The two men shook hands and the boy felt a nudge in his back as he was shoved out of the door.
In the corridor he came face to face with another boy not much older than himself, leaning with one foot up against the wall, arms folded. One eye slanted into a wink as he unfolded his arms and drew a hand across his neck in a slicing motion.
‘Don’t mind him,’ the captain said.
But he did mind him.
He didn’t want to ever see that boy again.
Day Five
Friday 15 May 2015
Forty-Three
He had tied her to the bed. The rope cut through her thin wrists and blood oozed on to the sheets. Mimoza could move her legs, nothing else. He was by the window, naked, clutching a smouldering cigarette. Grey rain sleeted against the glass and he seemed to be looking beyond it into the black-clouded sky.
Gulping down her fear, she asked, ‘What you do to Milot?’
Crooked Teeth Man had asked her over and over again about her son. All night long. Where was he? Where would he go? What had she told him to do? Relentless. But Mimoza was immune to the physical pain he inflicted. It was the ache in her heart that threatened to break her. Milot was gone. And they didn’t know where he was. She wished she could ask Sara, but wouldn’t they have already broken her little friend? Maybe Sara had escaped with him. She hoped so. She clung to that hope. Tears flowed down her face. She couldn’t wipe them away.
The man turned, went to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray, seemed to think better of it. Mimosa held her breath as he brought the glowing butt to her face. Squeezing her eyes shut so she wouldn’t see, she screamed as he thrust the cigarette into the soft flesh of her cheek.
‘Where is your boy?’ he snarled through gritted teeth.
She passed out with the sound of thunder outside and the echo of pain shooting through her ears.
Forty-Four
Thunderous rain woke Lottie at 6.30 a.m. Triple flashes of lightning, followed by a monster thunder clash, transformed her bedroom into a kaleidoscope of brilliance. A child cried. Somewhere in her house. What?
‘Dear God!’ She jumped out of bed in a tangle of pillows and duvet as she remembered. Milot.
Her door opened and Katie rushed in, the little boy screaming in her arms.
‘Mam, what will I do with him? He’s terrified.’ Her daughter’s face was chalky white.
‘Make him breakfast,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ll be down in a few minutes.’
She dragged herself into the shower, washed quickly and dried herself while trying to find something to wear. Everything was everywhere.
By seven o’clock, Milot was calm enough to eat a bowl of cornflakes. The storm seemed to have passed over, though the rain was incessant. Lottie glanced at the clock. Tullamore for the post-mortem at eight. Would she make it?
The front door opened and Rose Fitzpatrick marched in, rainwater dripping from a clear plastic coat. She deposited a carton of milk and a loaf of bread, its wrapper wilting, on the table. Katie escaped out the door and up the stairs.
‘And who is this?’ Rose nodded towards the boy.
Shit, thought Lottie, how was she going to explain Milot to her mother?
‘It’s a long story. Work-related.’
‘What have you done this time?’ Rose said, arms folded.
‘Nothing. I’m dealing with it.’
‘Like you always do.’ Rose’s voice cut through the air.
Lottie ruffled the little boy’s hair and picked him up as Rose put the milk in the fridge. Shifting him onto her hip, ready to bring him upstairs to Katie, she said, ‘I’m running late. I appreciate you coming over. I really couldn’t manage without your help. But there was no need to be here so early.’ She eased towards the door. ‘By the way, did Mrs Murtagh have anything to say about the Phillips family? Maeve’s parents?’
‘Just that Frank stocked up his ill-gotten gains in Spain and headed there when Maeve was a child,’ Rose said. ‘Left Tracy to struggle raising the girl. Here, give him to me. Poor little mite. I’ll look after him until you sort out a placement for him.’
‘If you’re sure?’ Lottie handed Milot over and was astounded when the boy sat placidly on her mother’s knee. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll do a spot of hoovering later,’ Rose said, stroking Milot’s hair. ‘When did you last clean this house?’
Lottie didn’t answer. Truth was, it was so long ago, she didn’t even know where she’d put the hoover.
* * *
In the car, Lottie rang the station and rescheduled their team meeting to 10 a.m. Driving through the spray rising from the motorway, she wondered how she could juggle her day to fit in everything she had to do.
The windscreen wipers struggled to keep up with the deluge. As she left the motorway, her phone rang. Chloe.
‘I can’t go to school today.’
A clap of thunder seemed to crash against the car.
‘Why not? Feeling sick?’
‘I think I’ve a temperature.’
‘Stay in bed.’ Too stretched to argue, Lottie added, ‘Granny’s there if you need anything.’
‘I know. She’s flying round the house hoovering like a witch with a broom.’
So she’d found it. Lottie laughed. ‘Thanks for that image.’
‘By the way,’ Chloe said, ‘don’t forget Sean has to see his therapist today.’
As she pulled into the Dead House car park, Lottie thought how life didn’t seem to get any easier.
The wind picked up as she ran up the path to the door and warm rain pelted into her face. Of course she had no coat.
* * *
The myriad antiseptic and antibacterial washes and sprays could not mask the mortuary smell. Though the tiled and stainless-steel room was sterile, the overriding odour was pungent ammonia.
‘Still no idea who the first victim is?’ Jane asked. ‘The pregnant girl?’
‘No.’ Lottie tightened the loops of a surgical mask around her ears before pulling a gown on over her damp clothes. ‘It’s so frustrating. If we could identify her, we’d have a starting place. As it is, without knowing anything about her, we’ve nothing to go on and no suspect to target.’
‘I think you might have the same problem with this one. I’ll keep the technical and medical lingo for my reports. She’d been dead maybe four days; because the weather has been so hot, it’s difficult to be exact. I’ll examine the blowflies and larvae. I’d estimate she is aged between eighteen and twenty-five and at first glance I can’t see any tattoos or identifying marks. Apart from the scar I told you about. She is very undernourished also.’
Standing well back, Lottie allowed Jane and her team to get to work. She concentrated on the pathologist detailing the victim’s outer clothing into a recording device. Blue cotton blouse, pleated short black jersey skirt, no tights or shoes.
‘All clothing intact,’ Jane said, examining the blouse for a bullet hole.
The victim had no bra but was wearing cheap white cotton knickers.