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

by Patricia Gibney

She shook her head. He leaned over, took a bar of chocolate from the glove compartment and threw it on her lap.

  Boyd concentrated on driving on the icy roads and they travelled in silence, reaching the airport in fifty minutes despite the weather. He parked in a set-down bay outside Departures. She hustled the rucksack to her knee.

  ‘If I’m wrong about this, so be it. But I owe it to the victims to find out anything I can.’

  ‘It’s career suicide, you know that. You shouldn’t go,’ he said.

  ‘Watch me,’ she said.

  As straight as she could, Lottie walked through the glass doors, her stride carrying her with a sense of vague purpose – probably because she hadn’t a clue what she was doing.

  Boyd drove back to Ragmullin without dispelling his anger. He sat down at Lottie’s desk wondering how she was going to get herself out of this mess. However much of a maverick she was, this was crossing the line.

  The office seemed hollow without her. Like his heart. He picked up her coffee mug. Untidy Lottie. As he got up, he touched the old file on her desk. She guarded it like a state secret. He’d never been bothered with it before. Now, though, his interest piqued, he opened the cover.

  The boy in the photograph had an impish twist to his lips, as if he was contemplating what mischief he could get up to next. Boyd read quickly. Incarcerated in St Angela’s. Reported missing by his mother when the authorities at the institution informed her that he had absconded. He looked at the boy’s name again. Immediately he knew why the file and the missing boy were so important to Lottie. Why hadn’t she trusted him enough to tell him? Did their friendship count for nothing?

  He continued to read and, when he had finished, Boyd wondered if he really knew anything at all about Lottie Parker.

  Seventy-One

  Alighting from the airport express train at Rome Termini, Lottie’s skin tingled with anticipation. It was a mild evening under a light sprinkling of rain. She put her watch ahead to reflect the one-hour time difference.

  Stepping on to a cobble-stoned street, she crossed the road. She’d never been in Rome before but had studied the map on the train, memorising the directions to her hotel. Straight ahead, then left and she should be beside it. And she was.

  She stood in a small piazza facing the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore. Its magnificence halted her. Bells rang out the sixth hour and the square came to life, as pigeons flew from picking damp crumbs on the cobbles to soar into the grey sky.

  Entering the hotel foyer, she was immediately blinded by the incredible marble floors and walls. The male receptionist greeted her.

  ‘Buongiorno, Signora.’

  Lottie loved his accent and wished she could converse in Italian. Confirming her reservation, he presented her with a key.

  ‘It is our deluxe room, Signora. Elevator to the fourth floor.’

  ‘Grazie,’ Lottie said. At least she knew one word in Italian.

  At the end of a white marbled corridor she found her room. Compact, clean and welcoming. Silently, she thanked Father Joe for finding this place at short notice when she’d texted him from Dublin Airport. And, he insisted on paying for it. Out of diocesan funds, he said. She didn’t argue.

  She opened the window and the sounds of Rome swirled around outside, then settled into the room. The scent of aromatic coffee rose up from the espresso bar below. The view across the rooftops filled her with excitement. She’d love to see the sights. Not this time though.

  The shower was a struggling stream of tepid water. She persevered and emerged energised. Dressed in her brown jeans and long-sleeved cream silk shirt. In front of the mirror, she opened the top two buttons and let the collar hang loose. That’s better, she thought, before buttoning them up again. She checked her watch. Father Joe would be waiting for her.

  The narrow winding streets carried her deep into the heart of old Rome. Cars honked, mopeds sped by and sirens wailed. As the drizzle cleared, she eventually exited the maze of cobbles to see St Peter’s Basilica across the Tiber, shimmering in the glow of streetlights. She crossed over a bridge and made her way into Vatican City. Checking the streets against the directions on the text message, she turned a corner and saw him.

  ‘Inspector Parker, welcome to Rome.’

  ‘Great to see you,’ she said and held out her hand, surprised she’d found him so quickly.

  He grabbed her in a bear hug. She felt a hot flush race up her cheeks. He released her and held her at arm’s length.

  ‘You’ve lost weight since I saw you last. Working too hard. And those bruises look worse.’

  Lottie grinned. ‘Don’t be daft, you saw me a couple of days ago.’

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ he said. ‘I want to show you all of Rome. You’ll love it.’

  ‘I’m here to work,’ she warned. ‘I’ve only a few hours.’

  ‘Enjoy it while you’re here,’ he said. ‘A quick tour of the basilica, before it closes?’

  She knew she should get down to business straight away, but she also wanted to see the building.

  ‘Okay, but let’s not delay.’

  As she walked by his side, he pointed out exterior architectural features before guiding her up the steps and through the security check.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, catching her breath.

  Inside was as splendid as the outside; incense filled the atmosphere. They swept up and down the impressive aisles. Lottie was drawn to Michelangelo’s Pietà, its polished stone gleaming under spotlights, behind protective glass. The Virgin, her face sorrowful yet resigned, as she held her dead son in her arms. Lottie thought of Adam and how she’d embraced his body as he cooled in death. She hoped she’d never have to hold her son thus. A gasp escaped her mouth and Father Joe put his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered.

  ‘Magnificent,’ he said.

  They left the basilica and walked along narrow laneways, stopping after ten minutes in front of a fifteen-foot-high wooden door. Father Joe refused to answer her questions along the way, telling her he was bringing her to the source of his find. He pushed an intercom button. A grainy voice answered in Italian and the door creaked open.

  A narrow vestibule lay before them with a fountain commanding the centre, surrounded by prancing stone cherubs. Numerous stairways meandered up to apartments. It reminded Lottie of Gregory Peck’s abode in the film Roman Holiday. She half-expected Audrey Hepburn to pop her head over one of the staircases.

  A door opened two floors above them and a rotund, five-foot man, dressed in a flowing black robe, took flight down the stairs, a string of Italian emanating from him in a melodic tune.

  ‘Joseph, Joseph!’ he said, wrapping his arms around Father Joe.

  ‘Father Umberto. This is Detective Inspector Lottie Parker,’ Father Joe said, extracting himself from the embrace. ‘The Irish detective I mentioned to you.’

  The small man leaned up on his toes and brushed his cheek to hers.

  ‘Umberto,’ he said. ‘Call me Umberto.’

  ‘You can call me Lottie.’

  She followed, as Father Umberto led Father Joe by the hand up the stairs, like a mother bringing a child home from school. A door stood wide open at the top. Squeezing into the room, Lottie was astonished at the number of books scattered everywhere. The small priest attempted to tidy up, hands flapping in a fluster.

  ‘Excuse me, I no time to tidy,’ he said in broken English. His spectacles appeared glued to his nose, as if he had grown too fat for them. Lottie sat at a mahogany bureau overflowing with paperwork.

  The two priests chatted in Italian. Lottie caught Father Joe’s eye.

  ‘Perhaps we should converse in English,’ he said.

  ‘Sì,’ the Italian said.

  ‘Umberto, please tell Inspector . . . Lottie why Father Angelotti went to Ireland,’ Father Joe said.

  Umberto was suddenly reticent. His ebullience disappearing.

  ‘He is dead. It is . . . how you say . . . terrible.�
� He blessed himself and bowed his head. When his mumbled intercessions ended, his eyes darted round the room. ‘I know it be bad. I know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lottie asked. A church bell rang out and she flinched. It might well have been in the room with them.

  ‘I think . . . he try to cover up. Cover up mistakes.’ Umberto suddenly sat down on the floor. There was nowhere else to sit.

  ‘Father Umberto is curator of Irish pastoral records,’ Father Joe explained. ‘That is, any files or correspondence sent to the Pope from the bishops, he is responsible for cataloguing and filing them. In recent times some Irish diocesan records have been housed here. His immediate superior was Father Angelotti.’

  Umberto pried off his spectacles and his earlier passionate fervour transformed into intense weeping. Lottie stared out through the tiny window to avoid looking at him. Emotional men were not her forte.

  ‘I sorry. So upset. Angelotti, he my friend.’

  Father Joe asked, ‘Can I get you some water?’

  ‘No, I okay. I cannot believe my dear friend will not come home. It break my heart.’ His shoulders rose and fell as more sobs tore from him.

  Lottie questioned Father Joe with her eyes. He turned his head, avoiding her gaze.

  ‘Can you help us? ‘ she implored Father Umberto.

  ‘I help, sì.’ He rose to his feet, squeezing his spectacles on his nose. ‘No one can hurt me. Sì?’ He wiped away his tears, attempting to restore a modicum of calm.

  ‘Why did Father Angelotti go to Ireland?’ Lottie asked, hoping the priest would tell them something worthwhile soon. Time was slipping by quickly and the prospect of losing her job seemed more realistic with each passing second.

  ‘He get correspondence . . . that is why he go.’

  ‘Do you have a copy of this correspondence?’ she asked.

  ‘No. A message. On his phone.’

  ‘But you must know something,’ she persisted.

  The priest sighed, glanced at Father Joe, then turned his attention to Lottie. ‘I no remember when. Summer maybe? He receive phone call from a man. James Brown. He ask for investigation. Into St Angela’s. He say, it sell for small money. He say, Father Angelotti must also look for adopted baby. You understand? My English not good.’

  Lottie said, ‘I understand.’

  ‘Father Angelotti, he spend many hours with the ledgers after that. I know there was more correspondence with this James. December, Father Angelotti, he tell me he must go. He say he make big mistake. He say he must talk to people. To make things right.’

  ‘What mistake?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘He say he mix up numbers. That is all he say. He tell me not to ask questions. So I no ask.’

  ‘Can I show Inspector Parker the ledgers?’ Father Joe asked.

  The priest nodded.

  ‘My dear friend he is dead.’ He paused, then said, ‘I go for a passeggiata . . . a walk. Then I tell no lies when I do not see.’ He pulled on a coat and without another word went out into the night, leaving them alone.

  Father Joe stood up.

  ‘Bishop Connor ordered all the old St Angela’s ledgers to be moved from Ireland to here. It was about two years ago. I’ve no idea why. They’re now stored in the basement. Come,’ he said and opened a door which Lottie thought was a bathroom. It revealed a winding staircase.

  ‘Surely they should be in a more secure location?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘This is secure. There’s a multitude of offices like this one scattered all over Rome. Very few people know about them.’

  They reached the bottom of three flights of stairs.

  A thick wooden door lay open, an iron key in its lock. Lottie looked at Father Joe, and entered the room.

  Seventy-Two

  ‘This place is unbelievable,’ Lottie said.

  Shelf after shelf of leather-bound ledgers. History consigned to the back streets of Rome.

  Father Joe opened a ledger on the desk. ‘St Angela’s,’ he said.

  Lottie breathed deeply, realising she’d been holding her breath. He carefully turned the faded pages until he reached the year he was looking for: 1975. She glanced at him before perusing what had been written, decades before.

  Lists. Names, ages, dates, sex. All female.

  ‘What are we looking at?’ she asked, though she had already guessed.

  ‘These pages refer to girls placed in St Angela’s in 1975,’ he said. ‘I’ve gone through it but I can’t find a Susan Sullivan anywhere.’

  Lottie sat down, turned the leaves, reading through the lists.

  ‘Here she is,’ she said. ‘Sally Stynes. She changed her name.’ She traced her finger along the row.

  ‘That’s why I couldn’t find her,’ he said.

  ‘These are reference numbers,’ she declared. ‘This one, beside Sally’s name, AA113. What does it mean?’

  ‘It refers to another ledger somewhere here,’ he said. ‘I haven’t found it yet. But look at this.’ He handed her another smaller book.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t believe it. Dates of birth. Dates of death. Joe, they were only babies and little children.’ Lottie scanned the pages, horror choking her.

  ‘I know,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Cause of death – Measles, Cholic, Unknown,’ she read. ‘My God. Where did they bury them?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘It all seems so methodical, impersonal,’ she said. ‘These were people’s children.’

  ‘I’m not sure it has anything to do with your investigations. The reference number you pointed out, I can’t see it here,’ he said, leaning over her shoulder.

  Lottie tried to control her trembling body. Shocking media headlines of dead babies in septic tanks came back to her. It was international news a few years ago. Now her hands held evidence of something similar. Was that why the books had been relocated? She went back to the first ledger he’d shown her.

  ‘This ledger,’ she said, ‘only lists female admissions. There were boys in St Angela’s.’ She remembered the missing boy’s file, buried in her drawer. Another mystery associated with St Angela’s. She hoped this place might throw some light on it.

  ‘They’ll be in another ledger. I’ll keep looking. There were so many children in that school over the years,’ he said, pointing to the rows of black spines on the shelves.

  ‘Don’t call it a school,’ she said, thumping the table, unable to suppress her anger any longer. ‘It was an institution. One that slipped under the radar.’

  ‘Until now.’ His voice was flat. Resigned.

  ‘Who is this Father Cornelius who signed each page?’ Lottie asked, diverting her eyes from the tragedy scripted before her. Could he be the Father Con that O’Malley referred to? He must be, she thought.

  Father Joe pulled down another ledger from the shelf.

  ‘You have to see this first,’ he said, opening a page he’d already marked. ‘This set of records is like a tracking device,’ he explained. ‘It lists priests and where they served.’

  Lottie took the small ledger and placed it on top of the others with trembling hands. The name headlined the page in neat ink script – Father Cornelius Mohan. The rows beneath it confirmed movement between parishes and dioceses. No reason given for such transfers.

  ‘Most priests might serve three, maybe four parishes in a lifetime,’ Father Joe said.

  ‘But there must be twenty, thirty here.’ She ran her finger down the page, counting. Then she turned to the next one. More parishes. She kept on counting.

  ‘He served in forty-two different parishes throughout the country,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Tells a story doesn’t it,’ he said. A statement, not a question. He paced the confined space.

  ‘He moved around because of abuse?’ she asked.

  ‘Doesn’t state it, but priests are not normally shifted from parish to parish in that fashion. I’m sure there are bulging files of allegations on him. Somewhere.’
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  ‘Jesus Christ, his last address is Ballinacloy. That’s not far from Ragmullin,’ Lottie said. ‘Do you know if he’s still alive?’

  ‘I’m sure I would have heard if he had died, even if he is retired,’ Father Joe said, nodding his head, his shoulders slumped. ‘He must be in his eighties.’

  ‘Do you know him? Have you met him?’

  ‘I don’t know him. I was shocked when I discovered this.’

  ‘Someone manually updated these ledgers?’

  ‘None of this goes on a computer. Would you want this traced? Not the Catholic Church. It would want this hushed up, hidden and covered up.’

  ‘Can I make copies?’

  ‘That’s not allowed.’

  Lottie observed him for a moment and his eyes told her what she needed to know. She fingered the phone in her pocket.

  ‘Didn’t you say you have to use the bathroom?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t tear out any pages,’ he said. He knew what she was planning.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m trusting you.’

  Listening to Father Joe slowly climb the staircase, Lottie thought his footsteps sounded heavy with the weight of the sins of his church.

  She felt physically ill studying the script, couldn’t read any more, so she quickly photographed the pages with her phone camera. She tried to record as much of the large book as she could. Calculating a grid in her head, she photographed in chronological order; she would piece them together on her own computer. This will not remain hidden, she vowed silently. The names inked on the pages seemed so impersonal, devoid of humanity; she wanted to read each one in her own time. They referenced a life story, a heartbeat and a heartbreak. And she was confident they related to the current murders in Ragmullin. James Brown and Susan Sullivan had spent time together in St Angela’s. And she was sure the connection to their murders was buried somewhere in this dungeon of ledgers.

  When she’d finished photographing, she turned her attention to the shelves and scanned the dates inscribed on the dusty spines. Early 1900s up to the 1980s. She doubled back and plucked out a thin, 1970s ledger with references A100 to AA500. She located what she thought to be the relevant pages, hurriedly photographed without reading and returned it to the shelf. She searched for the boys’ ledgers. She discovered them on a bottom shelf, found 1975, photographed each page and returned the ledger to its dusty resting place. She did the same for the first half of 1976. She couldn’t bring herself to read it all now. And she wondered why Father Joe hadn’t just photographed the pages and emailed them to her?