Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller

by Patricia Gibney

  Realising he had to say something, Kevin blurted, ‘I told no one nothing.’

  ‘Oh, but I think you did. How did you get Joyce involved?’

  ‘Joyce? I … I h-haven’t s-seen her in years and years.’ A seed of bravery rooted in his heart and he looked up. Mistake. His visitor held a knife pointed directly at him. ‘I … I d-don’t know what you w-want from me.’

  ‘I want you to never breathe another word to a living soul again. Remember what I taught you about pain?’

  Kevin nodded, and immediately craved his little box of blades. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Well hear this, Kevin boy, I’m going to let you experience the ultimate ecstasy.’

  The knife. Kevin could stomach the blades, but not the knife.

  With a spurt of energy, or maybe carelessness, he shoved back the chair, leaped up and ran for the door.

  His visitor was quicker.

  He felt his hair being tugged. He kicked back, suddenly free. He ran to his bedroom, tearing through the curtain he used as a door. Mistake. Trapped. No way out of his home. No way out. He sobbed and slowly turned to face his attacker, who was holding aloft the large stone Kevin used to sharpen his own knives.

  As it crashed into his skull, Kevin saw the world fragment, before he fell back on his bed and the light in his eyes went out.

  70

  The clouds had darkened considerably as Boyd drove them from Frank Maher’s house, and by the time they reached the townland of Cornerstown, five kilometres outside Ragmullin, the sky was a pewter-grey canvas.

  Cornerstown was no more than a scattering of farms and houses, no one living close enough to call a neighbour. Having followed Dervla’s instructions, Boyd parked the car at the entrance to a narrow lane.

  ‘She said we should continue from here on foot or we’ll wreck the car,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Beats me how Doran gets his van down there.’

  Lottie tugged her jacket collar around her throat and shivered with the wind swirling from the east. ‘Looks deserted.’

  Boyd buttoned his coat and stretched his cramped legs. ‘You know what they say about looks?’

  They made their way down the overgrown lane, grass growing like a moustache up the centre. In places, she could see crushed hedges, as if they’d been constantly battered by something. A red van, most likely. At the end of the curvature, she came to the cottage, no more than a ruin, surrounded by a crumbling stone wall.

  ‘He could be inside with a shotgun pointed through the keyhole,’ Boyd said.

  ‘You really know how to instil confidence in a woman.’

  ‘Maybe we should call backup,’ Boyd suggested.

  ‘We’ll be grand.’

  ‘Famous last words.’

  ‘Shut up, Boyd. It’s possible he’s holding Evan in there.’

  ‘I don’t see how he could—’

  ‘Kevin Doran has been an elusive thread in all this. Keep an open mind.’

  She pushed through the long grass lining the perimeter wall, briars snagging on her jeans, and popped her head around the pillar. The gate was no more than a piece of corrugated iron, hanging open from a rusted hinge.

  The tumbledown cottage was situated at the end of a short path badly constructed from mismatched paving stones. Moss, thorns and nettles grew indiscriminately between the cracks and crevices; the wild weedy grass on either side stormed upwards. Trees and bushes surrounded the abode, their branches like cupped hands.

  ‘It’s like being in the middle of a bloody forest,’ she whispered, ducking down with a finger to her lips. She waved her hand for Boyd to crouch behind her, then raised her head and scanned the cottage. It looked empty. Was it even Kevin Doran’s home? Had Dervla lied to them? Lottie was taking nothing for granted.

  ‘I don’t know why we’re even here,’ Boyd hissed. ‘Dervla told us Jack Gallagher bought the car. We should be back at the station grilling him, not looking for this Kevin lad.’

  ‘“This Kevin lad” is forty years old and he worked at Gallagher’s house. Jack pushed him in the canal for some reason. And he told Dervla about seeing something being buried on the hill, which led her to find the bones of a child.’ She stopped talking. Stayed stock still.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

  ‘What if Kevin has something to do with Lugmiran Enterprises? What if he lived in the Castlemain Drive house before hiding out here? What if he killed a child there and buried the body on the hill?’

  ‘But why would he tell Dervla about it?’

  ‘Jesus, Boyd, this is screwed.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘Keep watch. I’m taking a closer look.’

  She felt his hand on her shoulder, tugging her down.

  ‘No. We do this together.’

  ‘I need you to warn me if anyone arrives,’ she insisted.

  ‘I’m staying with you.’

  She sighed. ‘If you want to help, head to the rear of the house. See if there’s a back door. We don’t want him escaping just when we’ve found him.’

  ‘He could be armed and dangerous.’

  ‘If he is the killer, he’s only used knives. I’ll be ready for him. Now go.’

  She watched him making his way stealthily along the wall until he was out of sight. Straightening up, knees creaking, she pushed in past the useless gate, walked resolutely along the path and knocked on the door. Weather-beaten timber visible beneath peeling black paint, more like the entrance to a shed than a house.

  Another knock. No answer.

  At the tiny, dirty window she shielded her eyes with her hands and peered in. It was so dark inside she could only just make out the shape of a table and two chairs. Back at the door, she knocked for a third time.

  ‘Mr Doran? Kevin? I’m Detective Inspector Parker. Come out, please.’

  She heard the grass tremble in the breeze and the pad of footsteps from the side of the house. Raising her hands for a fight and holding her breath, she leaned against the door. It opened inwards and she stumbled inside.

  ‘What the—’

  ‘Are you okay? Did I scare you?’ Boyd grabbed her flailing arm and hauled her to her feet.

  ‘For feck’s sake, Boyd, I told you to go round the back.’

  ‘There’s no back door. No chance of anyone escaping from the house unless they come out this way.’

  ‘Ever heard of a window?’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘No buts.’ She watched as he turned away. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘To guard a non-existent back door.’

  ‘Don’t be so petty.’ She took a good look around the room, helped by the light flowing in through the doorway.

  ‘His van is at the rear of the house,’ Boyd said, flicking on a torch. ‘If he’s not here, he left on foot.’

  ‘Or someone collected him.’

  ‘Or took him.’

  ‘You’re a ray of sunshine today, Boyd.’ She lifted up a wicker basket full of dirty clothes. ‘Agh!’ she yelled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A bastard mouse. Fuck. Shit. Bollocks. Bastard nearly ran up inside my sleeve.’ She flapped her arms. ‘And it’s not bloody funny either.’

  ‘Listen. Stop. Shh.’ Boyd held up a hand, the torch casting shadows along the walls.

  She followed close on his heels as he moved to the only other room in the hovel, her eyes scanning all around her, fearful of more vermin. The place was rotten to the core.

  ‘Lottie! He’s here. Call an ambulance.’

  She pushed past Boyd into the dark, dank room and stopped.

  Their elusive Kevin Doran was lying on a pile of coats and filthy blankets, his skull caved in. She picked up Boyd’s torch from the floor, where he’d dropped it, and saw the blood spatter on the walls. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  Boyd was leaning over the man. ‘He’s alive!’

  ‘How the hell is he still alive? I can see his brains.’

  ‘You can see feck all in her
e. Call an ambulance.’

  The smell of the room caught in her throat. She gagged. Juggling her phone, she ran outside and made the call, giving directions as best she could. When she hung up, she noticed she had a missed call from Superintendent Farrell.

  She called back.

  ‘Parker, is that you?’

  Of course it’s me, Lottie thought. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get your arse back here. We found Chris Dermody. At a checkpoint on the bypass, fifteen kilometres out. About half a million worth of cocaine in the boot of the car. What kind of a dope drives around with dope while the country is on high alert for the missing boy?’

  ‘Did you ask him about Evan?’

  ‘Parker, I’m not stupid. He says he didn’t take him.’

  ‘Where is Dermody now?’

  ‘Locked up, and you better hurry if you want to interview him before the bureau guys arrive.’

  ‘He must have said something about the boy.’ Lottie knew she sounded hysterical.

  ‘He was adamant he knew nothing about him. Get back here now. That’s an order.’

  Lottie rubbed a hand along her forehead, trying to ease the thumping headache taking root beneath her skull. ‘I’ve found Kevin Doran. I don’t think he’ll be talking any time soon. He’s alive, but only just. Send someone to secure and search his place.’

  ‘You need to sort out this fiasco. It’s gone from bad to worse. Time is running out for Evan.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, I know that,’ Lottie cried.

  Farrell hung up.

  Lottie took a deep breath of fresh air and returned to Boyd in the hovel.

  ‘Ambulance is on its way,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know how long he can hold on.’

  ‘Dermody is in custody. Says he knows nothing about Evan. Farrell is on the warpath. And the boy isn’t here. Who the hell took him? Oh God, what a mess!’ She felt she was about to crumble, but she had to stay strong.

  She held a hand to her nose and mouth to keep out the stench and leaned in beside Boyd. ‘Are his lips moving? Shit, Boyd, he’s trying to say something.’ She trained the torch on Kevin’s face.

  Boyd put his ear to the man’s mouth. ‘What is it, Kevin? Who did this to you? Come on, lad, help is on the way. Talk to me.’

  Lottie watched, mesmerised, as Kevin’s eyes flew open, two white lights in a face of rose blood. ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘Shut up for a minute and listen,’ Boyd whispered.

  A hand rose from the folds of rancid clothing and gripped Lottie’s, tugging her close, and she inhaled the reek of blood and dirt. The place smelled like an abattoir, and whether Kevin Doran was a murderer or not, she was consumed with conflicting emotions, swamped by an avalanche of sorrow for the man and the way he lived.

  ‘Talk to me, Kevin,’ she said. ‘Please. We want to help you.’

  His eyes closed and darkness once again reigned on his face.

  ‘Who was it, Kevin? Talk to me.’

  ‘Tell … Sorry Isa … AJ … agh …’

  She dared not breathe as she listened, but was unable to decipher what he was saying. As she leaned in closer, Kevin’s body lurched upwards in a spasm. The walls trembled as if they were alive and the room filled with squeaks and tapping and skittering. The bloody place was crawling. She watched helplessly as the man fought for his life. She tore at his clothing to begin massaging his heart, and then made another discovery. A series of lacerations criss-crossed his torso.

  ‘He’s been stabbed, Boyd. The wounds are the same as those on Joyce and Isabel’s bodies. Kevin was attacked by the same fucker.’

  ‘Jesus, Lottie, stop. His brains will fall out.’

  She twirled round, frantically searching for something to wrap around the caved in, bleeding head. Nothing clean that she could see.

  ‘Fucking hell.’ She tore off her jacket and sweater and then her white T-shirt, which she handed to Boyd. ‘Make a bandage.’ He did his best, but the material was soaked red in seconds. She handed him her sweater, then tugged her jacket back on.

  The wail of sirens broke through the air.

  She ran out as an ambulance screamed down the narrow lane, bringing branches with it. Brakes squealed. Then doors opened and slammed.

  As the paramedics entered the house, Boyd joined her outside.

  ‘What do you think he was saying?’ he asked.

  A cold wind chewed her skin through her jacket and she shivered violently. Boyd drew her close, wrapping an arm around her. She welcomed the warmth, inhaled his scent, trying desperately to rid her nose and throat of the stench of decay from Kevin Doran’s home.

  ‘I think he said AJ,’ she mumbled through chattering teeth. ‘And the only AJ I know in relation to all this is AJ Lennon. The hardware tycoon. Who Jack Gallagher used to work for before Quality Electrical.’

  ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Nothing makes sense, Boyd.’

  ‘Let’s get back to the car before you freeze to death.’ He squeezed her shoulder.

  A trail of mice ran out of the door.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’ And before Boyd could pull out of the way, Lottie threw up over his best shirt.

  71

  Kirby thrust a bottle of water into Lottie’s hand. She gulped it down before spitting out most of it in an effort to expel the foul taste lodged in her throat. She found a clean shirt in her locker. Dressing, she listened to Boyd giving out yards after discovering he hadn’t a change of clothes at the station. He had to settle for the offer of a shirt from Kirby.

  ‘It’s rank,’ he said, buttoning it up anyway.

  ‘It’s clean,’ Kirby said.

  ‘I doubt that, but thanks.’

  ‘Any time.’

  In the interview room, Lottie sat with Boyd and faced Chris Dermody.

  The man stared at her, his arrogance seeping from his pores. He was short and stout, his chest barrelling against the table. His hair left a greasy stain on the collar of his puffer jacket.

  ‘I want my solicitor.’

  ‘Mr Dermody, you know all about the Drugs and Organised Crime Bureau, I’m sure.’ She kept a close eye for a reaction, but he stared at a point on the wall. Fuck him.

  ‘Well, those boys are on their way and they won’t give a shit about you or your solicitor. We found nearly half a million euros’ worth of cocaine concealed in the boot of your car. Stupid of you really, trying to move it with checkpoints all over the country searching for a missing child. But the drugs are not my concern, because right now my priority is the safety of a four-year-old boy.’

  He moved his head, curling up his lip. ‘I told your boss, I know nothing about him.’

  ‘How come Nathan Monaghan tells me you threatened him on Monday evening by using Evan’s name.’

  ‘The prick said that? Look, lady, I was just throwing it out there. Monaghan was getting cold feet. A few weeks ago he was mouthing off that his missus was coming into a big payday. But I didn’t give a fuck about that. I wanted him to remember he was working for me on my terms. Getting well paid for it too.’

  ‘So how did you know his son’s name?’

  ‘Funny thing is, the kid isn’t his son after all.’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘I want my solicitor.’

  Lottie slammed the table and Boyd’s water cup hit the floor. ‘Fuck you and your solicitor. I want to know where you’re holding the boy. He is only four years old.’

  ‘I never went near the kid. Monaghan told me the brat’s name himself when I met him in the pub to recruit him. Never even laid eyes on him until his photo started popping up all over the place. I’ve enough to be doing without snatching kids.’

  Leaning back in the chair, Lottie stared at the ball of arrogance in front of her. She believed him.

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘I’m a self-made man.’

  ‘Quit the shit, Dermody. I want a name.’

  ‘Nope. I want a deal with the bureau fo
r that information.’

  She glared at Boyd, who was mopping up the spilled water with a tissue. He was no help.

  Standing quickly, she said, ‘If the boy dies, you will rot in hell.’

  Dermody sat up straight and glanced at the recording equipment. ‘Hey, wait a minute. I never took him. I swear. It was an idle threat to keep that prick on board. I’m saying nothing here, right? But if I was you, I’d take a long, hard luck at Monaghan’s employer.’

  Lottie turned at the door. ‘AJ Lennon?’

  ‘I’m saying nothing.’ But he smirked and nodded emphatically.

  * * *

  ‘Bring in AJ Lennon,’ Lottie ordered when she was back in the office. ‘Where’s Dervla Byrne being held?’ She sat on the edge of McKeown’s desk as a wave of dizziness floored her.

  ‘She’s waiting to be interviewed. Kept screaming to speak to you. Something about a phone in a fridge. Whatever all that is about.’ McKeown threw his hands in the air.

  ‘I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘When I heard that Dervla and Kevin had been in foster care, I thought it would be an idea to check who else had been fostered by Frank Maher.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s no way for me to look at files without good reason and a warrant, so I contacted Dylan Foley, Sinéad’s husband.’

  ‘McKeown! He’s a person of interest. Christ almighty, you’ll land us all in the shit-house.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s also a social worker with access to files.’

  Lottie was apt at bending the rules herself, so she hadn’t a leg to stand on. ‘Go on, tell me.’

  ‘I informed him that he could be charged as a conspirator because it was likely his key had been used in the abduction.’

  ‘That’s bullshit and you know it.’

  ‘He doesn’t, though. Anyway, he came up with the goods. I told him to go back at least thirty years on Frank Maher’s fostering records. He accessed the old files for me.’

  ‘He could lose his job.’

  ‘I told him his name wouldn’t be used in connection with the information if we found anything relevant. Will I go on?’