‘Are you okay?’ Chloe’s voice rose from a mist and he cleared his head with a shake.
‘Yeah, just tired.’
‘Oh-oh.’ She winked.
‘Not what you’re thinking.’ He grinned. ‘I’m digging a hole for myself, aren’t I?’
‘You sure are. Wish I had my own place. I was working past two and my sister thinks it’s okay to wake me at this ungodly hour. Much as I love Louis, I could do with another few hours in bed. Bathroom free?’ She dragged a towel along the floor behind her.
Downstairs, he grabbed his jacket from the kitchen and his overcoat from the banister and left the Parker kids to their big old creaking house.
32
On the drive into work, Lottie brushed off thoughts of the letter she’d seen in Boyd’s pocket. Whatever it was it was his own business. Today was going to be focused and productive. Nothing was going to avert her or her team from finding Evan and his mother, plus the bastard who’d killed Isabel.
She found a new sense of determination as she approached the station, but her resolve diminished on seeing the media scrum outside. She parked in the yard, found the rear door locked and had to make her way through the reporters to get to the front door. She uttered no comment to questions on the missing boy, and pushed inside, where she was met with more mayhem.
* * *
The woman was not for moving. Mid thirties, long brown hair swirling around her shoulders, a child maybe a year old sitting on her hip, a little girl not more than two or three holding her hand and a slightly older boy sitting on the bench inside the door threading beads onto a string. Steps of the stairs, as Rose would call them.
‘I want to see him! I want to see him right now,’ the woman ranted, swishing her hair this way and that.
‘Can I help you?’ Lottie said.
The woman swung around. ‘I want Sam McKeown down here immediately.’
Lottie glanced at the duty sergeant and was met with a head shake.
‘Detective McKeown isn’t in yet. I’m his superior, Detective Inspector Parker. Maybe I can help you?’
The woman snorted. ‘Might have known he’d have a woman over him.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Forget it. He should be here. He told me he’s working every hour that God sends.’
‘Can I ask your name?’
‘Melissa. His wife.’
Shite.
‘Please, Melissa, it’s more private in this office.’ She indicated the small room used for form-filling.
‘I’m not moving an inch until he talks to me. He told me he has a new case. Couldn’t get time off to mind these. I have an appointment this morning.’
Lottie felt a growing sense of unease in her chest. ‘If you wait in there, you can try ringing him.’
Melissa hustled the toddler onto her other hip. ‘I’m blue in the face ringing him. He won’t answer. Where is he?’
‘Do you want me to leave a message on his desk?’
‘I want you to get him in here!’ The shout swerved into hysteria. ‘I’m at my wits’ end. Radio him or something. I’m not leaving until you find him.’
No way was she getting caught up in McKeown’s marital woes. ‘I’m sorry, Melissa, but as this is a personal issue, there’s nothing I can do. Leave me your number and I’ll make sure he contacts you.’
‘He knows my bloody number.’ She turned on her heel and sat on the bench beside the little boy. ‘I’m not moving until I speak to him.’ She rummaged in her large black leather bag, took out a bottle and began feeding the child in her arms.
Lottie relented. ‘Okay. I’ll see if I can … locate him.’
She fled up to the office and phoned McKeown. It went to message.
Kirby waltzed in. ‘What’s with happy families down in reception?’
‘McKeown’s wife and kids.’
Kirby blushed to his roots. ‘His wife? What’s she doing here?’
‘Not moving until she sees him.’ Lottie stared at the phone. ‘Any idea where he could be?’
‘Eh … I think he might be with Garda Brennan.’
‘Have you a number for her?’
‘Why would I have a number for her?’
‘You’re blushing, Kirby.’
‘I’m not.’
Lottie pulled up the staff list on her computer and scrolled until she found the contact details for Garda Brennan. Kirby hovered at the door. ‘What?’
‘I think he’s having an affair.’
‘Really, Sherlock?’
‘Look, boss, it might be best to let McKeown walk into his own fire. Don’t get involved.’
The outer door opened, then shut. Lynch popped her head around Kirby’s bulky frame. ‘What’s going on in reception? It’s like a crèche down there.’
‘McKeown’s wife and kids,’ Lottie said as she rang Garda Brennan’s mobile.
Lynch gasped. ‘Oh, this is going to get messy.’
Listening to the call go to message, Lottie stared at Lynch. ‘Do you have any way of contacting him?’
‘Did you try his mobile?’
‘Good God, Lynch.’ She couldn’t help rolling her eyes. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘Just trying to help.’
‘This is all we need. A family crisis while we’re swamped with work.’
‘If I were you, boss,’ Lynch said, ‘I’d let him sort out his own mess.’
‘Like it or not, McKeown is one of my team. I have to see what I can do.’
‘Don’t you at least feel sorry for his wife?’ Lynch said. ‘He’s fucking around while she’s stuck at home with three kids. I say let him sink.’
Holding the phone away from her, Lottie watched Lynch stride to her desk and shrug out of her coat. Kirby hopped from foot to foot before following his colleague. Maybe they were right. She put down the phone and sat with her chin on her hand. McKeown could sort out his own shit.
With that decision made, she began checking the night shift’s reports to see if there were updates on the missing woman and child, or anything new on the murder investigation. Before she could fully concentrate, Superintendent Farrell rang.
‘My office, Parker, and make it quick.’
The day that kept on giving, and it was only eight a.m.
* * *
‘Sit down.’
No greeting, so Lottie sat.
Superintendent Deborah Farrell wore a stern face and a sharply ironed uniform shirt. She took her tie from the uncluttered desk and clipped it on. Trouble.
‘What’s the news on Evan and Joyce Breslin?’
‘Sparse,’ Lottie said. ‘So far no witnesses to Evan’s abduction and no sighting of Joyce or her car.’
‘I’m taking control of the media and public appeals. I want all the information you have as soon as you have it. Photos of the child and his mother have been dispatched to every media outlet, Facebook and the like. We’ve set up checkpoints throughout the county.’ She picked up a TV remote control. ‘Now watch this, and no comment until it ends.’
Farrell pointed the remote at the flat-screen television on the wall. On the screen, a ticker tape flashed beneath the image of a studio in the form of a welcoming sitting room.
‘What the—’ Lottie began.
‘Not a word.’
Lottie watched incredulously as Jack Gallagher leaned towards the young woman conducting the interview. Clean-shaven, his dark hair flopping over his forehead, he was dressed in jeans and white shirt. Face solemn. Hands rugged. Fingers interlaced.
‘Welcome back. I’m Penny Campbell, and with me this morning is Jack Gallagher. As you might know, Jack’s wife, Isabel, was found murdered in their home early yesterday morning. Our sincere condolences, Jack.’
‘Thank you, Penny.’
‘Can you tell our viewers why you’ve agreed to do this interview?’
His name popped up on the screen. He bowed his head and bit his lip.
Penny prompted, ‘Your wife, Isabel, was
brutally murdered in your own home, and this morning you have a message for the public.’
‘The fucking cheek—’ Lottie began, before Farrell cut her off again. Jack was speaking.
‘My Isabel meant the world to me and Holly. Holly is our daughter. She’s only three and a half months old.’ He paused, choking back a sob, before continuing. ‘Someone broke in to our home and stabbed my wife in front of our daughter’s eyes. Who could do such a thing?’ He wiped his eyes, though Lottie couldn’t see any tears.
The presenter leaned forward and placed her hand on his, an intimate gesture to resonate with her viewers. Lottie scowled. This woman was the ultimate professional. Wagon.
‘This is difficult for you, Jack. Take your time.’
He raised his head, nodded. ‘Whoever carried out this awful … horrific crime is out there and someone knows who they are. I’m pleading with your viewers to help me find whoever murdered my wife.’
‘Isn’t that a job for the gardaí?’
‘Yes, but I can’t sit at home and do nothing. I need to be actively involved. The gardaí do things their own way, which is way too slow for me. I’m imploring your viewers to take a long, hard look at those around them. I believe Isabel was murdered between seven and nine yesterday morning. The killer must have been covered in her blood. The scene … it was an awful sight to behold.’
Lottie fumed. ‘For fuck’s sake, he hasn’t even been inside the house.’
‘Unless he committed the crime,’ Farrell said quietly, pausing the screen.
‘Shite in a bucket.’ Lottie couldn’t contain her anger. ‘He’s a dangerous bastard. And he’s relishing this limelight.’
She looked at the time on the bottom right of the screen. The interview had been broadcast over half an hour ago. The phones would be hopping soon. ‘I need to bring him in. I have to find out why he’s jeopardising our investigation.’
‘Why wasn’t he already in custody?’ Farrell asked calmly. Too calmly.
‘He was nowhere near the crime scene when his wife was murdered. We have witnesses who place him nearly twenty kilometres away at the time.’
‘You’ve confirmed time of death, then?’
‘It was between seven and nine, according to the pathologist. Unless he’s a magician, it’d be physically impossible for him to be in two places at once.’
‘Unless … he orchestrated the whole thing. Got somebody else to carry out the murder.’
Lottie stared at her superintendent. Was Farrell watching too much Netflix? Real crime never turned out to be as fanciful as fictional crime. Then again …
‘Play the remainder of the interview.’ She leaned forward, elbows on knees, as the screen unfroze and the presenter continued.
‘Did the investigating officers allow you into the house?’
‘No, but I can imagine what it was like. They said Isabel was stabbed. There must have been a lot of blood. Whoever did it would have bloody clothes. Someone knows who did this.’
‘Bloody clothes?’ Lottie said. ‘What is he now? An amateur detective? A forensic analyst? Making a laughing stock of us, that’s what he’s doing.’ She shut up and listened to the presenter with her fake concern, relishing her ratings hitting the roof.
‘Do you want to speak directly to the killer if they’re watching this morning?’
Gallagher straightened his back on the low couch and held up his hands. ‘Isabel was my whole world. Why have you taken her from me? You’ve left a little baby without her mother. Please, give yourself up.’
‘Thank you, Jack.’ Penny turned to face another camera, her mourner’s mask in place.
‘Rewind it a few seconds,’ Lottie said, standing. She moved towards the screen. ‘There. Stop. Start it again.’
She watched as Jack straightened himself and held out his hands. ‘Pause it there.’
Farrell came and stood beside her.
‘See his hands,’ Lottie said.
‘Okay. What am I looking for?’
‘Those marks. They’re like cuts.’
‘Don’t seem to be fresh.’
‘I know, but Isabel had cuts to her feet and thigh. Not recent, but all the same … Why didn’t I notice them yesterday?’ Lottie turned and headed for the door. ‘Where is that studio?’
‘Dublin. He’s probably on his way back by now. Where is he staying?’
‘His mother-in-law’s. I’ll be waiting for him, and I’m bringing him in.’
Farrell switched off the television. ‘I advise you to tread very carefully. If he is the killer, he’s slick. He’ll be two steps ahead of you at all times.’
‘I know. Thanks. Even if he’s innocent, what sort of grieving husband does a television interview the day after his wife was murdered, and without informing us first?’
‘An extremely clever one.’
33
The office was in uproar when Lottie returned from Farrell’s room.
‘You can fuck off, McKeown,’ Lynch screeched. She was backed up against a filing cabinet, McKeown, towering ogre-like, reaching across the desk trying to grab her. His hand just missed but snatched a fistful of hair.
Lottie roared, ‘McKeown! Back off. This instant.’
‘She’s a bloody weasel, that’s what she is.’ He rubbed his hand over his pate, which was as red as his cheeks. ‘A snitch. A rat. A—’
Lottie caught his arm and dragged him away. She flashed a look at Kirby, who was standing by the door, ready to run. ‘What are you doing just standing there? Why didn’t you intervene?’
‘It got out of hand quickly,’ he said.
‘I’ll say it did.’ Lynch flopped onto her chair, pointing a finger at McKeown. ‘Stark raving lunatic, so you are. I don’t care what’s going on in your life, but I’m owed an apology and an explanation for this obnoxious outburst.’
‘You’ll get no apology from me, bigmouth.’ McKeown curled his hands into fists, tight by his sides.
‘Calm down.’ Lottie pushed him onto his chair. ‘Is this to do with your wife and kids downstairs?’
‘So you know about it and all. A room full of squealers. I should have realised it’d come to this. Just because I’m an outsider, you all think you can do the dirty behind my back.’
‘Hey!’ Kirby said. ‘The only one doing the dirty behind anyone’s back around here is you, buster. Everyone in the station knows about your carry-on. It was only a matter of time before it got back to your poor wife.’
‘It’s my business. Not yours, you fat fuck.’
‘Cool it!’ Lottie stepped in between the two men before rounding on McKeown. ‘Take your wife home and sort it out. And when you return tomorrow, you better apologise to your colleagues. This is your mess, McKeown, yours alone, and you need to fix it.’
He shunted back his shoulders defiantly. ‘I’m not going home. I’ve a job to do here.’
‘Not in this state, you don’t. Leave before I suspend you.’
‘Suspend?’ Lynch shouted. ‘Fire him!’
Lottie groaned. Where the hell was Boyd? His calm head was needed for this spiralling mess.
‘Okay, okay,’ McKeown conceded. ‘I’m leaving. But don’t expect any apology from me until whoever told Melissa owns up.’ He glared at Lynch, grabbed his coat from the floor where he’d flung it and stomped out of the office, jabbing his fist into the door for good measure, leaving behind a dented arc.
Lottie exhaled a breath of relief. ‘Now who is going to tell me what the hell is going on here?’
Boyd stuck his head around the door. ‘Did I miss something?’
With things relatively calm and Lynch sulking, Kirby raced through the reports that uniforms had collated about the missing child and his mother. Nothing relevant jumped out at him. As he munched through a bag of crisps, wondering if it was too early for a smoke break, a call came through.
‘Kirby,’ he said, picking crisps out of his teeth.
Garda Martina Brennan sounded confident on the line, and he wonder
ed if she had been spared the McKeown debacle.
When he hung up, Lottie was prowling around his desk.
‘Got a report in, boss,’ he said. ‘There’s a car abandoned in a ditch, close to Lough Cullion. Side window smashed.’
‘Did you get the make and colour? Licence plate?’
‘Black Ford Focus. Reg number matches Joyce Breslin’s car.’
‘What are you waiting for? Get out there. Make sure there isn’t a body in the lake. Anything further on the whereabouts of the boy following all the alerts we issued?’
‘Nothing so far,’ Kirby said, looking guiltily at the reports piled high on his desk.
Lottie slapped a hand on the files. ‘This shite should have been written up. I’ve reports and spreadsheets coming out of my ears, and do you know something?’
‘What, boss?’
‘You’re slacking.’ She sniffed the air around him.
‘I haven’t been drinking,’ he lied.
She pulled back and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Yeah? And I’m your mother.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’ He hid a yawn, conscious that she had a nose like a Rottweiler and would definitely smell the stale stench of alcohol. ‘Are you serious about searching the lake for a body?’
‘Assess the scene first. Broken window suggests foul play. Do the usual checks and arrange to get it out of the ditch.’
‘I’ll take Lynch with me.’
‘I need Lynch for FLO work. Take Garda Brennan. Traffic will be there, so why are you still here?’ She smiled, but Kirby could see it didn’t reach her eyes. Stone-cold green emeralds this morning, and he wondered if all was not as rosy as it could be at Farranstown House.
‘Okay, I’m gone.’ He grabbed his coat and left her mooching through the unfinished reports on his desk.
Rather you than me, boss, he thought.
34
Lottie checked the overnight updates. Not a thing had been reported about Evan’s whereabouts. The house-to-house enquires had yielded no clues or witnesses to the alleged abduction. Checkpoints had been set up around the county, and she perused the data but found nothing to lift her mood. She followed up with everyone who’d been tasked with finding Evan, fervently hoping that he and his mother were not at the bottom of the lake.
Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller Page 15
