The mosquitoes wouldn’t leave him alone. All his life they’d blighted him. He pulled the net tighter around his head and swatted his hand through the air. No good. Couldn’t sleep. He was lying on a bunk in one of the soldiers’ billets. They had been nice to him, allowed him to stay with them. On condition he stay quiet until they had time to tell their commanding officer.
He thought it might be around 3 a.m. but he wasn’t sure. He heard the multitude of mice scratching surfaces all around him. He hated them. Hoped they wouldn’t breach his curtain. He was more afraid of the vermin than being killed. If he was going to survive on his own he would have to learn new skills. Reading and writing and hauling buckets of water wouldn’t help him. What did the future hold for him now? Not much, he supposed.
The door opened and the soldier who had given him the packet of crisps came in.
‘Can you not sleep?’
The boy shook his head.
‘The doctor will have a look at you in the morning. Where were you heading to anyway?’
The boy shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t answer because he didn’t know. He’d never been further than his own village. Maybe he could say he was going to Pristina. Maybe he’d get work there. He was tall so he could pass for older than thirteen. He looked up at the soldier. He had kind blue eyes and a sweep of blonde hair on his forehead.
The boy said, ‘Pristina.’
The soldier said, ‘What’s your name?’
The boy remained mute.
‘Here’s a bottle of water. Drink, then sleep. I’ll have to inform the captain about you in the morning. He’ll decide what to do.’
The boy sipped the water and closed his eyes. A quiet blackness descended, and to the sound of hungry mice and buzzing mosquitoes he fell asleep.
Day Three
Wednesday 13 May 2015
Twenty-Two
It felt good to apply a streak of Katie’s lipstick over her lips – her own was now a broken smudge in the bottom of a tube – and to run a comb through her hair. She was enjoying being back at work. Feeling alive again, she slapped away a pang of guilt. Escaping from her family and the troubles they threw at her wasn’t the trait of a good mother, was it? But she had to get on with it. She still had to talk with Chloe. She slipped the lipstick into her bag and turned to see Sean enter the kitchen.
‘Anything to eat?’ he asked, gazing into the refrigerator.
‘You’re up bright and early,’ Lottie said. ‘There’s cereal in the cupboard.’
Sean squeezed a milk carton and shook it. ‘Might be enough,’ he said, and went to get a bowl and the box of cereal.
‘You’re looking very smart today.’
Conversation with Sean was strained at the best of times. She hoped he might open up a bit more now that he was seeing a therapist. Coping with what he’d gone through in January had not been easy. Lottie knew he needed time to be himself again, but she wasn’t so sure that Katie needed the same. The girl had retreated into herself and looked awful. Lottie knew all about grief, but she hadn’t the words to comfort her own daughter.
‘Same rotten uniform,’ he said, munching. ‘I had a shower.’
‘Must be a girl.’
‘Mam, that’s gross.’
Lottie smiled as she watched her son spoon cornflakes into his mouth, slurping milk like a toddler. His blonde hair fell across his blue eyes, once bright and sparkling, full of life, now stony and strained. Stopping herself from rushing over to brush his hair back with her fingers, she touched his arm instead.
‘I’ll see you this evening. Have a nice day at school.’
‘Mam! How can anyone have a nice day at school?’
On the drive to work, Lottie thought about her job. She didn’t know what it would throw at her from day to day, and now that a girl had been murdered along with her unborn baby, it was her task to bring the killer to justice. Once she had solved this murder, her children would get all her attention.
As Lottie entered the office, Lynch jumped up, brandishing a page in the air.
‘I got one of our technical guys who’s an ace with languages to have a look at the letter.’
Lottie sat down, her good mood evaporating. ‘Anything different from what Petrovci told us?’ she asked.
‘Basically it’s the same. Someone called Kaltrina appears to be missing and the writer of the letter needs your help to escape.’
‘From what, though?’
‘You know what I think?’ Lynch brushed her hair out of her face.
‘That the Kaltrina mentioned in the note could be our dead girl. But no one fitting her description has been reported missing in the last week.’
‘I spoke about it briefly with Ben last night,’ Lynch said, adding quickly, ‘without giving away anything confidential, of course. He thinks we should check if the girl who came to your house is in the direct provision system. Kaltrina too. Numbers have been increasing in recent months, with the refugees swarming through Europe. It’s possible that’s where they’re from.’
‘They are not insects, Lynch,’ Lottie said harshly.
Kirby raised his head from his corner, unlit cigar in his mouth. ‘The government can’t house our own people, let alone migrants.’
Lottie gave him an icy glare. ‘You should know better than to talk like that. And if you want to smoke that cigar, get the hell out of here.’
‘Sorry, boss.’
Kirby dragged his bulk through the door, leaving Lottie clenching her fists and shaking her head.
‘He’s only saying what others think,’ Lynch said.
‘I can do without that kind of attitude. And I’m sure you know that human rights groups condemn the type of inappropriate language you used a moment ago. So be careful.’
Lottie held Maria Lynch’s stare. Her detective broke away first.
‘Anyway, Ben told me that his department funds translators to work with the refugees and asylum seekers.’
‘Any of them up in the army barracks?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Okay. Did you dig into Dan Russell’s past yet?’
‘I’m working on it.’ Lynch clicked on something on her computer. ‘Wait a minute. Have a look at this.’
Rushing across the cluttered office, snagging the leg of her jeans against the corner of a box file, Lottie leaned down and peered at the screen.
‘Missing person report.’ Lynch tapped her pen. ‘Filed late last night.’
Lottie read quickly. ‘Maeve Phillips, aged seventeen. Possibly missing since last weekend, according to her mother, though only now being reported.’ She felt the blood drain slowly from her cheeks. ‘I wonder if—’
‘If she’s our Jane Doe?’
‘If she’s related to Frank Phillips.’
‘Who?’ asked Lynch.
‘The criminal. He fled to Spain a number of years ago.’
Lynch wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘I hope she’s not related to that scumbag.’
‘Give me the address and I’ll go talk to the mother. Where’s Boyd?’
‘At your service.’ He walked into the office. Slung his jacket over the back of his chair, rolled up his shirtsleeves and sat.