Buried Angels

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘I’ll text her.’

  ‘You better,’ Kirby said, reading the article. ‘Familicide?’

  ‘Pretty horrific.’ McKeown took the page back. ‘It says here there’s more on page three. I only have the front page.’

  ‘Pull up the murder file. It should have all the info. No, wait. You text the boss and I’ll pull the file.’

  ‘Kirby, look at this,’ McKeown said. ‘Look who was the detective sergeant on the case.’

  Kirby glanced at the name. ‘You better call the boss.’

  McKeown fumbled for his phone with one hand and opened the button on his shirt collar with the other. It was going to be a long night.

  Fifty-Nine

  Lottie really should have gone home for a shower first, but after Lynch had made sure Jack got back safely from school, she’d asked for time to organise her own family before taking up her FLO duties at the Sheridans’. Lottie had agreed and headed there herself.

  She pulled up outside the house and nodded at the garda on sentry duty. She noticed the coolness in the air and glanced over at the dark canal. SOCOs had finished their work, and the divers were doing one more day before giving up. She hoped they would find more body parts, to help identification and for completeness’ sake. Not that there was anyone rushing to claim the bodies. A little girl no one cared enough about, with no one to answer her cries. Though she hadn’t received any indisputable confirmation, she was convinced the torso and leg were Polly Cole’s.

  ‘Don’t worry, little Polly, I will keep listening to you. Tell me what happened.’ She was talking to herself again. She knew her team were doing their best to find out what had happened, but so far they’d discovered absolutely nothing.

  She wandered around the side of the house, zipping up her hoodie. The weather would be cold and wet by tomorrow. A false summer, her mother had called it. Rose was always right, even when she wasn’t.

  The shed housed two racing bikes, and fishing rods hung neatly on hooks hammered into the wooden wall. In the centre stood a fibreglass rowboat, its oars suspended on rusted chains from the roof. It looked like it hadn’t been in water for a long time. Stacks of paint cans held court in one corner beside the bins, and an old washing machine stood neglected in another. Turning away, she moved towards the back of the house.

  Light poured out from the kitchen. She stood back a little and stared in at the family scene. Lisa at the stove, stirring something. Charlie reading a newspaper at the table. Maggie sitting on the floor playing contentedly with building bricks. The two boys were seated at one side of the table with books in front of them. Homework, Lottie thought. When had she last seen Sean doing his homework? She felt a glitch in her heart for all she was missing out on. She needed to sit down with her family and talk to them. Find out their fears and joys. She’d been so caught up in Boyd and his illness that she knew she’d deserted her children once again. She wiped her nose with her sleeve and brushed away her self-pitying tears.

  Continuing to watch, she saw Charlie throw down the newspaper. He seemed to be shouting at the boys. He went to the refrigerator and got a bottle of beer, drinking greedily before crashing it down on the table. Lottie jumped, even though she couldn’t hear anything. The boys remained with their heads buried in their homework. She wondered if Jack’s little heart was breaking for his dead friend. If it was, there was no evidence before her eyes.

  Lisa kept on stirring whatever was in the large saucepan. Was the strain of Jack’s find and Gavin’s death breaking the little family? Perhaps it was the spectre of Charlie’s illness that was casting shadows over them.

  As she edged back around to the front door, her phone vibrated in her pocket. She checked it before knocking. When she read McKeown’s text, she let her hand fall away from the door.

  Jack jumped when his father slammed the bottle on the table. He tried to keep the pen steady in his hand, even though he wanted to escape up to his room.

  ‘I’ve finished my homework. Can I go have a shower before dinner?’

  ‘Dinner will be ready in five minutes,’ his mam said.

  ‘You can stay where you are, Jack,’ his dad added.

  Tyrone sniggered but knew better than to laugh out loud.

  ‘Please, I smell,’ Jack said.

  ‘Well then, you’ve got two minutes.’ His dad swigged from his near-empty bottle.

  ‘You shouldn’t really be drinking,’ Lisa said. ‘Doctor said so.’

  ‘Well, I’m thirsty.’ He drained the bottle and went to fetch another.

  Jack stuffed his books into his bag and rushed from the kitchen, closing the door softly behind him. In the hall, he thought he saw a shape through the glass in the front door. His first thought was that it was Gavin come to play a game on his laptop. And then he remembered. Gavin would never play with him again.

  The shape appeared to be about to ring the bell but then moved away. He crept forward and opened the door.

  The detective.

  She turned and smiled. ‘Hi, Jack.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I called round to see how you were doing.’

  He walked outside. ‘Everything is weird.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’ She put a hand on his shoulder. He found it strangely comforting, and the tears he’d kept at bay all day erupted in loud sobs.

  ‘I can’t believe Gavin is dead. He was my best friend.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart. It’s hard to understand.’ She hugged him before holding him at arm’s length and wiping his tears with her finger. It felt soft and comforting and he almost cried again.

  ‘Thanks.’ He sniffed and pulled away from her. ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out, I promise.’

  ‘When you do, will you tell me who it is?’

  ‘I will call personally and tell you.’ She leaned against her car. ‘Did you and Gavin ever go to the recycling centre on the industrial estate?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sometimes I go there with my dad when he has a trailer-load for recycling. He says it’s cheaper. But I don’t think Gavin ever came with us. It’s not much fun really.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it is. Did you see Gavin at all yesterday?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t at school. I didn’t even text him because I was mad. You see, he was going to be on the telly and I wasn’t. It was my drone, not his, that found the … the body.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not your fault. His mother is a bit pushy.’

  Jack looked up at her. ‘She is, isn’t she?’

  ‘Jack, do you know the old house over the road? The one at the bottom of Gavin’s estate with the hoarding around it.’

  ‘It’s always boarded up and locked. I never went in there.’

  ‘And Gavin? Do you think he might have sneaked in there occasionally?’

  ‘No way. He was a big scaredy-cat. And anyway, my dad told us never to go in there because junkies always break in and use needles and stuff.’

  ‘Ever fly your drone in to see what might be behind the boards?’

  ‘No.’ His eyes flared into wide balls of incredulity. ‘Never!’

  ‘It’s okay, Jack. You better go back in before your parents come looking for you.’

  He didn’t move. ‘Detective?’

  ‘You can call me Lottie.’

  ‘That’s a weird name.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  She had a nice smile, Jack thought.

  ‘What did you want to say?’ she asked.

  ‘When can I get my drone back?’

  ‘I’ll make arrangements for it to be sent back tomorrow. We got the SD card with the footage, so there’s no reason for us to hold on to it.’

  ‘About the SD card …’

  ‘What about it? I can arrange for a new one for you if our guys need to keep it.’

  ‘No, I have plenty. You see, er … that’s the point.’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Forget it. I bett
er go back inside.’

  He wanted to tell her that he sometimes flew the drone at night. That he had footage on a USB stick from the night before he found the body on the railway. But they were just blurry images. Could be foxes or badgers. So maybe it was best if he said nothing.

  He stared up at the tall detective with her flyaway hair. She looked confused before a smile spread across her face. ‘Is there something you want to tell me, Jack?’

  ‘No. I just miss Gavin, that’s all.’

  He turned back to the door and bumped straight into his father.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Charlie said over his head to the detective.

  ‘I called round to make sure Jack is okay in light of Gavin’s death. Detective Maria Lynch, the FLO, will be here soon, but you have protection.’ She pointed to the garda standing at the side of the house. ‘I got an urgent call to go back to the station.’ She waved her phone in the air. ‘I can come back later.’

  ‘We don’t need any FLO. I can protect my family.’

  Jack felt his shoulder being held tightly by his father’s hand. He twisted away. ‘We were only chatting about Gavin.’

  ‘It’s best you leave,’ Charlie said. ‘We’re all disturbed by what happened to Gavin. We need time on our own as a family.’

  ‘I’m going for now, but I have to come back and talk to you and your family. Goodnight.’

  Jack ran back inside and up the stairs to his room. He heard his father shut the front door. He stood at the window. The detective stared up at him before a car arrived and a woman got out. The two of them spoke before the detective called Lottie got into her own car.

  He watched as the tail-lights disappeared down the lane in an envelope of dust.

  Marianne had found the food company on Instagram. Tamara had told her about it, and she’d jumped at the chance of not having to cook every night. Now, twice a week, wholesome ready-made dinners were delivered to her door. So far, Kevin hadn’t discovered her secret.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night, Ruby,’ she said, scraping her plate into the food waste bin.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘It’s not. You shouldn’t have to witness something like that.’

  ‘But it was Dad who hit you. You don’t have to say sorry. He should.’

  ‘I doubt that’s going to happen.’

  ‘Me too.’ Ruby lowered her head, but Marianne caught the tail end of a sinister smile as it flitted across her daughter’s face.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she said.

  ‘You shouldn’t have talked to Sean like that earlier. He’s the only friend I’ve got and if he dumps me it will be your fault. I’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘Sean’s mother was round here earlier, asking awkward questions. I thought maybe he had been telling her something he shouldn’t.’

  Marianne rinsed the plates under the tap before inserting them in the dishwasher in the correct slots. No point in irritating Kevin further. She glanced at the clock. He still hadn’t come home from work. Hopefully he wasn’t out drinking. There was no way she could put up with another night of abuse. Then she thought of Tamara. She really should call over. She’d had all day to do it but couldn’t garner enough courage to go outside her own front door. She hadn’t even lifted the phone. Some friend she was.

  ‘Mum?’ Ruby was lounging by the door, twisting one hand into the other.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘About last night. Dad hitting you …’

  ‘Please, Ruby, forget it ever happened.’

  ‘I can’t. It was horrible. I felt so useless. It’s not right.’

  No, Marianne thought, it was far from right, and she could never let it happen again. First, though, she had things to sort, then Kevin O’Keeffe would be out of her life forever. ‘Go on upstairs and finish your homework.’

  ‘Haven’t got any.’

  ‘Well … do something. Play a game on your PlayStation.’ Anything to keep her from asking awkward questions.

  She gathered up the refuse bag stuffed with the cardboard and cellophane that had come from the ready-made meal cartons and went to the outside bin. She pushed the bag right down to the bottom, where Kevin wouldn’t see it. She had enough to worry about without him losing his mind over a few wrappers from food he believed was freshly cooked.

  As she came back inside, she heard a key turn in the front door. Her knees weakened and she had to hold onto the edge of the table. This has to stop, she thought. I can’t handle any more fear.

  Sixty

  Lottie hadn’t visited her retired superintendent in months. She found it too painful to see the once tall and rotund red-faced man diminish into a curved, grey-skinned gnome. But McKeown’s text had led her here. She’d rushed by the station first to pick up the photocopy he had ready for her.

  Myles Corrigan led her into the lounge, which she’d have called the sitting room. He had retained a few airs and graces even though he was quite ill.

  ‘Don’t tell me I look fecking well, Parker. You and I both know I’m on my last legs.’

  ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  She sat and waited as he slowly sat into a chair plumped up with a multitude of flowery cushions. The eye he’d lost to a tumour was covered with a black patch and his hands were pulsing with sores. She’d heard the cancer was eating him alive.

  ‘I thought you were waiting until I was in my coffin to come and see me.’ He attempted a laugh, but it sounded more like an old car backfiring. ‘You haven’t visited me before now, have you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Don’t mind me too much.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘My old brain gets confused. But when I’m gone, I want a good old Irish wake. Make sure everyone at the station turns up. No matter what they say about me behind my back, I’d like a good send-off.’

  ‘There’s plenty of miles in you yet.’

  ‘Only miles left in me, young lady, is in my name.’ He waited as if he wanted her to laugh before adding, ‘Busy?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘How are all the family?’

  ‘Good, all good,’ she said, guilt worming its way around her heart. ‘Rose was asking after you.’

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘Ah, right. Your mother is a strong woman. Listen to her,’ he said. ‘And Boyd? Heard he got the big C like myself.’

  ‘Boyd is responding well to treatment. This week might see the last of the chemo.’ She crossed her fingers, hoping his platelets played ball.

  ‘If the fecking toxic poisons in it don’t kill him.’ Straight-talking as ever.

  ‘Boyd’s mother died suddenly last week. Set him back a bit, and he has to look after his sister. A lot of pressure.’

  ‘Did someone tell me you’re getting hitched? Will I get an invite before I kick the bucket?’

  ‘We’re nowhere near even thinking about that.’

  Silence filled the space between them before he said, ‘You know I was under investigation for a while there? Trying to pin old bribery charges on me. Pack of young Dublin hotshots, not knowing their fecking arse from their elbow. Kicked their arses back across the Liffey, so I did.’ He looked at her as earnestly as he could with one eye. ‘What brings you to my door?’

  Lottie opened her bag and took out a copy of the newspaper article McKeown had found. ‘This is a case you worked. You were a detective sergeant back then. It happened before PULSE was set up and it looks like the case was never transferred over.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Do you think it’s one of those that was left off purposely?’

  ‘I doubt there was any garda interference, if that’s what you mean. Probably a clerical error.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ He coughed loudly into a stained handkerchief and stuffed it down the side of the armchair.

  She handed him the photocopied page from the Ragmullin Tribune. ‘These murders were reported as familicide. Can you remember anything about the incident?’ This was a long
shot, because she’d heard that Corrigan, though he wasn’t yet sixty, was suffering from early-onset dementia.

  He glanced at the front-page photo without reading the article. ‘This was well over twenty years ago. What’s your interest in it now?’

  She explained about the frozen body parts and the freezers in the old house. ‘Today we discovered the body of a man stuffed in one of those freezers.’

  ‘This house?’ Corrigan pointed to the photograph.

  ‘Yes. It’s abandoned now. I’m trying to find out who owns it. There’s still electricity being fed into it.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be hard to find out.’

  ‘You’d think that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Sure, and I know how the job goes. Someone demanding a warrant, or waiting for a sharp-suited solicitor.’

  ‘The former.’ She was pissed off with Dave Murphy at Ferris and Frost. Kirby was dealing with the paperwork, and she was expecting a call to say they had a signed warrant At least he had traced the house as far as the estate agents.

  ‘Typical.’ Corrigan placed a pair of spectacles on his nose and began to read.

  She sat listening to the loud and worrying rattles from his chest.

  ‘Ah, I forget a lot of things,’ he said, ‘but I remember this. I was first on the scene after uniforms. Horrific sights.’

  ‘What can you tell me about it?’

  He read the article slowly, as if to refresh his mind, then said, ‘It was awful. Two young girls. Stabbed. It looked to me like they’d been trying to flee, though they were on the first floor. Probably would have risked a broken neck, but they didn’t get that far. One poor lassie was at the window. Blood everywhere, as you can imagine. And the smell. Afterwards we found out they’d been dead for at least thirty-six hours.’ He wrinkled his nose as if the scent had leapt off the page. ‘The young mother, Jesus, I couldn’t even count the number of stab wounds on her body.’

  ‘A crime of passion?’

  ‘Hard to know. And you know what else I remember? She had a hole in the centre of her forehead. Hit with a poker. The weapon abandoned in the grate.’