The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1)

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘You have grown into a fine young man,’ he said and walked out, letting the door swing behind him.

  Jason was rooted to the ground. It was as if someone had reached through his skin and pinched his heart.

  He suddenly felt naked.

  Outside the kitchen door the man took a few deep breaths, scrunched the tea-towel into a ball and tried to stop the shaking in his hand holding the jug. He closed his eyes and consigned the image of the boy’s lean body to memory. He could still smell the boy’s youthful scent, soft and sweet. Beautiful.

  It had been years since he’d had these feelings, so why had they resurfaced over the last few months? It must relate to all the stress he was under with the project, he thought. Or was it because St Angela’s was once again to the forefront of his mind? He had believed he was so far removed from the boy he once had been that nothing could resurrect the past. But now it stalked him every day. Every single day. And with it came the emotions he had suppressed. He shuddered and water splashed out of the jug. He’d forgotten he’d been holding it. Forgot for a moment where he was, who he now was.

  Taking a deep breath, he dabbed at his trousers where the water had splashed and went to rejoin the meeting, the image of the boy firmly on his mind.

  Forty-One

  In her council office Bea Walsh diligently checked through Susan Sullivan’s files. With a time-driven planning process, if an application wasn’t finalised within the eight-week deadline, it was deemed approved by default. All too aware of this, she scanned the database, matching files on her desk with the computer list. The screen told her she should have ten files. She had nine.

  She scanned through James Brown’s list. Maybe it was mixed in there. But she was efficient and knew she hadn’t made a mistake. Even with the trauma of the murders she carried out her tasks professionally. The file was missing.

  She rechecked the screen. Due for decision on January 6th. Realistically she knew the file could be in a number of places but all the database boxes were ticked. That meant the application contained all the requisite reports, completed and signed by the engineers and planners. Then she remembered where she’d last seen it. Susan Sullivan and James Brown, in his office, having an intense argument, and the file on the desk between them. The day before Ms Sullivan took her Christmas holidays.

  Bea took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes.

  She hadn’t seen the file since.

  Lottie plugged her phone into her desk computer and uploaded the photos of the cars from Rickard’s house.

  She keyed the registration numbers into the PULSE database.

  All the cars belonged to the Rickard family. Rich bastards. Boyd looked over her shoulder at the screen.

  ‘What did you expect to find?’ he enquired.

  ‘I don’t know. Something,’ she said, willing the computer to conjure up a clue.

  Then she told him about Father Joe’s disappearing act.

  ‘He’s done a runner,’ said Boyd.

  Lottie sighed. Predictable Boyd. Her phone rang.

  ‘I need to speak with you, Inspector,’ Bea Walsh’s voice quivered.

  Lottie was surprised to hear from Susan Sullivan’s PA.

  ‘Sure. Will I call to your office?’

  ‘Not here. Cafferty’s? After work. Would that be all right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll be there at five,’ Bea said precisely and hung up.

  ‘Wonder what that’s about?’ Lottie said to Boyd.

  He grunted.

  She looked again at the photos of Tom Rickard’s cars and picked at a hole appearing on the hem of her T-shirt.

  Lynch popped her head round the door. ‘Derek Harte is downstairs. You wanted to speak to him again?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Lottie said.

  Forty-Two

  ‘Did James smoke?’ Lottie asked, after routine introductions for the record. Maria Lynch sat demurely, notebook at the ready. James Brown’s lover, Derek Harte, sat straight in the chair opposite.

  ‘No, but I do,’ Harte said. ‘Marlboro Lights. I tried to quit. Definitely won’t be able to now.’

  ‘Are you willing to provide us with a sample of DNA?’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, sitting back.

  ‘To eliminate you from our enquiries. Standard procedure,’ Lottie said, hoping they might get a match with the two cigarette butts found beside the body in the garden.

  Harte nodded like he didn’t have much choice. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You’ve told me previously that you and James were not at his house on Christmas Eve. Is that the truth?’

  ‘Of course it is. The snow came down like an avalanche. No one was going anywhere that night. What are you getting at?’

  ‘Do you think James might’ve been involved with anyone else?’

  Harte laughed. ‘Is this to do with the body you’ve found?’

  ‘I’m asking the questions,’ Lottie said.

  Harte shrugged. ‘No, Inspector, James was not involved with anyone else. He and I were committed to each other. And before you ask, I’ve no idea how a body came to be there.’

  ‘Did you ever hear him speaking about a Father Angelotti?’

  ‘No,’ he said, quickly.

  ‘You seem quite sure,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I’d remember a name like that.’ Harte leaned back further into the hard chair. His attitude was beginning to grate on Lottie’s nerves.

  ‘Why would a priest be at his house?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Did James ever say anything that might indicate his dealings with a priest?’ Trying to be as diplomatic as possible, Lottie felt like she was banging against the proverbial brick wall.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything to do with Susan Sullivan?’

  ‘No, but if I remember anything, I’ll let you know.’ He pushed the chair with the backs of his knees and stood up. ‘Is that all, Inspector?’

  ‘Detective Lynch will arrange your DNA swab, then you can go,’ Lottie said.

  As he left, she knew he’d been economical with the truth. But he was willing to give a DNA sample, so what was he hiding?

  She placed a mug of coffee beside Boyd’s computer.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you’re meant to drink it.’

  Lottie went to her desk to write up the Harte interview. Every spare moment throughout the day, she had re-read all the information they had on the murders and she was no nearer a motive or killer.

  Boyd lifted the mug, wiped the damp ring from beneath it, and put down a memo pad before replacing the mug.

  ‘This Derek Harte guy comes across as genuine,’ she said, stirring her coffee with the end of a pen.

  ‘But?’

  ‘I don’t think he is.’

  ‘His lover is dead. We found the body of a missing priest in said lover’s garden. Cause enough for concern,’ said Boyd.

  ‘I want his background checked if it’s not done already. And why didn’t we get his DNA sample the first time he was here?’

  ‘We had no reason to,’ Lynch said. ‘We were treating Brown’s death as a suicide.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s murder made to look like suicide, so process the DNA as quickly as possible,’ Lottie said. ‘At this stage we can’t leave anything to chance.’

  Kirby sauntered in with an armful of newspapers.

  ‘Any good news?’ enquired Lottie.

  ‘We’re the bad guys now, according to the press,’ he said. ‘Not doing enough, quickly enough, the investigation has stalled and is going nowhere and there’s a murderer at large.’

  ‘Did the DNA results come in yet on the cigarettes in Brown’s garden?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Kirby said, flicking quickly through the papers. ‘You do know it could take—’

  ‘Weeks. Yes, I know,’ Lottie said, throwing up her arms. ‘Someone stood there long enough to smoke two cigarettes. What were they watchi
ng or waiting for?’

  ‘Presumably James Brown,’ Kirby said.

  ‘And he didn’t turn up because he was snowbound sixty kilometres away, in Athlone,’ Lottie said.

  ‘If Derek Harte can be believed,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Any other news, Kirby?’ Lottie asked.

  He shoved the newspapers on to the floor and read from his screen.

  ‘As you already know, Susan Sullivan’s mother, Mrs Stynes, died two years ago in Dublin. Her husband died the year before. No other relatives, that we can find.’

  Lottie sighed. ‘The father dies, the mother dies, then Susan moves back to Ragmullin. She dies. Dead end.’

  Were they ever going to get past the brick wall? She checked her emails. Jane Dore’s preliminary post-mortem report on Father Angelotti was in.

  ‘I love you, Jane,’ Lottie shouted at the screen.

  ‘I knew it,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Shut it Boyd.’

  ‘So what’s the excitement about?’

  ‘Jane pulled in a massive favour. Ex-boyfriend in the forensics lab. Fast-tracked the DNA from the body,’ Lottie said, reading from the screen, ‘and it matches the brush hairs I took from Father Angelotti’s room.’

  ‘We’ve found our missing priest,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Are you sure it was his hairbrush?’ Kirby asked, without raising his head. His tobacco-stained fingers thumped his keypad. The current rumour circulating had his young actress lover high-tailing it back to Dublin on the late night train out of Ragmullin, leaving Kirby in a haze of cigar smoke and whiskey fumes.

  ‘Kirby,’ Lottie said, ‘what exactly are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Kirby said.

  ‘Just as I thought.’

  ‘Forensics can’t do anything with the smashed phone.’ Kirby looked up from his screen.

  ‘Typical,’ said Lottie.

  She thought about Derek Harte. He’d been interviewed twice already and she couldn’t help feeling she’d missed something. Was he the murderer?

  ‘Good news at last,’ Lynch piped up. ‘Warrant granted to gain access to the victims’ bank accounts.’

  ‘We have their accounts,’ Lottie said, ‘but let’s see if we can use it to put the squeeze on weasel man.’

  ‘Diamonds are forever,’ Lottie whispered to Boyd.

  O’Brien’s cufflink gems dazzled as he pulled up accounts on his computer.

  ‘And a girl’s best friend,’ Boyd said, from behind his hand.

  The banker handed over a printout.

  ‘What’s this?’ Lottie asked, shaking flecks of dandruff from the paper.

  The page contained a number with amounts of money. The identical figures they had seen on the Brown and Sullivan bank accounts.

  ‘That’s the account number,’ he said. ‘Registered to a bank in Jersey. Strict secrecy laws. So no names. Sorry.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Ah, come on, Mike,’ Boyd said. ‘You have to give us more than this.’

  O’Brien shook his head. ‘That’s it. You can try the Jersey bank yourselves. But as you know, it’s virtually impossible to get information due to their banking laws.’

  Lottie stood up, her skin bristling with rage. Another dead end. She glared down at the banker and spied a tiny indent in his ear.

  ‘You know, Mr O’Brien, a diamond is all sparkly on the outside but inside it’s just black carbon. So which are you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ O’Brien rubbed his ear self-consciously. ‘I think you should leave.’ He stood up, his head shedding dandruff on his shoulders as he moved.

  ‘We’re going,’ Boyd said, pushing Lottie through the door in front of him.

  Out on the street, Boyd said, ‘Why do you have to piss everyone off?’

  ‘Comes with the badge,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Comes with you,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Jersey. Of all places.’ Lottie started to walk away from him. ‘I’ve to go to Cafferty’s.’

  ‘A bit early for drink,’ Boyd said, glancing at the time on his phone. ‘Can I come?’

  But Lottie had turned the corner walking down Gaol Street, leaving him staring after her.

  Forty-Three

  Bea Walsh sat in the snug, inside the bar door, a hot whiskey on the table in front of her. Lottie ordered a coffee.

  ‘Sorry, I’m a bit late,’ Lottie said, checking her watch. It was quarter to six. Not too late, she thought.

  ‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Bea said.

  ‘No problem.’ Lottie sat down.

  The scent of cloves and whiskey filled the air around Bea. The pub was dark and as far as Lottie could see there were only three other customers sitting at the bar. Darren Hegarty, the barman, brought over her coffee.

  ‘Any luck with catching your murderer?’ he asked.

  ‘Working on it,’ Lottie said and turned to Bea. Darren wiped down the table and returned to his lonely sentry duty behind the bar.

  ‘Ms Sullivan cried a lot,’ Bea said, wiping her nose with a crumpled tissue. ‘In secret, I mean, when she thought no one was looking. I knew something was troubling her.’

  Bea began to whimper.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Lottie enquired.

  ‘Just sad.’ Bea dabbed her eyes. ‘About a month ago, I walked into the ladies’ toilets and Ms Sullivan was there. Crying. When she noticed me, she looked embarrassed. I asked if I could do anything to help. She said she was past the stage of help. Things are out of control. That’s what she said. Things are out of control.’ Bea closed her eyes.

  ‘Have you any idea what she meant?’

  ‘I asked her but she just wiped her eyes and told me to forget about it,’ Bea said and delicately sipped her drink. The smell of cloves wafted towards Lottie. ‘Ms Sullivan was under tremendous pressure at work.’

  ‘Anything in particular that I should know about?’

  Bea hesitated, opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut.

  ‘What?’ pressured Lottie.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure? I thought you were going to add something there.’

  ‘No, Inspector, I’ve nothing to add.’

  Lottie decided to let it pass. For now.

  ‘Did Susan have a laptop?’

  ‘No. She said she didn’t need one.’

  ‘Had she a modern phone? With internet?’ Lottie wondered why she hadn’t asked this question on day one.

  ‘Yes. An iPhone, I think.’

  ‘Would you know where it is?’ Lottie crossed her fingers, hoping.

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Lottie slumped. Susan’s phone remained elusive. But at this stage they should have the call logs from the service provider. Note to self: follow it up.

  ‘I noticed documents relating to “Ghost Estates” on her computer files. What was her role with them?’

  Bea drank again, her pale cheeks now flushed from the warmth of the whiskey.

  ‘Mr Brown was more involved with those. It’s a crime the way those estates were left unfinished by developers. The staff were trying to get a handle on how to get them finished, rather than leave them half built and empty.’

  Lottie liked this woman; she was well spoken despite appearing timid.

  Bea continued, ‘What makes all this worse, Inspector, is these developers can walk away from their morgue-like developments and have the nerve to continue doing more of the same.’

  ‘Who’s responsible?’ Lottie asked, wishing she had been more diligent in following current affairs.

  ‘No one wants to take responsibility. It’s said planning permission should never have been granted in the first instance. I call it greed.’

  Lottie thought for a moment. ‘Do you think there was any wrongdoing in relation to planning in Ragmullin?’

  Bea hesitated, as if weighing up her reply. ‘After what happened to Ms Sullivan and Mr Brown, I’m not sure any more. Before this, I would have said everything was above
board. Now? I wonder.’ Her voice trailed off like a starling escaping the winter.

  ‘Can you point me in the direction of any files in particular? We’ve very few leads and anything you tell me, no matter how insignificant you think it is, might help. I’m not saying their deaths are related to their work, but at the moment it’s all I have.’

  At last, the little bird-like woman opened her mouth.

  ‘That’s the reason I asked to speak with you. I didn’t know what to do. My job is covered by confidentiality but in these circumstances I feel I have a duty to tell you.’ She paused and, teary-eyed, continued. ‘There’s a file missing. Ms Sullivan dealt with it and Mr Brown also. It’s on the database as being processed, awaiting signature. The decision is due in a few days. The thing is, I can’t find the file anywhere.’ The little woman sat back, exhausted.

  ‘Was it a contentious file?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘I think so. But my job is to check the database, make sure reports are on time and, if not, to follow up with the appropriate people. I track the files. I don’t read them. But I overheard that the property was bought for a song and it was subject to development plan controversy some months back.’

  ‘What file is it?’

  ‘I feel I can’t say it. Now that I’m here I feel foolish.’

  Lottie rooted in her bag and pulled out a pen and notepad. She pushed them over to Bea. ‘Will you write the details down for me?’

  Bea hesitated once again.

  ‘Please,’ Lottie said.

  ‘It may be nothing at all.’ Bea began to write.

  It must be something, Lottie thought, otherwise Bea Walsh wouldn’t have gone out of her way to report it.

  She read the woman’s words. At last. Something to dig into.

  She looked up at Bea, questioning her silently.

  The woman nodded her head in affirmation.

  The property – St Angela’s. The developer – Tom Rickard.

  Forty-Four