‘It fell out of here?’ Lottie said, pressing her nose into the dark gap.
‘I was hammering like a woman possessed. Once I set my mind to something, I keep at it until I succeed. It fell onto the floor. Don’t know how it didn’t smash.’
‘How do you think that happened?’ Lottie pulled back from the empty space.
‘Maybe from the vibrations of the hammer?’ Faye shrugged like a little girl. ‘All I know is that it frightened the life out of me. Those hollow eyes … it was awful. I’m sorry.’
‘No need to apologise,’ Lottie said, though she wasn’t sure what Faye was sorry for. ‘Where did Jeff go with it after he picked it up?’
‘Out to the kitchen.’
Lottie moved into the small kitchen. She could smell the mildew. Fungus curdled in the corners of the room. The walls were stained sepia, probably from cigarette smoke. She opened cupboard doors, finding nothing of interest inside.
‘I’ll have a look upstairs, if that’s okay.’ She was treating Faye gently because of the fear emanating from the young woman in waves so strong she felt she could touch them.
‘Will you go up there alone?’ Faye said, her voice low and trembling, her hand lifting to her sore face like a child who’d been told not to touch it in case she made it worse. ‘I don’t want to meet that cat again. I don’t want to go into that room ever again and I can’t imagine bringing my baby into this awful house.’ She looked earnestly into Lottie’s eyes. ‘Can you feel it, Inspector?’
Pausing on the bottom stair, Lottie felt confused. ‘Feel what?’
‘I’m not superstitious or anything, but it feels to me like there’s … I don’t know … menace seeping out through the walls.’ As if to give effect to her words, Faye shuddered violently.
‘Kirby, take her back into the living room and sit her down. I won’t be long.’
Lottie made her way up the stairs, the cat odour more pungent on the landing. She glanced into the bathroom, but there was nothing to see there. She entered the smallest bedroom. The carpet was a dirty brown, stained in big blobs, and the tiny window was shut tightly. When she looked at the wardrobe, she felt a wave of uneasiness swamp her body.
The doors were open; the handle from one of them lay at her feet. And when she moved closer, she knew without a doubt that the skull was real.
She made sure her forensic gloves were on properly. She should wait for SOCOs, but it had already been moved by Jeff and disturbed by the cat. Gripping it with both hands, she took it from the shelf.
It was small. A child’s or a young adult’s, she figured. She thought of the dismembered leg with the pink ribbon around the ankle and shivered. Turning the skull carefully around in her hands, she examined it by sight. There was a crack running down the cranium. Her experienced eye told her that was post-mortem damage. But the centre of the forehead told a different story.
A hole.
Too large to be a bullet hole, she surmised, but she was sure the wound had been made with a pointed implement. Someone had struck the victim in the centre of the forehead. Death might have been instant, or not. It might have been painful, or not. Pathology and forensics would interrogate the bone structure and tell her the unequivocal truth of what had happened. Then she would set out to find who had inflicted such a horrible death.
‘Kirby,’ she shouted back down the stairs. ‘Call SOCOs and get this house sealed off.’
The little skull looked so sad and lonely in her hands.
‘Don’t worry,’ Lottie whispered to it, ‘I’ll find you the justice that’s been denied to you all these years.’
Once the house was sealed off, they brought Faye back to the station. SOCOs wouldn’t be commencing the on-site examination until morning. McGlynn had arrived in a huff, inspected the skull and given permission for it to be sent to the state pathologist once it had been photographed.
Lottie oversaw the taking of Faye’s official statement. The young woman gave her consent to a DNA swab, and her fingerprints were taken for comparison purposes. They would catch up with Jeff Cole first thing in the morning. Faye didn’t want anyone to accompany her home, so Lottie watched as she left the station, her head bent so low between her shoulders that she looked more like a little old woman than a young woman with her life before her. Her dress was grubby and her cardigan appeared to be a few sizes too big. She looked so lonely and pathetic, Lottie almost called her back. Instead she told Kirby he could finish up for the evening.
Sticking a photo of the skull on the incident board, she studied it with her hand on her chin, feeling the weariness seeping into her bones. She was too tired to make sense of all that had happened. She had to go home. To eat. To hug her children and cuddle her grandson. She hoped it would make her feel more human in an inhumane world.
As she switched off the light, she yearned to feel an arm around her shoulders, a squeeze of her hand; to be asked if she was doing okay by someone who knew she wasn’t. She needed to see Boyd.
Walking away from Ragmullin garda station, Faye thought of calling Jeff. She had to tell him everything before the detective talked to him. He wouldn’t be pleased to see the house wrapped in crime-scene tape, but she had done what she felt was right.
A bell clanged loudly in the evening air. She jumped, dropped her phone into her shoulder bag without making the call and looked across the road at the imposing cathedral. It was in shadow, the setting sun behind it. The sky was filled with grey clouds, a thrust of pink cutting a line along the tree-topped horizon. The soothing scene contrasted with the turmoil turning like a roller coaster in her chest. She felt dirty and smelly and needed a long hot bath. Then she remembered they had no bath in the flat, just a slow shower that dripped constantly. She supposed it was better than nothing, and her baby fluttered in agreement. She smiled to herself and let her hand rest on the small swell of her abdomen.
Turning right, she passed the coffee shops that lined the narrow road and moved onto Main Street. It was quiet. Ragmullin was falling asleep. A car with heavily tinted windows and a scrape along the door pulled up alongside the taxi rank, and she smiled in recognition. It was their car. Hers and Jeff’s. He must have finished the job early. She waved, then opened the passenger door and slipped inside, pulling it shut behind her.
‘I’m wrecked. Such a day,’ she said, snapping on the seat belt. The doors locked with a click. As she moved her bag, her phone fell out and she bent over to pick it up. ‘I’ve just been thinking of jumping into the shower, then bed.’
The car pulled away and swerved down Gaol Street, jumping the light that had gone from orange to red in a flash. And then she realised something.
‘How did you know where I was?’
Turning to look at the driver, she felt a chill creep like a finger along her shoulders and settle in the nape of her neck. She reached for the door handle, but the slap caught the side of her face and her hand fell away.
She slid down in the seat, clutching her handbag to her chest, the seat belt restraining her movement, and prayed to the God she thought might be housed in one of the cathedral’s twin spires to help her and her unborn baby.
Twenty-Three
As usual, the house was a mess, but Lottie liked to think of it as organised chaos. Her half-brother, Leo, hadn’t been in contact for some time, but in his most recent email, six weeks ago, he’d said the documents were close to being finalised in relation to the old family home, Farranstown House. Lottie had signed her share of the inheritance over to Leo after he’d agreed to pay her upfront before he put the property on the market. It was a generous offer, and even though she didn’t entirely trust him, she felt she had nothing to lose. But he was taking his time paying over the money.
The house she lived in with her family was a rental. After her home had burned down, it was only because of the generosity of housing developer Tom Rickard, baby Louis’ grandad, that she could afford this one. The sooner she had Leo’s money, the sooner she and Boyd could seriously start house-h
unting. The viewing next Saturday was to get a feel for houses. For a moment, that filled her with excitement, and then she rolled up her sleeves and began to stack the dishwasher with the lunchtime dishes.
The doorbell buzzed. She heard Katie talking in the hall before Rose Fitzpatrick marched into the kitchen with a large dish in her hand.
‘Hello, Mother,’ Lottie said.
‘I won’t make a habit of this, but I had a full chicken in the fridge near its best-before date, so I made a casserole.’
‘You have to eat too,’ Lottie said, inhaling the delicious aroma.
‘I took a bowl for myself. The rest is for you and your starving kids.’
Lottie didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Thanks.’
‘Where’s your handsome young man this evening? Did he not come back with you from the west?’
‘He had to sort out things with Grace but he is coming back.’
‘Poor pet. She’ll be lost without her mother.’
‘He is bringing her to Ragmullin. In the short term.’
‘He’s a good lad, that Boyd. I always told you so.’
Lottie turned and stared at her mother. ‘You are happy that we plan to get married, aren’t you?’ She’d not discussed her decision in great detail with Rose, and for once her mother had been unusually quiet on the subject.
Pulling out a chair, Rose sat at the table and began folding laundry from the basket on the floor. Maybe she shouldn’t have started a conversation, Lottie thought wearily, as her mother cleared her throat.
‘I think he’s great for you, Lottie, but you have to let him be who he wants to be. Don’t suffocate him. He has enough to contend with, what with all that horrible cancer treatment.’
‘I know all about that. It’s been a tough few months, but I honestly think he’s on the road to recovery.’
‘You’re wearing blinkers, Lottie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The treatment is managing the disease, not curing it. He might still need a bone marrow transplant.’
Thanks a lot, Lottie thought, but she kept her lips pressed together in a thin line. It was not okay to be told things she knew but kept at bay. She did not need her mother or anyone else to tell her how to live at this stage of her life.
‘You went through so much with Adam’s illness, and then after his death … well, you know all that, and—’
‘What’s your point?’ Trying desperately to keep from snapping, Lottie lifted the lid from the dish and began filling a bowl with food.
‘My point is,’ Rose said sharply, ‘don’t let yourself get into that situation again.’
Lottie slammed down the bowl and turned on her.
‘What do you want me to do? Drop Boyd because he has cancer?’
‘I did not say that.’ Rose put down the clothes and folded her arms.
‘You implied it. I love Boyd and he loves me. I think I’m entitled to a little bit of happiness, don’t you?’
‘I do, and that’s not what I’m saying at all. Why do you insist on twisting my words?’
‘I don’t.’ Lottie sighed, knowing she sometimes did. ‘Tell me exactly what you’re trying to say.’
‘As a mother, it was so hard witnessing what you went through with Adam. It almost broke you, and I don’t want to see you back in the depths of grief again. You were so bad: the drinking and the pills, and you damaged your children and—’
‘Damaged my children! How dare you! Everything I do is for them.’ She paused to take a breath, averting her eyes from the hurt in Rose’s. ‘I admit we went through bad times. I admit I went off the rails for a while. And yes, I admit I put my children in danger through my job. But no! I will not admit to having damaged them. They’re doing just fine, thank you very much.’
‘What are you hiding, Lottie?’
‘What?’
‘What are you hiding in that heart of yours? What is making you so angry?’
Lottie slumped onto a chair, the food forgotten, her hunger evaporated, anger seething beneath her skin. She held her words on the tip of her tongue. She could say that she was angry at Adam for dying and leaving her to cope with three teenagers who were going through the most formative and difficult years of their lives. She could say she was angry at Boyd for getting sick just when they were on the brink of a new life together. Or she could say she was red-hot angry at Rose herself for all the lies and secrets on which she’d built Lottie’s life.
There was so much to be angry about, but she could not let loose at Rose. She loved her mother despite all that had gone before. And she loved Boyd even though she knew he could never replace Adam in her heart. But Boyd was part of her present. She did not want to dwell on how long or how short that time might be. And she definitely did not want Rose dictating how she should feel.
‘Answer me.’ Rose put a hand on her clenched fist. Lottie forced herself not to pull away. Rose was ageing fast and it was unfair to be angry with her.
‘I’m not hiding anything. Yes, I am angry. Angry at everything that fate has dealt me. But I’m strong too. I can get over anything. I’ve proved that.’
‘But can your children get over it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They lost their father so quickly. They’ve only recently been able to cope with it. How will they feel if … you know … if Boyd doesn’t survive his illness?’
That did it. Lottie stood, flew across the floor and opened the kitchen door. ‘Thanks for the dinner, but I’d like you to leave. I can’t deal with you now. Please go.’
‘I’ve hit a nerve, haven’t I?’
She wanted to call Rose an interfering busybody, but in her head she had to agree. The foremost thought in her relationship with Boyd was how it affected her children. Was she a bad mother to put her own feelings ahead of theirs just this one time? She’d thought she was right in what she was doing, but now, with Rose questioning her, she wasn’t at all sure.
Watching her mother walk slowly to her car, she felt tears gather in her eyes, blinding her. She would not cry. She would not let Rose make her cry.
‘Nana. Nana.’
She closed the door and scooped her grandson into her arms. Feathering his hair with kisses, she said, ‘I love you so much, Louis.’
‘Love you, Nana.’
‘You hungry?’
‘Cheese?’
‘You can have a cheese string, but don’t tell your mammy.’ Lottie smiled, her tears forgotten, and went to fetch her grandson his snack. But her heart was as heavy as the little boy in her arms.
Twenty-Four
The apartment was too small for all of them. On the drive home from the west, Boyd had phoned Kirby to tell him. When Boyd and Grace arrived back, after eleven, Kirby’s belongings were packed up in one corner and he was not in the apartment.
Boyd left his sister sitting on the couch while he went to fetch clean sheets. He would’ve loved to fall fully clothed onto the bed and sleep for eight hours straight. He wasn’t sure if it was the drugs in his system or the stress and grief from the last week, but he had no energy.
Hearing the bell ring and Grace open the door, he peered out to the living room. His flat was contained and small. Living room and kitchenette, bedroom and bathroom. All in dark colours. He rarely pulled up the wooden blinds on the windows. His world, his home. A home he’d shared with Kirby for the last five months, though most of the time he’d either been in Galway, over at Lottie’s or in hospital. Now Kirby had to find another abode.
‘Hello, soldier,’ Kirby said. ‘Sorry for your loss. Did you give your mother a good send-off? Sorry I couldn’t get down to it. Work. That new super never stops cracking the whip.’
Boyd looked into Kirby’s weary eyes. ‘Long day?’
‘I don’t want to bore you with it. You’ve enough on your plate.’
‘Please, Kirby. I can do without you treating me like a condemned man. Enough that all the women in my life are at it.’
Kirby smiled
weakly. ‘Sorry, bud. Too tired to talk tonight.’
‘About all this …’ Boyd said, nodding towards Grace, who’d curled up on the couch and closed her eyes.
‘No worries. I’m just going to put my stuff in the back of my car and I’ll be out of your hair.’
‘Have you somewhere to stay?’
‘Yes, yes. Of course I have.’ He was lying.
‘Tell me where, in case I need you,’ Boyd pressed.
‘The Joyce Hotel. Got a room for tonight.’ Kirby looked shifty. ‘I’ll figure everything out tomorrow.’
‘Leave your stuff for now.’ Boyd sat on the arm of the couch, his legs unable to hold him up any longer.
‘All joking aside, you don’t look great,’ Kirby said.
‘Treatment’s going well. Almost finished. It’s the funeral … I’m just tired. Grace too.’
‘I’m sorry for disturbing you this late. Appreciate all you’ve done, putting me up the last few months. I know I should have had myself sorted out before now, but it was easier not to think about it.’
‘Glad of the company, to be honest. It made a huge difference having you around.’ And it had, Boyd thought. Kirby had been something of a life-saver, albeit an untidy one who’d done his head in more than once. But having someone to fill the void in his home had been welcome. Kept him from dwelling on his ill health.
‘Thanks anyway.’ Kirby picked up a Tesco bag for life.
‘I can loan you a suitcase if you—’
‘No, not at all. Got a spare shirt, underwear and washing gear here. More stuff in the car and I’ll pick the rest up another time, okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Get some sleep. You look like shit,’ Kirby said, blunt as ever.
Boyd smiled. ‘Call around tomorrow and we can talk about your plans.’
Buried Angels Page 10
