No Safe Place(Detective Lottie Parker #4)(56)

‘Hey, go easy on the middle-aged bit.’

‘You know exactly what I mean.’

‘I’m going to have a shower.’

‘Will you listen to me? I definitely feel something has happened to Mollie.’

‘Grace, she might have had a day off work. Maybe she decided to get a different train.’

‘I told you, I know!’ Grace stamped her foot. Then, as if realising what she had done, she retreated to the living area and sat down on the couch. ‘No one ever listens to me. I’m telling you, if anything has happened to her, at least I warned you.’

‘Righto, I’ll remember that, but you’re being irrational. I’m having my shower now. Is that okay with you? And don’t blare the television too loud. I don’t want the neighbours complaining.’ He was finding it hard to treat his sister as a twenty-nine-year-old adult.

‘What neighbours? Do you even know who lives next door? Mark Boyd, you need to get a life.’

With Grace’s words ringing in his ears, he slammed the bathroom door, ripped off his sweaty clothes and turned the shower to cold. He needed to cool down in more ways than one. How was he going to last another three weeks with her here? At least she’d be going back to Mam for the weekend. He hoped so, anyway.

As the water chilled his skin, he switched the dial to hot and thought about his life. The years were getting away from him, and what did he have to show for them? Just an estranged wife whom he had yet to divorce. A sister who was getting on his wick. A mother who barely spoke to him. A woman he loved who wouldn’t even go out to dinner with him.

Nothing.

Nothing worth talking about, anyway. Nothing to leave to a child. He didn’t even have a child. No one to love. His sister, who hadn’t been in the town a week, could read the emptiness hollowing out his very heart.

He slapped his hand against the tiles and lifted his face to the pulsing water. If he was a man prone to shedding tears, he would have cried. But it hadn’t reached that stage yet. Not quite.

When he switched off the shower, he could hear Grace talking in the bedroom.

‘Mark, there’s a phone call for you.’

Maybe it was Lottie, he thought, wrapping a towel around his waist. He hoped he had a clean shirt.



* * *



By the time he got to the phone, Kirby had hung up. Whatever he wanted could wait until morning. Boyd pulled on a sweatshirt and jogging pants.

‘You hungry?’

‘Do not try to soft-soap me,’ Grace said.

‘I think I’ll muster up a sandwich. Want one?’

She turned around. ‘There are two things I want from you, and a sandwich at this hour of the night is not one of them.’

‘Shoot so.’ He leaned his damp hair back against the cool upholstery.

‘Shoot?’

‘What are the two things you want?’

‘To meet Lottie Parker, and for you to find out where my friend Mollie is.’

He sat forward in the chair and clenched his hands between his long legs. ‘Okay. I’ll organise for you to meet Lottie. Happy?’

‘And Mollie?’

‘I’ll do a search on her address tomorrow. What’s her surname?’

Grace bit her lip.

‘Please tell me you know her full name?’

‘Just Mollie. She lives in Ragmullin and works in Dublin.’

‘That’s not enough.’ He shook his head and reached out a hand to her.

‘Try? For me?’ She gripped his hand so tightly, Boyd thought his fingers must surely be crushed.

‘You’re asking a lot. A first name and the train she normally takes? But because your smile is so sweet, I’ll try.’

He watched as Grace flopped back on the couch, a contented grin spreading across her face. Getting up to make his sandwich, he thought about Elizabeth Byrne. He shook himself. This business with Mollie was probably nothing more than Grace getting caught up in the imaginary world that he remembered her having in childhood.

Searching the refrigerator for sandwich fillings, he noticed there was absolutely nothing to eat.

‘Grace, have you been raiding the fridge?’

‘You need to shop for two, you know.’

She hadn’t answered his question. Bread and butter would have to do until tomorrow.

The doorbell rang.





Forty-Six





The hatch opened and light filled the room. Mollie squeezed her eyes closed against the glare.

‘The smell of you.’ His voice echoed through the enclosed space.

Her eyes flew open. She slowly moved her head but could still see very little. She needed to orientate herself. It seemed to be a cellar, like one she’d seen in a film. Or some sort of underground bunker. The walls were padded with thick foil, a wrapped pipe snaking up one corner; there was a small square table squashed into the opposite corner, and a short ladder led to the hatch in the ceiling.

Directing her gaze back to him, she said, ‘The smell is not my fault.’ Her voice was weak from screaming earlier, even though she knew it had been a fruitless exercise.

‘I’m going to release your arms. On one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Make a wrong move and I’ll leave you here to rot.’