The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1)
The Missing Ones
An Absolutely Gripping Thriller With a Jaw-dropping Twist
Patricia Gibney
Contents
Prologue
DAY ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
DAY TWO
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
DAY THREE
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
DAY FOUR
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
DAY FIVE
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
DAY SIX
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
DAY SEVEN
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
DAY EIGHT
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
DAY NINE
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Epilogue
Reader Letter
Acknowledgments
For Aisling, Orla and Cathal
My life, my world.
Prologue
31st January 1976
The hole they dug was not deep, less than three feet. A milky white flour bag encased the little body, firmly tied with the strings of a soiled, once white apron. They rolled the bag along the ground, even though it was light enough to lift. Reverence for the deceased was absent as one of them kicked it into the middle of the hole, squeezing it further into the earth with the sole of his boot. No prayers were said, no final blessing, just the shovelling of damp clay quickly covering the whiteness with darkness, like night descending without twilight. Beneath the apple tree, which would sprout white buds in spring and deliver a flourishing crop in summer, there now rested two mounds of earth, one compacted and solid, the other fresh and loose.
Three small faces watched from the third-floor window, eyes black with terror. They knelt on one of their beds, cushioned with rough-feathered pillows.
As the people below picked up their tools and turned away, the three continued to look at the apple tree, now highlighted by the crescent of the moon. They had witnessed something their young brains could not comprehend. They shivered, but not from the cold.
The child in the middle spoke without turning his head.
‘I wonder which one of us will be next?’
DAY ONE
30th December 2014
One
Susan Sullivan was on her way to meet the one person she was most scared of.
A walk, yes, a walk would do her good. Out into the daylight, away from the suffocation of her house, away from her own tumbling thoughts. She pushed in her iPod earphones, pulled on a dark woolly hat, tightened her brown tweed coat and faced into the biting snow.
Her mind raced. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t distract herself, couldn’t escape the nightmare of her past; it haunted every waking minute of her day and invaded her night like a bat, black and swift, making her ill. She had tried to make contact with a detective in Ragmullin Garda Station, but had received no reply. It would have been her safety net. More than anything she wanted to learn the truth and when she had exhausted all the usual channels she decided to go it alone. Perhaps it would help exorcise the demons. She shivered. Walking faster, slipping and sliding, not caring any more; she had to know. It was time.
With her head bent low into the breeze, she trudged through the town as quickly as the frozen footpaths would allow. She looked up at the twin spires of the cathedral as she entered through the wrought iron gates and automatically blessed herself. Someone had thrown handfuls of salt on the concrete steps and it crunched beneath her boots. The snow eased and a low wintery sun glinted from behind dark clouds. She pushed open the large door, stamped her numb feet on the rubber mat and, as the echo of the closing door muted, she stepped into the silence.
Removing the earphones, she left them dangling on her shoulders. Though she had walked for half an hour, she was freezing. The east wind had cut through the layers of clothing and her scant body fat could not protect her fifty-one-year-old bones. Rubbing her face, she streaked a finger around her sunken eyes and blinked away the water streaming from them. She tried to refocus in the semi-darkness. Candles on the side altar illuminated shadows along the mosaic walls. Weak sunlight petered through the stained glass windows high above the Stations of the Cross and Susan walked slowly through the sepia haze, sniffing the aroma of incense in the air.
Bowing her head, she sidled into the front row, the wooden kneeler jolting her joints. She blessed herself again, wondering how she still had a modicum of religion after all she had done, all she’d been through. Feeling alone in the silence, she thought how ironic it was that he had suggested meeting in the cathedral. She had agreed because she believed there would be plenty of people around at that time of day. Safe. But it was empty, the weather had kept them away.
A door opened and closed, sending a whoosh of wind up the centre aisle. Susan knew it was him. Fear numbed her. She couldn’t look a
round. Instead, she stared straight ahead at the candle above the tabernacle until it blurred.
Footsteps, slow and determined, echoed up the aisle. The seat behind her creaked as he knelt. A fog of cold air swarmed around her, and his distinctive scent vied with the incense. She raised herself from her kneeling position and sat back. His breath, short sharp puffs, the only sound she could hear. She felt him without him having touched her. At once, she knew this was a mistake. He was not here to answer her questions. He would not give her the closure she craved.
‘You should have minded your own business.’ His voice, a harsh whisper.
She could not answer. Her breathing quickened and her heart thumped against her ribs, reverberating in her eardrums. She clenched her fingers into fists, knuckles white underneath thin skin. She wanted to run, to get away, far away, but her energy was spent and she knew it was now her time.
Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes and his hand closed around her throat, gloved fingers tracking a line up and down her loose flesh. Her hands flew up to grab at his but he swatted her away. His fingers found the iPod cable and she felt him twisting it, curling it about her neck. She smelled his sour aftershave and she became totally aware then that she would die without ever knowing the truth.
She squirmed on the hard wooden seat and tried to pull away, her hands tearing feverishly at his gloved fingers, only succeeding in causing the cable to cut tighter into her skin. Attempting to gulp breaths, she found she couldn’t. Warm liquid burned between her legs as she wet herself. He pulled tighter. Weakened, she dropped her arms. He was too strong.
As her life choked away beneath the tightness, in a strange way she welcomed the physical pain over the anguished years of mental affliction. Descending darkness extinguished the flame on the candle as his hand jerked once, then twice, and her body slackened and all fear eased from her being.
Within those last moments of torment she allowed the shadows to lead her to a place of light and comfort, to a peace she had never experienced with the living. Tiny stars pinpricked her eyes before blackness washed in a wave through her dying body.
The cathedral bells chimed twelve times. The man released the pressure and pushed her body to the ground.
Another blast of freezing air travelled up the centre aisle as he left with speed and in silence.
Two
‘Thirteen,’ said Detective Inspector Lottie Parker.
‘Twelve,’ said Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd.
‘No, there are thirteen. See the bottle of vodka behind the Jack Daniel’s? It’s in the wrong place.’
She counted things. A fetish, Boyd called it. Boredom, Lottie called it. But she knew it was a throwback to her childhood. Unable to cope with a trauma in her early life, she had resorted to counting as a distraction from things and situations she couldn’t understand. Though now, it had just become a habit.
‘You need glasses,’ said Boyd.
‘Thirty-four,’ said Lottie. ‘Bottom shelf.’
‘I give up,’ said Boyd.
‘Loser,’ she laughed.
They were sitting at the counter in Danny’s Bar among the small lunchtime crowd. She felt little warmth as the coal fire roared up the wide chimney behind them, taking most of the heat with it. The chef stood at the carvery stirring a thick skin off the top of the gravy in a tray beside his Special of the Day – wizened roast beef. Lottie had ordered chicken in ciabatta. Boyd had copied her. A slight Italian girl lounged with her back to them, watching bread brown in a small toaster.
‘They must be plucking the chickens the time these sandwiches are taking,’ said Boyd.
‘You’re putting me off my food,’ said Lottie
‘If you had any food to be put off,’ said Boyd.
Forgotten Christmas decorations twinkled along the top of the bar. A poster, Sellotaped to the wall, advertised the weekend’s band, Aftermath. Lottie had heard her sixteen-year-old daughter, Chloe, mention them. A large ornate mirror proclaimed in white chalk last night’s special deal – three shots for ten euro.
‘I’d give ten euro for just one, this minute,’ said Lottie.
Before Boyd could respond, Lottie’s phone vibrated on the counter. Superintendent Corrigan’s name flashed on the incoming call.
‘Trouble,’ Lottie said.
The little Italian girl turned round with chicken ciabattas.
Lottie and Boyd were already gone.
‘Who could want this woman dead?’ Superintendent Myles Corrigan asked the detectives standing outside the cathedral.
Obviously someone did, Lottie thought, though she knew well enough not to utter this observation aloud. She was tired. Perpetually tired. She hated the cold weather. It made her lethargic. She needed a holiday. Impossible. She was broke. God, but she hated Christmas, and hated the gloomy aftermath even more.
She and Boyd, still hungry, had rushed to the crime scene at Ragmullin’s magnificent 1930s cathedral. Superintendent Corrigan briefed them on the icy steps. The station had received a call – a body had been discovered in the cathedral. He immediately swept into action-man mode organising the crime scene cordons. If it proved to be a murder, Lottie knew she was going to have trouble extricating him from the case. As detective inspector for the town of Ragmullin, she should be in charge, not Corrigan. For now, though, she needed to put station politics aside and see what they were dealing with on the ground.
Her superintendent spouted instructions. She scrunched her shoulder-length hair into the hood of her jacket and zipped it up without enthusiasm. She eyed Mark Boyd over Corrigan’s shoulder, caught him smirking and ignored him. She hoped it wasn’t a murder. Probably a homeless person with hypothermia. It had been so cold recently she didn’t doubt for a minute that some unfortunate had succumbed to the elements. She had noticed the cardboard boxes and rolled-up sleeping bags hugging the corners of shop door nooks.
Corrigan finished speaking, a sign for them to get to work.
Having navigated her way through the gardaí activity at the front door, Lottie strode through the secondary cordon set up in the centre aisle. She ducked under the tape and approached the body. A gaseous smell came from the tweed-coated woman wedged between the front row kneeler and the seat. She noticed an earphone cable round the neck and a mini lake of liquid pooled on the floor.
Lottie felt the urge to put a blanket over the body. For Christ’s sake, this is a woman, she wanted to shout, not an object. Who is she? Why was she here? Who would miss her? She resisted leaning over and closing the staring eyes. Not her job.
Standing in the chilly cathedral, now bathed in bright lights, she ignored Corrigan and made the necessary calls to get the experts on site immediately. She secured the inner area for the Scene of Crime Officers.
‘State pathologist’s on her way,’ said Corrigan. ‘Should only take her thirty minutes or so, depending on the roads. We’ll see how she calls it.’
Lottie glanced over at him. He was relishing the prospect of getting stuck into a murder case. She imagined his brain conjuring up a speech for the inevitable press conference. But this was her investigation, he shouldn’t even be part of her crime scene.
Behind the altar rails, Garda Gillian O’Donoghue stood beside a priest who had his arm around the shoulders of a visibly shaking woman. Lottie made her way through the brass gates and approached them.
‘Good afternoon. I’m Detective Inspector Lottie Parker. I need to ask you a few questions.’
The woman whimpered.
‘Do you have to do it now?’ the priest asked.
Lottie thought he might be slightly younger than her. She’d be forty-four next June and she would put him in his late thirties. He looked every inch a priest in his black trousers and his woolly sweater over a shirt with a stiff white collar.
‘I won’t take long,’ she said. ‘This is the best time for me to ask the questions, when things are fresh in your minds.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But we’ve had a terri
ble shock, so I’m not sure you’ll learn anything worthwhile.’
He stood up, extending his hand. ‘Father Joe Burke. And this is Mrs Gavin who cleans the cathedral.’
The firmness of his handshake surprised her. She felt the warmth of his hand in her own. He was tall. She added that to her initial appraisal. His eyes, a deep blue, sparkled with the reflection of the burning candles.
‘Mrs Gavin found the body,’ he said.
Lottie flipped open the notebook she’d extracted from the inside of her jacket. She usually used her phone but in this holy place it didn’t seem appropriate to whip it out. The cleaner looked up and began to wail.
‘Shush, shush.’ Father Burke comforted her as if she was a child. He sat down and gently rubbed Mrs Gavin’s shoulder. ‘This nice detective only wants you to explain what happened.’
Nice? Lottie thought. That’s one word she’d never use to describe herself. She eased into the seat in front of the pair and twisted round as much as her padded jacket allowed. Her jeans were eating into her waist. Jesus, she thought, I’ll have to cut out the junk food.
When the cleaner looked up, Lottie surmised that she was aged about sixty. Her face was white with shock, enhancing every line and crevice.
‘Mrs Gavin, can you recount everything from the moment you entered the cathedral today, please?’
Simple enough question, thought Lottie. Not for Mrs Gavin, who greeted the request with a cry.
Lottie noticed Father Burke’s look of sympathy, which seemed to say – I pity you trying to get anything out of Mrs Gavin today. But as if to prove them both wrong the distraught woman began to speak, her voice low and quivering.
‘I came on duty at twelve to clean up after ten o’clock Mass. Normally I start at the side,’ she said, pointing to her right, ‘but I thought I saw a coat on the floor at the front of the middle aisle. So, I say to myself, I better get cracking over there first. That’s when I knew it wasn’t just a coat. Oh Holy Mother of God . . .’