The door opened. Father Joe stood with his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
‘You inferred last night,’ Lottie said, ‘that all this had something to do with Bishop Connor, but I don’t see any evidence here.’
‘Look at the signature at the end of each row of the priest’s movements,’ he instructed.
She did. A spindly scrawl, but there was no doubt whose name it was. Terence Connor.
‘I need to ring Boyd,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘I want him to talk to this Father Cornelius Mohan. He served in Ragmullin parish and was assigned to St Angela’s for three years.’ She looked at her phone. No signal.
‘Let’s get some air,’ she said.
Nausea threatened to overcome her, after what she’d just read. Brushing past Father Joe, taking two steps at a time, she hurried as if the dead had risen from the dusty pages and were following in her footsteps.
Outside, she walked in small circles under a streetlight. The tall buildings, leaning inwards, appeared to be grasping the shadows and throwing them around her like gravel in a sandpit.
‘Will you continue to search the other ledgers for me?’ she asked. ‘See what you can find? I’m sure everything connects to St Angela’s.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Father Joe said. ‘But how can you be sure?’
‘It has to be a cover-up and the mistake Father Angelotti made must have something to do with the reference numbers.’ Lottie tapped her phone. ‘Things are beginning to make some sense.’
She checked the signal and called Boyd.
Seventy-Three
It was closing time at the gym. The thump-thump music was consigned to the depths of nowhere and someone was flicking the lights on and off. Boyd completed his warm-down, switched off the treadmill and hurried to the locker room.
Mike O’Brien was buttoning his shirt at the neck, twisting in his cufflinks, his face red, bulging from exertion. He had turned his back and was pulling on his jacket when Boyd’s phone rang.
Boyd checked the caller ID, swore and answered.
‘Boyd,’ he said and listened as Lottie spoke.
‘Father Cornelius Mohan,’ he repeated, searching his gym bag. ‘I can’t find a pen, hold on.’
O’Brien held out a ballpoint, extracted from his breast pocket. Boyd took it, nodding a thank you.
‘Go ahead. Yes, I have that. Ballinacloy. Very good. Yeah, straight away.’
He wanted to ask Lottie a whole lot more, but she had hung up on him.
‘And I love you too,’ he said sarcastically to the phone in his hand.
He handed the pen back to O’Brien, lifted his bag and left the gym without any small talk.
Ballinacloy, a village of almost two hundred souls or sinners – whichever way you wanted to look at it – was situated fifteen kilometres outside Ragmullin, on the old Athlone Road.
Out in the yard, Father Cornelius Mohan packed turf into a basket. A cigarette hung from his chapped lips. Proud of his agility at his age, he was frustrated with how the snow had debilitated him. He feared falling and fracturing a hip.
As he turned to go back inside, the light dimmed. Someone had walked in front of the door, blocking the glow of the bulb. The old priest raised his white head and looked directly into a set of dark eyes. He felt pain grasp his heart and his breathing laboured. The turf basket crashed to the ground and the cigarette fell from his mouth on to the snow, sizzling for a moment before the red butt blackened and extinguished.
‘Remember me?’ The voice echoed, distorted by a gust of wind.
The old priest looked at the face, partially shielded by a black hood. Though the face was older, the eyes held the same coldness from long ago; an emotionless being he himself had helped nurture. And he knew a day like this would come.
Turning away, he kicked the basket and tried to run. His old legs refused to move quickly.
‘Go away,’ he shouted. ‘Leave me be.’
‘So you do remember me.’
A hand grabbed his shoulder. The priest shrugged it off and hobbled to the corner of the house before he stumbled on an iron grill over a drain. As he fell backwards his assailant jumped on top of him, pinning him to the ground.
‘What do you want from me?’ the old priest croaked.
‘You stole from me.’ The tone was menacing.
‘I never stole anything in my life.’
‘You stole my life.’
‘Your life was already nothing,’ he spat. ‘You should thank me for saving you from evil.’
‘You introduced me to evil, you mad old bastard. All my life I’ve waited for this moment and now at last I can send you on your way to the eternal fires.’
‘Go to hell.’
Father Cornelius was already struggling for air when the cord tightened around his throat. He thought he heard the ringing of bells, before his world went black.
Boyd kept his finger pressed on the doorbell. It was bright inside and he could see the backyard light was on.
No answer.
‘Come on,’ he told Lynch and walked around the side of the house.
The yard was lit by a solitary bulb, too low a wattage to cast light any distance. The moon, though low in the sky, cast the trees in a soft silhouette.
Lynch tiptoed behind him. He was glad he’d called her. He needed the company.
At the rear of the house, a figure lay motionless on the ground. Boyd struck out his arm, stopping Lynch in her tracks.
‘What?’ she asked, bumping into him.
Boyd looked back at her, put a finger to his lips and listened.
‘Wait here,’ he whispered and inched towards the figure, careful not to walk on anything that might be evidence.
He crouched over the white-haired priest and held two fingers to his throat. He knew his action was fruitless when he saw the cord tight around the neck. The face was blue under the dim light, the tongue protruding and the unseeing eyes appeared to be staring straight through him. The rancid stench of defecation in death wafted up, obliterating all other smells. Boyd rose up and scanned his surroundings as far as the weak bulb allowed.
‘Lynch?’
‘What?’
‘The bushes . . . over there. I thought I saw something.’
‘I don’t see anything.’
‘There! Do you see it?’ Boyd ran through the garden in the dark.
‘Wait,’ Lynch shouted. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
He vaulted the hedge and pressed on his phone light. It began to ring. He ignored the tone, concentrated on the dark figure running ahead of him, along the narrow lane.
‘Boyd, you eejit,’ Lynch yelled. ‘Wait!’
He ran fast, slipping and sliding, trying to keep the target in sight. Branches smashed into his face, wet leaves flew back and violently slapped into him. A thorn bush tore up his nostril and a branch scratched his head. He needed to catch his prey. It was the killer. He was sure. Adrenaline fuelled his legs and he subconsciously thanked the hours he’d spent sweating in the gym.
The moonlight was strong but it was difficult running on the slippery paving stones. His breathing rattled, fast and hollow. A wheelie-bin crashed across his path and the shadow sped up the alley. At the end, a wall. Boyd climbed over it in one movement and followed the spectre into the night.
Ahead of him, a field stretched into obscurity. He stopped, catching his breath. Which direction did he go? Boyd couldn’t see a thing. Frustration welled up and he swore.
Without hearing a sound, he felt something encircle his neck. He flung up his hands, grasping at nothingness, cursing his idiocy. He was strong but caught unawares he was at a disadvantage. Lottie would have something to say about this, he thought wildly. He elbowed the man behind him. The grip remained steadfast.
He kicked back. His foot crashed against bone. Good. The noose tightened. Bad. Blackness descended while the cold air waited in a dark chill around him. He felt powerless and hysterical, simultane
ously. His throat constricted, his hands flailed, the cable tightened. He desperately fought the compression. But his knees weakened and snow seeped into his bones.
He couldn’t see anything but he sensed the man leaning over him. A knife sliced through his clothes, into his flesh. A sharp pain in his side. He gurgled a cry. His phone rang in a distant sphere. Lottie would be totally pissed off with him for dying on her. A knee bore into his spine. He gagged and the moon lit up the shadows for one second, before complete darkness plunged like a black veil over a widow’s face.
Darkness.
Seventy-Four
Lottie felt Father Joe’s arm slide through hers, steering her along the walled city through Borgo Pio and across the river.
‘I hope the ledgers help you,’ he said. ‘How is the overall investigation going?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘You don’t want to talk about it?’
‘Not with you, Joe. You’re still a suspect.’ An uneasy tinge crept into her voice.
He laughed. ‘Ah, there’s gratitude for you. I told you I could be excommunicated for what I’ve just shown you.’
‘I’m sorry. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I still can’t understand why Father Angelotti travelled to Ragmullin,’ she said. ‘It seems implausible that he went on the basis of correspondence with James Brown.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, leaning in closer to her as they walked.
‘You don’t know what?’
‘Why he travelled to Ragmullin.’
They looked back across the Tiber at St Peter’s Basilica. Father Joe scratched his head. ‘Lottie, there are niggly things crawling around in my brain. And I don’t like that feeling.’
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘There’s always been scandal associated with the Catholic Church through the centuries. In recent decades there’s the rumours of inappropriate financial dealings and the disgraceful child sex abuse cases.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I think maybe Father Angelotti was on a mission to cover up something that was threatening to explode. I’ll try to find out who might’ve sent him. But it is possible he acted on his own initiative.’
‘There’ve been a multitude of abuse cases. The Tuam babies, the Magdalene Laundries. Why now? Why kill him? It doesn’t make sense.’
Lottie raised her hands, then lowered them. He gripped her arm, turning her toward him.
‘None of it does, Lottie. But there has to be a plausible motive or scenario. And when you study the copies of the ledgers I’m sure you will find something.’
‘This case is like a spaghetti junction,’ she said, feeling his fingers through her jacket. ‘Going everywhere and nowhere. No leads, no nothing. And moving those records to Rome, it’s very unorthodox.’
‘Not unorthodox, just the Catholic Church doing what it does best. Covering up.’ He began walking again. ‘I’ll go back to Umberto in the morning and look through the other ledgers.’
‘I appreciate all you’re doing, you know that.’
‘But I’m still a suspect?’ he asked.
Lottie said nothing. They strolled the rest of the way in silence.
Standing on the pavement outside her hotel, Lottie asked, ‘Where are you going now?’
‘I don’t know, to be honest.’
She felt soft raindrops on her head.
‘Do you want to come in for a coffee?’ She didn’t want to be alone with the images conjured up by the old ledgers and she felt Joe could be her friend.
‘Perhaps I will,’ he answered and followed her into the warm lobby.
‘Shit,’ she said.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The bar is closed.’
‘Perhaps I should have booked a more upmarket hotel for you,’ he joked.
Lottie thought for a moment. ‘This is not very appropriate but do you want to come up to my room? There’s a kettle and cups there.’
‘Inspector Parker, that is a totally inappropriate suggestion,’ he said, a smile brightening his face. ‘One which I accept.’
In the elevator, Lottie put space between them, gripped her bag to her chest and sighed. What was she after doing now? She liked Father Joe. But was it like a brother or was it something more? She wasn’t at all sure.
The room was as she had left it. Curtains fluttered in the breeze and the scent of fresh rain rested on the windowsill. When she turned he was standing directly behind her. The room was suddenly too small.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, sliding past him to grab the kettle.
She filled it with water from the bathroom. When she returned, he was sitting on the narrow wooden chair at the desk, his coat thrown over the end of the bed. He hadn’t uttered a word since they’d left the lobby. She flicked on the switch, busied herself tearing open the miserable coffee sachets and poured the small grains into cups.
A wave of exhaustion seeped through her sinews. She rubbed the back of her neck. He was out of the chair and standing behind her.
‘Ssh,’ he said, massaging the spot where her fingers had been.
Tremors travelled like lightning down to her toes. Holy God, she thought, I’m like a cliché. He’s a priest. It’s okay. He’s only rubbing my tired neck.
She felt the sleeve of his sweater, rough against the silk of her blouse. She smelled his soft soap. She stood still, entombed by his touch, and wondered if she was craving this contact so that he might absolve her of all the horrors of the last few hours, the last few days, the last few years and of the horrors yet to be revealed.
‘That’s enough now, Joe,’ she laughed nervously and wriggled away from him. She began busying herself with the kettle. ‘Let’s have that coffee.’
‘Of course,’ he said, sitting down on the chair.
Handing him a cup, she said, ‘I hope I haven’t given off wrong signals. I like you as a friend. Nothing more. My life is complicated enough.’
He laughed then and the tension in the room seemed to slip out the window with the billowing curtain.
‘Dear God, I hope I wasn’t being improper. I was only trying to release the pressure from your neck. It’s been a tough day for you.’
She felt a blush sweep up her cheeks. Shit, she had made a fool of herself. She put down the cup and turned away.
He stood up and placed his hands on her shoulders, forced her to look at him.
‘You are a good woman, Lottie Parker. I want you to know that I will be your friend and I’ll do my best to help you solve the murders.’ He held out his hand. ‘Friends?’
‘Yes,’ Lottie said and shook his hand. He clasped her hand, holding it in his own.
He left then, without saying anything further.
Leaning against the door, she listened to his steps disappearing down the marble corridor. She waited for her breathing to return to normal. She waited for the chiming of the Maggiore bells.
When at last she could move, Lottie tried phoning Boyd. She just wanted to hear a familiar voice.
No answer.
She looked out over the city and counted the silhouetted spires. She counted the car horns and the sirens. As her body relaxed she flipped open her laptop. She needed to go home. Tonight. Finding a flight leaving in two hours, she booked it and hurriedly stuffed everything into her rucksack, left the hotel and ran to catch the shuttle-train.
She called Boyd again.
No answer.
Seventy-Five
A bell tinkled and a light flickered above his head. Jason opened his eyes and turned his head slowly, focussing through the shadows.
‘Time for a little ceremony, server boy.’
The voice chanted a hum of incantations. A light dimmed and flickered.
‘What do you want?’ Jason croaked.
‘Whatever you have to offer me will never be enough.’
‘My father—’
‘This is partly his fault. So you can blame him.’
‘What . . . what do you mean?
’
‘You don’t need to concern yourself with it.’
Jason squeezed his eyes shut to keep tears from escaping. Hands unshackled him, hauled him to his feet. A finger trailed down his spine. The man exhaled a loud sigh and pushed him out the door, along a corridor, and down steps.
He was in a small chapel. The man carried a bell, clanging it in time to some unknown beat within his body.
The wooden pews offered Jason no comfort; he was forced to stand, hypnotised by the scene before him.
Dressed in a flowing white robe, buttoned from hem to neck, the man sang his mad tune, his voice rising and falling, almost in time to the candles blowing soft and slow in a captured breeze.
‘I killed a man tonight,’ said the singsong voice.
Jason grew cold, though his skin radiated sweat. Combined with whatever drugs he’d been fed, the flickering candles and incessant chanting, he felt dizzy.
‘Actually I might have killed two.’ The hysterical laugh resonated throughout the stone vestibule.
A crow circled high in the rafters and flew into a stained glass window, a feather floating through the air in its wake. A mist descended over Jason’s eyes as the marble welcomed his fall. He hit the floor and lay unconscious beside the black feather.
Seventy-Six
Lottie leaned against the oval airplane window. Closing her eyes, she thought of the few hours she had spent in Rome, her mind consumed by the old ledgers. Numbers scrolled through her mind. Susan Sullivan was a number. Her child was a number. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright in the seat, waking the woman beside her.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 28
