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

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lottie said. ‘I think we’ve another hour to go.’

  The woman scrunched her chin into her chest and went back to sleep.

  Lottie stared at the seat in front of her. What was within her grasp? A clue. Something she’d already seen but hadn’t yet registered. It would come. She knew it would. The photographic evidence was on her phone. Once it was uploaded, she was sure she could tie it all together.

  Jealous of the woman with the soft snores, she couldn’t rest easy. She needed to talk to someone. She needed Boyd. She needed to get back to work. She needed to sleep.

  Her heart sank deeper as the plane rose higher above the dark clouds and she struggled with the sins she’d committed and the ones to which she’d practically succumbed.

  Would she ever be able to sleep again?

  Seventy-Seven

  The boy looked like an unfinished sculpture, the man thought. Just like he himself. Weak. Fragmented. Incomplete. Here in St Angela’s – his nemesis.

  He’d spent his miserable childhood within this enclosure and he’d grown, like ivy inhabiting a cracked concrete wall, wild and untethered. His soul darkened day by day, as he became enshrined in his own world. Abuse and deceit engulfed him but as the years passed he learned to bury embryonic evil beneath a daily facade of normality.

  And now St Angela’s had once again resurrected the devil, exhumed the darkness, bringing him on this final journey.

  Back to where he had started.

  And he knew it would finish here.

  He kicked the boy lying on the ground and when he moaned, he dragged him to his feet, pushed him up the steps and back to the room. He thrust him down on the mildewed floorboards, banged the door shut and locked it. Leaning against the worn timber he breathed heavily.

  He had spared the boy.

  Kept the demons at bay.

  But for how long?

  30th January 1976

  The four of them huddled together when they should have been running. The door swung open. Brian stood there, a white robe covering his body. His thin arm edged up the wall, his narrow fingers flicked on the light. Sally shielded her eyes against the brightness.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Brian said. ‘I’m not all right. Neither are you. You’re all to come down to the chapel. Father Con orders ye to come.’

  ‘Are you mad or what?’ Patrick asked, stepping in front of Sally. She wanted to tell him she was brave enough to stand up for herself but didn’t. Because she wasn’t.

  ‘I asked you a frigging question,’ Patrick said.

  ‘You’ve all to come with me,’ Brian said, his voice deadpan like his eyes.

  To Sally he seemed a lot older, standing there in the doorway. She put her hand on his arm and felt bone beneath skin. He jumped as if she had pinched him. He grasped her hand and pulled her out the door. She screamed and Fitzy snapped out of whatever stupor he had been in and dragged her back into the room with Brian still holding on to her.

  Sally fell and curled into a small heap at the boys’ bare feet. Her body jerked with shivers.

  ‘Please, Brian,’ she pleaded. ‘Let’s all go back to bed and forget about this.’

  ‘You better come with me. He’s waiting,’ Brian said, before he was pushed into the room.

  From behind him, Father Con, eyes as black as the night, reached in and yanked Sally to her feet. A scream tore from her throat as he dragged her out and down the stairs. She heard the shuffle of the boys as they followed.

  At the altar, he glared down at her and she up at him. She knew every line on his face, every hair in his eyebrows, every whisker on his jaw, every tooth in his mouth and she hated every inch of him.

  ‘Bad girl,’ he said, his mouth snarling, teeth biting his bottom lip, fingers cutting into her arm.

  ‘You’re the one who turned me into a bad girl,’ Sally said.

  The hint of bravado was a lie. At least the boys were there, standing like a band of warriors though they hadn’t a weapon between them.

  One of them shouted, ‘You tell him, Sally.’ Probably Patrick, she thought.

  The priest reached out his hand and seized the boy nearest to him. Fitzy, with his red hair gleaming in the candle light. She could count the big flat freckles bridging his nose. And she saw fire burning flames in his eyes.

  ‘I’m not scared, you bully,’ Fitzy said, squaring his shoulders. Sally wished he would keep his mouth shut. He was too young to be this brave, or was he plain silly?

  The priest surveyed him as if he was a prize fish.

  Sally whirled her head around in a frenzy. They had to get out of here. Get help. But from whom? Not the nuns. Sure everyone was afraid of Father Con. He was the boss man. She didn’t know what to do. She looked at Patrick. He appeared as hopeless as she was. Then, secluded in the flickering shadows behind the altar, she spotted the young priest with the ugly eyes. Standing there, in the dark alcove, doing nothing. Staring, rubbing his hands through his thick black hair, as if he did not know what to do either. His silent, passive presence was as terrifying as the maniac holding Fitzy. What were they to do?

  A scream from Fitzy drew her eyes back to Father Con. He was twisting the boy’s arm up his back.

  ‘I will teach you to respect your elders. You were bad news from the day you entered these walls. And you will be bad news until the day you leave it,’ he said.

  ‘You’re nothing,’ Fitzy said bravely. He looked very small.

  The priest tightened his hold with one hand and with the other plucked a candle from the altar. He held it to Fitzy’s face. The flame flickered and danced, singeing his red hair black. Sally gagged at the smell.

  ‘Say you are sorry. You’re nothing only a bad bastard and your mother is a prostitute.’ Fitzy squirmed and wriggled. He couldn’t break free of the stranglehold.

  Sally watched his helpless body convulsing and wished they could do something. Anything. They were as powerless as the stupid statues on the walls. Why didn’t the other priest do something? She glanced over. He was still standing there. Immobile.

  Father Con threw the candle to the floor, kicked over his folded clothes and picked up his long leather belt.

  ‘Brian, use the cord from your robe and tie this murdering brat’s hands behind his back.’

  Sally saw a film of sweat on Brian’s brow. She looked from Patrick to James, her eyes questioning. What’s going on? They shook their heads vigorously.

  Fitzy kicked, lashed out and bit. The priest held fast. Brian did as he was commanded. Once bound, Fitzy was pushed, by Father Con, to his knees before the altar.

  ‘You murdered that baby, didn’t you?’ the priest shouted. ‘The one we found under the apple tree.’

  Fitzy spat out a full mouth of phlegm. ‘I didn’t, you lying bastard.’

  Tightening the belt round his hand, the priest drew out his arm and slashed the leather into Fitzy’s face. The brass buckle cut into his cheek and blood poured from the wound. The priest repeated his action, again and again. Sally scrunched her eyes behind her hands, then squinted through splayed fingers. When she couldn’t bear it any longer she screamed and, mustering up as much courage as she could, she ran at Father Con. He turned, lashing at her with the leather. Patrick pulled her away and dragged her down the aisle. She thought of dashing back, but it was hopeless. She caught James by the hand and the three of them scrambled up the stairs, shouting for help.

  Over her shoulder, Sally witnessed Brian holding Fitzy by the shoulders, while the lunatic brought the leather up and down, again and again and again. As long as she lived, she would never forget the sound of leather tearing flesh and the boy’s helpless screams. And the ugly young priest with the thick black hair, standing in the corner, watching, doing nothing.

  As they fled toward the corridor, Sally heard a voice, loud and clear behind them. ‘Stop!’

  The three of them turned in unison, coming face to face with the young priest, a halo of light
from the crypt below, encircling him like a satanic fire.

  He walked up to them. Sally leaned into the boys’ bodies. They were three, dissolved into one shadow.

  ‘Be quiet. We do not want to wake everyone up, do we?’ The priest flashed a sly smile, his face colder than ice, eyes blacker than coal, voice sharper than a cut-throat razor.

  ‘You do not need concern yourselves with what you saw. I will deal with it. Do not utter this incident to anyone. Anyone! Do you hear?’ His voice a slow, severe whisper.

  The three nodded their heads like wooden puppets with an unseen force holding the strings.

  ‘If I ever hear of this again . . . well, you have seen what happened to that boy. I will not warn you a second time. Now return to your beds.’

  He melted back down the stairs. Sally and the boys looked at each other, eyes wide, brimming with tears.

  ‘What about Fitzy?’ Sally whispered.

  ‘You heard what he said. We’ll have to forget about him,’ Patrick said.

  ‘He’s one unlucky fecker,’ James said. He slid to the floor and fell against an iron radiator, his arms around his knees, shivering and sobbing.

  Sally sat down beside James. Patrick joined them. And the three of them cried together for Fitzy.

  DAY EIGHT

  6th January 2015

  Seventy-Eight

  Five a.m. and Lottie stood outside the Arrivals door at Dublin Airport cursing that she had no car. She switched on her phone.

  Five missed calls from Kirby. Nothing from Boyd. She tried him first. No answer. Then she rang Kirby.

  ‘Jaysus boss, I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours,’ he panted.

  ‘What’s wrong? My kids! Are they all right?’

  ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘Thank God. Boyd’s not answering his phone. And I need a lift home.’

  ‘He’s in hospital.’

  ‘What? What happened? Is he okay? Tell me he’s okay, Kirby.’

  ‘No, he’s not. Stabbed, strangled. He’s in surgery. You better get back here.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘That priest you sent him to talk to is dead. Murdered. Boyd took after the killer and almost got himself killed in the process.’

  ‘Oh my God. Is he going to be okay?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I’ll be there in less than an hour.’

  ‘And boss?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Superintendent Corrigan is looking for you.’

  Lottie hung up, ran to the taxi rank and jumped into the first car. Sinking into the seat, she looked out at the grey dawn rising on the horizon with only one person on her mind.

  Boyd.

  The narrow hospital corridor, lined with empty beds and lockers, had staff in green scrubs, unrecognisable as doctors or nurses, flitting along, heads down, scanning patient files. In and out of the ICU swinging doors, whooshing wind over the stifling air, they hurried. Lottie was tempted to push open the door to see for herself how serious Boyd was, but rationale ruled. Two plastic chairs facing the ICU lockdown were free beside a dozing Detective Lynch. Detective Kirby was lounging beside her.

  ‘How long since he returned from surgery?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Half an hour,’ Kirby said, standing up straight. ‘No word yet.’

  Lottie paced, then sat.

  ‘Let’s get a coffee,’ Lynch said, stretching.

  ‘Let’s not,’ Lottie snapped.

  ‘Calm down,’ Kirby said.

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

  Lynch filled her in.

  ‘And Father Cornelius . . . I’m assuming it’s the same MO as the other murders.’

  ‘Yes. Strangled. The lads are searching the database to see if he had any connection to the other victims,’ Lynch said.

  ‘I found a connection in Rome. That’s why I rang Boyd to go talk to the priest,’ Lottie said.

  ‘What did you find?’ Lynch asked.

  ‘In his interview Patrick O’Malley mentioned a Father Con. I found out that Father Cornelius Mohan was a priest in St Angela’s when Sullivan and Brown were there. After that he was moved around institutions and parishes more times than a carousel. He had to have been a serial child abuser.’

  ‘But what’s the motive for the murders?’ Kirby asked. ‘And how does a paedophile priest fit in?’

  ‘He does. Somehow.’

  Lottie nursed her head, attempting to keep a headache under wraps.

  ‘Boyd better make it,’ she said and they lapsed into silence.

  A doctor rushed out of ICU. Lottie sprang from the chair and marched over to him.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Parker. I need to see Detective Sergeant Boyd.’

  ‘I don’t care who you are, no one goes in there until he’s stable.’

  ‘How long might that be?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’

  ‘Doctor? Please.’

  ‘I’ve managed to save his ruptured spleen. He’s a very lucky man. No other internal damage that I could see. He’ll be in ICU for the rest of the day. I suggest you all go home for now and call back later.’

  Lottie swayed in the draught from the swinging door as the doctor brushed past.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We can do more for Boyd by finding the murdering bastard who did this to him. This just got personal.’

  Seventy-Nine

  Kirby dropped Lottie home to pick up her car. Her mother was busy mopping the kitchen floor.

  ‘Did you ever hear of a Father Cornelius Mohan?’ Lottie asked, after thanking Rose for looking after the children.

  ‘I did. He lives out in Ballinacloy. Retired this long time.’

  Jesus, her mother really did know everyone. ‘And?’

  ‘He was a local curate in Ragmullin, back in the seventies.’

  ‘Do you know anything else about him?’ Lottie watched her mother’s face.

  Rose Fitzpatrick stared back.

  ‘What’s this about?’ she asked, squeezing out the mop.

  ‘Background information.’

  ‘As far as I can recall he was one of the chaplains in St Angela’s for a time.’

  ‘Really?’ Lottie knew her mother was being evasive.

  ‘Come on, Lottie. I’ve answered your questions about my conversation with Susan Sullivan and I know you’re itching to ask me something else.’

  ‘Was there ever a hint of scandal surrounding him, especially in St Angela’s?’

  Rose turned, put the mop and bucket into the utility room, grabbed and buttoned her coat. She pulled her hat down over her ears and paused at the door.

  ‘I know full well, Lottie Parker, you already know the answer.’

  ‘And you know full well that’s where you dumped Eddie after Dad died.’ Lottie stated grimly. This was the first time she’d ever accused her mother.

  Rose’s hand dropped from the door handle. She took a step toward Lottie. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘You know as well as I do that your precious father killed himself. He didn’t just die.’ A sob broke from her throat. ‘And I didn’t dump anyone anywhere.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Lottie hunched her shoulders, reached out and placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. She waited for Rose to shake it off. She didn’t.

  ‘No. I’m sorry. You were too young to understand it all. I could never talk about it and I’ve always grieved for their loss. You know about grief; how hard it is to carry on without a husband by your side. I did everything I could to make things right for you. Everything.’

  Lottie did know, but she had lived with the gaping hole in her existence every second of the day. Now she wanted answers.

  ‘I want to know what happened and why it happened. You owe me that much, at least.’

  Rose pulled away from Lottie’s hand and lowered her voice.

  ‘After all I’ve done for you and your children, I don’t think I owe you anything.’

  ‘But why did
Dad kill himself?’ Lottie persisted.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay, I will accept that. For now. But Eddie? My little brother? You put him in that place, left him to rot there. I cannot accept that.’

  ‘You don’t know what it was like back then. The stigma attached to suicide. I was a widow with two young children. And Eddie, he . . . he was impossible. I had no choice.’

  ‘There’s always a choice, Mother. You just made the wrong one.’

  ‘Don’t judge me, Lottie.’

  ‘Then tell me why you placed Eddie in there.’

  ‘It was the only place that could handle him.’

  Lottie laughed wryly. ‘Only they couldn’t, could they? He ran away, didn’t he? What must it have been like for him?’ She shook herself as images of the horrors of 1970s institutions invaded her senses.

  Rose shuffled into her coat and walked to the door. ‘I live with what I did, every day of my life. And now I’m going. I didn’t come here to be interrogated and accused. Goodbye.’

  Lottie stood bristling for a long time after her mother left. Wrenching her fingers into her hands, she counted the cobwebs woven over the top of the cupboards. Took deep breaths. Tried to ground herself. How did Rose manage to turn every question into an accusation? She was the one person who could leave her truly shaken.

  After checking in on Katie, Chloe and Sean, and still in a stupor, stung by her mother’s unwillingness to give her the answers she had so long coveted, Lottie changed her clothes, dodged a shower and drove to the station. Her lack of sleep was replaced with adrenaline.

  She set Kirby and Lynch to work. They needed to keep their minds off Boyd’s critical state and find some concrete evidence to advance the murder inquiries. She was convinced the deaths of the two priests, Cornelius and Angelotti, were connected to Susan Sullivan and James Brown, and the common thread was St Angela’s.

  Uploading the ledger photos from her phone to the computer, Lottie squinted with gritty eyes as the entries appeared on the screen. Each held an untold story, every name was someone’s heartache. And that pain had been suffered in the halls, rooms and grounds of St Angela’s. She needed access to the building, to get a feel for the place, to discover if it held the answers she wanted.