‘That section was fresher.’ She pointed to the hole in the wall. ‘And when I hit it with the paint scraper, it sounded hollow.’
‘And you had to hammer the shit out of it. Why?’
Faye shrugged her shoulders wearily. ‘I’m sorry. I thought that if there was a space there, we could insert a shelf unit.’ Her voice had returned to normal, though her throat felt raw from screaming. ‘A cheap one. I know you don’t want me wasting money we don’t have.’
‘You shouldn’t have set about demolishing a wall. Did any of the neighbours come in to investigate what the noise was about?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I suppose most of them are at work.’
‘Probably.’ He got up and moved over to investigate her demolition job. Then he scrutinised the skull lying in the middle of the floor. He nudged it with his shoe. ‘It looks fake to me.’
‘It looked quite real at the time. It’s tiny. Scared the living daylights out of me.’
He stretched to his six-foot height and started to pace the floor in circles. ‘Do you need to visit your doctor?’
‘Why would I?’
‘The baby. You got a shock and—’
‘Jeff, the baby is fine. I’m fine.’ She wondered how she would ever rid herself of the image of the skull landing at her feet. ‘I think we should call the gardaí.’
Jeff stopped his anxious pacing. ‘Good God, no. We’d make a holy show of ourselves.’ He laughed before gripping her hand and staring earnestly into her eyes. ‘It’s fake. Probably left over from Halloween years ago. No need to waste the guards’ precious time with it.’
‘But who put it there, and why?’ She felt his fingers kneading her dust-covered flesh. ‘Did you know there was a secret cubbyhole in there?’
He dropped her hand and stood back, hands on hips. ‘No. It could have been there years before my aunt and uncle bought the house, but I know they took out a range at some point.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘Find out what?’
Faye sighed. Jeff was being impossible. ‘Find out when the wall was plastered over and when the skull might have been placed there.’
‘There’s no one to ask. Mam and Dad and Uncle Noel all died years ago, and Aunt Patsy’s gone too.’
‘There has to be someone else.’
‘I’m the only one left, and you need to stop thinking about this skull. I’m putting it in the bin. Forget all about it. I’m taking you into town for a cappuccino and a warm croissant.’
Jumping up, she said, ‘How can you think of food when that thing could be someone’s head lying on our living room floor!’
She hadn’t meant to shout, but every pore on her skin was screaming at her that this was something bad and they had to take it seriously. She started coughing, dust caught in her throat. Tears sprouted from her eyes and she swayed on the spot. Jeff caught her arm tightly, and she staggered against him.
‘You’re so melodramatic, Faye. Look at me. I’m saying we forget about it. I mean it.’
Frozen in place, leaning against the wall for support, she watched Jeff as he picked up the small skull.
‘Have we refuse sacks here somewhere?’ He turned the skull around in his hand, poking his fingers through the eye sockets.
‘I don’t think—’
‘Ah, Jesus, Faye, stop.’ He took a breath and looked at her. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry for swearing at you. It’s just awful … it has me rattled too. Stay there. I’ll find the sacks myself.’
He marched out of the room still holding the skull, and Faye heard him pulling out drawers in the small kitchen. She looked out of the window at the world rushing by. Cars on the road. Two teenagers laughing loudly on the footpath as they chased each other. Probably skipping school, she thought. A bird landed on the cherry blossom tree in the small front garden. She watched it, concentrating as it twitched its head. Anything to keep her mind off the eyeless skull that had rolled out at her feet.
At that precise moment, she felt it for the first time. A fluttering, just like a trapped butterfly lurching around in her tummy. A tiny being created by her and Jeff.
But for some reason it did not make her feel happy.
Six
Detective Larry Kirby parked the unmarked garda car on the verge beside the bridge. He always thought it was such a misnomer, because every child and crook in the town could recognise an unmarked car a mile off.
Uniformed officers had set up a one-way system and were directing irate drivers back down the narrow hill. All the trains had been halted, causing pandemonium in the station, with buses having to be hired to ferry commuters. Planting an unlit cigar in the side of his mouth, he extracted himself from the car and waited for Detective Maria Lynch to join him. He had to admit she was looking healthy and fit after her maternity leave.
‘And the little bugger sleeps all night?’ he said, chewing the end of his cigar.
‘He’s much better than the other two were. Needless to say, Ben is delighted, because we won’t have to share the night-time in and out of bed with a bottle lark.’
‘Good, good,’ Kirby said, searching his pocket for a lighter. He knew nothing about babies or bottles or any of that. Unless the bottle contained alcohol, of course. He had no children and it was looking like he might never have any, being divorced and his girlfriend having been killed in the line of duty. Lynch’s husband, Ben, was welcome to his kids.
Eventually he succeeded in lighting the cigar, while Lynch spoke briefly with the uniformed officer.
‘Put that out, Kirby,’ she said. ‘We have a bit of a walk after we get down on the bank. Should have worn my trousers.’ She set off down the steps located to the side of the bridge.
Standing in a huddle of uniforms at the bottom were the two youngsters who’d made the grim discovery.
‘We should have a chat with them first,’ Kirby said.
‘They’re being looked after. I have all the details. Come on, lazy bones.’
He would have taken the words as an insult from anyone else, but he’d worked a long time with Lynch, so he just chuckled to himself and set off after her. Maybe things might get back to normal now that she had returned to work. And hopefully Sam McKeown would shift his arse back to Athlone. McKeown had been a good addition to the team when he’d filled in for Lynch, but he tended to rile Kirby for no good reason.
‘Is it far?’ he shouted at Lynch as she headed along the grassy verge by the railway tracks.
‘Only about half a mile.’ Her voice carried back to him on the warm morning air.
‘Only?’ he muttered. He found a grubby handkerchief in his pocket and dabbed away the perspiration dripping down the folds of skin on his neck.
As they rounded the next corner, the white-suited scene-of-crime officers came into view. Kirby trotted after Lynch. She was almost suited up by the time he reached the huddled group. He grabbed a suit for himself, but before he could attempt to pull it on, he found himself forced to bend over, hands on knees.
‘You okay?’ Lynch said.
‘Catching my breath.’
‘Maybe you need to join a gym.’
‘I have no energy for it.’ He raised his head and studied her. Lynch had retained very little of her baby weight, and her face was slimmer than he remembered. He put a finger up to his own flabby jowls and thought maybe she had a point.
‘Get that suit on and hurry up, for God’s sake,’ she said.
He muscled his way into the tight forensic suit, hat, booties and gloves. He could smell what awaited them even before he entered the warm tent. He pulled his mouth mask up over his nose, but was still inclined to gag.
‘Not a pretty sight,’ said Jim McGlynn, head of the SOCO team. Kirby knew that the man enjoyed his banter with his boss, Detective Inspector Lottie Parker, though neither she nor McGlynn would ever admit it.
‘Oh my God,’ Lynch said, her forehead paling beneath the short whisper of fair hair that had escaped from her hood.
‘Jesus, Jim, what is it?’ Kirby stalled at the entrance to the tent. He felt his head wobble. The heat or the cigar? Maybe the gym wasn’t a bad idea. Scrap that. He couldn’t afford it.
‘Will you give me a chance?’ McGlynn sounded irritated.
Once he’d regained his equilibrium, Kirby peered over Lynch’s shoulder for a better look. Tight between two sleepers was a body, or more correctly, part of a body. Torso, no head. Legs cut off at the hips, arms at the shoulders. It was hard to tell if it was male or female. And it was small, very small. The skin was putrid and oozing in places, and in other places, it looked like …
He scratched his head. ‘Was it frozen?’
‘Yep. She’s been thawing out for quite a few hours by the looks of it. Hopefully frozen shortly after death, so we may get lucky.’
‘Lucky?’ Kirby itched to get the hell out of the tent.
‘Yes, Detective Kirby. Freezing a body close to time of death preserves DNA and fibres. We might get samples to analyse forensically and possibly inform us of the cause of death.’
‘Good, good,’ Kirby said. ‘And time of death?’
‘Won’t know anything until the state pathologist does her work. Where is she?’ McGlynn stared at him accusingly.
‘I’ll check if she’s on her way. You think the torso is female?’
‘At the moment, yes.’
‘When do you think she was killed?’
‘My middle name is not God, so I have no idea. Are you going to let me get on with my job?’
Kirby took his chance to escape out into the fresh air, quickly followed by Lynch. She looked green in the face when she whipped off her mask. She spoke to a uniformed officer at the entrance to the tent as she stripped off the protective clothing and stuffed it into a brown evidence bag. Kirby moved to her shoulder.
‘You okay?’ he said.
‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘Jane Dore will be here within the hour.’ She shook her hair loose, as if freeing each strand of the stench that clung there. ‘What the hell is that in there, Kirby?’
‘I’m not sure, but if I was pushed, I’d say it’s the body of a child.’
Seven
Lottie wasn’t one bit happy as she stood in front of her new superintendent. She herself had been in line for the promotion after Superintendent Corrigan had formally retired on grounds of ill health. She had been overlooked for the temporary position in favour of David McMahon last time around, but this time she had not even bothered to put in an application. McMahon had spewed on his bib and was spending his suspension kicking pebbles on Dollymount Strand while Internal Affairs raked up the dirt on him. From what Lottie had heard, there was enough to fill two wheelbarrows. Karma, she thought. And yet he was on paid leave pending a full hearing.
To date, she had had little interaction with Deborah Farrell, who’d been promoted quickly up through the ranks. Lottie was glad to see a woman getting the job, but not so sure she wanted to be working under this particular one. There was little grapevine chatter to draw on, so she had to depend on official sources, which were tight-lipped.
Deborah Farrell had arrived in Ragmullin two months previously with a steady record. At forty-five she matched Lottie in age, but Lottie had a good three inches on her. That was something, at least, she told herself. Not much good sitting down in an interview, though. Farrell’s eyes were a dark shade of grey, and her hair, an insipid brown, was tied in a tight bun at the back of her head. Not one strand was loose. Even her hair didn’t suffer insubordination. But her white uniform shirt was in need of an iron, an epaulette had come undone on her shoulder and her tie lay in a knot on the desk.
She ran a ringless finger around the open collar. ‘Detective Inspector Parker.’ A statement, not an enquiry.
‘That’s me, Superintendent Farrell.’ Lottie sat up straight.
‘We can drop the formalities. Okay if I call you Lottie?’
‘Sure.’
‘Outside that door I’m Superintendent Farrell, but between ourselves I’m Deborah.’
‘Fine by me.’ Lottie had no idea where this was headed, and wrong-footed by the superintendent’s cosy tone, she couldn’t decide whether she should be relieved or wary.
‘Detective Sergeant Boyd is off on sick leave, but I have an application here requesting his return to work on a part-time basis.’
‘Really?’ Lottie leaned forward. News to her.
‘I’d like to have your opinion on the matter. I believe you and Boyd are … intimate?’
Heat flared on Lottie’s skin before she could prevent the blush. How to handle this? With the truth, she supposed.
‘We’re engaged to be married, Superin— Deborah.’ Gosh, it felt awkward addressing her boss informally. ‘I don’t wear an engagement ring. It doesn’t seem appropriate, you know, being a widow and all.’ Why was she making excuses? ‘Boyd was diagnosed with leukaemia last December. His treatment has taken a lot out of him, but the latest results are showing improvement.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Farrell ran a hand along her chin, almost manly.
‘He has responded well to treatment. According to his oncologist, that’s as good as they’d hoped for at this stage.’
‘I heard his mother died recently.’ Farrell leaned her head towards Lottie, dropped her hand from her chin, both elbows on the desk,
‘Yes,’ Lottie said. ‘She was buried yesterday.’
‘How has that affected him?’
Fiddling with the cuffs of her scruffy T-shirt, Lottie wondered about all the questions. Farrell’s voice was soft and soothing. A great tone for extracting information from witnesses and suspects alike. Which category did Lottie fall into? Why was she even here, answering questions about Boyd? Farrell could bring him in and grill him if she felt the need.
‘Honestly, he’s fine.’ She shifted uneasily.
‘Do you think he’s up to a return to work?’ Farrell persisted.
Damn, Lottie thought. Now she was being put in an awkward position. Boyd had mentioned in passing that he’d asked his consultant about returning to work part-time, but she hadn’t really been listening. She thought it’d be good for his emotional and mental state do be doing something meaningful again, but was he physically up to it? How would it affect her team? Maria Lynch was back from maternity leave and Sam McKeown had not been reassigned to Athlone yet. She didn’t want to upset the equilibrium. But also, she couldn’t watch Boyd struggle. The chemotherapy had caused some side effects. How to be diplomatic? she wondered.
‘I think it’s a matter for his doctors,’ she said eventually, worrying a hole in her thin cotton sleeve. Farrell’s eyes were like a pair of bullets bearing down on her.
‘Mmm. I wanted an insider’s knowledge, but I see you don’t want to betray an emotional interest. I get that, and—’
‘No, it’s not that at all,’ Lottie blurted. ‘I actually want to leave personal issues aside and look at this professionally.’
‘I’m beginning to doubt that.’ Farrell’s friendly demeanour fell away and her mouth flatlined.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Lottie said.
‘I don’t think it’s going to work.’
‘What’s not going to work?’ She was floundering now, hands on the desk, almost pleading, because she knew exactly what was going to come out of Farrell’s mouth next.
‘You working with Detective Sergeant Boyd. I’m trying to give you an out here, but you’re not grasping it at all.’
Lottie shook her head. Had she missed something in the conversation?
‘I’m not sure I follow you, Superintendent,’ she said, dropping the Deborah shite.
‘I thought you were cleverer than that. You disappoint me.’
‘You’d better explain what you mean,’ Lottie said defiantly.
Farrell picked up the tie from the desk and slid it under her shirt collar. With deft fingers she had it knotted and in place in four seconds flat, effectively shrinking her neck. ‘You can tell me Boyd isn’t
ready to return to work, even part-time; if not, either you or he will have to be transferred to another district. Emotions can’t come into this job. What’s it to be?’
Resisting the temptation to tell Farrell that her epaulette was undone, Lottie stood and slid the chair under the desk. She wasn’t about to fall into the baited trap. ‘I believe it’s a matter for you to decide.’ With her hands resting on the padded back, trying to still her jittery fingers, she added, ‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all.’
Escaping out the door, she leaned against the wall. She closed her eyes and waited until her breathing returned to normal.
‘You okay, boss?’ Kirby waddled towards her.
‘What are you doing up here?’ she said.
‘The super asked to see the report on the drone body.’
‘What’s a drone body?’
‘Shit, sorry. Forgot you didn’t know about it. Will I fill you in before I talk to …?’ He nodded towards the door.
Lottie gripped his elbow and steered him back down the corridor.
‘Yes, you damn well better fill me in.’
Eight
Kevin O’Keeffe’s first self-imposed duty of the day was to remove the recyclable materials and trash from the utility room and bring it to the wheelie bins outside. He attacked this daily chore with gusto.
With his hands sheathed in disposable gloves, he lifted the lid off the first bin and pulled out the clear plastic bag. He punched the side of it lightly, twisting it around in his hand as he peered through the clear plastic. It looked okay. Food remnants wrapped haphazardly in newspaper. The waste management company had yet to provide brown bins for food waste, and much as it pained him to have to do it, he went out the back door and deposited the bag in the black rubbish bin. The smell of bleach erupted when he lifted the lid. He kept his bins clean, hosing them inside and out after each collection.
Buried Angels Page 3
