The Bone Fire

Book 4: DS Lucy Golden

by Martina Murphy

Genres: Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

'If you want to start a new crime series, make it this one. It's one of the best I've ever read' - Amazon reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

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Pressure rises as a missing person's case has deadly crime gang connections...

A fatal fire in a holiday let on Slievemore, Achill Island, leaves one person dead and another missing. When the fire is deemed arson, DS Lucy Golden and her team are tasked with solving the murder and locating the missing woman, Moira Delaney.

As the case develops, the pressure builds when it transpires that Moira's father is a gangland figure and a suspect in three unsolved murders. If Lucy doesn't uncover what happened that morning in Slievemore, he will deploy his men to deal out his own sort of justice.

Things get even more complicated when a laptop is uncovered that could ruin all that Lucy holds dear. As the net on the suspect tightens, Lucy faces a difficult choice - will she use the laptop's secrets to save herself and bring a murderer to justice, or bury them and save her career... and her life?

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Readers and reviewers love The Bone Fire!

'From the second I started reading The Bone Fire, I simply could not put it down. This series has me totally hooked' - Amazon reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Another gritty, excellent read in the DS Lucy Golden series... It gripped me right from the start' - Amazon reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'I absolutely loved the first three books in this series and the same is true for this one... My advice is that if you want to start a new crime series, make it this one. It's one of the best I've ever read' - Amazon reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'With the raw and savagely beautiful Achill Island as a fitting backdrop, a tense and gut-wrenching plotline, and a cast of expertly drawn characters, Murphy delivers up a gritty and emotional reading experience' - Zoe Miller, author of A Husband's Confession

'A gripping mystery lies at the heart of this atmospheric and wonderfully written police procedural' - Brian McGilloway, author of the Lucy Black thrillers

'Meticulously plotted... a terrific read' - Irish Independent

'It's a good 'un... with the ups and downs of family life beautifully written' - Belfast Telegraph

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The Bone Fire is the propulsive fourth book in Martina Murphy's gripping DS Lucy Golden series - fans of Ann Cleeves' Vera and Shetland series, and of Patricia Gibney, S.A. Dunphy and Tana French, will love this series!

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 85000

Sample

Day 1

I’m walking through a house that looks like mine: the hall and the doors are in the same places but the colours are different. More vibrant. Yellow walls. Blue walls. Blood red walls. Blood? It drips from the ceiling and onto the floor. Plip-plop. And there is a ticking sound. Tick-tock. And I stand, frozen, wanting to run, but my feet are stuck. Up ahead, my son Luc is carrying my grandchild, Sirocco, and the tick-tock grows louder, and I try to call out to him to be careful, and even my voice doesn’t work so I reach for him and my arms are heavy and then—

SMASH.

I jerk awake, heart pounding. I’ve knocked the clock radio flying across the room where it has landed with a weak ‘bleep’ on the floor beside the door.

‘Sorry,’ I call out, because I know my mother, who sleeps in the next room, would have heard. But, of course, my ‘sorry’ only makes her scuttle from her room into mine.

‘What was that noise?’ she whispers, looking quite odd in her childish Donald Duck-patterned pyjamas, a gift from Sirocco. I don’t know why she’s whispering ‒ there’s only the two of us in the house.

‘I knocked over the clock radio.’

‘A bad dream?’

‘No.’

She knows I’m lying. Leaning against the door frame, she says, ‘Lucy, you need to do something about this.’

‘Haven’t I got sleeping tablets from the doctor?’ Pushing myself up, I flick on my mobile. It’s five in the morning. There’s not a hope of finding sleep now. I shove my feet into my runners, which are lying at the side of the bed. ‘Cuppa?’

‘At five in the morning?’

‘No, at seven. I was just going to put the kettle on now.’

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. ‘Nothing wrong with your sarcasm anyway,’ she says fondly, as she follows me, Donald Duck slippers flapping on her feet, along the hallway to the kitchen. On the way, we are forced to navigate towers of boxes, some open, their contents spilling out all over the floor, while others are sealed.

‘When is Luc ever going to sort that stuff out?’ I toe one of the closed ones.

‘Isn’t he doing his best?’ My mother is never one to bear criticism of her grandson. ‘It’s an emotional thing to go through all his dead father’s papers.’

‘He barely knew Rob.’ I fill the kettle. Saying it makes me feel mean. Rob, my robber husband, the person we’d all mutually despised, had only gone and tried to save our lives just over five months ago. He had died in doing so and now, well, it’s hard to know how to feel about him. The papers and radio shows at the time had had a field day. ‘Convicted Fraudster Hero,’ one paper had proclaimed, in a rather confusing headline. There had been debates on talk shows about bad people who had done great acts. For years, I had got used to being flippant and snarky about Rob, but now there’s a tug on my heart that says he probably wasn’t the monster I believed him to be.

My mother settles herself in a kitchen chair and studies me, head to the side. ‘Still …’ she says.

‘Still,’ I agree, pulling down two cups.

It’s disconcerting to have all the boxes in the hall, though. Luc had brought them home two weeks ago, after Rob’s estate had been settled. Everything except a few photographs had been left to him. So far, from what I can tell, it’s a lot of flashy bad-taste clothes, a pile of papers that detail the pitiful savings in Rob’s bank accounts, a laptop with a password none of us can figure out and copious stunning photographs of the Mayo coastline.

And that was it, the sum total of Rob’s time on earth.

And although Luc is cold-shouldering me, at least he’s in good form with everyone else. Of late, he even seems quite buoyant. It makes me hope that he’s moving on from Rob’s death.

I fill the teapot and pour us both a cuppa. My mother looks tired, probably because I keep waking her. I watch her add five heaped teaspoons of sugar to her cup.

‘Mam—’

‘I can’t drink early-morning tea without sugar.’ She shuts me down, then says, ‘I thought they gave you, you know, counselling in the guards.’

‘I did it.’ And I had, dutifully trotting out the whole story of my home being invaded by a man with a grudge against me. How my ex-husband had taken the hit. How I’d been powerless to do anything. I’d told the story until I was numb. I’m an expert in recounting tales of brutal deeds, having spent years going to court and trotting out other people’s traumas, so I’d employed the same techniques to my own narrative. ‘I am fine. I can do my job. It’ll just take time for the dreams to stop.’ Then I add, ‘It’s like when you treat a wound and put a plaster on it and it takes a little while to … heal.’

My mother is pleased with that. ‘I get it. Oh, that’s good.’

After the case I’d been working on at the time had been put to bed, William, the DI, had insisted I take a few weeks off so I could sort myself out, and I had gone on holiday. I had never been so bored in my life. I’d come back and engaged with An Garda Síochána’s services. They’re allegedly there to help any guard who’d been through a trauma in the course of their duties. Honestly, that’s about 90 per cent of us, but only a few seek help. And it’s mainly the desperate. No one wants to see their career skydive because other people think they can’t cope. I only did it because I knew William would insist on it, would check up on me. And it worked. I’m fine, mostly, except for the dreams. My mother seems to have bounced back from the events of that night, as has Luc, though our relationship has shifted a little on account of what he found out about my previous life as a detective in Dublin during the attack. I’m hoping it’ll settle in time.

My mother finishes her tea. She has the impressive ability to drain a scalding hot cuppa in seconds. ‘I’ll go back to bed.’ She yawns widely. ‘I’ll lie on in the morning.’ Crossing towards me she drops a soft kiss on the top of my head. ‘Night.’

‘Night.’

She leaves, nimbly hopping over large brown boxes, and I hope I’ll be as agile when I hit my seventies. Carrying my tea over to the window, I watch the sun creep over the hills and paint the sky scarlet. All is silent as a new day breaks open.

Sometime later the lyrics from ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ playing at full volume rouse me from where I’d fallen asleep at the table. It takes a second to adjust before I realise that the music is my work-phone ringtone.

My knees crack as I hobble into my bedroom to where I’d left it on my locker. ‘William’ is the name on caller display and part of me sings. My boss, DI William Williams. He hasn’t sidelined me because I’ve received trauma counselling. Something has happened and he wants me on his team. Another part of me dreads the news of what tragedy has unfolded.

I swallow, press answer. ‘Cig? It’s Lucy.’

‘There’s been a fire at a house on Slievemore. The chief fire officer believes it might have been deliberate. And we’ve a fatality. We’re locking the scene down.’

My heart judders. I know people out that way. ‘Any idea of who it is?’ I fight to keep my voice steady.

‘Not yet. See you in ten.’

I tell him I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

By the time I arrive at the scene, the sun is creeping up in the east. Though we’ve had a very bad start to spring, June is doing its best to make us think we might have a shot at summer.

I park my new car a little away from the cordon. It’s only a few months old and I do not want it smelling of smoke. I would have taken a DDU ‒ district detective unit ‒ vehicle from the station but it was quicker to come direct. William is not a man who likes to be kept waiting. Jordy, a sergeant in the Achill station, is the guard on duty, responsible for preserving the scene and the log book. He looks beat, not used to being roused so early from his bed.

‘Lucy,’ he wheezes, as I arrive up, ‘how have you been?’

‘Grand, Jordy. Yourself?’ Even as I’m asking, I’m scanning the area. The mountain, Slievemore, rears up like the crest of a wave about to engulf the graveyard, the deserted village and the few occupied houses scattered along it. The closest residence has been reduced to a blackened ruin. Two fire brigades and two ambulances are in attendance. The blaze appears to be in its dying throes.

‘I’m good.’ Jordy thumbs to the house. ‘The place is gutted. It was ferocious, I heard. Deliberate too, they think.’

‘And the ambulances?’

‘One child. Found upstairs. He’s alive.’

‘Aw, Jesus.’ After signing into the scene, Jordy allows me through.

As I approach, having donned the forensic suit, which, as usual, is enormous, the residual heat from the fire meets me like a wall while the smoke finds its way into my eyes. I recognise the residence: it’s a holiday let, belonging to my mother’s friend Lorna. It was a pretty cottage, aimed at tourists, with its whitewashed walls and bright red door. The walls are black now, the windows blown out, the door charred and falling, revealing the gaping hole of the interior. The lads from the fire brigade are still on alert in case the fire decides to kick off again. Until the heat dies, anything can happen. The stench of damp and smoke hangs heavy in the still morning air. The building groans, dying, creaking and straining. Water trickles down through the destroyed shell.

I fire off a quick text to my mother looking for Lorna’s number just as I notice a tall figure making his way across the grass towards me. Even under the mask, he’s recognisable. It’s in his assured walk, in the scrutiny of his ice blue eyes. I wonder suddenly if he has any bad dreams. Will he have bad dreams about this scene? Of all the members on the team, he’s had more than his fair share of trauma. With a nod of greeting, he launches straight in, ‘They reckon another few hours and they’ll be able to let us enter,’ he says, his eyes raking over the smouldering ruin. ‘According to the fire officer, the body of the victim was located in what we believe was the kitchen area. The person was on the floor, in the middle of the room. Right now, they’ve no idea how the fire started, but because it took so fast, they reckon there must have been an accelerant used.’

‘Accelerant? With a child in the house?’

There’s hesitation, which is not like him. Then he says, ‘Two children. One alive and one …’ He looks skywards and heaves a sigh.

Of all the things I’ve encountered in this job, I’m still staggered at the depths of horror out there. ‘Where are the parents?’ I swallow my upset.

‘We haven’t found any.’

I don’t respond to that. Chances are we might find a parent, dead somewhere in the vicinity, after taking their own life and deciding to take the children with them. Or maybe having drunk themselves into a stupor and been unable to react when the fire started. ‘How is the child that’s alive?’

‘A bit of smoke inhalation but he’ll be all right.’

He’ll never be all right. This moment will sear itself on his soul in ways that will be hard to predict. The ‘why’ of it will be the thing to brand him. Whatever the ‘why’ is.

‘So, two things.’ William is back to business. ‘I need you to talk to the man who called nine-nine-nine. He lives across that field.’ He points to the next house over, just a white blur in the distance. It’s a rented house too and I don’t know who lives there. ‘Also I need you to find out who—’

My phone rings, blaring out the Wham! song

William raises his eyebrows as if to say who the hell is calling me on my work mobile.

I glance at the screen and recognise the number. I flick it off but it immediately starts up again. Jesus, I think, why can’t she just answer a simple text message?

‘Mam,’ I say into it, as William makes a tsk sound while glaring impatiently at me. ‘Can you please just text me back and—’

‘Why do you want Lorna’s number? Has something happened? I’m sorry, but if something has, I don’t think you should be the one—’

‘If you don’t give me her number right now I will arrest you for obstructing a garda inquiry.’

Beside me William splutters out what I think might be a laugh.

‘You wouldn’t.’

She’s right. ‘Her holiday home is on fire,’ I snap. ‘Now can you—’

‘Oh, my God, Lorna said there was someone renting it. A long-term lease. She was delighted and—’

‘Mam.’

She stops abruptly and rattles off Lorna’s name and address. Then, as she’s expressing her hope that everyone is safe, I hang up. ‘The owner is Lorna Long, Keel,’ I say to William. ‘Do you want me to go and talk to her?’

‘Yes. Better do it straight after you talk to your man over in that house. It might give us an early ID on who was living in the place. There’s no car outside that we’ve found yet. When is Dan due back?’

‘Day after tomorrow, all going well.’ Dan is my work partner and right now he’s in hospital, having tripped over a garden urn that he hadn’t known was there. It’s a long story involving his partner’s mother who has just moved in with them. He’d suffered bad concussion and a bruised elbow.

‘Grand. Right. Give Kev a shout, get him out of bed. Tell him to set up the incident room and pull the usual team together, depending on who is available. We don’t know what we’re looking at yet, but if I was a betting man, I’d say we might have arson resulting in a murder, along with an attempted murder on our hands.’ He shoots a sideways look at me. ‘Are you all right with that?’

‘Sure.’ I pretend I don’t know what he’s referring to. I tap my notebook, which I’ve jammed into the pocket of my rain jacket. ‘I’ll get going.’

‘I’ll give you a call when we get the all-clear to go in. The more eyes the better.’

‘Yep.’

‘And, Lucy,’ I turn back to him, ‘on your way out, tell Jordy to tuck his shirt into his trousers, for fuck’s sake. When the bloody press get here, they’ll think some middle-aged country bumpkin is in charge of the perimeter.’

Jordy is a middle-aged country bumpkin, I’m tempted to say, but instead I answer, ‘I’ll have a word. See you later.’

He tips me a salute and saunters off in the direction of the fire officer.

Two children. Who the hell would set a fire with two children in the house? What sort of a person does that? Did whoever did it know that the children were there? And where was the mother or father? Will they be found on—

A volley of small stones hits the windscreen as my car slides on a tight bend. I’m driving too fast. Slowing down, I think it wouldn’t be great to crash my brand-new car so soon after buying it. The lads in the station would have a field day.

Five minutes later, I pull up outside the home of the person who had reported the fire. From this vantage point, I can clearly see the plumes of black smoke drifting away across the mountain. Small flickers of flame, like miscreant children, leap up from the blackened ruin and are immediately quenched.

It takes five minutes to get an answer from the occupier, who rattles about inside, looking for a key, I think, before eventually pulling open the door.

‘Lucy! Hey!’

For feck’s sake. I face the man who’d broken my heart when I was fifteen and who, through a series of misfortunes, has featured in my life ever since. ‘Johnny. You live here now?’ I don’t know where to look as he’s wearing nothing but a short silk dressing-gown tied loosely with a flimsy belt.

‘For the last four months,’ he says, lounging in the doorway. ‘In fact, since my marriage imploded I haven’t settled for too long anywhere. It’s been hell.’

‘Indeed.’ I take out my notebook. ‘Pity you were such a shit to your wife and daughter. Now, I’ve a few questions for you regarding—’

‘Is this part of your interview technique?’ He feigns shock. ‘Going about insulting your witnesses?’

‘No. Reserved especially for you.’

He laughs a little and opens the door wider. ‘You’d better come in, I suppose. D’you want a cup of tea? Or some toast? It’s very early to be working.’

I’m surprised he even knows how to do toast. Johnny Egan had always been a bit too much about Johnny Egan to bother with the normalities of life, and for some reason I’d found it wildly attractive. ‘No.’ I follow him down his hall as he leads the way to the kitchen. ‘Thanks anyway. I just want you to tell me anything you remember about seeing the fire earlier.’

‘I’m having toast.’ Rubbing a hand through his messy blond hair, he gestures to a kitchen chair. ‘You can sit there. It’s clean.’

‘Good to know.’ I perch on it, ready to leave as quickly as I can. ‘What time did you notice this fire?’ I keep my tone professional.

He pops two slices of bread into his toaster. ‘Are you always like this? Straight down to business?’

‘When I’m doing my job, yeah.’ I wait a second, then add, ‘This isn’t a social call.’

Chuckling, he pulls butter from the fridge. ‘About half five,’ he says, sniffing the butter. ‘I was after finishing a design for a house out in Ballycroy, and I was just heading to bed and I saw this reddish glow. At first I thought, you know, it was a lantern or a torch but, like, it was red and it sort of kept ebbing and flaring up. I went outside and there was a smell of smoke in the air so I figured it had to be a fire.’ He pokes a finger into his butter and takes a cautious lick. ‘That’s fine.’ He’s referring to the butter, which he sets on the table. Then to me, ‘I called nine-nine-nine and the girl on the other end of the line said she’d send someone out and I went to bed.’

It’s only Johnny who could report a fire, then go to bed. Still, it’s always been out of sight, out of mind with him. ‘You saw a glow about five thirty, rang it in and went to bed?’

He must hear the incredulity in my tone because he answers a little defensively, ‘I’ve an early start in the morning, which is earlier now, thanks to you. And sure,’ a shrug, ‘I’m not a fireman.’ His very pale toast pops and he slathers it with half a block of butter. He offers me the plate. ‘You positive?’

‘If I had any regrets about refusing the first time, I don’t now. It looks rank.’

‘Your loss.’ He bites into one of the slices.

‘Do you know who lives in that house?’

‘It was a house?’ His jaw drops, exposing masticated bread. ‘Aw, Jesus, I thought it was one of the bonfires for St John’s Eve. They seem to be everywhere this year. Was anyone hurt?’

He’ll find out soon enough. ‘We think so but we haven’t been into the scene yet. A child was taken to hospital, though.’

There’s a moment of disbelief before he puts his toast down and shoves his plate away. ‘Jesus. Sorry, I’ve been a dick. What is it you want to know?’

‘If you know who lives there?’

‘I’m out most of the time. Could be a woman …’ he pauses ‘… or maybe a man. I saw a man there a few weeks back.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘It was a while ago,’ he says. ‘I don’t know. Big fella. Physically strong, I mean. He was walking up the drive as I was driving past. It was the day I was meeting Akins and Co for a redesign of their offices, so I can check the date.’ He spends a moment locating his phone. ‘June the second,’ he says, and I jot it down.

‘What was this guy wearing?’

‘Nothing that stood out. Jeans, I think, and a black jacket. He had jet black hair, because I remember thinking, I bet that fella’s dyed his hair.’

Takes one to know one, I feel like saying. Instead, I close my notebook and stand up. ‘Thanks. I’ll be back if I need anything else.’

‘Sure.’ He smiles a goodbye and for the tiniest of seconds my heart flutters, like baby kicks.

Trying to ignore it, I march with purpose out of the kitchen and into the hall. I’m about to open the front door when he calls out, ‘I was wondering … how are you? You know after … well … everything?’

The question catches me by surprise, and I stall, swallowing a sudden lump in my throat. I turn around slowly. ‘Fine.’ My voice is a croak.

‘Right. Good.’ Another shrug. ‘It’s just …’ he pauses again, not sure maybe if he should, but finally blurts out ‘… you look tired.’

‘It’s six thirty in the morning, Johnny.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

Awkwardly, ‘Thanks for asking.’

‘Anytime.’ Awkwardness over, he turns back to his toast.

As I knew she would, my mother has already rung Lorna to break the news because Lorna is waiting for me when I pull up to her house.

‘Lucy!’ She runs to greet me as I make my way up her drive, then trots alongside me, breathlessly firing out questions. ‘What’s been happening? Your mother rang and we weren’t sure whether to go up to the cottage or to stay here. But your mother said you’d call. Oh dear, this is terrible, terrible. What’s happened?’

The woman is as thin as a rake, but strong-looking, with the quick movements of the perpetually nervous. Chattering about how awful this all is, she leads me into her tidy but overly fussy kitchen. Knick-knacks vie for space on the shelves – ceramic hens, paper hearts, St Brigid’s crosses, cheap ornaments and an alarming number of photos all featuring hens of different hues.

‘How bad is it?’ She finally comes to a standstill beside her kitchen table. Before I can answer, she calls, ‘Denis, Lucy Golden is here.’ Then, to me, ‘Sit down. I’ll make some tea.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘Denis will want tea anyway.’ She scurries over to the sink and fills the kettle. ‘Sit. Go on. Sit.’

As she’s whirling about getting cups and making toast, Denis arrives into the kitchen, freshly washed and shaved. He slides in beside me.

‘How’s Lucy? How’s your mother?’

There’s no rush with him. It’s like he sucks Lorna’s panic out of the room. His breath smells of mouthwash.

‘She’s grand, thanks. Ye were very good letting her stay after the … attack.’ Even now, I have trouble referencing it.

‘That was a terrible how-do-you-do.’ Denis shakes his head. ‘The poor woman was half cracked with the shock. Fair play to you all moving back into that house.’ He waits a beat, then asks, ‘So, our house? Badly damaged?’

Lorna turns towards me, eyes huge with anxiety.

I brace myself. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Oh.’ That’s Lorna. ‘Oh dear.’

‘The house is destroyed,’ I say, as gently as I can. ‘I’m sorry.’

A shocked silence broken only as Lorna sits down heavily on a spindly kitchen chair.

Denis stands and squeezes her shoulder, ‘It’s insured, let’s not worry.’ He turns to me. ‘And our tenants? Are they all right? Any idea what caused it?’

‘That’s why I’m here. I need details of who was renting it from you.’

‘You mean they’re not at the house?’

‘Look, you’ll read about it soon anyway, but we believe there was a fatality and—’

Lorna covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Not the mother? Not Moira?’ She looks in horror at Denis.

‘Will you let Lucy talk?’ Denis admonishes gently. He turns to me. ‘A fatality?’

‘Yes. We have no ID yet. One child was pulled alive from the upstairs bedroom and …’ like William, I find it hard to say ‘… one child we think is dead.’

They both inhale sharply. Lorna stifles what I think is a sob.

I let them take that in before adding, ‘It’s terrible, I know. How many people were in the house?’

‘Three,’ Denis confirms. ‘But … well, I think Moira told me only …’ he frowns ‘… the day before yesterday the children were going to be away today, that they were going on a sleepover last night. Are you sure?’

‘We don’t have an ID on the body in the kitchen yet. The firemen thought it might be a child but … we don’t know.’ Even as I say it, I know it’s crap. The firemen do know. ‘Who did she tell you was taking them last night?’

‘She didn’t. I just passed her in the street and said to her that she had her hands full with them and she said she’d enjoy the break when they were on their sleepover tomorrow. And I just laughed, the way you do.’ He sounds bereft.

‘The children are Bren and Ella,’ Lorna jumps in. ‘Bren is about four, chatty little chap. And Ella is the opposite, never talks but she’s a lovely little thing. About five or six, I think. And Moira, she’s the mother. Is she not … ?’

‘We haven’t found her. Would she be in the habit of leaving her children alone?’

‘She loved those kidd. . .