‘You’ve given me something to go on.’ Lottie put down her glass and looked directly at her friend. ‘What are you going to do about Cian?’
‘He’s driving me up the walls and back down again.’
‘Honestly Annabelle! Why?’
‘Fucked if I know,’ Annabelle said. She rarely swore, but she could get away with it. Lottie knew Annabelle O’Shea could get away with just about anything.
‘I’d say it’s something to do with your mystery man.’
‘Since I met . . .’ Annabelle paused. ‘I’m a different person since I met the man I’m now in love with.’
‘You were always falling in and out of love. Who is he?’
‘You’re my friend but I think it best if you remain clueless.’
‘I’m clueless all right. About more than your lover boy.’
Twenty-Nine
Katie draped her arms around Jason’s neck and pulled him into her body.
‘I’m freezing.’
‘I’ll keep you warm. Just wait till I get you into bed.’
‘You’re a creep,’ she joked. He hugged her tighter and she felt a soft flutter in her stomach as he feathered her neck with his lips.
Over his shoulder she surveyed the noisy crowd behind them queuing for taxis.
‘Don’t look now but remember that creepy fart who was watching us in the pub the other night?’
‘What about him?’ he mumbled.
‘He’s in the queue.’
‘It’s a free country.’ Jason turned round and leaned into the freezing air. ‘Where is he?’
‘I told you not to look!’ Katie dragged him back. ‘Now he’s gone.’
‘The invisible man,’ Jason laughed.
‘It’s not funny. He’s freaking me out.’
‘If you see him again, tell me.’
Katie snuggled deeper into his arms and waited patiently with Jason for the elusive taxi. Somehow she didn’t feel safe.
The man quickened his step once he turned the corner. That had been a close one. He was sure the girl had spotted him. He would have to be more careful in future. But it had been worth it. Just to see the boy.
Lottie couldn’t sleep. Again.
Her conversation with Annabelle wrestled within her brain and confused into a knot. Her mother. The one woman who had the power to conjure up tortured memories.
Lottie closed her eyes tight. But she couldn’t dim the image of Rose Fitzpatrick. Tomorrow she would have to see her.
Leaning over the side of the bed, she notched up the electric blanket, nestled deeper beneath the duvet, snuggled into the artificial warmth and drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.
Ten minutes later, she was awake. Pain cut through her ribs and her brow was on fire. She swallowed two painkillers. The pain wouldn’t desist.
The events of the day were invading her night. The past, clawing its way into her present.
She needed a drink.
She really needed a drink.
She needed a real drink.
Scrunching the duvet into a ball, Lottie didn’t want to revert to the unrecognisable person she’d been after Adam’s death. To a time when she screwed her mouth to the neck of a wine bottle and the wine almost screwed her. Until she beat it a year ago. Still, sometimes she yearned to escape into oblivion. That desire obliterated all sense and she struggled to regain a semblance of normality. Struggling now, she fought it ferociously, twisting, turning and eventually she lost the battle.
She jumped out of the bed.
Pulling a hoodie over her pyjamas, Lottie thrust bare feet into her Uggs and tiptoed down the stairs. The kitchen clock said one thirty a.m. She took the key from the hook behind the back door and walked out on to the snow-covered garden to the shed. She wiped the white clumps from the lock. It was frozen underneath. A sign to go back to bed? She breathed on the brass. Stopped. Almost gave up. Tried again. It opened.
Flicking on the light switch, she lifted down Adam’s toolbox and opened it. She eyed the bottle of vodka. Closed the lid and sat on the cold floor. One drink was never enough. She bit her thumbnail and chewed.
After a few tormented minutes staring at the toolbox, she opened it again, removed the vodka, closed the lid and, with the bottle tucked under her arm, hurried back to the house, leaving the shed door swinging in the cold night wind.
1st January 1975
She could not believe it.
He was sitting on their floral couch, in their sitting room, staring at her, while her mammy fussed with china cups and biscuits. Her daddy puffed loudly on his pipe, acrid smoke filling the void between him and the priest.
Her eyes bulged in protest. They were discussing her ‘problem’ like she wasn’t even there. With the tea-towel in her knickers filling up with blood and goo, she held the little baby in her arms and wondered how she hadn’t known it’d been growing inside her. She smiled, thinking it was a perfect baby, though the priest called it ‘a fat sin with arms and legs’. How could he sit there and say such a thing?
She desperately wanted to tell them. To tell her mammy, standing there with the gold-rimmed teapot in her hand, and her daddy, sitting like a fucking eejit with his penknife chopping flakes off a tobacco bar, to tell them it was all the priest’s fault.
She said nothing. Her heart was breaking into tiny pieces. She held her baby wrapped in nothing other than a towel for a nappy.
She had wanted to tell that woman, the midwife. With her smooth face and curled hair, she’d cut the cord and checked the baby’s heart and whispered to her mammy to stop shouting. Almost as soon as she’d arrived, she was gone.
And now, they were talking as if she was invisible. The baby whimpered. Her tiny breast buds leaked, staining her shirt. She began to cry and they all gawked at her.
She clamped the baby to her chest. Fear, for herself and her little one, streaked through every vein in her body.
‘St Angela’s,’ the priest said. ‘That will put manners on her.’
DAY FOUR
2nd January 2015
Thirty
A man’s leg was lying across her, pinning her to the bed.
Who was he? Where was she? Twisting as best she could, Lottie looked but couldn’t see his face. He was lying on his stomach. Raising herself on to her elbow she winced with pain and with it came a sudden memory flash.
Shit. Shit. Shit. She’d been drinking.
She felt the tiny gum-drop tears edging out of the corners of her eyes and self-hate rose with the rotten bile lurching up from her stomach. She was going to puke.
Kicking up her legs, she dislodged his, slid out of the bed and crawled towards an open door. She reached the toilet in time to throw up.
The rancid smell of alcohol filled the bathroom as she heaved once more, before settling on to her haunches. Dressed only in her mismatched underwear, she didn’t care and sat there cradling her pounding head in her hands. She only cared that she’d lost control at a time when she needed to be in total control.
A shadow fell across the doorway, then the light flicked on, blinding her.
‘Would you like a cigarette?’
Boyd.
She cried in earnest then. She couldn’t help herself. She hated herself.
‘What have I done?’ she asked, averting her eyes from his.
He eased his long body, clad only in boxer shorts, to sit beside her on the cold tiled floor.
‘You were drunk and rang me to come get you, which I did. You begged me to bring you here, then you propositioned me.’
He lit two cigarettes, passed one into her quivering fingers.
‘Against my baser instincts I resisted your cajoling. By that stage you weren’t capable of anything other than sleep. Apart from forcibly undressing me.’
She inhaled deeply, mortification flushing her skin.
‘Lottie, what’s going on?’ Boyd asked, blowing smoke circles in the chill air.
‘I haven’t a notion.’
‘You need
help.’
‘I need to get a grip on my life.’
‘You can’t do this on your own.’
‘Watch me,’ she said.
‘I am and I don’t like what I’m seeing.’
‘What does that mean?’
He inhaled his cigarette. Silence wrapped itself around them.
‘You were crying in your sleep,’ he said, eventually.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.
They sat and smoked to the sound of the toilet dripping. Then he dampened the butts under the tap, threw them in a shiny bin under the sink and led her back to his bed. He tucked her in, kissed her forehead, fluttered his hand through her hair and slid in beside her. Lottie hung on to the edge of the bed, creating an imaginary line between them before falling into a soft sleep.
She awoke and sat upright. Alone. She twisted the clock to see the time: 6.38 a.m. Nestling back down into the comfort of the pillow, Lottie was thankful it was Boyd she had imposed her drunken self on and not some faceless bar pick-up. Her children! Shit. She jumped up abruptly. She had to get home before they woke.
Boyd walked in, fully dressed in black trousers with white shirt, and handed her a mug of coffee. The aroma tingled at the base of her nose. She looked into his eyes, questioning him silently.
‘Don't worry. I can be discreet. Drink up. We’ve a long day ahead of us.’
‘You’re a good man,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’ve five minutes to wash and dress,’ he said and walked out of the room.
‘Sadist,’ she said.
‘It takes one to know one,’ Boyd’s voice echoed.
She had to smile.
She pulled on yesterday's clothes. At least she’d the sense to have changed out of her pyjamas last night. Finding a crushed Xanax in the back pocket of her jeans, she stuffed it in her mouth and washed it down with two gulps of coffee. She needed the artificial calmness to delete the night and face the day.
She picked up the pack of cigarettes and secreted them in her pocket. She only smoked when drunk. Do not go there, she warned herself and left the bedroom.
Outside, the sleet blitzed the cuts on her face before she ducked into the car.
‘Drop me home first,’ she said. ‘I’ve to check in on the kids and change my clothes.’
The swishing of the wipers was the only sound in the car. Neither had much to say to each other and that which they were thinking was probably best left unsaid.
Boyd pulled up outside her house. She hoisted her long legs out of the car.
‘Thanks, Boyd.’
‘What’ll I tell Corrigan if he looks for you?’
‘Tell him I’m following up a lead.’
‘What lead?’
‘When I figure it out, I’ll tell you.’
She closed the door with a soft thud. Time to resurrect strong Lottie. Before it was too late.
Thirty-One
Chloe Parker sat at the table, mascara streaking her damp cheeks. Lottie stalled at the door. Go in or run?
‘I’m sorry, Chloe,’ she said, entering the kitchen.
The girl ignored her, walked over to the bin, extracted the two-thirds empty vodka bottle, unscrewed the cap, emptied the remaining third down the sink, dumped the bottle back in the bin and ran up the stairs.
Lottie slumped into her chair. She’d have to talk to Chloe. Later.
She phoned her mother, knowing Rose would relish the fact that it was Lottie breaking their deadlock. She convinced herself that being in the throes of a raging hangover might help rather than hinder the forthcoming showdown.
It had taken less than ten minutes for Rose Fitzpatrick to drive across town. Now she stood at the ironing board, iron in hand, in the middle of the kitchen floor.
‘Lottie Parker, you should stay at home more often. Those poor children are always starving and they haven’t a stitch to wear,’ she said, folding Sean’s training jersey.
Lottie wanted to tell Rose that the sports top didn’t need ironing but held the thought. As she’d suspected she would, her mother had taken control the minute she entered the house, without question or enquiry. Following Adam’s death, Rose had tried to take his place in their lives. Interfering and controlling. Lottie suspected all this was grounded in love for her grandchildren and wrapped up in a protective streak which Rose nurtured. But everything had come to a head with their last row when Lottie had told her mother to take a hike, or words to that effect.
Standing tall, sweeping the iron over the clothes, Rose Fitzpatrick’s face was a map of smoothness with just a creeper of lines at her eyes, like wilting ivy. Her hair was short, sharp and silver. At one time a monthly hair colour woman, she’d abandoned this on turning seventy, five years ago, though she still went to the salon for a weekly wash and blow-dry.
‘Will I make a cup of tea?’ Lottie asked, politely.
‘It’s your kitchen,’ Rose said, running the iron along a pair of jeans, the denim like cardboard.
‘Would you like a cup?’ Lottie filled the kettle.
‘You take a shower.’ Rose folded the iron flex. ‘You smell, you know. Then you can ask me whatever it is you wanted me here for.’
Lottie stormed out of the kitchen. Her mother hadn’t even asked how she’d got her bruised face. She stripped off her clothes and stood under a stream of hot water until it stung her cuts. Her ribs were purple and her head ached but at least she felt clean. Pulling on a thermal vest and long-sleeved T-shirt over her jeans, she felt ready to face her.
Before going downstairs, she peered into Chloe’s room. Her daughter was lying on the bed, a massive set of earphones on her head. When she spotted Lottie, the girl purposefully turned to the wall.
Glancing into Katie’s room, she saw it was empty. She thought of asking Chloe where her sister was, but decided against it. Sean was in his room talking on an online PlayStation game. He’d probably been up all night.
In the kitchen, Rose was sitting at the table, holding a cup of tea. The ironing board was gone, clothes neatly piled, potatoes were hissing in a pot on the cooker, a chicken was roasting in the oven and it was not yet eight o’clock in the morning. Christmas Day. That was the last time they had a proper cooked dinner. Was this an orchestrated guilt trip by her mother? Lottie forced a smile.
‘Thanks for . . .’ Lottie directed her arm around the tidy kitchen.
‘Isn’t that what mothers are for?’ Rose said. ‘Cleaning up the mess their children leave behind.’
The smile died on Lottie’s lips.
‘So, what do you want with me?’ Rose asked.
‘Susan Sullivan,’ Lottie said, diving straight in. She poured herself a cup of tea.
‘The murdered woman? What about her?’
‘I spoke with Annabelle and she told me Susan contacted you.’
‘She did.’
‘And you met her?’
‘Yes. A few months ago. October, November maybe. I’m not sure when.’
‘Go on.’
‘She was trying to trace a child that was taken from her—’
‘What had that to do with you?’ Lottie interjected.
‘Do you want to hear or not?’
‘Sorry. Continue.’
‘Susan’s mother had refused to tell her anything about the baby. But on her deathbed, two years ago, she mentioned my name.’
‘And . . .’
‘She said I’d helped deliver the baby. Which wasn’t true, because I’d arrived shortly after the birth. I couldn’t help her back then, nor when she contacted me for information.’
Lottie twisted the spoon in her tea.
‘It must be more than twenty-five years since—’
‘I was a midwife? Yes, but this was way back. In the seventies. The girl was only aged about eleven or twelve. A child. Poor thing. Her name was Sally Stynes then.’
‘Really? Tell me more.’ Lottie stopped her idle stirring. Maybe now they could get something new with Susan’s old name.
&n
bsp; ‘Not much to tell.’
‘What happened to the baby?’
‘When she called to me, Susan stirred up old memories,’ Rose said, a frown creasing a line on her brow. ‘Her mother had called in a priest, the local curate. Apparently, he suggested placing the girl and her baby in St Angela’s. You know the old building not far from the graveyard? Closed down now.’
Lottie nodded. St Angela’s. How could she forget? They never spoke about it. But Rose was talking now.
‘It was originally an orphanage run by the nuns, then it combined into a home for unmarried girls. Obviously some of the unwanted babies grew up there. The nuns also took in wayward boys.’
‘A place to send wayward children,’ Lottie murmured. ‘That’s one way of putting it, Mother.’
Rose ignored Lottie’s remark.
‘Of course when she met me, Susan already knew about St Angela’s and the fact that the baby was probably adopted. She remembered spending time there. But she couldn’t get any information from the Church about her baby. Unfortunately I had nothing new to tell her,’ Rose said, with a steely resolve.
‘Did you know who fathered her baby?’
‘No idea. When I was in the house helping with the afterbirth, her mother was shouting at the girl, calling her a little tramp. It was very distressing, but if the girl was a tearaway, the father could’ve been anyone.’ Rose folded her arms tightly.
Lottie recoiled from her mother’s harshness and mulled over her revelations. Hopefully they would have more success finding out about Susan aka Sally Stynes. It was a coincidence that her mother had this information. Small-town people carry such secrets around with them all their lives. Coincidences were inevitable. And then again, her mother knew everyone and liked to think she knew everything. Lottie sipped her tea. A memory, deeply concealed, itched to be released.
‘Do you ever wonder about Eddie?’ Lottie asked, feeling brave enough to pose the question about her brother.
Rose stood up, rinsed her cup, dried it and put it in its rightful place in the cupboard.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 13
