She screamed. ‘I hate birds. Let’s get outside.’
Boyd didn’t argue and she followed him out. Clouds were scudding like missiles across the sky and a drizzle of rain had resumed. She looked up at the farmhouse windows.
‘She could be inside. Held against her will.’
‘If – and it’s a big if – she came here on that bike, it looks like she came voluntarily.’
‘Yes, but she could have ridden into the arms of a madman. Or maybe he picked her up on the road.’
Boyd sighed. ‘I think your mind is warped to expect the worst in every situation.’
‘Grim reapers. That’s what McGlynn called us. Maybe we are.’
She headed for the other shed. Inside, both sides were lined with cattle, chewing on meal and hay. She moved down the aisle and glanced at the slatted floor, where dung and urine seeped. She looked up. ‘More cameras.’
‘He’s protecting an expensive herd. That’s all. Nothing sinister.’
With a disgruntled sigh, Lottie left the shed and marched over to the back door of the house. She banged loudly.
‘Emma? Emma Russell, are you in there? I just want to be sure you’re okay and then I’ll go away.’
Pressing her ear to the wood, she listened. ‘Nothing. We’ll try the front door again.’
Boyd beat her to it. Hammered as hard as he could. Banged the knocker. Shook the handle. Still no answer. The howl of the dog barking catapulted him away from the door.
‘Mason,’ Lottie said.
‘Look, there’s no one else here. And don’t go telling me she’s tied up or murdered. We do our job. We’ll process a warrant and go find O’Dowd.’
Lottie turned at the sound of a vehicle approaching along the road. ‘I think he’s found us.’ Leaning against the front door, she folded her arms, and waited for O’Dowd to park at the side of the house.
‘What are you two doing here?’ O’Dowd jumped out of the vehicle almost as soon as it stopped, leaving the door open in his haste. ‘Get off my property. I’ve had enough of your crowd.’ He raised his fist and shook it, pushing his face into Lottie’s.
‘Hey, just a minute…’ Boyd said, straightening his shoulders.
‘No, let him finish,’ Lottie said. ‘I want to hear what he has to say.’
‘I don’t have to say anything to you. Clear off, ye pair of bollockses.’
‘Have a nice lunch in town?’ she goaded, spying the remnants of gravy caked dry at the corners of his mouth.
O’Dowd took a step back and appeared to mentally calm himself.
‘What do you want?’ he asked after a moment.
A blast of wind swept around the side of the house, stealing his words.
‘We need a formal statement on the events surrounding the fire at the cottage,’ Lottie said.
‘Where do you think I’ve been half the day?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘In town, at your station, waiting for someone to listen to me.’
‘And did they?’
‘What?’
‘Listen to you?’
‘Done and dusted. Now if you’d be so kind as to leave…’
Lottie forced a smile. ‘Kind? Mmm. I’m really not that type of person.’
‘I’ll call the—’ O’Dowd stopped mid sentence.
‘Guards?’ Lottie smirked. ‘Oh, how fortunate. We’re already here.’
‘You think you’re a smart bitch, don’t you? Like that father of yours. Remember where it got him?’
Though she worked hard not to lose it, the smile died on Lottie’s face.
‘Mr O’Dowd, my colleague DS Boyd and I would like to have a civil conversation with you. Won’t you ask us in?’ She wished she could mention the bicycle in the shed.
O’Dowd leaned in towards her. She plastered a stoical expression on her face. Boyd hovered behind, ready to intervene.
Spittle settled around O’Dowd’s teeth as he drew his lips back in a snarl. ‘You have no right to be on my property.’ His voice a threatening growl.
‘Speaking of property,’ she said, ‘how come you never mentioned you owned the cottage?’
He eyed her up and down, his mouth hardening into a grimace. ‘You never asked.’
‘You should have said.’ Lottie ran her hand through her hair. He was succeeding in giving her the feeling of lice crawling around her scalp, taking hold of the roots of her hair. ‘If you own it, surely you know who rented it?’
‘I told you that already. I don’t know.’
‘I think you’re being very economical with the truth, Mr O’Dowd.’
‘And I think that if you’re not careful, you might end up jamming your service weapon to your own forehead.’
Gulping down a spurt of bile, Lottie lifted her hand and slapped him as hard as she could across his face. His proximity to her didn’t allow her to put any strength behind the blow, but it gave her a smidgen of satisfaction.
O’Dowd laughed, a grating-on-glass sound. ‘Assault along with trespassing. I think I have you sewn up nice and neatly now, Inspector.’
Boyd grabbed Lottie away from the farmer’s towering body. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘I’ll be lodging a complaint against you, Inspector. And don’t come back here unless you have a warrant.’
Lottie planted her feet so Boyd couldn’t pull her further away.
‘Tell us about the b—’ she began.
‘Lottie!’ Boyd forcibly seized her elbow and steered her towards the car. ‘Now isn’t the time. Okay?’
All fight left her body and she slumped onto the seat when Boyd opened the door. She looked out through the windscreen at O’Dowd. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and down the stubble of his chin. With his other hand he pinched the bridge of his nose and sneezed out a long snot before summoning phlegm from this throat. A globule of mucus landed on the hood of the car.
As Boyd reversed out of the yard, Lottie opened the door, leaned out and shouted, ‘You’re an ignoramus! You old fucker!’
The brakes screeched. She felt Boyd haul her back in before he leaned over and shut the door with a bang and sped from the farm.
* * *
From the first-floor window, Emma watched Mick O’Dowd fuming in his own yard. Should she have come down and opened the door when the detectives had knocked? But he’d told her to stay put. Plus his rabid dog was chained up at the bottom of the stairs, inside the front door. Definitely not going down there, she thought.
When she heard him below in the kitchen, she shrank further against the wall and pulled the old blanket up to her chin. The roughness of the wool grated against her cheek and she wanted to scream. Why hadn’t she done that when the guards were here? She didn’t know who she could trust. But she’d been told to trust O’Dowd, hadn’t she?
‘Girleen, I’ll put a few spuds in the pot and have a bite of dinner for you in a short while. That okay?’ His shout came up the stairs.
Emma nodded.
‘Are you up there?’
She heard the dog bark and a foot stamp on the bottom step.
‘Yes, yes. That’s grand, but I’m not hungry,’ she yelled back.
‘You have to eat, missy. Food for the body is food for the soul.’
She heard him laughing his sharp, clinking laugh on his way back down the stairs.
He hadn’t touched her. Not a finger had he laid on her, but she was now more scared of him than the others she’d originally been frightened of.
‘I’ve a bit of written work to do here, if you care to give me a hand while the dinner is cooking?’ She heard his voice echo up through the kitchen ceiling to her room.
‘In a minute, maybe,’ she said, and stuck her fist in her mouth to stop herself from screaming.
Was there anyone she could trust?
Forty-Eight
Lottie didn’t utter a word on the short drive back to the station. Her temper simmered just below the surface of her indignation.
As Boyd swung the c
ar onto Main Street, she said, ‘He could’ve chopped her up and fed her to the cows or his dog. You saw that scythe and that… that rotor machine thing. Jesus, Boyd, we need that warrant.’
‘Calm down.’
‘You’re telling me to calm down? After that… that excuse for a man threatened me?’ She struggled to spin her words together in a coherent sentence.
‘You were out of order. You shouldn’t have hit him and he was within his rights to tell us to get off his property.’
Arms folded tightly, chin buried to her chest, Lottie smouldered.
‘If you keep that up,’ Boyd said, ‘there’ll be smoke coming out of your ears.’
‘We need to get a full description of the bicycle from Natasha.’ Lottie fumbled in her bag for her phone, then stopped. ‘Better still, drive over to the Kellys’ house. I’ll talk to her myself.’
‘We have a description back at the station,’ he said. ‘And you have to delegate. It’s impossible to do everything yourself.’
‘Go to Kelly’s. I need to talk to Natasha,’ she said abruptly.
He swung the car around the roundabout and headed in the direction of Carnmore.
Lottie seethed for the rest of the short journey. She thought of her own children and how she’d felt when Sean, and then Chloe, had gone missing. There really wasn’t anyone left to miss Emma, except her dad, and he could be a murderer. She took out her phone and called home. Just to hear they were all okay, that was all, she told herself.
* * *
A dishevelled-looking Bernie Kelly opened the door. The make-up she’d worn so confidently the other day was now streaked, and her hair looked like it nested robins.
‘What now?’ she said.
‘I have to speak to Natasha,’ Lottie said.
‘It’s not a good time, and I’m getting mighty fed up with all this interference.’
Lottie moved past her along the hallway and into the kitchen. Natasha was leaning against the jamb of the open back door, puffing vigorously on a cigarette. The table evidenced the remains of a half-eaten dinner, and a plate lay in pieces on the floor, strings of spaghetti and sauce clinging to the legs of the table and congealing on the tiles.
‘What happened here?’ Lottie asked.
Natasha flicked the cigarette outside, then came in and closed the door. She faced Lottie, taunting her with a smirk.
‘None of your business,’ she said, folding her arms defiantly.
From behind her, Lottie heard Bernie say, ‘Just a family argument. Like she says, none of your business.’
‘We only want to have a chat,’ Boyd said.
Lottie had forgotten he was there. She turned to see him with his arm around Bernie Kelly’s trembling shoulders. The woman was clutching a black cardigan tight to her chest and her jeans were streaked with red sauce.
‘I really think you should leave,’ Bernie said. ‘I want to have a word with my daughter.’
‘Natasha,’ Lottie said, ‘sit down.’
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘I don’t care what went on between you and your mother. You can sort that out yourselves. I’m here to ask about your bicycle. What colour is it?’
‘My bike? I don’t know. It’s years since I used it.’
‘Is it black or white? Red or blue?’
‘Red. I think.’
Lottie looked up at Boyd, then to Bernie. ‘Do you have a serial number for it? On insurance documents maybe?’
Bernie shook her head.
Turning her attention back to Natasha, Lottie said, ‘The night Tessa Ball was murdered, can you tell me exactly what you and Emma did?’
‘Watched telly. Told you that already.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘That’s not my problem.’ She unfolded her arms and clenched her hands into fists by her sides.
Calling Boyd over, Lottie whispered in his ear. He headed out to the car, returning a few moments later with a large plastic evidence bag. He held it up.
‘Do you know who owns this?’
Natasha’s eyes widened, but she kept her lips sealed shut.
Bernie butted in, ‘You have one just like it, love.’
‘Maybe,’ Natasha said, her lips curving upwards. Slowly she drew her eyes back to Lottie. ‘Where’d you find it?’
‘Lorcan Brady’s house. Have you ever been there?’
‘I told you, he’s Emma’s boyfriend. She must be with him.’
‘No, she’s not. Lorcan is in hospital.’
‘Hospital?’ Bernie said. ‘I thought… Is he okay? What happened to him?’
‘Had a bit of an accident with a fire.’
‘Is he all right?’ Natasha asked, her teenage cockiness slipping.
‘Not really. No.’
‘Is he going to die?’ Bernie again.
‘I’m no doctor,’ Lottie said, ‘so I can’t answer that. Back to the hoodie. I need to determine ownership.’
Bernie studied it for a moment and said, ‘Emma was wearing Natasha’s clothes while she was here. If Lorcan’s in hospital, do you know where Emma is?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lottie admitted. ‘Do you know a Mick O’Dowd?’
Bernie shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think I recognise that name.’
Looking at the red mess decorating the kitchen, Lottie said, ‘Are you going to tell me what happened here?’
‘Just family stuff,’ Bernie said. ‘Isn’t that right, Natasha?’
Lottie watched as Natasha stood stock still, her face as unreadable as her mother’s. ‘Suppose so.’
‘If you remember anything about the hoodie or where you think Emma might be, let us know,’ Lottie said, and walked slowly behind Boyd as they left the house.
She wasn’t sure what she had witnessed here. But she was sure of one thing. There was no one better experienced than her to know how tumultuous the relationship could be between mothers and teenage children.
Forty-Nine
‘I want a transcript of O’Dowd’s statement.’ Lottie banged a bundle of files from one side of her desk to the other.
Boyd walked over and began straightening them. She slapped her hand down on top of his.
‘Stop!’ she said and looked up at him.
‘You stop,’ he said. ‘You’re driving yourself mad. And the rest of us along with you.’
‘We need to speak to Arthur Russell about Mick O’Dowd,’ she said.
Kirby walked into the office brandishing his notebook. ‘Spoke to Kitty Belfield again, after a feed of bacon and cabbage. Jaysus, it was mighty.’
‘He’s been released,’ Lynch said, raising her head from her computer.
‘Who?’ Lottie, Boyd and Kirby said together.
‘Arthur Russell,’ Lynch said. ‘Superintendent Corrigan said, quote, we “couldn’t pin a straight line on a seam to hold it together”, unquote. Said the Chief Superintendent told him we had nothing new other than circumstantial evidence, so he’s been released.’
‘Ah, for Christ’s sake!’ Lottie jumped up, knocking the files from her desk to the floor.
‘And we have to hand everything over to the drugs unit. Pronto. Superintendent’s word, not mine,’ Lynch said.
Lottie slapped the lid of the photocopier down and switched off its hum. On her way back to her desk, she knocked over a stack of box files.
‘Who do you think is going to sort that lot now?’ Boyd asked.
‘Sorry. I’ll do it later.’ She flopped back onto her chair and held her face in her hands.
Silence reigned in the office. Everyone afraid to breathe. All waiting for the next outburst.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Lottie said. She took a few deep breaths and looked up. ‘Okay, Kirby. Tell me about Kitty Belfield.’
Fifty
After getting rid of his solicitor, Arthur headed for Danny’s Bar. He needed a pint. He needed a feed. Hell, he only needed a pint.
As he walked down Main Street, his bare head getting clipped by useless
umbrellas, the rain sheeted down and he realised the guards still had his coat. Or was it his coat? He’d have to go back to the digs and check. After he’d had his pint.
Outside the door to Danny’s, he stopped. Sirens and commotion sounded towards him from Friars Street. He stared through the rain. Two fire engines were parked haphazardly across the road, figures frantically unfurling hoses. Water was everywhere. The deluge from the storm must have caused the river that wended its way through the town to burst its banks.
A thought struck him about the night old Tessa was murdered. About his jacket. Shit, he thought, I have to find Emma.
Abandoning all thoughts of his much-needed pint, he ran back up the street.
Fifty-One
To pacify him, once he’d put the dog outside in the yard, Emma ate the dinner of mashed potatoes, beans and a fried egg. She tasted none of it, just let it slide into her tummy.
‘I’ve to check the heifers,’ O’Dowd said. ‘Will you wash up?’
She nodded.
‘Keep an eye on the cameras. Can’t be too careful, you know. With all that’s happened.’
She glanced at the small television in the corner, beside the refrigerator, with its split screens showing the gate, yard, barns and sheds. She cleared the table as he pulled on his wellington boots and went out the back door, calling for Mason.
She filled the sink with water, then, unable to find any washing-up liquid, scrubbed as best she could to get the grease off the pots, wishing she was back home, where she’d gladly stack the dishwasher for her mum without a row. Holding back a sob, she dried the dishes and put them in the cupboard. She looked at the pile of accounting books he’d stacked up on the centre of the table.
The square panes of glass rattled and sheets of rain hammered against the window behind her. Feeling in her jeans pocket for her phone, she thought of the call she had made earlier. Maybe she should have waited. Was there still too much danger around? Taking the phone out, she sat at the table to dismantle it. She snapped out the battery and then the SIM card. Her fingers shook from fear and cold and she dropped the card. Where had it gone? She scanned the floor. Nothing. Maybe it was still on the table. As she searched around the pile of books, she noticed one sticking out obliquely. Lifting the stack, she pulled it towards her. It looked familiar. Opening it, she glanced at the name inscribed on the inside cover. A gasp of recognition escaped her lips. What was going on? Just who the hell was O’Dowd?
The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 17
