His arm was gripped so tightly he dropped the stick. His chin was grabbed by putty fingers and his face turned upwards with a sharp twist. The man’s breath was stale and pungent. The boy gagged, though he tried to show no emotion. Once you cried or whimpered, they knew they had cracked you and surviving the torment became harder. And if his home was notified of his wrongdoings, his backside became a welter of blisters and burns; his arms a pulse of yellow and purple bruises. All because he was too weak. But not today. Hairy face could hump off.
The boy did something he hadn’t done before.
He laughed hysterically.
As he waited for the phone call home to be made, he was glad he’d had his hair cut. At least he wouldn’t have to suffer that indignity.
Chapter Eighteen
Thursday
Lottie awoke with pain pulsing behind her eyes. Her dreams had been filled with horrific images that she knew would haunt her until the cases were closed.
In the shower, she found little relief. If Cara and Fiona had been murdered, it was highly likely they’d died at the hand of the same perpetrator. Therefore it was even more likely that Lily Heffernan was in the clutches of a murderer. She shivered at that thought and tried to wash it away with warm water.
Memories of the bones of her brother Eddie found in an unmarked grave, exploded in her head. No, don’t go there, she warned herself. Lily had to be safe. That was the thought she needed to cling on to as she dried herself, ignoring the little pieces of fluff from the towel sticking to the hairs on her arms.
Did someone kill Cara Dunne, then head out to Ballydoon to kill Fiona Heffernan before travelling back to Ragmullin to abduct the little girl? How was that even possible? It was possible, she conceded. There was little blood involved in the killings; no knives or guns had been used. The killer would have been clean and free to mingle, to drive, to abduct.
With her head still spinning, Lottie pulled on a pair of black jeans and a white long-sleeved T-shirt and headed into work without having anything to eat.
She arrived at the station before any of her team but Acting Superintendent McMahon’s car was already in the yard. Inhaling the aroma of fresh coffee, she rushed along the corridor. She needed to review yesterday’s activities before she attended the post-mortems. First, though, she had to find out the status of the investigation into Lily’s disappearance.
The foul humour she’d woken up in got worse instead of better. Usually work acted as a balm to the trouble she left at home. But Sean was becoming unmanageable. She’d sat up until he waltzed in the door after three a.m. Okay, Boyd had let her know he was with him, but still, her son was being awkward just for the sake of it. She shook her head and tried to forget home life and concentrate on work.
Despite the two deaths yesterday, her main concern was the missing child, Lily Heffernan. She checked the bulletins, but there had been no reported sightings of the little girl. She needed to interview Trevor Toner and Giles Bannon from the dance school and get updates on the reports from parents, kids and teachers. There was so much to do. It was looking like an abduction. If the child’s mother had committed suicide, had she made arrangements for her daughter? Someone to care for her; someone to collect her? Wouldn’t she have left instructions with Ryan Slevin or Colin Kavanagh? Not if she had reason to distrust them, Lottie thought. Not if one of them had murdered her. Not if someone else had murdered her.
She crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair as a feeling of dread lodged squarely in the centre of her chest. She feared for the child. When she looked up, McMahon was standing in the doorway. He had the habit of appearing out of nowhere like an unscented gas. His appearance usually heralded trouble.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Tell me about this missing child.’ He straightened the collar of his shirt and opened his suit jacket. A double-breasted waistcoat shielded his torso.
‘Lily Heffernan has been missing since four o’clock yesterday afternoon, last seen at her dance rehearsals in Ragmullin Theatre. We have everything in place to try to locate her.’
McMahon sat and stretched his arms across the desk. For a moment she thought he was about to grab her hands, but instead he slammed both fists loudly on the wooden surface. His voice betrayed more than a hint of anger as he spoke, its timbre low yet menacing.
‘I don’t want to listen to your shite, Inspector. I don’t want to be finding out about missing kids on the fucking radio on my way into fucking work. I don’t need Morning Ireland informing me of things I should know about first-hand. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ He raised his hands and flicked his black fringe out of his eyes.
Rather than slink into her chair, Lottie straightened her shoulders, ready to do battle.
He was still talking, his tone now an octave higher. ‘I expect my second in command to keep me fully abreast of matters of interest; matters that make the national goddam news at seven o’clock in the morning while I’m sipping my skinny bastard latte in a paper cup. Do you hear me? I do not expect that the first time I hear about it is on the airwaves filling my car.’
Jesus, he was repeating himself so much, it was making her headache worse. ‘I tried to contact you last night, sir. But unfortunately you were up in Dublin at your fancy dinner, and—’
‘Don’t!’ He held up a finger. ‘Don’t spout shite at me. I can’t stand your insubordination. You’re one inch away from being out that door. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, sir.’ If she added up all the inches, she’d reach a mile, she thought.
‘Update me, then.’ He folded his arms and sniffed away his derision.
‘Well, it’s like this …’ She fought the urge to mirror his posture. ‘We are investigating two deaths. One was a teacher called Cara Dunne. She was found hanging in her bathroom, wearing a wedding dress. No suicide note has been recovered. I’m sure she was murdered. We’re currently gathering information and I’m attending her post-mortem shortly. Then yesterday afternoon, the body of Fiona Heffernan was discovered in the grounds of Ballydoon Abbey.’
‘Ballydoon?’
‘It’s a village, less than fifteen kilometres from Ragmullin, and—’
‘I know where fucking Ballydoon is. Go on.’
‘The abbey is a nursing home. Fiona was a nurse there.’
‘Get to the point.’
‘Her death is being treated as unexplained until the post-mortem is completed. She might have jumped from the roof or – and I think this is more likely – she may have been pushed. We haven’t found a suicide note and she had a gash on her head. We found blood on the locker room floor. The fact that she was wearing a wedding dress, just like Cara Dunne, makes her death look highly suspicious.’
‘Right. The little girl. Tell me about her.’
She could see he was struggling to keep his temper down. She hoped when it exploded, she wasn’t in its trajectory.
‘No one at the scene mentioned anything to us about Fiona’s daughter. The only thing of interest I heard there was that Fiona was due to get married the next day. Today, actually. Detective Kirby and I visited her fiancé, Ryan Slevin, who informed us of the existence of Lily. She is eight years old, and as I said, she was last seen at a local dance school.’
‘And you neglected to inform me of this development?’
‘Sir, we tried. You were not answering your phone.’
‘Someone could have left a message for me.’
Lottie shrugged. She had no idea if anyone had left a message or not.
‘Carry on,’ he said, puffing out his cheeks, which were now so red, she felt he might expire.
‘I met with Fiona’s ex-partner, Colin Kavanagh. He is the child’s father. He claimed to be no wiser than Ryan Slevin as to the child’s whereabouts. At that stage, I issued the alert. There seems to be some animosity between Slevin and Kavanagh.’
‘Wait a minute. Did you say Colin Kavanagh? The solicitor?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ah,
for fuck’s sake. He will be all over us like baby oil.’
‘You know him, sir?’
McMahon nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. It was a few moments before he spoke again. ‘Kavanagh used to work in the Dublin criminal court when I was in the Drugs and Organised Crime Bureau. A shrewd bollocks to meet across the table.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s a defence lawyer for some of the most notorious crime gangs in the city.’ He scrunched his eyes and flicked his fringe, his flush retreating a little. ‘I thought he’d retired.’
‘Well, he retired to Ragmullin, or just outside of it, to be correct. He operates a small office with a few clients, as far as I can gather. Sounds dodgy to me.’
‘You don’t work for twenty-five years with the scum of the earth without some of that scum sticking to you,’ McMahon said. ‘I’d lay my car on it that the disappearance of his daughter has something to do with his past dealings.’
‘Perhaps his past also has something to do with the death of Fiona Heffernan.’
‘You don’t think it is suicide, then?’
‘It’s currently unexplained. I’m meeting with the state pathologist as soon as I can get away. I’ll keep you informed of any developments.’
McMahon stood. ‘Tell me again about the death from earlier in the day.’
‘Cara Dunne. Early thirties. Schoolteacher. Found hanging in her bathroom by a neighbour. Ms Dunne had a recent engagement breakup from the assistant manager of the Railway Hotel, Steve O’Carroll.’
McMahon moved to the door. He spoke over his shoulder. ‘I’m taking an active role in the missing kid investigation. I want to know about everything you uncover. Let Sam McKeown act as go-between. He seems to be the only one around here capable of doing a proper job. And keep me informed after the post-mortems or I’ll have someone else sitting in your chair before you can say I give a shit.’
‘But sir—’
‘No buts. And I’m doing all the press conferences. Don’t forget I’m the boss around here.’
‘Right, sir.’ Arsehole, she said under her breath as he left.
She felt the day she had been planning so perfectly in her head was now shot to pieces. A defence lawyer for crime gangs? Colin Kavanagh had suddenly become more than a grieving ex-partner. He was now firmly a person of interest. If Fiona had been murdered, Kavanagh was definitely in the cross hairs as a suspect. But what was his link to Cara Dunne? And where was his little girl?
Chapter Nineteen
Ryan Slevin was awakened by one of his nephews slamming the bathroom door and Zoe yelling from the kitchen telling him to be quiet.
Today should have been his wedding day. He had the day off work and now he had nothing to do. His Fiona was gone. And so, it seemed, was Lily. Lifting his laptop from the floor, he checked on the work he’d done in a stupor last night. Then nudged open the file called MY WEDDING DAY.
His love for Fiona would never be confirmed in public. No piece of paper to proclaim their unity to the world. Nothing. It was all gone. And in that moment, as strange as it seemed, Ryan felt a surge of relief. He was going to move into the cottage on his own. Be his own boss for once in his life.
As he pulled on his clothes, he thought of how empty his life would be without Fiona. Yeah, he’d loved her, loved being with her, but the sex was only so-so, and Lily could be a little minx at times. He looked at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror, then opened the narrow door to find a clean shirt. There, hanging on a hanger, was his white one, ironed crisp by Zoe. He tried to still the trembles convulsing his chest. Fiona was gone. There would be no wedding today. No wedding ever. Not to Fiona, in any case.
Closing the wardrobe door, he sat back on the bed and glanced at the laptop again. He was about to shut it down when he noticed he had an email. Not from anyone he recognised, but it had not been directed to the spam folder. He placed the laptop on his knee and clicked the email icon. As he read, his teeth began to chatter, and it had nothing to do with the cold in the room.
Closing the laptop, he wondered how the hell he was going to handle this shitstorm.
Chills palpitated through the morning air and the snow lay deep on the ground, but the weather app on her phone promised rain by afternoon. At least then she should be able to drive to and from work unhindered.
At the sink, Beth listened to the noisy pigs. With the morning light rising behind the sheds in the yard, she thought about last evening, when she’d stood at the garda cordon watching the activity from a distance. The only information she could garner was that a woman had been found dead, clothed in a wedding dress. No one could confirm if it was murder or a suicide. She’d eventually given up. As she’d walked back down the avenue to head home, a car had pulled up alongside. And the nurse, Alan Hughes, had given her chapter and verse.
Poor Fiona. Poor Ryan. The upside of it all was that she had an article for next week’s edition of the Tribune. If her editor allowed it. She sighed. By then, it would be old news.
Dropping two slices of bread into the toaster, she was aware that she hadn’t heard any movement from her father. He was usually in the living room struggling with returns or mouthing off about his solicitor or accountant. Always drama where Christy Clarke was concerned. She smiled at the little robin with his red breast perched on the snowy window ledge. Her mother used to say a robin was a sign someone was going to die.
She sat at the table and scrolled though the news on her phone. Shit! How had she missed this last night? A child was missing from Ragmullin. She thought of Lily, Ryan’s future stepdaughter. Surely not her. Holy friggin’ cow.
‘Dad! Dad! Did you hear the news this morning?’ She jumped up, ran to the living room, waving her phone in the air.
The room was empty. Papers scattered all around the floor. The net curtains blew gently in the breeze from the gap along the bottom of the sash window.
‘Dad?’
She clattered up the wooden staircase. Maybe he was still asleep. She paused on the top step. Clamped the hand holding the phone to her chest. The robin!
‘Dear God in heaven, if you’re really up there, don’t let my daddy be dead. Please.’
At his door, she knocked gently. No answer. She twisted the old black knob and pushed the door inwards.
Her dad wasn’t in his bedroom. She searched every room in the house. He was nowhere to be found. She checked for his jacket, and noticed the one he usually wore still hanging on the back of the door. But his wellingtons were missing from the boot room. Dragging her own jacket over her shoulders, she ran out to the yard. Over to the pig pen.
‘Dad! Where are you?’
No reply; only the screech of the animals.
Looking around in desperation, she remembered her phone. She pulled it out of her jeans pocket and, with freezing fingers, tapped in her father’s number. It rang out. She called the number again. Holding the device away from her ear, she listened intently. No sound of it in the yard. She ran back into the house. Dialled again. No vibration or ringtone. Nothing.
With nervous energy propelling her, she flitted from room to room. He definitely wasn’t in the house. Could he have headed into the village? To his garage? He’d closed it down about a year ago. She scrolled for the number just in case. Rang it. Nothing.
What to do now? Phone the gardaí? Was that an overreaction? She was being totally irrational. His car was gone; maybe he had driven to the shop for the morning newspaper.
She tried to recall last night’s events after she’d returned from the abbey. The look on his face when she’d related the gossip she’d heard. That in all likelihood Fiona Heffernan had committed suicide. The bride-to-be of her colleague Ryan Slevin. What had her father said? Good enough for the bastard. Why had he said that? He’d left her sitting in the kitchen with her mouth hanging open and slammed the door on his way to the living room.
Now she sat in the exact same spot with her lips firmly jammed together. She had no idea what to do beside
s keep ringing and texting him, check out his usual haunts and then head into work.
Chapter Twenty
The mortuary, traditionally known as the Dead House, was attached to Tullamore Hospital and was as cold and uninviting as always. Once she was suitably robed up, Lottie entered the cutting room. Jane Dore, the state pathologist, nodded over her mouth mask at the assistant pathologist, and Tim Jones began the process of bagging organs that had been removed for weighing and analysis.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Lottie said.
‘It’s okay. I started a little early on Cara Dunne. I’ve yet to get to the second body …’ Jane scrutinised the pages on her clipboard. ‘Fiona Heffernan.’
Standing beside the five-foot-nothing pathologist, Lottie felt like a giant. ‘What conclusions have you reached about Cara’s death?’
‘She has the nicest pair of hands I’ve seen on a corpse,’ Tim Jones said.
‘What?’ Lottie stared at him.
‘Not that it makes any difference now she’s dead.’
She looked at Jane, whose eyes had darkened into a scowl.
The pathologist led the way to the door. ‘Come into my office.’
Lottie followed her. The office was a cubicle off the main cutting room, everything pristine and sparkling bright. Stainless-steel desk and filing cabinet. She waited while Jane tapped on her computer and pages began to spew from a printer.
‘Cara Dunne was quite a woman,’ Jane said.
Lottie leaned against the cabinet and watched as Jane shuffled the pages into a neat bundle.
‘What do you mean? Did she kill herself?’
‘No, she did not. In her last seconds of life, she fought bravely and furiously. Her hands, nails and neck bear the results of a defiant struggle.’
Lottie blew out a small breath of relief. Her instinct had been correct. ‘Do we have DNA? Fingerprints?’
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 10
