Lottie wanted to press on, but her motherly instinct warned her to relent. That way Emma might trust her more. Later she could grill her about the strange plants growing in the coal bunker.
‘I’ll go to your house and get some clothes for you. Then we’ll drive to the hospital and see if they’ll let you see your mum.’
Emma nodded.
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
Lottie was glad to escape from the suffocating house.
Thirty
She was winded by the time she arrived back at the Russells’.
‘Only five hundred metres and I’m fecked,’ she said.
‘Thought you were babysitting,’ Boyd said.
‘Just picking up some clothes for Emma.’ Lottie scanned the yard, now busy with life. ‘Find anything?’
‘They’re going to start looking soon.’
‘What if the attack here is linked to the cottage fire?’
‘Maybe when we get to see what’s in there,’ he pointed to the shed, ‘and what’s at the cottage, we’ll have a better idea.’
‘Maybe,’ Lottie said doubtfully.
‘I’ll get back to work,’ Boyd said.
She watched his retreating back before heading inside.
Upstairs in Emma’s room, she pulled on her protective gloves as a precaution and rooted around for suitable clothing. She decided on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a hoodie, then searched through the shoes. Nothing really appropriate for bad weather. A pair of blue Nike trainers would serve better than white Converses. As she was putting them in a gym bag she’d found at the bottom of the wardrobe, her fingers rubbed against something inside one of the trainers. Letting them drop, she jumped back, falling onto her bottom, sure that it was a mouse.
It wasn’t a mouse. A roll of cash lay on the floor beside the trainer, held together by a hair bobbin. She picked it up and put it into a plastic evidence bag she had plucked from her pocket. The outside note was a fifty. A lot of money for a teenager, she thought. Had robbery been the motive after all? And why did Emma have it secreted away in the bottom of her wardrobe?
Putting the plastic bag with the money into her handbag, Lottie scanned the room for a jacket. Not seeing one, she went downstairs and rummaged through the rack of coats in the hall. She noticed a man’s black North Face jacket among the feminine attire, and wondered if it belonged to Arthur Russell.
Inspecting it, she found the outside pockets empty, but in the inside breast pocket her fingers touched a piece of paper, neatly folded, nestling at the seam. It looked like a receipt. Opening it up, she found that it was a receipt, dated the day of the murder. From Danny’s Bar. Arthur worked there. The time on the receipt was 19.04. She put it into another small plastic evidence bag.
Unhooking a jacket for Emma, she stuffed it in the gym bag and rushed outside.
‘Boyd?’
He stuck his head out from behind the shed door. ‘What?’
‘There’s a black North Face jacket hanging in the hall. Get it bagged, tagged and brought in for forensic examination.’
‘Sure,’ he said.
Lottie set off up the road to prepare Emma for the visit to her mother. First, though, the girl had a few questions to answer.
* * *
At Bernie Kelly’s gate, she met Detective Maria Lynch.
‘You took your time,’ Lottie said.
‘I’d things to sort out regarding the cottage fire. I’m sure Garda O’Donoghue won’t mind. I’ll take over now.’
‘I relieved her.’ Lottie held up the gym bag. ‘I just ran down to get fresh clothes for Emma. I’m bringing her to visit her mother.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
‘Why not? She wants to see her. I can’t deny her that. But now that you’re here, you can take her.’
Bernie Kelly opened the door.
‘Takes two of you now, does it?’ she said, folding her arms.
Lottie walked past her into the house.
‘I’ll give this to Emma.’ The sitting room was empty. ‘Upstairs, is she?’
Bernie looked from Lottie to Lynch. ‘I thought you took her home to fetch clean clothes. Didn’t you?’
‘No.’ Lottie glanced into the kitchen. Natasha was sitting at the table, munching on burnt toast. ‘Lynch, check upstairs.’
Lynch ran up the stairs. She shouted back down, ‘No one here.’
‘Where is she?’ Lottie asked frantically.
Bernie shrugged her shoulders. ‘When I came in here, both of you were gone. I assumed she went with you.’
‘Where would she go?’ Lottie tried to stem the panic gathering in the pit of her stomach.
‘Maybe she went on ahead to the hospital,’ Bernie said.
‘Has she got her phone?’ Lottie tapped in Emma’s number. ‘Nothing. It must be switched off.’ She swung round to Lynch. ‘Did she pass you on the road?’
‘Not that I noticed.’
Rushing back into the kitchen, Lottie towered over Natasha. ‘Where is Emma?’
‘Hey, wait a minute, Inspector.’ Bernie Kelly grabbed Lottie by the arm. ‘No need to go accusing my daughter of anything.’
‘Natasha.’ Lottie ignored Bernie and leaned down to the wild-haired teenager. Looked her in the eye. ‘Where would she go? Has she other friends she hangs out with?’
Natasha shook her head. ‘Don’t know,’ she mumbled.
Lottie looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes. Think.
‘Lynch, go to the hospital. See if she’s there.’
As Lynch left, Lottie rang Boyd. Emma hadn’t appeared there either.
She turned back to Natasha. ‘I know you know where she is, so you’d better tell me, young lady.’
Natasha glanced at her mother. ‘She took my bike,’ she said.
Bernie’s face was red. ‘Natasha, I told you to—’
‘Tell me!’ Lottie shouted.
The teenager melted into her chair. With toast crumbs stuck to her lipgloss she said, ‘She might be with her boyfriend.’
Thirty-One
Lottie collected Boyd from Marian Russell’s house. So far nothing had been found buried beneath the timber in the shed. But the plants in the fuel tank had been taken away for testing.
‘She has a boyfriend?’ Boyd clipped in his seat belt as Lottie took off down the road, wipers swishing trying to keep up with the rain.
‘Natasha admitted it. Lorcan Brady. We need to check him out.’
‘We should have found out about this boyfriend earlier.’
‘Boyd. Don’t.’
‘Shouldn’t he be at school at this hour of the day?’
‘He’s twenty-one. Unemployed, according to Natasha. We’ll run his name through PULSE database later.’
‘Did you get his phone number?’
‘Said she didn’t have it.’
‘Isn’t this a bit far for Emma to walk?’ Boyd said, following the road with his eyes.
Taking a turn at the hospital, Lottie headed along the cemetery road. ‘She took Natasha’s bike.’
‘All the same…’
‘She might have arranged to meet him somewhere and he picked her up,’ she said. ‘Wonder if he has a car?’
Three minutes later, Lottie pulled into the drive of a two-storey house. It looked uncared for, she thought, if not abandoned.
She stepped out on mud flowing towards the road. A lazy-looking collie dog lay on the front doorstep. It didn’t move. A red 2010 Honda Civic was parked at the side of the house.
‘If that car was any lower to the ground, you’d have to tow it.’ She noted the registration number to check later. ‘Souped-up exhaust pipe too.’
‘You’d hear it before you see it,’ Boyd said.
Lottie knocked on the door. No bell. No answer, either. They walked to the rear of the house. The dog followed silently.
The yard was piled high with black rubbish bags. Some bitten through by the dog or maybe vermin; tea bags and bits of vegetable p
eelings were scattered around. Picking her steps carefully, Lottie peered through the window.
‘No one home?’ Boyd said.
‘Curtains are drawn. It looks deserted.’ She hammered on the door. Waited. No one appeared.
‘Emma’s not here. Hospital next?’
‘Yes. Lynch should be there now.’
When she got back into the car, her phone rang. Lynch. ‘Emma’s not here at the hospital, but you…’
‘What?’ Boyd asked.
‘Shush,’ Lottie said.
Lynch was still talking. Lottie said, ‘We’ll be there in a few minutes.’
She looked at Boyd as she hung up. ‘I think we just found Lorcan Brady.’
‘Where?’
‘He’s one of the fire victims.’
* * *
Huddling in the hospital corridor, Lynch updated Lottie. Boyd lounged against the wall.
‘So one of the guys is Lorcan Brady,’ Lottie clarified. ‘But you don’t know which one yet?’
Lynch nodded.
‘How were you able to get the name?’
‘I ran the registration of the car found at the cottage.’
‘But we’ve just come from Brady’s place. There’s a red Honda Civic there.’
‘Maybe it belongs to the other fellow. We still have no positive ID on either man.’
‘We’d better run the Honda plates.’ Lottie walked around in a circle, tapping her phone against her leg. ‘Is the victim still unconscious?’
‘Yes. Severe burns and fingers hacked off.’
‘So it might be Lorcan Brady and it might not.’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Brady is in the system. See if anything else matches to this guy. Is his room still guarded?’
‘Yes, and Marian’s.’
‘This is getting complicated,’ Lottie said. ‘Brady was Emma’s boyfriend and he’s possibly either a burned man or a dead man.’
‘You only have Natasha’s word, though,’ Boyd said.
‘But if it’s true, it could link Tessa’s murder to the fire. I’m going to have a look at the cottage now.’
‘What will I do?’ Lynch asked.
‘Find out who owns that Honda and get the burned victim identified. Put out an alert for Emma Russell.’
Boyd said, ‘Do you want me to go back to Marian Russell’s house? See if SOCOs have unearthed anything?’
‘Follow it up. Main priority is to find Emma. That little madam has been economical with the truth from day one. God knows what she’s into or who she’s into it with, but I want her found.’
Without waiting for a reply, Lottie pulled her bag around her chest and ran down the stairs.
Thirty-Two
It was nearing four in the afternoon and the sky was bulging with black clouds when Lottie arrived at the burned-out cottage.
Looking over at the wet embers, now cordoned with crime-scene tapes, she zipped her jacket to her neck and tucked her hair into the hood. The temperature had dropped significantly and an east wind was gathering pace across the miserable fields.
Listening to the roaring wind and the rainwater drip-dripping from the bare branches above her head, she stretched her arms and legs. She felt like she’d been cooped up in the office all day, when in fact she had been out for most of it. Once her name was ticked off by the garda standing at the small iron gate, she walked towards the cottage.
The roof had caved in, which didn’t make much difference as the internal structure and personal effects had been either burned or saturated by fire hoses and the elements. But once it was deemed safe to do so, it’d be searched. SOCOs would have a hard job going through it, she thought.
A glare of lamps was lighting up the rear. She headed there. Gardaí and SOCOs were busy bagging and tagging the plants found in the insulated outhouse. Just as well the fire hadn’t reached that far.
To the left of the outhouse she noted a galvanised shed. Three walls stood haphazardly and its front lay open with a sagging line of washing hanging beneath the roof. Denim jeans, jogging pants and T-shirts. All blackened with smoke. They might be dry by Christmas, she thought.
She walked up to the SOCO standing with a clipboard in his hand.
‘I’m assuming you wouldn’t get those in a garden centre,’ she said.
‘Definitely not,’ he replied. ‘Cannabis plants might be a tad expensive for the likes of those places.’
‘Not very discreet about it, were they?’
‘Out here in the countryside you can grow just about anything without anyone passing the slightest remark. They’re just plants, if you don’t know any different.’
‘Was it locked?’
‘Chains and combination lock, nothing a good pair of shears wouldn’t cut through.’
He turned to check off another bag of plants being dragged by one of his colleagues to the waiting technical bureau van.
Lottie walked around the yard. From the hedge she could see smoke rising from the chimney of a house in the distance. There wasn’t anything to done here, and as she returned to her car, she wondered if Mick O’Dowd knew what was growing close to where his cows grazed.
* * *
The Land Rover was parked haphazardly at the side of the farmhouse. Net curtains were draped across sash windows, and the front door had been painted green a long time ago, going by the weather-beaten look of it. The satellite dish on the chimney creaked eerily in the growing gale.
A dog, big and black, raced out and circled the wheels of her car. Lottie switched off the engine and got out, praying it would back off. It didn’t.
‘Go away. Shoo. Scram. Good doggie.’ She twisted in circles, trying to keep the animal from jumping up on her. A Rottweiler with yellow teeth, dripping drool. ‘Get off, dog!’
‘What’s all the commotion?’ A man turned the corner of the house. ‘Down, boy. Mason, lie down.’
The dog snarled and threw Lottie a lingering look before turning and strolling to its master.
‘Who are you?’ he said, chaining the animal to a hook on the barn wall. Wisps of long grey hair poked out from beneath his peaked tweed cap. Lottie surmised he must be at least seventy.
‘Detective Inspector Lottie Parker.’ She flashed her ID. ‘And you are…’
‘I think you already know who I am.’
‘Your dog doesn’t seem to like me, Mr O’Dowd. But I’m not too bad once you get to know me.’ She smiled at the attempted joke.
O’Dowd’s grimace curled his face into an unreadable expression. ‘I hope you won’t be here long enough to get to know.’ He glanced at the ID and his hand swallowed hers in a firm shake. ‘What can I help you with?’
She tried not to visibly recoil as the wind carried his body odour towards her. He smelled like someone who hadn’t washed after sex. Lottie shuddered, thinking it was probably a long time since O’Dowd had engaged in such an activity.
Planting her feet firmly and facing the rising wind, she said, ‘I was in the area. Wondered if you knew anything about the cottage up the road, the one that burned down?’
‘Spoke to a detective this morning.’ He sniffed, shaking his head. ‘Do you not talk to each other?’
He turned and walked towards one of the large sheds.
Lottie followed. ‘We do, but I’m the curious sort. Like to hear things first hand. If you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind, and I’m very busy. My day’s been upset enough already. I’ve cows in the milking shed waiting for me.’
‘Don’t let me delay you. Go ahead. I’ll watch, you talk.’
He kept walking, hand raised, directing her. ‘You need wellington boots around here.’
‘So this is a milking shed, is it?’ Lottie scanned the large barn. Two rows of cows, heads through wrought-iron bars, chewing hay, their teats connected to milking machines behind them.
‘I’m sure you don’t want an agricultural lesson.’ He took off his waxed jacket and hung it on a post, then began checking the machines, ti
ghtening and loosening as he went.
She loitered at the door. ‘How many cows do you have?’
‘Thirty. Used to have up on two hundred. Not much business in dairy any more, but it keeps me busy. I do a bit of beef farming as well. Heifers and bulls.’ He pointed to a row of animals away on the far side of the shed.
‘Jesus, they’re huge,’ Lottie said, sizing up the animals standing on a slatted floor. They seemed to be as wide as they were tall. She turned back to the cows being milked. ‘Do those things… hurt the cows?’
He laughed sardonically. ‘Why don’t you ask them?’
Folding her arms, she leaned against the wall. ‘Maybe another time,’ she said. ‘Tell me about the cottage. Who lived there?’
‘Never saw anyone. Heard a car with a heavy exhaust, couple of times a week. Carving doughnuts on the road, no doubt. But they didn’t bother me. So I never had reason to call anyone about it.’
‘Until this morning.’ She unfolded her arms and stepped further into the enclosure, holding on to one of the bars. The cow beside her lifted its tail.
‘Righto. Until this morning.’ O’Dowd looked over. ‘Wouldn’t stand too close if I was you.’
‘Why not?’ Lottie jumped out of the way as shit flowed from the cow’s arse down to the straw-covered floor. ‘Okay, I get it.’
He laughed. She thought it sounded more in derision than amusement. Resuming her vigil by the door, she had to shout above the noise of the machinery.
‘You were at home when you saw the flames, that right?’
‘I was in my house, getting ready to start the day. Looked out the window. Like Bonfire Night up there, it was.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the cottage. ‘Got into my Land Rover, so I did. Rushed up the road. Once I saw how bad it was, I rang the fire service.’
‘Did you notice anyone in or around the cottage?’
‘There was a car out the front, but I wasn’t sure if there was anyone inside the cottage or not. And the flames were raging. I’m not young, nor a daredevil, so I didn’t venture past the gate.’
Lottie watched O’Dowd working his way down the line of cattle, kicking up straw as he went.
The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 11
