The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘So you didn’t go closer to see if anyone needed help?’ she asked.

  The muscles of O’Dowd’s broad shoulders seemed to constrict under his tartan shirt before he trekked back to her. He wiped his hands on a clump of hay and pulled on his jacket.

  ‘I’m no hero, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you know who owned or rented out the cottage?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. Maybe through an estate agent?’

  Outside the barn door, the beast of a dog eyed Lottie suspiciously and growled.

  ‘Why do you need such a dangerous animal?’

  ‘I live alone. It’s isolated out here. Mason is partly for company, mainly for protection. He’s a good guard dog.’

  Lottie was going to ask if he had a dog licence, but decided not to push her luck.

  ‘He doesn’t chase your livestock?’

  ‘I have him well trained.’ He untied the chain and held it in his hand, the dog straining on the end of it. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘You live alone. Married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Why all these questions?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m just curious.’

  He looked up at the clouds rolling across the sky. ‘There’s a storm coming. You should head back to town.’

  ‘What are those?’ Lottie pointed to three large blue plastic barrels standing near the second barn.

  ‘Propcorn.’

  ‘Popcorn? You’re having me on?’

  ‘Not popcorn. Propcorn. It’s an acid. To mix in with the oats and barley for the cattle feed. I use the barrels to collect rainwater once they’re empty of the acid and washed out.’

  ‘What’s that machine over there?’ She pointed to a large piece of equipment with massive steel rotors.

  ‘A free course in agriculture you want, is it?’

  ‘Just—’

  ‘Curious. It’s a slurry agitator. Are you finished now? I’m very busy.’ He loosened his hold on the chain and the dog snarled.

  Her brain was squeezing with an uneasy sensation. Was O’Dowd hiding something? Or was he just a citizen who had reported a fire?

  ‘Can I use the bathroom?’ she ventured, a ruse to get inside the house for a snoop.

  He took a step towards her, the dog circling his legs. ‘Doing a bit of decorating inside. You can use the outside one, though I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  He pointed to an open door on the side of the shed. Lottie could see the ground running green.

  ‘Ah, it’s okay. I’ll manage until I get back. You’ll have to give a formal statement about the fire. You could do it now if you like.’

  ‘No, I don’t like. Told all to your detective.’

  ‘That was informal. Call into the station, or I can send someone out to you tomorrow.’ By now, Lottie was fed up with him.

  ‘I’ll go in when I get time. Satisfied?’

  ‘I suppose you heard about the murder and abduction over in Carnmore?’

  ‘Aye, I did.’

  Was that a flicker of a shadow rolling across his face? Or was it just the wind churning light through the trees?

  ‘Did you know Tessa Ball?’

  He lowered his head and was silent so long she thought he had slipped into a trance. At last he looked up from beneath wrinkled eyelids, crow’s feet imprinting deeper lines. ‘Everyone of an age knew Tessa.’

  ‘Care to tell me about her?’

  ‘Nothing to tell. She’s gone now, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, come on. I can’t find out much about her.’

  ‘You’re better off. Now let me get back to work.’

  ‘Farming here long?’ Something was keeping her from leaving. A gust flung a steel bucket across the yard and the dog barked.

  O’Dowd paid no heed. ‘All my life. Worked with my father until he died way too young. I kept the farm going.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘You do ask a lot of questions, don’t you?’

  ‘Part of my job.’

  ‘My pedigree has nothing to do with you. And you’d do well to mind your own family history, Inspector Parker. Not all coated in the white paint of glory, is it now?’

  Lottie had been about to head to her car. Now she stopped and half turned to O’Dowd, feeling the blood drain from her face. He knew he’d struck a chord, because she saw him raise a hand. In apology?

  ‘What do you mean?’ She scrambled the words through her lips.

  ‘Nothing. Just shooting my mouth off.’ He laughed. A feline tinkle, like breaking glass.

  She stepped towards him. The dog strained on the leash. She didn’t care. Walking into O’Dowd’s space, her voice a whisper in the gale, she said, ‘What do you know about my family?’

  ‘Look, drop it.’ He tightened his grip on the chain, rolling it up a notch, dragging the dog closer to his leg. ‘I just meant we all have skeletons in cupboards we want to keep locked away from prying eyes. Yourself included.’

  Lottie’s jacket buffeted open and the wind cut through her like a sharp blade.

  ‘I’d really like to know what you mean.’

  ‘I think you already do. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve a busy evening ahead. I’ll call into the station tomorrow when I’m in town.’ He tipped the peak of his cap and motioned with his free hand to her car. ‘You’d best be getting off with yourself before the storm grabs a hold of you.’

  Still feeling as if a claw had snatched at her heart, Lottie got into her car and reversed out of the gate. As she drove away, she could see in her rear-view mirror O’Dowd standing watching. A curtain twitched at an upstairs window. The wind? Or someone there?

  She shook off the shiver. Had he threatened her? Did he know something about her father? Or was it about Eddie, her dead brother? Whatever it was, he had spiked her interest in him when she felt he was in fact trying to divert her.

  And the fire. Wouldn’t any normal human being ensure there was no one inside the burning cottage? Do all in their power to rescue them? But O’Dowd had apparently watched the place go up in flames while one man was burned to death and another was left hanging on to life by his fingertips. Another shudder up her spine. He had no fingertips.

  * * *

  O’Dowd watched the inspector’s car crest the hill, heading into town. He sighed with relief. She hadn’t noticed the bicycle at the side of the house. He wheeled it into the second shed, beside the milking parlour. Closed the door. Tied up the dog.

  He pulled off his boots, banged them against the step, scraping away most of the cow dung and muck, and left them to dry out. The kitchen was clean but empty. Moving into the hall, he shouted up the stairs.

  ‘You can come down now, girleen. The guard is gone.’

  He waited a moment before seeing her pop her head over the banister.

  ‘No need to be afraid.’

  She pushed her spectacles back up her nose, and with wariness in her steps as well as her eyes came down the stairs.

  ‘Sit yourself down and I’ll make you that cup of tea now,’ he said, and went to boil the kettle.

  Thirty-Three

  Lottie had swung a U-turn when she’d reached the main road, and headed to the Dead House in Tullamore. O’Dowd, whether intentionally or otherwise, had got her thinking about her father.

  Jane Dore poured boiling water over a camomile tea bag.

  ‘So, what is it you want help with, Lottie?’

  Lottie held the cup in her hand, letting the warmth thaw out her fingers.

  ‘The body that came in this morning. Have you carried out his PM yet?’

  ‘He’s on the table. Badly burned. But he didn’t die in the fire.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I found a few nicks on his ribs. I’ve more tests to run, but in my opinion he was stabbed. No smoke in what’s left of the lungs, and that suggests he was dead before the fire.’

  Lottie digested this information. Murdered. She had already suspected as much, seeing as the oth
er victim had had his fingers hacked off.

  ‘Drug gangs,’ she said, half to herself. This would bring the GNDU – the Garda National Drugs Unit – to her district. ‘But it seems a bit extreme for a shedload of cannabis.’

  ‘I’ll email the preliminary results in the morning.’

  ‘How can we identify him?’

  ‘I’ve captured his dental impressions. Should have something for you later today or tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thanks, Jane.’ Lottie sipped her tea, allowing it to relax her slightly. Only slightly.

  ‘Is there something else you want to discuss?’

  ‘It’s about my dad. You see, in 1975, he supposedly killed himself.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jane eyed her quizzically. ‘You said supposedly.’

  ‘Over the last few months, I’ve been privately investigating the circumstances of his death. Following up with his former colleagues. Asking questions. Poking my nose into old people’s lives. Getting nowhere.’

  ‘Why are you doing that?’

  ‘I’m trying to figure out why Dad shot himself. I was only four, and my brother was ten.’

  ‘Was he suffering from depression? Stress at work?’

  ‘His colleagues, those still alive, say they can’t remember. It’s like they don’t want to talk about him. And my mother won’t tell my anything.’

  ‘Have you tried talking to her? Nicely?’

  Lottie smiled. ‘Yes. I’d been trying to find out for years what happened, and a few months ago she handed over a box containing my father’s things.’

  ‘Did that give you any clues?’

  ‘I can’t pinpoint anything. A few newspaper cuttings. Notebooks. No suicide note. Mother says there wasn’t one.’

  ‘Was there an investigation at the time?’

  ‘An inquest. I suppose, because he was a serving garda sergeant, there doesn’t seem to have been too much of a fuss. Top brass probably wanted it all hushed up at the time.’

  ‘What was the verdict?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Suicide by lethal weapon. I’m surprised he even got a Catholic burial.’

  ‘Where did he get the gun?’

  ‘Took it from the weapons cabinet at the station. Stole the key and stole the gun.’

  ‘I’m assuming there was a post-mortem. Do you want me to check it out?’

  ‘Please. I have some photos and a death certificate. It’d be great if you could see what’s archived.’

  Jane glanced at the certificate. ‘I’ll have a look.’

  ‘Thanks, Jane.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘I know, but I thought that if you could examine the file, you might be able to tell me, one way or the other.’

  ‘Where did he do it?’ Cool and professional. Lottie winced at Jane’s aloofness.

  ‘In the tool shed at the bottom of the garden.’

  ‘In my experience, a police officer who commits suicide most often carries out the act at their place of work. Unusual that he would bring it on the family like that.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘I’m only speculating here, Lottie.’

  ‘I know, but anything you can give me is appreciated.’

  ‘You really want to know why he did it?’

  ‘If he did it,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I deal with facts and evidence. I’ll check our archives.’ Jane sipped her tea. ‘Who found his body?’

  Lottie was silent for a moment. An image flitted across her eyes. A memory? No, she’d been too young then.

  ‘My brother Eddie. According to Mother, it changed his personality. He ended up in St Angela’s Institution, where he was murdered.’

  ‘Sad family history you have, Lottie.’

  ‘I know. Too sad that my mother won’t help me.’

  ‘I’m sure if you sit her down and tell her how it has affected you, she’ll talk to you.’

  ‘You don’t know my mother,’ Lottie said with a grim smile.

  ‘She gave you the box of memorabilia, didn’t she?’

  ‘After years of begging for answers, that’s all she offered. I still don’t know what prompted her to hand it over.’

  ‘Probably you discovering your brother’s bones.’ Jane picked up the two mugs. ‘Speak to her about the days and weeks leading up to your father’s death. If anyone can get her to talk, Lottie Parker, you can.’ She slipped down off the stool and put the mugs into a sink.

  ‘Thanks, Jane.’ Lottie clutched her bag.

  ‘I can’t promise anything on your father’s suicide, but I’ll have the prelims over to you in the morning.

  ‘Prelims?’ Lottie turned around, brows knitted together.

  ‘On the burned body.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Leaving Jane and the Dead House, Lottie headed out to the car park and was almost blown off her feet by the wind. The storm had arrived.

  Thirty-Four

  The office was quiet when Lottie returned from Tullamore, her car having been bustled and buffeted along the motorway. It felt like a hurricane was blowing through her brain. She needed to ask Kirby about his impressions of Mick O’Dowd.

  At her desk, she quickly typed up a statement of her conversation with the farmer, leaving out his veiled insinuations about her family. The photocopier was silent, the phones unusually quiet and none of her detectives were around. Out searching for Emma Russell, she hoped. If Emma wasn’t at Lorcan Brady’s house, and Brady was the man in the hospital or on Jane Dore’s stainless-steel table, then where was she?

  Opening her drawer and spotting her father’s newspaper cuttings, Lottie remembered that she needed to go through Tessa Ball’s letters. After shifting some of the clutter from her desk, she found the copies. Would they give her a clue as to why the old lady was murdered?

  ‘I’ve looked through those,’ Boyd said, coming in and sitting sideways at his desk. He shoved his long legs out in front of him and leaned back, yawning.

  ‘Of course you have.’ Lottie swore silently. He was always one step ahead of her. ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing.’ He rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘Love letters by the look of it. When did her husband die?’

  ‘How would I know that?’

  ‘I do.’ Boyd smirked. ‘Timothy Ball died four years after they were married. 1970. Heart attack.’

  ‘Long time to be a widow.’ Lottie thought of her own mother, who had been a widow almost the same length of time as Tessa. Neither had remarried. Would she?

  ‘But all the letters are undated and unsigned,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Anonymous? Why would she keep them?’

  ‘We can’t ask her, can we?’

  ‘Very funny,’ Lottie said, but neither of them was laughing. She scanned over the copies. ‘They do read like love letters. Why not sign them?’

  ‘In case her husband found them?’

  ‘But they might’ve been written after he died. So that doesn’t make sense. When we find Emma, we can ask her about her grandmother. Any word on Marian Russell?’

  ‘It’ll be a few days before they attempt to take her out of the coma. And before you ask, the burned man is still critical.’

  ‘One of the fire victims must be Lorcan Brady.’

  ‘If Emma is involved with him, she could be in danger.’

  ‘Still no sign of her?’ Lottie folded the letters back into the file.

  Boyd shook his head. ‘Disappeared into the wind.’

  ‘I’m worried. She’s had terrible shocks. First her granny, then her mother. Her father is our lead suspect and her boyfriend could be dead or dying in hospital.’

  ‘She doesn’t know about him.’

  ‘Maybe she does. I hope she’s not involved in anything drug-related. Oh, I almost forgot.’

  She pulled her bag up onto the desk and took out the Culpeper book she’d taken from Marian Russell’s room. Underneath, the two plastic evidence bags nestled amongst the chaos.

  ‘I found these at
the house when I went to pick up clothes for Emma.’

  Boyd came and perched on the edge of her desk. He picked up the receipt. ‘Danny’s Bar. The evening of the attack at the Russell house. Two pints of Heineken. 19.04 p.m. Verified by PIN. Visa debit. That’s where Arthur Russell works.’

  ‘The bar manager might be able to check their records to see if it was him.’

  ‘It’s a long shot, but we can try. Arthur might’ve had a drink before heading home.’

  ‘If it was him, then the coat places him at the scene of the crime. Check with the bank too to see if the transaction is his.’

  Boyd glanced at the rolled-up notes. ‘And this money. Tell me.’

  ‘Bundled up in a trainer at the bottom of Emma’s wardrobe.’ Lottie pulled on the requisite latex gloves and took the bobbin from the notes. She flattened them on a plastic folder and counted. ‘Nine hundred and fifty euros.’

  ‘Running-away fund?’

  ‘Well, if she has run away, she’s gone without her fund. Drug money?’

  ‘If she’s mixed up with Lorcan Brady, it’s a possibility.’

  ‘He has a record?’

  ‘Yup.’ Boyd went back to his desk and brought up the PULSE database. ‘Caught in possession. Not enough to say it was for supply. Suspended sentence. Last March.’

  ‘Any known associates?’

  ‘No. He pleaded guilty to possession. Nothing before or since. Keeping his nose clean.’

  ‘Not clean enough. Did we find out who the registered owner of the car at Brady’s house is, seeing as it was his car at the burned-out cottage?’

  ‘Kirby got the details.’

  ‘Where is he, by the way?’ Lottie went to investigate Kirby’s desk. She picked up a computer printout. ‘Registered to Lorcan Brady. So, the lad has two cars in his name. Must be making more than what he gets on welfare.’

  ‘Fingers in too many pies, I’d say,’ Boyd said.

  ‘No fingers to put anywhere now,’ Lottie said. ‘Jane said the body at the cottage was stabbed to death. Didn’t die from the fire. Adds another dimension.’

  ‘Has to be drugs-related.’

  ‘Seems like it. But murdering someone for a small shed of cannabis? I don’t think so.’