Katie’s sobs were different and he felt sorry for her. He’d been in awe of Jason since he’d let him have a pull on a spliff. He’d managed a few drags before the sitting room swam in a myriad of shapes and colours. Then he’d vomited for twenty minutes. He hadn’t told Jason that.
He pressed his camouflage controller and stilled a soldier’s action on the screen. He wished his mam was home more. But she had her job and was busy with the murder investigations. Everyone told him he was the man of the house, now his dad was gone. So what would the man of the house do?
He tried to switch off the PlayStation but it froze. Wouldn’t go on or off.
He needed a new console. Badly, like right now.
He had some savings. Searching his locker for his bank card, his fingers touched cold steel and curled around the Swiss army knife his dad had bought him years ago. He liked to flick open the different shaped blades pretending he was a character from Grand Theft Auto. In all the years he’d had the knife, he’d never taken it out of the house. Today he would. After all, there was a murderer around. You never knew when you might need a Swiss army knife. His dad had told him that. He checked the time on his phone. Just gone half past eleven. He’d be there and back before lunchtime.
He put his bank card in his pocket along with the knife and, pulling on two hoodies, left the house to the sound of Chloe calling Katie a drama queen.
Eighty-Two
Kicking off her boots, Lottie massaged her foot with one hand while clutching the keys to St Angela’s with the other. She caught Kirby eyeing her over the top of his monitor.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Nothing.’ He returned his gaze to the computer.
‘Kirby, for once in your life will you say what you’re thinking?’
Pocketing the keys, she stamped her foot to the floor and shuffled her aching feet back into her boots. Trailing a hand through her limp hair, she took her phone off silent. No messages. No missed calls. No nothing. She hoped Boyd was doing all right. She looked up to find Kirby standing beside her with a page in his hand. He squeezed her shoulder.
‘You wanted something on Father Burke,’ he said and went back to his desk.
Lottie looked at the passport-sized photo of Father Joe with his boyish fringe and blue eyes, an open and inviting smile. She skimmed the report until her eyes landed on a local newspaper article from Wexford.
‘Did you read this?’ she asked.
‘I did,’ said Kirby. ‘He appears to be something of a ladies’ man.’
The words on the page merged into each other. Lack of caffeine or sleep deprivation? She felt like throwing up; tried to focus but her mind refused to register what she was looking at. A small article quoting a local woman in Wexford Town. She had claimed Father Joe Burke had pursued her, wanting a relationship. She’d ignored his advances and when he’d persisted she’d reported him but the guards wouldn’t do anything about it. Lottie couldn’t believe this had actually been printed. Then she thought of the journalist Cathal Moroney and his secret source. She still had to find out who was behind that leak.
She raised her head to Kirby.
‘Chasing after female parishioners,’ he said, ‘is only a crime in the Catholic Church. Vow of celibacy and all that. If you ask me—’
‘I didn’t,’ she said, tuning him out.
She’d been taken in by Father Joe’s good looks and sweet charm. Had he been trying to seduce her when she only wanted friendship? Was that why he insisted she go to Rome when really he could have photographed and emailed the relevant ledger pages?
She shoved back her chair, grabbed her phone and, with one arm inside her jacket, was out the door without hearing another word from Kirby.
She fully intended to go have a look around St Angela’s but as she left the office she bumped into Maria Lynch at the car pool.
‘I’m heading back out to Ballinacloy,’ Lynch said. ‘You coming?’
‘Sure. I’ll drive,’ Lottie said, making up her mind on the spot. St Angela’s could wait. Maybe she might find something at the old priest’s abode.
Father Cornelius Mohan had lived in a bungalow to the left of a small church. Four cottages, early twentieth century, lined the road to the right, a hedged laneway snaking behind. Between the small houses and the church stood a five-class primary school, Thomas the Tank Engine painted on the oil tank. A playground curled around the school. And, for the last ten years, a paedophile priest had lived next door. All this had been facilitated by none other than Bishop Connor. Lottie shook her head in bewilderment.
The garda, standing at the gate, lifted the crime scene tape, allowing them through. With Lynch talking to the SOCOs in the yard out the back, Lottie pulled on latex gloves and opened the front door. She surveyed the dark rambling hallway and entered the kitchen with its high ceiling. Everything was murky brown and the air stank of smoke – turf and cigarettes. A clogged ashtray sat on the table beside a chipped mug half-full of stagnant tea. The stove door was open, its ashes as cold as the dead priest.
She pushed open another door. A narrow streak of mid-morning glow seeped through at the bottom of thin curtains. As she drew back the cotton, a shaft of brightness illuminating a crest of dust floating in the air threw light on an unmade single bed, a locker, chest of drawers and a two-door stand-alone wardrobe.
Lifting up a plain blue blanket, Lottie eased gloved fingers under the pillow, felt around and extracted a bulging wallet. It was full of fifty and one hundred euro notes. One five hundred euro note folded in the back behind a laminated card of St Anthony holding the child Jesus. In all, she counted one thousand, six hundred and twenty euro. Robbery was definitely not Cornelius’ murderer’s motive. It was evident that the old priest was the only person to have entered this room, in a very long time.
She opened drawers, then the wardrobe. Both held a minimal amount of clothing, all of it black, smelling of mothballs and staleness. Kneeling, she looked under the bed. Two pairs of black shoes were lined up with a brown leather suitcase behind them. She dragged out the case, covered with a layer of grime, and unclasped the locks. Yellowed newspaper clippings, folders and notebooks.
Lifting up one of the hard-backed notebooks, she opened it. Short pencil strokes neatly aligned on page after page. Figures, totted up in columns. Household accounts, she guessed, and picked up another notebook. The same. Come on Mohan, she willed, give me something.
Kneeling on the dusty wooden floor, she flicked through six notebooks, all containing figures. She lined them up beside her and took out the next one. Similar navy hardback. She opened it. No figures. Handwriting. She held her breath. The now familiar pencil, in well-schooled handwriting, a methodical, even structured, script.
Words merged and fluttered as she read. A history of abuse, documented in fading pencil, fell from the pages, letter by letter, word by word, floating around her, an incomprehensible pall of sentences. It wasn’t enough, she thought, that he’d perpetrated such acts on the innocent, he’d also recorded it. A chronicle of secrets, inscribed with fading pencil, in a navy, hard-backed notebook, incarcerated in the brown leather suitcase of a murdered, child-abusing priest. It assaulted her very soul. She felt her heart break and harden at the same time.
Unable to finish reading, she placed the notebook in a plastic evidence bag and shoved it into her inside jacket pocket. It didn’t matter where she placed it, she knew she’d never be able to expunge the horror inscribed by the hand of a demon. He must not have thought about what would happen to these notebooks when he died. Otherwise he would have got rid of them. Unless he had used them to revisit his crimes. What kind of sadistic animal had he been?
She called for Lynch, okayed it with the SOCO team and carried the suitcase to the car. She fled the house, unable to shake off the sound of soft footsteps belonging to little abused children trailing behind her.
The bell in the small country church chimed and the village resonated with the hollow midday toll.
E
ighty-Three
The queue outside the bank ATM seemed to go on forever.
Sean stamped his feet in the snow and decided to take his chances inside. At least it was warmer there. He waited in line for a machine to become available.
The woman in front of him, struggling with a toddler and a screaming baby in a buggy, eventually got her money. He keyed in his PIN number and extracted two hundred euro. That should be enough, he thought, knowing he hadn’t much left now. He could trade in his old PlayStation for the balance.
He wondered where Jason could be. He decided he would ask his own friends if any of them had seen him. Not that his friends mixed with the likes of Jason Rickard. But you never know until you ask. He stuffed the money into his trouser pocket and headed for the door.
The man watched the boy.
Running his hands up and down his suited trousers, he glanced around to ensure no one noticed him.
He recognised the young teenager. Detective Inspector Parker’s only son. He stepped behind a rack of leaflets. The stirring in his trousers was so intense, he stuffed his hands in his pockets to quell the rising hardness.
It was too risky. He already had one boy. But if he truly wanted to re-enact the old experience he needed two, didn’t he?
As the boy pushed the green button on the internal security door, the man moved quickly to get in line behind him. When the door opened, he entered the small enclosure and smiled. The boy grinned back.
Eighty-Four
The noon sky was dark, more like late afternoon, and it was snowing once again.
Leaving the village of Ballinacloy, Lottie checked to see if there was any word from the hospital. Nothing. At the station she accompanied Lynch inside with the suitcase. They registered the contents and Lottie flicked through the old notebook once more. She recoiled from the written horrors and bagged the book for evidence.
‘I’ll be back in a while,’ she said.
Badly in need of a shower, she picked up her own car. She also wanted to visit Boyd. But first stop, now that she had the keys, would be St Angela’s.
A sore throat was itching to take root. Lottie coughed and it ached even more. Standing at her car looking up at the old building, she needed to ease the stress constricting her brain. She counted the windows once, then twice. Careful not to slip on the fresh sheen of snow, she walked up the steps.
At the door, key in hand, she had an uncharacteristic surge of dread. She was fearful for herself, her past, her decisions, her attitude, her grief and what she was becoming. In an instant, she wished Boyd was with her, jibing her. She missed him.
Slipping latex gloves over numb fingers, she turned the key in the old lock and pushed open the door, surprised it extended inwards with comparative ease.
The entrance hall was smaller than she expected. An icy chill took her breath away. Colder inside than out. She half-expected to see water running down the walls from burst pipes. Before her stood a large staircase. The mahogany banister twisted upwards, enclosing wide concrete steps, leading to a crossroad of dark corridors. She didn’t bother with the light switch, it might not work and she didn’t want to find out. Sometimes you were better off not knowing, rather than finding yourself literally in the dark. She comforted herself with that thought.
She listened. Stillness inside, while the wind outside hurled snow against the windowpanes, rattling their frames. A draught rustled dead leaves at her feet. She closed the front door and kicked the remnants of snow from her boots. She decided to check out the upper floors.
At the top of the first flight of stairs, she moved along a corridor lined on one side with doors and windows on the other. Subconsciously, she counted the windows – couldn’t help it – and mentally filed the numbers away. Doubling back, she headed along the other corridor, counting these windows; their frames creaked, then settled. She repeated the exercise on the other floor. Counting. It didn’t add up.
She ran down the stairs. Counted again. Only thirteen windows. Sixteen on the outside. Both ends of the corridor were bookended by concrete. She traced her hand along the wall and knocked intermittently, wondering if they were hollow. They appeared solid. Perhaps Tom Rickard could provide the answer. She was curious about the inaccuracy but had no idea what significance it might have, if any.
A bird shrieked above her head, its wings crashing against the wooden rafters, and disappeared. She would have screamed if her throat wasn't already raw. She leaned against the wall and felt the vibes of the past. O’Malley’s story reverberated in her brain. The clamour of children running along corridors, nuns screaming behind them, hair pulling, squealing, jaws clattering with the backs of wizened hands. The image was so vivid, if she reached out, Lottie thought she might touch it. The anguish, the loneliness of abandoned children. There was no sense of dreams or expectation, it was all despair and loss.
Once again her thoughts were invaded by the image of the yellowing file in her bottom desk drawer. The missing. The dead. The young red-headed boy – had he been murdered or had O’Malley’s drink-addled brain conjured up a myth? She recalled the words scripted in the navy hard-backed notebook, and the ledgers, full of truths and lies. The overwhelming emotion charging through her being was devastating helplessness.
The blackbird quietened down, nestled in the eaves of the roof and Lottie retraced her steps, counting the faded brown doors along the corridor, with tarnished brass knobs, paint peeling beneath from years of hands, young and old, twisting and turning. Since it had been abandoned to itself, the building had died.
Doors needed to be opened. Doors to a forgotten past. Maybe Susan and James had tried to unlock them, in the metaphorical sense. Look what had happened to them. Her gut was telling her this building held the key to the overall puzzle. She opened and closed a few doors to empty desolate spaces and she assumed the rooms had once been small dormitories. She turned the handle on the next and stepped inside.
It was similar to the others, though here black plastic bags covered the windows, smothering the room in darkness. She felt along the wall and flicked a switch. A low wattage bulb, suspended on a dust-covered wire, spread a modicum of light over the space. Lottie looked around.
An iron-framed bed, against a wall, dressed in white sheets. Stepping further into the room on bare, uneven floorboards, Lottie twitched her nose. A faint hint of washing powder lingered on the cotton. She turned the pillow and raised the mattress. Nothing.
A clinking sound caused her to pause, sheet in hand. Silence. Ears alert, all she heard was the wind brushing snow against the window and the refuse bag rustling in a breeze through a gap in the sashes. She studied the room. A bed, a small gas heater in one corner and a wooden chair in the other. Nothing else, except paint peeling from the ceiling and shadows deepening in yellow tremors from the slightly swaying light-bulb.
Turning to leave, she caught a glimpse of a sliver of metal at the leg of the bed. She swept her fingers through the dust and touched the object. She slid it toward her, cradled it between her cold fingers and lifted it to the light. The silver pendant shimmered against her latex swathed hand. She knew exactly who the pendant belonged to.
Jason twisted his head, sure he’d heard knocking against the wall. The binds, on his arms and legs, constrained him to the floor. The gag in his mouth prevented him from shouting.
Someone was looking for him! Exhilaration rushed through him and he strained his body against the ropes. But he was securely bound.
Despair overtook him and he slumped against the floor. If they were in the main part of the building, would they search further into this section? Would they know it even existed? He hoped they wouldn’t give up too easily. He was getting weaker. He strained his ears once again, listening, seeking a sound, however small.
His moment of hope shattered, doom settling into the pit of his stomach where it churned and lurched. To the echo of birds crowing high in the rafters of the roof he vomited over himself.
Eighty-Five
‘
Hello there. Sean Parker, is that right?’
Outside the game shop, Sean turned round.
‘What’s it to you?’ He leaned against the shop window.
‘I recognised you, that is all.’
‘So. What d’you want?’ Sean asked and waved at one of his friends, across the street.
‘I know your sister and Jason very well. Do you know he is missing?’
Sean inched back further but there was nowhere else to go.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘This may seem odd, but he is not missing. I actually know where he is.’
‘Why don’t you go to the gardaí then?’
‘Jason does not want them involved. There’s a family dispute or something.’
‘Okay, but it’s nothing to do with me.’ Sean edged closer to the door of the shop.
The man shook his head and took a step back.
‘That’s fine. Sorry to bother you.’ He turned to walk away.
Sean bit his lip, sized the man up and down. He looked respectable, well dressed, clean, even though he had no overcoat in the freezing cold snow. Odd. He looked familiar. Had he seen him somewhere recently? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t appear to be a threat. Just some old guy who knew his sister.
Sean asked, ‘Where is he?’
The man faced him. ‘I cannot break any confidences, but I can show you where he is. That way you can say . . . you can say that you stumbled over his hiding place.’
‘Sure.’
‘Come with me.’
Eighty-Six
Lottie banged the steering wheel. The car wouldn’t start. Snow lay thick on the ground. Not freezing. Not yet.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 31
