Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

Boyd sat on the edge of Lottie’s desk. ‘So, we know Amy Whyte was involved in a case ten years ago. I don’t think it’s relevant.’

‘Sit on the chair, Boyd.’

‘Sorry.’

Lottie couldn’t help the snarkiness in her voice. It stemmed from the twisting of her gut instinct. ‘Something’s wrong. I’m worried about both Amy and Penny. No one has seen either of them since Saturday night. Their phones are off. And there’s no answer at Penny’s apartment.’

‘Her mother wasn’t much help either,’ Boyd said.

Lottie thought of the navy-suited woman they’d met at the council offices. Breda Brogan was efficient and to the point. She hadn’t seen her daughter in over a week. Penny had her own place now. Did her own thing.

‘We’ll need to check out her apartment again.’ Lottie looked out to the general office. ‘Where’s Kirby?’

‘Talking to the Whyte’s Pharmacy employees.’

‘Jesus, it doesn’t take a whole morning to talk to a couple of shop assistants. I hope he’s not in the pub.’

‘I’m here.’ Kirby shoved his bushy-haired head around the door. ‘Nothing to report, I’m afraid. But it was good to get talking to real people again.’

‘And what are we?’ Boyd said. ‘Rhetorical question.’

Lottie asked, ‘None of them know anything about where Amy might be?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Any arguments or rows?’

‘All hunky-dory as far as I could gather, until about a month ago. The pharmacist mentioned there was a bit of trouble with Penny Brogan, and one of the assistants told me that Amy got her dad to fire Penny.’

‘What did she do?’

‘Pilfering.’

‘Pilfering? That’s an odd choice of word.’

‘Stealing, then. Hiding stuff in her handbag. Cosmetics. Lipsticks and nail polish. Not drugs. Not as far as they knew, anyway.’

‘And none of the staff know where Amy might be? A boyfriend that her dad doesn’t know about? Come on, Kirby.’

‘Sorry, boss. They appear to know nothing about her private life. Just that it was very unusual for her to miss work unless it was a Sunday. Everyone said she was dedicated.’

‘Right so. Thanks.’ Lottie leaned back in her chair and resisted the urge to slam her feet up on the desk. ‘It’s not yet forty-eight hours since the girls were last seen or heard from; once that deadline has passed, we need to publicise their disappearance.’

‘I’ll do that tomorrow, then,’ Kirby said.

Once the detective had left with a visible bounce in his step, Lottie smiled over at Boyd. ‘One man’s misery is another man’s joy.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

Her mobile phone rang. She saw ‘Mother’ on the screen and handed the phone to Boyd.

‘Tell her I’m not here. I went out and left my phone on the desk. Anything.’

Boyd answered it. Lottie straightened up in her chair as she saw the colour fade from his face.

‘What? What is it, Boyd?’

She leaned across and took the phone from him.

‘Oh no.’

The tunnel beneath Ragmullin courthouse reminded Conor Dowling of his time in prison, though at least there he had been warm and comfortable. Maybe it was his imagination, or he’d watched too many prisoner movies, but he sensed this was what a real jail should feel like.

He wasn’t supposed to be down here. But he’d felt drawn to the darkness.

He inched back into the light and looked at the hollow shell of the old courthouse.

He felt lucky, in a way, that Tony Keegan had got him the labouring job, although he made sure to stay well out of Cyril Gill’s way. Tony had told him that Gill knew who he was, and had still given him the job. That bothered Conor. Gill’s daughter Louise was one of the reasons he’d been convicted ten years ago, so it was a mystery why her father had agreed to employ him. He wasn’t going to ask questions, but it worried him nonetheless.

‘What did you say?’ Tony was lounging against the wall, trying to light a cigarette in the rain.

Conor hadn’t realised he’d spoken aloud. ‘Got one for me?’

‘You don’t smoke,’ Tony said, the lighter clicking with no effect.

‘Just shows how much you know about me.’ Conor took a cigarette from Tony’s pack and secreted it in his pocket. ‘I’ll keep this for Mother. She likes a smoke now and again.’

Tony succeeded in getting a light going on the plastic Bic, but before he could put the flame to the cigarette, Conor took his chance. He snatched the cigarette, ground it under the heel of his boot and at the same time caught Tony by the throat.

‘My mother might have allowed you to roam around our house while I was in prison, but that stops now. Do you hear me? I’m home, and things are different. I’m different. Being locked up for ten years did that to me. We might’ve had good times long ago, but not any more. So stay out of my face.’

A gurgle sounded in Tony’s throat, but no words came out.

Conor let his hand fall away. ‘Just don’t mess me around.’

‘Sure thing.’ Tony clutched his reddening neck. ‘We’d better get back to work. I’m not losing my job over you.’ He tugged his beanie down over his ears and slapped his hard hat on top of it as he trudged through the muck away from Conor. ‘And you can piss off, Dowling,’ he muttered when he was sure he was out of earshot.

Conor took the cigarette out of his pocket and debated calling Tony back for a light. But then he caught sight of the guy standing outside the security hut, staring straight over at him.

‘What are you looking at, shitface?’

Shoving his hand back into his pockets, Conor took off after Tony. He really didn’t need to be drawing attention to himself. Not now that he was free. But was he really free?

With a backward glance at the entrance to the tunnel, he wondered about that conundrum. Freedom. What the hell was it, when you boiled it down? When your heart was tainted with the undying urge for revenge. It was something he had thought about for ten long years, and he had still to come up with a good answer.

Rose Fitzpatrick was sitting on a chair by the unlit stove. The kitchen was cold. Lottie flicked on a Dyson heater, a leaving present she’d bought for her mother, and pushed it in beside her.

‘Why didn’t you tell me straight away?’ She dragged a chair from the table, pulled off her jacket and sat.

‘I didn’t know what to do. That man, Leo Belfield, he dredges up such painful memories, I just wanted him gone. But today I went over and over it in my head and I thought, I can’t keep this to myself. What if he does something to you? What if he actually gets that wretched woman out of the asylum? What then, Lottie?’

‘He can’t do that.’ Lottie hoped he couldn’t. Having Bernie Kelly outside bars, or walls for that matter, was an option she had never considered. It was just over a year since her half-sister had been committed to the Central Mental Hospital on the grounds of insanity, rather than standing trial for multiple murders. Lottie still found it hard to believe that someone with her biological mother’s blood flowing in her veins had succeeded in wiping out a family plus two drug dealers in such a horrific manner. She didn’t want to have to dwell on the evil that had shrouded Ragmullin due to Bernie’s actions. And though she had never admitted it, she recognised that the woman was evil, not insane.

‘But Leo Belfield is a New York police captain. He told me so himself. He said he was taking her out on day release or something like that.’ Rose rubbed her hands together so vigorously that Lottie thought she was going to draw blood any minute.

‘Calm down.’ Lottie wasn’t used to seeing her mother like this. In a state. ‘Did he leave a contact number?’ She began scrolling through her phone. ‘I think I have it somewhere.’ Leo had hounded her last July, but they’d just lost Gilly and she’d only talked with him briefly. ‘I thought he’d gone back to New York.’

‘He said he’s just arrived back in Ragmullin. Got the release organised from his own office. God knows who he’s in cahoots with.’

‘Must be someone high up the ranks to pull a stunt like this.’ Lottie stopped scrolling. ‘I can’t find his number.’

‘He left a card with his contact details. It’s up on the shelf beside the coffee.’

Lottie fetched the card. NYPD logo on one side, with a host of numbers. She turned it over. A handwritten mobile number in blue ink.

‘Are you going to call him?’ Rose asked.

‘You bet I am.’ Lottie switched on the kettle. ‘I’ll make you tea first. You’re as white as a ghost.’

Rose stood and walked to the counter. She put her hand over Lottie’s. ‘No need to be fussing over me. I’m just glad you know now. I haven’t slept a wink the last few nights, worrying about what was the right thing to do.’

The leathery touch of her mother’s skin on hers made Lottie pause. She looked into the older woman’s eyes. She had wondered at one time why they were so different from her own. She’d found out the reason after the bloody encounter with Bernie Kelly in a dungeon under her maternal grandmother’s house. Lottie had been fathered by Peter Fitzpatrick all right, but not with Rose. No, her biological mother was a poor demented young woman called Carrie King, who was also mother to three others. Two of whom were twins. Leo Belfield and Bernie Kelly. Carrie had died in St Declan’s Asylum, and now Bernie was awaiting a similar fate. That was until Leo Belfield had started snooping about, trying to unravel his family history.

‘You were right to tell me. I just need to put the lid back on this can of worms before something terrible happens.’

‘Good girl, Lottie. But be careful. You still carry the physical wounds that woman inflicted on you.’

Lottie hadn’t the heart to remind Rose that the emotional scars ran much deeper.

She made the tea, gave a mug to Rose and sipped her own before throwing it down the sink. The world that had been so bright and hopeful this morning had suddenly turned dark and menacing.

Louise Gill pulled off her clothes and slipped into fleecy pyjamas. The legs had shrunk a bit in the wash, so she rooted in a drawer and found a pair of multicoloured fluffy socks.

Suitably comfortable, she lay down on her bed and flicked through Instagram on her phone. A message appeared.

‘Go away, Cristina,’ she mumbled, and swiped the message up and off the screen. She didn’t want another argument. There was no way she was telling her father about them. Not if she wanted to remain under the comfort of his luxurious roof.

She didn’t know whether to love or hate her father. He put on the public persona of an upstanding citizen. Parading to Mass on Sunday; donating to the right charities; smiling for the camera. But at home he was the boss of Louise and her mother. What he said was gospel, and none of it was in any Bible Louise had ever read. He had set about moulding her since she was fourteen years old, and she was certain he had something far more damning to hide than she had now.

With nothing catching her interest on Instagram, she got out her laptop. Maybe doing a little work would help her relax. Getting into the minds of killers was sobering.