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

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Moroney.’ She clattered her cup to the saucer and made to get up again.

  ‘No… sit down.’ Moroney flapped the hand holding the knife. Reluctantly Lottie resumed her seat. Chewing, he said, ‘My father started out as a reporter on the local Tribune. Worked his fingers to the bone with black ink from the presses. Ended up owning the damn thing. Luckily, he didn’t live to see his life’s work taken over by a digital corporation.’

  ‘And what has that got to do with—’

  ‘My father was a meticulous reporter. Never lost the skill, even when he was managing a shitload of trouble at the paper. Kept files on everything and anything.’

  ‘And it’s all digitised now?’

  ‘Mostly, but not what I’m referring to.’

  ‘I don’t follow you, Mr Moroney.’

  ‘Cathal, please. Can I call you Lottie?’

  ‘No way, Mister Moroney.’

  ‘Jaysus, but you’re very contrary.’ He pulled his drink towards him and drained it to the dregs. Signalled the barman for another, sat back and folded his arms. He’d left the knife and fork resting on either side of the plate. Boyd would lose it if he saw that, Lottie thought, and smiled.

  ‘Nice smile,’ he said.

  She dropped it and frowned.

  ‘Now where was I?’ he said.

  ‘Your father and his files.’

  ‘When I was growing up, he was always talking about this one story he had uncovered but couldn’t print. As a young boy I remember him being very angry about it. My mother used to shush him to stop him talking about it in front of me. He smoked a pipe and he would be sucking and pulling frantically on it, slamming papers around the desk he had built in the corner of the living room. Once I overhead him talking about two children. His words chilled me.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Lottie wasn’t sure there was any merit in listening to Moroney and his childhood recollections, but something was telling her to give him another few minutes. Especially as what he’d said so far resonated with what Buzz had told her.

  ‘He said, “Those little children didn’t deserve what happened to them, and neither did Sergeant Fitzpatrick.” I heard him say those words many times.’

  Lottie moved to the edge of her chair, hands gripping the armrests. ‘What children? Who were they?’

  ‘I didn’t know then, but I do now.’

  ‘And they had something to do with my father?’

  ‘He mentioned them in the same sentence.’

  ‘How can you recall that? Surely you were just a child yourself?’

  ‘I knew you’d ask. That’s why you need to see the file I found among my father’s things. He ended up with dementia; died five years ago. A heart attack took him in the end. But even in his ramblings, these children were always mentioned in some context. And he was never allowed to print the story.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I have his original report in my possession. Attached to it is a formal letter from the garda commissioner threatening to close down the newspaper if the story saw the light of day.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Lottie sat back in her chair and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Was the story to do with these children or my father’s suicide?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Do you realise what you have in your possession, Mr Moroney?’

  ‘I do. And I think you suspect your father didn’t kill himself. At least not voluntarily.’

  The barman arrived with Moroney’s drink and cleared away the plate and cutlery.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lottie said, when he’d gone.

  ‘Do we have a deal?’ Moroney said.

  She sat still, eyeing the reporter as he paused with his pint halfway to his lips. Could she really risk her job by going behind Superintendent Corrigan’s back? Perhaps she could feed Moroney inconsequential information. Something that was ready to be released anyway.

  ‘And I don’t want any shite from you,’ he said, as if he had read her mind.

  ‘Deal.’ She could get fired for this, but she had spent all her life trying to figure out why her father had killed himself, and the last four months actively pursuing it, getting nowhere. And today everything seemed to be flowing towards her like molten lava. ‘When can I see the file? Do you have it with you?’

  ‘You may think I’m stupid, but don’t underestimate me. I’ve spent years on this drug story; what can you give me on the murders?’

  Thinking frantically, Lottie wondered how much information she could realistically release to a television reporter without the leak being attributed to her. Not much. She’d have to bluff Moroney.

  ‘I’ll pull together what I have and prepare a document for you,’ she said.

  He took a notebook and pen from his breast pocket. Scribbled, then tore out a page. ‘This is my home address. Call to me tomorrow night. Say around eight. That will give me enough time to make a copy of my father’s file. If you don’t arrive with solid information, something concrete I can use, our deal is off. Is that clear?’

  ‘Clear,’ Lottie said, wishing she had Boyd with her to bestow reassurance that she was doing the right thing.

  Somehow she knew what he would say: ‘Career suicide.’

  Sixty-Eight

  Lottie caught up with Boyd at the station and they drove to inform Bernie and Natasha Kelly what had befallen Emma Russell; even though they were not family, she felt a duty to them. She had decided it was best Boyd knew nothing of her conversation with Moroney. What he didn’t know wouldn’t worry him, as her mother was apt to quote.

  The front door was open, rain sweeping in on the hall carpet. The car in the drive had the boot and four doors open.

  ‘What the…?’ Boyd said.

  Lottie shoved by him and entered the house.

  ‘What’s going on, Bernie?’ She put out a hand to stall the woman’s progress towards the door with an armful of clothes.

  ‘I’m getting out of this hole of a town, that’s what I’m doing.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bernie laughed. ‘Why! Did you come down in that last shower out there or what? My daughter’s best friend and family were murdered and you ask me why. We’re getting out before we’re next.’

  ‘Let’s put these down for a moment.’ Lottie took the clothes from Bernie and dropped them on the couch. It was already covered with boxes and crates. She noticed that all the ornaments had been removed from the room. She heard crockery and cutlery rattling in the kitchen. Glanced in. Natasha was methodically packing kitchen utensils into a plastic crate. One by one, trance-like. Turning back, she saw that Bernie was seated on an armchair with Boyd perched on the arm beside her.

  ‘I’m sorry about Emma,’ Lottie began, standing with her back to the empty grate. ‘Every officer in the division is working flat out to find who murdered her.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re not the first to call today. Had a visit from a prick of a detective inspector.’

  If she wasn’t so angry, Lottie would have laughed. Bernie had McMahon well summed up.

  ‘I’m sorry, but DI McMahon neglected to inform us that he was calling to you.’

  ‘He seemed to be on something of a one-man mission.’ Bernie appeared to have calmed a little.

  Lottie ploughed on. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘We went through this before, but I really need to find out how well you knew the Russell family. The comings and goings of people to their house. Any unusual cars or individuals you can recall. There are only these two houses on this part of the road. It’s very isolated, so I’m sure you would’ve been aware of any odd characters hanging around.’

  ‘You don’t suspect Arthur any more, then?’

  ‘Everyone is a suspect until we can arrest the culprit.’

  ‘Even me and Natasha?’

&nbs
p; ‘I’m only asking if you’ve seen—’

  ‘I know what you’re asking. And no. I didn’t notice anything. Don’t you think I would have told you if I had?’

  ‘Have you seen Arthur recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I have a word with Natasha? Alone?’

  ‘No. She’s not yet eighteen and I’m entitled to be with her. What do you want to ask her?’

  Ignoring the question, Lottie said, ‘Where are you going to move to, Bernie? Do you have family anywhere?’

  ‘Family? Huh. Natasha is the only family I need. I have to protect her. After all that’s happened this last week, the girl is inconsolable. We have to get out of here. Don’t you understand that? Are you a mother?’

  ‘I am,’ Lottie said. Not a very good one, she thought, recalling her meltdown last night.

  ‘Surely then you can understand how I have to shield my daughter from all this mayhem?’

  ‘I understand. But I don’t think running away from it is going to erase the memories. Natasha will carry the scars no matter where she is. Stay; get her help. See a doctor yourself, even. You’re too distraught to drive anywhere.’

  Bernie sighed and seemed to relax, then jumped out of the chair, unbalancing Boyd, who almost hit the floor. She lunged for the bundle of clothes Lottie had deposited on the couch before dropping them again.

  ‘I honestly don’t know what the right thing to do is,’ she cried, crumpling to her knees.

  Natasha rushed from the kitchen and stared, jaw clenched, a vein throbbing in her neck. ‘What have you done to upset her now?’

  Lottie winced at the tone of the teenager’s words. Not for the first time, she wondered how Emma had really got on with Natasha. Too late to ask her now. She could ask Natasha, but maybe now was not the right time.

  ‘I think you should stay here until all this is resolved,’ Boyd said in his soft, calm voice. He put a hand on Bernie’s shoulder. Lottie was surprised to see the woman reach up and caress Boyd’s long fingers. Before she could put what she was seeing into words, Natasha leapt forward and pushed him away.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch my mother! Leave us alone.’ She wrapped her arms around Bernie.

  ‘I think you should go,’ Bernie said. ‘Maybe we will stay for a few more days.’ She allowed Natasha to lead her into the kitchen.

  As the door closed, Lottie exchanged a look with Boyd.

  ‘Before I get waylaid again,’ she said, ‘let’s go to the hospital to check if Mr Brady has anything to say for himself.’

  They left the Kelly women to each other.

  Sixty-Nine

  They showed their IDs to the guard outside the hospital ward and signed in.

  Lottie had been up close with a victim of burns before, but was not prepared for the scene before her.

  ‘Oh shit, Boyd, he looks bad.’

  ‘Understatement of the century.’

  ‘This amount of tubing and machinery could operate a small factory for a year, let alone keep one man alive.’

  A groan from the bed and she jumped. Moving closer, she dragged a chair behind her, but decided she was better off standing. Boyd sat down and took out his notebook.

  ‘Lorcan, I’m Detective Inspector Lottie Parker. This is my colleague Detective Sergeant Boyd. We want to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘His vocal cords are damaged,’ said a nurse, entering the room with a bag of fluid. ‘You’ll have to lean in close if you want to hear him. Though I doubt you’ll make out anything he says. Your last man left in a fluster. He couldn’t understand a word. Though I didn’t tell him what I’m telling you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lottie said.

  The nurse said, ‘Ring the bell when you’re done and I’ll come back.’

  When they were alone, Lottie did as the nurse had said and crouched down beside the bandaged Brady.

  ‘Lorcan, I’d like to know who was behind the killing of Tessa Ball and the torture of Marian Russell.’

  Brady groaned; a gurgle emanated from his throat and a wheeze escaped his melted lips.

  ‘Did you catch that, Boyd?’ Lottie glanced round. She certainly had no idea what the injured man had said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know you were only involved in minor drug dealing, Lorcan.’ She automatically crossed her fingers at the lie. ‘That doesn’t concern me. I think you’re too nice a lad to be up for murder, so can you tell me anything at all that will help me find who is behind all this?’

  The swollen eyelids flickered without opening. His blistered lips stretched slightly. God, she thought, he’d be better off dead. Then she noticed his hand, cannula protruding from bandages, twitching. The hand with just a thumb and index finger remaining.

  ‘This is useless,’ she said, turning back to Boyd.

  In an instant, she froze as her own hand was gripped by the two-fingered man.

  ‘You scared me half to death there, Lorcan,’ she said. Realising he wanted her to come closer, she crouched down at the side of the bed, her ear to what was left of his mouth. ‘Who was behind the murders, Lorcan?’

  His voice was cracked from fire damage, but she could make out a word.

  ‘Wuinnie.’

  ‘Quinnie?’ She looked back at Boyd. ‘I think he means Jerome Quinn.’ She leaned closer to the injured man. ‘Who did this to you?’

  ‘Wuinnie.’

  Her hand was released from the thumb and finger and the machines began to emit high-pitched beeps. Lottie indicated to Boyd that it was time to leave.

  ‘We won’t get anything out of him. Not today, at any rate.’

  The nurse breezed into the room. ‘Time you two left.’ She busied herself, flicking switches on the machine until the room was restored to the relative calm of a monotonous hum.

  Lottie waited until Boyd had pocketed his notebook, then followed him out.

  ‘He can’t mean Jerome Quinn,’ Boyd said when they were at the elevator. ‘He was stabbed; burned to death. It has to be the half-brother, Hammer Quinn.’

  Deep in thought, Lottie stepped inside when the door slid open.

  ‘Brady is so badly injured, he could’ve been saying something completely different.’

  The door shut and the elevator descended.

  ‘We’ll see what McMahon has to say.’

  * * *

  Lottie figured McMahon was a man used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. He was seated in his office, her office, on a new leather chair, behind a desk with a laptop.

  ‘I went to see Lorcan Brady,’ she said.

  He eyed her from under his black fringe.

  ‘I thought I told you I’d be speaking to Lorcan Brady,’ he said.

  ‘How did you get on?’ She stood in the doorway.

  He shuffled in his seat, the leather squeaking under him. ‘Couldn’t get a word out of him.’

  ‘Do you think Jerome Quinn’s half-brother Hammer has anything to do with it?’ she ventured.

  ‘He has everything to do with it.’

  ‘But why now? Why wait until this very week to go for him? He must’ve known where he was all along.’

  ‘Did you stop to think that Marian might have talked before they ripped her tongue out?’

  Lottie felt her stomach shrivel at the thought of what the woman had suffered. And they had found her tongue in black refuse sacks, thrown out like a piece of rotting detritus.

  ‘Where is all the money? We only found nine hundred and fifty euros,’ she said. ‘And I have doubts that it is drug money.’

  ‘Offshore accounts, probably. I’ll get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ Lottie said. ‘And I’d like to know what business you had calling to the Kellys this morning?’

  ‘I would’ve thought that was obvious.’

  Lottie balled her hands into fists. Why did bastards in authority succeed in making her feel inadequate? She straightened her spine, tried to look important. ‘I know they were neighbours, but—’ />
  ‘They were the only neighbours on that road,’ he interrupted. ‘So they were the obvious people from whom to get information.’

  ‘And did you?’ From whom! Where the hell did he go to school?

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get information?’ Jesus, he was a first-class bollocks.

  ‘I need to confirm a few details.’

  ‘Look here, DI McMahon. I’m SIO and I’m entitled to know what you know.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think it works the other way round. So unless you have anything useful to tell me, let me get on with my work and I suggest you do likewise.’

  ‘I’ll see what Lynch found out about the data on Marian’s hard drive.’

  ‘No need,’ he said. ‘I’ve looked through it myself. Nothing of interest. Don’t waste your time.’

  ‘It’s my job, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but you’re out of line, Inspector. Be careful whose toes you step on.’

  She would have slammed the door on him if there had actually been one there to slam.

  Seventy

  Lynch was tying and untying her ponytail, wrapping her hair around her fingers.

  ‘You look stressed,’ Lottie said.

  ‘A bit. I’ve spent all morning trying to piece together what Marian was working on. But it’s like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle with nothing only blue sky.’

  ‘At least it’s not a black cloudy one,’ Boyd said.

  Two pairs of eyes scowled at him.

  ‘Right, I’ll check with Kirby to see where he’s at,’ he said.

  ‘He should be following up with the land registry to see if Tessa had any more property. Will you get on to the HSE and find out if they have any records relating to St Declan’s in the seventies?’

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Boyd, can you do what you’re asked without questioning it?’

  ‘I can and I will, but I’d like to know why. Okay, okay. I’m going.’ He left the office muttering to himself.