The Lost Child: A Gripping Detective Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 18

  She tugged off her spectacles, wiped them with the end of her shirt and replaced them on her nose. Picked up the book again. Wind crashed against the window and rain pounded like pellets on the tiled roof. Emma sat still. Waiting. Listening. Shivering.

  The door opened.

  ‘What is this?’ she said, vaulting up from the chair, waving the book.

  She stopped. Felt the blood drain not just from her face, but from her entire body.

  The first punch knocked her back across the table. The book flew out of her hand and her phone crashed to the floor. The second smashed her spectacles into her face, glass shattering, cutting her skin and breaking her nose.

  Emma Russell never felt the third blow as she slipped into unconsciousness.

  Fifty-Two

  Kirby pulled a chair across and sat beside Lottie’s desk. She felt like asking him for a hug, just to feel human contact, but thought better of it. A sense of loneliness descended on her shoulders and she longed for one of her pills. Impossible to sneak one with them all looking at her like she should be locked up.

  ‘Kitty Belfield,’ Kirby began as he flicked over pages of his notebook.

  ‘Just the outline,’ Lottie advised.

  ‘Her husband Stan Belfield was a partner with Tessa Ball in the firm of solicitors, Belfield and Ball. This was from the sixties to the early eighties. Closed up shop in 1982.’

  ‘Okay. What’s your punchline?’

  ‘Kitty told me the firm were involved with some very contentious cases in the early to mid seventies. There was one in particular that Tessa dealt with. According to Kitty, Tessa had an unhealthy interest in it and wouldn’t let Stan in on any meetings or consultations.’

  ‘What was the case?’

  ‘She was very vague. She’s ninety if she’s a day. I pressed her and she said she only recalled that it resulted in a mother apparently trying to burn down her home with two children in it. The mother was sectioned and placed in St Declan’s Asylum. Apparently every file in the office pertaining to that case was stolen in a burglary in 1976. Nothing else was taken. The place wasn’t ransacked. It seemed the burglar knew where to look. Interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘It points to Tessa, doesn’t it? She handled the case. She knew where all the files were kept. She had to be in on it.’

  ‘I can’t see how one incident in 1976 has anything to do with Tessa’s murder forty years later.’

  Kirby grunted. ‘Well, I thought it was significant.’

  ‘Were the files ever found?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who was the woman who tried to kill her children?’

  Kirby ran a finger down his notebook. ‘Carrie King.’

  ‘Okay,’ Lottie said. ‘This could lead us into a rabbit’s warren. We haven’t the manpower, so let’s park it for now and we’ll see what develops.’

  ‘Right, boss.’ Kirby stood up and with slumped shoulders wheeled his chair back to his own desk.

  ‘Where’s the transcript of the statement O’Dowd made today?’

  Boyd tapped at his computer. ‘Odd.’

  ‘What’s odd?’ Lottie said. When she was sure none of her colleagues were watching, she snuck a pill from her bag and quickly swallowed it. Keep calm, she commanded herself.

  ‘There’s nothing on the system relating to it.’ Boyd turned round. ‘Lynch? Did you take O’Dowd’s statement?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Kirby?’

  ‘Not me. I’ll check with the front desk.’ He lifted his phone. After a moment he said, ‘Desk sergeant has no record of O’Dowd coming in.’

  Lottie shoved her chair back and stood.

  ‘That’s priceless. Just priceless,’ she said. ‘Kirby, how did you find out O’Dowd owned the cottage?’

  ‘Land registry.’

  ‘No idea of who rented it then?’

  ‘Not through any of the estate agents in town. I even broadened my query outside of town.’

  ‘Back up a bit,’ Lottie said. She moved over and sat on the edge of Kirby’s desk. ‘Have you a copy of the land folio or deeds?’

  ‘I’ll bring it up.’

  Lottie breathed deeply, watching Kirby’s chunky fingers stamp down on the keys. He clicked on a document.

  ‘Print it.’

  ‘Done.’

  Lottie took the page. ‘Boyd, have a look at this. See who owned the cottage before O’Dowd?’

  ‘Jesus!’

  She picked up her bag and rolled her jacket over her arm. ‘Kirby, process a search warrant for Mick O’Dowd’s farmhouse and lands. Come on, Boyd, we need to speak to O’Dowd again. And this time he will tell me the truth.’

  Fifty-Three

  The car lurched from side to side as Boyd tried to avoid the water-filled potholes along the gloomy country road. Ebony clouds chased each other across the starless sky. Torrential rain crashed against the windscreen; the wipers couldn’t keep up.

  ‘Should’ve brought a pair of wellingtons,’ Lottie muttered.

  ‘Bit of a move up the fashion ladder for you.’ Boyd wrestled with the steering wheel.

  ‘O’Dowd’s yard will be like a swimming pool.’

  ‘More like a slurry pit.’

  ‘Hey, there’s the turn.’

  ‘Can’t see a thing. Hold on tight.’

  Lottie clamped her feet to the floor as Boyd swerved, taking a sharp right. She felt herself being flung sideways. Her seat belt jerked against her shoulder. ‘Take it easy. I know I said to hurry, but I want to get there alive.’

  ‘Not a light on anywhere,’ Boyd said, screeching the car to a halt in O’Dowd’s yard.

  ‘The Land Rover’s here. Let’s take a look.’ She zipped up her jacket and exited the car. Boyd switched off the headlights, plunging them into darkness.

  ‘Can’t you leave them on?’

  ‘I’ve got flashlights.’

  He produced two from the boot. Lottie took one, checked it worked and followed the cone of light up to the front door.

  Hammering the knocker on the door, she shone the torch through the glass. It reflected back, blinding her.

  ‘Thought I saw a ghost.’ She turned to Boyd. He was nowhere in sight. ‘Boyd? Where are you? The dog could be loose. Come back.’ She flashed the light about wildly.

  ‘He’s not loose.’ The wind carried his voice around the side of the house to Lottie’s ears. ‘He’s injured.’

  ‘What? How?’ She ran, splashing through puddles, wind buffeting her against the gable end, and fell over the crouched figure of Boyd.

  ‘Ouch,’ she cried.

  Lying on her back on the slimy dung-splattered ground, she tried to get traction with her elbows; slipped again.

  ‘Lottie? Are you okay? Give me your hand.’

  ‘Where’s the damn torch?’ She dragged herself to her knees.

  Boyd shone his beam around the yard and she saw the dog.

  ‘Oh my God? What happened?’

  ‘Poor bugger’s dead.’

  Holding a hand to her mouth, she said, ‘He was a nasty dog, but he didn’t deserve this.’

  ‘Surely O’Dowd didn’t kill his own dog?’ Boyd asked, picking up her torch.

  Reaching for Boyd’s hand, Lottie allowed him to haul her to her feet. The warmth of his fingers did little to dispel the chill cartwheeling along her skin.

  ‘This is not good,’ she said, shaking off his hold.

  ‘We should come back in daylight.’

  A strong gust flung a tin can across the yard.

  ‘Just a minute. Let’s try the back door first. Give me the torch.’ She took it and led Boyd round to the rear of the house, where she knocked on the door.

  ‘This is pointless,’ Boyd said.

  A pane of glass rattled in the door. ‘We’ll search it in the morning. Get a squad car to come and housesit.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘In case O’Dowd comes back.’

  ‘But his car is here.’


  ‘He’s not, though, and his dog is dead. I need to check if the bike is still in the shed.’

  Shivering from her fall, Lottie walked in the illuminated cone cast by the torch. The rain continued unabated. At the door of the shed, water dripped down into one of the blue plastic barrels. Inside, the tractor loomed like an iridescent monster. No sign of the quad. No sign of the…

  ‘Boyd. Quick. Come here.’

  She sensed him moving to her shoulder. Felt his breath on her neck.

  ‘The bicycle is gone,’ he said.

  ‘You wouldn’t let me take it earlier. It was evidence that Emma was here.’ Her voice was even. The pill was working. Keeping her from screaming at him.

  Boyd spoke in an even-tempered tone. ‘You know you couldn’t take it then. We needed a warrant.’

  She turned. He was so close, she could see the pores of his skin in the light from the torch in his hand. All around, shadows swarmed at her, the galvanised roof rising and falling with the force of the tempest raging outside. Something howled in the distance and a massive crunch, then a bang, signalled a falling tree. Lottie flinched and moved towards Boyd. He wrapped his arm around her. Too close. But she wanted to feel his closeness. To feel safe. Leaning into him, she let her cheek touch his. Briefly. Breathed in his scent.

  And then he spoke. Almost breaking the spell. Almost.

  ‘You’re tired. Soaking wet. It’s been a long day. You need to go home.’ He trailed his fingers through her sopping hair.

  She said, ‘You’re right. As usual. Let’s go.’

  But she didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

  He lowered the torch as his mouth met hers. Their lips brushed silently, quickly, and something stirred within her. Something that had been dormant for so long, she hardly recognised it.

  ‘Oh Boyd. Don’t do this to me.’

  ‘You want me to stop?’

  ‘No.’

  His hands slid around her back and her body was drawn tightly into his. She could sense it in him too. A longing. A craving. Call it whatever… she wanted it. Her muddy hand rose automatically, up around his neck, and she pulled him down to her lips.

  Another loud crash separated them. The wind had succeeded in lifting the roof clear from the rafters, flinging it high into the black sky and out over the field. Rain gushed in.

  ‘The gods are in some temper,’ Boyd said, with a strained laugh. He shone the torch up into the heavens. ‘All O’Dowd’s equipment will be destroyed without the roof.’

  ‘Serves the bastard right.’ Lottie walked with measured steps around the side of the tractor, her body still tingling. ‘I see the drainpipe took off with the roof.’ She glanced at the plastic barrel as she passed.

  A flash of lightning cracked the sky and emblazoned the yard. In a spark of clarity, she halted. The warmth that had coursed through her body a moment ago fled. Her blood froze midstream to a solid icicle.

  Taking a step backwards, she whispered, ‘Boyd… In… in there. Look.’ She pointed to the barrel. ‘I… I saw something.’

  ‘Probably a drowned rat. Like us.’

  He swung his torch around and the beam settled on the water in the barrel that once held O’Dowd’s Propcorn. Lottie followed the glow with her eyes, felt her legs go weak, cried out, lost her breath, gulped down the acidic bilge.

  She dared to look again.

  A swathe of hair rippled around two open eyes looking up at her from the depths of the watery grave.

  It wasn’t a drowned rat.

  Lottie screamed.

  Fifty-Four

  The man circled the car, rain pounding on his head.

  He had a call to make. A very difficult call. He wasn’t at all sure of the reception his message would get. He tapped the number, rainwater drenching his iPhone screen. No signal. Good… or was it?

  He turned round at the sound of sirens blaring, coming towards him. The shrieking noise seemed to be in competition with the storm that had yet to reach its peak.

  Watching until the garda cars and the ambulance disappeared over the hill, he decided the call could wait. He got into his car and followed the lights into the night.

  He knew where they were headed.

  Fifty-Five

  Even with Boyd’s coat over her shoulders, Lottie continued to shiver. Her jeans settled like a damp sheath on her legs, hair matted to her scalp. Balling up her fists, she thumped them against her head.

  ‘She was here, Boyd. All the time. God almighty, this is all my fault.’

  ‘No use going there, Lottie.’

  ‘That’s the point. We were here. Earlier. We saw the bike. We should have gone inside the house.’ She stared up into his eyes. The sparkle of hazel had turned to black. ‘Leave me alone.’

  Without answering, Boyd shrugged and went to direct the SOCOs towards the barn.

  She slumped down onto the doorstep. Looking up at the sky, she allowed the rain to run down her face, along with tears of helplessness. The white-suited SOCOs swarmed around the barrel holding the body of Emma Russell, sightless in her watery grave.

  There were no stars in the sky, only bullets of rain shooting down the darkness. The storm howled like a banshee welcoming the dead, and branches crunched and cracked and fell to earth. The cattle in the second shed lowed long and hard. Another flash of lightning lit up the heavens, and a thunderclap followed.

  Spotlights were erected by the team, and as she sat there on the lonely wet step, Lottie thought how surreal the night had become. A seventeen-year-old girl, submerged until she drowned. Without sympathy or pity. Without prayer or penance. Without remorse or guilt. Shoved into a barrel while rain pummelled her body and water flooded her lungs until her last breath left her being, her life extinguished in a strangled gulp.

  Lottie felt her brain helter-skeltering inside her skull. A flutter of movement caused her to shift her focus down to her feet. A small bird, its wings drenched so badly it probably couldn’t fly. Its tiny body shivering. It was useless. So was she. Forcing herself, she tried to comprehend what had happened. Who was this monster she was dealing with? One thing was definite: Lorcan Brady and his partner had had nothing to do with Emma’s death. Brady was lying in hospital and the nameless man was already dead. So who then? Had O’Dowd killed the girl? It seemed most likely. Everything pointed to him. The bicycle in the shed. The fact that he had vanished. The lies he had told and the truth he had kept hidden.

  Why had Emma’s grandmother, Tessa Ball, signed over the cottage to O’Dowd? How did she even come to own it? And who was the man stabbed to death in its embers? Why had Emma come here? Why was she dead? Why?

  Sensing Boyd’s presence, Lottie glanced up. Silhouetted by the lights, the rain for a backdrop, he stood like a weary Grecian god, smoke from his cigarette swirling and dying in the cold night.

  ‘Want one?’ he asked.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered.

  Crouching down beside her, he lit it for her.

  The sound of tyres crashing through water caused them to look at each other. Lottie heaved herself up. A door slammed and heavy footsteps followed.

  ‘What the feck is going on here?’ Superintendent Corrigan bellowed against the storm.

  ‘Emma Russell. We found her. Drowned,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Drowned? What happened?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In a barrel used for Propcorn.’ Boyd started to explain. ‘It’s acid, used for animal feed. You mix it—’

  ‘All right. All right. What was she doing out here?’ Corrigan stretched his hand towards the activity in the barn.

  ‘I have to figure that out yet, sir,’ Lottie said. Throwing down the cigarette, she shoved her hands into her damp pockets and awaited the tirade.

  ‘Figure it out soon.’ Corrigan marched towards the SOCOs.

  Boyd exhaled. ‘Narrow escape.’

  ‘Don’t speak too soon.’ Lottie watched the superintendent chatting with McGlynn, before he promptly returned.

  ‘First thing in the
morning. My office.’ And he rushed back to his car.

  Jane Dore arrived and suited herself up under an enormous umbrella held by a garda. Lottie nodded acknowledgement of the state pathologist’s presence and walked with Boyd to watch the SOCOs removing the teenager’s body from the barrel.

  A man with a gurney and a body bag waited inside the roofless barn as incessant rain spilled down on top of it.

  Boyd clutched Lottie’s elbow. She shook him off.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve seen bodies before.’

  The barrel was now on its side, water emptying quickly until only Emma’s fully clothed body remained inside.

  Lottie caught McGlynn eyeing her above his mouth mask. Pools of emeralds, dimmed by the scenes he witnessed. Just like her own, she supposed. Along with another SOCO, he gently eased Emma free from the plastic drum and onto a Teflon sheet.

  Stepping closer, Lottie looked down. The girl’s open eyes appeared to glare at her, questioning her, asking why she had let her down. Why she hadn’t saved her. There were scratches across her nose and forehead.

  ‘I won’t know cause of death until I do the post-mortem,’ Jane said, pre-empting Lottie’s question. She assessed the body. ‘Fully clothed. Jeans, shirt and sweater.’ Her fingers felt under the wet wool and cotton, checking carefully for wounds.

  ‘I assume she drowned,’ Lottie said.

  ‘You know what I say about assuming anything?’ Jane said.

  Lottie sighed. ‘Let me know your findings.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ Lottie whispered and reached out a hand to wipe a strand of hair from Emma’s death mask.