The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(54)



Her phone pinged with a message as she and Boyd headed back to the car.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘Kirby. Guess who owns the cottage?’

‘I’m in no mood for guessing games, Lottie.’

‘Mick O’Dowd. The liar.’





Forty-Six





The door to the milking shed was closed and there was no sign of the dog or O’Dowd’s Land Rover.

‘Maybe he’s at the station giving a statement,’ Boyd said.

‘Lying bastard,’ Lottie said. ‘I asked him if he knew who owned the cottage and he said he didn’t.’

Boyd marched up to the front door. No doorbell. He hammered with the knocker. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked.

Lottie remained standing, buffeted by the gale, in the middle of the dung-covered yard.

‘I’m trying to recall exactly what I asked him.’

Boyd moved back to her. ‘About what?’

‘The cottage.’ She slapped her forehead. ‘Shit. I don’t think I asked him who owned it. I only enquired if he knew who rented it.’

‘But why didn’t he volunteer the information? Did he not want to implicate himself in a murder investigation?’

‘He was already implicated. He found the cottage on fire and reported it.’

‘I think if he’d been involved,’ Boyd said, ‘he would have stayed well away from it.’

Lottie shook her head. ‘He struck me as being devious. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’m going to find out.’

Boyd shrugged and thumped on the door with his fist. ‘No one home,’ he said.

A dog barked inside.

Lottie shook off her frustration at her ineptitude with O’Dowd. She spied a shed door swinging open, crashing against the wall, and made for it.

‘Hey, we need a search warrant to go in there.’ Boyd appeared at her shoulder.

‘Door was open. Inviting us.’ She stepped into the dusky interior. Scrabbled around for a light switch. Unable to find one, she said, ‘Got a torch?’

Boyd tapped the flashlight app on his phone. A cone of light shone into the murky depths. A quad bike with stinking mucky wheels was parked next to a red tractor, which appeared to rise up from the shadows.

‘A Massey Ferguson,’ Boyd said.

‘How’d you know that?’ Lottie asked.

‘Says it here. On the insignia.’

He dipped the phone downwards, immersing Lottie in darkness. The wind shook the wooden structure and it appeared to shiver around her. She picked her way carefully as Boyd followed with the light.

‘What’s that?’ She pointed to an implement among shovels and spades.

‘A scythe. Used for cutting hay in the old days.’

‘Dangerous-looking weapon. Could it chop off fingers?’ Lottie lifted the tool. ‘Bit heavy.’

Boyd inspected the blade under the glare of his phone light. ‘No trace of blood. We shouldn’t be in here without a warrant. We’ll be in big trouble.’

‘Never stopped me before.’ She put the scythe back where she’d picked it up from and began inspecting the rest of the tools. ‘Everything in here could be used as a weapon.’

‘They’re farm tools. You’re reading too much into them.’

Through the flapping galvanised sheets on the roof, a squall penetrated with a sinister whistle.

Suddenly Lottie stopped and her hand flew up to her mouth.

‘Oh my God,’ she said.



* * *



Driving past the incinerated cottage, Mick O’Dowd wondered how long it would take the guards to figure out he owned the place. Not long, he supposed, now that Tessa Ball was dead. Didn’t leave him much time to get his affairs sorted. He’d already started on his accounts and needed to get back to them quickly.

A hundred metres along the road, he slowed the Land Rover and idled the engine. He looked in his rear-view mirror. Men in white suits were flocking like geese around the blackened ruins. They’d have found the stash in the shed by now, not that it was anything to do with him. But what else would they find? He needed to hurry.

A gust shook the vehicle. O’Dowd glared at the sky. At least the cattle were in the outer barn. He wouldn’t have to go trudging through saturated fields to bring them in.

He lit a cigar and inhaled two puffs before setting it down. He knew what he had to do. He released the handbrake and slowly made his way home.





Forty-Seven





The light danced around them as Boyd attempted to shine the phone on what had alarmed Lottie.

‘It’s just a bicycle,’ he said.

‘It’s hers,’ Lottie whispered.

‘Whose?’

‘Emma’s. I mean Natasha Kelly’s.’ She stepped closer to the red racing bike. Let her gloved hand stroke the handlebars.

‘You’ve never seen her bike. How can you know it’s this particular one?’

‘You know bikes. Tell me, is this for ladies or gents?’

‘It’s a lady’s. But that doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Why is it in Mick O’Dowd’s barn?’

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