Buried Angels

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘And how would I get fifty thousand followers?’

  ‘Good God. Is that how many Tamara has? Is that even possible?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘You are so out of touch, Mother.’

  ‘Can you set me up on Instagram?’ Lottie asked. ‘Obviously you need to use a fake name on the account. I don’t want people knowing it’s me. Okay?’

  ‘Now? It’s five o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘It’s six forty now.’

  Chloe groaned. ‘You’re not going to let me go back to sleep, are you? Give me your phone.’

  A shrill cry woke Boyd at 6.45 a.m.

  He sat up quickly, his bones screaming in protest. He had no idea where he was. When he realised he was lying on his own couch, he stretched out his legs, trying to get some life into them. Pins and needles paralysed his knees as he walked towards the bedroom.

  Grace was lying in a tangle of sheets, the duvet on the floor. She was still asleep, from what he could see, but she was crying softly, clutching a picture frame in her arms. He picked up the duvet and spread it softly over her quivering body. His sister was so sensitive to everything, he was afraid he might wake her. She stirred, turned over and continued her uneven sleep.

  He wanted to reach down and wipe away her tears, but there was no point in disturbing her. The trauma of their mother’s death was an unknown vista for them both, and together they would have to survive it. Grace operated in a black and white life. Right and wrong. Good and bad. Boyd had never known her to waver anywhere in the middle, and he had no idea how she would cope without their mother’s logic and advice to guide her. He would have to take Mam’s place and he couldn’t imagine how that was going to work out.

  In the kitchenette, he switched on the kettle and spooned coffee into a mug. He needed a long hot shower, but the bathroom was situated off the bedroom and he was afraid he might wake up his sleeping sister. With his coffee made, he returned to the couch and sat in his sweaty clothes wondering what he was going to do about Grace.

  His phone beeped with a text. Lottie.

  Instead of taking the time to text back, he rang her.

  ‘Good morning, gorgeous,’ he said.

  ‘Did you get some sleep?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I just texted to see how you were doing. Is Grace okay?’

  ‘She’s asleep. I have to decide what to do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I have to do what’s best for her, and I don’t think sleeping in my bed with me on the couch is it.’

  ‘Call over to mine this evening if you want to talk it out. Bring Grace.’

  ‘I’ll see how she is. What are you at?’

  ‘Getting ready for work.’

  ‘Wish I was too.’

  ‘Don’t start, Boyd. Take your time. You don’t want to meet the new super before you absolutely have to.’

  ‘Is she that bad?’

  ‘I don’t know enough about her yet. I think I’ll be skirting around the edges of her trouser leg for a while.’

  ‘Don’t get into trouble.’

  ‘Oh, you know me. Trouble is—’

  ‘Your middle name,’ he said.

  She hung up with a laugh and the sound warmed him. He put down his mug and counted out his ration of tablets for the day. He was thinking they looked like a line of balls on an abacus when he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Each day is a bonus.’

  He turned quickly, knocking some of the pills to the floor. ‘Jesus, Grace!’

  ‘My name is not Jesus. Just Grace.’

  She was standing in the doorway, her hair mussed, her nightgown buttoned to her neck. For a moment he thought how much she looked like their mother.

  ‘The kettle is boiled if you want to make a coffee.’ A tremor took hold of his hand.

  ‘Have you any fresh orange juice? Caffeine gives me the shakes. I can see your hands shaking already.’ Grace was as straight-talking as they came.

  ‘It’s the pills, not the coffee.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re telling me a fib, Mark. I don’t like fibs. Now what about that orange juice?’

  ‘I’ll go to the shop to buy some.’ He didn’t want to go to the shop. He wanted to go to work.

  ‘Thank you.’ She returned to the bedroom. ‘Make sure you tell Lottie you need a lift to your appointment today.’

  Boyd wondered if inviting his sister to stay with him was the worst idea he’d ever had. But what else could he do? He didn’t think Grace was capable of living alone.

  ‘By the way,’ her voice echoed from the bedroom, ‘I’m not going to be here permanently. I’m perfectly capable of living on my own, in Galway.’

  Oh God, had she read this mind? What was he going to do?

  Twenty-Eight

  The mood at breakfast was strained. Jack liked that word. He’d read it somewhere. Probably to do with peas or pasta. This morning it felt like his mother and father were pushing each other through tiny holes in a sieve. He tried to ignore the silence being broken by grunts and single-syllable replies to whispered questions. He attempted to spoon his cornflakes into this mouth without gagging. He was trying so hard to act normal when all he wanted to do was run away and hide. It was all his fault, this tension. He’d brought it on his family when he found the body.

  His brother sniggered at him from across the table and Jack glanced down to see the cause of his mirth. Milk had dripped down his uniform shirt, a long streak looking like he’d been sick. It didn’t bother him as much as the memory of what he’d found yesterday and what he thought he’d seen the night before that. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time. But maybe it was the reason he’d gone down the tracks with Gavin yesterday morning and flown his drone along there.

  He let his spoon fall into the bowl and milk splashed up. He had to talk to Gavin.

  ‘I’m off to school,’ he said, jumping up from the table.

  ‘Jack, please be careful. I’ll take you,’ his mam said.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I am fine, honestly.’

  ‘Then wait for your brother,’ his mam said as she watched Maggie spoon Cheerios into her mouth.

  Jack groaned. He didn’t want to babysit Tyrone on the walk to school. ‘He isn’t even ready yet.’

  ‘Bring him with you, and that’s final.’

  ‘Why? You usually drop him off.’

  His dad stood up suddenly. He towered so tall his head almost scraped off the light bulb. ‘Jack, we all know you had a shock yesterday, but there is no need for cheek. Do what your mother tells you.’

  His mam tried to calm the situation as Maggie started to whinge. ‘Jack, honey, there could be a killer out there. You boys have to mind each other.’

  Yeah, Jack thought. He noticed his mother was still in her PJs. ‘Are you going to work today, Mam?’

  ‘No.’ She lowered her head to her daughter’s head of bouncy curls before letting the toddler down to the floor. ‘I think I might have caught your father’s bug. Maggie! Don’t put that in your mouth.’

  Jack watched as his mother scooped up his little sister.

  He faced Tyrone. ‘I’m going now, ready or not.’

  ‘I have to finish my breakfast.’

  ‘Tough luck. I’m leaving.’

  ‘Wait for your brother,’ his mam said.

  He felt a hand nudge his back and looked up into his dad’s eyes.

  ‘Do what you’re told.’

  With a long, exaggerated sigh, Jack sat down and scowled at Tyrone. The little prick smiled back at him, his mouth milky white, cornflakes stuck to his teeth. God, but in that moment he wanted to thump his brother.

  They walked along the canal and over the bridge past the guards who had the traffic flow almost back to normal. It wasn’t a busy area anyhow. When they reached Gavin’s apartment, they trudged up the steps.

  ‘You better not open your mouth,’ Jack said to Tyrone.

  Tyrone made
a zipping motion across his lips with his finger.

  Jack rang the doorbell and shouted, ‘Gavin? We’re going to be late. Hurry up.’

  Eventually he heard the chain being pulled back and the door opened. Tamara stood there in pink fluffy slippers and a white silk robe. Her hair was hidden in a towel twisted into a turban, like she’d just stepped out of the shower. As if she’d had a shower with her make-up on. Then again, knowing Gavin’s mother, she probably had to do her face before she showered, and she most likely brought her iPhone in with her to make a story for her Insta page.

  ‘Hello, Jack. How are you?’

  ‘Er, hi, Tamara. I’m fine. Is Gavin ready?’

  ‘He’s not going to school today.’

  ‘Oh. He didn’t text to tell me.’ Jack thought it strange. Gavin told him everything. Or so he’d thought.

  ‘Well,’ Tamara said, ‘he’s traumatised after yesterday, so I’m keeping him home for a day or two. How are you doing, Jack?’

  ‘I’m okay, I suppose.’ Jack bit his lip, thinking how he really wasn’t okay and maybe his mother should have kept him home too.

  ‘Keep safe, Jack. Bye, Tyrone.’ She shut the door and Jack heard the lock engaging and the chain snapping into place.

  ‘Is Gavin sick?’ Tyrone said as they plodded down the concrete steps.

  ‘Shut up.’

  Walking in silence, Jack dawdled outside the crime-scene tape at the bridge. He stared at the activity, which had wound down considerably since yesterday. It still looked like something out of a movie, and then he wondered if the killer had returned to watch. They did that in the movies. In real life too, according to the true-crime documentaries he watched with his dad. A sliver of fear coursed down his neck and spine, and his uniform shirt, still with the milk stain, clung to his skin. There had to be a killer. There was no way that body had cut itself up.

  Uncharacteristically, he grabbed Tyrone’s hand. ‘We’ll be late for school.’

  Tyrone tried to disentangle himself. ‘Why are you holding my hand, pervert?’

  ‘Shut up and hurry up.’

  Jack didn’t want to admit it, but he was clutching his brother’s hand for comfort.

  From her office window on the top floor, Tamara watched the Sheridan brothers walk out of the estate. They would be okay; they were tough kids. She wasn’t sure about Gavin. He’d had terrible nightmares all night long. She scanned the expanse of unfinished houses and settled her gaze on the bridge.

  She swallowed hard and pointed her phone at the scene. Zooming in, she tried to make out what exactly was going on. There were still plenty of guards and vans around. The helicopter had resumed circling in the sky. Had they found more body parts? She’d scrolled Twitter for ages trying to garner as much information as possible, but when the chat became too gruesome to be believable, she’d returned to Instagram. Maybe she could put out Gavin’s story. Make him a mini celebrity. But wouldn’t that take the limelight away from her? She could weave in a little fake news and make herself the hero. Mother of brave son. She would make the headlines sing.

  She felt the familiar swell of excitement. Yes, she could turn this horror show to her advantage. Maybe get a slot on Prime Time or True Life Crime.

  What to wear? She looked around her office. Racks of clothes hung with labels intact. One wall she kept free to use as a backdrop. It made the room look like a bedroom, with a bed and large wardrobe in the distance. Perception was everything in her business. She knew that better than anyone. But what Gavin had seen, that was reality.

  She heard him mooching around in the kitchen. She needed to speak to him. But Tamara Robinson, who was at such ease communicating with her family of followers in internet land, had no concept of how to talk to her son. She scrolled through her phone contacts. There was one person who might be able to help her. She tapped the phone and listened to the dial tone.

  Twenty-Nine

  Without Boyd at work, untidiness had crept into the office, evidenced by the stack of empty photocopier paper boxes tottering in a corner, and the trail of paper clips leading across the floor from the filing cabinets to Kirby’s desk. Boyd would have had it all tidied away, boxes flattened for recycling and the paper clips swept up and deposited on a desk to be reused. She wondered where her detectives were this morning.

  ‘Kirby? Where’s McKeown?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘He’s always disappearing.’

  ‘Probably in the canteen. He can’t live without a hundred cups of coffee a day.’

  ‘He should be at his desk,’ she said, knowing she sounded petulant. ‘Any word on the skull?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Are SOCOs at the house in Church View?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You’re full of chat this morning.’

  ‘Didn’t sleep great.’

  ‘Where did you stay?’

  ‘The Joyce.’

  ‘Uncomfortable?’

  ‘I got so used to being squashed up on Boyd’s couch, I couldn’t settle in a proper bed.’

  ‘Right.’ Lottie was in no mood for dishing out sympathy. ‘I read Faye Baker’s statement from last night. We need to interview her again, but first I need to speak with the boyfriend. Jeff Cole.’

  ‘Will I ring him?’

  ‘I’ve tried already. No answer from his phone. I sent uniforms round to their apartment first thing this morning to bring him in for a statement, but there was no answer there either. Faye must be at work and he probably is too. She mentioned that his boss is called Derry Walsh. Ring any bells?’

  Kirby stared at her.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Derry Walsh is a butcher.’

  Upstairs in the canteen, Maria Lynch paid for her breakfast. Getting out to work was harder by the day since she’d had the baby. She sighed and looked around for somewhere to sit.

  ‘Anyone here?’ she said, placing her tray on the table and pulling out a chair opposite Sam McKeown. He was nursing a cup of milky coffee.

  ‘You’re welcome to join me,’ he said, half standing in a good-mannered sort of way.

  She sat and tore the cellophane from her sandwich before glancing up at him. He looked tired. Trawling through missing persons files, not knowing who you were looking for, had to be almost as bad as searching bags of rubbish. She bristled at the thought of what faced her for the day.

  ‘Are you settling back okay?’ McKeown said, making small talk.

  ‘Please, don’t you start. It’s like I was never away, if you really want to know.’ Biting into her sandwich, she chewed loudly before adding, ‘What do you make of the new super?’

  ‘Deborah? I knew her in Athlone many moons ago. Haven’t seen her in a few years.’

  ‘Knew her or knew her?’ Lynch smirked.

  ‘Ah, yeah, that’s funny.’ He flashed a crooked grin, but his body stiffened.

  Lynch thought she’d lost her chance to snatch some insider information. ‘I’m only asking.’

  McKeown ran his hand over his shaved head. ‘I know Deborah Farrell, okay? She’s a good guard. A great administrator. That’s her strength, which is ace for the superintendent job. What more is there to know?’

  ‘Does she like our inspector?’

  ‘You’re talking double Dutch, Lynch.’

  ‘I’ll rephrase it. What do you think of our inspector?’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Ah, come on, McKeown, don’t act innocent. You’re a detective. You know where I’m going with this. She’s giving us all the shit jobs. It’s not fair. I think the super needs to know.’

  He straightened his back. ‘Lottie Parker is a great detective. Might not always do things the way I would do them, but she gets the job done. If there’s something you’re not happy about, don’t involve me.’

  He picked up the wrappers from the table and stomped over to the bins, leaving Lynch wondering if she had targeted the wrong person.

  Thirty
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  Walsh’s butcher’s shop was located in a small shopping centre on the edge of Mooreclon, a large housing estate on the north side of Ragmullin. The Spar shop beside it doubled as a garage, with fuel pumps on the forecourt. At the sliding doors of the shop, a trolley stood with briquettes and bags of short sticks. Not much call for those in the current weather, Lottie thought as she parked on double yellow lines. There was one parking spot available beyond the forecourt, but that was reserved for disabled drivers, and her disregard for parking laws did not extend that far. Not yet.

  She rolled up her sleeves against the morning sun and entered the cool interior of the butcher’s shop. It sold vegetables and sauces as well as meat; everything required to make a full meal. If only they’d cook it too, she mused as she stood at the counter.

  ‘How can I help you this morning? Chicken fillets are on special offer. Four for a fiver. Won’t get cheaper anywhere.’ The squat man smiled pleasantly. His name badge informed her that this was Derry Walsh. He was in his fifties, maybe even sixties, she estimated.

  ‘I’m wondering if I can have a word with Jeff Cole.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, can’t help you there.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He didn’t show up for work this morning.’

  ‘Really? Did he ring in with an explanation?’

  Walsh stepped back a pace, wiping his hands on his white apron. ‘And who wants to know, if you don’t mind telling me?’

  She introduced herself and added, ‘I need to speak with Jeff. Do you have any idea where I might find him?’

  ‘I’m not his father, only his employer, and he’s turning out to be an excellent butcher. I taught him everything he knows. He learned from the best, I can tell you.’ He puffed out his chest, causing Lottie to smile.

  ‘Jeff isn’t at home and now I find he hasn’t come to work. Would you have any idea where he might be?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘But he works with you every day. Has there been anything on his mind recently?’