Jane shook her head. ‘I’ve checked, and I’d say the assailant wore gloves and was well protected. But I’ve swabbed her nails. Hopefully we will get something.’
‘But you said—’
‘Will you let me tell you?’
‘Go ahead.’ Lottie folded her arms and waited. She was itching to get a murder investigation up and running.
‘In simple terms, her death was caused by asphyxiation. The ligature caused her neck to compress and slowly smother her to death.’
‘She was strangled?’
‘The victim was strung up and hanged until she died. She was murdered. I’ve noted the technical data in my report.’
‘You mentioned that she struggled. How did someone get the belt around her neck and put her up on a stool?’
‘I don’t usually speculate, as you know. However, I imagine she was surprised.’ Jane raised one eyebrow.
‘Perhaps the assailant already had the belt tied in a noose,’ Lottie said. ‘The bathroom she was found in was small and compact. Easy enough for someone larger and stronger to subdue her in there.’
‘Possibly,’ the pathologist said.
‘It doesn’t make sense, though. She had to have known him.’
‘That’s your—’
‘My job. I know.’ Lottie didn’t want to listen to the pathologist’s mantra. She just wanted something to go on. ‘And the only forensic evidence you have is what may be beneath Cara’s nails?’
Jane physically bristled. ‘I’ve picked up hairs and fibres. They may or may not be from the assailant. The results will take some time. And before you ask, she was not sexually assaulted.’
‘Okay.’ Lottie was thinking: why target this teacher who had just returned from morning Mass? Living on her own. Not bothering anyone. Or was she? She’d have to work through Cara’s circle of friends and her possessions in the hope of finding something that would point her in the right direction. For now, her number one target was the ex-fiancé, Steve O’Carroll.
Jane said, ‘I’d start by finding out if she owned the belt. It looks like a man’s belt. If it’s not hers, he brought it with him. Premeditated. He knew what he was doing. I’ve sent it for further forensic analysis. I noticed something scratched into the leather. It could be initials. Possibly BD or more likely BB. I asked forensics to find out what it is.’
‘Thanks Jane. That’s good.’ Lottie scratched her head. ‘There’s no sign of a struggle in her apartment. No damage to the lock. She let him in. She knew him.’ She looked up at the pathologist. ‘I’m assuming it’s a man. What do you think?’
‘Definitely someone with a lot of upper-body strength. Has to be taller than her. She’s five foot four.’
‘Thanks, Jane.’ As she turned to leave, Lottie said, ‘And what about Fiona?’
‘Tim has her prepped and waiting. If you want to hold on …’
‘I’d better get back to the station to set up the jobs book and organise a full incident team to investigate Cara’s murder. Have you had a chance to glance at Fiona’s body yet?’
‘Don’t be fishing, Lottie. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished.’
‘Not even a cursory look?’
Jane sighed, tapped the mouse and read something on the computer screen. ‘The gash on her forehead. That’s what makes this appear suspicious. In my opinion, it happened before she hit the ground. There was some blood on the dress. Not drops, so it must have transferred as the dress was pulled over her head. When we cut the dress from her body, I noticed bruising on the brachial, the underside of her humerus.’
‘Her upper arm?’
Jane nodded agreement. ‘The bruises might be totally unrelated, but I’ll know once I do the post-mortem how soon before death they occurred. I’ll email my preliminary report once I have it completed.’
‘So her death is suspicious?
Jane gave her assent with a quick rise of her tightly plucked eyebrows and a diminutive nod.
As Lottie made her way back down the cold, sterile corridor, she heard her name being called. She turned round. The assistant pathologist was standing at the cutting room door.
‘Tim?’ she said. ‘Did you want me?’
‘I wanted to apologise for my behaviour yesterday at Cara Dunne’s apartment. My comments were totally out of order.’
‘Apology accepted.’ Lottie made to leave. He remained standing at the door. Jane came out of her office and looked from one to the other. Tim retreated.
Making her way to her car, Lottie couldn’t help feeling Tim Jones had wanted to say something else before Jane’s appearance had stopped him. Her detective’s brain mulled it over on her way back to Ragmullin, but by the time she arrived at the station, all she wanted to do was get working on the murder of Cara Dunne. And that of Fiona Heffernan, because she knew from Jane’s demeanour and words that the death would also be classed as murder. And, of course, she had to find Lily.
A microphone was shoved under Lottie’s nose as she picked her way carefully along the icy footpath outside the station.
‘Detective Inspector Parker. A minute, please? Cynthia Rhodes, national television.’
As if she did not know the curly-haired bespectacled reporter, sporting her trademark black leather biker jacket.
‘Ms Rhodes,’ she said, attempting to sidestep around Cynthia. The microphone followed her.
Cynthia said, ‘Can you tell us what you’re doing to find Lily Heffernan?’
Lottie stopped. ‘As you can imagine, this missing child is a top priority for us at the moment. We’re doing all we can to ensure the safe return of Lily to her family.’
‘Do you think that whoever killed Lily’s mother, Fiona Heffernan, has taken the little girl?’
Where had that come from? Lottie herself hadn’t even received confirmation that Fiona had been murdered. ‘I’m not going to speculate as to what may or may not have happened.’ Shit, she would have to say something professional, otherwise the urge to slap Cynthia might overwhelm her. ‘I would ask the public to be vigilant and keep a lookout for Lily, and to call our crimewatch number with any information they might have.’
‘I’m sure you can understand the trauma Lily’s father, Colin Kavanagh, is going through, seeing as your own daughters were recently abducted. Can you tell us what you personally are doing to find her?’
Lottie’s skin prickled. ‘Acting Superintendent David McMahon will hold a press conference later. Perhaps you can direct your questions to him.’ She tried to turn, but her sleeve was tugged, pulling her back in front of the camera.
‘Why aren’t you speaking to the media? Have you been demoted?’
Demoted? Ha. That was a joke. ‘You must realise we are dealing with the suspicious deaths of two young women. I am senior investigating officer on all the cases. Thank you for now.’
‘Two murders, then?’
Shit and double shit. ‘Suspicious deaths, I said. You need to clean the wax from your ears.’
You’ve done it now, Parker. Lottie sighed, disentangled her sleeve from Cynthia’s hand and, ignoring a host of shouted questions, escaped inside. All she had to do now was avoid her boss for the rest of the day. McMahon would not be pleased.
Chapter Twenty-One
After morning Mass had ended, Father Curran headed to the cabin behind his house. He hadn’t slept a wink, listening to the rattles and cries of the wind. It was all a figment of his imagination. Seeing that face at the window, lurking in the dark, had brought nightmares rushing back. That was why he couldn’t sleep. Had he really seen it?
He stripped off his jumper, white collar, shirt and trousers. From a gym bag he extracted shorts and vest. When he was ready, he stepped onto the treadmill. Working up a sweat was one way of exorcising his demons. Not that he believed his demons were of the supernatural variety. No, his were flesh and blood that had stalked him all his life.
Once beads of perspiration began to bubble on his forehead and drip down his nose, he upped the tempo. R
un, run, run. Faster, faster, faster.
A shadow crept through the crack in the door like a spider web, growing larger as it approached. Father Curran pressed a button on the machine, slowing his run to a walk. Sensing someone behind him, he twisted his head around so quickly he fell to the ground. On hands and knees, he scanned the area behind him. Nothing. No one. He returned his gaze to the door. It was still barely open. It hadn’t moved. Or had it?
Raising himself to his knees, he stayed still until his breathing returned to normal. As he stood and moved back to the treadmill, the door opened wide.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said.
‘Sorry for disturbing you, Michael.’
‘Please don’t be so familiar with me, Father Burke. I’ve told you before to address me as Father Curran. Respect the collar.’
His morning was totally ruined. He switched off the machine and got his towel from his bag, feeling every one of his seventy years dragging at the muscles of his legs. He hastily dried his face, conscious that he was in shorts and vest. Father Joe Burke was younger than him – early forties, he thought – and he disliked the fact that he’d seen him out of his clerical garb. ‘What do you want?’
‘Em, I wanted to let you know … The bishop asked me to inform you, eh …’
‘For heaven’s sake, man, spit it out.’ He didn’t like Father Burke. He was not a true priest. Rumour had it that he’d cavorted with women in a parish in Wexford or some such place before he came to Ragmullin. Then he’d taken a sabbatical. If the church grapevine was correct, he was also the bastard son of an unmarried mother. Father Curran couldn’t help the grunt of derision that escaped his lips.
‘It’s Cara Dunne. She’s dead.’
Father Curran eyed the younger priest, watching for signs of a lie. ‘Cara? Really? Why were you sent to tell me?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe because you used to be on the board of management of the school where she teaches.’ Father Burke sat on a wooden bench.
‘I’ve nothing to do with the school any more, and I didn’t ask you to sit down.’ Father Curran flicked the towel against the bench and the younger man jumped up. He could have sworn he said bastard under his breath. Well, he knew who the bastard was in this room.
‘Sorry. I’ll go. Just doing what the bishop asked,’ Father Burke said.
Father Curran followed him to the door. ‘Off you go. I don’t like to be disturbed.’
‘Do you want to know how she died?’
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me.’
‘Reports say it was suicide.’
When the door had banged shut, Father Curran let the air escape his body without realising he’d been holding his breath.
When he switched the treadmill back on, his feet felt lighter and his run quicker.
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the incident room, Lottie threw her damp jacket on a lukewarm radiator. Brushing off her encounter with Cynthia, she consigned it to the depths of her subconscious, where she dared not venture any time soon.
Standing in front of the gathered detectives and uniformed officers, she listened to their voices murmuring in conversation. The sound gradually faded. They all looked up expectantly.
‘First off,’ she kneaded her hands, encouraging the blood to circulate, ‘I’ve met with the state pathologist. She has completed Cara Dunne’s post-mortem, and based on her findings, we are dealing with murder.’ She pointed to the photo of the young woman pinned to the whiteboard, then picked up a marker and wrote the word murder and yesterday’s date beneath it. As the investigation gathered legs, the board would fill up with suspects, timelines, maps and evidence. Hopefully.
‘We need to build up a picture of Cara. Everything we can find.’
‘I’ve already interviewed her fiancé,’ Sam McKeown said. ‘I also spoke to some of the teachers at Cara’s school. She taught in Ragmullin. Convent of Mercy. I’ll get through the rest of the list this morning.’
Lottie tapped a pen against her forehead. ‘The fiancé?’
‘Smarmy dude by the name of Steve O’Carroll. He’s the assistant manager at the Railway Hotel.’
‘Did he account for his whereabouts yesterday morning?’
‘Said he’d been at home before he reached work at ten. He invoked the dreaded S word.’
‘Asked for his solicitor.’ Lottie felt the heat rush through her cheeks. If only she could get it to her fingers.
‘I also asked him why the engagement ended.’
‘And?’
McKeown rubbed a hand over his shaved head. Was he hoping the action would lead to a light-bulb moment? Lottie wondered.
‘Bit cagey, as you’d expect. But he expressed little emotion when I informed him of Cara’s death. Said they split up three months ago, but wouldn’t say why.’
‘I want him in here, solicitor or no solicitor. Take fingerprints and a DNA sample. Got it?’
‘Yes, boss.’ McKeown tapped his iPad.
‘Cara didn’t teach at the school Lily Heffernan attended, did she?’ Lottie checked her notes.
‘No. Lily went to St Celia’s primary. Oh, and one of Cara’s colleagues said that she’d been on sick leave for the last three months.’
‘Why?’
‘Stress.’
‘When did you say her engagement broke down?’
‘Three months ago.’
‘So it wasn’t work-related stress that kept her out of school. Get a photo of O’Carroll on that board so we can all see him.’
McKeown scrolled through the hotel website and tapped an image. The printer at the back of the room whirred. He picked up the page and pinned it to the board. Lottie stared at the smooth jaw and swept-back hair.
‘What age is he?’
‘Thirty-seven.’
‘Weird-looking guy,’ Kirby said.
‘Not half as weird as you looked this morning,’ McKeown muttered.
‘Less of the wisecracks.’ Lottie studied O’Carroll’s photo and found his dark eyes a little unsettling. ‘As I said, bring him in for an official interview. And I want to know if he had any connection to Lily or Fiona Heffernan.’
‘Right, boss.’ Kirby answered for them all, knocking a stack of pages from the table to the floor. ‘Sorry. Just looking for something to write on.’
‘Okay.’ Lottie felt a wave of despair for her detective. He seemed to be diving further into the depths of ineptitude. She brought the focus back to Cara. ‘If O’Carroll can account for the relevant time, perhaps Cara’s murder is the work of an ex-pupil with a grudge or something. But that’s like a needle in the proverbial haystack. Talk to everyone who knew her. I need to go through her things. That suitcase, for one.’
‘When SOCOs are finished with it, I’ll bring it in,’ Boyd said.
She glanced at his tired eyes. He looked shattered. His shirt collar was askew and his tie knotted untidily. Not like Boyd at all. She wondered if Sean had said something he shouldn’t have last night. She was still mad at her son. He’d had no right to be there. He should have told her where he was going. She’d have to have serious words with him. Later.
‘Okay, thanks, Boyd.’ Trying to gather her thoughts into a coherent thread, she continued.
‘According to the state pathologist, Cara Dunne was asphyxiated by the belt around her neck after she was strung up. It appears to be a man’s black leather belt. Find out if it belongs to this Steve O’Carroll, though Jane said there are letters scratched into it. She thinks it could be BB or BD. See if it means anything to anyone. Jane also says that the victim put up a good fight. Hair and fibres have been sent to the lab. No sexual assault. Cara was five foot four. Her assailant must have been taller and stronger. There was no sign of a break-in or disturbance at the apartment and there’s no working CCTV in or around the building. The neighbour, Eve Clarke, says she heard loud voices some minutes before she gained entry to check on Cara.’
‘Her murderer has to be someone she knew.’ Kirby again.
Lottie leaned her head to one side. ‘Not necessarily. She was a teacher. Probably trusting, and generous with her time. Perhaps she was the kind of person who allowed a stranger into her apartment.’
‘Was she a prostitute, then?’ McKeown said. A trickle of titters permeated the room.
‘That’s not even remotely funny.’ Lottie stood erect, commanding attention. ‘We know relatively nothing about this woman. Who are her family, her friends? You’d better come back to me with information. Plenty of it, and by the end of the day.’
‘Yes, boss,’ McKeown said.
‘And the neighbour. Eve Clarke. She needs to be formally interviewed.’
‘Is the teacher’s death linked to the nurse at the abbey?’ Boyd said. ‘They were both wearing wedding dresses.’
‘The state pathologist hadn’t commenced the post-mortem on Fiona Heffernan before I left. She’s of the opinion the death is suspicious, because of the gash on her head, and suggests it occurred prior to death. Plus Fiona had significant bruising on her upper arms. We won’t know anything further until I get the preliminary report. We haven’t found a suicide note and her little girl is missing. Two victims in wedding dresses could point to the same killer, and if you find another connection between them, I want to be the first to know.’
‘Right, boss.’ A collective murmur threaded through the room.
‘Maybe it was a suicide pact,’ McKeown said.
Lottie ignored his comment.
‘Fiona Heffernan was thirty-four years old and due to marry her fiancé Ryan Slevin today at three o’clock in Ballydoon church. Lily, her eight-year-old daughter, is her only immediate relative residing in Ireland, apart from an ex-partner, Colin Kavanagh. She had a married sister in Australia.’ Lottie thought about the hurried phone call yesterday evening. Fiona’s sister had told her that she’d decided not to travel for the wedding; she had young children and it was too expensive. ‘I believe Fiona was murdered and that person could have Lily.’
Kirby filled the silence. ‘There’s a nationwide alert for the little girl. Plenty of calls coming in, though nothing positive yet. Interviews are ongoing with everyone at St Celia’s primary. Uniforms are following up with all the parents we spoke with yesterday. So far, no clues to what happened to Lily.’
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 11
