‘Jesus,’ Lottie exclaimed. ‘Are they… fingers?’ A gulp of saliva formed at the back of her throat and she thought she might be sick. Wind caterwauled through the gaps where windows had once protected the interior from the elements. It sounded like a banshee. A forewarning of death? She shivered.
‘I’ll collect everything and tag them, then inspect them back at the lab,’ McGlynn said. ‘I’ll let you know my findings.’
‘Anything else?’ Lottie asked.
The forensic man’s eyebrows arched. She was glad she couldn’t see his face. She knew it was a mask of scorn.
‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll let you get on with it.’
Her phone pinged with a message as she and Boyd headed back to the car.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
‘Kirby. Guess who owns the cottage?’
‘I’m in no mood for guessing games, Lottie.’
‘Mick O’Dowd. The liar.’
Forty-Six
The door to the milking shed was closed and there was no sign of the dog or O’Dowd’s Land Rover.
‘Maybe he’s at the station giving a statement,’ Boyd said.
‘Lying bastard,’ Lottie said. ‘I asked him if he knew who owned the cottage and he said he didn’t.’
Boyd marched up to the front door. No doorbell. He hammered with the knocker. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked.
Lottie remained standing, buffeted by the gale, in the middle of the dung-covered yard.
‘I’m trying to recall exactly what I asked him.’
Boyd moved back to her. ‘About what?’
‘The cottage.’ She slapped her forehead. ‘Shit. I don’t think I asked him who owned it. I only enquired if he knew who rented it.’
‘But why didn’t he volunteer the information? Did he not want to implicate himself in a murder investigation?’
‘He was already implicated. He found the cottage on fire and reported it.’
‘I think if he’d been involved,’ Boyd said, ‘he would have stayed well away from it.’
Lottie shook her head. ‘He struck me as being devious. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’m going to find out.’
Boyd shrugged and thumped on the door with his fist. ‘No one home,’ he said.
A dog barked inside.
Lottie shook off her frustration at her ineptitude with O’Dowd. She spied a shed door swinging open, crashing against the wall, and made for it.
‘Hey, we need a search warrant to go in there.’ Boyd appeared at her shoulder.
‘Door was open. Inviting us.’ She stepped into the dusky interior. Scrabbled around for a light switch. Unable to find one, she said, ‘Got a torch?’
Boyd tapped the flashlight app on his phone. A cone of light shone into the murky depths. A quad bike with stinking mucky wheels was parked next to a red tractor, which appeared to rise up from the shadows.
‘A Massey Ferguson,’ Boyd said.
‘How’d you know that?’ Lottie asked.
‘Says it here. On the insignia.’
He dipped the phone downwards, immersing Lottie in darkness. The wind shook the wooden structure and it appeared to shiver around her. She picked her way carefully as Boyd followed with the light.
‘What’s that?’ She pointed to an implement among shovels and spades.
‘A scythe. Used for cutting hay in the old days.’
‘Dangerous-looking weapon. Could it chop off fingers?’ Lottie lifted the tool. ‘Bit heavy.’
Boyd inspected the blade under the glare of his phone light. ‘No trace of blood. We shouldn’t be in here without a warrant. We’ll be in big trouble.’
‘Never stopped me before.’ She put the scythe back where she’d picked it up from and began inspecting the rest of the tools. ‘Everything in here could be used as a weapon.’
‘They’re farm tools. You’re reading too much into them.’
Through the flapping galvanised sheets on the roof, a squall penetrated with a sinister whistle.
Suddenly Lottie stopped and her hand flew up to her mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ she said.
* * *
Driving past the incinerated cottage, Mick O’Dowd wondered how long it would take the guards to figure out he owned the place. Not long, he supposed, now that Tessa Ball was dead. Didn’t leave him much time to get his affairs sorted. He’d already started on his accounts and needed to get back to them quickly.
A hundred metres along the road, he slowed the Land Rover and idled the engine. He looked in his rear-view mirror. Men in white suits were flocking like geese around the blackened ruins. They’d have found the stash in the shed by now, not that it was anything to do with him. But what else would they find? He needed to hurry.
A gust shook the vehicle. O’Dowd glared at the sky. At least the cattle were in the outer barn. He wouldn’t have to go trudging through saturated fields to bring them in.
He lit a cigar and inhaled two puffs before setting it down. He knew what he had to do. He released the handbrake and slowly made his way home.
Forty-Seven
The light danced around them as Boyd attempted to shine the phone on what had alarmed Lottie.
‘It’s just a bicycle,’ he said.
‘It’s hers,’ Lottie whispered.
‘Whose?’
‘Emma’s. I mean Natasha Kelly’s.’ She stepped closer to the red racing bike. Let her gloved hand stroke the handlebars.
‘You’ve never seen her bike. How can you know it’s this particular one?’
‘You know bikes. Tell me, is this for ladies or gents?’
‘It’s a lady’s. But that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Why is it in Mick O’Dowd’s barn?’
‘Maybe it belongs to his mother or sister, or a friend. Jesus, Lottie, I don’t know.’ Boyd swept his hand through his hair. ‘Come on. We have to get out of here.’
‘I’m not going without the bike.’
Boyd scanned the interior of the barn with his phone light. ‘See those cameras, up there? They’re CCTV. O’Dowd is recording us.’
‘What? Why have cameras in a barn?’
‘To protect his tractor? I don’t know, but I do know I don’t like this.’
The flashlight dimmed. Lottie waited a moment for her eyes to refocus with the narrow strip of daylight coming from the doorway.
‘We can’t just leave the bicycle here. It’s evidence,’ she said.
‘From an illegal search. Use your head. We have to go back to the station and process a warrant.’
‘On what grounds? We can’t say we know it’s here.’ Boyd got the light working again. He bent down and inspected the tyres. ‘All pumped up. Plenty of mud and dung caked dry on them. It wasn’t ridden today.’
‘If Emma had it, why did she come here? And where is she?’
A terrifying thought struck Lottie as starkly as the bird that flew from the roof and clipped her hair.
She screamed. ‘I hate birds. Let’s get outside.’
Boyd didn’t argue and she followed him out. Clouds were scudding like missiles across the sky and a drizzle of rain had resumed. She looked up at the farmhouse windows.
‘She could be inside. Held against her will.’
‘If – and it’s a big if – she came here on that bike, it looks like she came voluntarily.’
‘Yes, but she could have ridden into the arms of a madman. Or maybe he picked her up on the road.’
Boyd sighed. ‘I think your mind is warped to expect the worst in every situation.’
‘Grim reapers. That’s what McGlynn called us. Maybe we are.’
She headed for the other shed. Inside, both sides were lined with cattle, chewing on meal and hay. She moved down the aisle and glanced at the slatted floor, where dung and urine seeped. She looked up. ‘More cameras.’
‘He’s protecting an expensive herd. That’s all. Nothing sinister.’
With a disgruntled sigh, Lottie left the shed and marched over to the back door of the house. She banged loudly.
‘Emma? Emma Russell, are you in there? I just want to be sure you’re okay and then I’ll go away.’
Pressing her ear to the wood, she listened. ‘Nothing. We’ll try the front door again.’
Boyd beat her to it. Hammered as hard as he could. Banged the knocker. Shook the handle. Still no answer. The howl of the dog barking catapulted him away from the door.
‘Mason,’ Lottie said.
‘Look, there’s no one else here. And don’t go telling me she’s tied up or murdered. We do our job. We’ll process a warrant and go find O’Dowd.’