‘There’s no coverage here, as you know.’ Boyd reiterated Kirby’s comment.
Kirby pumped his chest out, full of importance, and eyed their shoes. ‘You stay here, Boyd, in case she comes back. We’ll head into the forest.’
‘I’ll go with you.’ Boyd needed to be doing something; McKeown was grating on his nerves like steel wool on ceramic. ‘McKeown, leave the uniforms here and drive into the village. Kirby and I will meet you on the other side of the forest.’
‘How am I supposed to know where that is?’
‘Take a photo of the map with your phone. From what I can see, it’s somewhere close to the abbey. And if you can’t find it, open your mouth and ask someone. The old-fashioned way.’ Boyd turned to Kirby. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Without waiting for McKeown’s reply, and cursing his soft shoes, Boyd took the lead.
With Kirby wheezing behind him, he easily reached the place where he’d left Lottie. The mist had turned to fog, making it difficult to see ahead. Broken branches showed him her trail. ‘This way.’
‘Very dark in here, isn’t it?’ Kirby moaned. ‘What’s your take on all these murders?’
‘Hard to know, but I don’t like how Colin Kavanagh appears at every corner.’
‘Where is he?’
Pausing for a second, Boyd said, ‘I don’t mean he’s actually here.’
They carried on, ducking and diving through the undergrowth and overhanging branches.
‘Shh!’ Boyd said, stopping suddenly. Kirby clattered into his back.
‘What? I’m after stepping in shite of some sort. Jesus, Boyd, the fucking smell.’
‘Shh.’ With his finger still to his lips, and his head to one side, Boyd listened intently.
Alert now, Kirby whispered, ‘It sounds like a bird or something.’
Running now, abandoning any semblance of protocol, Boyd shouted, ‘It’s a woman, Kirby. It could be Lottie!’
Beth arrived home and sat at her dad’s desk. Opening the scanner app on her phone, she started to scan documents. She knew her head was not in the right space to take it all in or to be aware if she stumbled across anything relevant, so she snapped everything, hoping something might yield a clue as to why he’d shot himself. She felt the truth was a story far beyond her journalistic talents.
She heard a loud hammering. Someone was at the door.
The detective again, probably. Why couldn’t she leave her alone? Maybe Beth could find a bone to throw her. Abandoning her scanning, she went to open the door.
Wet and muddied, Ryan almost fell in on top of her.
‘Ryan! You look like something the cat dragged in. What happened?’
‘Let me sit down for a minute.’
‘Come in.’ She led him to a chair. ‘Ryan, losing Fiona that way was awful, just terrible, but you need to mind yourself. I’m serious.’ She put out a hand to touch his cheek, an act of tenderness, comfort for a friend, but he swiped it away.
‘You shouldn’t be thinking about me,’ he growled. ‘You’ve lost your dad too.’
‘We’re united by our grief, then. Gosh, that sounds too poetic for this horror show.’
‘You’re so good with words, Beth,’ he said, a half-smile tickling the corner of his mouth. ‘Put the kettle on.’
There was something in his tone that sent a shiver through her. Busying herself with the tap and kettle, she said, ‘Have you heard anything from the guards?’
The chair scraped across the floor. Suddenly he was at her shoulder. ‘What do you know?’
He was too close to her. Way too close. She swung around and scooted around his sweaty body to wipe invisible crumbs from the table with her hand. This is becoming a nervous habit, she thought. ‘I had a detective here earlier.’
‘What did you tell them?’ He followed her around the table.
She kept a step ahead of him. ‘Shouldn’t you ask what they were asking about?’
‘Well then, what were they asking?’
Pausing because she’d run out of table to trek around, she said, ‘She wanted to know about Robert.’
‘Is that all? Nothing about your dad or Fiona?’
‘My dad and Fiona? I don’t understand.’
With dirt clinging to his clothes, Ryan puffed and panted, strained wheezes rising from deep in his chest. ‘About their deaths, I mean.’ He paused. ‘Shit, Beth, why were they asking about Robert?’
She shrugged, unable to figure out what to say to placate him.
‘What did you tell them?’ he repeated.
The kettle hissed, then whistled, breaking the tension that had sprung up like a wall around them. Ryan slumped onto a chair, pulling at his face with dirty fingers. Beth fetched mugs from the cupboard and milk from the refrigerator.
An unsettling feeling lurked in the pit of her stomach like a sour liquid as she noticed the way Ryan kept his eyes on her while she moved around the kitchen. She filled the teapot and put it on the table.
‘Ryan, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?’
‘You really don’t want to know.’ He lifted the pot and poured the tea.
Beth stared, without moving a muscle. Ryan was not being Ryan; he was not the man she knew. She was sure something much worse than Fiona’s death was the cause of the yellow in his widened eyes and the pallor of his skin.
She just couldn’t decide if his look was one of fear or menace.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Boyd dropped to his knees at the tree trunk.
‘Lottie! Are you okay?’
Stupid question. With trembling hands, he lifted her head. She slumped forward and he caught her in his arms. She was sitting on the wet forest floor. Face purple. He put a finger on the side of one eyelid, opened her eye up then let the lid fall back. Felt her throat for a pulse. Shallow breaths.
‘Thank God,’ he said. Cradling her in his arms, he willed her to wake up. To open her eyes of her own accord. ‘Come on, Lottie, please …’
She started to cough. Eyes flashed open. ‘Boyd?’
‘Thank goodness.’
‘Give her some air.’ Kirby put a hand on his shoulder.
‘I’m okay,’ she whispered, her voice raspy.
‘What the hell happened?’ Boyd said, anger replacing his fear. ‘How could you be so stupid? Who did it?’
‘Boyd,’ Kirby said, and pushed him out of the way. ‘Slow down. Give her space.’
Boyd fell backwards.
Lottie gasped for fresh air. ‘He tried to stop me,’ she said. ‘Bloody bastard.’
‘Who? Who tried to stop you?’ Boyd said, scratching muck from his trousers.
‘Didn’t see … Came up behind me. I heard a sound, like someone crying.’ Her eyes flashed with something. At first he thought it was fear, but as she went to stand, he knew it was rage.
‘Fucker tried to stop me.’
‘What did he try to stop you from?’
‘Don’t know. I was heading that way.’
She lifted her arm slowly and pointed through a gap in the trees to her right. He followed the direction with his eyes, squinting through the dense leaves, but couldn’t see anything. Leaving Lottie with Kirby trying to get a signal on his phone, he moved through the thicket. He was fully aware he could be destroying evidence of her attacker, but he had to see what was beyond.
As he climbed, the copse thinned out and a dim winter glint appeared. He reached the top, gasping at the beauty of the landscape before him, but he still couldn’t fathom out what might have caused someone to attack Lottie.
Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned around ready to attack. It was only Kirby, with Lottie in tow.
‘You should have stayed where you were to wait for help,’ Boyd said.
‘What’s the focal point down there?’ she said, ignoring him.
‘The abbey,’ he said, looking to the right of the village.
‘No. I mean in our direct line of sight. Look there.’ She pointed. ‘What do you see?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I don’t understand.’ He started downwards, but felt her hand on his sleeve, holding him back.
‘Wait.’ She hunkered down and studied the ground around them. ‘Over there.’ She started to move. ‘Come on.’
He caught up with her. Could she not listen to advice? ‘Lottie, you need to see a doctor.’
‘I’m going to personally strangle him.’
‘The doctor?’ He tried a joke. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Pot and kettle. See, there.’ She pointed to the trees. ‘Cola cans and wrappers. Someone was definitely here.’
‘It’s like a lookout or a den.’ He wondered how she was still able to focus. His own head was thrumming.
‘We need SOCOs up here,’ she said.
‘Probably just kids or teenagers.’ But he didn’t think so. He tried to visualise the line of sight from the vantage point where he stood. Straight down into the village. ‘You really think someone was staking out Christy Clarke’s garage?’
‘I do. Let’s head there. We need to find Ryan Slevin. Kirby, you stay and guard this area until we can get a team up here.’
‘On my own?’ Kirby sounded doubtful.
‘I think you’re safe enough,’ she said. ‘I reckon whoever it was is long gone.’
‘You sure you’re okay, Lottie?’ Boyd said. ‘You need to see a doctor. I don’t think—’
‘Boyd,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Shut up.’
He had to smile at her gumption. As they made their way downwards, he stayed right behind her, ready to catch her if she collapsed.
Lottie could hardly keep her frustration under wraps. Running a hand along her throat, she relived the touch of fingers, squeezing, tighter. Then nothing.
They walked through a gap in the hedge and onto the road. A line of six council houses stood before them, appearing out of sync with the countryside. As they reached the garage, she felt a wave of nausea engulf her and leaned into Boyd.
‘I still think you need to see a doc—’
‘If you mention the word doctor once more, I’ll throttle you, Boyd.’
‘I don’t think you have the energy to walk, let alone choke me.’
The garage looked more bereft now than it had done yesterday. All the garda and forensic activity had been completed and it was back to its lonely existence. The dirty windows. The space within lined with expensive cars.
‘I wonder, has there been any luck checking the registrations?’ she said.
‘Meant to tell you earlier: McKeown found out they were all reported stolen from Dublin within the last year.’
‘Really? Why didn’t they remove the plates?’
‘I presume whoever they are thought no one in their right minds was going to look for stolen Mercedes and BMWs in the arsehole of nowhere.’
She tried the handles of the car doors and found them all locked. ‘Where are the keys?’
‘In the office, perhaps,’ Boyd said and made to enter the blood-spattered space.
‘I hope the post-mortem is completed soon. I need to know what happened to Christy Clarke and how, or if, his death fits in with the others.’ She stopped at the sight of the bloody walls and felt sick at the thought that entered her head. ‘And little Lily. I hope to God the child is unharmed.’
She felt a breeze on the back of her neck and whirled round to see McKeown marching through the main door, rubbing his hands together.
‘Jesus, but it’s bloody cold out.’
‘You took your time getting here,’ Boyd said.
‘When more uniforms arrived at the cottage, I followed your trail up the hill. Kirby’s still there. I got two bars on my phone and called in SOCOs. Gave them direction to the lookout or whatever it is. For what it’s worth, I think it’s a waste of our time and theirs. No one gets ambushed over a couple of crisp packets and a Diet Coke.’
Feeling the flush of anger colour her cheeks, Lottie said, ‘Someone attacked me, and I think it presented them with enough time to remove something from that den. SOCOs might be able to determine what that was, and then maybe we can identify who it was and why they were so anxious to keep it hidden.’
‘Right,’ McKeown said.
Lottie thought he didn’t look very sure. ‘Have you a problem, Detective?’
‘No, boss. Not at all.’
‘When we get back to the office, find the original stolen car reports. Track where they were taken from and liaise with the local stations to see what they’ve come up with. Do your utmost to trace how and when those cars arrived in Ballydoon. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘And I want forensic analysis on the cars too. I want to know who drove them here and who handled them. Now drive me and Boyd back to his car. It’s at Bannon’s house. And arrange for mine to be driven back from the cottage. Can you do that without making a fuss?’
She instantly regretted talking to McKeown so sharply. Being the newest member of her team, he had yet to grasp her fluctuating moods. Plus, like all of them, he was also working Lily’s case. She put a hand to her head to stop it thumping. They were going around in circles and she felt she was in a maze with no one to guide her.
Chapter Fifty
When Giles Bannon arrived at the theatre, he nodded at the guard who was manning the door and headed inside. Waste of taxpayers’ money, he thought. In his office, he brushed down his coat and checked his shoes were clean. He found deodorant in a drawer and sprayed it liberally under his arms through his shirt. Satisfied, he went to check on rehearsals.
The hall was empty except for Trevor on the stage. Bannon kept his eyes firmly fixed on him as he completed a rehearsal of his solo dance routine, his body lithe and full of energy. He wondered idly how Trevor hadn’t made the big time, with his skill and flair. There was no denying he had a talent for dance, far above any Giles had seen, even better than the professional groups who performed here. No, there was something keeping Trevor rooted to the town. Giles had an idea what that might be; he just needed more proof.
‘Well done.’ He clapped slowly as the dancer blinked against the spotlight.
‘What are you doing there?’ Trevor picked up a towel from the side of the stage and made his way down the steps into the auditorium.
‘Watching you.’
‘You shouldn’t lurk in the shadows like that. Anyone might think you were a pervert.’
Giles laughed loudly. ‘Oh shut up. There’s only one pervert in this room and it’s not me.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Trevor made to walk past, but Giles grabbed his arm and pulled him close. ‘Get your hands off me.’
‘Where’s Lily?’ Giles said. ‘What did you do with her, you sick fuck?’
Trevor’s face paled instantly. ‘I never touched her.’
Giles smiled. ‘Come on, you can tell me. I won’t tell the guards.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. Let me go.’
‘Colin Kavanagh has put up a reward. I could do with the money, so tell me.’
‘If I knew anything about Lily, which I don’t, you’d be the last person I’d tell.’ Trevor wrenched his arm free and strode though the double doors.
Before they could slam shut in his face, Giles caught one and stood watching as Trevor picked up his gear bag and headed for the exit.
‘I’ll find out,’ he shouted after him. ‘And when I do, you’re going to be one sorry arsehole.’
The air was bitterly cold, but the scent of cinnamon and pine followed Trevor like a smoke trail. Walking past the market stalls, his shoulders slumped with an invisible weight. His legs moved automatically, but it was as if the soles of his feet were sticking to the ground.
Oblivious to the chatter of the happy Christmas shoppers, he bundled his way through the crowd. Up the street, turn right. Keep on walking. Keep your head down. Don’t drop your bag. He’d be there soon. Hopefully. And then he could
wash away the stench of Giles Bannon’s words. But the further he walked, the louder the venom-laced invective roared, beating a racket against his eardrums.
Louder and louder.
Pervert. Pervert.
Maybe he was. Maybe that was what his thoughts were constantly saddled with.
He reached his door. Scrabbled around in his bag for his key.
He had to get inside. Now! Once in there, in his own private habitat, he’d be safe.
Inside, he walked around his small room, scratching his arms vigorously. The place was a mess. All that furniture, and the suitcases stacked up in the corner. Clutter taunting him. He had to get rid of everything soon, before it crowded him out. But first, he thought, he had to exercise.
He completed his stretches and arched his back, raised and dropped the kettle bells until he could no longer do so. Still he felt as if every muscle in his body was taut, like strings ready to be plucked. He brought up Spotify on his phone and tapped his favourites. Bannon was a bollocks. He’d sent the email, hadn’t he? What else did he want from him?
As the music played, he stood by the small rectangular window and lifted the curtain. He was looking directly at a brick wall. He craved the day when he’d have enough money saved to either rent or buy a proper place. He’d been told it would be soon. That was before.
He turned away from the window and opened the cupboard. He found a box of Weetabix and put a couple into a bowl. He didn’t bother fetching milk. He moved to the chair and sat with the bowl on his knee, chewing the dry cereal as if it were a biscuit. His knees jigged. Not even the music calmed him.
He heard a door open, then close somewhere in the building. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder and fingers gently massage his neck muscles. Closing his eyes, he released his pain in one long shriek.
But there was no hand.
Only his memory of what once had been.
He ran both his own hands up along his throat, around his ears and into the hair on top of his head. He tugged, trying to pull out the loneliness, knowing he couldn’t. His heart was broken, his life in shreds, and he had no one; no one in the world to talk to.
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 26
