Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller

by Patricia Gibney

  The water soaked through her shoes and up the hem of her jeans as she stood immobile, staring out across the lake. A train shunted along the tracks behind her, picking up speed as it headed towards Sligo. If she drove away somewhere, her car would leave a trail. Toll roads and the like. But identification would be simple on a train, too, with CCTV. Could she leave without Evan? Her partner, Nathan, would care for him, of course. But no, she couldn’t leave her son behind.

  The envelope with the razor blade felt like an anvil in her pocket. She took it out and shivered at its unwritten message. Throw it in the lake, her internal voice told her. No, she had to keep it. A reminder that she would never be safe. Her tears fell unchecked. What was she to do?

  Back in the car, she switched on the heater and watched a swirl of fog rise up on the water before realising it wasn’t fog. It was a murmuration of starlings. Beautiful and free. Unlike her. She was shackled to her past, and the key might as well be at the bottom of the lake. It was all hopeless. Her heart was ugly and she would never be free.

  Without a clear idea of what to do, the only thing she was certain of was that she had to do something. And do it fast.

  She’d have to tell Nathan everything.

  20

  Lottie had sped along the motorway with the window down to try to clear her head. She couldn’t fathom who would want to hurt Isabel, if not Jack. The best place to start was always the post-mortem, and she was lucky that Jane had helped her by moving it up her schedule. But she knew she was too late to observe. So be it.

  Attired in gloves and mask, she listened to the state pathologist recite her findings.

  ‘Isabel Gallagher was severely malnourished. Mastitis in both breasts. The inflammation would have caused her discomfort and pain.’

  ‘Isn’t that treatable?’ Lottie asked, horrified.

  ‘Of course it is. But both breasts were infected quite badly; she probably had to give up breastfeeding.’

  ‘Oh, the poor woman. I did see tubs of formula at the house.’ And perhaps Isabel was visiting her doctor those times Anita had to babysit.

  ‘But that’s not the worst of it.’

  ‘Go on.’ Lottie steeled herself for further shocking revelations.

  ‘She had a womb infection. Post-partum endometritis. Severely painful when left untreated. She should have been on antibiotics, but I found no evidence of any having been taken, because the infection was still present.’

  ‘Was she sexually assaulted?’ Lottie hoped not, and didn’t think so, because Isabel’s pyjamas had still been on her body when she was discovered.

  ‘I found no evidence of sexual assault,’ Jane said. ‘She had good personal hygiene.’

  ‘Any evidence of old injuries? Broken bones, that kind of thing?’

  ‘No broken bones.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Her stomach was virtually empty. A blood sample was taken from the baby in order to aid forensic analysis. And DNA samples were taken from the father and grandmother and various surfaces at the scene.’

  ‘Go on.’ Lottie knew this was leading somewhere. She hoped Jane wasn’t going to tell her Jack was not Holly’s father.

  ‘I got all the DNA samples fast-tracked as I know how impatient you are and this is a particularly horrible crime.’

  ‘Thanks, Jane. What did you discover? That Holly’s not—’

  ‘No, nothing like that. DNA samples confirm the family unit as presented. But two unidentified DNA samples were found. The sample lifted from the bar of the cot was male, not the father. Another was found in the kitchen. That presents as female, not Isabel or her mother. Samples are being cross-referenced as we speak. But find a suspect and we can then match the sample.’

  ‘That’s great work, thanks, Jane.’ Lottie sighed. ‘Which wound killed her?’

  ‘I’ll go through her injuries for you. She had a large haematoma to her forehead. I think it was caused by a gloved fist. Traces of black leather, but no DNA. That was enough to knock her out, but not kill her. Five stab wounds to her back, which would have been the last to be administered. The fatal wound was the cut to her throat, which was made after the knock to her head. The killer turned her over with a kick – see the bruise on her thigh?’

  Lottie nodded.

  ‘There’s more,’ Jane said.

  Of course there is, Lottie thought. She was itching to get her hands on the full report and raging that she’d been too late for the post-mortem.

  ‘Come with me.’ The pathologist clip-clopped in her high-heeled shoes into the cutting room, as it was unofficially called.

  The body of Isabel Gallagher lay naked on the stainless-steel table, all evidence of Jane’s work invisible except for the stitched incision on the victim’s chest. The dead woman looked so young she could be a child. Her body was thin, and her face, except for the large bump on her forehead, angelic.

  ‘Poor pet,’ Lottie said.

  Jane stood at Isabel’s feet and lifted one. ‘See these?’

  ‘Cuts?’ Lottie peered closer at the silver lines. She recalled the fluffy socks. Had Isabel worn them for a reason other than warmth? ‘Are they recent?’

  ‘Maybe six months, or longer. Hard to tell, but they’ve healed well.’

  ‘Self-inflicted?’

  Jane shrugged. ‘No way of knowing.’

  ‘If she was self-harming, it might be one of the reasons why she didn’t seek medical help for her infections.’ But that didn’t make sense. The woman had given birth in a hospital. Surely someone would have made a note of it and informed her GP. Then again, hospitals were so busy these days it might have gone unnoticed.

  Jane moved to the side of the body. She lifted the left leg and pointed.

  Lottie gasped. A criss-cross of raised silver scar tissue was evident on the inside of Isabel’s thigh. ‘It’s been going on for some time,’ she said. ‘God almighty, what was she going through to cause all this?’

  ‘It may have nothing to do with why she was murdered,’ Jane offered.

  Then again, it might have a lot to do with it. ‘Thanks, Jane. Time of death?’

  ‘Can’t be conclusive, but if she was found at nine, I’d estimate she’d been killed within the previous two hours. Sorry I can’t be more exact at the moment.’

  ‘I look forward to your report.’

  ‘I’ll have it ready later on.’ Jane regarded Lottie quizzically. ‘You look troubled. Want to join me for a coffee when I’m done here?’

  It was tempting, but Lottie shook her head.

  ‘Sorry, Jane. I’d love to, but it will have to be another time. I need to bring this information back to the team.’

  ‘You look washed out. You need to mind yourself, Lottie,’ Jane said when they reached the corridor. ‘I’m here if you need me.’

  Whipping off her gloves and mask, Lottie dumped them in the hazard receptacle. ‘I appreciate that. More than you will ever know.’

  Outside the Dead House, she gulped in the cool evening air. Then she headed to her car and drove back to Ragmullin with all the windows down, trying to let the wind blow sense into her brain. It didn’t work. Who the hell had killed a defenceless, damaged young woman?

  She arrived at the station brimming with anger.

  21

  It was taking longer than he liked. His lorry was too visible. It was too bloody big. It stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb.

  Nathan Monaghan lowered the window and leaned out into the evening breeze. He tried to get a look at what the delay was at the rear of the lorry. He couldn’t see much, as it was shaded on both sides by high walls. He felt a chill on his bare bicep and watched the tattoo wrinkle and pulse with the cold.

  ‘What’s going on? Can’t you hurry up?’ His words were sharp, blowing back in his face.

  ‘Shut up,’ came the reply.

  ‘I’m on the clock here. I need to be on the road.’ This was ridiculous, he thought. ‘It’s the last time I’m doing this shite,’ he muttered. He kept h
is arm on the ledge, trying to see in the wing mirror just what was delaying them.

  ‘Five minutes, then you can fuck off with your complaining.’ The voice now had a body attached. The short, squat man wore a black puffer jacket, the zip straining across a barrel chest. He had a full mop of greasy hair and a gold ring punched through his ear lobe. Chris Dermody was the name he’d given Nathan the night he’d offered him a grand to keep his mouth shut and make two extra stops once a month. One in France, the other in Dublin. A grand was a lot of money to Nathan Monaghan. It was easy money, if you weren’t caught.

  Something about tonight’s event warned him to be extra cautious. The sting in the evening air, perhaps? Nathan didn’t know, but he suddenly felt exposed in this industrial estate off the M50. Most of the units were offices, and one housed a television studio. Talk about doing things under people’s noses.

  ‘Come on, Dermody, hurry up. I have to go.’ He pulled back into the cab and noticed a missed call from Joyce on his hands-free phone clipped to the dashboard. She must have called him while he was still at sea. He didn’t trust himself to call her back. Not when his anxiety levels were scraping against the roof. She’d know something was wrong. Feck it, he’d better ring. Just as he went to tap her name, the phone died.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said, and rolled down the window again. ‘Hurry the fuck up. I have to be back at base soon or questions will be asked.’

  The fat man waddled around the side of the lorry and hauled himself up on the step, peering angrily in at Nathan.

  ‘I don’t give a flying fuck. I pay you to keep your gob shut. I do my thing. You do yours. Which is to stop here for five poxy minutes. If that doesn’t suit you, mate, remember I know where your boy is.’

  ‘Boy? What boy?’

  ‘What’s his name again? Oh, Evan, isn’t it? Poxy name for a little scut, if you ask me.’

  Nathan felt his muscles bulge as he clenched his fists. He wanted to land one right into the eye of stinking, greasy Chris Dermody.

  ‘You touch him, I swear to God …’ He stopped suddenly as he heard the rear doors clunk shut and the bars slide into place.

  ‘God’s no use to you, mate.’ Dermody smirked, one tooth resting on his blistered bottom lip.

  ‘Fucking bastard.’ Nathan thumped the window frame as the fat man lit a cigarette. The flame lit his face in a ghoulish shadow. ‘You touch a hair on his head, so help me I’ll make a necklace out of your rotten fucking teeth, you fucker.’

  He let the window up and gunned the engine, hitting the wrong gear and causing the lorry to stall.

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  He got it going the second time and drove off without a glance in his rear-view mirror. He didn’t want to see what they’d extracted from the back. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. It was an overused mantra, and he was beginning to wonder if it was just an old wives’ tale or if it was true.

  Once he hit the motorway, he searched around for the cable to charge the phone. Damn, it was in the footwell. He’d be home soon. Joyce could keep Evan safe until then.

  But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Dermody was way too dangerous to mess with.

  22

  Katie Parker couldn’t find a space, so she had to park her car down the road. She jumped out without locking it and ran up the path.

  Bubbles Day Care was on the side of town easiest for heading home. Katie felt happy leaving Louis here three days a week. Not that her wages covered the cost, but it gave her those few hours of freedom to work. When she’d come home from New York at the end of November, she’d intended returning, but decided Farranstown was the ideal place for Louis to grow up. Not far from the shore of Lough Cullion, it promised all the freedom she would not find living in New York City. That was when she realised that she’d been running away all her life. Since the day her dad had died. She made up her mind to stay at home and for once to act like an adult. And hopefully get a decent job.

  She pushed open the gate and rang the doorbell. Ten minutes late.

  ‘Sinéad, I’m so sorry. The traffic through town was mental and some gobshite got stuck at the lights and the cars were backed up to the Malloca Café.’

  ‘Stop fretting, Katie. Louis is grand. He’s been playing with Evan, haven’t you, Louis?’ Sinéad nodded towards the two boys, her swinging auburn curls shining under the light. Leaning closer to Katie, she said, ‘Joyce, Evan’s mother, is late too. She only works a few hours a day and is always here on the dot of four. So unlike her.’

  In the two months since she’d secured her job at the coffee shop and enrolled Louis in Bubbles, Katie hadn’t met Joyce, or Evan for that matter. She assumed the little boy was dropped off later than Louis in the mornings.

  ‘Did you phone her?’

  ‘Yes. Phone seems to be dead. No facility to leave a message or anything.’

  ‘Where does she work?’

  Louis clung to her legs.

  ‘Home, Mama,’ he whimpered.

  ‘Just a minute, pet.’

  Sinéad lifted up Evan, who had thrown a picture book across the floor. ‘She works in Fayne’s café. I tried there but there was no answer. They could be busy with the after-work office crowd. She’s never been late before.’

  ‘What about Evan’s dad? Did you try him?’ Katie picked up Louis and grabbed his jacket from a hook inside the door. It seemed he and Evan were the last two children waiting to be collected.

  ‘Nathan Monaghan’s a truck driver. Long haul. I think he’s out of the country.’

  ‘Do you have a number for him?’ Katie didn’t know Nathan or Joyce. This was not her problem. So why was she still standing here struggling to push Louis’ arms through the sleeves of his jacket?

  ‘I was holding off to see if Joyce arrived, but I’ll give him a ring now.’ Sinéad set the boy back down and went to get her phone.

  ‘What age is Evan?’ Katie said.

  ‘Four. Nearly time for big school, isn’t that right, Evan?’

  ‘Not going to big school.’ The child folded his arms defiantly.

  ‘Sure you are, little man,’ Sinéad said. She tapped her phone and held out the device towards Katie. ‘Sounds like it’s switched off, or a dead battery. He could be in France or Germany for all I know. You better head off. I’ll hold on to Evan until Joyce shows up. I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be here shortly.’ Katie eventually got the zipper done up on her son’s jacket. She hugged him close, inhaling the smell of cheese sandwiches and Play-Doh.

  ‘I’m sure she will.’

  ‘Try Fayne’s number once more before I leave.’ Katie noticed that Evan had tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. She got down to his level. ‘Don’t cry, pet. Your mammy will be here soon. Then you’ll be home in your own house playing with your very own toys.’

  ‘Want Mummy.’

  ‘She’ll be here soon, sweetie.’ Katie looked around for Louis’ little bag.

  ‘That’s weird,’ Sinéad said, ending the call.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Mrs Murray, the manager at Fayne’s, says Joyce didn’t turn up for work today.’

  ‘Did she drop Evan here as usual this morning?’

  ‘She did, but a bit earlier than normal. I thought she looked a little worried. I asked her if everything was all right.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Now that I think of it, she seemed distracted.’ Sinéad ran her hand through her wild curls. ‘I hadn’t time to check the news all day, but one mother said she heard there was a murder outside Ragmullin this morning. Jesus, you don’t think something might have happened to Joyce, do you?’

  ‘Maybe she took the day off and headed up to Dublin to do some shopping, or something like that.’

  ‘I doubt it. She would have told me. Gosh, I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Has she any other relatives that can come pick up Evan?’ Katie toed the floor, anxious to get home. Louis was beginning to fall asle
ep, his head resting on her shoulder, his body heavy in her arms.

  ‘I don’t think they have anyone close.’ Sinéad seemed to pull herself together. ‘Look, I’m sorry for moaning. She’ll be here soon.’

  Evan decided he’d had enough and started to cry in earnest.

  ‘Shush, honey,’ Sinéad said. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen and get some cookies. Would you like that?’

  ‘I want my mummy.’

  ‘I better go,’ Katie said. ‘You know my mother’s a detective.’ Now why had she said that? ‘If there’s anything we can do, let me know.’

  ‘Sure. See you tomorrow, Louis,’ Sinéad said, with a tired wave.

  When Katie had her son safely buckled into his car seat, she looked over at Bubbles Day Care and wondered why Joyce had not arrived to pick up her son.

  Once he was inside his own door, Kevin zipped up his jacket because it was colder inside than out. He appraised his knife collection, stuck into a piece of wood nailed to the wall above the sink. His routine whenever he came home was to take them down and clean them, polishing them one by one with Brasso and admiring the glistening steel. When he’d finished, he put away the cloth and tin, then set the blackened kettle on the cooker and lit the gas. His leg throbbed from the latest cuts and he rubbed it vigorously, kneading away the ache.

  He got a loaf of bread from the cupboard.

  ‘Little bastards!’ It had been nibbled. Again.

  The house was riddled with mouse holes. He’d abandoned all hope of eliminating them and dumped the traps out in the ditch. He couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of setting them and emptying them and then setting them again and again.

  He had no fridge, only an outdoor wooden unit with a mesh screen that he called his safe. In it he kept his perishables. He went outside and brought back a block of hardened Cheddar cheese. He cut the bread into thick slices and pressed in chunks of cheese he’d hewn from the block.