She got out of the car. ‘You can forget about dinner. I’d rather starve.’ She slammed the door.
He rolled down the window electronically. ‘I honestly think it would be a mistake not to listen to what I have to say.’
Leaning against her front wall, she watched as he put the car in gear and drove off. No screech of brakes or dust cloud rising in his wake. His slow departure made his words feel all the more threatening. Dan Russell was playing her, playing some sick game, and she didn’t want to be part of it.
But she knew she would eventually listen to what he had to say, no matter how compromising it might turn out to be.
* * *
The takeaway pizza had been a hit with the kids. At last Lottie had witnessed smiles on all three faces. For a few minutes. It was after nine by the time she’d tidied the kitchen and folded away the washing her mother had hung on the clothesline during the day.
‘I’m going to sit in the garden to check over my emails for a bit. Shout if you need me.’ She stood in the hallway and listened. Murmurs of assent greeted her.
With a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit, she sat at the patio table, iPad on her knee and the moon visible in the still bright sky. She had tried to keep busy so she wouldn’t think about Russell and his words. She thought instead of a second murdered girl who might be missing a kidney. She knew that until the pathologist confirmed it or otherwise, there was no point in speculating.
The sound of a loudspeaker from the stadium permeated the air along with the hum of a lawnmower droning in tune to the whistling birds, nesting for the night. Glancing around her garden, she wished she had green fingers. It could do with flowers, colour, a total makeover. Adam used to tend it. She hadn’t time. Sean? He was too engrossed in his PlayStation to be bothered. Sometimes he cut the grass but only if she bribed him.
Sipping her tea, she flicked through her iPad. Couldn’t concentrate. Adam. She would love to know more about his time in Kosovo. He’d travelled there in 1999, just as the war had finished, with an advance international unit under NATO command, and he’d returned there again a year later. Two trips and he’d spoken little of his time away. Or maybe he had and she hadn’t been listening. Back then, she realised, she’d been too consumed with work and two small children to be interested in Adam’s tales. Chloe had been less than a year old the first time he’d travelled. They’d debated it at the time, but they’d needed the money. And Adam was military to the core, so she wasn’t going to be the person to put a halt to his overseas tours of duty.
‘Mam!’
Chloe stood at the back door, her face white, mouth open.
‘What is it?’ Lottie jumped up, ran to her. ‘Are you okay?’
A little boy poked his head from behind Chloe’s knees.
Lottie pulled up short, eyes wide, her breath catching in her throat.
Chloe said, ‘He was at the front door. All alone. Crying.’
Kneeling down, Lottie held her hand out to the boy. ‘Milot?’
He retreated back behind her daughter’s leg.
‘Milot, honey. What are you doing here? Where’s your mother?’
The boy stuck his thumb into his mouth. No tatty rabbit. How did he get here? Where had he come from? A multitude of questions swamped her brain. She looked up at Chloe.
‘Did you see anyone else? How did he reach the doorbell?’
‘He knocked.’
‘There had to be someone with him. Did you look?’
‘I saw no one when I opened the door, just the little fellow.’
‘You sure?’
With a shrug of her shoulders, Chloe lifted Milot into her arms and strolled inside. Grabbing her phone, Lottie followed.
‘Who do you call about this?’ Chloe asked. ‘At this hour?’
Lottie poured milk into a mug and offered it to Milot. He turned his face to Chloe’s shoulder, refusing the drink. He was wearing only a scruffy white T-shirt and navy shorts, his feet stuffed into soft white shoes with no socks. It was a balmy night but not warm enough for a child to be wandering the streets half-clad.
Who should she call? The clock showed 9.15 p.m. The Child and Family Agency would need to be contacted. But there was distrust between the agency and the gardaí from a previous incident. She couldn’t thrust Milot into the hands of strangers. Anyway, his mother could be in danger. Lying hurt somewhere? Dead? Surely Mimoza hadn’t abandoned her son?
Quickly Lottie checked the child. No obvious bruising or cuts. No sign of trauma, except for his tears. She held his little hand. Skin so soft, but no soft toy.
‘Talk to me, Milot. Where is your mum?’
He stared at her, tears trekking down his cheeks, then stuck his thumb into his rosebud mouth again. He wasn’t going to tell her anything. Did he even understand her? Could he speak English at all? She didn’t know. Shit.
Pink petals were stuck to his hair and she gently picked them out. Cherry blossom. Had he walked? His little white shoes were dusty. She examined them. Tiny stones clogged the rubber soles. He’d walked, she deduced. Escaping from something or someone? She wished he would talk. Her heart broke for the child.
Katie appeared, pale-faced, at the kitchen door. ‘What’s going on?’
Lottie explained, and the girl took Milot into her arms. ‘Is he staying the night?’
Katie’s demeanour had brightened, and without further thought Lottie made her decision. ‘Yes, he’s staying.’ There was no way she could turn the boy over to social services, not tonight. She’d be in trouble for this.
‘He can sleep in my room,’ Katie said, cuddling the little boy. Chloe scowled.
‘I’ll get a duvet for him and we’ll sort this out in the morning. Is that all right with you?’ Lottie said.
Katie nodded. ‘Come on, little man. Wait till I show you my room. Oh Mam, he’s shivering. The poor little thing.’
Lottie touched his arm. So he was.
Bundling the boy into her arms, Katie caressed his back, his head nestling into her shoulder.
‘I’ll follow you up in a minute,’ Lottie said.
She had to think this through.
She needed to talk to Boyd.
Chloe shut her bedroom door and stretched full-length on her bed, mad at the way Katie had shoved her aside and taken the little boy.
She thought of Maeve and wondered what else she could do to find her. She had messaged everyone who knew her. No one had seen or heard from Maeve. No new posts on Twitter, and her Facebook page looked sad without updates.
There was one person who might know, but she was hesitant to make contact with him. Too risky? Yes, it was. Then again, Maeve could be in trouble. She really should talk to her mother first, but she didn’t even answer her phone call earlier in the day.
Sitting up, she tapped her phone. Before she could change her mind, she took a photograph of her toes and sent him a Snapchat message.
He replied immediately: Meet me. Town park. Ten minutes.
Forty-One
The call went straight to voicemail.