The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(101)

As she began to walk, dragging her leg, a figure stepped up out of the long grass, silhouetted by the warped lights in the distance. Lean, not too tall, clothed from head to toe in black. Waving the plastic evidence bag containing Moroney’s file.

‘Who are you?’ Lottie shouted. ‘I want that file.’

Silence. The figure advanced. One step at a time.

Hightail it the hell out of here? Or stand her ground? The reverberation of little Louis crying and the memory of Chloe’s anxious phone call reminded her that she needed to get home. But she also wanted to know the truth. The truth Cathal Moroney’s father had been prevented from publishing in his newspaper all those years ago. The truth Cathal Moroney had been murdered for. And was it this truth that had wiped out Tessa Ball and her family?

Tugged by indecision, she heard the wind kick up as the rain washed blood from her forehead into her eyes. Refocusing her vision, she saw that the figure was not alone. Another person was skidding down the embankment, coming to a standing stop in front of her. Images of her children, alone without a mother or father, flashed and died in her mind. She would never see little Louis grow up. Her mother was right. Irresponsible was her middle name.

This time the blow to the side of her head smashed the light out of her eyes like an exploding bulb. As she fell into the darkness of the night, she glimpsed the glint of a knife before her knees hit the swampy grass. She had one last thought before she fell unconscious – she knew exactly who they were.





Ninety-One





The fire in the stove had long died when Rose Fitzpatrick awoke, cramped, at her kitchen table. She sat up and let her eyes wander through the darkness. Too many nights she had sat like this. Alone. Too much time to think. And now she thought of Tessa Ball and how the woman had interfered in her life.

She stood up and checked all the electrical appliances were switched off. They were. At least I’m not totally losing my mind, she thought. Out in the dark hallway, she looked up at the fuse box. She knew that someone had purposely knocked off her electricity the other day, just as she knew someone other than Lottie had ransacked her attic. All led to the past.

If they came for her too, she knew she would be sorry to die. She’d miss seeing her grandchildren and great-grandson grow into adulthood. She smiled sadly. She’d also miss seeing Lottie rush head first through her life. Maybe one day her daughter would settle down again. Boyd. He was a nice man. Rose thought of her own husband, Peter. The bastard.

She flicked on the bedroom light and drew the curtains. Without undressing, she lay on her lonely double bed and closed her eyes. For more than forty years she had kept her secrets. But perhaps now was the time to reveal them.



* * *



Alexis was sure something had gone wrong. She knew O’Shea had hacked her webcam, so she was careful to remain on the other side of her office. Beside the painting.

She had done everything in her power to protect the child. Everything. But she hadn’t counted on murder. Her finger slid along the news app on her phone. Two more dead. Two children orphaned. What would happen to them now?

Her mind was unceremoniously dragged back to a time long ago. Ragmullin. Where it had all begun. Where she had acted beyond her years and put a plan in motion to ensure she could raise at least one of Carrie’s children. Trying to make up for her sister’s madness. It had taken a lot of money. But her parents had had plenty. Now she herself had more than she would ever need. And it still brought her nothing but trouble.

Her phone vibrated with an incoming call. She glanced casually at the caller ID and cancelled it.

She had called up her own computer expert and ordered a virus to be placed on everything O’Shea had been connected with. Nothing could be traced back to her. She had had enough of Ragmullin, with its warped citizens.

And now there was somewhere more important she needed to be.





The Late Eighties





The Child





They put me back in the laundry room after the woman’s visit. I liked the book she left with me. It had my mother’s name inscribed on the inside. Did she think I would take after my mother and sow herbal plants? Huh, I did enough of that with Johnny-Joe. Perhaps one day I will meet that woman and return the book.

I hate this laundry so much.

The smell. That’s what I hate. Dirty stinking vermin living in this place. All of them. The nurses and the shit-faced lunatics I have to share with.

Another basket is wheeled towards me. A woman with a slack, crooked face pushes it.

‘What you looking at?’ she says.

‘Just trying to figure it out.’

‘You’re so mean.’

‘An alien? No, maybe you’re a big fat rat.’

‘No! Don’t say that. I’m going to tell them and you’ll have to work here until you die.’

I turn round so rapidly I catch her off guard. My fist clips the side of her head and she falls face down on top of the dirty linen. Right place for her, with her shitty arse sticking up in the air.

Sweat drips down my forehead and along my nose. The air is boiling. I feel like stripping off. Maybe I will.

She moans.

‘Oh shut up, will you? You’re giving me a headache.’

I open the machine to throw in the sheets, and then I get a mad thought. I am in the madhouse after all. Wheeling the basket over in front of the machine, I grab her ankles and pull. She is heavy, the old cow. More sweat. Pouring now like rain down my face. Swelling under my armpits. Pull and tug. Pull once more and haul her up and out, and in.