Two other bedrooms had their doors open, and SOCO team members worked like ants. One room was completely empty, unfurnished and unpainted. The other had a single bed with plain white linen and a cream blind. No dust on anything.
The bathroom was similarly pristine. She opened the mirrored cabinet door without glancing at herself. She could do without seeing her haggard face with its confused expression. Two toothbrushes standing in a white ceramic holder. In her house everyone threw their brushes into a single grimy glass from the kitchen. Here, the toothpaste tube had its cap on securely. There was no congealed toothpaste lining the sink like in her bathroom.
A bottle of mouthwash, almost full. No pills for headaches or ointment for piles. In the cabinet, a straight razor and a box of blades. She thought of the blade they’d found on Isabel’s body. Did it come from here or had it been brought by her killer? She asked for the blades to be examined.
Closing the cabinet door, she noticed an electric shaver secured to the wall with a clip. The bath was clean and the shower glass without scum or water drops. Had Isabel cleaned it after Jack had left for work?
As she moved back to the hall, her impression was of a woman under the control of someone else. There was no evidence of Isabel or Holly actually living a happy life here. No photographic montage of Holly on the walls. Nothing.
She moved back to the main bedroom.
‘Jim, can I have a look through the wardrobe?’
‘Not much to see, but fire ahead.’
She opened the nearest door. Her initial reaction was one of envy. If only she could keep her clothing as evenly folded. Not a hope in hell, she thought. Then she noticed that most of the clothes were Jack’s. Shirts and jumpers. Behind the other door, two suits hung side by side, and four pairs of trousers and jeans. Ironed and pressed. Hanging on the opposite side were a couple of light summer dresses, a few hoodies and two pairs of jeans for Isabel. Three drawers beneath. Two held T-shirts and a selection of loungewear. All Primark. The other held underwear, practical, nothing fancy.
She felt pity for the young woman. Not that she herself had fancy underwear, but something about the well-worn cotton undergarments gave her a sense that Isabel hadn’t spent much money on herself. Or hadn’t been allowed to.
Shutting the drawer, she moved to the chest of drawers, and at last she discovered items belonging to the baby. Babygros, vests and socks. No frilly baby dresses. No Minnie Mouse tights. Holly seemed to be allowed only the most functional of clothing, like her mother. What had it been like to live like this? There was no evidence of poverty in the home, and Jack had a good job. Was he saving every cent for the building work outside? She really needed to see their bank statements and life insurance policies, if only to eliminate any wrongdoing on Jack’s part in the death of his wife.
She rose to her feet. ‘Jim, did any of your team come across toys or baby things?’
‘There was a rag doll in the cot, which we’ve sent for analysis. A lot of blood spatter on it.’
‘Grand. Thanks.’ Lottie tried to offload the invisible weight that had settled on her shoulders.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘It’s just that this house seems more like a bachelor pad.’
‘I’ve seen many a bachelor pad in my time, and let me tell you, none of them were as tidy as this house.’ McGlynn dipped his head back to his work. ‘But I get what you mean. I’d be grilling that husband long and hard.’
‘Thanks, Jim, I intend to.’ At the door, she turned. ‘Have you found anything to help me?’
‘No evidence of the killer except for the possibility of picking up a boot print beneath that mess.’ He indicated the blood on the floor.
‘A boot print? That’s good.’
‘I know the mother-in-law walked through the house, but we’re analysing everything. I’ll let you know when I know more.’
‘Wouldn’t the killer have been covered in blood?’
‘There’d be spray from the neck wound, but you and I know today’s killers are clever. I blame television.’
‘Thanks.’
Walking back down the hallway, Lottie looked around for the family’s shoes. She found them in the utility room. A selection of coats and scarves hung above the shoe rack. She searched the pockets and found loose change and a pair of gloves. One of the scarves matched the gloves, a red knitted affair; the other was blue with a yellow trim. These were the only colourful items of clothing she’d come across in the house.
Jack Gallagher’s shoes were size thirteen. A polished black leather pair and another in brown. Soles clean. Scrubbed? SOCOs would take possession of his work boots, which he must be wearing, but he might have more than one pair. For Isabel there was a pair of well-worn black Converse and a couple of unbranded light runners.
As she left through the back door, she noticed a holy water font hanging on the jamb. A silver crucifix perched over the font. And the font was full. Catholics, then. Not that it made the slightest bit of difference. Isabel was dead and Lottie hadn’t a clue as to who had killed the young mother. She went out to look for Boyd, who was probably sneaking a smoke somewhere.
The detective was walking around the perimeter, his eyes scanning the distance. What was he looking for? They’d both been inside the garage, but Kevin knew there were no secrets to be found in there. He knew where all the secrets were buried.
He pulled up the collar of his heavy work jacket. The rough wool cut into his thin neck, and he inhaled the earthy scent of the boggy land where he was positioned. A bird cawed, and he glanced up through the branches with their sprouting leaves. He couldn’t see the bird, but the sound had betrayed its hiding place. He himself could be found just as easily. He had to be careful. No one could know he was here. He was like everyone’s shadow, following them around, sticking to their heels, but no one noticed him. That was what Isabel had told him. Suited him fine today.
He had been waiting there in the shade of an old tree, two fields behind the house to the right, for a good few hours. He had a great view. The house sat exposed on a hillock, visible from where he stood. He’d noticed earlier that the chimney wasn’t sending smoke in a trail up to the clear April sky. Isabel always lit the stove once Jack left for work. It was the best way to heat the house, she’d told him. But Kevin knew that was because Jack was too much of a skinflint to fill the oil tank once winter was officially over. Didn’t matter that the temperature in April was sometimes lower than January. No, Jack was too mean. Kevin spat on the ground whenever Jack’s name entered his head. Today he spat with renewed venom.
What the hell were they all doing up there? Isabel’s mother’s car was parked in the yard. He’d seen her run out shortly after she’d entered the house, with the child in her arms. Then garda cars started to arrive, followed by the technical van. He’d sunk back into the shadows, not daring to leave his spot. They’d want to talk to him, no doubt, but Kevin did not want to talk to them. Not to anyone. Not now. Not ever.
It was still possible Isabel was okay, wasn’t it? Maybe her mother had panicked over something, or they’d had an argument. But why hadn’t she followed Anita out? No, this was serious. In his heart, Kevin knew Isabel was dead. Once he’d come to that conclusion, he was too stunned to move, so he’d been frozen in the same spot for the last few hours, his mind in turmoil.
Yes, the guards would want to talk to him, he reminded himself, but he wouldn’t talk to them. He knew too much; he knew too little. Which was it? All those blackouts when he couldn’t remember a thing. Did he really not know what had happened in the house? Had he been inside earlier? Had he seen Isabel and lost control? No, no, not that. He shook his head wildly. He couldn’t think the unthinkable.
Sliding down the uneven bark, tendrils of wood sticking to his wool jacket, he sat on the grass, cradled his head in his hands and cried like a baby. For a long time.
When he stopped crying, he stood, pulled his black knitted beanie down over his ears and looked up at the house on
the hillock. Before he moved on, he watched the two detectives get back into their car and drive away.
13
Boyd drove, and when he turned onto the main road, Lottie glanced at him.
‘I got such an uneasy feeling in that house,’ she said. ‘Did you feel it?’
‘It’s a murder scene, so it should make you uneasy.’
‘Find anything else in the garage?’
‘Nope. I walked the perimeter of the yard. Work seems to have been started on the extension, but it appears to be a while since anything’s been done.’ He lowered the window to let fresh air permeate around them. ‘Is that too cold for you?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Boyd. I’m boiling mad. I could explode.’
‘Then tell me what’s spooked you.’
‘Everything was basic.’ She explained about the clothing, the lack of toys for Holly and the cleanliness of every surface.
‘Maybe Isabel was just house-proud or bored being at home all day.’
‘She had a three-and-a-half-month-old child – there’s no room for boredom. The house should show some evidence that they had a baby, that the baby had something besides one rag doll. It’s like Isabel owned nothing.’
‘We can ask Anita about it.’
‘We can bloody well ask Jack Gallagher.’
‘I agree,’ he said.
They spent the rest of the short drive in absolute silence. As he turned the car up Bishop’s Street towards the station, Lottie looked at him again.
‘Boyd, she had no money or bank cards of her own.’
‘Maybe she didn’t trust herself with money.’
‘Or Jack didn’t trust her. How was she to pay for her doctor’s appointment?’
‘Another question for Mr Gallagher,’ he said, and pulled in behind the station.
* * *
She could have given the phone bill to Lynch to go through – she was good at that type of thing – but the detective was already scrutinising social media to see if Jack or Isabel had any accounts.
Lottie needed to be doing something constructive while waiting to discover if any CCTV footage had been secured from neighbouring areas. The Gallagher bungalow sat on the top of a hill, with fields stretching for miles around. No more than three farmhouses lined the narrow road, with at least half a kilometre between each of them. So far the door-to-door reports had concluded that no one had seen anything and they knew little about the Gallaghers. More intensive interviews might elicit further information, but from initial reports it didn’t look promising.
Laying photocopies of the landline phone bill on her desk – last month’s bill – she looked for recurring numbers. She flicked through the interview notes and found Anita’s mobile and landline numbers, plus Jack’s mobile. She needed to get hold of his phone.
This was definitely a job for Maria Lynch.
‘Favour to ask,’ she said. ‘Can you analyse this bill to identify the owners of the numbers?’
‘Sure,’ Lynch replied. ‘Any I can’t identify I’ll ring the number and see who answers? Quickest way.’
‘Do that. Let me know as soon as possible. How are you doing with the social media?’
Lynch sighed. ‘Isabel doesn’t appear to have any accounts, though Jack has a Facebook business page and a website for freelance electrical work. Very basic WordPress. I’ll have to get Gary in technical to have a look at it.’
‘Do that. And see what you can get from Jack’s Facebook page.’
‘It’s password-protected. Another job for Gary.’
‘Tell him it’s urgent.’ Lottie thought for a moment. ‘Check with Revenue. See if his tax affairs are up to date.’
‘Will do.’
‘Anything about either of them in the local news archives?’
‘Nope.’
‘Talk to McKeown so that you don’t duplicate work.’
Lynch grimaced.
‘Is that a problem for you?’ Lottie asked, knowing full well that it was. Lynch had blamed McKeown for ratting Lottie out on an earlier case. This had resulted in Lottie’s suspension, after which she’d been reinstated without any wrongdoing having been proved.
‘No problem. It’s fine,’ Lynch said, but her teeth were clenched.
‘Great.’ Lottie turned on her heel.
‘Oh,’ Lynch added, ‘Isabel Gallagher’s post-mortem is scheduled for three this afternoon.’
‘Thanks.’
McKeown approached Lottie as she made for her own office and followed her inside.
‘I’ve carried out a quick search on this Kevin Doran character. There’s quite a few men with that name, but they all check out. So no sign of your handyman appearing on anything official. Nothing on PULSE. It might not even be his real name.’
‘Dig deeper.’
As he trudged back to his desk, swearing under his breath, she doubled back from her office and went into the incident room. It was stifling hot. She turned down the radiators, pulled off her sweater and rolled up the frayed sleeves of her white T-shirt. Folding her arms, she leaned against a desk and studied the picture of the Gallaghers’ wedding photo she’d taken at the house.
Anita had sent her a couple of photos from her phone, so she pinned those to the board as well. Isabel dressed in a hoodie zipped to the neck, aged about twenty-one or two. Eyes dark hollows with a sad gaze. Isabel holding newborn Holly in her arms. Drawing her gaze over all three photos, she noted marked differences in the young woman. Her eyes in the wedding photo were bright blue, reflecting the light, full of life, but in the others they seemed … dead.
‘What happened to you, sweetheart?’ she said to Isabel’s image.
‘Talking to yourself is the first sign—’
‘Of madness. I know, Boyd. But look at these photos. Tell me what you see.’
He stood beside her, the heat from his body radiating against her own. She resisted the urge to clasp his hand, just to ground herself.
‘Jesus,’ he said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I see it.’
‘Tell me what you see?’
‘Her eyes are so sad, troubled. She looks haunted.’
14
It was a lovely day for a climb. Dervla Byrne donned her hiking boots and, after locking her green Fiat Punto, set off up the side of Misneach Hill. She knew all about the mythology surrounding the hill, with its megalithic tomb and extraordinary Mireann Stone. The site of Mother Earth, a so-called friend had told her. The site of a lot of personal anguish, she recalled, but it was Easter week and that filled her with some hope for her own resurrection. She might yet be saved.
She knew the route up the hillside and held tight to her stick, pounding upwards as quickly as she could. The faster she got up, the faster she’d get back down again.
The sun had risen well into the sky, which was a lovely shade of blue with a hint of pink.
As she climbed, she sang a soft song in her head – not out loud, because she’d terrify the birds with her out-of-tune warbling. She just wanted to soak up the peace and quiet and listen to the birdsong, keeping the old memories submerged in the sea of turmoil swimming around inside her head.
The path was well trodden by hill walkers, and she took a right and began to trudge where there was no trail. Nothing like a little adventure. She grimaced. Walking was the only adventure in her life, if she was totally honest. I’m a freak, she told herself, reiterating the words that had hounded her through life so far. She had tried to overcome the bullies but instead had shrunk into her shell like a terrified snail. But out here she was free from all that. That was good, wasn’t it? A chill breeze blew down the hill and wrapped around her shoulders.
Rounding a dead tree trunk, she noticed a sheep tugging at a branch at the foot of another tree up ahead. It looked like the fairy tree. This could be the place. Despite the sunshine, she felt suddenly cold. She had to look but she didn’t want to. Too many memories.
Drawing closer, she saw that there was a mound of moss-covered stones nex
t to the sheep. The animal raised its head, keeping a firm hold of the thin branch in its mouth, and stared at her for a moment before dropping it and scampering up the hillside.
‘Naughty sheep.’ She laughed nervously. Why was she talking to a sheep?
Wandering over to the tree, she picked up the branch. There were a few teeth marks in it – but it didn’t seem to be a branch after all. A knobbly chunk at one end reminded her of her biology class years ago. A bone joint. A human bone joint.
‘Don’t be daft,’ she chided herself.
She looked at the rocks at the foot of the tree. Maybe she’d found an undiscovered burial chamber. Had some ancient High King of Ireland been buried here? This hill was fabled in mythology to be the seat of High Kings.
She looked around quickly, but there was no one here except for bleating sheep keeping their distance. Dropping to her knees, she pulled off her light gloves and with bare fingers tore through the already disturbed reedy grass.
Nothing else visible. No way was she going to disturb the stones. She had enough bad luck without digging up a sacred burial ground. She knew all about Egypt and the curse that followed people once the dead were exhumed.
She sat back on her heels and picked up the bone again. It must belong to an animal. She felt disappointed that she hadn’t the gumption to search some more. But it seemed to her that what she had been told had some truth to it. This was not the last resting place of an ancient High King, or High Queen for that matter. All the same, she pocketed the bone. She would have to think about what to do with it.
She tugged on her gloves and continued her hike.
But the higher she climbed, the heavier the bone weighed in her pocket. Not physically. Mentally. When she reached the summit, she sat and stared at the sprawling fields of her county, and some of the horror of her life took root in her heart. This place held no magic for her, only torturous memories.
She fished the bone out of her pocket. It had to be a human bone.
Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller Page 7
