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

by Patricia Gibney

The settings for breakfast chilled him.

  There were children in this house.

  He thought of leaving.

  Could he walk away?

  No. Not now.

  Too much at stake.

  With no time left to waste, he pushed open the kitchen door and entered the rest of the house.

  The Late Eighties

  The Child

  I have no concept of the passage of time.

  I have no idea how old I am.

  I know Johnny-Joe died.

  They say he overdosed after digesting the seeds he was supposed to be planting. Ha.

  Six hundred and sixty-six. Johnny-Joe’s favourite number. Never less; never more. Wail at the sky, he would, if I miscounted. Sickened me. Every time I had to go into that garden with him. Well, I put an end to that little job. Stuffed all six hundred and sixty-six seeds down his old yellow throat. One by fucking one. I did it, and I never want to hear that number again. He didn’t protest much. I told him the devil said he needed him to eat them. Johnny-Joe. Ha!

  Today, I have a visitor. Not once, in all the time I’ve been here, however long that may have been, has anyone called to see me. I’ve no idea what this is about. Could someone have finally remembered about me? I often wonder about the other one. The other part of me they didn’t lock away. Or maybe they did. Somewhere else.

  My head hurts as the nurse pulls the shirt tight to my chest and closes up the buttons. An awful yellow yoke, with white daisies. Daisies! I hate daisies almost as much as I hated Johnny-Joe and his fairy seeds. I don’t mind the trousers, with their wide flare, though they are a little too tight.

  I’m brought to the other side of this mad place. None of that peeling paint and shitty smells. It’s painted and shiny. Keep the sunny side out, at all times. I leave my ward, with its screaming and shrieking, and after a walk down a never-ending wide corridor and out through a dozen tall doors, unlocked and locked again behind me, I am deposited in a room with three chairs and a small square table. The windows are high and arched. The paint on the walls is yellow. Like my shirt. Yuck.

  I pull up my socks from where they have slipped down in my shoes and pick at the elastic until it snaps and the sock folds once again around my ankle. I do the same to the other one. They have cut my hair tight to my head and combed it straight. I quickly run my fingers through it and shake my head vigorously until I’m sure it is all standing on end. Now I feel contented. I’m not going to play their game. I’m planning my own.

  When the woman walks in, I feel my breath stick in my throat and the words I wanted to yell smother down into my chest. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain I remember her. My mother? No, she is not my mother. She’s the one who brought us here that day. Signed the papers and walked away. Along with a man in uniform.

  It’s all coming back in such a rush, my head hurts. He’s not here today but he was with her that day. Wasn’t he upset? I close my eyes and drag the memory to my conscious state. I was so young. He was yelling something about how the foster mother should have taken both. Now I remember. The presence of the woman before me has sparked those memories of when she was here with that man, and I feel another sensation taking root in my soul. The same one that caused me to count to six hundred and sixty-six as I stuffed the miserable little seeds down Johnny-Joe’s throat.

  ‘You’re sixteen.’ Her voice is high and cold. ‘You probably thought I’d forgotten about you. Well, I’ve come to let you know that you’re staying here until you’re twenty-one. I think that is the right age to let you out into the world again. If I don’t die in the meantime.’

  She laughs in a shrill, high-pitched way that drills a hole into my head. And I want to drill a hole in hers.

  ‘Behave yourself in here and I’ll be back to sign you out. A few more years. That’s all.’

  She hasn’t sat down. Standing. Holding a black leather handbag tight under her arm. The sun outside comes from behind a cloud and shines in through the stained glass at the top of the window, painting her in a myriad of colours.

  She opens her bag, takes out a book. Holds it out to me. Should I take it or let her hold it until her arm weakens and she has to put it back in her bag?

  I step towards her. She steps backwards.

  I smile. I know I have a smile that can strike fear into others. Her mouth droops and I think she’s going to scream. She doesn’t. Her eyes seem blinded by the light coming from the window. I could jump on her and bite out her tongue and spit it against the sickly yellow walls. And no one would hear until it was too late.

  I want to do that. I really do.

  But I also want to get out of here.

  And if that means waiting another five years for her to come back, then I will keep on smiling at her until she leaves.

  I take the book from her hand, my fingers lightly brushing against her skin.

  She shivers, as if I’ve stuck an icicle through her heart.

  She turns to open the door, her mission complete.

  ‘Where is my twin?’ The only words I have spoken aloud to anyone in years. The sound of my voice frightens even me.

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  She opens the door and escapes to her world, condemning me to another five years in mine.

  I am patient.

  I can wait.

  Day Six

  Eighty

  ‘No let-up in the weather, then,’ Boyd said as Lottie bumped into him on the station steps.

  She keyed in the code on the interior door and together they made their way up the stairs to the office.

  ‘The sandbags holding back the river are at breaking point,’ she said, hanging up her jacket. No sign of McMahon in her office.

  ‘I thought it burst its banks already?’

  ‘That was in the centre of town; up near my house, the water is above the banks and the council put down sandbags. No idea how long they’ll last.’

  ‘The weather!’ McMahon strode into the office shaking his coat, splashing drips over desks and paperwork. ‘I’m sick of listening to people moaning.’

  ‘Don’t listen then. Why don’t you—’

  ‘Lottie!’ Boyd said, his hazel eyes firing a warning at her across the office.

  ‘I was just going to say why don’t you get a warm mug of coffee.’ She attempted an eye roll, but when Boyd laughed, she was sure her efforts had resulted in something completely different.

  ‘Good idea,’ McMahon said. ‘Two sugars. I like it sweet.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting—’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Boyd interjected.

  Lottie followed him to the makeshift canteen.

  ‘I can’t believe we still have no sightings of either O’Dowd or Arthur Russell,’ Boyd said.

  ‘And I can’t believe Corrigan hasn’t called me in after McMahon complained yesterday,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I think our super is in your corner.’

  ‘I am. For now.’ Corrigan stuck his head into the confined space. ‘But if you don’t solve this and get rid of that shithead back to Dublin soon, I think I’ll throw in the feckin’ towel myself.’

  Lottie looked at Boyd and they burst out laughing. She felt tension easing out of her shoulders as Corrigan stomped off down the corridor muttering to himself about getting a press release ready.

  With mugs of coffee in hand, they went back to the office. Lottie had taken one sip when Kirby rushed in.

  ‘We’ve an emergency call out at Gaddstown,’ he panted. ‘I’ve sent a squad to follow the ambulance. A neighbour reported blood oozing out beneath the back door of a house.’

  ‘Whereabouts in Gaddstown?’ Lottie asked, half rising from her chair.

  ‘Number 2 Treetops. Why?’

  The saliva in her throat dried up and she thought her legs would give way. She gripped the edge of her desk with one hand while scrabbling around the mound of paperwork with the other. Files tumbled to the floor.

  ‘What the hell!’ Boyd jumped up and be
gan gathering the fallen reports. ‘What are you looking for?’

  Lottie held up a page torn from a small notebook.

  ‘Number 2 Treetops,’ she whispered.

  ‘So?’ Boyd placed the files on her desk. ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s where Cathal Moroney lives.’

  Eighty-One

  First responders had strewn crime-scene tape across the gateway pillars at the front of the house. An ambulance was parked up behind a Ford Focus. In front of that, a people carrier.

  Lottie glanced into the seven-seater. Two child seats were strapped in the back.

  ‘Is Moroney married?’ she asked Boyd, realising how little she knew about the reporter.

  ‘I’m sure we’re about to find out.’

  The uniformed officer standing outside the front door held up his hand. ‘We’re waiting for SOCOs, Inspector.’

  ‘I have to see for myself,’ Lottie said. Boyd went back to the car for protective clothing. ‘What’s it like in there?’

  ‘Bad. Very bad.’

  ‘Who broke down the door?’

  ‘My colleague.’ He pointed to a man leaning against a tree, his face greener than any leaf that might have once adorned the branches. ‘He was in and out before I got further than the kitchen. We called for reinforcements and forensics, secured the site and waited.’

  Lottie hurriedly pulled on overalls, overshoes, gloves and mouth mask. The garda stood to one side and she entered through the damaged front door.

  The familiar metallic scent of blood wafted towards her. To her right, a staircase leading to the first floor; to her left, an open door. She peered inside. A family room. Fireplace with ashes, a floral suite, cushions scattered higgledy-piggledy. In the corner, a plastic box overflowing with toys.

  ‘I’ve a bad feeling about this, Lottie,’ Boyd said.

  She was shaking. ‘Me too.’

  They backed out of the room and made their way down the hall to the kitchen. Modern, open-plan, with an island in the centre. It was laid for breakfast. Orange juice carton. Smooth, no bits. Cereal boxes. Coco Pops, muesli. Two ceramic mugs. Two plastic beakers. One blue. One pink. Two plastic bowls. One blue. One pink.

  Lying against the cupboard beneath the sink was a woman with long black hair matted to her scalp. Blood had ceased pouring. It streaked the side of her face and neck and saturated her white cotton nightie. Her eyes were closed. She looked like a doll that had been dropped by a careless child. Her legs were spread out; hands by her sides, palms upwards. Her blood had flowed towards the back door. This must be what the neighbour had witnessed seeping out onto the step.

  ‘Where are the kids, Boyd? Where’s Moroney?’ Lottie asked, knowing that the answer to one or both of those questions lay beyond the breakfast bar.

  She took a step on to the satin-finish cream floor tiles.

  ‘McGlynn will have your guts for garters,’ Boyd said.

  She continued around the side of the island, holding her breath, almost closing her eyes.

  She exhaled loudly. ‘It’s Moroney.’

  The man she had seen as her nemesis lay supine on the floor, a black-handled knife protruding from his stomach, still clutched in his hand. Had he been trying to extract it, or had he stabbed himself? His face was bruised and bloody. His mouth hung open, his once sparkling megawatt smile no more.

  Boyd said, ‘Domestic drama?’

  Lottie looked around wildly, clutched Boyd’s outstretched hand. ‘Where are the children?’

  She rushed back to the garda at the front door. ‘Did you check upstairs?’

  ‘No, Inspector. Waiting for you lot and SOCOs.’

  ‘You didn’t check to see if the children were here? Good God!’ She turned and took two steps at a time up the stairs.

  ‘Lottie, wait!’ Boyd called.

  ‘They might be alive,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

  A landing spread out in front of her. With gloved fingers she tapped the first door open. Bathroom.

  ‘There’s no blood trail,’ Boyd said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If Moroney went apeshit and killed his family before himself, there’d be blood everywhere.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  The next door was wide open. Master bedroom. Duvet thrown back and sheets crumpled, as if the occupants had just jumped out of bed. They would never be getting back in, she thought.

  The next door had the name JAKE in blue plastic lettering pinned to the door. Glancing across the landing, she saw a door with pink lettering. ANNIE.

  ‘Oh my God, Boyd. I can’t do it.’

  She leaned back, took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Jake’s room was empty. She followed Boyd into the little girl’s room. Also empty.

  ‘Where are the children?’ she cried.

  A whimper from the corner of the room alerted her.

  ‘The wardrobe!’

  Running across the shaggy pink carpet, she pulled back the sliding door, tugged the hanging clothes apart and dropped to her knees.

  ‘Annie? Sweetheart, I’m a friend. You’re okay now. No one is going to hurt you.’ Stroking the arm of the curled-up trembling child, she pulled down her mask and hood, not wanting to terrorise the little girl further.

  ‘Mommy? Where’s m-m-my m-mommy?’

  Lottie gently lifted Annie out of her refuge. Boyd leaned in to search further. He shook his head.

  ‘Annie darling, where’s your brother? Where’s Jake?’

  The child in her arms screamed.

  Boyd rushed across to the boy’s room. Lottie heard him pulling at doors and drawers. He returned. ‘He’s not in his room.’

  The sound of commotion downstairs reached Lottie’s ears.

  ‘Let’s get this little one to an ambulance,’ she said.

  At the bottom of the stairs she directed Jim McGlynn towards the kitchen. Boyd passed by and out of the front door, calling for a paramedic.

  ‘I want my mommy,’ Annie cried, clinging to Lottie’s neck.

  ‘Find the neighbour who reported this,’ Lottie instructed Boyd.

  Sitting on the bottom stair, she pulled a fleece jacket from the banister to wrap around the child, then realised that she could compromise any evidence that might be on the girl. She waited. Had Moroney killed his wife and then himself, as Boyd had surmised? Hadn’t Moroney told her only yesterday that he’d been working for years on an organised crime story? Maybe he’d got too close to the truth and had to be taken out. But why kill his wife? Jesus, she didn’t even know the woman’s name, hadn’t even known Moroney was married with kids. She had him all wrong.

  Boyd returned with a woman, tear-streaked cheeks, hair hanging untidily around her shoulders.

  ‘This is Dee White. Jake was having a sleepover with her son last night. She brought him home this morning and got no response at the front door. When she went round the back… she saw the blood.’

  ‘I had Jake with me. I just bundled him up in my arms and ran home to call the emergency services. I knew something was wrong.’

  ‘What age is Jake?’

  ‘He’s five. Annie is three. Will you come with me, sweetie?’

  Lottie said, ‘Annie, I want you to go with Dee. You’ll see Jake soon. Would you like that?’

  The little girl murmured and wriggled from Lottie’s grip. Dee took her in her arms and Boyd guided them to the ambulance. Lottie assigned a detective to remain with them at all times. Maybe the little girl had seen something. Heard something. They’d have to interview her at some stage. But she’s only three, Lottie thought, and turned back to the kitchen of death.

  Eighty-Two

  McGlynn and his team worked in silence. There had to be a study or an office. Lottie tried the door to her left. Utility room – the washing machine with a late-night wash. An empty basket sat on the floor ready for the clothes. Clothes that would never again be worn.

  Coats hung on hooks, wellingtons lined up neatly beneath them. A shelf with a pair of sm
all football boots, mud and grass clogged in the studs.

  ‘Out,’ McGlynn said. ‘You’ve trampled all over my crime scene. Enough is enough.’

  ‘Later, then. After the state pathologist arrives.’

  Without glancing at the bodies, she moved back to the hallway and into the living room. Beyond the fireplace a door lay open. Before McGlynn or any of his team could stop her, she entered.

  Moroney’s home office. The only thing not upturned was an old desk with its drawers hanging open. It looked hand-made. Roughly hewn timber planks nailed together. A filing cabinet, on its side, had the drawers ripped from its rollers. They were piled on top of each other, contents spilled and ripped apart. The blinds were pulled down behind the desk but a little light crept in at the sides. Lottie noticed the framed photograph hanging on the wall. A seated Moroney, with his usual megawatt smile, his shoulders draped with the arms of the beautiful black-haired woman standing behind him, so different from how she now looked on the kitchen floor. Two children, smiling out at the camera, on his knees, their arms wrapped around his neck. Choking back a sob, Lottie silently mourned the man she had never liked and the family she’d never known he had.

  ‘Inspector?’ Jane Dore stood, suited up in the hallway.

  Totally convinced now that Moroney had not murdered his wife before taking his own life, Lottie walked out of the office with determination in every step. Someone had been looking for something. And she’d no idea if it had been found or not. But once the SOCOs had finished their work, she would be back.

  ‘It’s an ugly one,’ she said.

  ‘Aren’t they all?’ Jane said, and set off for the kitchen.

  Outside the tent that had been erected at the front door, the cold air had turned to rain once more, and with her mouth set in a grim line, Lottie hurried round the back of the house to look for Boyd.

  * * *

  ‘Cathal and Lauren Moroney were murdered sometime between five and seven this morning,’ Boyd said, lighting two cigarettes.