‘Print these photos and stick them together chronologically,’ Lottie told Lynch before heading to the makeshift canteen. She boiled the half-empty kettle. Mug in hand, she turned to find Corrigan framing the doorway. Not now, she thought.
‘Morning, sir.’ Lottie sipped her coffee as nonchalantly as she could.
‘You look like shit, Parker.’ He folded his arms.
No escape, he wasn’t going anywhere. She straightened her weary body, raised herself to her full height and mustered up a lame attempt at bravado.
‘Thank you,’ she said, forcing a smile.
‘I’m not stupid,’ Corrigan said, calmly. Too calm. She braced herself for the onslaught.
‘I know,’ she said. What else could she say?
‘Don’t be smart with me,’ he said, unfolding his arms. He leaned in behind her. She flinched and ducked, then noticed he was only switching on the kettle while keeping the exit blocked.
‘You travelled to Rome,’ he growled.
‘Yessir.’ No point in denying it.
‘You disobeyed my direct order. I could suspend you, fire you, have your balls on a plate, if you had any.’
‘Yessir.’ Lottie pulled at the sleeve of her shirt, not about to argue with anything he said.
‘I hope it was worth the trouble you’ve created, for yourself and everyone else,’ he said, pouring the dribble of water.
‘I think it was.’ Lottie handed him a carton, her nose twitching with the smell of milk ready to turn.
‘I’m listening,’ he said, arms folded again, mug on the counter of boxes.
‘Okay sir. The way I see it, the murders relate back to incidents which occurred in St Angela’s in the seventies. Possibly a murder, if not two. And yes, I admit I went to Rome. I was following a lead.’
‘What lead might that be?’
‘Father Burke found ledgers with information. He asked me to go take a look. There was no way he could send the information to me.’
‘Go on.’
‘I saw these ledgers detailing children’s admissions to St Angela’s. Dates, names, adoptions, deaths. I’ve yet to analyse the information and I’ve no idea of the importance of it, but the signature on some of the pages is significant.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Father Cornelius Mohan.’
‘The Ballinacloy victim from last night?’ Corrigan asked, unfolding his arms, taking his coffee, spilling it on his shirtsleeve.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And in another ledger there’re details of his movements, including his stint in St Angela’s. He moved to over forty different parishes. Tells its own story, don’t you think?’
‘And there he was, living fifteen kilometres outside Ragmullin, next door to a primary school. Madness.’
‘All approved by Bishop Connor. Who, incidentally, arranged for the ledgers to be moved to Rome.’ Lottie watched Corrigan’s face as he digested it all. She added, ‘I contacted Boyd last night, asked him to go to Ballinacloy and interview Cornelius Mohan. I believed he might have information about the victims.’
Corrigan’s lips hovered over the rim of his mug. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ he said, ‘so how did the killer get to Mohan before Boyd? Was he tipped off?’
‘Not sure, but it’s all too convenient,’ Lottie said. ‘I need to find out who knew we were after the priest. He had to know something that warranted his murder.’
Puffing out his cheeks, Corrigan said, ‘I’m giving you a stay of execution. I can’t afford to be down another detective with Boyd out. But when this is all over, you may well end up on indiscipline charges in front of the chief superintendent. For now, get back to work. And Parker,’ he said, drawing his face level with hers.
‘Yes sir?’
‘I’ll be watching your every move.’
His gaze bore tiny holes into the backs of her eyes, almost hollowing them out of their sockets, before he walked off, shaking his head.
Lottie sighed. The threat of disciplinary action was now swinging over her head. But she still had her job. For now. One positive in a mire of negativity.
Eighty
Detective Maria Lynch dropped the copies on the desk. Lottie picked them up. Names swarmed in front of her as a thought struck her. Father Joe had allowed her to take the photographs. And he’d been there when she had called Boyd. Her heart plunged a full two inches down her chest. He was the only one who knew what she’d told Boyd. No. Could he have sent someone after the old priest? He couldn’t have. Could he? She was burning up. Why did he bring her to Rome, show her all the records, then double cross her? He was her friend. Wasn’t he? It didn’t make sense. On the other hand, what other explanation could there be? Nothing made sense. She sprang up, as if scalded.
‘Kirby?’ she shouted.
He glanced over. ‘You all right, boss?’
‘Any news from the hospital?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Did we run a check on Father Joe Burke?’ She forced her voice to appear normal.
‘First murder, second person on the scene, Joe Burke?’
‘I’m not in the mood, Kirby.’
‘I’ll print it off for you.’
His fingers echoed loudly as he stumped up the name on his computer. Clickity click, clickity click.
Running her hand along the back of her neck, she didn’t know whether she was tracking the memory of Father Joe’s fingers or stemming the rise of bile.
As Kirby banged away, Lottie heard Tom Rickard before she saw him, the developer’s voice thundering abuse at the end of the corridor. The sound, like galvanised sheets loose on a shed roof in a force ten gale, preceded his entry to the office. Superintendent Corrigan hung behind him.
Lottie swivelled to meet Rickard’s dark raging eyes. The storm just might be upgraded to a hurricane.
He crossed the floor to her desk. ‘Inspector.’
‘Good morning, Mr Rickard,’ she said in her sweetest voice.
She wheeled over Boyd’s chair. Rickard sat, his buttocks precariously balanced on the edge. Nodding to Corrigan that she had everything under control, he scuttled out the door.
‘Are you here about St Angela’s?’ Lottie found a notebook and picked up a pen.
‘St Angela’s has nothing to do with anything,’ Rickard said, a white handkerchief appearing in his hand. He wiped his pulsing forehead. ‘It’s my son, Jason. He’s missing.’
Lottie scribbled without raising her head. Katie had said she couldn’t get hold of Jason yesterday. She should have listened more carefully. She tried to stem the beginnings of alarm. Surely Jason would at least have contacted Katie? Something wasn’t right.
‘Missing? According to Katie, you and Jason had something of an altercation. When was that?’
Rickard looked as if he was going to object but said, ‘That’s right. Night before last. He stormed out of the house and hasn’t been home since.’
‘Did you check with his friends? His usual haunts?’
‘Yes. And scoured the town, the lakeshore,’ he said. ‘We had a fight. He fecked off.’ His feet were planted firmly on the ground but his head shifted from side to side.
‘I understand how worried you are, but Jason is over eighteen and an adult. Do you think his disappearance could have anything to do with your St Angela’s dealings?’ she asked, emphasising the name of the institution.
Rickard shot up from the chair. Lottie recoiled instinctively.
‘You’re one callous bitch,’ he said.
‘Sit down, Mr Rickard,’ she said, writing more notes on a page, allowing him time to regain composure. ‘Any ransom calls?’
‘What?’ Rickard clenched his fists on the desk. ‘That’s absurd.’
‘No ransom requests then.’ She wrote a note then raised her head. ‘Mr Rickard, I have to ask awkward questions. You’re a wealthy businessman. Kidnapping is one option. Suicide or running away are some of the others. If you want us to investigate, you have to co-operate.’ This was
bullshit, but she wasn’t letting go. It might be her only chance to get information from him.
‘How can my business affairs have anything to do with Jason?’
‘Probably nothing, but the way I see it, you hit your son, he ran off in a huff and now he’s cooling his heels somewhere until he figures out how he’s going to tackle you about it.’
‘Why isn’t he holed up with your daughter then? Why hasn’t he contacted anyone? His phone is at home, but all his friends have mobiles, Facebook and Twitter stuff. Wouldn’t he at least contact his girlfriend? What did she tell you?’
‘Katie was very frightened when she came home and she told me you hit your son. She hasn’t heard from him since but Jason is an adult, Mr Rickard. In normal circumstances, I’d advise you to go home, hold your wife’s hand and wait while we make enquiries.’
Blood flushed the veins in his cheeks. He remained silent.
‘However, as you know,’ Lottie continued, ‘things are not normal in Ragmullin at the moment. People have been murdered so you have cause for concern.’ She was genuinely concerned for Jason, but she couldn’t help being bitchy. She needed to know what Rickard knew.
He remained immobile except for his bottom lip twitching as if he wanted to say something but was unable to get the words out.
‘It’s not normal procedure as he is not a minor, and we should really wait a bit longer, but I’ll process a missing person’s report and put out a bulletin,’ she said.
‘That’s it? A missing person’s report?’
‘I’m even bending the rules at that.’
‘Rules my arse. Where’s Corrigan?’ Rickard stood up.
‘Tell me about St Angela’s,’ Lottie said, without raising her head.
‘St Angela’s has nothing to do with Jason.’ He sat down again.
Chewing her pen, Lottie tapped her computer awake and pressed a few keys. She clicked Susan Sullivan’s pathologist report, scrolled down to the photos, zoomed in on the victim’s throat and turned the screen toward Rickard. She had nothing to lose.
‘What’re you playing at?’ he asked, the handkerchief appearing again.
‘This is our first victim.’
She was a total shit doing this to him, but being at a low ebb he might volunteer some useful information.
‘Please . . . Inspector, don’t,’ he said. ‘Do you honestly think I’d something to do with this . . . this monstrosity?’ He puffed out his chest, shaking his head.
Lottie closed the document and opened another.
‘James Brown.’ She eyed Rickard. ‘He phoned you a little while before he died. So tell me. What was going on?’
Rickard chewed the inside of his cheek.
She imagined his brain forming a response. Before he could answer, she said, ‘Think of your son. Do you want me sitting here in a few days’ time scrolling his post-mortem photos for your wife?’
He swallowed noisily and leaned in towards her. She waited.
‘None of this has anything to do with St Angela’s,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’m a businessman, I formulate plans, conclude deals, make money, develop property, realise profits. Sometimes I lose, but more often than not, I win. St Angela’s was a site ripe for development, a way of clawing back what I’d lost with the ghost estates. I had a vision for it, a master plan. I wanted to develop it into a beautiful hotel, build a magnificent golf course, bring business, jobs to the town.’ He straightened his back. ‘And it has nothing to do with the disappearance of my son.’
‘Just humour me,’ Lottie said.
‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘Never.’
She knew Rickard was considering her, forming a reply he thought she might want to hear. She sat rigid, displaying no emotion. He looked around the room, then back at her and seemed to come to a decision.
‘First off, I want you to be clear that I did not murder those people or arrange for them to be murdered. I had nothing whatsoever to do with those crimes. I might be a lot of things, Inspector, but I am not a murderer.’
‘Go on,’ Lottie said.
‘Should I have my solicitor present?’
‘Depends on whether you’ve done anything that warrants you needing one.’
Rickard exhaled. ‘James Brown did ring me, that evening, before he was killed.’
‘Go on,’ Lottie repeated. Nothing new there. They had the evidence.
‘I knew both Brown and Susan Sullivan through their work on the planning application. He told me Susan Sullivan was dead, that she might’ve been murdered. Said he wanted to meet me. That was the sum total of the conversation.’
‘Why did he contact you?’ Lottie asked.
‘I don’t know. He said he wanted to tell me something, urgently.’
‘Did you meet with him?’
‘No. Told him I was busy. Hung up. Then he was killed a few hours later.’
‘Someone met him and then possibly killed him. Who did you contact after James’ phone call to you?’
‘No one.’
‘Come on, Mr Rickard. We can access your phone record.’
‘I rang my partners to inform them of Sullivan’s death and Brown’s phone call.’
‘Your partners?’
‘No need for you to know them, is there?’
She would get it out of him later. ‘Had any of them reason to kill Sullivan and Brown?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You must have some idea. What were the victims up to?’
Rickard inhaled a couple of deep breaths.
‘Brown and Sullivan. A right pair when they got going,’ he said. ‘They knew I’d wrangled the alteration to the county development plan to progress my plans for St Angela’s. Had it in for me, the two of them did. Tried to blackmail me. Said they wanted reparation for past sins or some such shite. I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. When Brown first contacted me with their . . . their scam, back in July, I told him to go fuck himself.’
Lottie thought of the money in the victims’ bank accounts and the cash in Susan Sullivan’s fridge.
‘But you gave in.’
‘I did not.’ He banged the desk. ‘I rise above such challenges, Inspector. I don’t give in.’
‘So what did you do? They’d threatened you with blackmail.’
‘I convened a meeting with my partners. I told them about the blackmail threats and we decided to ride it out. Brown and Sullivan were not a danger to our plans. They’d no concrete proof of any wrongdoings. In all honesty there weren’t any wrongdoings – just speeding up the planning process.’
‘And how was that done?’
‘A few quid in a few back pockets of councillors. But that’s not the issue, is it?’
Lottie decided to ignore his admission of planning manipulation. She had enough going on. She decided to change direction. ‘Were you ever a resident in St Angela’s, Mr Rickard? As a child?’
‘No, I was not and I don’t know what that has to do with anything.’
Lottie wasn’t sure if this was the truth but she needed him to confirm it.
‘Who else is involved in this project?’ she asked. If he was telling the truth, and she suspected he was, who sent the money to the victims’ bank accounts?
‘I don’t see what you knowing who my partners are has to do with my son’s disappearance.’
‘You don’t know that. I want to know who they are.’
‘Will you find my son?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Lottie said.
‘Alive?’ Rickard asked. His bulk appeared to have shrunk since he had entered the room.
She didn’t answer. That was a promise she couldn’t make, however confident she was that the boy had skived off to get away from his overpowering father. She hoped that was the case, thinking of her last missing person. Father Angelotti.
He told her the names. Gerry Dunne, Mike O’Brien and Bishop Terence Connor.
‘You need to tell me the whole story,�
� she said, her fatigue from lack of sleep evaporating.
‘There is no story, Inspector. Just a few men pulling a couple of strokes to make a quick buck. Bishop Connor sold me the property below market value in exchange for lifetime membership to the new golf club. Mike O’Brien massaged a few figures so that I could finance the deal and Gerry Dunne is to ensure the project gets full planning approval.
‘That’s it. We’re not involved in anything dark enough to warrant murder. I suggest you start looking elsewhere. Otherwise you’re wasting valuable time when you could be looking for Jason.’ Rickard searched his pocket for something.
‘As you appear to have a fascination with St Angela’s, here, take these,’ he said, slapping a ring of keys on the desk. ‘Go, see for yourself. It’s just an old building in need of renovation. Bricks and mortar. Satisfy your curiosity. And then, for God’s sake, find my son.’
Lottie placed her hand over the keys and pulled them towards her before he changed his mind.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Go home to your wife. Let me know the second you hear anything from Jason. I’ll do likewise.’
She indicated their interview was over.
Rickard stood and, without a word or a backward glance, walked flatfooted out of the office, his tailored suit as wrinkled as his craggy face.
Opening the bottom drawer, Lottie extracted the yellowing Manila folder and gazed at the young boy in the photograph. She knew exactly what it was like to have someone missing. She hoped against hope that Jason Rickard was only nursing a sore ego. Anything more sinister than that, and they were in a completely new sphere.
Eighty-One
Sean Parker listened to Katie sniffling in her bedroom next door. It reminded him of his mother’s night-time crying after his dad had died. The difference was his mam got up each morning red-eyed but in denial, going about her work as if nothing was wrong. He’d wanted to shout at her, remind her of the crying keeping him awake at night. But he remained silent, his young heart breaking for her, for his sisters and himself.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 30
