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

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘Brown was a deviation from your normal prey, wasn’t he? Not a ripe young child. Why did you go for an older man? Had he something you wanted? Money? Information?’

  ‘You’re talking pure shite. I haven’t a clue what you’re on about.’ Harte folded his arms.

  ‘Why the charade about being a teacher?’

  ‘I never said that.’

  Lottie thought back to her earlier interviews with him. He could be right. She had misinterpreted what he initially told them.

  ‘Tell me then, why were you attempting to break into Brown’s house tonight?’ Lottie asked, changing the subject rapidly.

  ‘I wasn’t breaking in. I was going in. I knew where the key was. Only it wasn’t there. I tried the back door and window. I forgot you lot would’ve taken the key and switched on the alarm.’

  Lottie studied him. He looked so different from the man who’d feigned grief. She was furious with herself for falling for his ruse. She’d thought he was genuine. So much for her intuition and gut instinct. Losing your touch, Parker, she chided herself.

  ‘Now you’ve an opportunity to put the record straight,’ she said.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Inspector, I’m saying nothing until I get a solicitor.’

  ‘Mr Harte, the least I can charge you with is obstructing our enquiries. And I will. This is your last chance.’

  Lottie read a range of emotions crossing Harte’s face, like rolling isobars on a weather chart. His body sank into the chair as he appeared to reach a decision.

  ‘Okay. What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Talk to me and I’ll know what I’m dealing with.’

  ‘Can I have a coffee first?’

  Lottie wanted to say no, but the truth was, she needed to get away from the self-righteous Harte. If only for a few moments.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘Interview suspended.’ She switched off the recording equipment. He’d got under her skin and it itched worse than a mosquito bite. She sought air.

  Pulling the cellophane from the pack, Lottie extracted a cigarette with numb fingers. Leaning against the newsagent’s window, she flicked a lighter and inhaled. Harte’s words swirled around her brain.

  The awning over the shop sagged in the middle with accumulated snow. Traffic crawled up and down the street and she idly counted the red ones. Snow fell in thick clumps. A group of boys, hoodies shrouding their faces, lounged at the corner of a laneway across the road, drinking from cans. An occasional ‘yahoo’ emanated from their huddle and Lottie thought of Sean. She looked at her phone: still no contact. She rang Chloe.

  ‘No, he’s not home,’ Chloe said. ‘Katie is driving me mad.’

  ‘Don’t mind her. Try Niall again and Sean’s other friends.’

  ‘What other friends?’

  ‘Just do it, Chloe.’

  This was unlike Sean. A knot of fear gathered in the pit of Lottie’s gut but she felt somehow detached. How could she be this calm when her own son might be missing? The pill she’d just taken or because she wanted to believe he was all right? Of course he was.

  Shaking herself out of her musings, Lottie knew there was something rotten in her town; there had been for a long time. St Angela’s, with its walled-in secrets, was at the core of it. The tattoos, the records, Father Con, Patrick O’Malley, Susan and James, even Derek Harte. St Angela’s was the den of iniquity.

  Pulling up her hood, she caught a glimpse of her face in a shop window. A ghost-like apparition peered back at her. As quickly as she could, she headed to the station. Harte was her next target. She was ready for him.

  Pacing, one step one way, then the other. Lottie had to be doing something or she would hit him.

  ‘So, Mr Harte, what have you to tell us?’

  ‘Right so,’ he said. ‘You better not charge me with anything. I don’t want to go back to jail.’

  She waited without replying. She wasn’t going to promise the bastard anything.

  ‘I suppose I better tell you what I know,’ he said.

  Lottie nodded at Kirby to be sure everything was being recorded.

  ‘I got a call from a priest in Rome. Father Angelotti.’

  She hadn’t been expecting that. She sat.

  ‘He said he had information for me. Talking all about me being adopted and my birth mother wanting to meet me.’ His eyes flitted around the room.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘I knew I was adopted but I hadn’t given it much thought. So when he contacted me, I was curious.’ His eyes never stopped moving.

  ‘You were in St Angela’s as a baby,’ Lottie stated. Earlier she’d seen his name on the Rome ledger. ‘You want me to believe you are Susan Sullivan’s son?’

  ‘Hard to believe, I know. I hardly believed it myself. That priest sounded convincing on the phone. Said he was coming to Ireland later in the year, with the proof.’

  ‘How did he find you?’

  ‘He told me he’d had enquiries about a woman trying to find her child. From the date she gave him, he discovered the adoption records or something. That’s what he said, anyway.’

  ‘Sounds fanciful to me,’ Lottie said, but she was thinking of the ledger copies on her desk. She stood up and paced again.

  ‘I’m telling you what I know. I was in prison for five years; my name’s been in the news, so it was probably easy enough to find a jailbird in this country.’ He smirked.

  Lottie cringed. Father Angelotti had been a better detective than she was. How had the school where Harte worked not checked him out? Someone would be in deep shit over that.

  ‘And he told me her name. He was all apologies then. Said he shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘Did you meet with the priest?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Harte said, raising his head. The dancing eyes looked hollow. ‘He told me he was coming to Ireland. Asked me if I was willing to meet with my birth mother. He wanted to know if I’d agree, before he spoke to her. I didn’t care one way or the other.’

  ‘So you met Father Angelotti?’

  ‘No. I never met him.’

  ‘Yet we found his body in James Brown’s garden. Odd that, don’t you think?’

  ‘I didn’t meet the priest. Ever. I didn’t kill him. So I can’t explain it.’

  ‘Odd too, you shacking up with James Brown.’

  ‘Coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t believe in such a thing,’ Lottie said.

  She considered Harte. He appeared to be weighing up his strategy.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘When the priest first contacted me he told me the enquiries were made by a James Brown on behalf of this woman. I did some research of my own. I found out this woman he mentioned, Susan Sullivan, worked in the council here in Ragmullin. I went online; saw where she worked, who she worked with. I googled a few of them and stumbled across James Brown on this dating site. That bit was true and we really did like each other. I was sorry when I heard he was murdered.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ Lottie said. ‘So, why did you murder your lover?’

  He laughed. ‘I am many things, Inspector, but I am not a murderer.’

  ‘Did you try to contact Susan?’

  ‘No. I left that up to the priest.’

  Lottie paced in front of him, fitting in two steps, fatigue eating into her joints. She eyed Kirby. This was getting them nowhere.

  ‘Coincidences, all coincidences. I don’t believe you,’ Kirby said, breaking his silence.

  ‘I know I was in St Angela’s. I’m sure you can verify it and I had no reason to kill anyone.’

  The first part of his statement was true, Lottie knew. ‘Why were you attempting to get into Brown’s house this evening?’

  Harte sucked in his jaws. Debating with himself? It better be the truth this time, Lottie thought.

  ‘James kept money in his house and Susan Sullivan kept money in her house.’

  Lottie sat. ‘What money?’

  ‘They were blackmailing someone. Don’t a
sk me who, because James never told me. He let slip one night that they got cash in hand as well as money into their accounts. Said no more but told me not to be asking questions about it.’

  ‘Pull the other one,’ Lottie said. ‘So where’s this phantom cash?’

  ‘Not sure. In the house somewhere.’

  Lottie eyeballed him.

  ‘Okay then,’ he relented. ‘The suspended mirror over the bed . . . that’s where the money is hidden.’

  Lottie looked at Kirby. They’d missed it.

  ‘What about Susan Sullivan’s cash? You know where that is?’

  ‘You got it, didn’t you?’

  Lottie looked at him and wondered if he were the cause of her mugging. He dipped his eyes, avoiding her bruised face.

  ‘Did you . . . ?’ Lottie reached across the table towards him. Harte squeezed back against the wall, his chair screeching on the tiled floor.

  ‘Easy, Inspector. I couldn’t get in. A guard was sitting in the squad car in front of the house. I saw you coming out. Followed you. Thought you might have the money.’

  Lottie shot out of her chair. Harte jumped back against the wall. She jabbed her finger into his chest.

  ‘You bastard—’ she said. Kirby grabbed her by the elbow.

  ‘Didn’t mean to hurt you as bad. But sure you’re okay.’

  ‘How did you know about my children?’

  ‘Guessed,’ he said. ‘Wanted to scare you, get you thinking the mugger might be the murderer.’

  ‘Guess what I’m thinking right this minute?’ Lottie shouted, pounding his chest.

  ‘I didn’t kill you and I didn’t kill anyone.’

  Lottie sat down. And when Harte resumed his seat she reached out and grabbed his hand, twisting it round until he groaned.

  ‘You’re a little prick,’ she said.

  ‘Whatever you say, Inspector,’ he said, his arrogance restored. He eyed the camera in the corner of the ceiling. Lottie dropped his hand.

  Kirby fidgeted and she knew he was itching to kick the shit out of Harte too. But if he was telling the truth, that left someone else out there who was the murderer. But why should she believe him?

  ‘Jason Rickard,’ Lottie said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know any Jason Rickard,’ he insisted.

  Lottie sighed heavily and, leaving Harte alone with his conceited eyes, she switched off the recorder and followed Kirby out.

  Ninety-Eight

  In the incident room, Lottie, Kirby and Lynch looked at the photographs on the board.

  ‘Arrest him for breaking and entering. For mugging and robbery. Anything else we can charge him with? Come on guys, help me out here.’

  ‘We’ve no evidence Harte killed anyone, so if it’s not him, who’s the murderer?’ Kirby said.

  ‘And where is Jason Rickard? Was he abducted? If so, why?’ And where is Sean? she wondered. He better be home by now. Ignoring the icicles freezing her spine, Lottie walked away from the board and rummaged through the ledger copies, scanned down through the names and dates without really seeing them. Tried to recall O’Malley’s story. Could he be their prime suspect?

  ‘There was a murder in St Angela’s years ago,’ she added, ‘and my theory is someone is killing the witnesses. That’s the only conclusion I can come to. But what has Jason Rickard got to do with it? And Father Angelotti. Where does he fit in?’

  ‘Just got uniforms’ report here. They talked to all the taxi drivers. Not one of them has a record of going to Brown’s house on Christmas Eve,’ Kirby said.

  ‘He couldn’t walk that far,’ Lottie said. ‘Not in that weather, so someone drove him there.’

  ‘The killer?’ Kirby suggested.

  ‘Possibly. More than likely,’ Lottie said.

  Lynch peered over her shoulder. ‘Why is all this happening now?’

  ‘We need to talk to Bishop Connor again. Another lying bastard.’ Lottie picked up her bag. ‘And we’ve to see Mike O’Brien. Boyd said he was in the gym when he took my call about Father Con.’

  ‘Conspiracy theories, now?’ Kirby asked.

  ‘And I need jump leads for my car.’

  ‘I’ll look after it.’

  ‘First, I want to see where this latest body was found.’ She put the old Manila folder in her bag.

  ‘Any word from Sean?’ Lynch asked.

  Lottie stopped at the door. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eight forty-twoish.’

  She tried not to panic. ‘Kirby, this is Sean’s phone number. Can you get our tech guys to see if they can locate where he is via the GPS?’

  ‘Sure, Inspector. Straight away.’

  ‘I’m trying hard not to worry,’ Lottie said, ‘but this is totally out of character for Sean. I better go look for him now.’

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Lynch said. ‘I’ll get the traffic corps to keep watch out for him. We’ll find him. Do you have a list of his friends?’

  Lottie said, ‘Chloe already tried them but contact them again. Chloe will have numbers.’ She fought back tears of anxiety. ‘We need to track down where Mike O’Brien might be at this hour of the night.’

  Her phone rang.

  Father Joe.

  ‘Not now,’ she said and hung up abruptly. ‘Maybe I should stay here, in case Sean comes looking for me.’

  ‘If he does, I’ll contact you immediately,’ Lynch said.

  ‘Okay,’ Lottie relented. ‘I’ll keep myself busy.’

  But where was her son? Her chest constricted with fear, and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. She searched her bag for a pill and remembered she had taken one a little while ago. She saw the silver pendant in her bag, plucked it out and flung it on the desk.

  ‘What’s that?’ Kirby asked.

  ‘Tom Rickard’s alibi,’ Lottie said. ‘Hurry up, Kirby. We’ve things to do.’

  Ninety-Nine

  Jim McGlynn and his SOCO team were still at the scene in one of the roofless terraced houses by the train station.

  Lottie scanned the area under the glare of the temporary lights. No sign of any other life except the SOCOs working like ants, quickly and efficiently. She left them at it and entered one of the old carriages to her left and switched on her flashlight.

  ‘He has to be somewhere,’ she said, upturning empty sleeping bags, a stench rising with the material in her hands.

  ‘He’s not here,’ Kirby said, standing well away from Lottie’s frenzied search.

  Lottie heard a shout.

  ‘Are you looking for me?’

  She turned, dropping the matted strip of cloth that had come away from a damp cardboard box. Patrick O’Malley. Standing outside the crime scene tape, his hands deep in his pockets. He looked a lot cleaner than when she’d last seen him.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ she demanded, walking toward him. She couldn’t visualise him as a murderer but evidence was suggesting otherwise.

  ‘Trying to knit my unravelled life back together,’ he said.

  Ducking under the tape, Lottie grasped him by the elbow and steered him up the hill to the car. She was anxious to get away from the oppressive air of deprivation emanating from the old wooden railway carriages. It clawed at the back of her throat. A small black hump of movement caught the corner of her eye and she hurried her steps, thinking of the vermin who had feasted on the faceless man who’d sought nothing more than shelter.

  O’Malley leaned against the car door.

  ‘Sit in out of the cold,’ Lottie said and followed him into the back seat.

  Kirby sat up front, chewing his cigar and watching in the rear-view mirror. O’Malley was clean-shaven, his clothes fresh. Gone was the scent of sickly unkemptness.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked again.

  ‘The hostel on Patrick Street,’ he said. ‘They took me in.’

  ‘Why did you not go to them before now?’ She twisted round to look at him.

  ‘I never bothered. Just drifted along. But . . . after Susan and Jam
es . . . I felt different.’ He paused. ‘Inspector, I owe it to them to pick up the pieces of my life and begin again.’

  ‘Mr O’Malley, I ought to bring you to the station for questioning.’

  ‘Grand so. I’ve nothing to hide.’

  Lottie considered him. His face seemed naked of any fear or guilt.

  ‘The note,’ she began, ‘found in a sleeping bag. You wrote it?’

  ‘Ah yes. You could say that,’ he said. ‘I started it. Didn’t finish it. I decided to get myself together. Never came back for my stuff. Not that there was anything worth getting.’

  ‘So why are you here now?’

  ‘I heard earlier this evening that a body was found. I only came up to see what the commotion was all about. I think it’s old Trevor over there. Frozen to death, poor eejit.’

  ‘Tell me what you were writing,’ she insisted.

  ‘Things started coming back to me. After we talked at the station, like. Thought I was going to be next. I didn’t want to die, so I picked myself up, brushed myself down and told myself I wasn’t going without a fight. Just like young Fitzy.’

  Lottie took the old file from her bag and showed him the photograph of the missing boy.

  ‘Might this be Fitzy?’

  O’Malley tore at his chin, scratching. ‘I’m not sure, Inspector. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘But you think it could be?’

  He studied the boy’s face for a few more seconds. ‘Like I said, I’m not sure.’

  ‘The murder you described, can you think when it took place? What year?’

  ‘I can’t remember much. Too many bottles of wine since then. But like I told you before, we called it the night of the Black Moon. ’75 or maybe ’76. It was after Christmas so it might’ve been January.’

  ‘Black Moon,’ Lottie said.

  ‘When there’s two new moons in the month,’ Kirby piped up from the front seat.

  ‘When evil stalks the earth,’ O’Malley said.

  Lottie felt an icicle slither along her spine.

  ‘Mr O’Malley, you baffle me. Did you kill Susan and James? Father Con even?’