‘Have you any record of the buyer?’
‘You’ve got me there.’ The man scratched the side of his head. Boyd was afraid he would lose his few remaining grey strands if he scratched any harder.
‘Ever hear of Lugmiran Enterprises? It’s currently listed as the registered owner of the car.’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Did you get information from the buyer in order to complete the transfer of ownership?’
‘Sure didn’t the lad say he would take care of it. All I had to do was bank the five thousand yo-yos he paid me.’
‘He paid you in cash?’
‘He did right enough.’
‘Did you meet him in person?’
‘Just for the few minutes it took to hand over the car and take the money, but you needn’t ask me what he looked like, because I can’t remember much about him.’
‘Any little thing would help,’ Kirby pushed.
‘What’s this about, if you don’t mind me being nosy? If he didn’t do the paperwork and I’m still the registered owner, I hope the bastard hasn’t crashed it and gone and killed some poor unfortunate soul. God, I couldn’t live with myself if that happened.’
‘Nothing like that at all, sir,’ Boyd said.
‘Sir? A boy after my own heart. I was in the army, you know. You have respect for your elders, not like some of the youngsters nowadays.’
‘If you can remember anything, it would help us.’ Boyd found he had to work hard keeping the old man on the subject.
‘Let me think. He was a tall man. But sure everyone is tall now that my back is fecked.’
‘Was there a woman with him?’ Boyd asked.
‘A woman?’ Frank closed his eyes for a moment.
‘Yes, sir. Did the buyer have anyone with him?’
‘Can’t say that he did. The deal was done out the front. He must have walked here, because he drove away in my car and there was no car left outside. Unless someone dropped him off. Maybe that’s it.’ He pointed a finger like a schoolteacher.
‘He might be from the town, then?’ Boyd probed.
‘He might be from Mars for all I know, lad.’
Boyd leaned back in the chair. This was getting them nowhere.
‘Bosco hadn’t much time for him, if I recall correctly. Howled like a banshee the whole time we were out front.’
‘And is Bosco a good judge of character?’
‘He didn’t lose his rag when you two came in, so that tells you something.’
Kirby guffawed and Boyd smiled awkwardly.
Frank added, ‘I’ll ask my niece if she kept anything. She did the ad for me. I have one of those smartphones, but I’m not as good on it as I could be.’
‘If you give me her phone number,’ Boyd said, ‘I can follow it up.’
‘Ah, lad, I don’t want to be worrying her. She’s an anxious pet. Leave your number with me. I’ll call you if she kept anything.’
Boyd supposed this was better than nothing. He put his hand in his jacket to take out a card, and his fingers touched the letter he’d put there yesterday. He’d forgotten all about it. He’d been too distracted and busy. Finding his card, he handed it to Frank.
The old man walked them to the door, Bosco remaining in the kitchen guarding the heat. ‘Any news on that murder? Poor lass. Awful business altogether.’
‘We’re working on it night and day,’ Boyd said.
‘Why are you here asking about my old car then?’ The old man’s eyes bored into Boyd. ‘I’m not too senile yet, so it must be something to do with her killing.’
‘No, it’s in relation to another case. I meant to ask, do you know a Joyce Breslin?’
Boyd couldn’t be sure, but he thought the old man’s eyes flickered as he shook his head.
‘Don’t recognise the name. But the battery goes a bit flat in here betimes.’ He tapped the side of his head.
‘Ask your niece about her too, if you don’t mind.’
‘Don’t mind at all.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Boyd said.
‘Thanks, Frank,’ Kirby said.
About to step outside after Kirby, Boyd noticed a framed photograph hanging on the hall wall.
‘Jolly bunch,’ he said.
‘Aye, lad. That’s my niece and some of her friends. Years ago now. She’s a bit of a loner really. It was taken on some summer camp or other, I think, though it might be something else entirely. Feel sorry for the lass. That was a happier time for her.’
‘What happened?’
‘If I knew that, maybe I could help her.’
Boyd could see the old man was getting upset. His cue to leave. ‘Good day, sir.’
Frank stood at his front door for a long time after the car had disappeared from view. Then he shut the door and stared at the photograph before he went to join Bosco. Sitting by the table, he searched under the mess of newspapers for his phone.
44
‘What the hell is going on?’ Lottie said when the ambulance doors opened.
Lynch knew she must look like a drowned rat, her hair matted to her scalp and her clothes sopping wet beneath the blanket. ‘I’m fine, thanks for asking.’
‘Sorry. I hope you’re okay, Maria. What happened?’
Taking the paramedic’s hand, Lynch stepped down, her foil blanket flapping in the breeze. ‘The man I rescued from the water is in the second ambulance. I don’t know who he is, but it looked to me as if Jack Gallagher pushed him into the canal.’
‘Where’s Gallagher now?’
‘Don’t know.’ Lynch shrugged her shoulders wearily.
‘We best get you inside,’ the paramedic urged.
The second ambulance pulled up. The doors opened.
‘I’m not letting him out of my sight,’ Lynch said, indicating the man on the stretcher, oxygen mask clamped to his face.
Once inside A&E, the man was taken to a cubicle. A nurse showed Lynch to an empty treatment room so that she could take off her wet clothing, and handed her a towel and a gown.
‘Stay with him,’ Lynch told Lottie, and shut the door for privacy.
It took her some time to peel off her wet clothes. She felt awkward in the gown, unable to tie the strings at the back. She towelled her hair and glanced at her reflection in the glass door of a cabinet. She turned away quickly – she looked like nothing on earth.
A knock on the door before Lottie entered.
‘Are you decent?’
‘Half decent. How is he?’
‘He’s being assessed.’ Lottie paused. ‘The nurse says you need a tetanus shot.’
‘I’m up to date on my shots.’ Lynch sat on the bed, the bundle of wet clothes on her knee.
‘Give those to me.’ Lottie took the clothes and found a roll of plastic bags on top of the cabinet.
‘Thanks,’ Lynch said.
Lottie placed the clothes in the bag. ‘So what happened?’
Lynch explained how she’d followed Jack Gallagher and had seen the man fall into the water. ‘It was obvious he couldn’t swim. For a second I considered following Gallagher, but instinct made me stay to try and help the man.’
‘You think Gallagher knew him?’
‘I was some distance from them, but they appeared to be arguing. I didn’t recognise him.’
‘I’ve been told he could be suffering from hypothermia, so we can’t interview him yet. Once you’ve been checked over, I’ll drive you home.’
‘Thanks. I just want a hot shower and fresh clothes, then I’ll be back on the job.’
‘Take some time off. You’ve endured a traumatic experience.’
‘No, we’re short-staffed, with too many critical investigations.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Dead sure.’
Lottie smiled, and Lynch hoped this was a turning point in their working relationship, though with Lottie Parker you could never be sure of anything.
‘Once I get you home, I’ll come back here to see what this man
has to say and if he wants to press charges.’
‘And I want to interrogate Gallagher.’ Lynch was looking forward to that.
Kevin opened his eyes to a glaring light. He tried to raise a hand as a shield but found it linked to a trail of tubes and wires. Sounds of chatter and machines beeping flitted in and out of his clogged ears. It felt like his head had been dunked in a bucket of water. Water. The canal. That bastard Gallagher.
He should have known it could only end in drama. Jack might not have intended pushing him in the canal, but Kevin knew the man liked to exert his control over others. Isabel had told him that.
Trying to adjust his eyes to the blistering overhead lamps, he took a few breaths, alarmed at the gurgle coming from somewhere deep in his chest. At least he was alive, but he had to get out of here before someone found him.
‘I know nothing,’ he muttered to himself over and over.
He lifted his head and forced himself to sit up. Swinging his legs to the side of the bed, he examined the myriad of lines twisting around his arm. He shuddered to think someone had undressed him and clothed him in a gown. They would have seen his scars. Questions would follow.
‘I know nothing,’ he repeated.
If he pulled out the tubes, would an alarm ring? Probably. Plus, he needed clothes. Easing to his feet, he stood for a moment and let the dizziness pass. He shuffled to the curtain, trailing the thin lines behind him, and peered through the slit. Should be easy enough to get out, but he still needed clothes. Turning back, he saw a blue plastic bag tucked under his bed. Bingo.
It was easy to move once he’d found his balance, but his breathing was laboured. What would it be like once he took the lines out? He hoped he didn’t bleed to death. Deciding it was best to get dressed elsewhere, he tugged out the bag, heavy with the wet clothes, and hastily detached himself from the monitors.
A high-pitched wail brought a nurse to swipe back the curtain.
‘You can’t just pull them out. Get back into bed until I fix you.’
‘I need the bathroom. I’m bursting,’ Kevin croaked.
‘We don’t even know your name. I have to take your details.’
‘When I get back.’
She made to take the blue plastic bag from him. ‘You won’t need this.’
‘Please, I feel safer with my stuff.’
‘I’ll put back your drip. You can bring it with you. It’s on wheels.’
He didn’t argue. No point. When she was done, she pointed him in the direction of the bathroom.
‘Through that door, you’ll be on the corridor. Turn left and it’s the second door.’
‘Thanks. Be back in a tick.’
Joyce had shouted until her voice was as hoarse as a chicken’s squawk. She remembered chickens in the back yard of one of her foster homes. The neighbours were up in arms over the noise, and one night someone crept over the fence and choked three of the birds. That thought brought her memories crashing into reality. The horror when she saw the little feathered bodies lying in the shit-covered grass.
Her throat, torn and raw, felt worse than the cuts to her face and feet. She stopped shouting because she couldn’t stand the pain any longer, and the silence fell around her like a cold sheet of steel.
She shivered uncontrollably from the cold. What was this place? She was sure she was in a container, but where was it? In some yard? Or out in the middle of a field? She had no idea.
Would she ever see Evan again? Her fervent hope was that he was safe. Nathan would have picked him up and given him his tea, put him to bed and got him up this morning. She hoped he’d had a good night’s sleep.
‘Oh God, help me,’ she cried in a whisper, realising that her hopes were futile. Of course they’d taken her son. ‘Please, God, show us mercy.’
But there was no God to help her. She was all alone.
Then she heard a soft skittering noise and a scratching behind her. No!
Feeling entirely hopeless, she shrivelled her body up into a ball and cried into her hands cradling her knees.
45
Lottie sent Garda Brennan to Anita Boland’s house with instructions to make contact as soon as Gallagher returned. After she’d dropped Lynch home to shower and change, Jim McGlynn called to say they’d finished the examination of the Foley property. No evidence of the lock being damaged on the front door. If Evan hadn’t left of his own accord, which was unlikely, how had the little boy’s abductor gained access?
Back at the hospital, she was met by a flustered nurse, who told her the mystery man was no longer in A&E. Dammit. Well, she had enough on her plate without chasing ghosts. Brennan or Lynch could follow up with Gallagher to find out what the altercation by the canal was all about and unearth the name of the man he’d dumped in the water.
She fumed the whole way back to the office, where she picked up Boyd and headed to Sinéad Foley’s house. He filled her in on his meeting with Frank Maher.
‘Make sure you get the details from his niece. It might lead us to this Lugmiran company. It’s very odd. Has ANPR or traffic cams thrown up anything on Joyce’s movements yesterday?’
‘No, and Kirby contacted the council. They’ve no cameras at the lake.’
‘The super has ramped up the checkpoints around the county, and further afield, to see if someone’s memory can be jogged.’
‘Time is moving on,’ Boyd said. ‘We need to find Joyce and her son before it’s too late.’
Lottie squirmed. She didn’t want to think about that. ‘This man in the canal, he’d had an argument with Jack Gallagher. Could he have had something to do with Isabel’s murder?’ She parked the car outside Bubbles Day Care.
‘He likely has something to do with something, if he annoyed Gallagher that much. Come on, let’s see what the Foleys have to say for themselves.’
* * *
Sinéad Foley opened the door, her eyes bleary. She wore a creased white blouse over jeans. Her feet were bare.
‘Sorry. I look a state. Didn’t get much sleep last night. My mother-in-law talks incessantly and I’m worried about Evan.’
‘I’m glad you’re back in your house so quickly,’ Lottie said.
‘Your forensic team were very professional. There’s no place like home, as Dorothy said.’
‘The Wizard of Oz,’ Boyd said, redundantly. Lottie glared.
They were led into the sitting room, where a man sat tapping a slim laptop. He rose to greet them, extending a long, muscular arm. His hand was smooth.
‘Dylan Foley,’ he said. ‘It’s a horrible business about poor Evan. Any news on his whereabouts?’
‘We’re working on it,’ Lottie said. ‘I’d like to ask a few questions.’
‘Ask away.’
She declined the offer of a seat and stood with her back to the empty fireplace. Dylan closed the laptop and slid it down the side of the cushion, while Sinéad sat on the arm of his chair. He laid a hand on her thigh. Comforting or controlling? Lottie wondered. Then she shook herself. Sinéad didn’t seem perturbed or uncomfortable. She was reading too much into the slightest show of affection. God, she needed to get a grip.
Boyd remained by the door, leaning against the wall, hands deep in his coat pockets.
‘Before I ask about Joyce and Evan,’ Lottie said, ‘can I ask you, Mr Foley, if you know Jack Gallagher?’
‘Call me Dylan, please. No, sorry, I don’t. Saw on the news last night about Isabel’s murder. Any leads?’
‘I can’t talk about that investigation at the moment. You were at the gym yesterday evening when Evan disappeared, is that right?’
‘Yes. I had a meeting at work and it ran over, so I went straight to the gym.’
‘Which gym is that?’
He shifted on the chair and removed his hand from his wife’s leg. ‘Why are you asking all this? I had nothing to do with Evan going missing.’
Lottie sighed. ‘Everyone has to account for their movements. We’re at a critical time in the search for Evan. Wit
h each passing hour—’
‘I’m sorry.’ He held up his hand in apology. ‘Just tired. My mother talks for Ireland and—’
‘I told them that,’ Sinéad said snappily, and stood. ‘Would either of you like a drink? Water, tea?’
‘No thanks,’ Boyd said.
‘We won’t be here long,’ Lottie added.
Sinéad nodded, moved away from Dylan and sat on the couch.
Lottie returned her attention to the husband. ‘You work in the health service, right?’
‘I’m in therapy.’
‘Oh?’
‘No, that came out wrong.’ He laughed, a little too high-pitched for comfort. ‘I’m a social worker at a community-based therapy project. Mainly for foster children. A very demanding job, but to me it’s a vocation.’
He was full of his own importance. Lottie straightened her shoulders. ‘Why is that?’
‘I feel it’s my way of giving back to the community, and I like helping people.’
His words sounded rehearsed. He was smiling affably, his hands relaxed on his lap.
‘I need to verify your whereabouts yesterday evening.’
‘No problem. Sheefin Park gym. My work base is at the Ragmullin Community Project Centre.’ He sat forward and dug out his wallet from his back pocket, handing her a business card. ‘The office number is on that. You can check with my supervisor.’
‘Great. Thanks.’ Lottie glanced at Sinéad. ‘You’ve had time to think since we last spoke. Do you recall anything else? Anything out of the ordinary or unexpected?’
‘I’ve racked my brain, but no. Sorry.’
‘Do you have any idea why Joyce would go missing, and then her son?’
‘No.’
‘She ever talk to you about worries or fears she might have had?’
‘Not a word. We’re not really—’
‘Where are you going with this?’ Dylan fixed his eyes firmly on Lottie’s. Dragging her attention away from Sinéad? She couldn’t tell.
‘I’m trying to get a picture of Joyce’s state of mind.’
Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller Page 20
