‘Contact SOCOs. I’m going to have a quick look upstairs.’
‘Don’t you think we should wait?’
‘You can. I need to know what type of lunatics we’re dealing with.’
Boyd pointed into the kitchen. ‘And that doesn’t tell you?’
Lottie hardly heard what he said. She was already at the top of the stairs. The landing floor was constructed of old wood, and above her head, a light bulb was screwed into a makeshift electrical fitting attached to a cross-beam. There was no ceiling. All the studding appeared to have been stripped away. Electrical cables ran along the beams. The light switch was missing screws and hung at an angle from the wall. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom.
Entering the nearest room, Lottie deduced it had been Lorcan’s mother’s. Untouched since the day she died, most likely. Mounds of dust had collected on the gold satin bedspread. A yellow-ochre hue sliced the room in two, escaping from the space between the closed curtains. She shut the door and entered the second room.
The smell hit her. Rancid dirty clothes. She held a gloved hand to her mouth. Used condoms were strewn across the bare wooden floor, lying among dust and discarded beer cans. A jumbled mound of filthy sheets was scrunched up on top of the mattress, and the velour headboard was covered with cigarette burns. A chest of drawers stood under the window, and Lottie braced herself for the trek across the floor, expecting at any minute for vermin to scuttle out from beneath the bed.
About six tins of Lynx deodorant stood haphazardly amongst drink cans and empty cigarette packets. Three deep drawers. She opened the first one. A whiff of puke rose to her nose.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she muttered.
‘What?’
Lottie jumped, jostling the collection on the dresser.
‘Boyd, you bastard. You frightened the shite out of me.’
‘The state of this place. What kind of tramp is Brady?’
‘A filthy one. Everything stinks. How could Emma Russell be involved with him?’
‘Love is blind,’ Boyd said.
‘Love would want to have no sense of smell to come into this room. I really can’t see Emma in this pigsty.’
‘What’s in the drawers?’
‘Give me a chance.’ Lottie gingerly moved the underwear around, her gloved fingers searching beneath them. Finding nothing, she closed the drawer and opened the next one. T-shirts and vests. The bottom drawer too had little to offer. ‘More clothes. Hey, wait a minute.’
‘Is that what I think it is?’ Boyd leaned over her shoulder.
‘If you thought it was a bag of heroin, then yes.’ She held it aloft.
‘That’s worth a fair bit.’
‘How much do you think?’
‘There must be at least ten ounces in there.’
‘Worth killing for?’
‘There has to be more. I’ll look in the bathroom.’
‘You might want a gas mask.’ Lottie opened her handbag, found a plastic evidence bag and deposited the heroin. Giving the drawer a final glance, she closed it.
As she was passing the bed, she flicked up the bundled sheeting. Snagged up in the clump of dirty linen, she caught sight of a snatch of purple material. Carefully she plucked out a girl’s hoodie. She’d seen one similar to it recently, but in a different colour. Where? Who’d been wearing it? Emma Russell! Had the girl really been in here? Having sex with Brady? It didn’t fit with the image she had of her. But she’d been proven wrong before.
‘Found more!’ Boyd shouted from the bathroom.
With a shake of her head, Lottie folded the hoodie and took it with her. Boyd was on his hands and knees, having removed the avocado-green plastic covering from the side of the bath.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘That’s some haul.’ Boyd had extracted three more bags of heroin.
‘But it’s not a lot in the scheme of things, is it?’
‘Lorcan Brady’s fingers were chopped off, Marian Russell had her tongue cut out and was left for dead, and an unidentified male was stabbed and burned. There must be more drugs.’
‘Maybe they went up in smoke in the cottage fire?’
‘I think we’d better find out before someone else is murdered,’ she said.
‘We need to identify the dead man. It might lead us to his killer.’ Boyd got up from his knees. ‘Want to look in the cistern?’
Lottie lifted the lid from the toilet cistern. ‘Water. Nothing else. But…’
‘What?’
Shifting the lid back on the cistern, Lottie glanced around the dingy bathroom with its plastic decor and drab tiles. ‘If Lorcan Brady was big into the drugs game, don’t you think he would be living somewhere better than this?’
‘Possibly.’
‘The hacking-off of his fingers – I think he was stealing from the big guys. Got caught out. Was he a middleman, or the lowest link of the chain? Is something bigger going on?’
The trundle of a heavy van and the screech of brakes from outside caused her to look up. ‘That’ll be McGlynn and his team.’
Boyd said, ‘Wait until he sees the amount of blood in that kitchen.’
Lottie had another look into the bedroom and a familiar icy chill settled between her shoulder blades.
‘Boyd?’
‘What?’
‘We’d better find Emma.’
Forty-Five
Jim McGlynn wasn’t a happy camper.
‘I wish you two would toddle off to some other division. Didn’t I tell ye I’ve been looking forward to a nice easy ride into retirement? You keep screwing up my journey.’
‘Not our fault,’ Lottie said.
McGlynn was busy setting up his equipment to photograph the scene. ‘When I’ve finished here, I’m going to the cottage. It’s been deemed safe to enter at last.’
‘Let me know if you find anything.’ At the door, Lottie turned. ‘Will you get your team to go through the rubbish bags out the back?’
McGlynn nodded. ‘It all looks a bit too frantic in here.’
Boyd said, ‘Maybe the assailants were high on drugs.’
‘Possibly.’
Lottie looked at the streaks of blood lining the surface of the gnarled wooden table lying on its side. Chairs had been overturned. Doors were hanging off the cupboards and crockery had been smashed on the floor. Envelopes and paper were scattered everywhere and the sink looked like no one had washed anything in it in months. Food littered the counter tops along with two dead mice.
‘No fish tank,’ Lottie said. ‘Why all the fish food?’
‘Maybe that’s what he fed the dog with.’
‘Let us know your findings,’ Lottie said to McGlynn, and eased past Boyd into the hall. She got an evidence bag from one of the SOCOs and placed the purple hoodie into it.
Passing the acquiescent collie on the doorstep, she bent down to rub his head, but stopped. His fur was a crawling knot of maggots.
‘Jesus, Boyd! This dog needs a vet.’
Boyd shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ll contact the dog warden.’
‘But—’
‘He needs to be put down.’
Boyd took her elbow and guided her to the car.
* * *
Back at the station, after Boyd had gone off to log the heroin into evidence, Lottie stood in the middle of the office wondering which direction to lead the investigation.
‘Inspector Parker, my office,’ said Superintendent Corrigan, bursting through the door.
‘This is getting to be a habit,’ Lottie muttered at his retreating back.
Kirby raised his head. ‘A bad habit.’
Lottie strolled down the hall and into the superintendent’s office. Second time in the space of a couple of hours. Not good.
‘Sit.’
‘What’s up, sir?’
‘I’ve a report here detailing the findings at the cottage.’
‘That was quick.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was speaking to Jim McGlynn fifte
en minutes ago, and he said the cottage had only just been cleared as safe to enter.’
‘Not the feckin’ cottage. The shed behind it, if you want to be so particular about it.’
‘Oh, right. Sorry, sir.’
He pressed his spectacles tighter to his nose and read from the report in his hand. ‘A hundred and sixty kilograms of cannabis with a potential street value of three million euros.’
‘Holy cow. Under everyone’s noses.’
‘Some of it was still growing, but the bulk of it was packaged and found in crates buried under clay. Did you get any further with identifying the victims?’
‘Yes, sir. I suspect the man still alive is Lorcan Brady. He’s twenty-one, so he fits the description. I’ve just come from his house. Besides the kitchen looking like an abattoir, we found a substantial quantity of heroin. Not sure of the street value as yet.’
‘I made the right move so.’
Lottie shifted in her seat. She knew where this was going.
Corrigan continued. ‘I’ve informed the national drugs unit. They’re sending someone down to take over. Should be here in the morning. So what does that mean for your investigation, Inspector?’
‘I have until the morning to complete it.’
‘Correct. Get your skates on and find that runaway girl. She could be the link to all this.’
Lottie nodded and left as fast as she could. She knew Emma could be a link, but whichever way she looked at it, she didn’t see the girl fitting in with a drug ring. Something just wasn’t right with that scenario.
* * *
McGlynn contacted them to say he’d left his deputy at Brady’s house and was back at the cottage sifting through ashes. Lottie grabbed Boyd and they sped out to Dolanstown. Approaching the burned-out structure, she saw McGlynn’s white protective suit moving like a ghost in the blackened shell.
‘It’s hard to believe there was that amount of cannabis plants housed in the shed. What was going on?’ she said.
‘Someone tried to murder two men and succeeded in killing just one. Then the suspect burned the cottage down but didn’t take the cannabis. Weird,’ Boyd said.
‘Did the assailant even know about the drugs? What are we missing here, Boyd?’
‘I don’t know, but maybe SOCOs can find something to help us identify the other victim.’
They pulled on protective clothing, overshoes and gloves. The wind almost lifted Lottie from her feet as she walked up the path to the incinerated cottage. SOCOs had covered over as much of it as they could manage with tents, but the wind was playing with them as if they were kites.
Giving up on the hood of her Teflon boiler suit, Lottie let her hair fly about her face as she entered the charred remains.
‘Ah, the grim reapers,’ McGlynn said through his paper mask.
‘What’s that?’ Lottie pointed to the scorched object in McGlynn’s hand. She had no idea which room they were standing in. All furniture and fittings had been destroyed.
‘A bone,’ McGlynn said.
‘A bone?’ Lottie took a step closer.
‘Human?’ Boyd asked.
McGlynn remained silent as he placed it in an evidence bag, then bent down and picked up another one.
‘Jesus,’ Lottie exclaimed. ‘Are they… fingers?’ A gulp of saliva formed at the back of her throat and she thought she might be sick. Wind caterwauled through the gaps where windows had once protected the interior from the elements. It sounded like a banshee. A forewarning of death? She shivered.
‘I’ll collect everything and tag them, then inspect them back at the lab,’ McGlynn said. ‘I’ll let you know my findings.’
‘Anything else?’ Lottie asked.
The forensic man’s eyebrows arched. She was glad she couldn’t see his face. She knew it was a mask of scorn.
‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll let you get on with it.’
Her phone pinged with a message as she and Boyd headed back to the car.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
‘Kirby. Guess who owns the cottage?’
‘I’m in no mood for guessing games, Lottie.’
‘Mick O’Dowd. The liar.’
Forty-Six
The door to the milking shed was closed and there was no sign of the dog or O’Dowd’s Land Rover.
‘Maybe he’s at the station giving a statement,’ Boyd said.
‘Lying bastard,’ Lottie said. ‘I asked him if he knew who owned the cottage and he said he didn’t.’
Boyd marched up to the front door. No doorbell. He hammered with the knocker. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked.
Lottie remained standing, buffeted by the gale, in the middle of the dung-covered yard.
‘I’m trying to recall exactly what I asked him.’
Boyd moved back to her. ‘About what?’
‘The cottage.’ She slapped her forehead. ‘Shit. I don’t think I asked him who owned it. I only enquired if he knew who rented it.’
‘But why didn’t he volunteer the information? Did he not want to implicate himself in a murder investigation?’
‘He was already implicated. He found the cottage on fire and reported it.’
‘I think if he’d been involved,’ Boyd said, ‘he would have stayed well away from it.’
Lottie shook her head. ‘He struck me as being devious. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’m going to find out.’
Boyd shrugged and thumped on the door with his fist. ‘No one home,’ he said.
A dog barked inside.
Lottie shook off her frustration at her ineptitude with O’Dowd. She spied a shed door swinging open, crashing against the wall, and made for it.
‘Hey, we need a search warrant to go in there.’ Boyd appeared at her shoulder.
‘Door was open. Inviting us.’ She stepped into the dusky interior. Scrabbled around for a light switch. Unable to find one, she said, ‘Got a torch?’
Boyd tapped the flashlight app on his phone. A cone of light shone into the murky depths. A quad bike with stinking mucky wheels was parked next to a red tractor, which appeared to rise up from the shadows.
‘A Massey Ferguson,’ Boyd said.
‘How’d you know that?’ Lottie asked.
‘Says it here. On the insignia.’
He dipped the phone downwards, immersing Lottie in darkness. The wind shook the wooden structure and it appeared to shiver around her. She picked her way carefully as Boyd followed with the light.
‘What’s that?’ She pointed to an implement among shovels and spades.
‘A scythe. Used for cutting hay in the old days.’
‘Dangerous-looking weapon. Could it chop off fingers?’ Lottie lifted the tool. ‘Bit heavy.’
Boyd inspected the blade under the glare of his phone light. ‘No trace of blood. We shouldn’t be in here without a warrant. We’ll be in big trouble.’
‘Never stopped me before.’ She put the scythe back where she’d picked it up from and began inspecting the rest of the tools. ‘Everything in here could be used as a weapon.’
‘They’re farm tools. You’re reading too much into them.’
Through the flapping galvanised sheets on the roof, a squall penetrated with a sinister whistle.
Suddenly Lottie stopped and her hand flew up to her mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ she said.
* * *
Driving past the incinerated cottage, Mick O’Dowd wondered how long it would take the guards to figure out he owned the place. Not long, he supposed, now that Tessa Ball was dead. Didn’t leave him much time to get his affairs sorted. He’d already started on his accounts and needed to get back to them quickly.
A hundred metres along the road, he slowed the Land Rover and idled the engine. He looked in his rear-view mirror. Men in white suits were flocking like geese around the blackened ruins. They’d have found the stash in the shed by now, not that it was anything to do with him. But what else would they find? He needed to hurry.
&
nbsp; A gust shook the vehicle. O’Dowd glared at the sky. At least the cattle were in the outer barn. He wouldn’t have to go trudging through saturated fields to bring them in.
He lit a cigar and inhaled two puffs before setting it down. He knew what he had to do. He released the handbrake and slowly made his way home.
Forty-Seven
The light danced around them as Boyd attempted to shine the phone on what had alarmed Lottie.
‘It’s just a bicycle,’ he said.
‘It’s hers,’ Lottie whispered.
‘Whose?’
‘Emma’s. I mean Natasha Kelly’s.’ She stepped closer to the red racing bike. Let her gloved hand stroke the handlebars.
‘You’ve never seen her bike. How can you know it’s this particular one?’
‘You know bikes. Tell me, is this for ladies or gents?’
‘It’s a lady’s. But that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Why is it in Mick O’Dowd’s barn?’
‘Maybe it belongs to his mother or sister, or a friend. Jesus, Lottie, I don’t know.’ Boyd swept his hand through his hair. ‘Come on. We have to get out of here.’
‘I’m not going without the bike.’
Boyd scanned the interior of the barn with his phone light. ‘See those cameras, up there? They’re CCTV. O’Dowd is recording us.’
‘What? Why have cameras in a barn?’
‘To protect his tractor? I don’t know, but I do know I don’t like this.’
The flashlight dimmed. Lottie waited a moment for her eyes to refocus with the narrow strip of daylight coming from the doorway.
‘We can’t just leave the bicycle here. It’s evidence,’ she said.
‘From an illegal search. Use your head. We have to go back to the station and process a warrant.’
‘On what grounds? We can’t say we know it’s here.’ Boyd got the light working again. He bent down and inspected the tyres. ‘All pumped up. Plenty of mud and dung caked dry on them. It wasn’t ridden today.’
‘If Emma had it, why did she come here? And where is she?’
A terrifying thought struck Lottie as starkly as the bird that flew from the roof and clipped her hair.
The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 16
