Chapter Fifteen
As he walked along the narrow footpath on the wide street, the only street in Ballydoon, he was acutely aware of the evil crawling along in his wake. He walked slower than usual. The weight had settled, the burden of the darkness lodged on his shoulders like a shroud on a dead person. When he crossed the bridge, he heard the river flowing. Snow banked up at the edges, and reeds bowed their heads in a solemn salute. He turned into the grounds of the abbey and raised his face to the black sky. No moon. It was blotted out by the pulsing clouds of the night.
He could see a light haze ahead. Two garda cars. A white van. And the tent. Had they not taken away her body? Surely by now she should be lying naked in a morgue, slit open from chest to pubic bone. Her entrails extracted, weighed and noted. Sealed in plastic bags awaiting return to the empty cavity. And her hair. Oh, her hair …
He ducked under a tree and made his way along one of the many pathways he knew so well. Hands now tightly scrunched into fists, deep in his pockets. If anyone approached him, they were getting a punch. And fuck the consequences.
Along here there was less snow. The path, sheltered by trees, led back over the river and around the statues. He stood at the fence. Behind him, the garda activity might as well have been in another country. They were oblivious to where the real action lay. The real clues. The real reason.
He watched the farmhouse. He couldn’t see much of the yard in the dark; only the light from the windows. He knew what was in there. Knew who was in there.
He chuckled to himself, a wide smile creasing his face in two, before continuing on the path. His hands were more relaxed now. He had no fear of being found. Not where he was going. No one would find him. Ever. Never. No.
Chapter Sixteen
The day had been excruciatingly long. Lottie was sure she could feel each one of its minutes dragging at the muscles of her legs. She needed to sit. To lie down. To rest. But her second job was just about to begin. Her family. Not that it was a job, but all the same, there was no time for leisure. She wished, just for a second, for someone to sit with her so that she could unload her worries and fears. And she wondered how she would get through the night with the weight of little Lily Heffernan’s disappearance pressing down on her like a cement block.
She heard muted voices as she hung her jacket on the banister. She cocked her ear to listen up the stairs. Nothing. The sound was coming from the sitting room. Opening the door, she stuck her head around it.
‘Leo?’ She felt a shiver slip between her shoulder blades.
After McMahon, Leo Belfield was the last person she wanted to have to talk to tonight. Her half-brother from a complicated family tree. A captain in the NYPD. Once he had discovered his true family, he had travelled over to Ireland regularly. He’d been injured during the course of her last case, and Rose, Lottie’s mother, had taken on the task of nursing him better. What was he doing here at this late hour?
‘Hello, Lottie.’ He stood up from the couch, where he’d been sitting with her daughters. There was no sign of baby Louis, or indeed Sean. The former most likely in bed and the latter probably in his room, gaming on his PlayStation. The idea that her son might be doing his homework was remote. ‘Can I have a word in the kitchen?’
‘My kitchen,’ Lottie said under her breath as she led the way. Though it wasn’t really her kitchen, she thought. She was only renting the house.
She was happy to see the room had been tidied up. The laundry had been put away and a saucepan was sitting on the hob. Even the floor looked as though a sweeping brush had scraped over it. Rose had been in.
Leo pulled out a chair and sat. Lottie remained standing. She’d rather be looking down at him. She heard footsteps hammering down the stairs. Louis crying. A door opening.
‘Sean!’ Katie yelled. ‘You’re an eejit. You’ve woken Louis. I’ll swing for you.’
‘Whatever,’ came Sean’s reply.
Lottie rushed to the hall. ‘What’s going on out here?’
‘That dope woke Louis,’ Katie said, and disappeared up the stairs.
Sean was searching through the pile of coats on the banister.
‘Where are you going?’ Lottie tightened her grip on the kitchen door.
‘Out.’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere but here.’ He dragged a jacket from the pile and opened the front door.
‘It’s late, Sean.’
He turned on the step. ‘I don’t care. I need air. This house is suffocating me.’
‘Don’t be long.’ Lottie felt powerless to stop him heading out into the night.
‘Everything all right?’ Leo said.
Returning to the kitchen, she shrugged at him and lifted the lid of the saucepan. Chicken stew. She switched on the hob. ‘What do you want, Leo?’
He pulled out a chair. ‘Will you sit for this chat?’
‘Sounds serious.’ She sat.
Leo’s hands were clasped together on the table. His eyes replicas of her own. Emerald green. ‘I know you’ve been involved with solicitors over the Kitty Belfield probate.’
‘And?’ Lottie believed Kitty Belfield to be their grandmother.
‘You know I have a claim on the Farranstown estate?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘After that episode with my twin sister, Bernie, I thought I wanted no part of our heritage.’
‘To be honest, Leo, you don’t need it. Alexis left you well off, didn’t she?’
She hadn’t meant to sound bitchy, but she knew that was the way her words had come out. Alexis had passed herself off as Leo’s mother, having left Ireland with him as a baby. She was the half-sister of their mother, Carrie King. Long story.
‘True,’ he said. ‘She left me with real estate in New York. I’ve yet to wind up her company.’
‘Why do you need to have an interest in Farranstown, then?’ Lottie couldn’t keep her voice from bristling.
‘Will you listen to me? Legally I have a claim on the estate.’
‘Right!’
‘There’s no need to get your Irish temper riled up. I’ve discussed all this with Rose. She’s in agreement.’
Lottie pushed the chair with the back of her legs and stood, shaking her head. ‘I might have known my mother had her paw stuck somewhere in the middle of this pie.’
‘I’m trying to help you here, if you’d only listen.’
‘I’ve had a long bitch of a day. Get to the point.’
‘Lottie, I want to buy you out.’
‘You what?’ She could feel her jaw slacken. She had not been expecting this.
‘I want to buy you out. I’ll take over dealing with the legal stuff. The probate and all that.’
‘But why?’ She sat down again.
‘I’d like to help you. You don’t need a noose like Farranstown House around your neck. When the legalities are dealt with, I want to sell it. It’s good development land, stretching right down to the lake.’
Perhaps now was not the time to tell him he’d have a hard time getting planning permission for a development on the shores of Lough Cullion, the source of Ragmullin’s water supply.
He continued, gesticulating, his excitement visibly building. ‘I’ll get it valued. Pay you your share. You won’t have to worry about it after that.’
‘It could take years before it’s sorted out.’
‘I don’t mind. I can pay you from Alexis’s estate. I have to go back to New York. I want to return to work. I’ve had enough of Ireland for the moment, to be truthful.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ Lottie felt the beginning of a smile warm her face. Maybe having a half-brother wasn’t so bad.
‘There is one condition, though.’ His green eyes darkened to a deep viridian.
Her body deflated and she straightened her back in readiness. He was being an arsehole. Building her up just to let her down.
‘What is it?’
‘I want you to sign legal documents. And once everything is valued
, I’ll pay you half.’
‘Feck off.’ She rolled up her sleeves before standing and heading for the stove.
‘I’m serious, Lottie. That estate could be worth five, maybe ten million euros.’
She found a wooden spoon and stirred the stew. Kept her back to him. Millions? Jesus. She’d never thought of Farranstown in terms of money, just as a nuisance she could do without.
‘What do you say?’ he persisted.
‘I don’t know. This is sudden.’ Still she stirred, with the chicken breaking up into straggly bits in the sauce.
‘Think about it. You’ll get half up front. You’ll have nothing else to do with Farranstown. The proceeds will help you find a house of your own.’
‘I quite like this house,’ she said.
‘But it’s not yours, is it? You’re indebted to Tom Rickard.’
‘That’s my business, Leo.’ But he was right. Rickard was baby Louis’ grandad, and he had been kind enough to give her the house almost rent-free. She knew it was his way of keeping tabs on Louis. Tiredness itched behind her eyes; they felt like sand after the tide had ebbed.
‘What if the probate doesn’t go through?’ she said. ‘Someone else might have a claim on the place.’
‘I’ll worry about that. If I get the forms drawn up, will you sign?’
It seemed such an inconsequential task. Just her signature. Nothing to fear. But Lottie couldn’t help feeling that maybe, just maybe, it might be the biggest mistake of her life so far.
Chapter Seventeen
It was late when Boyd returned to his flat. His journey west had taken him two and a half hours; the traffic into Galway had been atrocious. But he’d driven home in an hour and a half.
He slipped off his jacket, then his shoes, and from the refrigerator he took out a can of lager. He felt like something stronger, but Kirby had demolished the bottle of whiskey last night.
As he sipped the beer in the silence of his own space, he thought about the evening he’d just had and hoped Lottie wouldn’t be inquisitive about his need for another absence in a few days. He would just have to don a poker face and lie.
Taking a few deep breaths, he lay back on the couch. He closed his eyes and wondered just what he was going to do. A ring on the doorbell and he sat up straight. It was late. Lottie? God, no. Not at this hour.
He opened the door.
‘Sean? What are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?’
‘Can I watch some telly with you?’ The teenager stood on the step, a forlorn picture with a sheet of sleet pelting down behind him.
‘Come in.’
Sean flung his jacket on the back of a chair. Boyd picked it up and hung it in the hall. When he returned to the living space, the television was on and Sean was huddled in the corner of the couch.
‘Where have you been? Your jacket’s soaked.’
‘It’s Chloe’s, so I don’t care. I’ve just been walking around town.’
‘Want to talk about it, bud?’ Boyd picked up his beer but didn’t sit.
‘I just want some peace.’ Sean looked up at him, his blue eyes swimming like the ocean. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Once your mother’s okay with it.’
‘She doesn’t care.’
Oh no, Boyd thought. He had become a confidant for Sean over the last few years and he reckoned the boy saw him as a substitute father figure. But he could really have done with just his own company tonight. He had too many things to think about. And listening to the woes of a teenage boy railing against his mother was definitely not on his agenda.
‘I have to text her. To let her know you’re here.’
‘Whatever.’
‘One episode of something and then you’re off home.’ Boyd took the remote control from Sean’s hand and paused the screen.
‘You’re worse than her, you know,’ Sean muttered.
Boyd waited for the tirade, but silence crawled into the air between them. He gave in. Sat down and unmuted the sound. Then he sent a quick text to Lottie to let her know her son was with him.
‘Can I have a Heineken?’ Sean chanced.
‘No you cannot. Do you want your mother to skin me alive after she’s finished with you?’ Boyd laughed.
Sean laughed too.
The rattling of the windows made the hair stand on the backs of his hands. Father Michael Curran rose from his chair and walked to undo the heavy gold tie-back on the curtains. As Ballydoon parish priest, he had lived in the ancient parochial house for the last five years, and through each one of those winters the old sash windows had rattled and creaked constantly. It had never bothered him before tonight. Never mind the windows, he thought, he was rattled. With the subdued lighting in the room, he could see little outside. Black and wild. Leaning closer to the pane, he tried to see beyond his own haggard reflection. Suddenly a branch crashed against the glass. Jumping backwards, his legs collided with the chair, and as he fell onto the seat, he yelped in pain.
He had to go to bed. The night was closing in and it was fifteen minutes past his bedtime. Routine had got him through his life thus far. He didn’t want to admit that it was something of an obsession now.
Closing the autobiography he had been reading, he stood, undid the other tie-back and went to drag the curtains across the window.
From the depths of his throat, a strangled screech escaped. His blood froze. He stepped backwards once again, his progress halted by the legs of the chair.
A face, plastered flat against the wet glass.
The priest recoiled, hands shaking, legs jellied. His feet slithered from his slippers and he turned on his ankle. No physical pain, just a twisting deep in his stomach. He looked out again. The face had disappeared. Shadows jumped around like skeletons dancing wildly. Branches slapped against the window, sounding like bones cracking in double-jointed fingers.
A knock. Sharp and insistent.
He swung around. His heart was beating so loudly in his chest it reverberated in his ears. He had no idea if the persistent knocking was from the window or the door. He blinked rapidly in confusion and looked at the window again. No face. Had he imagined it?
Steps.
Footsteps.
In the flagstoned hallway outside the living room. Tap tap tap. More ominous than the knocking on the window. The priest wondered if he had left the door unlocked. No, he would not have done that. Creature of habit. He always locked the doors.
Another tap tap.
Still Father Curran was sure the sound was from his imagination, despite his vow never to venture to the dark side.
And then he heard the strangled cry of the swans.
She was warm, and at the same time she felt cold. The covers were hairy and she wanted her own fleece blanket.
It was dark, but Lily didn’t mind that. She liked the dark. Her mum told her the fairies only came out in the dark. They were her friends, the fairies.
But she didn’t know why she wasn’t at home in her own bed. That wasn’t right. Her mummy always put her to bed. Except for the nights she stayed with her daddy. His hair kind of scared her. Once, he’d even tried to cut her hair, but she’d screamed his house down so he put the scissors away. But he was her daddy and she loved him.
Her Paw Patrol Zuma toy. That was what she wanted. Or her Peppa Pig doll. Even her Winnie-the-Pooh. She knew she was too old for teddies, all her friends said so, but she couldn’t sleep without them. Maybe if she cried and screamed someone would fetch her mummy, and her mummy would bring in her teddy. Had she done something wrong? Was that the reason?
She’d got into the car. Sat in the back while the seat belt was strapped across her chest. There was no booster seat for her, but she’d said nothing, kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t even cried. Not one little bit. So if she’d done all that, why was she here on her own?
Maybe she’d just have to try to sleep with the hairy blanket and pretend it was her teddy. And in the morning, her mummy would wake her up and tell her it
was all a bad dream.
The child lay sleeping. Breathing in and out. So calm and unaware of the torturous world she inhabited. The blanket was bunched up under her elbow like a comforter. He wanted to reach out a hand and smooth her beautiful long hair away from her angelic face. But that might wake her. And a sleeping child was easier to manage than a screaming brat.
His breath carried in the air in sync with hers.
He kept his hand deep in his pocket. Safe in there.
In. Out. On her breathing went.
For how long? he wondered.
How long would she have in this world created by adults, inhuman to children?
He bunched his fingers into a fist, tight in his pocket.
It was not his call to make. Who should live and who should die.
It came from an authority higher up the food chain than him.
And still he watched.
Her breaths.
In.
Out.
*
The other boys called him names. They sneaked up on him, pulled at his short, tight hair, laughed and ran. No one ever hung around long enough to hear what he might have to say.
He had to keep his hair cut. No way was any teacher ever going to do that to him again. No way in hell.
He kicked a can across the playground and listened as it clattered into a gully. Picking up a stick, he hit the can and it rose out of its place of refuge to land on the concrete.
‘Boy! That’s vandalism. If you don’t stop, you will turn into a criminal.’
He turned to see the man hurrying his way, his coat fluttering and flapping around him, like a dirty sheet on a washing line. Like the sheets he had to sleep in at home. Discoloured and smelly.
He’d never thought he’d miss his old school, but once he was six, he had to transfer to the all boys’ school. It wasn’t fair. He’d liked playing with the girls. They usually folded up in tears at his approach even before he pinched them. He supposed it wasn’t really playing, what he was doing.
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 9
