She continued to turn the key, getting an empty click in reply. With the pendant in a plastic bag in her pocket, she sat thinking. She knew who owned it and thought she knew how it got there. And she had to talk to Rickard about the windows. The anomaly was bugging her, crawling under her skin.
Jane Dore’s number flashed on her phone.
‘Hello, Jane.’
‘I’ve completed Father Mohan’s post-mortem.’
‘You are busy, and quick,’ Lottie said. ‘Same as the others?’
‘Not the same, no,’ the pathologist said. ‘Less force was used by the perpetrator, but then he was an old man.’
‘Do you think it might have been a copycat killing?’
‘I doubt it. Cornelius Mohan has the same tattoo as Susan Sullivan and James Brown.’
Lottie held her breath for a moment. An old priest with a tattoo? What next?
‘It’s like the others, old but more defined. I scanned the image and enlarged it,’ Jane said. ‘The tattoos on the other victims were faded and looked like lines in a circle, but with this one I can actually make out the drawing.’
‘Go on,’ Lottie said, hoping it was something definite.
‘It looks like the Madonna and Child icon, often depicted as a sculpted statue in churches. So Wikipedia tells me.’
Lottie glanced up at the top of the building in front of her. The statue she’d struggled to see through the darkness at St Angela’s the other night with Boyd was the Virgin Mary with the infant Jesus in her arms.
‘You could be right,’ she said. ‘But I still don’t understand why Susan and James had it.’ And Patrick O’Malley, she recalled.
‘If it means something, you better find out. Before any more bodies end up here.’
Listening to the dial tone, Lottie knew she had to speak to O’Malley again. He was looking increasingly very important. As a witness to a murder perpetrated decades earlier or was he involved back then, involved now, even? No matter what, he potentially held vital information. She’d have to get him to remember. Her phone interrupted her thoughts.
‘Inspector, this is Bea Walsh . . . from the council.’
‘Hello, Bea. How’re you?’
‘I just wanted to let you know the planning permission for St Angela’s was approved today.’
‘I suppose it’s easy to blame the dead for that,’ Lottie said. ‘So, Rickard can go ahead with his hotel plans?’
‘Not exactly. There’s a waiting period for the public appeal process, though I don’t think there’ll be too many objections. This development will create jobs.’
‘Thanks for letting me know.’
‘And, Inspector, the file wasn’t missing at all. Gerry Dunne, the county manager, had it.’
Lottie mulled over the two phone calls. Attempting to assemble the information in her head, she failed. Intruding on her brooding was the fact that her car wouldn’t start and the cost of getting it fixed.
Longing for a cigarette or anything else on which to concentrate, she scanned the expanse of grounds blanketed with snow. Her eyes rested on a walled enclave sweeping to the rear of St Angela’s. A crescent of snow-covered trees inched above the stone walls. The orchard. An image zoomed through her mind. Young Susan and James, with O’Malley and Brian, whoever or wherever he was, being terrorised by Father Con.
At least three of them were now dead.
Eighty-Seven
‘Do you really know where Jason is?’ Sean asked the man, as he sat into the car.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘That’s some coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘What coincidence?’
‘You knowing me and also knowing Jason,’ Sean said. ‘Can you put the heater on?’
‘Of course I can.’ The man pulled out of the car park into the line of traffic and turned up the heat. ‘It won’t take a minute to warm you up, young man.’
Sean asked, ‘How do you know who I am?’
‘I know your mother too, see, and you are the image of her. I would recognise you out of her, a mile away.’
‘Everyone tells me I’m the spitting image of my dad.’
‘I do not know your dad,’ the man said, waiting for the lights to turn green.
‘He’s dead.’
‘Sorry for your loss.’
‘So how do you know my sister and Jason?’
‘I am a friend of Jason’s father. You could say we are in business together.’
Sean lapsed into silence as the man drove the car carefully through town. Swirling snow slowed their progress. Once Jason was home, Katie would be happy. She’d owe him, like forever. Sean smirked, proud of himself.
‘What are you smiling at?’ the man asked.
‘Oh nothing,’ Sean said, still grinning.
‘Where to?’ Kirby asked, chewing his unlit cigar.
‘This car stinks,’ Lottie said, pulling on her seat belt.
Stale tobacco smoke crawled off the seats into her clothes. She’d had to leave her car until they got jump leads. Kirby didn’t have any.
‘I want to talk to Tom Rickard but first I need to see Boyd.’
‘You won’t get near him,’ Kirby said.
‘I don’t give a shit,’ she said. ‘Mind the icy road.’ She gripped the dashboard as Kirby swerved, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car. ‘Smoke your cigar if you want.’
‘Your wish is my command.’ He lit the cigar with one flick from a lighter.
‘I found this in St Angela’s.’ Lottie held up a small plastic evidence bag containing the silver pendant.
Kirby eyed it sideways. ‘Nice. Why would it be in that old place?’
‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’
‘So you know who owns it?’
‘I do,’ Lottie said. ‘Will it cost much to fix the car?’
Kirby said, ‘The price of a pint.’
‘I can afford to buy you one pint. My budget won’t stretch to two.’
‘That bad, huh?’ Kirby grunted.
Lottie nodded. ‘You don’t by any chance know how to fix a PlayStation?’
‘Moron,’ the man said, righting his car.
He exited the main road and drove up the side road and through the rear entrance gate into St Angela’s.
‘Where’re we going?’ Sean asked.
‘You ask a lot of questions,’ the man said, through gritted teeth.
‘Just wondering.’
The man edged his sleek vehicle in behind the small chapel and switched the engine off.
Sean slipped his hand around the cold metal in his pocket, glad he had this talisman with him. Something suddenly told him he should run like mad, to get as far away as he could. Before he could react, the man gripped his elbow tight, propelling him towards the arched wooden door with a shiny new padlock.
Though he was not yet fourteen, he was tall, but in the time it took the man to open the padlocked door, Sean felt tiny. He didn’t know if it was because of the man’s eyebrows tightening into a scowl or the secure hold on his arm. One thing for certain, he was glad he had his knife with him.
The door closed and the man slid a bolt in place.
‘Why’d you do that?’
‘Security. This way.’
Sean stood his ground.
‘If the door was locked from the outside,’ he began, ‘how can Jason be in here of his own free will?’
The man’s jaw tightened. Sean backed against the door.
‘I told you I would bring you to Jason. Be a good lad and do as I say.’
‘He’s not here at all,’ Sean screeched. ‘Who are you?’
He held on to the knife in his pocket, hoping the man wouldn’t notice. How stupid, to let himself be dragged here. What was the best thing to do? Hope Jason was here and go along with the man to find out or fight back and escape now? If he used the knife, he could get out the door. What if he was leaving Jason behind? What would his mother do? He had to think fast, or he was going to be in a shit load of trouble.
‘Stop asking questions. Come.’
Sean made his decision and allowed himself to be led down the dull, narrow corridor, his hand clenched firmly around his knife.
Eighty-Eight
Standing outside the nurses’ station, Kirby said, ‘At least he’s out of ICU.’
Lottie rolled her eyes. He was annoying the shit out of her. Never shut his mouth, always had to be saying something. She took a deep breath, trying to instil a calmness she could feel.
‘How did you get on in Rome?’ he asked.
‘Did you just wink at me?’ Lottie walked up to him, locking eyes.
He stepped back.
‘I didn’t mean to. It sort of happened.’ Kirby pulled at his unshaven jaw.
‘Don’t try to be like Boyd. It doesn’t suit you.’
‘You can see the patient for five minutes. No longer. He’s weak, but conscious.’ A young, blue-uniformed, blue-eyed nurse held the door open.
‘Only one of you,’ she said, the upturned palm of her hand stopping them.
‘You go.’ Kirby allowed Lottie to pass.
Boyd lay propped up on the bed, a multitude of wires meandering from various areas of his body to monitors standing like robots around him. The nurse pressed a tube, peered at the liquid passing through. Satisfied, she turned to Lottie.
‘Five minutes.’ She left Lottie alone with Boyd.
Pulling over a chair, Lottie sat close to Boyd’s head. His eyes blinked recognition, their hazel hue dulled. He tried an unsuccessful smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I shouldn’t have traipsed off to Rome leaving you to get into trouble without me.’
She smiled as Boyd attempted a weak grin.
‘I know you’re not supposed to talk but can you remember anything about your assailant?’
‘No small talk?’ A crusty croak from Boyd.
‘When Kirby told me what happened, I was terrified,’ Lottie said. ‘I thought you were going to die but I tried not to think about that. You know me – buried myself in work all morning.’
She clasped his hand, feeling the length of his fingers in her own, bent her head and kissed the scratched skin of his forehead.
‘Don’t cry,’ Boyd whispered.
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ Lottie said.
‘I saw the killer’s back . . . familiar . . . not sure. I’m no help.’
‘Could it have been O’Malley?’
‘Don’t know.’
Lottie found tissues on the locker and wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll get him. He’ll be one sorry bastard when I’m done with him.’
‘Be careful,’ Boyd said, his voice gathering strength. ‘No point in ending up here too. Or maybe they’ve a double bed.’
‘Wise arse,’ Lottie said. ‘I’m baffled why the killer struck when you were on your way to see the priest. Did you tell anyone besides Lynch?’
‘No . . . no one.’
She mulled over this for a moment. Confident that Lynch had nothing to do with it and, if Boyd had told no one else, then the only other person who knew was Father Joe. She noticed how weary Boyd looked. This wasn’t the time to tell him of her suspicions. His eyelids closed.
‘Get better quick. I’m lost without you.’ She fluttered her lips on his brow as the nurse returned.
With a backward glance at the now sleeping Boyd, she left the room, determined to put an end to the killer’s quest.
Eighty-Nine
‘I’ve no further information regarding your son, Mrs Rickard, but I need to talk to your husband.’
Lottie leaned against the doorjamb of the Rickard residence. Melanie walked inside. She followed. Tom Rickard rose from his armchair in anticipation. She shook her head. His face slumped.
‘As I told your wife, I’ve nothing new on your son’s whereabouts. We’ve issued a press statement. It’s on social media and we’ll get television coverage.’
‘Inspector, I’m fierce worried,’ Rickard said.
‘We’re doing all we can.’
Lottie sat opposite him in the chair he indicated. Sitting in his crumpled suit, Rickard’s eyes were red-rimmed. A log fire blazed. The room was warm.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ Melanie Rickard asked.
‘Tea, thank you,’ Lottie said. She felt something in the atmosphere between Melanie and Tom Rickard. Ice? Melanie escaped to the kitchen.
‘About St Angela’s . . .’ she began.
‘I’m more concerned with my son’s welfare at the moment,’ he said.
‘Who else has keys to the building?’
Rickard shrugged. ‘My partners. You have my set.’
‘Why do they have them?’
‘I provided them with keys ages ago, in case they needed to check out the place. I never asked for them back. I’ve no idea if they used them or not,’ Rickard said. ‘What has this got to do with anything?’
‘I don’t know, is the honest answer,’ Lottie said. She held up the bag with the pendant. ‘Do you recognise this?’
Rickard glanced away. ‘No. Should I?’
‘I thought you might. Are you sure?’
‘Goddammit woman, what are you doing to find my son?’
She rose to leave. The fire was too comforting to sit any longer. ‘Another thing, do you have St Angela’s original floor plans? I need to see the layout.’
Rickard shrugged, sighed and hauled his bulk from the armchair, a bear waking from winter’s hibernation. He extracted a rolled-up document from a desk in the corner and handed it to her.
‘Keep it. I’ve lost all interest in the project,’ he said and returned to stand beside his chair.
‘Even though you’ve got your planning permission?’
‘My son is more important to me now. When you’ve finished with those you can burn them. Just find Jason. Make it your priority. I’m begging you.’
Rickard turned towards the fire, staring at the orange flames leaping over the burning timber.
Lottie rose to leave. Melanie arrived with a tray. She put it on the table and placed a hand on her arm, lips silent, eyes pleading.
Lottie nodded, feeling the other woman’s anxiety.
She left the couple to their lonely despair.
Ninety
‘Look at this, Kirby,’ Lottie said, pointing to the plans laid out on a desk in the incident room. ‘I was right.’
‘About what?’
She rolled her sleeves to her elbows and drew a circle on the page with a yellow highlighter.
‘The plans show the corridor with sixteen windows on the second floor. I counted thirteen inside, but sixteen on the outside.’
‘Which means what, exactly?’ Kirby asked, searching his pocket.
She tapped the drawing with the marker.
‘It means there are three windows behind a wall, which also means there’s an extra room or rooms blocked off.’
‘So what?’ he ventured.
‘So why?’ Lottie asked. ‘Why do that? Who did it? When? That’s what I want to know. What does it mean?’
‘What has it to do with the murders?’
‘I don’t know, but we have nothing else and I need to find out. Do we have an address for O’Malley?’
‘He lives on the streets.’
‘Go look for him.’
She glanced around the room, noticed Lynch studying the incident board.
‘Something doesn’t add up,’ Lynch said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Derek Harte. Brown’s lover. I’ve reviewed his statements and I think something’s not right. He either lied to us or was economical with the truth. I can’t find him registered as a teacher in any school.’
‘Follow it up ASAP.’
Lottie hadn’t time for this now. She was on a mission. ‘I think Mrs Murtagh, the woman who runs the soup kitchen, might know where Patrick O’Malley’s hanging out. Give me the car keys, Kirby.’
‘
I haven’t seen him,’ Mrs Murtagh said, leading Lottie inside, shooing the dog out.
The kettle was boiling and warm bread rested on a plate in front of Lottie.
‘Where are his usual haunts?’ Lottie asked.
‘Patrick O’Malley could be anywhere, Inspector. At night, he usually beds down on Main Street. Sometimes you’d come across him behind the train station; in the carriages or in one of those houses, you know, the old terrace with the roofs caved in. But I haven’t seen him anywhere, these last few nights.’
Lottie sighed, ‘I’ll get someone to look for him.’
Mrs Murtagh poured the tea and they drank from mugs.
‘Where is your skinny partner today, Detective Dottie?’
‘The name is Lottie and DS Boyd was injured last night. He’s in hospital.’
‘That’s awful. I’ll say a prayer for him. What happened?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about.’ Lottie checked the time on her phone. ‘I ought to be getting on. Thanks for the tea.’
‘That reminds me of what I was trying to think of the last time you were here.’
‘What does?’
Mrs Murtagh fidgeted with the crumbs on her plate. ‘The phone.’
‘What about it?’
‘Not your phone.’ The old woman hesitated, said, ‘I have Susan Sullivan’s mobile phone.’
‘You what?’ Lottie abandoned her smile and clenched her hands. ‘Where is it? It could be vital to our investigations. Why didn’t you give it to me before?’
‘I forgot I had it and now I’m not sure I even want to give it to you,’ Mrs Murtagh said, folding her arms rigidly.
‘I could charge you with impeding a murder investigation. We might’ve been able to prevent another murder. There could be vital information on that phone.’
Lottie knew she was being irrational. They’d got all the information from the service provider. Seeing the look of confusion on Mrs Murtagh’s face, she tried to soften her voice.
‘It is okay. Don’t worry. As long as you hand it over now it will all be fine.’
‘It mightn’t even work.’
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 32
