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

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘I’m shocked . . . totally shocked that you . . . you could even think such a thing of me. But then again, who am I? I’m only a nobody to you.’

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ Kirby said.

  Lottie shrugged. ‘It’s obvious to me that everything connects to St Angela’s. You too. You knew Susan and James, and Father Con back then. Now they’re dead and you’re the last man standing.’

  ‘Don’t forget Brian . . .’

  ‘What about him? We’ve tried to find out about him but it’s possible he changed his name. He might even be dead. Can you tell me anything about him?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him from that day to this.’

  Lottie recalled Mrs Murtagh’s recent revelations. ‘Mr O’Malley . . . Patrick, have you ever met Bishop Connor?’

  His laugh broke up in a fit of coughing.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Me? Me! You think I’d know a bishop. I’m a down and out, a homeless nobody. What would I be doing with a bishop?’

  ‘I take it that’s a no.’

  ‘For sure,’ he said, ‘and . . .’

  ‘And what, Mr O’Malley?’ Lottie snapped. She was caught up in his riddles and he was wearing out her patience.

  ‘You do your job, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Just do your job and leave me out of it.’

  ‘Mike O’Brien is next on my list.’

  Lottie watched O’Malley walk sluggishly up the hill, away from the train station. She didn’t think he had it in him to be a murderer. But he was a deeply wounded man with a scarred past. Anything was possible.

  ‘You’re going to let O’Malley go, just like that?’ Kirby said.

  ‘I’ve nothing to hold him on,’ Lottie said. ‘Plus I don’t think he has the strength to strangle a kitten let alone three people.’

  She checked in with Lynch while Kirby turned the car.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, finishing the call.

  ‘What?’ he asked, switching the wipers on full.

  ‘No sign of Sean. But they’re contacting his friends again and also their parents. I need to find him.’

  ‘Wait till they finish checking out his friends.’

  ‘And Lynch can’t locate O’Brien,’ Lottie said. ‘He’s not at home or at the gym.’

  She followed O’Malley’s progress. He crossed the canal bridge and disappeared under the yellow hue of the evening streetlights. He seemed smaller somehow, as if the weight that anchored him to an unstable ground all his life had suddenly become embedded in a mud bank. She doubted he would ever be cut free to sail with the wind at his back.

  She silently wished him luck. He would need it. So would she.

  One Hundred

  It was dark. ‘Pitch black’, his mother called it. Sean felt Jason’s soft breaths against his shoulder. He was cramped, needed to piss badly and had no idea how long it was since the man had left. Jason stirred.

  ‘You awake?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Yeah. What’s going on?’

  Sean shifted and stood up, trying to loosen the rope from his wrists. ‘Who is that weirdo?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’ve seen him before. Oh, this is all so mad.’ Jason remained slumped on the floor.

  ‘Come on, bud. You have to get moving or we won’t be able to do anything.’

  ‘What can we do? Nothing, that’s what.’

  ‘I’m not giving up that easily. We have to get out of here.’

  ‘Not a hope,’ Jason said.

  Sean twisted and turned. Eventually he loosened the rope and it fell away. He edged his way around the room in the darkness until his hand reached the knob on the door. Twisted, pulled and pushed. It was steadfast. He moved further along, feeling the walls. Found the second door. Same result. And no windows. There had to be a way to escape. He felt deep into his combat trousers and pulled out his knife. At least he had a weapon.

  ‘I have a knife,’ he said.

  ‘What you going to do with that? Kill yourself?’

  ‘Don’t be a shithead. Come on. Two heads are better than one. We have to think.’

  ‘I’ve no energy to think.’

  Sean made his way over and kicked at Jason.

  ‘I can’t do this without you.’

  ‘Do what?’

  Sean thought for a moment. There had to be something they could do.

  ‘At least help me. You’re the one with the brains.’

  ‘I’m not so brainy to end up in this mess,’ Jason said.

  Sean sat down on the cold floorboards and took out his phone. It was dead. He fingered the knife. Would he have the balls to stab the man? He wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Please . . . think,’ he whispered. ‘We need a plan.’

  Jason pulled himself into a sitting position and Sean cut the ropes binding him.

  ‘Okay. At least we can go down fighting.’

  Sean passed the knife to Jason.

  ‘Swiss army?’ Jason asked, feeling one sleek blade.

  ‘I’ve never had a chance to use it. Before now.’ Sean took back the knife and flicked out the various blades. ‘We could do some damage with this thing.’ He opened the longest blade and slid home the others.

  ‘I’m with you so,’ Jason said. ‘We still need a plan.’

  Sitting in the silence, Sean slipped the weapon back into his pocket. ‘A war plan.’

  One Hundred One

  Bishop Connor glanced at Mike O’Brien sitting on the edge of a gold-filigree-legged chair. O’Brien looked weary, eyes small and black. He, on the other hand, felt good.

  ‘Where is Rickard? He should be here.’

  ‘He’s not answering his phone,’ O’Brien said.

  ‘Planning permission is approved,’ the bishop said. ‘Dunne kept his part of the bargain, now we need to ensure Rickard keeps his.’

  ‘I put my neck on the line for this.’

  ‘Tom Rickard is a man of his word. You will get your money.’

  ‘His bank balance is a mess.’ Mike O’Brien raised his head.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bishop Connor jolted up straight.

  ‘I’ve been massaging the figures for months, sending bogus returns to Head Office. It was part of the agreement with Rickard. I don’t know how much longer this can go on before they discover the manipulation, start asking awkward questions and demanding repayment of his massive debt.’

  Bishop Connor shot him an angry look. ‘I need my money too. Why isn’t he here? What can be more important at this stage of our plans?’

  O’Brien shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘How soon can Rickard’s company start hauling down that monstrosity of a building?’ Bishop Connor was anxious to be rid of the physical reminder that had caused him so much trouble over the years.

  ‘There’s a waiting period for objections. A month or so I think. Could be longer.’

  ‘What? Another month?’ Bishop Connor’s cheeks flared fluorescent red. He picked up a glass of water and swallowed it in a single gulp.

  ‘That’s the system,’ O’Brien said. ‘And the building cannot be demolished. It’s on some Protected Structures Register.’

  ‘You know what I mean. It would be nice, though, to see it all crumpled into the ground.’

  ‘It’s difficult to bury secrets, isn’t it?’ O’Brien looked up from beneath heavy eyelids.

  ‘When that place is gone, all ill goes with it. And it will be a fantastic place when it is finished,’ Bishop Connor said. One hundred and twenty hotel rooms and an eighteen-hole golf course. Lifetime membership. And St Angela’s history buried. Forever.

  ‘That’s if he has the money to do it,’ O’Brien said.

  ‘I hope you’re not serious.’

  ‘Like I said, Rickard’s company is sitting on a stack of loans. If even one bank calls in its share, the whole thing will collapse and Rickard will be bankrupt.’

  Bishop Connor hit the redial button.

  ‘Rickard, we could do with you at this meeting. Things need ex
plaining.’ He then held the phone at arm’s length looking at it, his face curling into itself with anger. ‘He hung up on me.’

  ‘I just want my money.’ O’Brien rose to leave.

  ‘Where are you going? We are not finished yet,’ Bishop Connor said.

  ‘I think I am,’ O’Brien said. ‘I honestly think I am.’

  One Hundred Two

  Tom Rickard disconnected the call as Melanie came down the stairs and placed a suitcase in the hall. He looked at his wife, silently questioning.

  Arms folded, she stood on their ridiculously expensive Italian marble floor and stared back at him.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going nowhere,’ Melanie hissed through closed lips, her make-up and clothes immaculate.

  ‘But, Mel . . .’ he began.

  ‘Don’t you Mel me. I smell her, you know. Every time you come home from your soirees. Our son is missing and I’ve had enough, Tom. Enough!’

  Rickard sighed, buttoned up his coat.

  ‘This is it so?’ he said.

  ‘You made your bed so go lie with your dog.’

  ‘But Jason . . . we have to find our son . . .’ He gesticulated his arms about wildly.

  ‘You drove my baby away. Go.’

  She pushed past him into the living room, the echo of her high heels deafening him. He looked around at all he’d worked for and saw emptiness. He’d lost everything. He picked up the suitcase and pulled the door behind him with a soft thud.

  He drove away, leaving his wife and life behind. He had to find his son.

  Mike O’Brien did not like the way the meeting had ended with the bishop. He drove erratically around Ragmullin. Was he hoping to get arrested for dangerous driving? He didn’t know. He didn’t know who or what he was any more. He was lost. More lost than ever before in his life and that was saying something.

  Tom Rickard had ruined everything. But wasn’t it his own fault too? Being bullied by the bishop. He should have remained strong in the face of that adversary. But he knew he had never been strong. Weak and manipulated – that’s what he was. The carbon beneath the diamond, according to Lottie-fucking-Parker. We’ll see, he thought, shrugging resolve back into his bones.

  He parked outside the developer’s house. All the windows blazed light out on to the snow, turning it yellow. What could he say to Rickard? That he was sorry? For what he did, for what he was about to do? No! He was through with being sorry.

  He was going to stand up and be counted. It was time for him to come out from the shadows.

  Gunning the engine, he drove away.

  He would leave his mark.

  Bishop Terence Connor ran his fingers through his hair. The meeting confirmed what he already knew. Rickard was going to screw him.

  He marched from wall to wall, bare feet on plush carpet, leaving footprints in the deep pile. He had come too far to lose it all now. He wasn’t about to let things slip away without a fight. There was too much at stake. St Angela’s owed him.

  He put on his socks and shoes. Pulled on his coat.

  A cold edge, deep within his bones, told him it was going to be a long night.

  He warmed up the engine of his car before driving through his automatic gates and into the pelting snow.

  The four walls were starting to fall in on top of him. Derek Harte clawed at his throat. Water, he needed water. He needed to get out of here.

  He’d already had five years in prison and he didn’t want to spend a minute longer in it. He’d said goodbye to that life. Metal crashed on metal, doors opened and closed, keys rattled in locks, laughter and crying, shouting and screaming. His life was made up of bad choices. Starting with his bitch of a mother, whoever she might be. He hoped it was Susan Sullivan. Because she was dead and he wouldn’t have to look for her and kill her.

  ‘Let me out of here,’ he screamed at the walls. ‘Let me out . . . out . . . out.’

  He curled into a ball on the floor and screeched at the injustice that was his shit of a life.

  Patrick O’Malley looked at the canal for a long time. The cold ice cracking in places, solid in others. The streetlights, casting shadows and shapes through the falling snow.

  He craved a drink, just one, a sip – no more than that. Two days without alcohol flooding his veins. And he felt worse than he’d ever felt. No, that wasn’t true. The worst time of his life was the night of the Black Moon. He’d never known such terror as then. The memories flashed and dimmed. Fitzy screaming for his life. With his freckled nose and bright hair. Brave boy. A little hero. O’Malley could see the face clearly now and a spark pricked at the back of his brain. He thought of the photo the inspector had shown him. Was it Fitzy? Was the boy in the photograph the same boy buried under the apple tree? He shook his head. He couldn’t be certain, but thought it might be.

  Another image appeared on the shining ice of the canal. Susan, James and himself, looking out of the window as his little broken friend, Fitzy, was dumped in the clay. He closed his eyes. The memory flickered like a frame-by-frame movie. The men with their shovels, cracking the hard earth to make way for the young soul.

  He opened his eyes and the scene remained there, a vivid vision. Suddenly, he could see the faces of the two men reflected in the ice, floating up from his subconscious. And the terror returned, stronger and more violent than before.

  He needed a drink.

  But first, he decided he would tell the detective lady everything he knew.

  One Hundred Three

  Lottie was talking on her phone. She walked up and down the steps of the Garda Station.

  ‘I know, Chloe. I’m doing all I can,’ she said, clawing at her hair. Where was her son?

  ‘But Mother . . . Mam . . . please . . . you need to find him,’ Chloe cried. ‘He’s my only brother.’

  ‘He’s my only son.’ Lottie choked down her panic. ‘I’ll find him.’

  She hung up and rang her mother to go sit with the girls.

  She was on the top step when she noticed Tom Rickard leaning against his car.

  ‘Is your son missing too?’ Rickard walked over and looked up at her.

  ‘None of your business,’ Lottie replied, turning to go inside.

  He grabbed her sleeve, pulling her towards him. ‘Now you know what it feels like.’

  Instinctively, Lottie drew out her other arm to hit him. He didn’t flinch but caught her wrist and shoved his face into hers.

  ‘Find my son,’ he said, and let her go.

  ‘I’ll find him.’

  ‘You do that, Inspector.’ He walked away, slowly and deliberately. The wind carried his voice. ‘You do that.’

  She watched as he hauled himself into his car. She watched as he drove down the road. She watched until the red tail lights disappeared in the distance.

  And a coldness clutched every sinew of her heart, descending over her entire being. She had felt the same chill the morning Adam died, though that morning the sun was reaching high in the sky. Tonight the heavens were black and the ground frozen as another shower of snow fell softly to earth.

  ‘Inspector?’

  Lottie turned on the step to see Patrick O’Malley trudging along the icy footpath.

  ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said.

  And he told her what had happened on the night of the Black Moon.

  One Hundred Four

  After parking his car at the rear of the chapel once again, he let himself in through the side door. He hoped the boys had slept. He had plans for them.

  He carried a plastic bag with crisps and soft drinks. Youngsters lived on trash. He beamed his torch along the corridor and shadows jumped back at him. Birds flapped angrily above his head and he longed for the day when this place would be a heap of dusty rubble. He hoped the two boys would sate his appetite. Quickening his step, he relished his rising excitement.

  He unlocked the door and entered. The first blow caught him on the side of the head and as he fell, he saw
the glint of a knife flash before his face. Then darkness.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Sean screeched. They dragged the stunned man into the room.

  Jason kicked the prone figure in the ribs with his bare foot.

  ‘Shit. That hurt,’ he said and limped away.

  ‘Stop freaking out,’ Sean shouted, wondering just what type of a gobshite Katie had got herself involved with. ‘We’ll tie him up.’

  He pulled together the ropes that had bound them. As he tugged, he felt a blow to his abdomen and was hurled against the wall. He dropped the knife. Blinking rapidly, he saw the man rise up, swivel and punch Jason under the chin. Jason fell unconscious to the floor.

  Sean cowered against the wall as the man hit him in the face, picked up the knife and staggered towards him. He thrust the weapon against Sean’s throat.

  ‘Smart arses.’ He nicked Sean’s skin with the blade. ‘That’s what you are. Little fucking smart arses.’

  The man lowered the knife quickly and sliced it at Sean’s stomach. Then he kicked him hard in the same spot.

  Sean roared. Blood seeped through his clothes, down on to his jeans. His fingers found the wound. It wasn’t deep but he felt faint. He heard voices, far away in the distance, and struggled to keep his eyes open. White stars floated in front of him.

  ‘I think it is time you and your imbecile friend entertained me.’ The man wiped the knife against Sean’s jeans, flicked it closed and secreted it in his pocket. ‘I will be back in a while.’

  He stood up, kicked Jason, then left the room, his soft footsteps echoing along the corridor.

  Pain inched through Sean’s body. He gagged and blood eased out of the corner of his mouth, the copper taste choking him. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he inched in the dark toward the plastic bag on the floor. He tore at it and pulled out a can. Snapping it open with trembling fingers, he drank, fuelling energy into his throbbing body. He hauled off his hoodie, yelping with each movement, and held it tightly to his wound. It wasn’t as deep as he’d first thought. Attempting to stem the flow of blood, he bunched the makeshift dressing inside his waistband, tying the sleeves around his hips.