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

by Patricia Gibney

  This was no prank.

  This was serious shit.

  Relaxing his body on to the cold floorboards he tried to call out, but instead succumbed to loud sobs.

  He wanted his mother.

  He wanted Katie.

  He wanted to kill his bastard of a father.

  Sixty-Six

  Lottie followed Boyd into the cupboard canteen. He boiled the kettle.

  ‘Who does Corrigan think he is?’ she hissed. Clenching her teeth, she thumped the makeshift counter.

  ‘He’s the boss, that’s who,’ Boyd said. He found two clean mugs and spooned in coffee.

  Leaning against the wall, with her arms folded as if they might keep her anger under wraps, she said, ‘I even put on my subordinate act. He didn’t buy it. Wouldn’t even listen to me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t listen to you either,’ he said. ‘Look at it from his viewpoint. We haven’t turned up a solid piece of evidence in any of the murders. Now that it’s out about Sullivan working in the soup kitchen, she’s on the front pages again. Corrigan has to answer to his hierarchy and to the public. The locals think we’re doing feck all to find this killer.’

  ‘Jesus, you sound just like him,’ Lottie spat back. She took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I might have a solid lead in Rome but he didn’t want to know.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  She told him about her talk with Father Joe. Boyd’s face remained passive. She wished he’d show some emotion, anger even.

  ‘Be sensible, Lottie,’ he said. ‘With modern technology I’m sure your priest can figure out some way of sending on this information.’ The kettle boiled and he poured the water into the mugs. ‘There’s no milk.’

  ‘I don’t want milk. I want answers. One possible lead and I get stonewalled.’ She took the mug, sipped the coffee and allowed the silence to restore stillness to her mind. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said eventually.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Maybe I should contact Father Joe again. See if he can find some way to send me whatever he found.’

  ‘That’s a start anyway,’ Boyd said.

  Her phone rang. She looked at the screen.

  ‘It’s Katie. Another problem I have to sort out.’

  ‘Can’t help you there. Sure what would I know?’

  Boyd eased past her, his body brushing against hers. He dipped his head in apology and kept walking.

  She pretended not to notice his fleeting touch but it warmed her.

  ‘Katie, are you okay?’

  ‘. . . and I haven’t heard a word from him,’ Katie was saying.

  ‘Start again. I was distracted,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Jeesuus Mam! It’s Jason. I don’t know where he is. His mother rang me from his phone. He didn’t come home last night.’

  Lottie glanced at the time.

  ‘It’s only just gone seven. He’s probably kipped down in a friend’s house somewhere.’

  ‘Mam! He goes nowhere without his phone. Mrs Rickard said he left shortly after me. After his dad hit him. I’m worried.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to worry about. Trust me. He’s probably nursing his bruised ego. His father was wrong to hit him but Jason has to sort it out himself. When he figures how to do that, he’ll be home. He’s nineteen, not nine.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Katie said. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Calling you a drunk. I didn’t mean it. Honest. You’re the best mother anyone could have.’ Katie’s voice filled with tears.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lottie said, a surge of relief shaking the mug in her hand. ‘Look, I’ve to go. I’ll talk to you later. I’m on a warning from war-horse Corrigan. Eat some breakfast and let me know as soon as you hear from Jason.’

  Lottie went back to the incident room. Glancing at the board, she noticed Kirby had stuck up Father Joe Burke’s photograph.

  Sixty-Seven

  Mike O’Brien was working hard at pretending to work.

  His PA, Mary Kelly, wiggled her bottom as she leaned over her desk outside his office. For a moment he studied her figure through the open door. But he wasn’t interested. Too many thoughts clouded his brain. Bishop Connor had rattled him last night. Tom Rickard had angered him. Between the whole lot of them he was teetering on the edge.

  His fingers shook as he tried to type in figures. It was gobbledegook. Air. He needed air. Nice cold wintery air. He logged off and pulled on his coat.

  ‘Mary, I’ve to go out. Take messages if anyone is looking for me. I won’t be long.’

  He buttoned his coat.

  ‘If Head Office ring about the figures you sent yesterday, what will I tell them?’

  ‘Tell them to go and shite,’ O’Brien said and kept walking.

  Bishop Connor unlocked his car and sat into the cream leather seat. Should he have been so hard on O’Brien last night? Maybe he shouldn’t have gone on about putting off the inspector. That might in fact make her more suspicious. God knows what O’Brien would do and, if he cracked, he was liable to do anything. He was the weak card in the deck. But you always need a money man, he thought.

  What was done was done. He was not one for doubling back on his convictions. At least Father Angelotti was out of the way. That was good. There were enough meddlers in his affairs to last him until his deathbed. The project would go ahead. A new hotel and golf course. Membership for life, with all the time in the world to enjoy it.

  Things were going well. At last.

  He turned up the radio and cruised along the road, humming to the music.

  The traffic was crawling on the icy road.

  Gerry Dunne wanted to be at work early. Not looking likely now. He needed to go over the file one last time. His phone rang. Bea Walsh. He ignored it. She was an interfering busybody. Only yesterday she had tried to tell him that the file for St Angela’s was missing. He had politely told her it was in hand. In hand? One more day, then it would be out of his hands and he’d be off the hook, with a fat envelope of euros. He wondered if his wife Hazel would like another week in the sun.

  As the car idled at the traffic lights on the junction of Main Street and Gaol Street, in his rear-view mirror he saw Mike O’Brien pull out of a parking space, scream down the street and drive straight through the red light. Who put ants in his knickers? Dunne couldn’t wait for all this to be over.

  Another week in the sun? It was looking more attractive by the minute.

  Sixty-Eight

  ‘What are you doing?’ Boyd asked, peering over Lottie’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m checking flights to Rome,’ she said, cursing Ryanair and what seemed like a million boxes she must tick.

  ‘Are you totally mad? Who’s paying?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Well, that’s a first. I’ve never in my life heard of a detective paying their own way for anything to do with work.’

  He wheeled over his chair and sat beside her.

  ‘Don’t look at what I’m doing and you won’t have to tell any lies,’ she said, tapping the keyboard.

  ‘Did you hear anything I said to you earlier? This is crazy.’

  ‘You said that already. Stop repeating yourself.’

  ‘I want nothing to do with it.’ Boyd stood up.

  ‘Who asked you?’

  Kirby glanced up at them, shaking his head.

  ‘Why don’t you go and do something useful?’ Lottie muttered.

  ‘Like what?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Talk to Brown’s lover Derek Harte again. See if you can get anything else out of him. He’s holding something back. Follow up with that young priest in the bishop’s house, Father Eoin. Is that his name? Talk to Patrick O’Malley. Find the elusive Father Con. Will I write you a list?’ They’d had no luck finding Father Con, whoever he was, and she realised there was a lot of things they still hadn’t got a handle on.

  Boyd kicked back the chair, clattering it into a radiator, grabbed his coat and banged the doo
r on his way out.

  A flight was leaving at one thirty. She glanced at the clock. Enough time to get to the airport. If she hurried. Seventy-nine euro including taxes. Not too bad. She couldn’t really afford it. Could she? The powers-that-be wouldn’t reimburse her unless she had prior approval and she hadn’t time for that. It was going to be at her own cost. But she needed to do this. Clicked it.

  ‘For feck’s sake,’ she said.

  ‘What’s up?’ Kirby glanced over his screen.

  ‘Nothing.’

  She looked in her drawer for a pill to calm her nerves. Couldn’t find one. As she slid it shut she noticed the old file. Alone in the midst of the chaos. Sitting. Waiting. For an answer? Could the old records now in Rome give her answers after all this time? If so, it would be worth the expense.

  ‘Seventy-nine euro one way; return flight in the morning, another fifty-five,’ she said. Kirby pretended he wasn’t listening.

  Definitely can’t afford it. She searched her wallet for her credit card. The bill was due. She bit her bottom lip thinking; churning everything over in her head. Had Father Joe really found something useful? What if she was wrong about him? What if he was the one who murdered Sullivan and Brown, even Father Angelotti? What was the truth? But she realised, whatever she might owe on her Visa bill, she owed this to the victims.

  She reached into the drawer and removed the old file on the missing boy. It haunted her like a tenacious ghost. Placing it beside her keyboard, she opened it and looked at the boy’s photograph. Ran her finger over his freckles. Made her decision. If Corrigan wants to suspend me, might as well give him a good reason. Entered her card details. Transaction complete. Boarding card printed. Before she could change her mind.

  ‘Shit.’ She ran both hands through her hair, scrunching it tight.

  ‘What now?’ asked Kirby.

  ‘I’ve to get someone to mind my kids.’

  Kirby shook his head and went back to what he was doing. ‘That’s definitely not on my CV.’

  Lottie dug her nails into her head. Swallowing her pride, she called her mother.

  Sixty-Nine

  He must have fallen back asleep because when he opened his eyes he could see a thin stream of light.

  The man. Standing in the doorway. Jason blinked. He couldn’t see properly.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ he croaked.

  ‘I am not sure. Not sure at all. I picked you up on a whim. Never done that before. It felt quite exciting having such young flesh sitting beside me.’

  ‘You’re a pervert.’

  ‘Silly boy, calling me names. You might be sorry.’

  ‘What did you do to me? If you touched me, I swear to God, my father will kill you.’

  ‘Going by what you told me last night, I would not count on him.’

  ‘Did you . . .?’ Jason’s voice quivered.

  ‘Did I what?’

  Jason knew he was being mocked.

  ‘Did I touch you? No. Not yet anyway. Thinking about it. Long and hard.’ He laughed and rubbed his hand along his groin.

  Jason’s body convulsed.

  ‘Did you drug me?’

  ‘A pill sent you to dreamland. I could not risk you fighting back. That would defeat the purpose of the exercise.’

  ‘What exercise?’

  ‘As I say, I have not quite figured that out, yet. Are you hungry?’

  ‘I’m thirsty. Please untie me.’

  A gusty sound filled the room as the man snorted.

  ‘Maybe some food and water. Next time.’

  He turned to leave.

  ‘Please let me out of here. I want to go home,’ Jason said, breathing a white fog into the cold air.

  ‘You will do exactly what I tell you.’ The voice rose, then faded, trailing unspoken menace in its wake.

  The door clunked shut and a key turned in the lock.

  Jason waited. Listened. Scratching in the ceiling above him and a bird cawing somewhere in the distance.

  That’s all he heard, otherwise it was deathly silent.

  Seventy

  After numerous protestations, Boyd agreed to cover for her.

  ‘It’s only until tomorrow,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I shouldn’t—’

  ‘Thanks Boyd. I knew I could count on you.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘If asked, I’m searching the victims’ homes again. Following up clues. Talking to suspects.’

  ‘What suspects? What clues?’

  ‘Is there an echo in here?’ Lottie cupped her ear. ‘You’ll think of something.’

  If Father Joe had found something worthwhile, she was in the clear, but Corrigan would probably suspend her anyway once he found out she had disobeyed his orders. Then again, he hadn’t categorically said no. Had he? Feck him.

  Back at home, Lottie emptied Sean’s school rucksack, stacked his books on top of the drier and ran upstairs to find clean clothes. Dragging shirts and sweaters from hangers, she watched the pile grow into a leaning tower on the bed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Chloe asked, standing in the doorway, still in her pyjamas.

  ‘I’m going to Rome. Work stuff. I rang your grandmother to stay the night.’

  ‘What? Ah no.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Lottie said. ‘But I need to be sure you’re all safe.’ She held a red satin blouse up to her chest, looking for approval.

  The sixteen year old scrunched up her nose and shook her head.

  ‘Let me have a look,’ she said. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Something nice and clean.’

  From the heap, Chloe extracted a cream silk blouse with tiny buttons, a strap top and a pair of dark brown jeans.

  ‘What do you think?’ Chloe asked. ‘They’ll go with your Uggs.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Lottie. ‘Will you fold them into the bag? You know what I’m like.’

  She searched through her clothes, found a navy long-sleeved T-shirt and changed into it. Checked her jeans were presentable and decided they’d have to do.

  ‘Some day, I’m going to burn those T-shirts,’ Chloe said.

  ‘They’re comfortable. I’m not so sure about that blouse though.’

  ‘It’s stunning. You should try harder. You might catch a nice man,’ Chloe said.

  Lottie stared at her daughter, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘You need to go out to nice places and meet people. You’re too young to be single for the rest of your life. I know Dad would want you to be with someone.’ Chloe picked up a small tub of moisturiser from the dressing table. ‘I’ll get a clear freezer bag for this. For security, at the airport.’

  Lottie watched her daughter leave the room. It had never occurred to her that her children might want her to meet someone new. After all they’d gone through with Adam’s illness, they continued to surprise her.

  Sitting on the bed, she contemplated her desecrated wardrobe. Noticing a thick knitted sweater on the top shelf, she leapt up and tugged it down. Adam’s fishing sweater. Holding it to her nose, she craved a trace of him but she knew it’d been obliterated by the wash. His unique smell, clinging to his clothes, had been the only physical thing remaining before Rose Fitzpatrick had thrown everything into the washing machine last summer, complaining about moths. The rift that had been festering boiled over that day. Lottie had lost it with her mother, banished her from the house and cried into the basket of damp clothes. It wasn’t her mother’s fault, deep down she knew that, but she had felt violated. All she had been left with was an overwhelming sense of loss.

  She clutched her little piece of Adam’s memory tightly to her chest before folding it and stuffing it back on the shelf. She would have to make up with her mother. Soon.

  Chloe returned with a clear plastic bag, threw in the jar of moisturiser and placed it at the top of the rucksack.

  ‘Have you packed a change of underwear?’ Chloe asked.

  Lottie rummaged in a drawer, pulled out a bra and knickers,
shoved them into the bag.

  ‘What would I do without you, Chloe Parker?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Mother,’ Chloe said, shaking her head with a laugh.

  ‘Granny will be here soon.’

  ‘I suppose we can suffer her for one night.’

  ‘Just one thing. Keep an eye on Katie. She was upset last night. And, no fighting.’

  Chloe rolled her eyes.

  ‘It’s always about Katie. What about me and Sean?’

  ‘I know I can count on you. Please?’

  ‘Sure,’ the girl said. ‘I promise not to kill Katie, at least not until you get back. You watch out for those Italian stallions.’

  Lottie gave Chloe a tight squeeze and a kiss on the forehead and went to say goodbye to her other two children.

  ‘Any word from Jason?’ she asked Katie.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m going round our friends’ houses in a while, to see if I can find out anything.’

  ‘Don’t be fretting,’ Lottie said. ‘He probably smoked too much weed and conked out.’

  ‘Mam!’

  ‘And when I get back we’re going to talk horticulture,’ Lottie said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How to get rid of weeds.’

  Katie smiled. Lottie hugged her.

  Sean was standing at the door.

  ‘When can I get that new PlayStation?’

  Lottie closed her front door just after eleven a.m. Boyd was leaning against his car. He took the bag from her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ he said, getting into his own car.

  ‘I don’t want any sermons,’ Lottie said, sitting in beside him.

  ‘And I don’t understand what’s got into you,’ he said, reversing the car. ‘Okay. I’ll say nothing about it. Have you eaten?’