The Lost Child (Detective Lottie Parker #3)(91)

With mugs of coffee in hand, they went back to the office. Lottie had taken one sip when Kirby rushed in.

‘We’ve an emergency call out at Gaddstown,’ he panted. ‘I’ve sent a squad to follow the ambulance. A neighbour reported blood oozing out beneath the back door of a house.’

‘Whereabouts in Gaddstown?’ Lottie asked, half rising from her chair.

‘Number 2 Treetops. Why?’

The saliva in her throat dried up and she thought her legs would give way. She gripped the edge of her desk with one hand while scrabbling around the mound of paperwork with the other. Files tumbled to the floor.

‘What the hell!’ Boyd jumped up and began gathering the fallen reports. ‘What are you looking for?’

Lottie held up a page torn from a small notebook.

‘Number 2 Treetops,’ she whispered.

‘So?’ Boyd placed the files on her desk. ‘What about it?’

‘It’s where Cathal Moroney lives.’





Eighty-One





First responders had strewn crime-scene tape across the gateway pillars at the front of the house. An ambulance was parked up behind a Ford Focus. In front of that, a people carrier.

Lottie glanced into the seven-seater. Two child seats were strapped in the back.

‘Is Moroney married?’ she asked Boyd, realising how little she knew about the reporter.

‘I’m sure we’re about to find out.’

The uniformed officer standing outside the front door held up his hand. ‘We’re waiting for SOCOs, Inspector.’

‘I have to see for myself,’ Lottie said. Boyd went back to the car for protective clothing. ‘What’s it like in there?’

‘Bad. Very bad.’

‘Who broke down the door?’

‘My colleague.’ He pointed to a man leaning against a tree, his face greener than any leaf that might have once adorned the branches. ‘He was in and out before I got further than the kitchen. We called for reinforcements and forensics, secured the site and waited.’

Lottie hurriedly pulled on overalls, overshoes, gloves and mouth mask. The garda stood to one side and she entered through the damaged front door.

The familiar metallic scent of blood wafted towards her. To her right, a staircase leading to the first floor; to her left, an open door. She peered inside. A family room. Fireplace with ashes, a floral suite, cushions scattered higgledy-piggledy. In the corner, a plastic box overflowing with toys.

‘I’ve a bad feeling about this, Lottie,’ Boyd said.

She was shaking. ‘Me too.’

They backed out of the room and made their way down the hall to the kitchen. Modern, open-plan, with an island in the centre. It was laid for breakfast. Orange juice carton. Smooth, no bits. Cereal boxes. Coco Pops, muesli. Two ceramic mugs. Two plastic beakers. One blue. One pink. Two plastic bowls. One blue. One pink.

Lying against the cupboard beneath the sink was a woman with long black hair matted to her scalp. Blood had ceased pouring. It streaked the side of her face and neck and saturated her white cotton nightie. Her eyes were closed. She looked like a doll that had been dropped by a careless child. Her legs were spread out; hands by her sides, palms upwards. Her blood had flowed towards the back door. This must be what the neighbour had witnessed seeping out onto the step.

‘Where are the kids, Boyd? Where’s Moroney?’ Lottie asked, knowing that the answer to one or both of those questions lay beyond the breakfast bar.

She took a step on to the satin-finish cream floor tiles.

‘McGlynn will have your guts for garters,’ Boyd said.

She continued around the side of the island, holding her breath, almost closing her eyes.

She exhaled loudly. ‘It’s Moroney.’

The man she had seen as her nemesis lay supine on the floor, a black-handled knife protruding from his stomach, still clutched in his hand. Had he been trying to extract it, or had he stabbed himself? His face was bruised and bloody. His mouth hung open, his once sparkling megawatt smile no more.

Boyd said, ‘Domestic drama?’

Lottie looked around wildly, clutched Boyd’s outstretched hand. ‘Where are the children?’

She rushed back to the garda at the front door. ‘Did you check upstairs?’

‘No, Inspector. Waiting for you lot and SOCOs.’

‘You didn’t check to see if the children were here? Good God!’ She turned and took two steps at a time up the stairs.

‘Lottie, wait!’ Boyd called.

‘They might be alive,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

A landing spread out in front of her. With gloved fingers she tapped the first door open. Bathroom.

‘There’s no blood trail,’ Boyd said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If Moroney went apeshit and killed his family before himself, there’d be blood everywhere.’

‘Shut up.’

The next door was wide open. Master bedroom. Duvet thrown back and sheets crumpled, as if the occupants had just jumped out of bed. They would never be getting back in, she thought.

The next door had the name JAKE in blue plastic lettering pinned to the door. Glancing across the landing, she saw a door with pink lettering. ANNIE.

‘Oh my God, Boyd. I can’t do it.’