Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller

by Patricia Gibney

  The kettle whistled. He switched off the gas and made tea in a blackened mug with the dust of tea leaves from the caddy. He’d need to fetch more supplies, but he couldn’t risk entering a shop so soon after what had happened to Isabel.

  Sitting at the wooden table, he shoved the bread and cheese into his mouth and washed it down with tea. He’d waited across the road from Anita’s house for ages, but Jack hadn’t returned. He’d have been better served following him rather than wasting his time in the van doing nothing.

  But tomorrow was another day. He needed to plan for it.

  He put down the crust, and belched as he watched a mouse scoot across the table. They eyed each other for a moment before Kevin brought the knife from his pocket and sliced right through the tiny animal.

  ‘Gotcha!’

  One down, he thought. He needed to be vigilant, because there were so many more.

  He wasn’t sure he was even thinking about the mice.

  23

  Farranstown House was abuzz with noise when Lottie eventually arrived home. She’d swung by the station and delivered the news from the post-mortem. Her whole team were run ragged, so she’d updated their tasks before leaving for the day.

  Her mother was in command of the kitchen, two pots boiling on the stove, the aroma carrying out to the front door. Lottie stepped over two boxes that one of her kids had been searching, the contents haphazardly thrown back in. She hung up her coat on the old bentwood coat stand that had been there since God was a child. Picking up the plastic bag of Chinese takeaway that she’d purchased on the way home, she entered the warm kitchen, bracing herself.

  ‘Hello, Mother. Something smells gorgeous. I wasn’t expecting you, but thanks for coming over.’ She slumped onto a chair, dumped the Chinese food on the floor under the table and picked up a pile of unopened post. Probably all bills. She groaned. Was she ever going to get her life on track?

  ‘You can throw that in the bin,’ Rose said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That bag of nonsense food. I’m cooking spuds and cabbage with ham. Almost done.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lottie said grudgingly.

  Rose had a habit of interfering in her life, but this evening, after such a trying day, Lottie was glad of the home-cooked food. She didn’t bother asking why Rose had appeared today of all days, because she knew the answer already.

  With her back still turned as she lifted a lid and tested the potatoes with a fork, Rose said, ‘I heard the news on the radio about the murder out at Cloughton.’

  Lottie smiled to herself.

  ‘I knew you’d have your hands full and you’d forget you had a home to come to.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘I know what you’re like when a big investigation lands on your lap.’ Rose spun round, waving the fork, her short silver hair gleaming in the steam rising from the saucepan, ‘I can’t have my grandchildren and great-grandson starving.’

  Biting her tongue, Lottie opened her post. She was right. Bills. She heard Louis squealing with delight at something on the television in the front room, and it brought a smile to her lips.

  Rose was still talking. ‘And I don’t know what you’re doing living out here in the middle of nowhere. I was sure you and Leo had come to a monetary arrangement. How in hell did you end up agreeing to live here? It’s ice cold and pitch black at night. My eyes are not great in the dark, you know, so I’ll have to get on the road soon.’

  Lottie decided to humour her mother. ‘It suited me and it suited Leo once he realised he’d never get planning permission to demolish the house and build a hotel or a scheme of houses or whatever he’d intended. Anyway, it’s only a lease arrangement until he figures out how to make money out of Farranstown.’

  ‘And then what?’ Rose brandished the fork furiously. ‘You’re going to be out on the side of the road with your children. Do you ever think about them?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, I never stop thinking about them. Will you give me a break,’ she muttered under her breath.

  ‘Don’t swear. No need for it. You’ll give Louis choice vocabulary. But tell me what happened to that poor woman?’

  Lottie groaned. Her mother’s voice was like chalk grating on a blackboard. Her head already hurt and she’d been home less than five minutes. ‘You know I can’t discuss my cases with you.’

  She heard the front door slam. Boyd walked into the kitchen, a big smile on his face.

  ‘Rose, thanks for the dinner invite.’

  ‘Oh, I know you love my cooking, and you need fattening up. Won’t be long now until I have it on a plate in front of you.’ Rose transformed into a different woman the second Boyd appeared.

  Lottie felt him feather her hair with a kiss.

  ‘How are you now?’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean, now?’

  ‘You were narky as fu— as hell earlier. A good feed will put a smile back on your face.’

  Lottie threw the post on the table. ‘Boyd, you know I’m under pressure. All day working and not a single hint or clue as to who killed Isabel. It’s so frustrating. There’s a killer sleeping soundly in their bed tonight because we haven’t a notion who they are or why they did what they did.’

  She brushed past him. ‘I’m having a shower. Be down in five.’

  ‘I have yours on the plate!’ Rose said. She tutted and placed the food in front of Boyd. ‘You may as well have the first cut then, Mark. Eat up. Lottie, call Sean. I’ll get Katie and Louis. Chloe headed out.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Upstairs, the bare landing was cold under her feet. She knocked on Sean’s door and entered.

  ‘Mam! You can’t just waltz in like that.’

  ‘I knocked.’

  ‘You didn’t wait for me to invite you in, did you?’

  ‘Jesus, what are you now? Lord of the manor?’ She sat on the edge of his unmade bed and glanced at the monitor, where he was deep in a game, his headphones now hanging around his neck. ‘There’s no way you could have heard me knock with those noise busters.’

  ‘That’s not the point. I need my privacy.’ He laughed. ‘Noise busters?’

  ‘You’re my son. I’m entitled to—’

  ‘What do you want, Mam, seeing as you’ve burst through the noise busters?’

  She closed her eyes. Why was everyone so hostile?

  ‘I have a big investigation on, Sean, and I just wanted to say hello to my only son.’ She reached out and squeezed his hand.

  ‘Hello, Mam. Can I go back to my game now?’ The sixteen-year-old swivelled his chair to face the screen. Two screens, she noticed.

  ‘When did you get the second monitor?’

  ‘Mark bought it for me.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘Don’t start, Mam.’

  ‘I wasn’t starting anything.’

  ‘I know that look.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Jealousy?’

  ‘Give it a rest. Why would I be jealous of Boyd?’

  ‘Because he gets me and you don’t.’

  That floored her. She ran her hands up and down her arms and tugged at the hem of her sleeve, unravelling a thread and pulling it hard around her finger. She counted to ten in her head and expelled a loud breath.

  ‘Granny has your dinner ready. You better wash your hands and get downstairs.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll be down when I finish this game. Gran won’t mind.’

  She left her son in his dark room with clothes dropped everywhere like discarded props and went to the bathroom.

  She stood under the shower for ten glorious, peaceful minutes, the tingle of the water drumming her skin, bringing some comfort to her tired brain.

  When she stepped out onto the cold floor and found the already damp towel, she knew she had to make a decision about the house. It was tainting her relationship with Boyd. At the moment it was neither one thing nor the other. First, though, she needed to discover why Isabel Gallagher had
been murdered, and by whom.

  But before all that, she had to eat her dinner, or Rose would have a puss on her and life wasn’t worth that hassle.

  With Holly asleep upstairs in a travel cot loaned by a neighbour, Anita stood at the window and stared out.

  ‘Where did you go, Jack?’ she whispered. The curtain fluttered with her words.

  Lost in his grief, he’d left the house that afternoon and she hadn’t seen him since. She should have questioned him. But she’d given him space and now, hours later, she had no idea where he was.

  Moving away from the window, she sat by the dying fire with no energy to bring in fuel from the shed. She should have asked Jack to do it. And that made her wonder what kind of man her son-in-law was. He’d been awkward with Holly, as if he’d rarely held his daughter in his arms. He had no idea how to feed her until she’d shown him. Had that been his fault, or had Isabel taken over those tasks?

  A solitary tear fell from her eye and snaked down her cheek. She’d cried so much today, she was surprised she had any tears left to shed.

  A sound. Outside the window.

  She straightened her back and listened.

  Nothing.

  No. There it was again.

  A knock. On the front door.

  Not Jack – she’d given him a key. Oh God, I can’t be doing with neighbours sympathising at this hour, she thought as she pulled on her slippers and straightened her jeans.

  She opened the door and gasped when she saw the man standing on the step.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh Anita, I’m so sorry about Isabel. Can I come in?’

  And she let the man into her home.

  A man she had first met over forty years before.

  24

  Evan was sitting in front of the television eating a slice of toast, with a beaker of milk in his other hand. He was a sweet child, though at times prone to outbreaks of kicking and spitting. Just his age, Sinéad had told Joyce, but she felt it was something more deep-rooted.

  ‘Where’s my mummy?’ he said, his mouth full of bread.

  ‘She’ll be here soon.’

  Extracting her phone, she tried Joyce again. Not even a dial tone. She scanned the news app on her phone. The day had been so hectic, she hadn’t had a moment until now.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she cried, reading about the murder. Isabel was dead. Murdered. And they’d been supposed to meet that morning to discuss Holly. She liked Isabel, who had worked for her for a few months last year. But now she was dead! That was why the detective had contacted her earlier. What was the world coming to? And now Joyce hadn’t turned up.

  Her anxiety grew as she watched the clock slip past eight o’clock. Something was definitely wrong. Her husband, Dylan, had a meeting after work and then he was going to the gym, so she couldn’t talk to him about it. She needed to keep busy.

  ‘Evan, honey, lie down on the couch when you’ve finished eating. I’m just getting Bubbles ready for tomorrow.’

  In the room that had once been a garage attached to her house, she picked up the square peg boards with multicoloured designs the children had created earlier that day. A mishmash of colour. Various degrees of complexity, depending on the child’s age. She popped the pegs into the little baskets and stacked the boards on a shelf. A shadow settled on the desk beneath the window. Looking out, she could see little with the light on above her. It was a quiet estate. No break-ins or disturbances.

  Was that the front door opening? She paused her work and listened.

  ‘Is that you, Dylan?’ She peered through the window, but couldn’t see his car in the drive.

  She switched off the light and made her way back along the corridor that led to the house. No one in the hall. Her husband’s coat was not hanging up. She glanced into the sitting room, where the inane chirping of some cartoon character punctured her eardrums.

  Skirting around the couch to find the remote, she caught sight of the beaker lying on the floor, milk streaming across the deep-pile carpet. Crusts of toast squashed into the mess.

  ‘Evan! You might be allowed to do this in your own home, but not in mine,’ she shouted towards the downstairs bathroom, where a skein of light filtered under the door.

  No reply.

  Poor boy. She shouldn’t have shouted at him. She picked up a pack of baby wipes she kept on the armchair for such emergencies and began to mop up the spilled milk. He was just missing his mum.

  She threw the balled-up wipes into the fire and carried the beaker and plate to the kitchen.

  ‘Do you need help in there, Evan?’

  Maybe he couldn’t reach the towel. The bathroom wasn’t designed for kids. She and Dylan hadn’t been blessed with a child so far, which was a pity because she loved children.

  She went to the bathroom and pushed open the door.

  Empty.

  ‘Where are you, Evan?’ she shouted as she ran upstairs and checked each room. No sign of the boy.

  She raced back down and out the front door.

  ‘Evan! Evan, where are you?’

  Opening the gate, she looked frantically up and down the road. The street lights cast sepia shadows along the footpath, and leaves swirled in the evening breeze. Where was the boy?

  She ran back inside and snatched up her phone. First she called Joyce, then Nathan. Still nothing. She tried Dylan’s number. Same result. Where the hell was everyone?

  After another full search of the house to ensure the child wasn’t hiding, she slumped into an armchair, her racing heart the only sound in her eardrums. Should she notify the gardaí? Was it too premature? But where had Evan got to? Then a thought struck her. Hadn’t Katie Parker mentioned that her mother was a detective?

  Phone clutched tightly in her trembling hand, she dialled Katie’s number.

  25

  Boyd was asleep on the couch, his legs hanging over the end, a beige blanket across his chest. She couldn’t help but love him. The blanket was dotted with flecks of white paint. Stretching as high as she could without falling off the stepladder, Lottie vowed this was the last ceiling she would paint. Ever.

  ‘Mam, can I have a word?’ Katie stood at the door, her face a mask of worry.

  ‘Sure. Is it Louis? Is he okay?’

  ‘He’s fast asleep. No, it’s just that I had a phone call from Sinéad.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She runs Louis’ day care.’

  ‘What’s up with her?’ Lottie climbed down the ladder, leaving the paint can on the top step with the brush lying across it.

  ‘I’ve boiled the kettle. Want a cup of tea?’ Katie said.

  ‘I’d murder one.’ Lottie found a rag steeped in turps and cleaned her hands as best she could before following her daughter into the kitchen. ‘What was the call about?’

  ‘It’s weird really,’ Katie said as she poured milk into her tea.

  ‘You have my attention.’ Isabel Gallagher had been supposed to meet Sinéad Foley, and now the Foley woman was ringing Katie. Might only be about childcare, but Lottie had an uneasy feeling it wasn’t that at all.

  Katie swallowed a mouthful of tea. ‘When I picked Louis up earlier, Sinéad was worried because one of the kids there, Evan, his mum hadn’t arrived to pick him up. Joyce Breslin. She works in Fayne’s café on the other side of town. I explained about the bad traffic and all that, but it appears Joyce never arrived, so Sinéad was holding onto Evan while she tried to contact his dad.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘She couldn’t contact either Joyce or Nathan – he’s Evan’s dad, I think. Then about ten minutes ago, Evan disappeared from her sitting room. She can’t find the boy anywhere.’

  The hair stood up on Lottie’s neck.

  ‘She should phone the station. The duty sergeant will send someone out to take her statement and organise a search. The boy might have been disorientated and wandered off.’

  ‘The thing is, Sinéad was in the playroom part of the day care and she thought she hea
rd the front door open and then a few seconds later it closed. Could someone have come in and taken the child?’

  ‘It might have been his dad.’ Lottie chipped off a pearl of dried paint from her knuckle. ‘He might not have known where Sinéad was.’

  ‘But how would he get into the house?’

  ‘I don’t know, Katie. What did you tell her to do?’ Lottie was tired. The paint fumes were clinging to her nostrils and her throat felt raw.

  Katie fiddled with her mug, swirling a spoon needlessly around the milky tea. ‘I told her I’d talk to you and see if you could do anything.’

  ‘I can’t, Katie. I’ve this big murder investigation on my hands. She has to ring the station. They’ll send someone out.’ She saw the look on Katie’s face. ‘I’ll call it in.’

  ‘It’s after half eight and Evan is only four. A little boy out in the dark on his own, Mam. You have to do something more than call it in.’

  ‘Okay.’ Lottie stood and fetched her jacket. ‘I’ll go round there.’

  ‘Thanks, Mam. You’re the best.’

  Here he was, AJ Lennon, hardware supremo, sitting in what had been Fred’s favourite armchair, his coat neatly folded on his knee. He’d aged considerably, and Anita wondered why the years hadn’t been kind to him.

  ‘I came to offer my condolences. Poor Isabel – I’m so sorry. How are you holding up, Anita?’ His jowls sagged as he spoke, but she could still see the sparkle in his eyes that had enchanted her all those years ago.

  ‘I know we’ve met in town from time to time, AJ, it’s impossible not to bump into each other, but we haven’t spoken for nearly forty years and now you waltz in here. Give me a break.’

  ‘I just knocked on your door; you invited me in.’

  ‘Always had a smart answer, so you did.’ She held her arms tightly around her waist. Some things time could not change.

  ‘Look, Anita, I’m just offering my sincere condolences.’