‘Goal!’
Mikey Driscoll thumped the air as the ball landed in the back of the net. He was immediately engulfed by his teammates. Yes! He was a hero. At last. For the remaining five minutes of the under-twelves match, he played with a smile spread across his face.
The referee’s whistle sounded, and whoops and cheers chorused through the air as the crowd filled the pitch. Mainly parents and families of the victorious boys. Mikey was hauled up onto someone’s shoulders. He no longer felt the smallest on the team. Now he was a giant. Yeah!
He spied his friend Toby smiling up at him from the crowd, and he grinned back. As he was carried towards the gable end of the clubhouse for the presentation of the cup, he scanned the crowd for his mother. His heart dipped slightly. Of course, she wasn’t there. She’d never come to any of his matches before; why would she now? But it was a final. He’d sort of hoped … He gulped down his disappointment.
Sliding to the ground from the unfamiliar shoulders, he sought out his teammates. Mikey might have scored the winning goal, but Toby was the captain and he’d get the cup. Mikey rushed to his side. Toby was taller by a good head, and Mikey had to look up at him, shielding his eyes from the setting sun with one hand.
‘Great goal,’ Toby said.
‘Ta,’ Mikey said. ‘Is it okay if I stay at yours tonight?’ He crossed his fingers. He’d already told his mother he was going to be staying over at Toby’s. Please say yes, he prayed silently.
Toby hesitated. ‘I’ll have to ask my ma.’
‘Sure. Don’t worry.’
‘Why d’you wanna stay anyway?’
Before Mikey could answer, he and Toby were jostled to the front of the crowd by the team coach, Rory Butler.
‘Come on, lads. Presentation of the cup and medals, then I’m treating you all to a McDonald’s!’
A cheer went up, and Mikey was swallowed up by the rest of the team, quickly becoming separated from Toby. He was sweating from the exertion of the game and the evening heat. Should he run home for a shower first? No. He’d told his mum he’d be staying at Toby’s, so he better not put in an unexpected appearance. Ah well, he thought, all the lads would be smelly, not just him.
He took his medal from Rory Butler, and then Toby raised the cup. The crowd dispersed, and some of the parents sat in their cars waiting to bring the boys to McDonald’s. The team mini-bus was also ready to ferry whoever needed a lift. Mikey followed the team into the dingy changing room.
‘That was the best game of the season,’ Rory said, clapping each of them on the back as they entered.
Mikey liked their coach. Rory was maybe the same age as his mum. Thirty-something she always said when anyone asked.
‘I’m so proud of you lads. No more team talk, it’s time for celebration. Grab your things and I’ll meet you all at McDonald’s. Nuggets and chips are on me!’
The boys cheered again before collecting their bags, then, still in their jerseys and shorts, and with their medals hanging on green ribbons around their necks, they set off with a cheer.
Toby felt bad. Yeah, they’d won the final, and yeah, they were all sitting eating their nuggets and chips, and yeah, they had the coolest coach of any team in the county, but …
Mikey was eyeing him across the table with his big, sad brown eyes. Shit, Toby thought. Maybe he could bring him home to stay tonight, like he’d asked. After all, Mikey had often stayed over before. But Toby didn’t want him there tonight. His big brother, Max, would be home, and Toby didn’t like how things felt in his house when Max was around. None of his family had come to the match, but that didn’t bother him. He was better off without them.
He pushed his fair hair out of his eyes, his special cut, shaved all around with a mop on top, as his ma described it. Mikey had tried to keep up with him by getting his mother to put blonde tips on his. Looked shocking. Awful. But Toby never told Mikey that.
Stuffing a chicken nugget into his mouth, Toby chewed hard. He’d known Mikey since junior infants; they’d been in the same class right through primary school. Now they were growing up. Moving on. Would Mikey still be his best friend once they were at secondary school? He hoped so. He felt sad now when he saw Mikey gathering his food wrappers, his medal swinging proudly as he went to put his rubbish in the bin.
Laughter and chat surrounded him, but all Toby could hear was the silence between himself and Mikey. He kept watching him. Mikey was chatting to Paul Duffy, the team physiotherapist. Well, he wasn’t actually a physio, but he was a doctor. Next best thing. Everyone was here. Barry, the doc’s son, always tagging along and giving orders like he was the boss. He’s only fifteen, Toby thought, not the boss of me! Paul’s wife Julia, who washed the kit sometimes. Creepy Wes, the bus driver who brought them to away games. Bertie Harris, who thought he was the coach but was really only the club caretaker. And of course, Rory Butler. The real coach. Toby liked Rory and grinned over at him when he smiled his way.
Stuff it, he thought. Mikey can stay with me. Max can piss off. His whole family could piss off. He gathered his empty nugget box and the remains of his fries and was heading to the bin when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He swung round.
‘Toby, you played so well today.’
Toby shimmied out from under Bertie’s grip and grinned uneasily at the caretaker. ‘Yeah, thanks. It was a good match. Great fun.’
‘You played a stormer.’
‘But Mikey scored the goal.’
‘Great goal it was too. Young Driscoll doesn’t score too many, but that was an important one. Don’t forget the celebration party next Saturday night.’
‘I won’t.’
Toby picked up his bag and looked around for Mikey. The place was packed and noisy. He was tall enough to see over the seated heads, to search and scan. But there was no sign of his friend.
‘Shite,’ Toby said. Just when he had decided to let him stay over. Ah well, it was Mikey’s loss.
Mikey remembered that his mum would be at bingo, and anyway, she wasn’t expecting him home. But he had a key to the house. And Toby was being a dick.
He hitched his bag on his shoulder, one hand on the medal around his neck, and talked to himself as he walked. So, first he’d have a shower, then he’d update FIFA on his PlayStation, and while that was running, he’d see what was on Netflix. One of the lads had mentioned a series called Stranger Things. It sounded really cool. He knew his mum would never allow him to watch it, but she’d be out, wouldn’t she? Yeah! He punched the air and began to jog. With the rest of his evening sorted, he felt a lot better.
He crossed over at the traffic lights and headed towards the tunnel to take the shortcut home. He hated the tunnel under the canal. Yuck. He was always thinking the walls would crack and he’d drown in the muddy water.
He kicked an empty beer can, and as it echoed back at him, he heard a vehicle rumble up alongside him. He kept walking. It kept pace with him. Turning around, he peered in through the side window. When he saw who it was, he smiled.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Jump in. I’ll give you a lift home.’
‘Ah, it’s okay. It’s not far.’
‘You must be knackered. I’m headed that way.’
‘Okay, so.’
Mikey walked round to the passenger side and opened the door. He sat in and snapped on the seat belt. He heard the click of the automatic locks sliding into place.
‘Good Lord, Mikey, you stink.’
‘I do, don’t I?’ Mikey laughed nervously.
‘I can fix that.’
‘What do you mean? I’m nearly home. Plenty of hot water there,’ he said, though he knew he’d have to wait half an hour for the immersion to heat up the tank.
The driver took a left when the traffic light turned green and headed up over the Dublin Bridge.
Mikey looked out of the window, confusion knotting in his chest. ‘Hey, that’s the way to my house. Back there.’
The driver stared straight ahead. Silent.
‘You’re going the wrong way.’ Alarm spread through Mikey’s body.
‘Oh Mikey, this is the right way. Don’t you worry your little head. Trust me.’
Mikey slid down in the seat, his feet resting on his bag, and risked a look sideways at the driver. Trust me? No, Mikey did not, but there wasn’t much he could do now, was there?
The flight from New York arrived into Dublin Airport early. It was exactly 4.45 a.m. as Leo Belfield waited in line at Passport Control. He wasn’t nervous. He had nothing to hide. Nothing to declare. He was a captain in the NYPD, after all. But he knew that the secret of his birth, and the secret of his family from this country, where he had never before set foot, were things to be kept quiet. He had found out a lot in the last six months. Ever since Alexis, his mother, had suffered her heart attack, he had discovered things about his family he was sure she’d never intended telling him. But he didn’t know it all. Not yet.
I am here now, Alexis, he thought. In the country you tried to leave behind. The country you never wanted me to know about. Looking for the family you denied me.
He smiled at the passport control officer and answered the mundane questions.
‘On holiday, sir?’
‘Yes, I am on holiday.’
‘Travelling around?’
‘I’ll be staying in the Joyce Hotel in Ragmullin.’
‘Ah, yes, Ragmullin. Down in the midlands. Lots of good musicians hail from that neck of the woods.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Leo replied. ‘This is my first visit.’
‘Hopefully the first of many.’ The officer stamped the visa and handed Leo back his passport. ‘Have a nice stay.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Leo muttered to himself as he pocketed the blue passport. ‘Not so sure at all.’
Detective Inspector Lottie Parker flicked the ash from the butt of her cigarette and watched it sizzle in the cracked concrete at her feet.
‘They’re bad for you.’
She looked over her shoulder to see Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd standing beside his car, leaning over the roof, dragging hard on a cigarette of his own.
‘Pot and kettle,’ she said, and turned her head to continue staring at the ruin that had been her home until five months ago.
She sensed him moving nearer.
‘Staring at it won’t help,’ he said.
‘My life has gone up in smoke.’
‘You’re still alive. Your kids are okay. It’s a sign that you have to move on.’
She sighed, and dug her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans. ‘I know it’s just concrete and clay.’
‘That’s a song, isn’t it? I seem to remember my mother mentioning it.’
‘How would I know, then?’ She shook her head. ‘And please don’t attempt to sing it.’
‘I won’t.’
‘What brings you here anyway? Surely not to join me in wallowing in misery?’ Her house had burned down in February. She’d thought it was arson, but it had turned out to be an electrical fault. She still wasn’t convinced that was the only cause, though.
She glanced up and found Boyd staring at her. Long and lean, his ears sticking out a little, more grey than black in his tightly cut hair and a light shimmer of stubble on his chin – very un-Boyd-like.
‘McMahon is looking for you, as usual,’ he said.
‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone nine.’
‘Can the super not give me five minutes of me-time?’
‘Lottie, you’ve been coming here every morning for months. It’s not going to turn into a phoenix and rise from the ashes.’ He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to protest. ‘Your house of memories is no more. Like I said already, you need to take this as a sign, and move on.’
Biting her lip, Lottie thought of her husband, Adam, now five years dead. This was the house they had lived in from the day they’d got married. The house in which they’d reared Katie, Chloe and Sean, their three beautiful children. Burned to the ground. Gone. All gone. Was Boyd right? Was it a sign? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything any more.
‘Fancy a drink?’ she said.
‘Jesus, Lottie! It’s nine in the morning. Come on. Where’s your car?’
‘I walked.’
‘From your mother’s?’
‘Thought it was a nice morning for a stroll.’ She looked up at the inky blue sky and noticed the warning clouds gathering momentum, despite the lazy sun. She knew Boyd didn’t buy her lie. ‘Car wouldn’t start, so I called Kirby for a lift. He dropped me off on his way in. He’s in a jolly mood today.’
Boyd said, ‘Must be his woman. Gilly O’Donoghue is like a tonic to him. Anyway, you should have rung me. I’ll give you a lift to the station.’ He made for the car. ‘Are you coming, or are you going to stare at that boarded-up ruin for the rest of the day?’
She kicked at the butt of the cigarette, took out the packet and said, ‘Got a light?’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m not going to set fire to the rubble, in case that’s what you’re thinking. I want a cigarette, and Kirby lit the last one because I’d no lighter or matches.’ Tears threatened. Jesus, she thought, I’m a worse wreck than the damn house. Bricks and mortar. That’s all it was. But it had been more, much more. It had held all her memories, and now it was nothing.
‘Get in.’ Boyd opened the car door for her.
Lottie shrugged and did as she was told. She was in no humour for a row. Then she remembered why he had come looking for her.
‘McMahon sent you? Why does he want to see me?’ Acting Superintendent David McMahon was keeping her on a tight leash. Paperwork and then more paperwork. She was sure he got off on it.
‘Guess.’ Boyd switched on the engine, reversed, then drove out of the estate.
‘Trouble,’ she said.
‘Probably.’
Lottie dallied in the station yard after Boyd had parked the car. ‘Go on ahead. I just need a bit of fresh air first.’
‘You’d better hurry up. I’m not making any more excuses for you.’ He strode into the building.
Why was she feeling so low? Maybe it was the overcrowded situation at her mother’s. With twenty-year-old Katie and her son Louis, seventeen-year-old Chloe and fifteen-year-old Sean, it was a tight squeeze. But Rose had opened her house to them after the fire, and Lottie had accepted the offer of a roof over her family’s head.
It wouldn’t be for much longer, though. She had it sorted. So what was the problem? She took a deep breath, knocked away the longing for another cigarette, vowing to quit. She found a Xanax in her jeans pocket and swallowed it. Hopefully it would calm her.
She walked inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. In the reception area, she nodded at the desk sergeant, Garda O’Donoghue, and went to key in the code for the inner door. Before she could enter the second number, she heard a shriek from behind her.
Turning around, she came face to face with a teenage girl with wide black eyes, damp hair criss-crossing her cheeks, expression wild and feral. Her jeans were ripped, zipper undone, feet bare. Her T-shirt, once white, looked like it had been tie-dyed in blood.
Involuntarily, Lottie took a step back, banging into the door. She opened her mouth, but words refused to form.
The girl spoke.
‘I think I killed him,’ she whispered.
Lottie pulled herself together and stepped forward. ‘What did you say?’
The teenager raised her voice. The sound was guttural, animal-like.
‘I killed him.’
And then she fell in a faint to the floor.
The duty doctor insisted the girl needed to be hospitalised. The ambulance arrived within ten minutes, and Lottie travelled in the back with her.
‘Shock and hypothermia,’ the doctor had said. As she watched the pale face beneath the oxygen mask, Lottie wondered how the girl could be suffering from hypothermia in the warm July weather. But that was the least of her worries.
The paramedic studiously monitored blood pressure and other vital signs.
‘Very low heart rate,’ he said.
‘Who are you?’ Lottie whispered to the girl.
‘Don’t think she’s able to answer you,’ the paramedic said. The name badge on his green uniform told Lottie he was called Steven.
‘I’m not stupid,’ she snapped. Seeing his eyes dip, she added, ‘Sorry.’
‘No problem. What did she do?’
‘I have no idea.’ She checked the plastic evidence bags she had hastily fastened about the girl’s hands, preserving the evidence of a crime she knew nothing about. ‘Do you know what’s wrong with her?’
‘Not being smart with you, but I’ve no idea.’ Steven shook his head and checked the monitor. ‘Blood pressure is dangerously low.’
‘Keep her alive,’ Lottie said, ‘please.’
He nodded.
The siren waned and the engine stopped. The doors opened and Lottie jumped out, then stood back to allow Steven and the driver to extract the stretcher. They pulled down the wheels, and as the hospital doors slid open, they ran inside. She followed.
‘Keep her alive,’ she repeated as a porter slid the girl from the stretcher onto a trolley bed in the A&E cubicle.
When the curtains were discreetly pulled tight, shutting Lottie outside, she called Boyd.
She bought a Diet Coke from the hospital shop and stood outside the main door to have a quick cigarette, only to realise there was no smoking allowed anywhere on site. She’d no lighter anyway.
Boyd parked on double yellow lines. ‘Any news?’
‘They’re working on her.’
‘Do you know who she is?’
‘Jesus, Boyd. She appeared at the door covered in blood, said, “I think I killed him” and then collapsed.’
‘So you have no idea what happened?’
Lottie snapped her head around. ‘I’ve told you all I know.’
‘Hey, keep your hair on.’
‘For feck’s sake, Boyd.’ She turned on her heel and walked back into the hospital. Some days he wound her up like a spring, and today was one of them.
She sought out the consultant who had taken command of the teenager.
‘Dr Mohamed,’ she said, flashing her ID badge. ‘What can you tell me?’
His eyes were tired and his skin sagged, though she estimated he was only in his early thirties.
He said, ‘She lost a lot of blood. We may have to give her a transfusion. I’m monitoring her progress and will make a decision soon.’
Lottie scowled. She hadn’t noticed any visible wounds. ‘In what way is she injured?’
‘She is not injured in your sense of the word. Do you not know?’
‘Know what?’
‘She has given birth. Quite recently. The placenta was still in place, adhered to the womb, and that caused the haemorrhage. It’s been removed now.’
Digesting this information, Lottie wondered where the girl’s baby was. How and why had she arrived at the station uttering those guilty words of admission? Feeling Boyd’s presence at her shoulder, she hoped he would ask sensible questions of the doctor, because all logic had fled her brain and she was speechless.
‘What are her survival chances?’ he asked.
‘We got her in time. I believe she will be fine. However, if you’re thinking of interviewing her, it won’t be today.’
‘If she says anything, let us know,’ Lottie said. ‘And if you find out who she is …’
‘I will inform you.’
With that, the doctor walked away down the narrow corridor lined with helpless patients on trolleys. A uniformed officer arrived and Lottie instructed him to keep guard outside the room containing the girl’s cubicle.
‘We need to retrace her steps,’ she said.
Shrugging his shoulders, Boyd asked, ‘And how do you propose we do that?’
‘Old-fashioned police work.’ She pushed through the double doors. ‘I need a lift back to the station.’
Hope opened her eyes. She was lying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. She could see dots of blood peppered in a V directly above her head. She glanced at her arm, where the line of an IV ran from her bloodied wrist up to a drip bag.
The baby was gone. She knew that. The little body that had grown in her belly for the last nine months, twisting and turning, was no more. The pain had eased but she could feel the child’s shadow as though it had refused to let go even after the last contraction and burst of pain. And after that? She could not recall.
‘Oh, you’re awake.’ A nurse in a white tunic lifted Hope’s wrist, jiggled the drip bag and tightened a blood pressure monitor around her upper arm.
The hiss of the expanding cuff pinched Hope’s arm but it was nothing like the pain she had experienced a few hours ago. Or was it days? She had no memory of what had occurred. Why not?
‘How long … how long have I been here?’ Her voice sounded raw, not like hers at all.
‘You were brought in by ambulance about an hour ago.’ The nurse wrote notes in the chart at the foot of the bed. ‘Can you tell me your name?’
‘What? Why do you want to know?’
‘For one, I can’t keep calling you “the girl in cubicle three”. And two, we need it for our records.’
Hope toyed with the idea of giving a false name, but she knew she would be found out. Eventually.
‘Hope Cotter.’
‘Address?’ The nurse was scribbling on a clipboard.
‘Fifty-three Munbally Grove.’ Hope waited for a reaction as she gave the address from the wrong end of town. But there was none. And how come she could remember those details but not what had led to her being here?
‘I’ll get a doctor to come in to have a word with you. No more talking for the time being, and don’t go back to sleep yet, do you hear?’
‘You said something about an ambulance? How … Who … I don’t understand …’
‘Now what did I say about not talking? Rest yourself. The doctor will answer all your questions.’ The nurse made to leave, then turned. ‘The gardaí want a word with you too.’
‘What?’
But the door had already swung shut, leaving Hope alone with her fuzzy memories and a knot of fear tightening in her chest. Why did the guards want to talk to her? She didn’t know what was going on.
But there was one thing she knew for sure.
She had to get out of here.
And soon.
‘Who did she kill?’ Sitting at his desk, black hair flopping over his forehead, Acting Superintendent David McMahon was staring at Lottie like he wanted to laser her in two.
Lottie stuck her hands into her jeans pockets and leaned back against the wall of his office.
‘That’s a bit presumptuous, sir.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.
If he starts to swivel, Lottie thought, I’ll swing for him. But he didn’t move.
He continued. ‘She appears at the station, covered in blood, announcing, and I quote, “I think I killed him.” That sounds to me like there’s a body out there waiting to be found.’
‘According to the A&E consultant, she had delivered a baby and the placenta was still intact, so it caused a major haemorrhage. It’s probable that the blood was her own.’
‘And you’re a doctor now, are you?’ he grunted. ‘Have blood tests been run yet?’
‘Being analysed as we speak.’
‘So you don’t actually know whether the blood on her clothes is her own or someone else’s?’
‘Not yet,’ Lottie admitted. She clenched her hands into fists inside the pockets of her jeans. She was sure McMahon knew he was infuriating her. As usual. But she had to admit he was right.
‘Therefore, you must treat her as a suspect in a murder. This is top priority. Go and find me the body.’
‘With respect, sir—’
‘No more is to be said on the matter.’ He stood, swiping his hair from his eyes, two pinpricks boring into her. He smoothed down his double-breasted waistcoat and buttoned up his jacket. ‘Get to it, Parker.’
‘For feck’s sake,’ she said under her breath as she pushed herself away from the wall and left his office.
McMahon had been gunning for her from day one. He had yet to hit the mark, but he was getting closer with each passing day. Lottie had got the better of him in a case last October when he’d been drafted in from the drugs squad. But when her superintendent, Myles Corrigan, had had to take sick leave, McMahon had secured the acting job ahead of her. As further punishment, he was continually bombarding her with paperwork, which she hated, and the pile was rising as high as his temper. Every morning he called her in to check on progress. At least this morning he’d had a different tune.
She headed for her own office, situated at the back of the main area. It was little more than a cubicle, much like the space their unknown girl was occupying in the hospital at the moment. But at least Lottie had a glass door rather than a curtain. Where was the girl’s baby? And was it dead or alive?
Detectives Larry Kirby and Maria Lynch were seated at their desks and neither raised their head as Lottie made her way past them.
‘Where’s Boyd?’ she asked, noticing his vacant chair.
Two sets of shoulders shrugged in answer.
‘What’s up with everyone?’ She knew it was a rhetorical question, but all the same, it bugged her when neither detective replied.
‘Have it your own way,’ she muttered and slammed her door. Sinking into the chair, she wished she could escape to a desert island. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not with three kids and a grandson to take care of.
She clicked on her computer, scrunched her eyes trying to remember her password, then shoved the keyboard away.
Her phone vibrated. Mother flashed on the screen. She rejected the call. Could the woman not leave her alone while she was at work? It was bad enough that Lottie had to live in her house and spend the evenings with her. At least she was in the process of decorating a rental house, with the help of Maria Lynch’s husband, Ben, but the day she and the children moved out couldn’t come quick enough. Hopefully it would happen early next week. She knew the kids needed their own space too. And soon. Otherwise Katie was in danger of murdering her younger sister. And Sean? Well, he was no bother—
The desk phone rang. Surely her mother wasn’t that insistent? But it was a nurse from the hospital. With news.
Lottie took down the name and address of the bloodied teenager and hung up. Just as she was about to leave, her mobile vibrated again.
‘Look, Mother, I’m busy,’ she said without checking the caller ID.
‘Lottie, are you okay?’ It was Father Joe.
‘Sorry. I thought you were … oh, you know.’ She felt exasperated and flopped back on her chair. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘Can you come over to the cathedral for a couple of minutes? I want to have a word with you.’
She really should be checking out Hope’s address before returning to the hospital to get an interview with her.
‘Sure. Where will I find you?’
‘I’ll be inside the main gate.’
As she finished the call, Boyd stuck his head round the door.
‘You were looking for me?’
‘Fancy a walk?’
The A&E department was chock-a-block. Doctors and nurses frantic. Orderlies and porters rushing to and fro. Hope found her clothes in a blue plastic bag on a steel rung under her bed. She tore off the IV and the hospital gown and slipped on her blood-soaked elasticated-waist jeans, still damp. The pain in her abdomen protested, but she got them on. Her T-shirt was a mess but she pulled it over her head anyway. There were pads jammed be. . .
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