‘Look at it carefully. You can see where the ink was rubbed away and a three put in place of a five. I believe this was changed intentionally. Someone didn’t want the true identity of Susan Sullivan’s child discovered.’
‘So, Harte wasn’t Susan Sullivan’s offspring after all,’ Boyd said. ‘Looking at it, I can understand how Father Angelotti made his mistake. But who is her child?’
Lottie pointed to the correct reference number and Boyd stared, his jaw dropping.
‘Are you serious?’ he asked.
‘Unless someone tampered with the other numbers, I’m very serious.’ Lottie shook her head wistfully. ‘It’s so sad.’
‘Does he know?’ Boyd asked.
‘I don’t think so.’
Boyd rubbed his hand over his scarred neck and said, ‘So all these people were killed to keep this fact a secret?’
‘That’s part of it.’
‘What’s the rest of it?’
Lottie pulled the old file out of her bag. She picked up the photograph of the young boy with the wry smile, freckled nose and crooked shirt collar. ‘This is the other reason.’
‘The missing kid?’ Boyd asked.
‘I think so.’
‘Are you going to wait until I go on bended knees to beg for the answers?’
Lottie smiled. She had really missed Boyd.
‘His mother reported him missing in early 1976, having put him in St Angela’s months earlier. The Church authorities branded him a runaway. He was never found.’ That was enough information for Boyd for now, she thought.
‘So what does James Brown’s information confirm?’
‘James Brown and others witnessed a murder in St Angela’s, perpetrated by Father Cornelius Mohan, aided and abetted by Brian. And when James and Susan threatened to expose it, they were murdered to keep the fact buried.’
‘Okay. Let me get this straight. Mike O’Brien, originally called Brian, was coerced by Father Con to take part in some sick ritual which resulted in the death of a boy, nearly forty years ago.’
‘Yes,’ Lottie said.
‘So who is the kid in the photo?’ Boyd asked.
‘Not now, Boyd.’
‘Lottie, I’ve read the file.’
‘Then why ask stupid questions? Let’s talk to Patrick O’Malley,’ Lottie said, closing the file. She shoved it back into her bag.
‘But we know O’Brien was the murdering bastard,’ Boyd said, once again rubbing the scars on his throat.
‘He only admitted to killing Father Con.’
‘Yes. And he half-killed me too. He didn’t admit to that, did he?’
‘No, but I believe someone else murdered Father Angelotti, Susan Sullivan and James Brown.’
‘I’m lost now, Lottie.’
Lynch rushed into the office, hair loose, flying around her face.
‘We looked everywhere. There’s not a sign of O’Malley.’
‘He can’t just disappear,’ Lottie said. ‘He’s out there somewhere.’ She turned to Boyd. ‘Think. Where would O’Malley go? His past has come back to haunt him. Where would a tormented soul go?’
‘Back to the source of his torment?’ asked Boyd.
Lottie sprang out of the chair, wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. ‘You’re right. Come on.’
‘If you say so,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Next time you hug me, mind my wounds.’
‘Next time?’ She winked at him. ‘I’ll drive.’
She checked in with her mother at the hospital. Sean was doing fine.
Dumping the Happy Meal in the bin, Lottie followed her team out the door.
One Hundred Eleven
In daylight, St Angela’s had lost its sinister ambiance. It was only a rambling old building with doors and windows. But Lottie knew it shielded the secrets of horrific brutality behind its concrete and stone. She’d read the insanity in Cornelius Mohan’s faded notebook and followed the story in James Brown’s envelope. She’d discovered the cover-up in the Rome ledgers. And witnessed its legacy reincarnated last night. For what? Torn lives and damaged souls. Bodies buried but the living carrying the burden. That’s how she’d felt at Adam’s grave a few short days ago. Now she fully understood what she’d been thinking then and a crushing sadness settled in her heart.
Taking a deep breath, she walked over to the figure leaning against a scarred, bare tree.
‘They did a good job of saving the rest of it,’ Father Joe said, nodding toward the building.
The site was almost deserted. The fire crews had rolled up their hoses, slid ladders on top of truck roofs and departed from the site. A couple of gardaí manned fluttering crime scene tapes. Burning stench hung in the air, but the smoke was gone and smouldering embers remained. The chapel walls were singed black, windows shattered, the roof caved in. But the main structure of St Angela’s endured, unscathed.
‘Pity the whole place didn’t burn to the ground,’ he added.
‘What are you doing here?’ Lottie pulled down her hood to get a better look at him.
‘I felt drawn to it. After all the lies.’
‘Joe . . .’ she began.
‘Don’t, Lottie. Don’t say anything.’
He pushed away from the tree. She placed her hand on his arm.
‘Did you see any sign of a vagrant? Patrick O’Malley. We’re looking for him.’
‘Just the place for vagrancy,’ he said. ‘Bishop Connor is nosing around.’
Lottie beckoned to Boyd. Lynch and Kirby brought up the rear.
‘Bishop Connor is here,’ she said. ‘O’Malley must be too. Spread out and look for them,’ she said. ‘Not you, Boyd. You look like you’re about to faint.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, averting his eyes from Lottie holding on to the priest’s sleeve.
She dropped her hand, shrugged her shoulders and headed into the walled, snow-covered orchard, outside the cordoned-off area. Boyd trudged behind her, Father Joe at his side. Lynch and Kirby crossed the frozen lawn and hurried left around the back of St Angela’s.
It was Lottie’s first time inside the small orchard enclosure. In the lifeless winter it was barren, trees shredded bare, the ground swathed in a white sheet of purity. She truly believed there was nothing pure in this place. Evil stalked every crevice in its walls and bodies lay uneasy in unmarked graves. She glanced upwards at the window, where three sets of terrified eyes had witnessed atrocities no child should have to observe or comprehend.
Shadows spread at the base of the trees and the sun struggled to find its place low in the grey afternoon sky. At the furthest corner of the orchard, she saw them. Two figures. Silhouetted marionettes, twirling around each other, leaving streaked snow in their wake.
She put a finger to her lips and inched forward.
The puppets ceased their dancing, interrupted by birds fleeing as a flock from the branches.
O’Malley swung round and looked directly into her eyes. Blood poured from his cheek and a blue nylon rope lay useless around his neck.
Bishop Terence Connor turned slowly and dropped the other end of the rope.
‘It’s all over, Bishop Connor,’ Lottie said. She wondered at his audacity to attempt committing a crime metres from gardaí. He must surely be mad.
‘Over?’ Bishop Connor shouted. ‘Over? Not yet.’ He stood with his arms reaching to the heavens. ‘It is over when my God tells me.’
‘You’re finished.’ Father Joe stepped up beside Lottie.