‘Enough. Back to these.’ Boyd looked at the post-mortem photographs Lottie had handed him. ‘He was definitely shot. How can you bear to look at these?’
‘Alcohol helps,’ she quipped.
‘Was there residue on his hands?’
She passed him another page.
‘Not very conclusive,’ he said, scanning the report.
‘I’d love to get my hands on the full PM file,’ she said.
‘Ask Jane Dore. I know it’s a long time ago, but there may be records somewhere in that Dead House of hers.’
‘Yeah, I thought of that.’ She scooped up the pages and stuffed them into a folder.
He took it from her and lined up the pages neatly before handing it back.
‘I always knew you were good for something,’ she said. ‘Do you want another cup of tea?’
‘I have to get home.’
‘You’re lonely.’
‘And you’re not?’
‘We both are.’
She wanted to reach across the table and hold him. He looked so lost. She caught a glimpse of the photograph hanging on the wall, and fought an urge to turn it round or take it down.
‘What are all these?’ Boyd held up a bundle of newspaper cuttings held together with a bulldog clip.
‘Court reports, sports reviews, usual stuff,’ she said. ‘All dated around a year before my dad died. I’ve gone through them like a hundred times.’
‘The Irish Press,’ Boyd said. ‘That’s a blast from the past. And the Midland Tribune. Bring them in tomorrow and we’ll photocopy them. Then we can go through them without damaging the originals.’
‘I can’t see what use they’ll be.’
‘You never know until you look. It might be an idea to check the archives of the local paper too,’ Boyd said. ‘See what, if anything, they reported about your father’s death.’
‘That’s an idea.’
‘Or talk to old Willie “The Buzz” Flynn. He used to work at the paper. Kirby knows him. He might have known your father.’
Lottie closed her eyes, trying to conjure up her father. But all she could see was the pathologist’s photographs. She heard Boyd moving. When she turned round, he was standing beside her chair. She scrutinised his face, searching for a sign. But he just looked serious.
‘Thanks for the tea. Thanks for the company.’ His hand slid around her shoulder. ‘You’re a good friend. And I appreciate it.’
A friend? Shite. She was the one who’d been keeping him at a distance, and now here she was acting like a needy teenager. Time to get a grip, Parker.
‘I have to go.’ He kissed her forehead chastely.
In that moment, she could have reached out and held him until morning. But she just sat there unmoving. Not even an eyelid fluttered until he walked away.
She heard him shuffling into his jacket and the door closing behind him with a soft thud.
Sitting in the kitchen, listening to the rain, the light reflecting off the dark windows, she sipped her cold tea, wishing it was alcohol, and sifted through the file on the table. When all the pages were messed up again, she felt a little more comfortable. Just a little bit.
And she knew she needed help.
The Mid Seventies
The Child
With a shove to the small of my back, I am propelled into the small square room. The sound of the door being locked behind me causes my heart to leap in my quivering chest. A woman lies on the bed, bound in an off-white thing that looks like a sweater with the sleeves crossed over the chest and tied behind her back. Only it’s not a sweater.
With small steps, I shuffle forward, one foot at a time. Slowly. The shoulders of the woman on the bed twitch. When I am close enough to reach out and touch her, she screams and leaps up like a cat. I whimper and retreat.
‘So she didn’t take you! Ha! Figures. Who’d want a creature like you? No one. That’s who.’ She doubles over with laughter and falls from the bed to the ice-cold concrete floor.
I rear up against the door and cry out.
‘Let me out! Please!’
My tiny fists pound the door, but my voice reverberates off the stone walls and hangs in the air as if suspended by spider’s webs.
No one comes.
‘It was an accident,’ the woman says. ‘Oh, I know they’re saying I purposely set the house on fire. But why would I do that? I had the two of you. Tried to love you, I did, you ungrateful brat.’
She shuffles closer to me on her buttocks and snarls like a rabid dog. Like a desperate chained-up dog trying to escape. She is not like my mother at all. Though I know that is who she is.
I cry out once more. Turn my face towards the door to blot out the sight of the foam oozing from the side of her mouth.
‘I want to go back to my own bed. Please…’
‘I want to go back to my own bed,’ the woman mimics, before her voice convulses in a long cough. ‘Come here and help me, sweetie pie. Open the buckles. You know how to do that, don’t you? I showed you once, didn’t I? With the buckles on your shoes.’
My whimpers dissolve into choking sobs.
‘Please… I want to go home.’
‘This room is soundproofed. No one can hear you, my little baby. Only me.’
‘I w-want to g-go home.’
‘This is your home now. Maybe I will finish what I started, and this time I just might kill you.’
Another strangled laugh. More foam. A gurgle. Broken breaths.
I stare at the steel door without turning around.
I remain standing facing the door until someone comes and opens it.
Twenty-four hours later.
Day Three
Twenty-Four
The clock on the old whitewashed wall showed the men it was 5 a.m.
‘They’ll be here soon,’ the older man said.
‘I’m a bit nervous,’ replied the younger one. ‘Such an awkward time to have a meeting.’
‘Have a pull on this. I made it extra strong.’
‘I will. What’s the point if we can’t test the product?’
‘Now you’re sucking diesel.’
‘I hope no one found out.’ The young man took a long drag and let the familiar feeling float through his veins. He took two more drags, the taper desiccating between his bloodstained fingers. ‘We’ve done what we were asked. I don’t see the point of this meeting.’
‘Will you shut your gob?’
‘But the old woman. That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?’
‘I think it might’ve been part of the plan all along. Can’t bring her back to life, can we? She was old enough to kick the bucket so stop going on about it.’
The young man laughed nervously. Had he really signed up for all of this? Once you’re in, there’s no backing out; that was what his friend had told him. All the same, he had never been that violent before. It must be the drugs. Not him. Someone else had inhabited his body. An alien. Yeah, that was what it was. A big green alien.
‘What’re you laughing at, you eejit?’ the older man said.
The young man kept laughing. After a while, his companion joined in.
They were laughing so loudly they didn’t hear the door open, or see the figure in black clothing enter, a knife clutched tightly in one hand and a jerrycan of petrol in the other.
Twenty-Five
Emma couldn’t hear any rain. The house seemed to be resting in silence. She struggled to her knees and peered out through the slit in the curtains. A pall of smoke was rising far in the distance, a grey mist rooting it close to the earth.
She wished she could go out and walk, allow the softness of the morning to fog up her spectacles and her feet to splash in puddles. But she wasn’t five any more and she was stuck in Natasha’s house. Sitting back down on the bed, she dragged the duvet to her chin and remembered the rows she’d had with her mother. About her dad, and her granny. That woman could shout when she wanted. And the rows she’d overheard. The words that had
been flung to the four walls. Words that had seeped through bricks and mortar and settled in her brain.
Her home had been much quieter since Tessa had moved to her own apartment and Daddy had left. But a strong ache stabbed at Emma’s heart as she thought of what was facing her.
Another day with Natasha and her mum, and of course her guard. Why did she have to be here? She felt perfectly safe.
The tears threatened again. She pulled the duvet over her head and let them flow.
Twenty-Six
The morning broke without rain. The first time in over a week. But the sky bulged with heavy grey clouds and Lottie could see a mist hanging around the cathedral spires.
‘Annabelle, I hate to be annoying you, but can you fit me in today?’
‘I’m free before surgery starts. Now. Can you get here in the next five minutes?’
‘Sure. I’m outside.’
She put away her phone, opened the door and entered the building. The receptionist nodded and Lottie made her way into Annabelle’s surgery.
‘What happened to you?’ she asked.
‘Oh, this?’ Annabelle put her bandaged hand down on her lap, under the desk. ‘Knocked over a kettle of boiling water.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes. Enough about me. Sit down and tell me what’s up.’
Lottie shook off her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. ‘I hate asking, because I know you don’t want to do it, but…’
‘But what? I’ve a full roster for the rest of the day, so you’d better be quick.’
Taking a deep breath, Lottie said, ‘It’s like this. I’m… I’m drinking again. Just the last few months. I’m trying to quit. It’s hard, Annabelle. Very hard.’
‘You’ve quit before.’
‘I know, but it’s worse this time. I need something to shave off the bristling edge.’
‘And you want me to give you that something?’
‘Just for a week or two. Until I get the alcohol out of my system.’
‘You know as well as I do that substituting alcohol with a narcotic isn’t going to help.’
‘I’m not a druggie. I just need a few Xanax. To get me through the bad patches.’
‘You need rehab.’
‘I’m not an alcoholic!’ Lottie folded her arms and turned down her mouth in disgust. No, she wasn’t an alcoholic. She just couldn’t do without it. Big difference.
The desk phone buzzed.
‘I’ve a patient to see.’ Annabelle took up a pen. ‘Against my better judgement here is a script for one week. One a day. Twenty-five milligrams. Okay?’
‘Can’t you make it fifty?’
‘No.’
‘For two weeks?’
‘Lottie, you need help. Professional help.’
‘You’re a professional. That’s why I’m here.’
‘You don’t give up.’
‘Never.’
Lottie watched as Annabelle tried to write out the prescription with her bandaged hand, her other hand shaking as she held down the page.
‘What’s wrong, Annabelle?’
The doctor raised her head. Blackness circled her eyes through a sheen of foundation.
‘Wrong? Nothing is wrong with me.’
‘Keep telling yourself that and you’ll believe it. I’m the expert on that hypothesis.’
‘Honestly, everything is fine.’
Lottie took the script, folded it up and shoved it into her bag before Annabelle could change her mind. ‘You have my number. If you ever need to talk. About anything. Understand?’
‘Up until a few days ago, you were hardly speaking to me.’
‘I’m always your friend, even when we argue. So ring me if you need me.’
Annabelle nodded. If Lottie didn’t know better, she could have sworn her friend was about to cry.
‘Are you sure everything’s all right? With you and Cian?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
Lottie laughed. The sound seemed to take away the tension. Annabelle laughed too. They both knew things hadn’t been right with Cian for a long time. Hence Annabelle’s numerous affairs. ‘Maybe we can go for dinner sometime.’
‘You get off the drink and get yourself sorted out first.’
Lottie pulled on her jacket. At the door, she turned.
‘You get yourself sorted too.’
Outside, the clouds burst and rain crashed down from the heavens.
Twenty-Seven
The cottage, situated in Dolanstown, a couple of kilometres from Ragmullin, was a smouldering wreck. Water from fire hoses flowed down the potholed road and settled in puddles on the leaf-clogged drain.
‘How long do you reckon it’s been raining for?’ Kirby said, getting out of the car. He yanked up his trousers to keep the ends from getting wet and buttoned his coat.
‘A week,’ Lynch replied.
He zapped the car locked. Patted his pockets; found his e-cig. Twisted it, trying to get it to work. ‘Feckin’ bollocky yoke.’
‘Try a mint, or gum,’ Lynch offered.
Getting it ignited at last, he inhaled and blew out white smoke before dropping the metal tube back into his pocket.
‘Meant to ask, why didn’t you relieve Gilly from her duty at the Kelly house this morning?’
‘Come on, Kirby. It’s a bum job. And she’s young enough to cope with doodling on her phone all day.’ Lynch looked over at him. ‘Did you have to cancel a date with her last night, or what?
‘Or what.’
She laughed. ‘You never learn.’
Kirby tried to keep up with Lynch’s short, quick steps. They stopped beside a fire truck and surveyed the scene.
‘You smell that?’ he asked, sniffing the air.
‘I smell burning. Wood, smoke, plastic and…’
They looked at each other.
‘Cannabis,’ they said together.
Kirby scratched his bushy damp hair. ‘A grow house?’
Lynch agreed. ‘Could be.’
They approached a small, thin man with a peaked cap. Kirby eyed the brass name badge and introduced himself.
‘So, Chief Cox, what do we have?’
‘Single-storey nineteen fifties cottage. Roof’s about to cave in.’
‘Any casualties?’
‘One deceased and another who should be dead but is somehow still alive.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Both male. The dead man is just inside the back door of the house. Charred bone, that’s all that’s left of him.’
‘Where’s the man who survived?’ Kirby asked.
Chief Cox pointed to the ambulance firing up its engine with a whoop-whoop of its siren. Lights flashing, it began to move.
Kirby ran. ‘Hey, you… wait.’
The ambulance halted. Kirby leaned against the door, breathing in bursts. ‘I need to speak to the patient.’
The paramedic lowered the window and leaned out.
‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Larry Kirby.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, but if I don’t go now, you’ll be speaking to a corpse.’
Kirby debated his options and nodded. ‘Which hospital are you headed for?’
‘Ragmullin is the nearest, though he might have to be airlifted to Dublin. Bad burns and no fingers.’ He shifted the ambulance into gear.
‘No fingers? Burned off?’
‘More like hacked off with a saw.’
As the ambulance drove away in a blaze of lights and wailing sirens, Kirby turned to Lynch. She shrugged her shoulders. Chief Cox joined them.
‘When can we look around?’ Lynch asked.
‘It’ll be a few hours before we deem it safe. As I said, the roof is about to collapse. Structure is unsound. But the fire’s out.’
‘Any idea how it started?’ Kirby was pulling on his e-cigarette again as he eyed the tendrils of smoke creeping up from the house.
‘Damage is substantial. Either they had an unprotected gas heater
jammed up against the door, or someone poured petrol through the letter box. That’s a guess at this stage.’
‘Like a petrol bomb? Jaysus. Who lived here, do you know?’
‘No idea.’
‘Who called it in?’
‘Neighbour. Lives a mile or so up the lane. Saw the flames blasting into the sky early this morning. You’d best have a word with him. As I said, it’ll be hours yet before anyone can go on site.’
‘Thanks, Chief,’ Kirby said. ‘I’ll get my people to stand guard.’
‘That’s him, over there.’
A man wearing a green waxed jacket, and jeans tucked into mud-covered wellington boots stood leaning against an old Land Rover. He was chewing on the end of a fat cigar.
‘A fellow after my own heart,’ Kirby said. ‘Lynch, contact the SOCOs to tell them we’ll need them out here.’ He pointed to the car parked haphazardly in the drive. ‘And see if we can find out who that car belongs to.’
He marched over to the man and whipped out his ID.
‘Detective Kirby,’ he said.
‘Mick O’Dowd.’ The man tipped his flat cap with one work-roughened hand, offering the other in a shake.
Kirby looked into a face twisted in a knot of anger and guessed that the man was around the seventy mark. Bushy eyebrows with grey strands poking out and a nose that told the tale of a whiskey drinker. His cheeks were mottled with blood spots.
‘You noticed the fire early this morning, then?’
‘I did. On my way out to my cows sometime around five fifteen. It was like a firework display. Put my whole morning’s work back hours. Cows still haven’t been milked.’
Was this the reason for his anger?
Kirby said, ‘Did you hear anything before that?’
‘Like an explosion?’
‘Exactly.’ Kirby found his e-cigarette and began pulling hard.
‘No. Never heard a thing.’
Kirby sighed, a cloud of smoke exhaling with his breath.
‘You know who lived there?’ he asked, nodding towards the smouldering building.
The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 9
