He cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand and headed into town.
Toby couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. He slid down the bark of the tree. Max? What had he been doing in that bus? Why had it made him sick?
Clutching his hand to his stomach, he felt ill. He didn’t need to be asking himself these stupid questions. He knew right well what his brother had been up to. Making money, the only way Max Collins knew how. Mikey had told him about it. Mikey knew. Was that why Mikey was dead now?
Tears careened down his cheeks as he recalled Max telling him the news earlier. He plucked tufts of grass out of the ground. Dug his nails into the earth. Bit his lips. Quenched the scream that was waiting to escape his throat.
He’d only come into the park to escape his dad’s bollocking about his stammering. Shouting and roaring ringing in his ears. Would it ever stop?
The cathedral bell chimed the hour.
His ma would be home soon. She worked long hours. Too long, slaving in the Joyce for a pittance. Maybe she wanted to escape his da too. Yeah, that was it. Or was it all to do with Max?
Toby wiped his nose with the back of his dirty hand and stood up. Everyone feared Max, but only Toby knew that Max was scared too. Though what – or who – his brother was afraid of, Toby had no idea.
Twenty-Five
The house Lottie was renting was located on the opposite side of town from where she used to live. The estate had been a ghost development for years, and was currently in the throes of rejuvenation.
Detached, and with four bedrooms, the house was ideal, though it had been in need of serious redecorating after sitting empty for two years.
After scoffing down a few mouthfuls of stew that she didn’t want, Lottie had taken a call from Ben Lynch, Maria’s husband, who was phoning to say he needed her advice. She had escaped from her mother’s house gratefully.
‘Glad you could make it,’ Ben said, swinging round on the top of a ladder, paintbrush in hand, as she walked through the front door.
‘What’s the problem?’
He climbed down and put the brush on top of a can of paint. Picking up a colour chart, he pointed to the aqua green Lottie had selected for the kitchen walls.
‘This is out of stock. It’ll be a week before it’s in, so I need you to pick out something different. Otherwise there’s no way you will be in here next week.’
‘Damn, I liked the aqua.’ She took the chart and sat on the arm of a chair covered with a sheet. The house came partially furnished, which was good, because the fire had destroyed all her possessions. She pointed to a similar colour. ‘This one will do. I’m not fussy.’
‘That’s great. Sorry for dragging you out.’
‘It’s fine. I needed to dodge my mother anyway. Chicken stew in this warm weather? There’s no talking to her.’
‘Should have brought me a bowl.’
Lottie looked at Ben. He was a lot taller than Maria, which wasn’t hard, and his face was more youthful than his wife’s, though at nearly forty, he was the older of the two. His painting dungarees hung loosely over a white T-shirt.
‘Won’t be long now for you and Maria,’ she said. ‘Another baby. Wow.’
‘Wow is right. I was more surprised than if I’d won the Lotto. There’ll be big changes in Chez Lynch.’
‘Your youngest is what? Five?’
‘Five and seven, the two of them. And now a baby in the mix. Fun.’
Lottie stood up. ‘At least you have your job in the uni to keep you occupied.’
‘I can tell you, I’m glad of this extra work. College is closed for the summer and Maria is like a briar in this weather, so it’s great to get out of the house in the evenings. Anyway, I love decorating.’
‘Maybe you should take it up full-time,’ Lottie said with a laugh.
Ben laughed too, his eyes sparkling under the light bulb. She felt a soft tingle in the pit of her stomach. If he wasn’t married to Lynch, she just might be interested. Don’t even think about it, she warned her inner self. Complications followed her around like a dark shadow.
‘Don’t be giving me ideas.’ He turned back to his ladder and picked up the paintbrush. ‘This should be finished by the weekend.’
‘I’ll have your money ready for you when you’re done.’
‘No need. Had an email from Mr Rickard. He’s settled the bill. Money is in my account already.’
Lottie stood open-mouthed. ‘What?’
‘And with a bonus. Can’t complain about that. I’ll get that paint tomorrow and crack on.’
‘Sure.’
‘Lottie? Hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look a little distracted. Anything you want to talk about?’
She hesitated. ‘Just a hard day today. Two bodies. A baby and an eleven-year-old boy. Kind of hard to take in. And difficult to know where to start.’
‘Such an evil world we live in, huh?’ He started to climb the ladder. ‘I’m a good listener, if you need to chat. Any time.’
‘Thanks, Ben. I’ll be fine.’ No matter what, she knew she could count on Boyd, or talk to Father Joe. No point in bringing someone else into the equation.
As she headed back to Rose’s, she phoned Boyd. No answer. Just when I need you, she thought.
Leo Belfield’s room in the Joyce Hotel was comfortable enough, even if the furnishings were dated. And the bed linen was spotless and fresh.
He looked out of the window onto Ragmullin’s Main Street and wondered at the series of events that had brought him here. He still hadn’t decided what his course of action should be. But he knew he had to meet this Lottie Parker. He had only spoken to her once, on the phone, and she had brushed him off. He didn’t like stuck-up bitches. She needed to apologise. Face to face. And she would have an opportunity to do that.
First, though, he wanted to find out everything he could about her. And being a half-decent cop, he would source a person whose job ensured they knew how to dig up the dirt. Another cop, or a journalist.
He did up the top button of his shirt and tightened his tie. Pulling on his leather jacket, he set off to quiz the residents of Ragmullin propping up the hotel bar. Then, armed with what he needed to know, he would embark on his mission.
Twenty-Six
The boy wandered around the units in the industrial estate. He was pissed off. Everyone was always rowing about something. His mother was worse now than his dad. She was a bitch, he thought, and then he felt sorry for even thinking that. She wasn’t a bitch. Just a lost soul. So he’d heard his dad call her one night.
He felt his heart break a little for his mum. He loved her, really he did, but he didn’t know how to help her. His dad was no good. Always going off about this and that. All he was concerned about was eating healthy food. Birdseed, his mum called it. Who can live on birdseed? she’d say. The boy smiled. Yeah. Whatever. He’d better go home. It was late. Very late.
Even though the sky twinkled with stars, it was dark in the industrial estate and he began to feel afraid. As he jumped over the stack of tyres that was piled up outside the old tyre recycling depot, he heard the soft purring of a car engine. He ducked back down and held his breath. He didn’t dare lift his head.
At last, he heard the car leave with a whine of a turbo engine. He waited for a few minutes. Then waited some more, before taking off down the narrow road towards the dark underpass beneath the railway. Someone had smashed the lights. He didn’t like the dark, even though he had witnessed enough darkness in his life that he should be used to it.
Tugging the belt on his jeans, he hooked it up another notch to keep them from falling down. He’d have to get new ones soon. But his mum wasn’t about to buy him any if he kept acting the maggot, as she called it. He’d have a look online at ASOS when he got home. He quite liked the jogging bottoms that were tight from the ankles up to the knees and baggy at the crotch. Like the teenagers wore. Yeah. Black with a green stripe down the side. They’d be nice.
He was thinking about thi
s when he heard a car pulling up beside him and the window sliding down.
‘What are you doing around here so late? Bit dangerous for a young lad, don’t you think?’
He kept walking but turned his head slightly to take a look. Phew. It wasn’t some mass murderer out to nab him. He recognised the car first, then the driver.
‘Hi,’ he said shyly.
‘Jump in and I’ll give you a lift home.’
The boy opened the door and slid into the seat. He clipped on his seat belt and heard the door lock click. His trainer stood on something in the footwell. He looked down. It was a clear plastic bag. And inside it, a new pair of football shorts.
The boy’s mother rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms in the air. What the hell? Looking around, she realised she’d fallen asleep on the couch. Again. She clicked the Sky button on the remote and saw it was almost two a.m. Oh God.
Dragging her legs out from beneath her, she heard the bottle rolling under the couch and hitting the radiator behind it. She paused with the remote still in her hand and listened. Her husband was a sound sleeper, especially after a few pints. At least she hoped he was in bed; she hadn’t heard him come in. The second bottle of wine had been a mistake, she thought as she stood up and felt the room move with her. She got down on her knees and retrieved the bottle. Picking up the other one from the coffee table, she went to hide them in a kitchen cupboard. Tomorrow she’d bring the collection to the recycling depot.
And then she remembered her son and the row they’d had that afternoon. Was he even home? If he knew what was good for him, he’d be fast asleep in bed.
She turned off the television, then the lights, and crept up the stairs as quietly as she could manage. Her son’s door was open. Strange. She pushed it inwards and gasped. His bed was empty. Flicking on the switch, she saw he hadn’t been home at all.
A surge of panic rooted her to the floor. Her hands trembled and her knees almost buckled. Where could he be at this hour? She’d kill him. And then she thought, maybe it was better that he hadn’t seen her so drunk, though it wouldn’t be the first time. She backed out of the room, trying to decide what to do.
‘What the hell are you at?’ Her husband stood behind her.
‘Jesus, you scared me half to death.’
‘You’re drunk again,’ he said. ‘Where’s the boy?’ He peered over her shoulder.
She shrugged, not trusting to get the words out of her mouth without slurring.
‘I’ll kill the little fecker when I get my hands on him. What time is it?’ He walked into the bathroom and lifted the toilet seat.
She listened to her husband peeing and wished her life could go back to the way it had been. Before everything had gone wrong.
Twenty-Seven
Another one gone, and I feel so good.
I slide the heavy bolt on the back door through the ring and twist round the double security lock. Turning out the light, I make my way through the house to the front door. Looking through the spy hole, I see only the dark of the night staring back at me before I check that all the locks are secure. To my right, at eye level, the alarm pad sits on the wall. I punch in the four-digit code, listening to it arm, and turn on a red night light before switching out the remaining lights.
As I mount the stairs, I’m not sure if I am doing right. Am I keeping the evil securely locked outside, or are its venomous tendrils already pulsing in the walls of the house?
A tremor of unease rattles up my spine as my slippered feet glide on the carpet along the corridor to the bedroom. With my hand on the doorknob, I pause. Listening. All is silent, but as I push the door inwards, I’m sure I hear a laboured wheeze behind me, and feel it ruffling the hairs on my neck.
Rushing inside, I slam the door and turn the key. In the darkness, I lean against the heavy wood, knowing it is useless against the enemy I fear. Because it is already within me.
They had to die. It was the only way I could ever release the demons. I rub my hands together, to still the shaking, and dredge up the memory of the thin neck, flesh like that of a baby, soft and supple beneath my hands. The crunch of bone, or was it cartilage? The life easing out of the eyes. The silent mouth. The pinpricks of blood slipping down in lividity. And, at last, the white stillness of alabaster skin.
When my breath returns to normal, I flick on the light to prepare myself for a good night’s sleep.
I have laid the demons to rest, for tonight at least.
Day Two
Tuesday
Twenty-Eight
The morning light was too bright, the curtains too thin. Hope shifted onto her side and noticed Lexie wasn’t beside her. She sat upright. She heard the child singing downstairs, vying with the strains of a cartoon character on the television. Thank God, she thought.
Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she felt dampness beneath her. The bedding was soaked in blood and the pain was festering like a boil in her abdomen. She needed a doctor. But she couldn’t risk it. Because she had no idea what she had done with her baby, and the guards were looking for her.
Lottie hadn’t slept well. The murders kept going round and round in her head. Then she’d spent long hours awake thinking about Chloe, who had come home late, looking like she had been in a boxing match. The girl shouldn’t be working in a pub, even if it was only picking up glasses. Even if it was to give her independence. ‘I’m fine, it’s nothing for you to worry about’ was all she had succeeded in extracting from her seventeen-year-old daughter. Sometimes Lottie felt like booking a one-way ticket to Outer Mongolia. Wasn’t about to happen any time soon, was it?
And then there was Boyd. Don’t go there.
She’d found a Xanax in a plastic vitamin bottle she kept hidden in her drawer. She’d swallowed it dry.
Now here she was, showered, looking fresher than she felt, in a pair of jeans belonging to Katie. She had no decent clothes. Her daughter and grandson had been in New York with the boy’s grandfather at the time of the fire, and had come home with a suitcase weighing well above the twenty-three-kilo limit. Continuing to raid Katie’s wardrobe was a short-term measure, Lottie concluded. As soon as the house was ready to move into, she would shop for new clothes. She was also wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt. Her mother had suggested it. ‘You’re too thin to be going around displaying your scraggy arms,’ she’d said. Lottie had looked at herself in the mirror and had to admit Rose was right. As usual. She had lost so much weight, she was verging on a scarecrow. She must remember to eat today.
She stared at the incident board. Two bodies. The unidentified baby and eleven-year-old Mikey Driscoll.
‘The baby must belong to Hope Cotter,’ Lynch said.
‘We have no DNA confirmation on that as yet. Blood’s being analysed at the moment. Let’s not make assumptions.’
‘It’s fairly obvious it’s her.’ Lynch folded her arms defiantly. ‘Why has she not been located?’
Her detective was in a ratty mood, Lottie thought.
‘We have her billed as a person of interest. It’s hard to hide with a four-year-old child in tow.’
‘She has her uncle’s help,’ Lynch persisted.
‘Anything show up for her on PULSE?’ The garda database was a crucial source of information.
‘The uncle has a few parking fines and driving with no motor tax on one occasion, but nothing worse than that,’ Boyd said.
‘Any sign of his car?’
‘Nothing yet.’ Boyd scanned the page in his hand. ‘Hope’s not listed on PULSE at all.’
Lottie said, ‘Just means she hasn’t been caught doing anything.’
‘Or she hasn’t done anything,’ Boyd said, rolling up his shirtsleeves, one crease at a time. Lining up the cuffs to ensure they were even.
‘We need to contact Child and Family Services. She may be on their radar,’ Lottie said.
‘Wish you luck getting anything out of that lot.’
Were they all out to make her life hell this morning? She
blew out her cheeks and decided she had to at least make it look like she was in charge.
‘I’m waiting for PM results on the baby, so we’ll have more information later.’ She glanced up at the incident board and put her finger on the photograph of Mikey Driscoll. The one his mother had taken, not the death image caught by SOCOs. ‘I’m hoping the state pathologist will get to Mikey this morning. Lynch, you spoke with his mother first thing. How is she doing?’
‘Not great.’
Lottie grimaced but said nothing.
Lynch consulted her notes. ‘The FLO stayed with her. We’re trying to locate her ex-husband, Derek, but he’s working in Dubai. We can cross him off our non-existent suspect list.’ She flicked a page as if for effect. ‘Here’s the odd thing, though. Mikey didn’t take his phone with him on Sunday. Jen found it in his room, buried under a pile of clothes in the bottom of his wardrobe. She claims he went nowhere without it. Even snuck it into school.’
‘He probably didn’t want to risk it being stolen at the match. Is it a new model?’
‘No, it’s an old one Jen gave him just so she could check up on him.’
‘Anything from the messages or calls? Are our technical guys working on it?’ Lottie wondered at the wisdom of an eleven-year-old having any kind of a phone, then recalled that she had bought one for Sean when he wasn’t much older than Mikey.
‘Doing it as we speak. They’re looking through his social media accounts.’
‘Social media? He was only eleven.’
‘Just Snapchat. Not Facebook or any of the others. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.’ Lynch eyed Lottie with a death stare.
What the hell have I done to offend you? Lottie wondered.
‘Were you able to construct a personality profile of the boy?’
Tell Nobody: Absolutely gripping crime fiction with unputdownable mystery and suspense Page 9
