew he could never afford a proper one. A jar of instant and a kettle would have to do.
He stretched his legs and flexed his ankles one way then the other. He needed the blood to flow more freely before he began. He’d once had a Fitbit. It was good to keep him abreast of his health and activity. All the kids had them. An accessory, as much as their phones. But he’d got rid of it. He didn’t trust anything that could monitor your movements, with or without your consent.
Settling on the wooden chair at his bench, he pinned the wire into the stand with the latest specimen before him. Carefully he opened the plastic bag and extracted the prize.
Ah, it was as beautiful as the others.
He took up the wire figurine and began his work.
*
It never left me. That first day at school and what that teacher did to me. And the next day, and the next. It went on and on.
The second day was far worse than the first. I remember it was raining and none of the kids could go outside for the lunch break. I was able to swallow the banana, the only thing in my lunch box. I’d have loved some orange squash to wash it down, but I had none and no one offered me a sip of theirs. A loud snip caused me to glance towards the head of the room. She stood there, beckoning me with the scissors. I looked around, hoping she was silently calling someone else. She caught my eye.
‘Yes, you. Up here. Now!’
The sound of munching and soft chatter died away with my footsteps as I approached her desk.
This time she pulled me to her side and made me face the room.
‘No one comes into my classroom with lice in their hair. Nits multiply by the millions. I don’t want to go home scratching my head for the weekend.’ She held up the scissors, the steel glinting under the light bulb. I felt the coldness against the back of my neck; felt the tug of hair on my scalp. And I heard the snip as she hacked at my hair. Uneven chunks fell to the floor and I tried in vain to hold my cries in my throat. The other kids laughed. One loud burst of noise. I dug my hands in my trouser pockets to keep them from flying to my ears.
I knew that one day someone would pay for it. People think little children don’t remember things that far back in their lives, but I can say that it is those incidents that have defined me. Her actions have moulded me into what I am today.
Oh, I kept the feelings dormant for a long time, but it was the humiliation at the hands of another that awakened the latent need in my being. The need to seek redemption. People will flounder around like goldfish in a bowl looking for the answer. And when they find it, the revelation will come too late. That’s when they will realise they are swimming in a bowl that’s too small for them. They will know that I can watch them through the smeared glass. I will have the rod out and waiting. Not to catch them. Oh no, that would be too simple. I have better plans for them. For all of them.
They will never again humiliate another human being.
They will never break another vow.
Fucking goldfish.
Chapter Forty-One
Friday
The night felt like it had been one long day, as Lottie waited for the sun to come up. It defied her by refusing to appear. Rain had fallen incessantly during the night, and everywhere was wet but still bitterly cold.
Sitting on the damp kerbstone, she pulled her knees up to her chin like a child. Probably get flu, she thought, but she’d worry about that when or if it happened. At least she had overcome the episode with the wine. Had shoved the bottle into the furthest corner of the cupboard. Her sleep had been restless but she’d remained sober. Thanks to Father Joe.
Her husband, Adam, smiled at her from the engraved photograph on the headstone. The plot looked bare; even the birds had deserted the branches overhead. She’d come to wallow in the silence. To escape the confines of her house. Her family. To hide in the shade of the trees. But she’d forgotten, with the cemetery expansion, that most of the trees had been cut down. Without their shelter, an east wind cut across the field, blitzing the back of her head.
She pulled her jacket tighter around her and closed her eyes, feeling strangely comforted in this place of the dead. It was as if she had stepped out of her own reality and inhabited a few moments of existence in another universe. One where she could still talk to Adam and sit in the silence of her own thoughts. She hoped she was doing the right thing. Moving on. The drizzle became a downpour and her mind drifted out of the past because she knew she had too much to do in the present.
She stood, pressed a finger to her lips and then to the photo. She meandered towards the gate, up past the plot of little angels, glanced at new graves marked with wooden crosses, mounds of freshly dug clay turning to mud under the precipitation. The recently deceased, leaving their grieving families behind. Oh God, Lily, she thought as her heart thudded. She had to bring the little girl home, and not in a white box.
And after abandoning him in Ballydoon last night, she had to face Boyd.
‘What are you doing in there, Kirby?’ Lottie ran her hand through her hair and her fingers snagged in the damp, matted mess. She thought she might actually look worse than Kirby did. She banged twice on the car window before it whirred down.
‘Oh, good morning, boss,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I must have nodded off.’
‘At this hour of the morning? Is there something you’re not telling me?’ She spied dried ketchup in his hair, and the odour coming from the car was of unwashed flesh.
‘Not really. I’ll be inside soon. Just need to do a few things first.’
‘What on earth could you be doing out here, for God’s sake?’ She noticed that the back of his car was piled high. Pillows, a duvet and what looked like a suit jacket. He couldn’t be living in his car, could he?
‘Just give me a few minutes.’ He tried to straighten his tie, and she noticed he was still wearing yesterday’s shirt.
‘As long as you’re okay.’
‘I’m fine.’ The window whirred up and closed tightly.
Lottie walked away. She had enough problems without getti
ng involved in Kirby’s domestic woes. As she keyed in the code to gain access to the office, she already knew she would get involved. Kirby had been through so much in the last six months. Losing Gilly was tough; she knew grief could eat you up and spit you out just as quick. He needed someone to watch out for him; a kind word was sometimes all it took. Despite that, she had a feeling Kirby had spiralled well past the kind-word stage.
Boyd was sitting at his desk, head down, reading a report. Should she ignore him and sidestep into her own office? Or meet the beast head on?
He did not lift his head. So, he was pissed off.
‘Did you get home okay?’ she couldn’t resist asking.
‘No thanks to you.’ His head remained bowed. ‘I had to call a taxi and it cost me a fortune.’
‘If it’s any consolation, I’m sorry for leaving you there.’
‘You should be.’
‘Right.’ She took off her jacket and went to hang it up in her office. ‘I take it my apology is not accepted.’
‘Take it any way you like.’
She returned to his desk, leaned on it with both hands. ‘I got mad at you. That’s all. You’ve been acting indifferent recently. Skiving off to Galway. You won’t tell me why. Have you a girlfriend there and are afraid to dump me, is that it? What else am I to think?’
When he looked up at her, she stepped back. His usually bright hazel eyes were dull, circled with dark rings; his face was dragged down by his grey hue. Had he too slept in his car? Or was he missing his new girlfriend? Stop, Lottie, she told herself.
‘You left me out in that godforsaken place, Lottie, so I really don’t care what you think.’ He turned his attention back to whatever he’d been reading.
She wanted to bitch back. To say something smart or even hurtful, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, like it did when something scared the life out of her. And in this moment, Boyd was scaring her. She pivoted and marched into her office, slamming the door behind her and slumping onto her chair. Boyd and Kirby were acting so far outside normality, it was truly frightening. Something was going on. Something she was excluded from. And Lottie did not like being on the outside looking in.
Her desk phone rang.
‘I hope you’re having a better morning than I’m having, Jane.’ Lottie tapped her computer awake.
The pathologist had her official voice on full volume. ‘I’ve carried out some preliminary analysis on the hair specimens found on the bodies.’
‘What did you find?’ Lottie sat up straighter now.
‘I’ve no DNA matches or anything like that. It’s dead hair. But I can tell you this. The size of the specimens we have does not match the amount taken from the bodies.’
‘Explain, please.’ Lottie furrowed her brow.
‘It’s obvious that more hair was cut from Cara Dunne’s scalp than that which you found on Fiona Heffernan’s person.’
Lottie digested this information. ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’
‘If you haven’t found the hair anywhere else, it could mean the killer is keeping trophies.’
‘Bastard. I mean, thanks, Jane. Anything else?’
‘That’s it for now.’
Lottie hung up and considered this new turn of events. It was all so bizarre.
Before she could go check what the rest of the team were up to, Kirby opened the door and edged into her office like a sheepish schoolboy.
‘Sorry about earlier, boss.’ His face folded into a hangdog expression.
‘Are you living in your car?’ Lottie had had enough of pussyfooting around.
He took a deep breath before blowing out his cheeks. No words were forthcoming.
‘Sit down,’ she said. He did. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘It’s like this, boss … You see, after Gilly died, things went a bit haywire for a while. Truth be known, things were skewed before then. I missed a few payments. Then the landlord decided he was selling the apartment. I hadn’t a leg to stand on, so to speak, because I’d not paid the rent. On Monday, I ended up out on the street. Or in my car, to be exact.’
‘You could have told us. We’re your friends. I’m sure someone would put you up until you find somewhere. Or a hotel. Did you think of that?’
‘I didn’t want to go begging to any of you. Anyway, I’m broke.’
‘How can you be broke? You earn a decent wage here, and all that overtime … You do claim your overtime, don’t you? Even though I know the super despises it. Messes up his budgets.’
Kirby shrugged. ‘I couldn’t get my head together. You know. Drinking, and placing a few bob on the horses. I don’t have much left at the end of the day.’
‘Starting now, Kirby, you’re getting your shit together. No detective of mine is going to be found sleeping in his car.’ When she saw the look of hurt on his face, she knew what it had sounded like. A superior officer worried about the image of the force. ‘Please don’t take that the wrong way. I mean it as a friend.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘If none of the others can help you, I might have a spare room next week. My girls are talking about going to New York for Christmas, and—’
‘Oh God, no, I can’t accept a room from you, even in the short term. I’ll have a word with Boyd. He’s got a good couch.’
‘Good luck with him,’ Lottie growled. ‘He’s been like a bear with a sore head all week. What’s up with him?’
Kirby shook his head. ‘He is very moody. But he hasn’t confided in me. Something might be up with his mother or sister. He’s over in Galway a lot more than he used to be. Do you want me to ask him about it?’
‘No.’ But she did want to know what was going on in Boyd’s life.
‘I may look like an eejit, but I’m not one,’ Kirby said. ‘I won’t go asking him straight out. Maybe over a pint, or a coffee. I’ll find a way.’
‘Thanks. And the offer of a room stands. For now, find somewhere other than your car to live.’
‘Yes. And thank you.’ Kirby bowed his head like he’d just had his confession heard in a claustrophobic box and was anxious to escape to fresh air to do his penance.
She hated to say it, but she had to. ‘Kirby, you missed the photograph of Lily in the locker room.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ll work twice as hard on the case. I promise.’
‘You do that. You can go.’ She didn’t know which of her emotions was dominant at the moment. Anger at Boyd or pity for Kirby. She fought to untangle everything going on in her head.
When she looked up, Kirby had returned with a sheet of paper.
‘Sorry, boss.’
‘Go ahead.’
He sat down and passed the page over. ‘Last night, before I left, I had a read of the Tribune article by Beth Clarke about Robert Brady’s suicide.’
‘What about it?’
‘You can have a read yourself. I highlighted a few things that might interest you.’
‘Summarise it.’
‘Well, Robert Brady was known locally as Bob the Builder. He used to work for a building firm before it went bust, and then did odd jobs on his own. I got to thinking … Cara Dunne.’
‘You found a link to Cara? What is it?’
‘The belt used to strangle her. Remember it had the initials carved into the leather?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think that might be BB for Robert Brady. Bob Brady. Or Bob the Builder.’
‘I see where you’re going with this. Get the belt checked against Brady’s DNA and fingerprints, if they’re on file. We need to search his home and belongings.’
‘That’s the problem.’
‘Why is it a problem?’
‘Brady was a bit like me in a roundabout way. He’d lost his home to the bank. He was living rough for a few months before he died.’
‘Have we any way to trace where he was living?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Where are his possessions?’
‘I’ll try to find out.’
‘Do that, and locate someone who knew him. Friends, family – anyone who might have cared for him or his stuff.’
‘Sure thing.’ Kirby stood.
‘Ring the mortuary. Find out what happened to Brady’s body. And if he has anything to do with this mess, let’s hope he hasn’t been cremated.’
‘Will do.’
‘And Kirby?’
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Good work.’
Once she was alone, Lottie read through Beth Clarke’s article. The writing was tender and caring. Not one word of coldness or judgement. She was struck by a moment of clarity. Beth Clarke had known Robert Brady.
Chapter Forty-Two
Lottie led the early-morning team meeting in a daze. She wanted to get on the road and talk with Beth about Brady. First, though, she needed to make sure the team knew what they had to do.
McKeown was first in with his news. Which turned out to be no news really.
‘You asked me to follow up on Cara Dunne and Fiona Heffernan’s online presences. Both had deactivated their social media accounts. Cara in the last three months and Fiona a year ago. Their mobile phone providers gave me listings of their calls and texts.’
‘Well?’
‘The call histories are a bit scant. The last call Fiona made was to Ryan on the morning she was murdered. There is also one call around lunchtime. Unregistered number, but we’re trying to trace it. Other than that, nothing unusual. Cara’s phone has numerous calls to Steve O’Carroll. None of which appear to have been answered. No texts. It’s possible she or someone else wiped the phone clean.’
‘Anything online? Emails?’
‘Just a submission of a sick note for Cara to her principal. Nothing on Fiona’s.’
‘They were quiet women then, in the world of social media.’
‘I’ve read over all the statements from neighbours and any friends I could locate. Both women’s movements in the days leading up to their deaths were normal. Nothing out of the ordinary sticks in anyone’s minds.’
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 22