She opened her mouth to object, but closed it again. ‘I’ll get it. Don’t think about leaving town.’
‘It’s a village, not a town, and I’ve nowhere else to go. Good day, Inspector.’ He turned back to his spinning bike.
Lottie felt Boyd taking her by the elbow and steering her out into the damp air. She gulped a welcome breath. It felt fresh after the cloying atmosphere of the shed. She’d need to take a shower.
Chapter Forty-Six
Sitting with Zoe in the cluttered living room, Beth felt the urge to tidy up some of the toys. To pile them all into a basket or box; to run a cloth over the dresser; to spray Febreze on the couch. But she sat tightly on the arm of a chair and watched as Zoe ran her fingers up and down the edge of the old-fashioned net curtain that insulated her in her own world.
‘You need to go outside. Get some air, Zoe.’
‘I need to escape from Giles. He’s getting worse. Domineering and demanding. I’m afraid of him.’
‘Can you afford to leave him?’
‘No.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Beth said.
‘I need your help.’
‘I’ve nothing, Zoe. Now that Dad is dead.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Colin Kavanagh tells me he owns it all. I went through Dad’s papers last night. I still have to find evidence to prove what Kavanagh says, but he has no reason to make it up.’
‘I’m so sorry about your dad, Beth, honestly I am. But it leaves us in a right mess.’
Beth held Zoe’s stare. She had no idea what her friend meant. ‘How could Dad’s death leave you in a mess? I don’t understand.’
Moving away from the window, Zoe stood in front of the mantelpiece. ‘I never told you this, but Christy came to Giles maybe three months ago. He wanted an investor. Someone to put money into the farm. You know, after the garage went belly-up.’
‘Tell me Giles didn’t give him money …’
‘He gave him fifteen thousand euros. All our savings. He said Christy told him he’d double it in a few months and return it with interest. Now your dad is dead. How can we get that money back?’
Beth shoved her hands between her crossed knees, hiding the uncontrollable shaking that had engulfed them. ‘How could you give him money without telling me?’
‘He put a good business proposal to Giles. At least I think it was a good one. Giles can be convincing where money is concerned. Now we’re broke.’
Beth stood up, her mind racing. ‘I’m sorry about all that, Zoe, but I can’t help. You’ll have to talk to Kavanagh.’
She heard a door open and shut.
‘Zoe, where are you? I need a cup of tea.’ The voice travelled from the kitchen.
‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
‘Can’t he make his own cup of tea?’ Beth said at the sound of water pouring from a tap into a kettle.
‘What about the cars in the garage?’ Zoe said. ‘All those Mercedes and BMWs. Can’t you sell those and get us our money back?’
Beth couldn’t help the laugh that broke from her throat. ‘Zoe Bannon, you know I can’t do that. You know why too. So don’t go there. Right?’
‘But—’ Zoe began. The rest of her words were drowned out by the insistent ringing of the doorbell.
Before heading back into Ragmullin, Lottie decided to call to Ryan Slevin to ask him about the photos he’d taken in the forest when Robert Brady’s body was found.
‘That priest is a lying bastard,’ she said, standing outside Zoe Bannon’s door, her finger pressed to the doorbell.
‘Don’t you need permission to bury a body somewhere other than in a cemetery?’ Boyd said.
‘Yes. We can follow that up at the station. Maybe then we can get his DNA and fingerprints, and perhaps some answers.’
‘Do you think Father Curran left the chain and cross under the tree?’
‘He says he didn’t,’ Lottie said, ‘but I don’t believe a word out of his mouth.’
The door opened and the space filled with the bulk of Giles Bannon.
‘Mr Bannon, we’d like a word with Ryan.’
‘He’s not here. Try the cottage.’
‘Can we come in, please?’ She kept her foot ready to wedge in the space if he made to slam the door on her.
‘I’ve already told you he’s not here. So piss off.’
‘No need for that,’ Boyd cut in.
‘Look, my wife is distraught about Fiona and Lily. She can’t even make me a cup of tea. Has Lily been found yet?’
A twinge of guilt squeezed Lottie’s chest. ‘We’re doing everything we can to find her, before it’s too late.’
The craggy face dropped some of its animosity. ‘You’d better come in.’ Bannon walked down the hall.
In the kitchen, he switched off the kettle and pulled on his Crombie. The heat from the stove was overpowering, and Lottie wondered how long he was going to stand there in his overcoat. She felt like divesting herself of her own. Without being invited, she pulled out a chair and sat, indicating for Boyd to do likewise. After a thirty-second stand-off, Bannon sat down too.
‘I’ve work to be getting back to.’
‘What could be so important that you can’t give me five minutes?’ Lottie said.
‘The annual dance show is supposed to be opening next week. There are sets to organise, musicians to pay, costumes to sort. You wouldn’t believe the stress.’
‘You’re going ahead without Lily?’ Lottie said.
‘I know it sounds harsh, but the show must go on, and she was only in one dance. How much longer are you going to have the theatre cordoned off?’
‘For as long as it takes.’
‘Right. Hopefully you’ll find her soon.’
Lottie hoped so too, but she was finding it hard to get the measure of Giles Bannon.
‘Did you know Robert Brady?’ She watched his face intently.
‘I’ve heard of him. Odd-job man, wasn’t he? Hanged himself.’
‘That’s being reinvestigated.’
‘Really?’ Bannon pushed his chair backwards and stood.
‘Yeah, really,’ Lottie said.
‘He worked on Ryan’s cottage, didn’t he?’ Boyd said. ‘Surely you can tell us something about him?’
‘Talk to Ryan. I’ve nothing to tell you. I have to leave now. Let me know if you find Lily. Poor pet.’
Lottie opened her eyes wide and Boyd shrugged his shoulders. Giles Bannon already had the front door open to usher them out.
‘What did Robert do to you?’ Lottie was intrigued now.
‘He did nothing to me. I think he was a friend of Fiona’s. Talk to Ryan, if you must.’
There was nothing to do but leave.
Outside, Lottie said, ‘That was interesting. Bannon is the type of man who tells you more about himself by saying very little.’
‘True. Seems like he didn’t know Brady but still didn’t like him. Will we track down Ryan to see if he can shed light on it?’
‘There’s no point in adding to greenhouse gases with both of us driving, is there?’ Lottie said. ‘Leave your car there and come with me.’
As she pulled away from the house, she kept one eye on the rear-view mirror, watching for Bannon to emerge. Instead, she was rewarded with a swish of the living room curtain. From behind it, Zoe stared at her, her face a mask of what Lottie thought looked like terror.
Chapter Forty-Seven
With all that had happened, Lottie realised she hadn’t yet been to Ryan’s cottage. Members of her team and SOCOs had searched it for Lily. They’d uncovered nothing that could lead to a reason why Fiona had been murdered or why Lily had disappeared.
‘The hair, Boyd, that’s what bothers me.’
‘You could do with a trim all right.’
She laughed, despite the enormity of the cases they were working. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘It’s a bit odd, I have to admit, because it doesn’t lead us anywhere.’
‘It p
roves that at least two if not three people were murdered by the same person. Taking a lock of hair for a trophy? For what?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Any word on Christy Clarke’s post-mortem?’
‘Not yet. The man was under tremendous pressure, according to his daughter. Maybe Colin Kavanagh was one source of that pressure. But if it’s suicide … Oh, I don’t know what I’m talking about.’
‘Do you even know where you’re going?’
She squinted through the windscreen. A mist was falling, and it felt like she was driving through dense fog. ‘I think it’s the next left.’
Grass threaded the middle of the road and bare bramble branches criss-crossed out over the edges. At last, through the mist, she saw the outline of a small whitewashed cottage, surrounded by trees. A black car was parked at the front door. She pulled up behind it.
Boyd knocked loudly. No answer. ‘If that’s Ryan’s car, where is he?’
‘Let’s have a look round the back.’ As she walked, she peered through the windows, but the two front ones had blinds pulled down. Paving stones marked the way. A square patio by the back door, with two wheelie bins and nothing else. She lifted the lids. ‘Empty.’
‘No sign of Slevin,’ Boyd said, glancing around. ‘There’s a walkway up that way, through the trees.’ He pointed.
Lottie followed the line of his finger. It was trodden-down grass rather than a path. Like what they’d walked through to find Robert Brady’s body. She noticed footprints. ‘Shit.’
‘What?’
‘Come on.’
‘Where are you going now?’
‘To look for Ryan before he ends up with a haircut he didn’t ask for.’
‘You’re mad, woman.’
She took off, slipping and sliding, listening to Boyd panting behind her.
‘Wait, Lottie. I can’t keep up.’
‘Stay at the cottage, then.’
‘I can’t let you go off on your own.’
She stopped and stared at him. ‘What’s the matter?’
He gulped down breaths in quick succession. ‘I keep slipping. My shoes aren’t right for this.’
‘Go back and try to get into the house. See if there’s evidence of an altercation or something.’
‘Something?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why do you think Ryan might have come this way?’
‘Fresh footprints. Look. There. They could belong to him or they could be someone else’s.’
‘I see what you mean. I’ll check the house and call for backup.’
‘I’ll go a little further. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ She grinned. ‘Nice of you to worry, though.’
He turned without answering her and walked back towards the cottage.
Feck you, Boyd.
She continued to hurry up the path. It inclined further with each step. The mist seemed to be worsening. She could see little more than two steps in front of her. Should she call out? What if the killer was hiding somewhere? What if she called and stopped him just in time? What if Ryan was the killer? Too many questions, she warned herself.
‘Ryan! Ryan! Where are you?’
Branches crashed against her face as she quickened her pace; her feet lost traction in the marshy terrain and she slipped. Getting back up, she thought, this is madness. She had no evidence that anything had happened to Ryan. For all she knew, he could be in bed, conked out. Or knocked out. Or dead. She found her phone. One bar of coverage. She called Boyd. ‘Any sign?’
‘I found a key under one of the bins. He’s not inside. Come back …’
The signal died. She’d left the radio in the car. Rookie mistake.
She shouted through the trees, ‘Ryan? Answer me.’
She’d been moving through the undergrowth for maybe five minutes when she heard it.
A soft keening, like someone crying.
What the hell?
Swiping branches and bushes out of her way and disentangling her hair and clothing from briars, she ran as fast as she could through and over the natural obstacle course. All the time heading upwards. It was denser than the forest where Robert had been found, and she had no idea where she was. Shit.
Her breath was coming in quick bursts as she tried to gauge which direction to take, knowing in her heart it was useless. There were no longer any footprints to guide her. The ferns and grass were up to her knees. No evidence of it having been trampled on recently. She looked around frantically. She was totally lost. Leaning against a rotted tree trunk, she tried the phone again. Dead as a dodo.
Suddenly she heard a branch snap.
‘Who’s there?’
Another snap, and the crunch of footsteps.
‘Ryan? Is that you?’
Moving away from the tree, straining to hear, she focused on the direction of the sound. It was behind her.
Before she could turn around, she felt the roughness of a hand over her mouth and another around her neck. Kicking wildly, she tried to get free, tried to injure whoever had grabbed her. Whoever it was, they were stronger than her. Too strong.
Black dots appeared in her vision as air was cut off from her throat. She couldn’t breathe. She was still struggling, but it was useless. The dots became rounder and bigger. Her vision dimmed and she saw her children and grandson, fading into the distance. And then she thought she saw Adam with a hand out, beckoning, right before blackness overwhelmed her and her body slumped down, down until it was lying on nature’s floor.
Chapter Forty-Eight
In Ryan’s cottage, Boyd went through all the cupboards and drawers, knowing everywhere had already been searched and nothing found. His chest hurt from having run after Lottie, and he thought his blood pressure had gone through the roof. He was on the wrong side of fit, for sure.
As he searched, he concluded that the cottage was basically empty of anything edible, legible or comfortable. No food. No letters or newspapers or books. Empty cupboards. Bare armchairs. Even the beds had no linen on them. It was as if someone had stripped the dwelling naked in anticipation of decorators. Ryan had told them it was to have been his home with Fiona and little Lily, but that did not ring true. Boyd felt as if it had never been intended to be a home. It was too … What was the word he was searching for? Sterile. Yes. That was it.
He opened the bedside cabinet doors, the wardrobe, foraged through the sparse refrigerator, the bathroom cabinet. All virtually empty. Not even an out-of-date carton of milk or a toothbrush. Every wall was freshly painted, and he could see how someone had taken care with the kitchen refurbishment. Had that been Robert Brady’s work? There wasn’t even junk mail in the house. Lottie would call it weird. Lottie! He tried her number again. Nothing. He’d called for backup; they should be here soon.
He glanced at the time on his phone again. How long was it since she’d taken off on her hike? Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. He heard the rumble of car engines and opened the front door to see Kirby and McKeown alighting from a car, with two uniforms squashed into a squad car parked behind them, strobe lights flashing.
‘What’s going on?’ McKeown said.
‘Inspector Parker took off into the forest,’ Boyd explained.
‘Why did you let her go alone?’
‘She sent me back. Ryan Slevin was supposed to be here, but there’s no sign of him.’
‘I think we should look for the boss,’ Kirby said, taking out a cigar and lighting it. ‘This isn’t a crime scene, is it?’
‘I don’t know what the hell it is,’ Boyd said, feeling a tightness in his chest. Anxiety for Lottie? ‘Can you get Google Maps on your phone?’
‘I haven’t even got one bar of coverage, let alone Wi-Fi.’
‘We need to see where that forest path leads.’
‘I’ve a map in the car.’ Kirby went back to fetch it.
‘Is Slevin now a suspect for his fiancée’s murder?’ McKeown asked.
‘All I know is that we don’t know where he is at the moment.’ Boyd
eyed McKeown. ‘Are you sure you did a thorough investigation into the Robert Brady death?’
McKeown took a step forward. ‘Are you accusing me of not doing my job properly?’
Boyd could see steam rising from the other man’s ears. ‘I only asked a question, no need to get your hackles up.’
‘It sounded accusatory.’
‘Maybe you took it that way because you’re guilty of something.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Boyd, spit it out before it eats you up.’
‘Robert Brady’s suicide might be more of a suspicious death, possibly another murder.’
‘Because of the snippet of hair found in his pocket?’
‘Because of the belt.’
‘DNA results aren’t back yet. Nothing’s been confirmed.’
Boyd felt his pocket, searching for cigarettes, and came up with his e-Cig. Blasted thing. He took a puff anyway. ‘I have a strong suspicion the belt used to hang Cara belonged to Robert Brady.’
McKeown said nothing, shifting from foot to foot.
Boyd fiddled the e-cigarette between his fingers, trying to figure out why McKeown was acting so defensively. ‘If we can establish that the belt is Brady’s, it proves that whoever killed Cara Dunne had access to the dead man, or at the very least, his belongings. It suggests, therefore, that Mr Brady may not have committed suicide.’
‘The pathologist ruled it suicide. End of.’
He sounded like a teenager, Boyd thought.
Kirby walked back through the mist. ‘I have the map now, but it’s not much use.’ He unfolded it. ‘Which way did she head?’
Directing them around the side of the house, Boyd pointed to the pathway through the trees. ‘Is that on the map?’
‘No. But a section of the forest stretches for about a kilometre that way. It follows a steep slope upwards before it dips down again.’
‘What’s on the other side?’ Boyd said.
‘According to this, it’s the village.’ Kirby pointed proudly at the damp paper in his hand.
‘Maybe she’s gone there,’ McKeown said, his voice sounding calmer. ‘Have you tried Slevin’s phone?’
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 25
