Chapter 29

TWENTY-NINE

The construction team had hit a brick wall. Literally.

The foreman, Bob Cleary, scratched his head with a thick calloused finger, knocking his hard hat backwards so that its lamp pointed towards the roof, plunging the wall directly in front of him into darkness.

‘What the hell?’ He took out his flashlight and pulled the architect’s drawings from his pocket. Flattening the paper against the damp wall, he shone the light on it. The drawings were wrong. There was no wall in them. But he was standing facing it. Bloody unbelievable.

He scrunched up the pages and shoved them back into his pocket. Placing his hard hat securely back on his head, he scanned the surrounding area. He’d known there were tunnels deep beneath the old courthouse and they had been clearly marked out. But this obstruction, or construction, whichever it was, was not documented on anything he’d seen.

‘This damn job gets harder by the day,’ he muttered. Already three months behind schedule, and this was another unforeseen obstacle.

He hammered his fist against the wall, as if this action could make it disappear. Mortar crumbled against his fingers. With the nail of his index finger he scratched around the edge of the bricks. The cement wasn’t new, just damp from underground condensation. Bob had no idea how long the wall had been here, but he had to get rid of it, and quickly.

His phone had no signal, so he began the trek back through the tunnel. There would be a lot of phone calls to make. And this cock-up was on the head of the architect. No way was Bob Cleary taking the blame for this one.

‘No way.’ His voice echoed back at him as he reached the top of the steps.

Cyril Gill was going to chew his arse over this. Fuck and double fuck.

Lottie popped into McDonald’s for a coffee on her way into work. She was still convinced they did the best coffee in town, though Boyd was currently pontificating about Ragmullin’s newest coffee shop, The Bank. But she couldn’t be arsed looking for parking. Familiarity was the handier option. A television was streaming a twenty-four-hour news channel with the sound muted. Subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

She had a dilemma to solve. Her family needed protection, but how was she going to convince McMahon to allocate resources when they were already stretched? If she relayed the reason why, she’d have to mention Bernie, and she didn’t want to do that if at all possible.

As she waited for her coffee, her eye was drawn to the television screen. She felt her jaw slacken. Cynthia Rhodes was standing outside Ragmullin garda station. Lottie quickly followed the script scrolling beneath the reporter’s camel coat.

Bernie Kelly, the serial killer who stalked Ragmullin a year ago, is reported to have escaped from the Central Mental Hospital. It is not known when she absconded. Authorities are warning the public to be on the lookout and not to approach her, but to contact the helpline.

‘Can you turn it up?’ Lottie frantically knocked on the steel counter, trying to get the barista’s attention.

‘Sorry. It’s controlled from the office.’

‘Just give me my coffee.’ She threw down two euros and grabbed the drink.

As she turned away, she caught the last scrolling words before the bulletin moved to its next story.

I can exclusively report new information that has come my way. Bernie Kelly is a sister of the detective who put her away. Detective Inspector Lottie Parker.

‘Fucking shit.’ Lottie ran out.

She parked her car in the yard and was debating entering through the back door when she saw the melee of cameras and reporters turning the corner and heading for the gate. Nothing for it but to brave the storm.

Of course Cynthia Rhodes was at the head of the pack, microphone in hand, camera held aloft by someone behind her. And a sea of smartphones raised high. Bollocks.

Squaring her shoulders, Lottie headed straight towards her nemesis, intent on elbowing her in the gut as she passed.

Cynthia smiled. ‘Detective Inspector Parker, can you tell me if it’s true that you were instrumental in gaining a day release for Bernie Kelly? The same woman you helped put behind bars?’

‘No comment.’ She was going to kill Leo. As soon as she found him. And then Bernie. As soon as she found her too.

‘Is it true that Bernie Kelly is your half-sister?’

Lottie stopped, her blood rapidly reaching boiling point. ‘Oh, it’s half-sister now, is it? Ten minutes ago she was a fully fledged sibling.’ Her skin prickled.

‘My sources inform me that?—’

‘What sources?’ Wrong to engage her, but she wanted to know.

‘My sources are confidential. Can you tell me?—’

‘No comment.’

‘Is she linked to the deaths of the two young women discovered yesterday?’

Dipping her head, Lottie shouldered her way through the crowd, ignoring questions and almost tripping up the front steps when she reached them.

‘Where is she, Inspector?’ Cynthia’s voice carried over the pack.

‘I wish I knew.’ Lottie let the door slowly close on the reporter.

Inside, she found Cyril Gill ranting and raving at the desk sergeant.

‘Mr Gill, can I help you?’ She dropped her keys into her bag and eased the man away from the desk and into the small interview room to her right. ‘What’s the matter?’

The suave business persona she’d witnessed on Monday had been replaced by a wet and dishevelled-looking man. Lines of worry were etched into his jaw, and his eyes drooped, circled with black rings. He ran one hand furiously through his hair while trailing the other up and down his suit jacket, as if he was searching for something. The hem of his shirt was sticking out untidily over his belt.

‘My daughter, Louise. She didn’t come home last night. I’ve no idea where she is.’

‘Sit down, please,’ Lottie said as she took off her jacket. A sense of worry wormed its way through her veins. ‘Do you want me to make out a missing persons report?’

‘I want her found, that’s what I want.’

‘Please sit.’ Experience had taught her that distraught people needed to be taken in hand. Maybe she should take a leaf out of that bible herself. She was surprised when Gill complied.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘About eight o’clock last night. We had an argument.’ He seemed to think better of this and added, ‘It wasn’t really an argument. I was trying to tell her that Amy Whyte, her old friend, had been found murdered. But she wouldn’t believe me. Ran out of the house with no phone or anything. And I haven’t seen her since.’

‘How old is Louise?’ But Lottie knew the girl’s age. Louise Gill had been with Amy Whyte ten years ago when they’d witnessed the aftermath of a crime and ID’d the culprit, Conor Dowling. Lottie couldn’t shake the feeling that Louise being missing and Amy being dead were connected.

‘Twenty-five,’ Gill said. ‘But she’s still my baby girl.’

‘Tell me more.’

He sighed and clenched his hands into fists on the table. ‘What’s to tell. I don’t know where she is and I’m worried.’

‘Was she still friends with Amy Whyte?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’ He seemed evasive, shifty somehow. ‘A few years after the Dowling court case, they drifted apart. College and stuff.’

‘Why was she so upset when you told her about Amy’s murder?’ Lottie was intrigued, and worried.

‘I don’t know. Honestly.’

‘Maybe she went to Amy’s house. Did you check?’

‘I went round there first thing this morning. She hadn’t been there. Richard’s in a state.’

‘Did you ring her?’

‘I told you already, she left without her phone. Inspector, my Louise is a quiet girl. Reclusive even. She spends every waking hour studying and writing up her thesis. I have no idea why she hasn’t come home.’

‘Has she any other friends?’

He shrugged slowly, like his shoulders were struggling to hold up his head. ‘Not that I know of.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Why are you asking these questions?’ A light flared in his eyes. Anger? Or desperation? Lottie wasn’t sure, but she was certain he was holding something back.

‘Because it’s possible Louise is with a friend.’

‘I don’t think so.’ He fidgeted on the chair. A lie, she thought.

‘Do you have her phone?’

He slipped it out of his pocket, unlocked it and placed it on the table.

‘Have you checked her contact list?’

‘I rang everyone on it. It’s not a huge list, as you can see.’

Scrolling through the contacts, Lottie was surprised to find that a twenty-five-year-old girl could have so few people listed. Then a thought struck her. ‘Has she a second phone?’

‘A second phone? What would she want with another one. This is the latest model.’

He obviously didn’t know how young people operated. Lottie tapped on Louise’s social media apps. There were no recent updates.

‘There must be someone she confides in.’

He was shuffling his feet. Biting the inside of his mouth. Scratching away at an invisible speck on the desk. ‘There’s this girl, Cristina. Louise doesn’t know that I’m aware of their … friendship. But I rang her and there’s no answer.’

‘What’s her full name and where does she live?’ Lottie’s intuition told her Cyril Gill was uncomfortable with Louise’s relationship with the girl.

He gave her the name and address. Cristina Lee. A name she thought she’d heard somewhere recently. She wrote down both. ‘And is this Cristina a good friend?’

‘I don’t know what she is, but I want my Louise home.’

‘I understand your concern and I’ll see what I can do.’ With Conor Dowling out of prison and two murder victims lying in the morgue, Lottie was more than concerned for Louise’s well-being, but she couldn’t convey that to Cyril Gill. ‘Strictly speaking, we have to wait forty-eight hours before classing this as a missing person case, so in the meantime, I’d advise you to do your best to find your daughter yourself.’

‘You’re a waste of space. I’m going straight out to talk to those reporters outside. Then we’ll see who puts resources into finding my daughter.’

‘Mr Gill …’

But he was gone.

Lottie hoped Louise was safe, but instinctively she knew something was drastically wrong. She stood up slowly and wondered what other shit was going to blow up a storm today.