‘Don’t mind him,’ the captain said.
But he did mind him.
He didn’t want to ever see that boy again.
DAY FIVE
FRIDAY 15 MAY 2015
FORTY-THREE
He had tied her to the bed. The rope cut through her thin wrists and blood oozed on to the sheets. Mimoza could move her legs, nothing else. He was by the window, naked, clutching a smouldering cigarette. Grey rain sleeted against the glass and he seemed to be looking beyond it into the black-clouded sky.
Gulping down her fear, she asked, ‘What you do to Milot?’
Crooked Teeth Man had asked her over and over again about her son. All night long. Where was he? Where would he go? What had she told him to do? Relentless. But Mimoza was immune to the physical pain he inflicted. It was the ache in her heart that threatened to break her. Milot was gone. And they didn’t know where he was. She wished she could ask Sara, but wouldn’t they have already broken her little friend? Maybe Sara had escaped with him. She hoped so. She clung to that hope. Tears flowed down her face. She couldn’t wipe them away.
The man turned, went to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray, seemed to think better of it. Mimosa held her breath as he brought the glowing butt to her face. Squeezing her eyes shut so she wouldn’t see, she screamed as he thrust the cigarette into the soft flesh of her cheek.
‘Where is your boy?’ he snarled through gritted teeth.
She passed out with the sound of thunder outside and the echo of pain shooting through her ears.
FORTY-FOUR
Thunderous rain woke Lottie at 6.30 a.m. Triple flashes of lightning, followed by a monster thunder clash, transformed her bedroom into a kaleidoscope of brilliance. A child cried. Somewhere in her house. What?
‘Dear God!’ She jumped out of bed in a tangle of pillows and duvet as she remembered. Milot.
Her door opened and Katie rushed in, the little boy screaming in her arms.
‘Mam, what will I do with him? He’s terrified.’ Her daughter’s face was chalky white.
‘Make him breakfast,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ll be down in a few minutes.’
She dragged herself into the shower, washed quickly and dried herself while trying to find something to wear. Everything was everywhere.
By seven o’clock, Milot was calm enough to eat a bowl of cornflakes. The storm seemed to have passed over, though the rain was incessant. Lottie glanced at the clock. Tullamore for the post-mortem at eight. Would she make it?
The front door opened and Rose Fitzpatrick marched in, rainwater dripping from a clear plastic coat. She deposited a carton of milk and a loaf of bread, its wrapper wilting, on the table. Katie escaped out the door and up the stairs.
‘And who is this?’ Rose nodded towards the boy.
Shit, thought Lottie, how was she going to explain Milot to her mother?
‘It’s a long story. Work-related.’
‘What have you done this time?’ Rose said, arms folded.
‘Nothing. I’m dealing with it.’
‘Like you always do.’ Rose’s voice cut through the air.
Lottie ruffled the little boy’s hair and picked him up as Rose put the milk in the fridge. Shifting him onto her hip, ready to bring him upstairs to Katie, she said, ‘I’m running late. I appreciate you coming over. I really couldn’t manage without your help. But there was no need to be here so early.’ She eased towards the door. ‘By the way, did Mrs Murtagh have anything to say about the Phillips family? Maeve’s parents?’
‘Just that Frank stocked up his ill-gotten gains in Spain and headed there when Maeve was a child,’ Rose said. ‘Left Tracy to struggle raising the girl. Here, give him to me. Poor little mite. I’ll look after him until you sort out a placement for him.’
‘If you’re sure?’ Lottie handed Milot over and was astounded when the boy sat placidly on her mother’s knee. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll do a spot of hoovering later,’ Rose said, stroking Milot’s hair. ‘When did you last clean this house?’
Lottie didn’t answer. Truth was, it was so long ago, she didn’t even know where she’d put the hoover.
* * *
In the car, Lottie rang the station and rescheduled their team meeting to 10 a.m. Driving through the spray rising from the motorway, she wondered how she could juggle her day to fit in everything she had to do.
The windscreen wipers struggled to keep up with the deluge. As she left the motorway, her phone rang. Chloe.
‘I can’t go to school today.’
A clap of thunder seemed to crash against the car.
‘Why not? Feeling sick?’
‘I think I’ve a temperature.’
‘Stay in bed.’ Too stretched to argue, Lottie added, ‘Granny’s there if you need anything.’
‘I know. She’s flying round the house hoovering like a witch with a broom.’
So she’d found it. Lottie laughed. ‘Thanks for that image.’
‘By the way,’ Chloe said, ‘don’t forget Sean has to see his therapist today.’
As she pulled into the Dead House car park, Lottie thought how life didn’t seem to get any easier.
The wind picked up as she ran up the path to the door and warm rain pelted into her face. Of course she had no coat.
* * *
The myriad antiseptic and antibacterial washes and sprays could not mask the mortuary smell. Though the tiled and stainless-steel room was sterile, the overriding odour was pungent ammonia.
‘Still no idea who the first victim is?’ Jane asked. ‘The pregnant girl?’
‘No.’ Lottie tightened the loops of a surgical mask around her ears before pulling a gown on over her damp clothes. ‘It’s so frustrating. If we could identify her, we’d have a starting place. As it is, without knowing anything about her, we’ve nothing to go on and no suspect to target.’
‘I think you might have the same problem with this one. I’ll keep the technical and medical lingo for my reports. She’d been dead maybe four days; because the weather has been so hot, it’s difficult to be exact. I’ll examine the blowflies and larvae. I’d estimate she is aged between eighteen and twenty-five and at first glance I can’t see any tattoos or identifying marks. Apart from the scar I told you about. She is very undernourished also.’
Standing well back, Lottie allowed Jane and her team to get to work. She concentrated on the pathologist detailing the victim’s outer clothing into a recording device. Blue cotton blouse, pleated short black jersey skirt, no tights or shoes.
‘All clothing intact,’ Jane said, examining the blouse for a bullet hole.
The victim had no bra but was wearing cheap white cotton knickers.
‘Inside out,’ Jane added. One of her assistants bagged and labelled the clothes.
‘Bastard undressed her, shot her, then re-dressed her,’ Lottie said, banging one gloved hand into the other. ‘You’ll confirm if he washed the wound? And if there’s evidence of sexual assault?’
Jane nodded.
‘Anything yet on the analysis of the moss from the first victim?’
‘As soon as I have anything I’ll send it on. And before you ask, I will be checking this victim for it too.’
She turned the body on its side.
‘Bullet’s gone right through her. Entry through the back and exit through the stomach. Certainly looks as if it has been cleaned. If you find the crime scene you might find the bullet,’ Jane said, continuing to examine the blistered skin.
If that burst, Lottie thought, they would be swamped in putrid odours. She noticed she’d been holding her breath.
‘Is it possible she was shot at Weir’s yard?’ she asked from behind her mask. But they’d found no bullet there, she reminded herself, though the body was unearthed close by.
‘The blood taken from the yard will be checked against this girl’s DNA and you’ll be informed of results.’
‘Thanks.’ Lottie knew the process could take weeks.
Jan
e pointed to a scar trailing from the girl’s abdomen up over her left hip and around her back. ‘This is similar to the first victim. I’m sure that when I go in I’ll find she’s had a kidney removed.’
‘How long ago do you think it happened?’
‘It seems more recent than the other girl’s. Suturing is good, from what I can make out. Professional surgery.’
‘A doctor murdered her?’
‘In my opinion a doctor, or someone medically trained, carried out the surgery. Doesn’t mean that’s who murdered her.’ Jane was scrutinising the victim’s legs. ‘She was a cutter.’
‘A cutter?’
‘Self-harm,’ Jane explained. ‘Lacerations to her inner thighs. Despite the decomposition, I can just about make out old scars.’ An assistant took more photographs.
Lottie watched intently as Jane examined the entire body externally. As she lifted the victim’s left breast, she hesitated and called her assistant.
‘What is it?’ Lottie asked, craning her neck to see.
‘Looks like a deep scar on the outside of the breast. A knife wound maybe.’ Jane pointed to it, then checked the other breast. ‘Same here. Possibly self-inflicted.’
‘How could someone do this to themselves? God love her, she must have been going through such torment. Surely someone close to her would have known about this.’
‘It’s easy to hide,’ Jane said.
‘But wouldn’t her family notice?’
‘If she has any.’
Lottie shook her head in dismay.
Jane said, ‘Sometimes the only way people can handle emotional pain is to cause themselves physical pain. In some cases, it can lead to suicide. But as we know, this girl was murdered.’
Bile settled in Lottie’s throat. She needed to escape.
‘You okay?’ Jane asked, raising her head, scalpel in her hand.
‘Send me your report.’ Lottie pulled off her gown and gloves and stuffed them into the receptacle provided.
‘Of course. Mind yourself,’ Jane said.
Lottie had to mentally slow down to prevent herself running out of the door. She wasn’t afraid of visible scars; it was the invisible ones she couldn’t handle.
* * *
She heard the commotion before she opened the door to the station.
‘There you are!’ Tracy Phillips propelled herself from the counter towards Lottie. ‘Where’s my Maeve? Why haven’t you found her? I’m worried sick. She should be back by now…’
‘Mrs Phillips. Tracy,’ Lottie said, clutching the woman’s elbow and steering her to a bench. ‘Sit down for a minute.’
Tracy wrenched her arm free. Hands on hips, she said, ‘I’m not sitting down. I want my daughter.’
‘We’re doing all we can to find her.’ Lottie shook the rain from her hair, pulled her T-shirt free from her sopping jeans and wrung it out.
‘Are you? Where is she, then? Have you questioned that good-for-nothing husband of mine? Out in the Costa del Sun, mixing with every class of criminal. He deserves to be locked up.’
The smell of stale alcoholic breath threatened to overwhelm Lottie.
‘Come with me,’ she said. She keyed in the code to the internal door and entered Interview Room 1. ‘Sit down, Tracy. Please.’
‘I just want you to find my Maeve.’ Tracy plopped her wet cloth handbag on the table and seated herself. Lottie pulled round a chair and angled it beside her.
‘We’ve tried to make contact with your husband,’ she said, ‘without success. However, I’m sure he has nothing to do with Maeve going missing.’ She would have said anything to placate the woman, but she wondered what had brought about the sudden change. Tracy Phillips was a mother, who for five days hadn’t noticed her daughter was missing, and now here she was bordering on hysterical.
‘I know different,’ Tracy said.
‘What do you know?’
Tracy slumped back in the chair, hands shaking, lips trembling. ‘I had a visit last night.’
‘Your husband, Frank?’ A whiff of unwashed flesh caused Lottie to shift away slightly.
‘That bollocks wouldn’t leave his sunbed or his dolly birds for anything. Not even for his daughter. No.’ She pulled at her loose hair. ‘You ever hear of Jamie McNally?’
Lottie tried to keep her face impassive while her heart skipped a beat.
‘I’ve heard of him.’ She tried to be non-committal. ‘Did he call to your house?’
‘He did. There was I, ready for bed, and him outside banging on the window like a banshee.’
‘How do you know McNally?’ Lottie asked. ‘What did he want?’
Tracy hesitated. ‘I… I don’t know him, but that useless layabout in Spain does.’
‘Go on.’
‘I think he sent him over here asking about my Maeve.’
‘Frank sent Jamie McNally to talk to you about Maeve?’
‘Are you listening to me at all?’
Lottie mulled over this information. They’d known McNally was around town, but so far they’d had no luck finding him. And now Tracy was giving her a specific link between Jamie McNally and Frank Phillips, and her missing daughter.
‘Tracy, we know your husband is involved with criminal activity. And you know that too.’
‘Yes, I know he’s a criminal and I hate every bone in his body. But I want my girl back. She should’ve been back by now if…’
‘If what?’
‘Nothing. I just want her home.’
‘Could Frank’s activities be in any way connected to Maeve’s disappearance?’
Tracy shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t know, to tell you the truth.’
‘What did McNally say?’ Lottie asked, now that Tracy had calmed down.
‘That prick. All high and mighty and important in a black suit and tie. Looking like a proper businessman. Except his hair was slicked with a ton of gel, and he even had a ponytail yoke at the back of his head. The gobshite. He said… he said Frank asked him to check up on Maeve.’ She grasped Lottie’s hand. ‘What’s happened to my girl?’
‘I guarantee you I intend to find out.’ Lottie pulled her hand away and debated taking a formal statement.
Tracy began fumbling around in her handbag. ‘I’m sorry, but I need a drink. I’ve tried to stay off it, but McNally scared me half to death. I thought Maeve had just run off. But now I’m not sure of anything.’
I know the feeling, Lottie thought.
‘Did McNally give you the impression he knew where Maeve might be, or if she had been abducted?’
‘Abducted? No. He just wanted to know what you lot were doing, and if you’d taken anything from the house. I was afraid of him, so I let him have a look in Maeve’s room when he asked.’
‘Did he say anything after that?’
‘Just said, “Maeve takes after her daddy.”’
‘What did he mean by that?’
‘Expensive tastes, that’s what he said. Remember that blue dress you were interested in? He took it with him.’
‘Good God, whatever for?’
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even know where Maeve got it from.’
Shit, Lottie thought, they should have removed the dress from the house. Damn. Why was McNally interested in it?
Studying Tracy Phillips, trembling but dry-eyed, she said, ‘You know you can tell me anything. I promise no one will know but me, and my colleagues.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Is there anything at all that might point me in the right direction to find Maeve? Something you’re not telling me?’
‘Inspector, you have children, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Can you honestly say you know everything about them?’
That got Lottie thinking for a moment.
Tracy said, ‘I drink a lot. I admit that. So there are things I don’t know about my daughter and things I probably don’t want to know, but I do know this. My Maeve wouldn’t run away. If I were you, I’
d try to find my bastard of a husband. If he doesn’t know where she is, you can be sure he’ll know someone who does.’
* * *
After Tracy left, Lottie ran down to the basement and burst into the locker room. She had five minutes to get ready before the team meeting. Pulling off her damp T-shirt, she rummaged around for a clean one. When she was dressed, she walked towards the door.
Hearing someone on the other side of the room, she longed for the day when the building renovations were complete and she could have some privacy. Unisex lockers were not ideal. She looked over. Boyd was unbuttoning his shirt.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, leaning against the door and folding her arms. She recalled Jackie at his apartment last night. Would he tell her what that had been about? Probably not. And she wasn’t going to ask.
Boyd pulled on a clean shirt. ‘What does it look like? Got caught in the downpour.’
‘How’s Jackie?’ Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?
‘How would I know?’
‘After all she put you through, Boyd, I thought you’d realise she’s not your type.’
‘Are you my personal matchmaker now or what? She was my type when I married her. And how would you know what my type is anyway?’
He was right. What did she know? But she couldn’t stop herself.
‘I don’t want you making a fool of yourself. Jackie arrives back in Ragmullin with her big baby eyes and you sleep with her.’ She unfolded her arms and shoved her hands into her jeans pockets.
Boyd banged the locker door and faced her. ‘Lottie, you’re not my mother. Try being a mother to your own kids.’
She stepped away from him, mouth open. ‘How… how can you say that?’
She saw his shoulders slump. He gripped her arm.
‘I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that. You just riled me—’
‘Don’t make excuses.’ She snapped her arm away.
‘I’ll make you a coffee.’ Boyd escaped up the stairs, heading for the makeshift kitchen.
The Stolen Girls Page 17
