Tell Nobody: Absolutely gripping crime fiction with unputdownable mystery and suspense Read online

  ‘You stay away from my Ben,’ Lynch said, her tone venomous though her voice was low.

  Lottie dipped her chin towards the smaller woman, freed her arm and widened her eyes. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Course you do. You and Ben. Behind my back. Bitch.’ Lynch’s voice was so sharp, Lottie felt it cut her in two.

  Holding her hands up in surrender, she said, ‘You’d better explain, because honestly, I have absolutely no idea what you mean.’

  With her ponytail swishing, Lynch turned on her heel. ‘I’ll be watching you.’

  ‘Ah, for shite’s sake, Maria, come back.’

  Lottie followed Lynch down the corridor. Grabbed her arm. Lynch swiped her hand away.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch me. And if I see you with a hand near my Ben again, I’ll cut it clean off. So help me God, I will.’

  Lottie stared open-mouthed as Lynch walked away, the weight of her baby bump labouring her steps.

  What the hell was that all about?

  Hope pushed her daughter slowly on the swing, looking around as she did so. She noticed a boy sitting at the back of the playground. He had his head down, minding his own business.

  She felt a few drops on her bare arm. It was starting to rain. She lifted Lexie off the swing.

  ‘Time to go home,’ she said.

  As she turned to go, her daughter’s hand in her own, she looked over at the boy. He raised his head. And she recognised him.

  ‘Toby?’

  Lottie sat in the canteen, nursing a mug of coffee. Boyd sat down opposite her.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said.

  ‘Having a bad day. Wish I could go for a drink.’

  He laughed.

  ‘It’s not funny. Lynch thinks I’m having an affair with her husband.’

  Boyd laughed even louder.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘It’s pregnancy hormones.’

  ‘What would you know about that?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Kick some ass?’

  ‘Be serious for a minute,’ she said.

  He was staring at her, eyes filled with compassion. ‘It’s the boys, isn’t it? And that prick Butler. Nothing to do with Lynch’s fantastical imagination.’

  ‘As usual, Boyd, you’re right. I have this awful feeling in my bones that the killer isn’t finished yet.’

  ‘We need to concentrate on what links Mikey and Kev. What caused some maniac to strangle two young boys?’

  ‘The way he left their bodies as if they were on display. I can’t figure that out.’

  Gilly O’Donoghue came into the canteen and walked quickly over to them.

  ‘What’s up?’ Boyd said.

  ‘It’s probably nothing, but that bus driver, Wesley Finnegan, was in yesterday reporting a theft from his vehicle.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, Kirby told me he’s one of the guys of interest in the boys’ murder cases. And the lad he’s pointing the finger at for the robbery is Max Collins. The brother of Toby Collins. The lad who—’

  ‘Was friends with the two murder victims,’ Lottie said. ‘Boyd, we need to have a talk with Finnegan.’

  Fifty-One

  Lottie poured her coffee into a takeaway cup. Boyd brought the car to the front of the station.

  Wesley Finnegan lived seven kilometres outside Ragmullin. A dirt lane led to his cottage. You couldn’t miss it. Two minibuses parked up on the road made passing virtually impossible.

  Lottie jumped out of the car and, without waiting for Boyd, marched through the front garden up to the door. There was no visible footpath. Rain was falling steadily, beating into her face and churning up mud beneath her boots.

  She pressed the doorbell. The house appeared to have been left to rot. She found it hard to believe anyone lived within the crumbling walls. Ivy was stippled along the ledge above the door and clung in long tendrils to the cracks in the faded pebble-dash.

  ‘No one here.’ She walked around the side of the house to the rear.

  Someone had made an attempt to build a shed, but it had ended up looking more like a badly constructed barn. Three sides of corrugated steel, with sheets of galvanised tin sitting precariously on top as a roof. No door. Open to the elements. A man was leaning into the open bonnet of a bus. He was standing on a cement block. Gilly was right, Lottie thought. Five foot nothing.

  ‘Mr Finnegan?’ She noted his soaked appearance. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, displaying oil-soaked arms. A cigarette hung from dry, scabby lips.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ he said.

  She made the introductions. ‘Can we talk inside? It’s a bit damp out here.’

  ‘I’ve work to be doing.’ He spat out the cigarette and ground it under his boot.

  Lottie moved into the relative shelter of the shed. It was long enough to house the bus but not wide enough to hold anything else. She walked slowly down the side of the vehicle, feeling damp and cold. A bird flapped its wings and cawed from a corner above her head. I hate damn birds, she thought, and moved back to Finnegan.

  ‘Are you here about my stolen cash?’ he said.

  ‘We’re investigating the murders of Mikey Driscoll and Kevin Shanley.’

  ‘Awful business.’ He picked up a greasy towel from the ground and rubbed his hands on it. Then, as if something alarming had registered in his brain, he said, ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  The rain ping-pinged on the roof, giving Lottie a headache. ‘Can we go into the house?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a mess. I’d prefer to stay out here. I can work while you talk.’ He picked up a wrench and turned back to the engine.

  Lottie stood into his space. The smell of body odour made her gag. ‘We can either talk inside or at the station. The choice is yours.’

  Finnegan stopped working and looked at Boyd as if imploring some kind of male solidarity. Finding none, he threw down the wrench. He walked across the yard, muttering to himself. Lottie thought she caught the words, ‘bitch’ and ‘arsehole’.

  The interior of the cottage was even more dilapidated than the outside, though Lottie would have thought that was impossible. Wesley Finnegan was evidently more at home in his makeshift garage than in his kitchen.

  He lifted a stack of magazines from a chair and indicated for Lottie to sit. She remained standing, but Boyd sat down.

  The room was cold. The stove had a pile of pots stacked on top, and a basket of turf stood on the ground. She wondered when a fire had last been lit. A plastic clothes line ran the length of the kitchen, an array of clothing hanging haphazardly from it. She lowered her eyes. She didn’t need to see Finnegan’s underwear.

  He was fussing with a kettle. How had he known where to find it?

  ‘No tea for us,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ Lottie said.

  Finnegan grunted, moved a plastic basket of rolled-up socks from a chair to the table and sat down. Lottie walked around the crowded space and stood beside the small fat man. She leaned down towards him and almost recoiled. When had he last washed?

  ‘Mr Finnegan, we—’

  ‘Call me Wes. Everyone else does.’

  Lottie straightened her back, unzipped her jacket and folded her arms.

  ‘We want to talk to you about the two boys who were murdered.’

  ‘You think I could do that to those poor defenceless creatures? You’re barking up the wrong tree there, missus.’

  ‘I’m not barking, I’m asking questions.’

  ‘You haven’t asked one yet.’

  So, he was a smart-mouth. She walked over and stood beside the silent Boyd.

  ‘Where were you from seven thirty Sunday evening until Tuesday morning?’

  Finnegan’s eyes narrowed. Wary now. Greasy fingers worried away at stumpy broken nails. The silence was broken by a cuckoo clock chiming out the hour. Lottie jumped. Jesus, it was like being in a time warp.

 
; ‘Sunday, I did the bingo run. Ask anyone.’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘I know nothing about them poor boys.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, answer the questions.’ Boyd slammed his hand on the table. At last, Lottie thought. Support.

  Finnegan sat up straighter and tapped his fingers against the side of his forehead. As the rain drummed down outside, more persistent now, the kitchen darkened.

  ‘I went to the match. I drive the lads to the away games and I wanted to support them in the final. They’d been so good all season.’

  ‘I thought you said you were on a bingo run?’ Lottie said.

  ‘Sunday-night bingo is in Gaddstown, just up the road. I dropped off the ladies and the few auld fellas that go, and came back to see the match. It was near over by then. But it was a great win. The whole place was full of excitement. The lads got their medals and headed into town for a feed.’

  ‘Did you go with them?’

  ‘I took a few in the minibus. Lads that had no lift from their parents.’

  ‘Who did you bring?’

  ‘I don’t know all their names.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hint. Mikey Driscoll? Kevin Shanley?’

  ‘Young Shanley didn’t train much in recent times. His family moved out of Munbally.’

  Lottie looked at Boyd. ‘Do you know why they moved, or why Kevin stopped playing for the team?’

  ‘You’d better ask his parents that.’

  Same answer as Butler had given her.

  ‘Who did you drive to McDonald’s on Sunday evening after the match?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. I think maybe young Driscoll and his friend came. Not sure of his name.’

  ‘Toby Collins?’

  ‘Could be.’ Finnegan’s eyes were shrouded by thin lids. ‘And a few others. A couple of the parents too.’

  Lottie sighed. There had been adults on the bus. ‘You arrived at McDonald’s, then what?’

  ‘I let them out at the side door and drove round the back and parked. I joined the gang inside. I had a double cheeseburger with fries and a large Coke, if you want to know.’

  ‘At nine eleven p.m. you exited the restaurant. What did you do then?’

  ‘Drove back out to Gaddstown and waited for the bingo to end. Then I brought them home. Dropped them off at their houses and came home. To bed. My own bed. On my own.’

  She’d have to find holes in his story if he was the killer. Now all those who’d taken the bus to bingo would have to be interviewed. The lists kept getting longer.

  ‘On to Monday night then,’ she said. ‘Tell me about that.’

  She pulled out a chair. She hadn’t noticed the black cat lying on it. Now it stood up, stretched and jumped to the ground, where it curled around her legs. She shuddered, shooed it away and sat down.

  ‘Bingo is in Tullamore Monday nights.’

  ‘Did you collect and deliver?’

  ‘I need the fifty-four-seater for that run, but mine was out of action. Had to call in a replacement. Pat Kinnity in Kilbeggan has one, and he did the run for me.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Lottie murmured.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Finnegan looked over at her, beads of sweat gathering on his bald head.

  ‘You didn’t do the bingo on Monday night, so what did you do?’

  ‘Worked on the fifty-four. That’s it out there in the shed. Carburettor is fecked.’

  ‘Why don’t you buy a new one?’ Boyd said.

  ‘My cash was robbed, wasn’t it? And what are you lot doing to find that bad bastard who stole it?’ He slapped his hand on the table.

  ‘That’s nothing to do with us,’ Boyd said.

  Lottie butted in. ‘When you made the report, you said you believed Max Collins might have taken your cash.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Was he one of your bingo fares?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do you know him, then?’

  Finnegan’s finger picked at a dried bean on the table. ‘I just know of him. From the pub,’ he added.

  ‘What pub?’

  ‘Fallon’s.’

  Where Chloe worked, Lottie thought. Maybe it was time her daughter found a different part-time job.

  ‘And you don’t know him in any other capacity?’

  ‘I have no idea what you mean.’

  Lottie decided she needed to have a chat with this Max Collins. She leaned her arms on the table but lifted them quickly when she felt them sticking to the surface. ‘Monday night into Tuesday morning. Is there anyone who can vouch that you were here?’

  ‘No. I live alone.’

  ‘I gathered that.’

  ‘I was working on that heap of shite out there all night.’

  ‘I think you need to come to the station.’

  ‘I want my solicitor.’

  ‘Oh, for Jaysus’ sake. Why do you need a solicitor?’ Lottie couldn’t keep the exasperation out of her voice.

  ‘Because you see a poor bus driver with no alibi and you want to fit me up for a murder I didn’t do. Leeches. Sucking the life out of me. That’s why I need a solicitor.’

  ‘You had access to the boys. You drove them to matches and—’

  ‘Wait a minute. Any time I carried them to games, there were always adults. The team coach, sometimes Dr Duffy, and always the assistant coach. He’s like a ferret where the young lads are concerned. Goes everywhere, so he does.’

  ‘Are you talking about Bertie Harris or Rory Butler?’

  ‘Harris. I’m never alone with any of the team. I’d like it if you two would shove off now.’

  ‘And I’d like it if you would come to the station to provide a DNA sample.’ Lottie had had enough of his shite talk. ‘I’d also like your permission for our forensic team to examine your buses.’

  Finnegan’s transformation was instantaneous. His face turned puce and his button-like eyes darkened. He shot out of his chair, frightening the cat, which was coiled around his feet.

  ‘You can fuck off, that’s what you can do.’

  ‘I want to have a look around your house while I’m here.’

  ‘Out, get out. And don’t come back without a warrant.’ He opened his belt, slid it up a notch and tightened it around his waist. Lottie noticed it had missed a loop and his grimy waistband fell below his sagging belly. She had no desire to stay in his presence any longer. She moved around the table and towered over him.

  ‘Mr Finnegan, it is in your interest to help us with our inquiries. Otherwise I might think you have something to hide.’

  ‘A warrant. That’s the only way you’ll get through my front door again. Now I’m asking you one last time to leave.’

  Sighing, Lottie found her eyes drawn to the clothes dangling from the line over the range. A startlingly white piece of material was sticking out from behind a faded blue shirt. She put up her hand and tentatively drew the shirt to one side. She found herself staring at a small pair of white football shorts.

  Slowly she turned around and faced Finnegan. The puce of anger slid down his face, leaving pale mottled skin behind.

  ‘I can explain,’ he said.

  ‘I hope you can,’ Lottie replied.

  Fifty-Two

  Hope peeled a sticker from the book and handed it to Lexie. The child found a place on the wall that satisfied her and slapped on Peppa Pig.

  ‘Hope, are you cooking lunch today or what?’ Robbie shouted up the stairs.

  ‘Or what?’ she replied.

  ‘I’ll go for a takeaway. Do you want anything?’

  ‘Do you want anything?’ she asked Lexie.

  ‘Chicken nuggets,’ the little girl said, her eyes sparkling with delight.

  ‘Chicken nuggets, Big Mac and fries,’ Hope shouted down to her uncle.

  When she heard the front door slam, she peeled off another sticker and Lexie took it from her finger. Her skin prickled with fear. After Toby had fled the playground without a word, she’d hurried home. What was up with h
im? He was like a frightened rabbit.

  Her hand rubbed the sagging flesh where her baby had grown for nine months. She couldn’t even mourn the child she had never wanted. She thought of the baby’s father, and shuddered. She squeezed her eyes shut. Tried to recall anything about that night. But it was dark and blank. The guards wanted her for questioning in connection with the baby found dead in the canal. Robbie had quizzed her relentlessly, but she could only remember waking up in a pool of blood and wandering around blindly until she reached the garda station. Why had she gone in there? Had she actually killed her baby? Or had someone else done it? She struggled to breathe as she realised that that would make her life all the more perilous.

  Alone with her daughter, she felt naked and exposed to the danger that was out there. Danger she could touch with her hand, as real and tangible as the soft pads of Lexie’s fingers.

  She knew that fear. She had lived with it for the last nine months. And now she waited in a different kind of fear for the guards to arrive at her door.

  She banged her fist against her forehead. Why couldn’t she remember what had happened?

  ‘Why’re you angry, Mummy?’

  When Hope opened her eyes, she saw her little girl staring at her, terror streaking across her face.

  ‘Mummy’s not angry, sweetie. Let’s get some ice cream from the freezer.’ She picked up her daughter and let her cling to her neck as she made her way down the stairs.

  She was on the bottom step when the shadow appeared behind the glass of the front door.

  Fifty-Three

  Lottie called in Jim McGlynn and the SOCO team with instructions to search every inch of Wes Finnegan’s property. She then called a squad car to haul the bus driver’s arse down to the station.

  She sat in silence as Boyd drove her back to town. Mulled over Finnegan’s excuses. He’d found the shorts in a plastic bag on his bus one day after returning from an away match, he’d said. And then he’d told her something very unusual, a revelation that directed them to Dr Paul Duffy’s house.