Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘Isabel wasn’t part of that.’

  ‘This J might not be Joyce at all. Oh, I’m all confused now.’ She palmed the phone. ‘It could be Jack.’

  ‘You better go, Dervla.’

  ‘Right, I will, and I’ll take this to the guards. Let them figure it out.’

  ‘Remember,’ he said, his voice cracking, ‘I know nothing.’

  Six months previously

  He shovelled the gravel to one side half-heartedly. He knew Jack hadn’t enough money to do the extension, but he’d still insisted on clearing the site. It was a warm October day, the sun making a rare appearance, and he heard a car pull up out front. He leaned on the shovel and craned his neck to peer around the side of the house, but he was unable to see Isabel’s visitor.

  The car was familiar, though.

  Joyce’s car.

  He froze, his body a silhouette in the glare of sun behind him. What was Joyce doing at Isabel’s house?

  Chatter carried from the open kitchen window and he heard the splash of water pouring into the kettle. Inching forward, he moved to the right of the window and pretended to work there as he listened to the conversation.

  Joyce was speaking – he’d recognise her voice anywhere.

  ‘I really think we should do this, Isabel.’

  ‘But if he is as dangerous as you say, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Look around you, for Christ’s sake. Living here as poor as a dormouse. Think of what you could do with the money. A new life for you and your baby, if that’s what you’d like. Or something as simple as a warm coat. Hell, girl, you haven’t even bought a buggy yet.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘No buts. He introduced you to self-harm. He played on your insecurities, degraded you without you knowing and destroyed your self-worth. He did the same to me. This way we can both get back at him, take some of his money and in the process maybe destroy him for good.’

  ‘Oh God, Joyce, I couldn’t kill him.’

  ‘Neither could I. That’s not what I mean. But I don’t think he’d be able to live with the fact that he was outsmarted by two women.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Isabel, I know my partner is involved in smuggling, even though he thinks he’s being careful. I’m not stupid. He’s being secretive about the extra money he has, and I know his wages are the same as always. You overheard a conversation about it too. So it all points to the one man. It has to be him. He has to be making a fortune and squirrelling it away somewhere the law and the taxman can’t get at it.’

  Kevin moved closer to the window as cups clattered on the table. The tea was being made. He heard Isabel move to the fridge and open the door. He had to strain to hear as she talked into the cool air.

  ‘Joyce, sometimes I wish I’d never met you.’

  60

  Rose was still at Farranstown when Lottie and Boyd arrived home.

  ‘Mother! Have you seen the time?’ Lottie said. ‘What are you doing here at this hour?’

  ‘Waiting for you. You missed him, you know. Lovely man. He took loads of notes and photos, but he thinks it will cost you an arm and a leg. Said he’ll do his best.’

  ‘Who?’ Lottie threw her jacket over the back of a chair and sat at the table beside Boyd. ‘What are you talking about?

  Rose heated a plated dinner in the microwave. ‘If you’d been home at a reasonable time you’d have met him and you wouldn’t have to be eating a nuked dinner.’

  Lottie felt Boyd squeeze her hand, warning her not to rise to the bait.

  Rose was still in full flow, her silver hair standing rigid. ‘Michael, he said his name was. Electrician. Probably has a ten-letter degree. He told me you spoke with him today and wanted a quote for rewiring this house.’

  ‘Who are we talking about?’ Boyd said.

  ‘Now I get it.’ Lottie relaxed her hand under his. ‘Michael Costello. I asked if he’d get someone to call in sometime to give me a quote. The electrics are dire here. I’m fed up going to the basement in the dark, flicking fuse switches. Did he look down there?’

  ‘He did. Very efficient. I have to say, he made quite an impression on Katie. Can you believe this? He offered her an office job.’

  ‘That was nice of him,’ Boyd said dubiously.

  ‘It will be good for her,’ Rose said, putting the plate in front of him. Lottie was ravenous but said nothing. ‘Well, I’ll be off now. I hate driving in the dark, but needs must. Your dinner is ready to go in the microwave, Lottie. Goodnight.’

  The door shut softly, and Lottie exhaled. ‘That woman riles me at every opportunity.’

  Boyd shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. ‘Stop cribbing. She didn’t have to stay this late. She was being kind.’

  Lottie went to tap the timer on the microwave. ‘She wanted to see how late home I’d be. She stayed to give me a dig for not being back early. I wonder how much the rewiring will cost?’

  ‘You probably shouldn’t have asked Costello for a quotation.’

  ‘The work needs to be done and he offered. God, I’m starving.’

  ‘Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, Lottie.’

  ‘Not really. Do you think I should put this in for three or four minutes?’

  Tiredness was probably the cause of their stilted conversation over dinner. Boyd knew Lottie was trying her best, but he couldn’t help the cloud that had descended on his mood. When he’d taken off his jacket to sit and eat, he’d remembered the damn letter he’d received yesterday.

  While she was having a quick midnight shower, he took out the envelope and laid it on the table. It was from his ex-wife, Jackie. She’d been a lying bitch every day of their married life and he’d thought he was rid of her once the divorce was finalised. And now here she was, derailing his life once again, just when he thought he might be able to keep it on track. And that was before he’d even read the damn letter.

  He hadn’t had a minute all day, and when he eventually unsealed the envelope, he felt his heart tug at the sight of Jackie’s clearly scripted words. He still had some feeling for her, even after all she’d done to him. Some things were never irretrievably broken, no matter how much the other person hurt and betrayed you. Or maybe he was just a dumb eejit.

  Her words were like a knife in his chest. There was no way on earth what she’d written could be true. It just couldn’t be. She was a cheat and a liar. That was all there was to her. He couldn’t believe a word that came out of her Botoxed lips, nor from the tip of her pen. But somehow, despite all that, he knew it was true. But what was her motive? Why tell him now? Why try to break his heart like that?

  He crumpled the letter and was about to throw it in the trash, but for some mad reason, he decided to keep it as a reminder of the scheming she was still capable of. He pushed it deep into his inside pocket, hoping it would disintegrate.

  He went upstairs with his ex-wife’s words playing like an out-of-tune orchestra in his brain.

  Lottie had tried her best to lift Boyd’s mood. She’d attempted banter over their late dinner, but he seemed too tired to engage. And he was annoyed about Michael Costello having been there earlier. But she wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She hoped Costello would give her a good deal. Maybe she could pay by instalments.

  She wasn’t much company for Boyd either. Evan was still missing, and after the discovery of his mother’s body, she knew the likelihood of finding the little boy alive was minimal. She felt powerless.

  After her shower, with Boyd lying on the bed, she went to the kitchen and ran water over the dishes then stacked them in the dishwasher. Unable to find the detergent tablets, she switched on the machine anyway. It would have to do.

  She searched the fridge for a Diet Coke. Hadn’t she put a few right at the back, behind yoghurts, to hide them from Sean? He was always scoffing her soft drinks. She caught sight of Boyd’s lager. Sensing her throat drying up, she gulped, her thirst like an addiction. She grabbed a can of Diet Coke,
knocking down four yoghurts in the process. They exploded on the floor. Swearing loudly, she slammed the door shut. She wiped up the mess and threw the containers in the bin.

  At the table, she cracked the tab and swallowed the cold liquid. It cleared her head a little.

  She argued to herself in Boyd’s defence. It was the pressure of the last few months. Time in hospital, the cancelled wedding, helping her with the house move, the murder investigations, the missing boy. All that combined would send any sane person into a spiral. As she rationalised Boyd’s disposition, her eye fell on his jacket hanging on the back of the chair. He’d never mentioned the letter. She glanced at the door and listened. All quiet. Easing her hand into the pocket, she inched the crumpled envelope out with her finger.

  ‘None of my business,’ she said, drawing back. Normally he shared everything with her, but not this. His secrecy was making her skin pulse with curiosity.

  Everyone was in bed and Chloe was still at work in the pub. Should she do it? Feck it. Not one to shy away from doing things she shouldn’t, she flattened the envelope on the table.

  His name and address on the envelope. The writing looked feminine. Not Grace’s – she knew his sister’s scrawl. Who, then? She held it to her nose, and a flowery perfumed scent made her gag. Feck. Shite.

  Her mind suddenly went into overdrive, concocting scenarios with no basis in reality. Was he hooking up with someone else? No, that couldn’t be it, could it? He had no time for another woman. But wasn’t McKeown juggling a wife and three children in Athlone while fooling around with young Garda Brennan in Ragmullin? The logistics of that must be a nightmare. No, there was no way Boyd would do that. Would he?

  Her curiosity increased, a series of waves rippling within her stomach. Each more overpowering than the last. Each one bringing her closer to betrayal. Was she really that person? Was Boyd that person? If so, what had she to lose?

  Her fingers fluttered over the envelope and she bit down hard on her lip. A tiny glimpse wasn’t going to kill her. But it might kill their relationship. She’d been through worse with Adam, death being the ultimate betrayal.

  She had to know who was writing to Boyd.

  As she took the sheet of paper out of the envelope, the stairs creaked. Shit. She bundled the envelope back into his jacket and grabbed her drink. She blew out a nervous breath, and even though her hands were shaking like feathers, she donned a demeanour of nonchalance.

  Boyd walked in, still dressed. ‘I was waiting for you. I need a glass of water.’

  She stood up too quickly, knocking over the can of Coke. Dark liquid streamed across the table to the floor.

  ‘Need a cloth for that?’ he said.

  ‘Thanks. There’s one in the sink.’

  He threw her the cloth. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I was half asleep. It’s so late. You startled me, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s been a long day.’

  She silently mopped up the Coke and went to squeeze out the cloth in the sink.

  He stood there eyeing her. ‘What is it, Lottie?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She threw down the cloth. ‘I’m going to bed. I need my head straight for tomorrow.’

  He caught her arm. ‘Something’s up. You know I can read you. Tell me what it is.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ she snapped.

  ‘Tell you what?’ He dropped her arm. ‘You’ve lost me, Lottie.’

  She handed him his jacket. ‘Who is the letter from?’

  ‘What letter?’

  ‘The one in your pocket.’

  His face flushed. He picked up the jacket and shrugged his arms into the sleeves.

  ‘Where are you going?’ She stood flustered by the kitchen door, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘Back to my apartment.’

  ‘Because you don’t want to tell me who is writing love letters to you?’

  ‘You read it, so you know.’

  ‘I’m not that bad.’ Shit, she’d nearly been. ‘I didn’t read it.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘I swear I didn’t, though now I’m sorry because I bloody well should have.’

  At the door, he turned, and her heart melted into smouldering pieces. His hazel-flecked eyes looked so sad. What had she just done?

  ‘Honestly, Boyd. Stay. Let’s talk about it.’

  ‘We can talk tomorrow. I’m shattered. Goodnight, Lottie.’

  She couldn’t let it go. ‘Tell me who it’s from.’

  ‘If you don’t trust me, Lottie, we have nothing.’

  The sound of the front door closing echoed like an angry symphony through the walls of the old house. She hadn’t even the energy to cry. She hauled her body up the stairs and fell into bed.

  But sleep didn’t arrive until the birds were chirping the dawn of a new day.

  Anita lay in bed waiting in vain for Jack to return from the station.

  Even if he hadn’t murdered her daughter, how could he have pushed a defenceless man into the canal?

  And the more she thought about it, the more she believed he might have killed her daughter. Always another woman involved. She should have known. Isabel should have known.

  She sat up in bed abruptly. Had Isabel found out? Was that why Jack killed her? She’d seen her slashed body. A jealous rage resulting in a brutal murder?

  But why hadn’t her daughter confided in her? Anita answered herself in the dark of the night. Because she hadn’t been a good mother. She had tried so hard, but her secret past seeped into her everyday life. Her existence was strangled trying to keep the truth buried.

  Now her past had been resurrected to haunt her even more. And she had done absolutely nothing to right the wrong. It was too late.

  Fishing around in the dark so as not to wake Holly, she found her phone on the floor by her bed. Two a.m. Too late to call? He worked all hours. He might be awake. And if he wasn’t, she would wake him.

  She scrolled through her contacts until she found the name she’d entered at one time, hoping she would never have to make the call.

  It rang and rang. She hung up. Not long after, he called back.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  She ignored that. ‘We need to talk.’

  Michael Costello looked out of his office window. He’d just spent an hour trying to finish last month’s VAT returns. It would be good to have an assistant again. Isabel hadn’t worked out, but maybe Katie Parker would be a beneficial addition to his payroll. She seemed like a bright girl. And if he could calculate a reasonable quotation, Lottie Parker might hire his company to do the work. Always good to have the gardaí on your side. And boy could her mother cook! The cottage pie had been delicious and Rose Fitzpatrick had filled him in on the history of the house. Good to have that knowledge in his back pocket.

  His head hurt from squinting at the columns of figures. He should get his eyes tested. He might need new spectacles. He needed to go home. He didn’t want to go home. He also needed to check that his plans were being adhered to. He didn’t want to do that either. Everything was going a little bit pear-shaped. Fucking melon-shaped, if truth be known.

  He twirled his mobile phone around on the desk with one hand and pulled at his beard with the other. He’d risked jeopardising everything when he’d employed Jack Gallagher on AJ Lennon’s recommendation. It had been a necessary move at the time. But then Gallagher, the bastard, had convinced Isabel to leave. Now Jack was in trouble.

  He pulled Jack’s employment contract out of the filing cabinet. He wanted to feel it in his hands. If memory served him right, he would find something in the small print, and then he’d have the ammunition to fire the man.

  He’d just found the pertinent clause when his phone rang.

  Two kilometres outside Ragmullin, in his monstrous glass-walled house, the only nod to his wealth, AJ Lennon twisted and turned. Not a wink of sleep. He’d hoped Anita might contact him. But what reason would she have? He had nothing to offer her now that
Isabel was dead.

  He heard his dog bark downstairs. The golden retriever was more of an ornament than a pet. Most of the wealthy people he knew had dogs, so AJ had taken him from the pound. Saved him from certain death. And somehow he’d grown to love the poor dejected animal. The only friend he had in the world.

  Rex barked again.

  ‘What’s up, boy?’

  AJ hadn’t the patience to deliberate over a name, so he’d settled on the most common one from his childhood. Rex was a good name for a dog, better than some new-fangled, unpronounceable word.

  He dragged a dressing gown on over his cotton boxers and headed slowly down the marble staircase, flicking lights on as he moved. He hoped nothing would interfere with all that he had planned. The expansion he’d worked so hard for could not falter. He would not stand for that.

  In the kitchen, he grabbed a knife from the block while watching the dog growling in his large basket.

  He hoped it wasn’t a burglar. He had a security system that even he couldn’t understand, so it was doubtful someone had gained access to his glass prison.

  ‘What’s disturbed you, Rex?’

  As he patted the dog’s ears, he noticed what had roused the animal from his slumber.

  His phone was dancing around the counter on vibrate. He hadn’t brought it up to bed with him. A conscious decision. His bedroom was his sanctuary, free from work and technology. He didn’t even have a television up there, just a bookcase full of easy-reading titles to help him sleep.

  As he glanced at the screen before he lifted the phone, the call died. He checked the caller ID and pressed callback.

  Thirty years ago

  He’d never hurt an animal in his life. Of course he wanted to, but why would he slice and dice the neighbour’s pet when he had his own little colony of lab rats to work on?

  Rats of the human kind.

  They were easy to manipulate. Especially the damaged ones – they were the easiest to break. And his ingenuity was in watching them hurt themselves. He didn’t even have to lay a hand on them, and he still got the rush of excitement as they drew blood through their own skin.