‘Okay. Did you find anything in the locker room at the abbey?’
‘Just a towel on the ground and her clothes inside the locker. SOCOs have her handbag and phone. I’ll see when we can get them.’
‘Sooner rather than later. McKeown, you keep Acting Superintendent McMahon up to date on Lily’s case, and we need to interview the staff from the dance school where she was last seen.’ She glanced at her notes. ‘Trevor Toner, Giles Bannon and Shelly Forde. Lily’s disappearance is more than likely linked to what happened to her mother. That little girl has to be found. Alive.’ She paused to catch her breath, then added, ‘Any more questions?’
‘What about the media?’ Boyd said.
‘The press office and our super will handle it.’ She was sure McMahon would relish the pieces to camera. She was glad to stay clear of it.
‘In summary, we have two dead women. I want their friends and colleagues interviewed. I want their movements traced in the hours and minutes leading up to their deaths. Then go back, day by day. Find witnesses. Someone who saw anything or anyone suspicious or unusual. I need to know what those women had for breakfast, dinner and tea, and with whom. And find out what’s on their phones and laptops. See if the victims have a common link. Got it?’
Murmurs of assent chimed with chairs scraping across the floor. Uniformed gardaí and detectives made ready to escape.
‘We’ll have a further meeting later this afternoon. I want Steve O’Carroll, door-to-door reports, CCTV and anything else you can bring me.’ She gave up trying to keep a semblance of order as the incident room emptied. Her team was small, but it was good. They were not new to this. They knew what they had to do.
Eve Clarke was already staring at the line of milk cartons on the shelf before she realised she had left her apartment. She paused with her hand outstretched and looked down at her attire. Beneath her coat she saw the legs of her pyjamas, her feet clad in only her UGG slippers. She’d walked for ten minutes on the snowy and slushy footpaths. What had she been thinking? Or not thinking, more like.
Grabbing the nearest carton, she made her way between the aisles up to the cash desk. She didn’t even look around to see if anyone recognised her. She couldn’t take the embarrassment. Keeping her head low, she handed over the milk. Put her hand in her pocket for cash and it came out empty. She tried the other one. Also empty. Damn.
‘I’m sorry, I came out in such a rush I left my purse at home.’
Without listening to the cashier, she fled from the shop. Sleet was falling in sharp sheets on top of her bare head. This had never happened to her before. Must be the stress of finding Cara yesterday, she thought, trying to console herself. But she didn’t feel consoled. A nervous tingle began at the base of her skull and worked its way over her scalp and down to her forehead. By the time she reached Hill Point, she had a full-blown headache and was soaked to the skin.
‘That didn’t take you long.’
Eve looked up to see a garda standing by the crime-scene tape at the steps to her block. Had she spoken to him as she left earlier? She couldn’t recall.
‘Left without my purse.’ She made to edge by him.
‘Lucky I remembered you.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘No entry without ID. We’ve been informed that we’re now dealing with a murder.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a crime scene up there. Your neighbour. It looks like she didn’t commit suicide. Murdered. A teacher, too. Who would have thought?’
Who indeed? Eve gathered her coat round her body and rushed into the building. This was turning into the worst-case scenario. How was she going to keep things normal with so many guards and detectives and guys in white suits around?
She had to clear her head. Properly clear it. She had too much to lose.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kirby informed Lottie that Trevor Toner had arrived for his formal interview. Without a solicitor. She perked up her eyebrows at that nugget of information.
‘Interview Room One?’
‘Yeah,’ Kirby said. ‘I’ll sit in with you.’
Toner appeared to be even more nervous than he’d been last night, but he had showered and dressed in clean clothes. His crown of hair was combed, the sides shaved tightly. Lottie thought he looked like the type of thirty-something-year-old whose mother still sewed his name on a strip of white linen on the inside of his jumper. He was wearing a pair of jeans at least a size too big for him, a checked cotton shirt buttoned up to his throat and an FAI training hoodie.
‘Play soccer, do you?’ she said, trying to put him at ease.
‘What? Oh, this? No. I got it in the Oxfam shop in town. A fiver.’
‘Cool,’ Kirby said. ‘We’re recording this – okay with you?’
Trevor nodded. Lottie noticed he was wringing his hands into each other as Kirby made the introductions for the recording.
‘How long have you been a dance tutor?’ she said.
‘Five years.’
‘I see you’re thirty-six. What did you do before dancing?’
‘I’ve always been a dancer. I mean, it’s five years since I opened the dance school.’
‘Lily Heffernan. How long has she been a student of yours?’
He ran a finger along his chin, and Lottie noticed the shake in his hand. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe ten months or so. She’s in the show that’s starting next week.’
‘Tell me about yesterday.’
‘Not much to tell. We were rehearsing on the main theatre stage. They were so bad.’ He shook his head. ‘It was soul-destroying, after all my hard work. Shelly took them for a while.’
‘Did they annoy you so much that perhaps you took it out on Lily?’
His eyes rounded like marbles. His mouth formed a perfect O. ‘No. What do you mean? Oh God. I never laid a finger on her. You have to believe me.’
‘Someone did, because she’s missing. Did you see anything unusual yesterday? About Lily or anyone else?’
‘No. Wait a minute. I thought … I noticed … Oh, it’s nothing.’
‘Noticed what?’ Lottie leaned forward, resting her hands on the table.
‘When I was on the stage, demonstrating the routine, I thought I saw someone watching from the balcony. But it might just have been the lights blinding me.’
‘Did you investigate?’
‘No. I forgot about it until now.’
Lottie eyeballed him. ‘You sure about that?’
He dropped his head. ‘Yeah.’
She decided to change direction. ‘Giles Bannon. What’s he like to work for?’
‘Giles?’ The eyes darted from Lottie to Kirby and back again.
‘Yes. Giles. The theatre manager.’
‘He’s … I suppose he’s okay, like.’
‘You don’t seem sure.’ She leaned back and folded her arms.
‘He’s fine.’ A tap of a finger on the table.
‘Hard taskmaster?’
‘Talk to him yourself,’ Trevor said, a hint of bravado tingeing his voice.
‘I intend to.’
‘Have you spoken with Shelly?’ he asked.
‘She’s on my list too. Why?’
‘She might know more than I do.’
‘About Giles as a boss, or about Lily Heffernan?’
He scratched the shaved side of his head, over his right ear. ‘You’re confusing me on purpose.’
‘You’re confusing yourself,’ Lottie snapped.
‘She – Shelly – was there when the kids were leaving.’
‘Where were you?’
‘I can’t remember anything about Lily.’
‘You didn’t see who picked her up?’
‘No.’
‘No one signed her out.’ She had checked the register. ‘Is that unusual?’
‘It’s usually a mad rush. Not everyone signs the book.’
‘Bad practice,’ Lottie said. ‘Tell me about Shelly Forde.’
‘What about he
r?’ He fidgeted on the aluminium chair.
‘What’s she like? Dependable? Good worker?’
‘Shelly’s a brilliant dancer. She’s never late for class and helps me out loads. Don’t annoy her.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s … a nice girl … a good dancer. I like her.’
‘Is she your girlfriend?’
‘Are you joking me?’ His mood lightened for the first time since Lottie had entered the room. ‘Shelly is like a sister to me. The sister I never had.’
‘Are you from around here, Trevor?’
‘Yeah … originally.’
‘You live in a bedsit on Main Street.’
‘What about it? I’m not a kid.’
‘Fall out with your parents?’
‘I just need my own space.’ He dropped his eyes and picked at his fingernails.
‘Have you got a girlfriend or boyfriend?’
He raised his head and squared his shoulders. ‘That’s a very personal question and I don’t think it’s any of your business.’
‘Trevor. An eight-year-old child has gone missing. She was last seen at your dance class, so let me be the judge of what is or is not my business.’ She watched as he digested her words. He remained silent. She’d get there another way. ‘Lily’s mother was found dead yesterday.’
‘What? Oh God, this is a disaster.’
‘What is?’
‘I mean … Fiona was nice. You know.’
‘I don’t know. Tell me.’
‘I only met her a couple of times. She was friendly, but she seemed sad. This is so awful.’
‘Sad? How?’
‘I can’t explain it. I can’t believe all this is happening to me.’
‘Nothing is happening to you, Trevor. Not yet, anyway.’
‘You know what I mean. I don’t understand what’s going on. Can I go now?’
‘You can go, but if you think of anything that might help find the little girl, contact me straight away. Don’t leave town. We need a DNA sample and your fingerprints.’
‘I think I need my solicitor for that.’
Lottie groaned.
When Trevor had left, she turned to Kirby. ‘What do you make of him?’
‘Not a lot.’
What are you not telling me, Trevor? Lottie wondered. Because she was sure he had held something back. They always did. She believed ‘economical with the truth’ was a statement attributable to witnesses and suspects alike. But she had nothing evidential to hold him on. She flicked through the file. According to Shelly Forde, whom Kirby had talked to last night, Trevor had not left the theatre after rehearsals. But what about Giles Bannon?
He stood outside the Oxfam shop and stared in through the window. It was dark inside. He could not see what treasures might be hanging on a rail for him to find. His hands were frozen. He shoved them into his hoodie pockets and walked down Gaol Street.
He tried to ignore the stallholders as they opened the shutters on the wooden huts, casting an idle eye as he walked. Shiny baubles, hand-painted. Holy statues carved out of bog oak. He could see how a little girl could be mesmerised by all the colours and glitter.
Still trembling from his interview at the garda station, he crossed the road at Cafferty’s. At the stall outside the pub he stopped and stared. Dolls. Tiny things. Some looked like voodoo dolls. He cringed. Thankfully they were hanging at the back from hooks on a crooked shelf. Out front there were proper dolls with pink ribbons and frilly dresses on their stuffed bodies. He wondered if perhaps this stall had held some special wonder for Lily. If she had been waiting around on the street for her mother, would she have been drawn here like he had been drawn?
He raised his head from the display just as a man came from the back of the stall, his arms loaded with more dolls. Trevor turned away quickly and rushed across the street to the theatre.
Before Lottie could formally interview Shelly Forde, Acting Superintendent McMahon said he’d take the interview with Sam McKeown.
‘I’m sure you have plenty to do with the two dead women cases,’ he said.
‘But sir—’
‘But nothing. Come on, Sam.’ McMahon’s voice echoed in her footsteps as she returned to the office.
Boyd arrived with the old brown suitcase from Cara Dunne’s flat, and Lottie followed him to the evidence room, trying to keep her rage in check. As he placed it on an empty table, she looked at it eagerly, hoping it might give her a clue as to what had happened to the teacher.
‘It’s been examined by SOCOs?’
‘Yeah, and dusted for prints,’ Boyd said. ‘It’s a wild goose chase, if you ask me.’
‘No one is asking you, Boyd,’ she said.
‘Wow, you’re bristly this morning.’
‘Didn’t sleep well. Lily’s face haunted me all night.’ She felt her heart skip a beat as she thought of the little girl, alone somewhere, asking for her mother. She looked back at Boyd and caught him staring at her. ‘What?’
‘Thought I might be haunting your dreams.’
‘That would be a nightmare.’ She poked him gently on the arm, let her hand slip down and squeezed his. ‘I’ve got this. Fetch yourself a cuppa. You look like you could do with something to warm you up.’
‘I could answer that … but you know what I’d say.’ He smiled and left her to the old brown suitcase.
She pulled on gloves and flicked the first catch. It clicked open. Then the second. She raised the lid. A swarm of dust motes rose in the light streaming through the grubby window. She peered into the case.
White linen garments. Neatly folded. Lace, that to her untrained eye appeared hand-crafted, circled the collar of the first item. She lifted it onto the table. It looked like an old-fashioned nightgown, buttoned to the stand-up collar. She didn’t unfold it. Not just yet. She wanted to see what else was in the case.
She took out another item of clothing. Beneath it rested a third. All similar. Was it a trousseau of some sort? Heirlooms from Cara’s grandmother, perhaps. At the bottom of the case she found items of underwear. Knickers and knitted stockings. Two ancient-looking cotton bras. Playtex Cross Your Heart, with four rusted hooks on the back of each. They looked like something her mother would have worn, back in the day. Where had they come from? Why had Cara got them? Questions that might or might not have relevance to the murder investigation.
Letting out a gasp of air, Lottie realised she’d been holding her breath in anticipation of what she might find. Disappointment coloured her vision. She should have known she’d find nothing to help her.
She ran her fingers along the lining of the case, hoping to discover a hidden compartment, but there was nothing.
Boyd returned with two mugs of coffee. He handed her one. ‘Find anything interesting?’
‘Ancient clothing, that’s all.’
He put down his mug, donned a pair of gloves and picked up one of the bras. ‘She must have been a couple of cups larger at one stage.’
‘Show me that again.’ She inched the label away from the cotton and held it to her eyes. ‘Forty DD.’
‘And that means what exactly?’
‘Boyd, you know full well what it means.’
He grinned, then pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘I was right?’
‘There’s no way Cara Dunne was ever a forty DD.’
‘Does that bring us any closer to finding out who murdered her?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘Nothing makes any sense.’
‘Put them back. Lock the case and forget about them. Let’s do some real detective work.’
‘Have you discovered something I should know about?’ Lottie folded the clothes neatly back into the case.
‘Jane Dore was on the phone. She wants you back in Tullamore.’
‘I’ve been there already this morning.’ Lottie felt heat prickle her skin in frustration. ‘Did she say what it was about?’
‘No. But she sounded like it was urgent.’
‘I’ll rin
g her first. I’m not driving again in this weather unless it’s absolutely essential.’
‘She did mention Fiona Heffernan and murder in the same sentence, though.’
‘Get your coat, Boyd. You can drive.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Sorry for dragging you back, but I thought you might like to see this for yourself.’
Jane spoke as she walked around the body. Fiona Heffernan was lying on the stainless-steel table, her chest open, skin and muscle peeled back, ribcage sawed away. Tim Jones had his back to them, weighing an organ in the background.
‘I’m anxious to hear what you’ve found.’ Lottie fixed her mouth mask, then joined the pathologist at the table. The smell of death clung to the back of her throat. She gagged and swallowed, then composed herself and looked into the cavity.
‘Nothing of interest there,’ Jane said. ‘Normal healthy thirty-four-year-old. Has given birth. No evidence of any disease in her organs. Bloods will be sent for screening.’ She raised Fiona’s arm and Lottie noticed the bruises Jane had mentioned earlier that morning.
‘What does the bruising suggest?’ she asked.
‘It suggests that someone with hands much bigger than hers gripped both her arms tightly.’
‘Is there a connection to Cara Dunne’s death?’ Lottie felt the stirring of anticipation in the pit of her stomach.
‘The gash on her forehead happened before the wedding dress was put on. Have you examined the roof?’
‘Yes. Nothing was found there. But blood was found in the locker room. We’re awaiting the forensic report.’ Lottie noticed that Jane hadn’t answered her question about the deaths being connected. But that wasn’t unusual for the pathologist. She dealt with facts. They had the wedding dress link, but she wanted hard evidence.
Jane said, ‘Wherever she was before she reached the roof may be the initial crime scene.’
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 12
