‘That’s what you say all the time.’
She didn’t relax until he switched off the light and lay down on the far side of the bed, his breathing lowering into the soft snore of sleep. Only then did she slide down, unfurl her legs and close her eyes.
* * *
Lottie felt like she’d been run over by a ten-ton truck. The water pounded down on her as she tried to ease the stress from her mind and body. Her wound had healed well, but the pain nagged at her constantly. And a late-night cold shower wasn’t doing her any favours.
She wrapped a towel around herself, smoothed moisturiser onto her skin before pulling on warm pyjamas. She swallowed two paracetamol, then remembered the wash she’d put on that morning. Everything would be smelly and creased. Unless Katie had looked after the chore. Chances of that were slim to none.
Down in the utility room, she emptied the clothes out of the dryer and folded them into piles, then hefted the damp laundry from the washing machine into the dryer. She switched it on, turned out the light and went back up to bed.
Listening to the sounds of the house settling down and the patter of rain against the window, she thought of Katie heading off to New York with her baby. There was nothing she could do to stop her. Lottie Parker couldn’t compete with Tom Rickard. She just hoped he would treat her daughter right and send her home in one piece.
Thoughts of New York reminded her of the unofficial investigation she’d conducted into the murders from last October. She’d got nowhere, but there was a link to New York, for sure. She just had to find it.
She flipped her pillow over, fluffing up the feathers, then twisted and turned, searching for a comfortable position. She thought of poor Anna Byrne, whose daughter was never coming home. Tomorrow she would set about tracking down Elizabeth’s killer. And then she remembered.
‘Oh no,’ she groaned. ‘McMahon.’
Somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach, she knew her life was just about to turn very complicated.
* * *
Matt Mullin paused the television screen on Elizabeth’s photograph, then sat cross-legged on the floor and stared at her. Why had he let her go? Why had he put his job before love? He had loved her, hadn’t he? And she’d loved him.
He sniffed away his tears and allowed a knot of hate to fill the void in his heart. She had caused his heart to break into tiny pieces, so many that he knew he could never put it back together. Never again.
It was going to be a long night. And still he stared at her face on the television, frozen in time. He remembered that photograph. He remembered it well. Because he had taken it. And now she had been snatched away from him.
‘Oh Elizabeth,’ he cried. ‘What have I done?’
* * *
Donal O’Donnell switched out the light and went to sit at the table. He couldn’t bring himself to make his way up the stairs to his lonely bed.
The flickering of the television highlighted the photograph on the sideboard. The silver frame glistened and the young woman in the picture seemed to come to life.
He stared at her beautiful face. To him she had been beautiful. She still was. His princess. But she’d taken Maura away from him. Not just the ten years of yearning for answers, waiting for the knock on the door, mourning without a body. No. Lynn had taken his wife from him the day she was born. It hadn’t mattered that they already had two boys; now Maura had a little girl to devote herself to. And she had shut out everyone else. Smothered their daughter with overpowering emotion and attention.
The boys had suffered. He knew that then. He knew it now. But he’d done nothing to stop it. He’d gone along with Maura for fear of losing her altogether. And he’d been complicit in the treatment of his sons. It was wrong, what he and Maura had done, but he’d been powerless to stop it. Once he was in, there was no way out.
Resting his head on his folded arms, he blotted out the image of his daughter in the photograph, but in his mind’s eye he could still see her, standing there in the kitchen.
‘God in heaven,’ he mumbled, ‘forgive me. Forgive us all for what we have done.’
But Donal O’Donnell knew his soul was long past the stage of forgiveness.
* * *
Bridie felt Paddy leaving their bed. Heard the buzz of his electric razor and the soft thud of the door closing as he went out. He hadn’t spoken a word to her. The clock flashed 3.46. She fell back into a fitful sleep.
A loud crack woke her. She sat up. Was it a tree falling down on the roof? But there was no wind and no tree. The clock said 4.25.
Jumping out of bed, she checked on her baby. Tommy was fast asleep. The first night in weeks, and now she was awake. Drawing back the curtain, her eyes met the ugly graveyard wall, but the sky above it was lit up with stars.
The door burst open. She swirled round on the ball of one foot, her mouth open in a silent scream.
A figure stood in the doorway, highlighted by the night light.
‘Who … who are you? Fuck off away.’
As Bridie made to rush to the cot, a leather-gloved fist smashed into the side of her face. She raised her arms to shield her head, but the second blow knocked her to the floor. Crouching into a ball, like Paddy had once told her to do if she was ever attacked, she cried, ‘Don’t touch my baby!’
A boot stamped on her back as she rolled over. When the second boot landed on her stomach, pain flashed up through her chest into her head, and something hard crashed down on her skull.
She thought she heard a voice, somewhere in the distance. What was he saying? If she concentrated, maybe he wouldn’t hurt Tommy. But even as his words began to register, the blows continued to rain down in quick succession, and darkness fell.
Day Two
Thursday 11 February 2016
Twenty-Nine
He didn’t like the reflection he saw in the mirror above the washbasin. Even allowing for the fact that it was cracked, with a brown line cutting diagonally across the glass, splitting his face in two, he knew he looked bad. He leaned in closer and ran a finger under the black bags sagging beneath his tired eyes. His pupils were so dilated they appeared to be dark buttons, masking the true colour of his irises. Not a bad thing in one way, he supposed. Perhaps he could use some of her make-up to lessen the pallor, to add a highlight to otherwise chalk-white cheeks. Perhaps not.
With his teeth brushed and the scum of last night’s alcohol swirling down the drain, he splashed water on his face and dried it using the only clean towel he could find. Dressing quickly, he picked up the bundle of flyers from the table and took the stapling gun from the cupboard beneath the sink.
It was 5.25 a.m., and the morning was dark and bitterly cold. Not like spring at all. A shower of rain during the night, followed by frost, had resulted in treacherous footpaths. He parked his car and started walking around town, putting up the A4-sized posters on every lamp post and pole he could find. It was a job he had done at this time every year for the last ten years. And it was one he would continue to do, though he knew there was no prospect of her ever returning. Appearances had to be maintained. And so far, he’d been doing okay on that score.
A car drove by, heading over the bridge towards the train station, lighting up the sheen of ice on the road. With his mind distracted, his hand slipped and the staple pierced the bridge of her nose, directly between her eyes.
He smirked. That felt good. Too good.
Shaking off the sensation of fire in his belly, he moved on to the next post.
Thirty