She expelled a loud breath. Life was such a bitch. She hated having to keep secrets. Why had Maeve told her anything? She should have gone off to do whatever it was she wanted to do without bringing Chloe into it.
The panic was back. Cutting through her chest. Hauling off her headphones, she threw them on the pillow and sat upright. She rolled up her sleeve and trailed her fingers along the inside of her elbow, feeling the scabs healing over old cuts. Her fingernail caught the edge of a fresh crust, pulling it away from her flesh. She watched a dark blob of blood bubble then settle. She knew what she needed to do.
Jumping off the bed, she searched in her rucksack for her pencil case and sat back on the bed. Extracting the tissue with its sharp implement inside, she listened again to ensure no one was outside her door. She didn’t need Sean snooping around. He would surely call their mother.
Very little space remained on her arm. She pulled down her trousers and felt along the soft skin of her inner thigh. It was virgin white and smooth to the touch. Squeezing the flesh, she brought the blade down hard and sharp. A small groan eased from between clamped lips as the pain cut into her.
She knew it was wrong, but somehow it felt right. Later she would tweet about it and hopefully he would see it. After all, the hashtag was his idea.
She smelled the cooking from the kitchen downstairs and suddenly she felt hungry. She knew she had to clean up before eating but still she lay supine on the bed. As the blood trickled from the wound, she thought about Maeve. Where on earth was she?
‘What’s this?’ Sean asked.
‘Chicken stir-fry,’ Lottie said.
‘Where’s the chicken?’
‘Just eat it.’
Katie looked ill as she picked through a tangle of noodles concocted from the remnants of Lottie’s last grocery shopping expedition.
‘Katie, will you shop for food tomorrow? I’ll leave some cash and a list.’
‘Okay,’ Katie said.
‘How was school?’ Lottie asked Sean.
‘Okay.’
Sometimes conversation in her house reminded her of interviewing a suspect who had taken the ‘no comment’ route. Tough going, she thought.
After the dishes were cleared away, she decided to go for a run and perhaps drop in on her mother en route. She went to her room, and once she had changed into her running gear, she stood at the top of the stairs and listened.
Loud shouts emanated from Sean’s room as he fought with his online friends over his football game. Silence from Chloe’s. Lottie put her hand on the handle of her door, but decided to let the girl be. She’d said enough for one evening.
She left the house and ran out into the heat of the evening.
By the time she reached her mother’s house, sweat was dripping down her back and drenching her Nike top. Panting, she leaned on the neatly trimmed hedge, considering whether she should call in or not. Probably not. Her relationship with her mother was fractured, to say the least. And in some ways it had deteriorated since the body of her murdered elder brother had been discovered almost forty years after he had disappeared. Hadn’t she had enough hassle for one day? She’d see her mother tomorrow.
Before she could turn away, the front door opened.
‘Are you going to stand out there all evening or are you coming in?’
Rose Fitzpatrick, with her short, sharp silver hair, seemed to intimidate the doorway. Lottie stepped away from the hedge.
‘I’m out for a jog. Better keep going or my muscles will seize up.’ She didn’t need a confrontation.
‘For God’s sake, come in.’ A command.
Sighing, Lottie pushed open the gate and walked up the pathway to the bungalow that had been her family home. It hadn’t changed in the twenty-plus years since she’d left it to marry Adam. She often wondered if she had married so she could escape her mother. She walked through the hall and into the steaming kitchen. Even though it was near eight o’clock, the smell of cooking filled the air.
Her mother unplugged the kettle and brought it to the tap.
‘No tea for me. I’ll have a glass of water. What’s in the pot?’ Lottie asked, pulling out a chair and sitting at the table.
‘I’m helping Mrs Murtagh with her soup kitchen.’
‘Really?’ Lottie sat back, eyebrows raised. She hadn’t known her mother was in contact with the old woman, who had been a witness in her last case. ‘Does she still live in Mellow Grove?’
‘Of course she does. Why?’
‘I’m dealing with a missing girl from there. I wonder would Mrs Murtagh know something about it?’
‘She knows everything about everyone but her mind is so addled I’m not sure you’d get anything worthwhile out of her.’
‘Will you ask her? A little inside information is always a good thing. Maeve Phillips is the girl’s name. Her mother is Tracy and her father is Frank.’
‘The criminal?’
‘One and the same.’
‘He’s not been seen in Ragmullin for years.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll chat to Mrs Murtagh about the family. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.’ Rose smiled, then her mouth flatlined. ‘You blame me,’ she said.
‘Blame you for what?’
‘It wasn’t my fault, Lottie, no matter how you care to dress it up. Your brother Eddie was always a handful. After your father… did what he did…’ The sound of water flowing from the tap into the kettle drowned out her last words. ‘You’ve no idea what it was like. Living with that stigma.’
‘That stigma was my dad,’ Lottie whispered. Biting back tears, she stood up, walked over and flicked off the kettle switch. ‘I have to know what made him do it. Was it work? A case he’d been working on, maybe? What made him put a gun to his head and pull the trigger?’
She could almost see her mother’s brain clicking over her words. Moving away, Lottie sat down, cupping her face in her hands. The room filled with an uneasy silence until the kettle began to hiss once again.
‘There’s a lot you don’t know and I think it’s better for all of us if it stays that way,’ Rose said.
‘What are you talking about now?’ Lottie said through her hands.
‘Nothing. I’ll keep an eye on my grandchildren during the day and make sure they get at least one decent meal. And you leave the past alone.’ Rose poured boiling water into a teapot and looked around for the lid.
Twiddling her fingers around the white cotton tablecloth, Lottie glanced up at her mother. Rose Fitzpatrick looked every one of her seventy-five years. Having a forensic scientist identify a bundle of bones wrapped in linen aprons and decades-old flour bags as the body of her long-lost son had been earth-shattering.
‘I appreciate all you’re doing for my family, honestly I do,’ Lottie said. ‘But I have this hole here in my heart and I think I can only fill it if I find out the truth. Until then, I can’t leave it be. One day I’ll know why my dad killed himself.’
‘There was a lot going on back then,’ said Rose. ‘I can’t tell you why he did what he did, because I don’t know why.’ She turned her back on Lottie and stirred the pot of soup on the hob.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lottie said.
‘So am I.’
‘And I do love you, in—’
‘In your own way. I know, Lottie. I love you too.’
‘I’m going home now.’
‘Do that, girl.’
Lottie shook her head wearily and left her mother there, shoulders trembling, stooped over the stove. She ran out into the warm night and didn’t stop running until she reached the end of her own road across from the greyhound stadium. As she stood on the kerb, a dark saloon car purred up beside her.
‘You’ll kill yourself running in this heat,’ Dan Russell said, lowering the window.
Lottie gaped at him, sitting in his Audi. Typical car for a smart-bollocks. ‘What are you doing? Following me?’
‘Just passing. On my way to the centre.’
&n
bsp; ‘So you work day and night?’
‘When I’m needed.’
‘You must be very busy with the recent influx of refugees.’ She stood with hands on hips as he leaned out of the window with the engine running.
‘There isn’t enough room for the agreed quota, let alone this new batch. We’re doing our best.’
New batch? Lottie cringed. He was talking like people were nothing more than sliced bread. ‘How many are you housing?’
‘At the moment we have fifty-four more than we can comfortably hold.’
‘How do you manage?’ She noticed how he never fully answered her questions.
‘Extra camp beds. It’s crowded.’
‘Overcrowded?’
‘Unofficially, I’d say yes. Officially, it’s not quite a health-and-safety issue yet.’
‘You only have females and children there, is that right?’
‘Yes, the men are in various other towns dotted around the country.’
‘It seemed very quiet when I was there this afternoon. Where is everyone?’
‘Oh, they have lots of activities. Did you decide about dinner?’
She laughed. ‘You’re persistent, to say the least.’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t think dinner is appropriate, Mr Russell.’
‘Dan, please. How about tomorrow evening?’
She remained where she was. Thinking about it, she decided she could possibly garner some information from him over dinner, to assist the murder investigation. A bottle of wine might loosen his tongue. As long as she stayed on sparkling water, it would be fine.
‘Be a daredevil,’ he pressed.
‘Maybe,’ she said.
‘Excellent!’
‘I’m not agreeing to anything. Give me your number and I might ring you tomorrow.’ Two could play at being evasive.
He extracted a business card from the glove compartment, scribbled on it and handed it over. ‘That’s my personal mobile number. I look forward to your call. But let’s say provisionally that I’ll pick you up here tomorrow evening at seven.’ His fingers brushed hers as she took the card.
Walking to her front door, she wiped her hands down her T-shirt, feeling decidedly grimy from his touch. What would Boyd say about that little encounter? Russell was playing a game of poker. She knew that. But could she read his hand over his shoulder without him knowing? That was her task. She knew she was up to it.
THIRTY
Boyd and Kirby stood outside the bar, too many hours to count since they’d entered the establishment, leaning into each other under the clear starlit sky. Boyd tried to light a cigarette and failed. Kirby lit it for him.
‘I know a great place to get a ride,’ Kirby said, his bushy hair damp with perspiration against his scalp.
‘So do I. There’s a taxi rank at the top of the street,’ Boyd said, inhaling his cigarette at last.
‘You’re as drunk as a skunk,’ Kirby said. ‘Come on, I’ll bring you to the best little whorehouse in Ragmullin. I think you’re due a night in the saddle. Two fingers to Jackie and… well, you know who.’
Boyd realised Kirby was talking about Lottie. He stared up at the street lamp, seeing two where there should only be one. The door of the Chinese takeaway across the road swirled into three. Jesus, he was well and truly pissed.
‘Think I’ll go home,’ he slurred.
‘Don’t be a spoilsport.’ Kirby walked on ahead up Gaol Street.
Boyd followed in the middle of the narrow road, walking on the white line. Was he tagging along because he wanted to get laid?
‘Please God, don’t let me remember all this in the morning,’ he pleaded as Kirby hailed a taxi and poured him into it.
* * *
Boyd awoke to find himself sitting on the floor at the top of a flight of stairs. A short corridor lay before him, with doors floating in and out of focus around him. How did he get up the stairs? Did Kirby drag him here? He glanced at his watch. Jesus, it was 12.35 a.m.
He shook his head, trying to remember, and groaned with pain. Cafferty’s. Drink. Lots of it. Pints and shots. Dear God, he’d been drinking shots. He scanned his surroundings blearily. A girl stood half in, half out of a door at the end of the corridor. Staring at him.
He could see she was beautiful even though she was slipping in and out of focus. Eyes like saucers, dark hair falling across them and down along a bare shoulder. But she looked too young, and immediately he felt it was all wrong. Wrong that he was here, wrong that she was here. She should be in college or somewhere. Anywhere but here.
‘I have to go,’ he said.
Her eyes questioned but her mouth remained sealed, lips quivering. Too much red lipstick.
His stomach heaved. God, he was going to puke.
Easing his spine up along the wall, shuffling his feet until he was standing. He clutched the banister of the stairs. Steadied himself.
She put out her hand. To help him? For money? Had he to pay her? For what? He’d done nothing. Had he? No. He was sure he hadn’t. He searched for his wallet, thinking how Lottie would have plenty to say about this if she found out. Kirby better keep his mouth shut or he’d kick the shit out of him.
‘Can’t pay you,’ he said, not liking the sound of his own voice in the penetrating silence. Christ, he had to get out of here.
Still she said nothing. Stayed where she was. Unmoving.
‘’S not your fault,’ he slurred. ‘Mine.’ He pushed his wallet towards his trouser back pocket, then carefully, one step at a time, walked down the stairs and along the hallway. He pulled back the linked chain and opened the front door. Warm night air greeted him as he moved outside.
Shutting the door behind him, he walked down the steps hoping it was a dream. Maybe a bad dream, but just a dream.
Mimoza waited until she heard the front door close, downstairs, then crept from her room over to where the man had been. His wallet was on the floor. Picking it up, she ran back inside, shutting the door with a soft thud. She had needed the toilet but had forgotten to go when she’d seen him lying there. Drunk and unconscious. When he’d woken, fear had held her to the spot, frozen in time. And then he was gone.
Glad he hadn’t been allocated to her, she wondered idly which one of the other girls had missed out on being puked on.
She went to the wardrobe. After placing the wallet on a shelf, she pulled on clean underwear and shuffled back to the bed. She yearned for the comfort of oblivion. The bliss of a long uninterrupted slumber to drown out her fears and terror. Her eyes closed and the door opened. Another client began unzipping his trousers before she could raise herself on to her elbows. Slowly she removed her underwear and spread her legs for the impatient man. He groaned in rhythm to her moans. He in pleasure; she in pain.
Lottie couldn’t sleep. She twisted and turned. Glanced at the digital clock: 1.15. Got up, pulled on her jogging pants again and a light hoodie. Prowling at night was becoming a habit. Bad habit. She wondered if Boyd was in bed. Maybe she’d call over.
Running quickly through town, she was sweating by the time she reached his apartment. As she rang the bell, a car drew up on the pavement and stopped. The door opened and Jackie Boyd stepped out, dangling keys in her hand.
‘Well if it isn’t the woman who stole Marcus’s job.’
Lottie ignored the gibe. Jackie looked tired and haggard. Good, but who am I to judge? she thought.
‘Hello, Jackie. What brings you back to Ragmullin?’ And what was she doing at Boyd’s at this hour?
‘I’ve some things to discuss with my husband. Not that it’s any of your business.’
Lottie smiled wryly. ‘I’ll let you get on with it so.’
She moved away from the door. Jackie walked by her and turned. The cloying scent of an expensive perfume suffused the night.
‘I don’t think he’s at home,’ Lottie said. ‘By the way, I hear McNally’s back in town. Where is he?’
‘Definitely none of your business,’ Jacki
e said, jabbing the doorbell with a bitten nail.
‘It had better stay that way,’ Lottie said and hurried down the path, away from the constant ringing of the doorbell.
Suddenly she felt very tired.
THIRTY-ONE
Chloe checked Twitter once more. No posts from Maeve.
Tomorrow, she thought, if I hear nothing by tomorrow, I’ll tell Mam everything.
She plugged in the charger, placed her phone on the locker and fixed her headphones. As she stared at the ceiling, her room was lit up momentarily by the last train passing high up on the tracks behind the house. She wished she could shed her clammy PJs and sleep naked. But there was no privacy in her house. If she locked the door at night, her mother would be banging it down asking her what would she do if the house went on fire?
As if.
The heat of the day settled into her room, suffocating her. Opening the buttons on her pyjama top, she allowed the air from the open window to ease over her body. Only for a few minutes, she thought, and hummed to the music blasting in her ears.
She must have drifted off to sleep, because suddenly she was thrust awake by a horrible feeling that someone was watching her. She pulled her top closed. Yanking off her headphones, she glanced around in the darkness at the shadows dancing on the walls. She
jumped up and dragged the curtains across the window, blotting out the moonlight. Falling back onto her bed, her skin crawling with a cold sweat, she saw a figure standing in the doorway.
She screamed. ‘Mum, help!’
‘Shut up, you silly cow.’
‘Jesus Christ, Sean. You frightened the shite out of me.’ Chloe bolted towards him, pulling on a hoodie.
‘I thought I heard someone at the front door,’ he said.
‘Open it and see,’ Chloe snapped, relenting immediately when she saw the hurt skim over his face. ‘Sorry, bro. I’ll go have a look.’
The Stolen Girls Page 12
