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

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘You look pleased with yourself,’ Boyd said.

  Lottie sat at her computer and grinned.

  ‘Go on, tell me,’ he coaxed.

  ‘Brown and Sullivan dealt with a planning application for St Angela’s. Guess who is the owner?’

  ‘Not Tom Rickard?’

  ‘Yes Tom Rickard.’ Lottie quickly logged on to her computer.

  ‘So these murders are probably linked to current-day matters and not the past,’ Boyd said.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘Kirby, when you were checking the council planning files, did anything turn up in relation to St Angela’s property?’ She looked over at Kirby’s desk and rolled her eyes at his mess.

  He hastily stuffed a Happy Meal box down at his feet, a guilty slant on his lips.

  ‘I hadn’t time yet.’ He quickly added, ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘If I knew that I wouldn’t be asking you to look, would I?’

  ‘A hint maybe?’

  ‘You’re a detective, start detecting.’

  Under his breath, Kirby cursed every woman he ever knew.

  ‘Okay,’ Lottie relented. ‘Find all you can on Tom Rickard’s involvement with St Angela’s.’

  She spent another two hours checking all their reports to date. Came up with nothing. It didn’t dampen her high spirits. She sensed she might be near the kernel of the case.

  She googled St Angela’s. A photograph in last February’s Midland Examiner caught her attention. Bishop Terence Connor handing over the keys to Tom Rickard, of Rickard Construction. The by-line informed her the property was to be developed as a hotel and golf course, subject to planning permission.

  Jumping up, she went looking for Boyd and found him in the coffee cupboard, boiling the kettle.

  ‘Do you fancy a drive?’ she asked.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘You ask too many questions. Come on.’

  The day had been long and now the moon curved a shimmering light through the sky. Boyd drove. Lottie was bone weary. She directed him on to the old road out of town.

  ‘I hope you don’t expect me to visit the cemetery in the dark,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Coward. Turn left here.’

  He swung up a narrow tree-lined road and stopped at a gated entrance to St Angela’s.

  ‘Intimidating-looking place,’ Boyd said, switching off the engine.

  Lottie exited the car. The gate was open but she wanted to walk.

  The yellow neon from the road lamps provided a dim light. A four-storey building, silhouetted under the moon, stood two hundred yards at the end of the winding tree-lined avenue. Lottie looked up. A cold streak shimmied down her spine. She’d seen this place in the distance many times before. It was visible from the cemetery. But now she couldn’t halt the disquiet it was causing her. Trying to calm her brain, she began counting the windows. Sixteen along the top floor.

  Boyd stood beside her.

  ‘Why are we staring at this building in the dark?’

  ‘We now know St Angela’s is the subject of a Tom Rickard planning application,’ Lottie said, shielding herself behind Boyd, deflecting the sharp breeze wrestling with the branches above their heads.

  ‘So?’

  ‘James Brown phoned Tom Rickard on the evening he was murdered. Rickard hasn’t provided us with a solid alibi.’ She paused and considered what Rickard could gain from murder. ‘According to Bea Walsh, Brown and Sullivan were dealing with the planning file which appears to be missing. Rickard bought St Angela’s from Bishop Connor, who now has a murdered priest. And this is the place, the institution, where the young Susan, known then as Sally, was abandoned, along with her newborn baby.’

  Boyd remained silent.

  ‘Well?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘I don’t like that Tom Rickard fellow,’ he said, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘At the moment, yes. And I’m freezing. Come on, mad woman.’ He headed to the car.

  She stepped forward a few paces. A gust of wind echoed around her, causing another shiver to scuttle up her spine. She tried to shrug it away, along with the feeling of the old dark memory stirring within her. Her whole body trembled. She walked after Boyd.

  ‘What’s up?’ Boyd asked, looking back over his shoulder.

  ‘It’s nothing. Go start the car.’

  Once more, she stared up at the building as Boyd jumped into the car and switched on the engine. Fixing her gaze, she wondered if St Angela’s had in fact anything to do with two, possibly three, murders. She noticed an alcove in the centre of the roof; a round construction housing a concrete statue. She squinted but the night was too dark to figure it out. She’d have to see it in daylight. She strolled back to the car, away from St Angela’s shielding its ghosts behind shadows.

  ‘Tomorrow, let’s haul in Tom Rickard’s arse,’ she said, sitting in beside Boyd. ‘And turn up the heater.’

  Forty-Five

  ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’ Boyd asked, idling the engine outside the station.

  ‘No thanks,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Come on. It’s after nine o’clock and I haven’t eaten since I don’t know when. I’d love an Indian.’ He did a U-turn and drove down Main Street. The town was deserted.

  ‘Jesus, Boyd, if Corrigan saw what you just did.’

  ‘Not a chance of him seeing me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s at a charity dance in the Park Hotel. The Golf Ball.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘He has a nerve.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re in the middle of three major investigations and he’s putting himself out there at some fancy gig. The media will have a field day.’

  Boyd parked the car on double yellow lines outside Sagaar’s Indian Restaurant as snow started to fall.

  ‘I should go home and feed my children or at least bring them a takeaway,’ Lottie protested.

  ‘They’re not kittens. They can feed themselves. They haven’t died of starvation so far,’ Boyd said.

  He had a point, she surmised. They got out of the car and climbed the stairs to the first-floor restaurant.

  They were the only customers. Soft music, the single sound shaking the stillness. Dull wall lights muted the scarlet décor. To some it might be considered romantic, but it reminded Lottie of a room dressed for Halloween.

  She selected a table by the window where she could look out over the street below while avoiding Boyd’s eyes. For a moment she idly watched the snowflakes melting against the windowpane.

  ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ she said, standing up. ‘You can order for me.’

  She peed, washed her hands and hurriedly swiped Katie’s lipstick over her pout. Katie. Tackling the source of her weed habit was still on her to-do list; a list which was growing by the day. She checked to see if her T-shirt was clean enough to remove her jacket. It would have to do.

  ‘I ordered,’ said Boyd, as she sat down again.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You know. Ringing you when I was drunk the other night.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ He busied himself with the wine menu.

  ‘I know you don’t. That’s the problem,’ said Lottie.

  ‘Wasn’t a problem for me,’ said Boyd. ‘But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I would like a call some night when you’re sober.’

  The waiter brought over a bottle of sparkling water and poured it into tumblers.

  ‘Order wine for yourself,’ said Lottie. ‘I’ll drive your car home for you.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say it otherwise.’

  Boyd indicated a bottle of the house red to the waiter.

  ‘That didn’t take much persuading,’ Lottie said and they lapsed into another silence, both looking out the window.

  Abandoning the o
utside view, she studied him. He was intent on the traffic below. She had to admit he was awkwardly handsome. His severe jaw line accentuated his brown eyes and, when they caught the light, they shimmered. A little piece of her yearned to delve beneath the surface of what made Mark Boyd tick, but another part of her was afraid of what she might discover about herself if she grew too close to him.

  Their starter arrived.

  ‘I hope it’s not too spicy,’ said Boyd.

  ‘I could do with a little spice in my life,’ said Lottie, sniffing the aroma.

  ‘I offered.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You declined.’

  ‘I know,’ repeated Lottie, ladling mint chutney on to a chapati.

  They ate in silence.

  ‘Do you want to talk about the case or will we enjoy the silence?’ Boyd asked, as the waiter cleared the plates away.

  ‘Tom Rickard is in this up to his neck.’

  ‘The only evidence to support that theory is one phone call from James Brown. Which, I might add, he denies having received.’

  ‘We can prove he received it.’

  ‘Agreed, but we’ll never know what they talked about.’

  ‘Brown could’ve been telling him Susan Sullivan was dead,’ said Lottie. ‘Rickard had to have known them from the council. He probably dealt with them over the planning application.’

  ‘Okay,’ Boyd said. ‘In theory, we can infer he knew Brown and Sullivan. But why kill them?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he’s a multi-millionaire. He owns at least four cars. It could’ve been his money popping in and out of the victims’ accounts.’ She looked at Boyd. ‘Why, though?’

  ‘Might not have been him. Granted, he had an application in for developing St Angela’s, but he must have dozens of applications all over the country. Is this one any different? Is there something there to murder for?’

  ‘Let’s recap,’ Lottie said. ‘The first two victims we discovered had secrets. James Brown was having it off with a younger man and Susan Sullivan was dying of cancer and, aged eleven or twelve, she’d had a baby and was incarcerated in St Angela’s. Plus she changed her name. Was she trying to exorcise her past? The property, bought by Tom Rickard from Bishop Connor, is now subject to a planning application to build a multi-million-euro hotel, golf course or whatever.’ Lottie sipped her water. ‘Two of the victims who worked on that file have a similar tattoo on their legs, not to mention the two grand in Susan’s freezer and hundreds of newspapers stacked to high heaven in her sitting room. That’s what we have so far.’ Lottie took a breath. She’d been talking too fast. Boyd knew all of this.

  ‘And the dead priest in Brown’s back garden. Don’t forget him,’ he said.

  ‘We have bodies, a load of questions and feck all answers,’ Lottie said. She pulled at the cuff of her T-shirt, picked a stray thread and watched it unravel. ‘I’m beginning to feel like the proverbial broken record.’

  The waiter arrived and placed their main course in silver bowls on the table. Chicken korma aroma infused the air with coconut.

  ‘Eat and enjoy,’ Lottie said.

  She relaxed as they ate. With their plates cleared away, she ordered a green tea. Boyd poured the last of his wine and looked outside.

  ‘Drink up,’ Lottie said. ‘We have a six a.m. case conference with Superintendent Corrigan.’

  ‘He’ll have some head on him.’

  ‘Pot and kettle spring to mind,’ said Lottie, with a smile.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Your face lights up when you decide to curve those fascinating lips upwards.’

  She laughed, feeling light-headed.

  He finished his wine.

  They split the bill and left.

  Lottie drove Boyd to his apartment, parked the car, handed him the keys and walked him to the door. The heavy snow had turned to light flakes.

  ‘Thanks for the meal. I think I needed the time out,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Come in for a coffee?’

  ‘Coffee keeps me awake all night.’

  ‘Good,’ Boyd smirked.

  ‘I better get home.’

  She lingered a moment. He caressed her cheek, tracing an imaginary line from her eye to her mouth.

  ‘Don’t,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Why not? You liked it the other night. Remember?’

  ‘I don’t like being reminded of things I don’t remember doing while in a state of unremembrance.’ Lottie turned her head away.

  ‘That’s not a word.’

  ‘I don’t care any more.’

  ‘That’s what you said the other night too.’

  ‘You’re a sadistic bastard, Mark Boyd.’ She was laughing.

  ‘I want you,’ he said, moving his hand behind her neck, up into her hair.

  ‘I know you do.’

  His finger drew little circles at the base of her hairline. He bent his head to hers and kissed her on the lips.

  She tasted wine and spices, felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach and, her hands still in her pockets, allowed herself a moment of pleasure.

  Then she stopped him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, dropping her head.

  ‘Don’t be. Dear God, Lottie, don’t be sorry.’ He lifted her chin with a finger.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said.

  ‘I understand.’ He placed a chaste kiss on her lips. ‘You should’ve got stitches on that nose. You’ll have a scar.’

  He traced one final line on her cheek, caressing the bruise beneath her eye, and she felt the softness of his sigh on her hair before he turned his key in the lock, let himself in and closed the door.

  She knew he was standing in there, behind the door.

  Waiting for her to put her finger on the bell.

  She could easily do it. Ring the bell.

  But she didn’t.

  She pulled her hood up and walked home, her face upturned, catching the gentle flakes.

  Forty-Six

  The town was so quiet as he drove home that he was surprised to see a woman walking alone through the snow. He almost stopped to offer a lift when she raised her head and her face was highlighted under the streetlight. Detective Inspector Lottie Parker.

  He kept driving for a few minutes before pulling in at a closed garage. He hadn’t had too much to drink but all the same, if a patrol car was cruising around, he was sure he was over the drink drive limit. Looking in his rear-view mirror he saw her turn up a secluded avenue. So that’s where you live, he thought.

  ‘Good to know these things. Never know when I might have to pay you a visit,’ he said and then realised he was talking aloud. What was happening to him? Go home and have a proper drink, he told himself. And think about the beautiful specimen of a boy he had seen that morning.

  Switching on the engine, he put the car in gear and pulled out on to the snow-covered road, wondering how long just thinking would suffice before he needed to do something.

  Forty-Seven

  ‘Is she the one?’

  Melanie Rickard was drunk. She kicked off her high heels. Tom Rickard watched them slide across the marble kitchen floor.

  ‘What one?’ he asked.

  ‘The bitch you’re fucking.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, quietly. You did not shout when Melanie was shouting.

  ‘Don’t act innocent with me,’ she mocked. ‘Is she the one you fuck and then come home smelling of wild berries and jasmine? Jo . . . fucking . . . Malone . . . perfume. I’m not stupid, you prick.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ he said. Which was the wrong thing to say to a drunk and incensed Melanie.

  She screamed, and banged her fists on the counter before returning to a dangerous calm.

  ‘I’m not blind,’ she said. ‘Your eyes were buried down her dress, almost at her navel!’

  He said nothing. He could not deny that he had ogled the beautiful blonde sitting across the table from him; wanted to reach out and run his hands along her neck, to push his l
ips against hers. Like he had done last night. He had cursed himself for allowing Melanie to browbeat him into attending the Golf Ball. He knew she was going to be there. With her mousey husband. Perhaps, subconsciously, he really did want to be there. To compare her exquisiteness to Melanie’s rapidly disappearing attractiveness. But having to sit next to Superintendent Corrigan made for an awkward evening, so he’d plied him with brandy. Bunch of drunks, the lot of them, he thought, and Melanie was the worst of all. He had escaped with her, as early as he could.

  ‘I wouldn’t touch her with a barge-pole,’ he said.

  ‘So that’s what was trying to break out of your trousers. Well, fuck you Tom and the horse you rode in on!’ She grabbed a bottle of cabernet.

  He thought she was going to throw it at him. But she uncorked it, quicker than she would have if sober, pulled a glass from the cabinet and strode in her bare feet out of the kitchen to the sitting room, where she promptly fell asleep in an oversized armchair.

  He stood in the middle of the frigid room and wondered where it all had gone wrong.

  He hated her.

  In that instant he could strangle her.

  Forty-Eight

  Facebook. Lottie logged in.

  She listened to the hum of the refrigerator and the murmur of the television show Sean and Chloe were watching in the sitting room. Katie was out, again. Probably with Jason Rickard.

  As she sipped a glass of water, sitting in her kitchen armchair, a friend request popped up. She idly tapped the icon. Father Joe’s picture appeared. She put down the glass and uncurled her legs. Hit the accept tab. The chat box sprang up. He was online.

  hi.

  where are you?

  rome.

  what are you doing there? you’re a murder suspect?

  very funny.

  superintendent corrigan will have a fit. your bishop will have a fit.

  i hope to be back before either misses me.

  how do you propose to manage that?

  i said my mother was ill and had to visit her in wexford.

  what are you doing in rome, anyway?