The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 14

  Boyd rang to say they were in the process of preparing to arrest Arthur Russell. Good. Now maybe they’d get the Tessa Ball case closed.

  Deciding it was time to have a serious conversation with her mother, Lottie left her kids and headed out into the storm.

  * * *

  Rose was stirring soup in a pot on the stove.

  ‘Will you sit down for five minutes?’ Lottie asked, trying to flatten her flyaway hair. Ten seconds running from the car to the door and she’d nearly done a Mary Poppins up into the sky.

  ‘I can talk just as well standing up, missy.’

  This was not going to be easy. She’d have to grovel.

  ‘Mother, please. This is important. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Go ahead. I can hear you.’ Rose Fitzpatrick was trying Lottie’s patience to the nth degree.

  ‘I’ve spoken to everyone I could find who worked with Dad.’

  ‘I’d say that was enlightening. Old fogeys.’

  Lottie smiled to herself. Her mother would never admit she was old herself.

  ‘I can’t get my head around the fact that he… that he did it in the shed. Here at home.’

  ‘Your father wasn’t himself those last few months. Things were not going well at work. It all got too much for him.’

  ‘But to steal a revolver from the station and bring it home? Why not do it at the barracks, or out at the lake? Anywhere but here.’

  ‘Lottie, this is exactly why I didn’t want you investigating it. You end up with more questions than answers.’

  Twirling the end of the linen tablecloth around her fingers, Lottie said, ‘It doesn’t make sense. And no note. Why not?’

  Rose turned, ladle in hand, dripping soup to the floor. ‘You’re making a dog’s dinner of that tablecloth.’

  Letting go of the cloth, Lottie was about to tell her mother about the soup, but restrained herself.

  ‘I gave you the box file. That’s all there is.’ Rose shook the ladle.

  ‘There has to be more.’

  ‘You never know when to quit, young lady.’

  ‘Young? I actually feel quite old. Can I have another look around in the attic?’

  ‘No!’ Rose slammed the ladle on the table. Orange liquid splashed across the white linen and up into Lottie’s face.

  Jumping up, she grabbed her mother’s arm. ‘Please, sit down.’

  ‘What did I just do?’ Rose dropped the ladle and sat on a chair. She suddenly looked very old.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Lottie asked. ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you give up running around at all hours of the night? I heard the HSE might be clamping down anyway. Something about registering the soup kitchen as a charity.’

  ‘It’s not a soup kitchen. We just do soup runs. Different thing altogether.’

  ‘All the same—’

  ‘No, Lottie. I want to do it.’

  ‘At least visit the doctor. You might need vitamins in this bad weather.’

  ‘I don’t need vitamins. I need to keep myself busy. Keep my brain active.’

  Lottie sighed. There was no way she was going to win an argument with Rose tonight. She switched the subject. ‘Did you have your knitting group today?’

  ‘We said the rosary for Tessa.’

  ‘Anyone have any idea why someone would want to murder her?’

  ‘No. But…’

  ‘But what?’ Lottie leaned over, interested now. She made a mental note to see if Kirby had followed up with the members of the knitting group.

  Rose got up and put the ladle under running water. ‘I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. You know that house belonged to Tessa before she signed it over to Marian and went to live in her flat.’

  ‘I’ll follow that up.’

  The soup was burning. Without alerting her mother, Lottie went over and switched off the stove. ‘I think this is done,’ she said.

  ‘So it is.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? I’m fine.’

  ‘And I can’t have a look up in—’

  ‘No, Lottie. Leave it be.’

  She’d come back another time, when she was sure the house was empty.

  As she left her mother, water still running over the ladle and splashing on the floor, Lottie knew without a doubt that there was something very wrong with Rose Fitzpatrick.

  * * *

  Turning off the tap, Rose looked around at the mess she had made. This wasn’t like her. Not like her at all. She ran the mop over the floor, bundled up the tablecloth and opened the washing machine. A small pile of clothes was already in the drum. She checked the drawer. Detergent still there. She’d forgotten to switch it on.

  With a sigh she shoved in the tablecloth, then turned the knob and pressed the button to start the wash.

  What else had she been about to do? Lottie’s words twirled around in her head like the drum of the washer. Back at the table, she tried to recall the conversation. Oh yes, the attic.

  She fetched the pole from above the sitting room door and pulled down the attic stairs. At the top of the ladder, she put on the light and peered into the loft space. Boxes and papers were scattered everywhere. She paused and thought for a moment. She always kept her attic in perfect order. Everything shelved, with labels and markings, so she knew exactly where to find things.

  Now it was in chaos.

  Had she done this? Had Lottie come round while she’d been out? If so, she definitely wouldn’t have left it in a shambles.

  A chill seized her body. She couldn’t move. Wind howled through the slates and down the chimney breast. It sounded like the roof was about to be lifted from the rafters.

  With one last look at the vortex of memorabilia, she flicked off the light and carefully descended the ladder. Could she have left that mess without remembering? And if she had, what had she been looking for? She wasn’t at all sure of the answer to either question.

  Thirty-Nine

  Emma shivered beneath the rough blanket and stifled her tears. No point in crying. Her grandmother was dead, her mother was in a coma and her dad was a murder suspect. And it was all her fault. She never should have listened to the big ideas and small-town talk. Some people were just bad news. She knew that now. But things had gone too far. Too much had been covered up. And now her family had paid the ultimate price.

  She heard him downstairs, pottering around, making dinner. She wasn’t hungry. Couldn’t eat. Wouldn’t eat. Wanted to die. Serve her right if she died. Why had she even come here? Because she’d been told that if anything happened to her family – if she was ever in trouble – Mick O’Dowd was the man to go to for help. He was supposed to keep her safe. Oh my God! She didn’t even know him. He could rape and murder her and dump her body in his slurry pit, and no one would ever know. Why had she come here? Was it the biggest mistake of her life?

  Picking up her phone, she debated putting the SIM and battery back in. If she did, it could be traced. Did she really need to make the call? She knew she had to tell someone about what she’d overheard; what she’d seen. Could she wait another day?

  A burst of wind rattled the glass in the window frame. Cans and bins clattered across the yard below. The dog howled. She heard O’Dowd whistling in tune to the gale.

  What should she do?

  Pulling the blanket up over her head, its musty scent telling her it was years since it had been out of the linen box, she lay in the darkness and listened to the storm blowing outside.

  She missed her mother.

  She wanted her father.

  Emma Russell was terrified. Not of the storm, but of what might happen next.

  Forty

  Wind and rain crashed against the window pane and Lottie lay awake with the curtains open, staring out at the storm.

  She craved the arms of a man. She craved another drink. She craved escape to oblivion.

  The glass in her han
d shook. She drained the clear liquid and, still in darkness, poured another drink from the bottle in the bed beside her.

  There was something wrong with her mother. There always had been. Now it was worse. Had it to do with Lottie snooping into her father’s suicide? But in the few days since Tessa Ball had been murdered, Rose seemed to have deteriorated. Did she know something? What had she said about Tessa’s past?

  As the alcohol wended its way through her veins, Lottie felt a light relief in her head. She put down the glass, then the bottle, and fell asleep to the sound of the wind.

  Forty-One

  Alexis didn’t like using Skype. She didn’t like it when they could see her. And in all honesty, she didn’t want to see them either. Standing to one side of her black glass-topped desk, she hit the connect button.

  ‘Be short and quick,’ she said.

  ‘Things are going well…’

  ‘I hear a but. Tell me.’ Alexis didn’t want any buts. They usually heralded new problems. She walked away from the desk and looked out at the afternoon lower Manhattan skyline.

  There was silence from the computer. She was beginning to think the caller had disconnected when she heard the cough.

  ‘You’re right. There is a but. Nothing we can’t handle at this end, though.’

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘It’s to do with the other problem.’

  Alexis knew what was being referred to.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Well, I got what you wanted from the old lady’s attic, but the pathologist has accessed the post-mortem file.’

  ‘The original file?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Alexis hated that term. She wasn’t anyone’s ma’am.

  ‘Can you destroy it?’ she asked.

  ‘Not unless I get it from her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘The state pathologist.’

  Alexis wondered if there was anything in the file to warrant the case being reopened. She couldn’t take the chance.

  ‘Get it. Don’t contact me again unless you have it.’ She walked back to her desk and disconnected the call.

  She had a dinner party to attend. She knew it was one way to dispel any gnawing concern she might have about events in Ragmullin. She had handled it all before; she would do so again. Not even Detective Inspector Lottie Parker was going to stop her.

  The Late Seventies

  The Child

  I don’t know what age I am and they won’t tell me. But I know I’m young. A child. They call me ‘the child’.

  Why is everyone here so old?

  Shuffling in and out of their ragged slippers. Peeling the paint off the walls with their fingernails. Banging their heads against the iron radiators. Blood pouring unhindered from wounds and sores.

  And the noise.

  Yelling and screaming. Do they not realise there’s no one to hear? No one to care about them. We’re all alone, together.

  Today they’ve put me working in the laundry room.

  It’s so hot, I think I might die.

  The ceilings are so high, I feel so small. Maybe I am a midget.

  The laundry.

  Stinking shitty sheets and towels. Hundreds of them. Piled high in baskets attached to trolleys.

  My shrivelled stomach turns with the stench. I retch and gag; slam my fist into my mouth to hold in the vomit. The thump to the back of my head knocks me sideways into the sheets already piled up on the floor. If I’m not careful, I could end up in the washer.

  I slip my feet back into my slippers that are about ten sizes too big and begin hauling the soiled linen out of the basket onto the floor. Eventually I drag it to the washing machine.

  I think I’m going to faint. It’s too warm. Stifling hot. Bubbles of sweat drip down my pale nose and I wipe them away. I have to do this quickly so I can go back to my bed.

  I hear the voices.

  Calling.

  Whispering a name I do not know.

  Then shouting a name I do know.

  ‘Carrie,’ they say. ‘Where is Carrie?’

  And I wonder that too.

  Where is Carrie?

  It is her fault I was brought here. Her fault I’ve been left here. Her fault they’ve all forgotten about me. Carrie, the bitch.

  Day Four

  Forty-Two

  The smell of paint had faded but a scent of newness oozed from the furniture in Superintendent Corrigan’s office. The fact that it was 7.30 in the morning and he had called her in even before she’d had time to take off her jacket didn’t help Lottie’s mood. Nor his either, she thought.

  ‘Sit,’ he ordered.

  She sat. What was going on? She put her hand to her mouth, blew out and sniffed. No smell of alcohol. Good.

  ‘Where were you at eight o’clock yesterday feckin’ morning?’

  ‘Here, sir.’ She didn’t like the look he was giving her over the rim of his spectacles.

  He wagged a thick finger in her direction. ‘Think very feckin’ carefully before answering, Detective Inspector Parker.’

  Lottie sat stock still. What was he talking about? Yesterday morning? Seemed a lifetime ago. She tried hard to think. She had worked the case with Boyd. Talked to Emma. Searched Marian Russell’s house. Lost Emma. Called to Lorcan Brady’s house. Before all that, early morning… Annabelle’s surgery. Surely he couldn’t mean that?

  ‘I… I… don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘Let me help you understand, Detective Inspector Parker. You visited Dr O’Shea’s surgery. Remember now?’

  Lottie gulped. A visit to her doctor wasn’t a crime, as far as she knew. ‘That was a private matter, sir. Annabelle’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I had to ask her something about Louis.’ Thinking fast now. Concocting the tale as quickly as the words were leaving her mouth. ‘He’s my grandson.’

  ‘I know who Louis is!’

  She thought Corrigan might explode. His bald pate turned red, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bulged behind his spectacles. He kept tapping a piece of paper with a silver pen, louder with each tap.

  ‘You’re lying to me. Last chance. Why did you—’

  ‘Okay, okay, sir.’ Lottie held up her hands. ‘I visited my doctor because I wasn’t feeling well. Thought I was getting the flu.’

  ‘Flu, my arse.’

  She could feel his stare burning through her. ‘Sir, what is this about?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what it’s about,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve an email here disputing everything you just said. So when are you going to tell me the truth?’

  Lottie felt sweat break out on her forehead. Her T-shirt clung to her spine. If she hadn’t had the flu before, she just might have it now.

  ‘Are you going to sit there with your mouth feckin’ glued shut, or are you going to tell me?’ he roared.

  She shook her head slowly. ‘I’ve no idea what’s in that email, sir. What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s damning, that’s what. You know, if you’ve got health problems, you’re supposed to report to me. Then I can decide if you’re fit to work a case as serious as the one you’re working on right now.’

  Shit. ‘I went to see Annabelle because I… I…’

  ‘Go on.’

  Deciding on something resembling the truth, she said, ‘I needed something to help me cope. At home. It’s a bit mental since the baby arrived, and—’

  ‘I don’t want your family history,’ Corrigan interrupted, waving the printed page. ‘This email claims that you’re an alcoholic and a drug addict.’

  ‘What?’ Lottie jumped up so quickly, she knocked over the chair. She went to snatch the page but Corrigan grabbed it at the same time, tearing it down the centre.

  ‘Who sent this? Anonymous, I bet.’ She looked at the scrap of paper in her hand.

  ‘Yes, but I wanted to hear from you if there was any truth in it.’

  She righted the chair and slumped down on it.

  �
�Are you drinking again, Detective Inspector Parker?’ he asked, his voice way too soft to be soothing. Dangerous.

  ‘Everyone takes a drink.’ Lame, she knew, racking her brain to figure a way out of this. The only positive thing was that the email was anonymous. The force had a policy of not dealing with such correspondence. Then again, this was personal. Shit.

  Corrigan pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his bad eye, which had improved slightly over the last few months, then put the glasses back on again. ‘Every so often you do things that drive me to distraction,’ he said. ‘I’m starting to believe you’ll have me in an early grave.’

  ‘Sir, I’m sorry. But that is a malicious piece of junk. Bin it.’

  ‘I will. But first I need to have an idea of your state of mind. Your work isn’t up to scratch these last few months. You’re behind on your admin.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry sir.’

  ‘And you’ve been upsetting old folks with talk about your father’s suicide. That was forty years ago. Drop it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Corrigan leaned into his chair. ‘You’re telling me there’s no truth in this email?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fingers tightly crossed on her lap.

  He sighed. ‘I think you have a problem, Detective Inspector Parker. A big feckin’ problem. One step out of line and I’ll hear about it. Understood?’

  She nodded, lips in a thin, tight line. Thinking. Who the hell had sent that email?

  ‘Can I have a copy of the correspondence, sir?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d like to investigate who’s been making false accusations against me.’

  ‘You won’t be doing any investigating. I’ll look into this. You just stay on the straight and narrow. Do what you’re supposed to be doing.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She got out of his office before he could say another word. Pulled the door shut behind her and leaned against it.