Tell Nobody: Absolutely gripping crime fiction with unputdownable mystery and suspense Page 18

  ‘Was the baby murdered by the same person who killed the two boys?’ Cynthia asked.

  Without turning around, Lottie said, ‘We are investigating all leads.’

  ‘You’re not denying that there is a serial killer in Ragmullin?’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Lottie swivelled round on the step. ‘If you lot kept out of my hair and stopped whipping up hysteria, we might be able to do our jobs.’

  ‘Is Rory Butler, the boys’ football coach, a suspect?’

  Lottie stared at the reporter. What the hell? ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘I have my sources, who shall remain anonymous.’

  The smug smirk irked Lottie more than the statement. Boyd, she thought. Goddamn him. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so instead she pushed through the door and into the relative safety of the reception area.

  A man seated inside on the wooden bench stood up.

  ‘Shit,’ Lottie said.

  Toby curled up in bed and refused to go downstairs for his breakfast. His mum had given up calling him about five minutes ago. Max’s bed was empty; he hadn’t been home all night by the looks of it.

  He crawled over to his PlayStation. Switched on his game. It was no use, he missed playing with Mikey, so he slunk back to bed. He heard the ping of a message on the machine. He supposed it was another like the one he’d got last night. Before he’d gone off walking in the dark. Luckily he’d bumped into that nice girl, Chloe. She’d insisted on walking him to the tunnel. She’d told him she had a brother always playing Call of Duty. Toby told her he liked FIFA better. And she said that was good and that she’d ask Sean about it. Sean? Not the same Sean who’d been with Barry Duffy yesterday, surely?

  Toby realised that he had actually been able to talk to this girl. That was strange.

  The PlayStation pinged again. He went over to the desk, clicked the control and zoomed into the message box to read what was written there. He dropped the controller and opened his mouth to shout for his mother, but nothing came out.

  Jumping back into bed, he burrowed deep beneath the duvet and pulled the pillow over his head.

  He wasn’t going outside the door today.

  Max could swing for his chicken roll if he came home with a hangover.

  Hope decided she needed to get out of the house. She didn’t know what else to do. She brought Lexie with her. She used the streets at the back of the town, but as she exited Burke Road, she felt someone watching her. She picked Lexie up and ran, down the street, right to the end. Only then did she glance over her shoulder. There was no one following her. She stopped. Caught her breath. Noticed Lexie crying.

  ‘I’m so sorry, baby,’ she said. ‘Mummy got scared.’ She was truly spooked and knew she couldn’t go on living like this. She had to find out the truth about what had happened to her baby.

  ‘Swings?’ Lexie said.

  Hope placed her daughter on the ground and held her hand tightly.

  ‘Okay, sweetheart, we’ll go to the park.’

  She pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt to shield her face and walked as fast as Lexie could manage, her eyes darting around in fear that the guards were watching her. Or maybe it was someone else.

  Chloe stood at the door to Sean’s room. It was closed, but she turned the knob anyway and entered.

  Her brother was sitting on their gran’s old rocking chair with a controller in his hand. She put her hands on her hips, then dropped them as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Image of her mother! Oh God, no, she thought.

  ‘Is there ever a time of the day when you’re not playing those games, Sean Parker?’

  ‘Let me think,’ Sean said. ‘Er … nope.’

  ‘I was wondering, do you play FIFA with a boy called Toby Collins?’

  ‘How would I know? Everyone uses an alias online. Shit. Now I’m dead.’ Sean closed his eyes and smacked his forehead with one hand.

  ‘Why are you dead?’ Chloe peered over his shoulder at the screen.

  ‘It’s the game.’ Sean put the controller on his lap and turned towards her. ‘How do you know this Toby Collins?’

  ‘He literally bumped into me as I was coming out of work last night. He was terrified. I walked him home a bit.’

  ‘What age is he?’

  ‘Dunno. Ten or eleven.’

  ‘And he was in town on his own and a murderer on the loose?’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. I’m glad I only have the one brother. You are such a dick.’

  ‘Are you finished? Can I get back to my game?’

  ‘I told Toby that you play Call of Duty. Keep an eye out for him. Make sure he’s okay.’

  ‘Right, Mother Teresa.’

  ‘You don’t even know who she is,’ Chloe snapped.

  ‘Gran told me. So there.’

  ‘Please look out for this Toby, won’t you?’

  ‘If I knew his alias, I might do, but seeing as I don’t, I can’t.’

  ‘You know what, Sean? You’re worse than Mam, talking in riddles all the time.’

  He didn’t grace her with an answer, so she went in search of Katie. Maybe her sister would talk to her. She heard Louis crying in the kitchen. Then again …

  When Chloe had closed the door, Sean stared at the screen, unseeing.

  Toby Collins. The same boy Barry had been an ass to yesterday. He lived somewhere down in Munbally Grove. And he was Mikey’s friend. Sean remembered the sheer joy on Mikey’s face after the match on Sunday night. Maybe he should look out for Toby.

  He stood up and pulled off his pyjamas and got dressed. He’d see if he could find Toby. It seemed like he needed a friend. He gulped down tea and toast and told his gran he was going to meet Barry. He had no intention of meeting Barry Duffy. He might want him to say the rosary or go to Mass or something religious like that. And then Sean thought there was nothing Christian about the way Barry had treated Toby yesterday.

  He zipped up his black hoodie as he left the house. The ground was damp. Must have rained during the night, he thought. He could smell the soil, that fresh smell you got after days of sunshine followed by a night of rain. It was good, and he smiled.

  But the smile dropped off his face when he saw who was leaning over his gran’s front gate.

  Forty-Nine

  ‘Presenting myself as requested,’ Rory Butler said with a mock salute.

  ‘Oh, right. To give a statement.’

  ‘Spot on,’ he said. ‘But it looks like you’re in need of a coffee after your encounter with that mob out there.’

  ‘Come with me.’ With a nod to Gilly behind the glass screen, Lottie keyed in the code and directed Butler to the interview room.

  ‘I’ll be with you shortly. Take a seat. I need someone to sit in with us, and a DNA testing kit.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said, divesting himself of his grey suede jacket. ‘I’m not sure I have to provide a sample. I just want to give the formal statement. That’s what you said yesterday.’

  Lottie sighed. ‘Mr Butler, I’ve a very busy day ahead of me. You’re either here to help with our inquiries into the deaths of two young boys or you’re not. Which is it?’

  He answered by pulling out a chair and draping his jacket over the back. He’d swapped yesterday’s cargos for navy chinos, pink shirt and brown loafers, no socks. He sat down.

  ‘Seeing as I took the time to come in, you might as well start,’ he said with a shy grin.

  ‘Give me a second.’

  She found Boyd in the office and returned with him to the interview room. When they were ready, she began.

  ‘State your name and address for the tape.’

  ‘Rory Butler, Swift House, Ragmullin.’

  ‘How long have you lived at that address?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘And prior to that?’

  ‘London. Though I was born in Swift House. My family moved to the UK when I was eleven.’

  ‘Why the move?’

  ‘Didn’t I tel
l you all this yesterday?’

  Lottie gave him her best withering look.

  He relented. ‘My dad got a better job.’

  ‘Why did you come back to Ragmullin?’

  ‘My grandfather died and left the property to me. I decided to renovate it, and now I call it home.’ He shifted in the chair. ‘I can’t see what these questions have to do with anything.’

  Lottie ignored him and continued.

  ‘You live there alone?’

  ‘Most of the time,’ he said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I might have someone stay over. But currently I’m alone. Helen, my housekeeper, is there from nine to five each day.’

  ‘What persuaded you to become the under-twelves soccer coach?’

  ‘I told you this yesterday. I wanted to do something to help the community. I know it’s hard to get volunteers. I can play a bit of soccer. So I volunteered.’

  ‘How long have you been their coach?’

  ‘Year and a half, I’d say.’

  ‘Tell me about Sunday night.’

  ‘Sunday night?’

  ‘There was a final, I hear.’

  ‘Yes. It was great. All square with five minutes to go. Then up pops little Mikey …’ He paused, lowered his eyes, fidgeted with his hands. ‘Mikey scored and we won.’

  ‘Mikey Driscoll?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Where were you at that time?’

  ‘On the sideline, roaring myself hoarse.’

  ‘And after the match?’

  ‘I gave a team talk and invited all the lads to McDonald’s, where I bought them a meal.’

  ‘Did you go to McDonald’s with them?’

  ‘I drove myself there, alone. Some of the boys went on the minibus, others with their parents.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe eight. Eight thirty? I’m not sure. Can’t you check the CCTV footage?’

  She ignored his comment.

  ‘You joined the boys and their families? You paid for their victory meal?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘I’m sure you already know this, so why are you wasting my time? And yours.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  He was uneasy, Lottie noted. Why? She knew he’d walked out of the restaurant at 9.16 p.m. ‘I’m waiting, Mr Butler.’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably sometime around nine fifteen.’

  ‘And did you speak with Mikey Driscoll at all?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In the restaurant?’

  ‘I probably congratulated him. Maybe I asked if he wanted more fries. But I have absolutely no recollection of it.’

  ‘And outside. Did you see him then?’

  ‘Outside? No. I fetched my car from the car park and drove home.’

  ‘Did you see anyone hanging around outside the restaurant or in the car park?’

  ‘I can’t recall. Wait a minute. I saw Wes. He drives the team bus. Brings the lads to away matches.’

  ‘That’d be Wesley Finnegan?’

  ‘Yeah. ’

  Lottie had yet to interview Mr Finnegan. ‘Did you see Mikey on the street or making his way home?’

  ‘I can’t recall.’ He ran a hand through his carefully constructed hair.

  ‘And you drove straight home?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can verify this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you like Mikey?’

  ‘What kind of question is that?’

  ‘Answer it, please.’

  ‘I liked him no more and no less than the other boys. He was a good little soccer player.’

  ‘Do you know his mother, Jen Driscoll?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Lottie thought she saw a flicker of unrest flit through his eyes. But his mouth remained firm. ‘You sure?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  She’d find out in her own way. ‘What did you do on Monday?’

  He leaned his head to one side as if he was thinking for a moment and his face visibly relaxed. ‘Worked in my garden. All day long. It was nice and sunny. Good day for gardening.’

  Rather you than me, Lottie thought. ‘And in the evening? Later that night? Where were you then?’

  ‘At home, I think. What is this about?’

  ‘Kevin Shanley. You know he was found dead just over half a kilometre from your home?’

  ‘You told me that yesterday.’ He folded his arms. Getting fed up, Lottie thought.

  ‘Kevin used to play on your soccer team. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Ginger-haired lad? Yes, of course.’

  ‘Why did he stop playing for the team?’

  ‘You should ask his parents that, not me.’

  ‘I will. When did you last see him?’

  ‘Inspector, I really don’t know where this conversation is leading. I had nothing to do with the death of either boy. If you’re going to continue in this vein, I’ll have to get a solicitor.’

  ‘And what vein might that be?’ Lottie stuck her pen behind her ear and leaned over the desk. Eyeballing him.

  ‘Your tone is accusatory. I did nothing to either of those boys. If that is all? Then I’m leaving.’ He shoved back the chair and stood. Picked up his jacket.

  Lottie smiled. She had him rattled. But had he murdered two boys? What would his motive be? She really hadn’t a notion.

  As he went to the door, she said, ‘We’ll take that DNA sample now.’

  ‘You know what? I’ve changed my mind about that. If you want it, you can either arrest me or get a warrant. I’m not giving my consent at this time.’

  She let him go.

  Boyd hadn’t uttered a word during the interview. Turning to him, she said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘He’s just a lonely sod doing his bit for the young lads, and then he finds himself in the middle of a murder investigation.’

  ‘You’re being sarcastic?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘You feel sorry for him?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter what I feel.’

  Lottie stared open-mouthed as he gathered his paperwork and left the room.

  Fifty

  Max picked up his dole and rolled the cash into his jeans pocket.

  He had a dilemma. A big one. He could handle the low-life, arse-sniffing, pig-shit-eating Wes Finnegan. But now there were serious euros on the table. He could smell it.

  Once he got home, he ran up the stairs to have a quick lie-down before seeing what the day would bring him.

  Toby was standing by the window.

  ‘What are you staring at, Tobes?’

  The boy shook his head. Jesus, he hadn’t spoken two words since he’d heard about Mikey. Thinking of Mikey, Max remembered the clip he’d seen on YouTube and hoped Toby hadn’t spotted it. Fonzie was due a visit from him. He intended to rip every bit of bristle out of his excuse for a beard. Little fucker.

  ‘I’m going to die,’ Toby whispered.

  ‘What did you say?’ Max leapt off the bed and went over to his little brother.

  Their father’s voice bellowed from the room next door. ‘Stop jumping around. I’m trying to sleep.’

  ‘Now you’ve woken Da up,’ Toby said.

  ‘Tell me what’s bothering you.’

  Toby turned around and Max gasped. His usual bright smile had been replaced by white lips, an even whiter face and eyes circled with deep black rings.

  ‘Did you sleep at all?’ Max said.

  Toby shook his head.

  ‘Jeez, little bro, this is seriously fucked up. You have to talk to me. Tell me what’s got you in such a state.’

  Toby stared, and Max felt as if it went right through him. It was seriously freaking him out.

  ‘Mikey,’ whispered the boy.

  ‘It’s bad luck what happened to Mikey. That’s all,’ Max said.

 
; ‘And Kev.’

  ‘Double bad luck.’

  ‘I’m next.’

  ‘What the …? You know what, Tobes? You need to chill out. Hey, I got my dole. Fancy a feed in McDonald’s?’

  ‘That’s where I last saw him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mikey. He wanted to sleep over. And I wouldn’t let him. It’s your fault really, not mine.’

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  Max studied his younger brother. Saw the tears at the corners of his eyes. The quiver of his lip. And he knew. He knew then that Toby was right. It was all his fault.

  He pulled the boy to his chest and slapped him on the back. Then he hunkered down and looked into those sad eyes. Held him at arm’s length.

  ‘I’m going to fix this.’

  Toby shook his head. ‘You said that the last time.’ He wriggled out of Max’s grasp and flew out the door.

  Max heard him thump down the stairs and the door slam. Standing by the window, he watched as Toby took off across the green, running as if the devil himself was on his heels. His black Converses flapping, with a lace in just one of them.

  He slumped down on the bed, shook his head and tried to think about what he was going to do next.

  ‘What’s all that racket about?’ his da shouted. ‘Can a man not get a sleep in his own home now? Pair of fuckers.’

  The first thing Lottie needed after the interview with Rory Butler was a strong coffee. The canteen was on the other side of the building. She thought about asking Kirby to fetch her a steaming Americano but decided the walk would help ease the tightness in her muscles after last night’s jog. And Kirby was busy with the security footage and the interviews that had been conducted with the soccer teams’ supporters. Lots of legwork and paperwork and not one definite clue. Coffee was surely needed.

  As she rounded the corner in the corridor, she walked straight into Maria Lynch. Immediately she sensed the frost in the air, hanging around her detective like a shroud.

  ‘What’s up?’ she said. ‘I’m going for a coffee. You want to tag along?’ She felt her arm being tugged and looked down to see Lynch holding her wrist in a vicelike grip. ‘Hey, what the hell?’