‘You have to be quiet. Please. Don’t cry again.’
‘But… but she hurt me. I want to go back to our other mummy.’
‘Shh. Shh. I do too. But if we’re good, this mummy won’t hurt us. You have to be really, really good.’
More crying. ‘Too hard to be good. I’m so hungry. Hic… hic.’
‘Don’t get hiccups. Don’t. You make her so mad.’
I wrap my arms around my twin’s small, thin body and stare into the blackness. It is too dark in here. When the mummy woman turned off the hall light, even the little crack at the lock was filled with blackness. I lean into the folds of the vacuum cleaner bag, try to make a pillow for my head, but it is too lumpy, my body too bony. Pins and needles prickle my arm where my twin’s head rests.
I am too cramped to move. The weight of my twin lying on me would be very light for the big people, I think, but it feels like a monster to me.
A spider lowers itself from a web, down on to my nose, and I scream. My twin slips from my grasp. A head cracks loudly against the wall. We are both screaming now.
In the confined space of the hall cupboard, our screams are loud and shrill. Neither of us knows why the other is howling. Neither of us can stop the other crying. Neither of us knows when the horror will end.
And then… the sound of the lock opening.
Carrie King puts her hands over her ears. Will they ever shut up? Sobbing, crying, screaming. Little brats. After all she has done for them. Given up her drugs. Stopped drinking. Become someone she isn’t. For them. To get them back. She had to do it, especially after the others were taken from her. Fought so hard for them.
‘Shut up!’
She uncorks the whiskey bottle and fills a glass. Two gulps later, she feels the warmth seep into her veins. That’s better. But she still hears them. Another gulp.
‘Enough!’ She runs from the kitchen. Bangs on the door of the cupboard in the hallway.
‘I said, shut up! If I hear one more word, I’ll kill the two of you,’ she screams.
Leaning against the white chipboard, her chest rising and heaving from the effort, she listens above the thumping of her heart. Still crying, but softer now. Whimpers.
‘Thank God,’ she sighs. ‘Peace at last.’
She drags herself back to the kitchen, dirt and crumbs sticking to her bare feet. Standing at the clogged sink, peering out through the smeared window, she pops an acid pill, but she really needs a smoke. Pulling the small bag of weed from her skirt pocket, she rolls a joint and takes two hits from the spliff in quick succession.
Her legs weaken at her knees. She can see two windows, or is that three? The bread bin hops along the bench and the sweeping brush is begging for a dance partner.
She laughs, and lights a candle. This is seriously good shit, or is it the acid? Turning, she grabs the whiskey bottle and drinks from its neck. It doesn’t taste so sharp now. She opens the book lying by her hand, before closing it again. She can’t remember when she last read, but this looked good. She liked the little pictures. Now, though, it is mocking her.
The racket from the hallway has ceased and she hears the angels singing. Up there, lying in white fluffy clouds on her ceiling. They look kind of cute. Not like the twin bastards that have cost her so much of her life. At least she got them back. Away from their foster mother. That was a laugh. That woman had no idea how to raise children.
‘Hello, little angel friends,’ she chirps at the ceiling, her voice an octave higher than normal. ‘Have you come to shut the brats up?’
That’s when she hears screams. Scrunching her face in confusion, she stares blindly around the kitchen. The angels have fled.
Carrie King takes another slug of whiskey, following it with a drag on her joint, and grabs hold of the wooden spoon. As she flees the kitchen, she doesn’t notice she has knocked over the candle and the bottle.
‘I’ll give you two something to cry about. So help me God, I will.’
Carnmore was a quiet area, situated on the outskirts of Ragmullin. The main road had once run through it, but after the ring road had been constructed, it was cut off and mainly accessed by residents, or used as a rat run by those aware of its existence. Almost five hundred metres separated the two houses built there and only every third street lamp remained lit. On a night like this, with rain thundering down to earth, it was a bleak and desolate place. Trees shook their wet branches free of their remaining leaves and the ground was sludgy and black.
The crime-scene tape was already in place when Detective Inspector Lottie Parker and Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd arrived. Two squad cars blocked the house from the view of any curious onlookers. But the area was quiet, except for garda activity.
Lottie looked over at Boyd. He shook his head. At over six feet tall, he was lean and well toned. His hair, once black, now shaded with grey, was cut close around his ears, which stuck out slightly.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s get out of this rain. I hate calls late at night.’
‘And I hate domestics,’ Boyd said, turning up the collar of his coat.
‘Could be a home invasion. A burglary gone wrong.’
‘Could be anything at this stage, but Marian Russell’s had a barring order against her husband, Arthur, for the last twelve months,’ Boyd said, reading from a page dripping with rainwater. ‘An order he has flouted on two occasions.’
‘Still doesn’t mean it was him. We have to assess the scene first.’
She pulled her black puffa jacket tight to her throat. She hoped this winter wasn’t going to be as bad as the last one. October could be a lovely time, but currently there was a storm warning, status orange, and forecasters intimated it could change to red at a moment’s notice. Being surrounded by lakes, Ragmullin was susceptible to flooding, and Lottie had had enough of the rain over the last two weeks.
After a cursory look at a car in the drive, she approached the house. The door was open. A uniformed garda barred the entrance. When he recognised her, he nodded.
‘Good evening, Inspector. It’s not a pretty sight.’
‘I’ve seen so much carnage in the last year, I doubt anything will shock me.’ Lottie pulled a pair of protective gloves from her pocket, blew into them and tried to ease them over her damp hands. From her bag she removed disposable overshoes.
‘How did he get in?’ Boyd said.
‘Door isn’t forced, so he might have had a key,’ Lottie said. ‘And we don’t know it’s a “he” yet.’
‘Arthur Russell was on a barring order; he shouldn’t have had a key.’
‘Boyd… will you give me a chance?’
Bending down, Lottie inspected a trail of bloody footprints leading along the hallway to where she was standing. ‘Blood tramped the whole way out.’
‘Both ways.’ Boyd pointed to the imprints.
‘Did the assailant come back to the door to check something, or to let someone else in?’
‘SOCOs can take impressions. Mind where you walk.’
Lottie glared at Boyd as she stepped carefully along the narrow hall. It led to a compact old-style kitchen, though it appeared to be a relatively new extension. Without entering further, she shivered at the sight in front of her. She welcomed the sense of Boyd standing close behind her. It made her feel human in the face of such inhumanity.
‘It was some fight,’ he said.
A wooden table was turned upside down. Two chairs had been flung against it, and one had three legs broken off. Books and papers were scattered across the floor, along with a phone and a laptop, screens broken, smashed as if someone had stomped on them. Every movable object appeared to have been swept from the counter tops. A combination of sauces and soups dripped down the cupboard doors, and a tap was running water freely into the sink.
Drawing her eyes from the chaos, which evidenced a violent struggle, Lottie studied the corpse. The body lay face down in a small pool of blood. Short brown hair was matted to the head where a gaping wound of blood, bone and brain was clearly visible. The right leg stuck out to one side at an impossible angle, as did the left arm. The skirt was torn and a red blouse was ripped up the back.
‘Bruises visible on her spine,’ Boyd said.
‘Badly beaten,’ Lottie whispered. ‘Is that vomit?’ She looked down at a splurge of liquid two inches from her feet.
‘Marian Russell’s daughter was—’ Boyd began.
‘No. She couldn’t get in. She’d forgotten her front door key and didn’t have the one to the back door. She yelled for her mother through the letter box. Ran round the back. After heading back up the road to her friend’s house, she called the emergency services. So the report says.’
‘If she didn’t go inside, then one of ours spilled his guts,’ Boyd said.
‘No need to be so explicit. I can see it.’ Lottie went to run her fingers through her hair but the gloves snagged. ‘Where’s the daughter now?’
‘Emma? With a neighbour.’
‘Poor girl. Having to see this.’
‘But she didn’t see—’
‘The report says she looked through the back door window, Boyd. Saw enough to never have a decent night’s sleep for the rest of her life.’
‘How do you sleep? I mean, with all you witness in the job. I know I pound it out on my bike, but how do you cope?’
‘Now’s not the time for this conversation.’ Lottie didn’t like Boyd’s probing questions. He knew enough about her already.
Stepping into the kitchen, she realised they were compromising a scene already contaminated by the first responders. ‘Are the scene-of-crime officers on the way?’
‘Five minutes or so,’ Boyd said.
‘While we’re waiting, let’s try and figure out what happened here.’
‘The husband broke in—’
‘Jesus, Boyd! Will you stop? We don’t know it was the husband.’
‘Of course it’s him.’
‘Okay, for a second, say I agree. The big question is why. What drove him to it? He’s been barred from the family home for twelve months and now he goes mad. Why tonight?’ Lottie sucked on her lip, thinking. Something wasn’t right with the scene before her. But she couldn’t put her finger on it. Not yet, anyway. ‘Has Arthur Russell been located?’
‘No sign of him. Checkpoints are in place. Traffic units have the car registration. Our records show he’s banned from driving, but the car isn’t here so we can assume he took it. We’ll find him,’ Boyd said.
‘If your hypothesis is correct, then who owns the car in the drive?’
‘Registration is being checked as we speak.’
Hearing a commotion behind her, Lottie turned. Jim McGlynn, SOCO team leader, was beside her in two strides, his large forensic case weighing him down on one side.
‘Are you two retiring any time soon?’ he asked.
Lottie squeezed against the wall, allowing him to pass. ‘No, why?’
‘Death seems to follow you around. Stay outside until I say you can come in.’
Gritting her teeth, Lottie forced the words she wanted to say to stay in her mouth, and waited as McGlynn’s team laid down foot-sized steel pallets so they wouldn’t add anything else to the crime scene. She eyed Boyd rubbing his hand down his mouth and along his jaw. Burning to say something. Putting her finger to her lips, she shushed him.
‘Who does he think he is?’ Boyd whispered in her ear.
‘Our best friend at the moment,’ Lottie said.
They stood in silence and watched the forensic team work the scene for evidence. After twenty-five minutes, Jane Dore, the state pathologist, arrived, and McGlynn eventually turned the body over.
It was then that Lottie realised what was wrong. The body could not be that of Marian Russell. It was a much older woman.
‘Who the hell is that?’ Boyd asked.
‘Blunt-force trauma to the back of the skull.’ Jane Dore tore off her forensic suit and stuffed it into the paper bag held out for her by her assistant. At five foot nothing, the state pathologist made up in expertise what she lacked in height. ‘Find the weapon and I can match it to the wound.’
‘Any idea what the weapon might be?’ Lottie asked.
‘Something hard and rounded.’
‘Anything else you can tell us?’ Lottie tried not to plead. ‘We still have to identify her.’
‘Well, I’ve no idea who the victim is. I’ll schedule the post-mortem for eight in the morning. Maybe the body can tell us something. Come along and see for yourself.’
‘I will. Thanks.’ Lottie watched the pathologist walk out into the rain, her driver holding a wide umbrella over her head.
‘There’s a ladies’ raincoat hanging on the stair post. It’s damp,’ she said to Boyd as he stood outside the front door. He lit two cigarettes and handed her one.
‘So?’ he said.
She took a drag. She didn’t smoke. Not really. Only when Boyd gave her one. A double vodka would go down nicely, she thought. She had tried to give up alcohol, numerous times, but in the last few months she’d found herself slipping back into old habits. She took a double pull on the cigarette and coughed out the smoke.
‘Whoever she is, she called to visit and maybe disturbed a burglar. That must be her coat in there,’ Lottie said.
‘Brute of a night for social calls,’ Boyd said.
‘There’s no handbag. Nothing to tell us who she is.’
‘Someone will know her.’
‘Where’s Marian Russell? According to her daughter’s report, she was here when Emma left to go to her friend’s house.’
‘Where does the friend live?’
‘Next house down.’
‘That’s about a mile away,’ Boyd said.
‘More like five hundred metres,’ Lottie corrected him.
‘It’s dark and wet. Why would she let her child walk home?’
‘Emma Russell is seventeen years old.’ Lottie quenched the butt between her fingertips and handed it to Boyd. He placed both butts into the cigarette packet. She added, ‘We need to find Marian Russell.’
‘Kirby’s working on it.’
‘Let’s have a look around the back yard.’
‘I’ll get McGlynn to switch on the outside light.’ He headed inside.
The rain eased slightly but still Lottie found herself sloshing in and out of puddles as she made her way around the gable of the house. The building seemed to be a converted farmhouse, but the farm was long gone. A wide hedgerow provided the boundary as far as she could see, which in the dark wasn’t far.
As she stepped into the yard, the external wall light blinked on, filling the space with an amber hue.
‘Oh my God,’ she said.
Boyd came out of the back door. ‘What did you find?’
On the ground just outside the door lay a baseball bat, blood draining from it in the rain. Beside it was an old-fashioned black leather handbag, with an open brass clasp on top, its contents spilled out onto the paving stones.
‘The weapon,’ Boyd said. ‘Someone was in a hurry.’
‘And if this isn’t Marian’s handbag, it must belong to the victim inside.’
Lottie crouched down and with gloved fingers carefully turned over a plastic card lying on the saturated ground.
‘Blood donor card. Tessa Ball,’ she said. The name sparked a recognition nerve somewhere in her brain. But at the same time, she was convinced she had never met Tessa Ball.
‘What are you doing to my crime scene?’ McGlynn stood in the open doorway, towering over her. ‘Don’t touch a thing. I need everything photographed first.’ He shouted for a tent to be erected.
‘Okay, okay.’ Lottie stood up. ‘Keep your knickers on,’ she added in a whisper.
As McGlynn approached, she sidestepped him and followed Boyd back to the front of the house.
‘We need to speak to Emma,’ she said.
‘You need to slow down,’ Boyd replied.
‘I will, when I find whoever killed that old woman.’
Emma Russell’s hair hung long and limp over her shoulders. Lottie watched Emma’s eyes following her through plain-framed spectacles. A woman stood behind the girl’s chair.
‘Bernie Kelly,’ the woman said. ‘Please sit down.’
‘Thanks for taking care of Emma,’ Lottie said, sitting on the couch. She introduced herself and Boyd and said, ‘As soon as I can organise it, I’ll assign a family liaison officer. Are you okay to have a chat with us, Emma?’
Emma sat forward on the armchair, her arms hanging between her denim-clad legs, twisting a tissue round and round her fingers. She nodded.
The sitting room was small and sad, stuffed with furniture and ornaments. A coal fire blazed in the open hearth, and it seemed to Lottie as if its heat was pulling the walls in on top of them. An oil diffuser did little to lighten the smell of smoke.
‘I know you’ve had an awful shock,’ she said, ‘but it’s important for us to talk to you as soon as we can.’
‘Okay,’ Emma whispered.
‘First off, do you know a woman called Tessa Ball?’ Lottie asked. Within the last fifteen minutes they had positively identified the victim from the driver’s licence found in the handbag. And the registration plates proved the car in the drive belonged to her too.
‘She’s my granny,’ Emma said, raising her head.
‘Your granny?’ Lottie turned to Boyd. He sat forward.
‘Oh my God!’ Emma gasped. ‘That was her, wasn’t it? Lying like that… on the kitchen floor. Who would do such a thing?’
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,’ Lottie said, mentally kicking herself. ‘Can you tell me what you saw?’
‘I… I don’t really know.’ Tears slipped down Emma’s cheeks. She removed her spectacles and wiped the glass with a piece of the torn tissue, then shrugged Bernie’s hand from her shoulder.
‘Are you sure you’re okay to discuss this? I’m sorry if it seems harsh, but we need to act immediately.’ Lottie felt Boyd nudge her in the ribs. She inched away from him, but there was nowhere to go.
‘You need to find my mum.’
‘We have people out looking for her. Do you have any idea where she might be?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Okay. Emma, I need your help to establish what happened.’
Emma looked up, eyes wide. ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Tell me about your evening. Start at the beginning.’
‘Do we have to do this now?’ Bernie asked, her hand landing lightly on Emma’s shoulder once again.
‘I’m doing everything possible to find out what happened to your grandmother and to find your mother.’ Lottie directed her answer to Emma. ‘You might remember something you think is inconsequential, but it may in fact help us. You okay with that?’ She lowered her head, trying to see the girl’s eyes.
Emma spoke haltingly. ‘I came straight home after school and went to my room. Did my homework. I heard Mum come in from work around five. She called me for dinner at six. We had lasagne. The ready-made kind. Horrible crap, but I ate it, to keep her happy. She said she needed to work on her stupid course. I took the hint, made a cup of coffee and sat in the sitting room for a few minutes before Natasha rang me and I came over here. Watched the telly. That’s all I did.’
‘What time did you go home?’ Lottie asked, glancing at Boyd to make sure he was taking notes.
‘Mum told me to be home by nine, but I think it was maybe after ten thirty by the time I got back. She’s usually okay if I’m late as long as she knows where I am. I couldn’t find my key. It’s never a problem, because Mum is always at home at night…’ Emma’s voice trailed off and she looked up at Lottie. ‘Where is she?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to determine,’ Boyd said.
‘Why aren’t you out looking for her, instead of sitting here asking me stupid questions?’ Emma hung her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘I know you’re upset, Emma.’ Lottie reached out to touch the girl’s hand.
Emma grasped it. ‘Please find my mum.’
Squeezing her hand, Lottie said, ‘It’s upsetting, I know, but can you tell me what you did when you reached your house?’
Emma pulled her hand away, sniffed and rubbed her nose. ‘I rang the doorbell. No one answered. I went round the back. Looked through the glass in the top half of the door. I saw… I saw…’
‘You’re doing fine,’ Boyd said.
‘No, I’m not! What would you know about it? It was horrible. Seeing a woman like that – on the kitchen floor. And now you tell me it was my granny. Who did that to her? Who killed her? And where is my mum?’
Where indeed? Lottie thought.
‘So you didn’t go inside at all?’ Boyd said.
‘Are you deaf or something? I had no key. I couldn’t get in.’ Emma glared, eyes flashing. ‘I saw the… body on the floor. I didn’t see anyone else around. It was raining and dark. I ran back to Natasha’s. Then I rang 999.’
‘Why didn’t you phone from outside your own house?’ Boyd asked.
‘Didn’t stop to think. I was scared. I just ran.’ The tissue disintegrated into confetti and fluttered to the flowery carpet.
‘When you were at the back of your house, are you sure you didn’t see anything? Nothing on the ground?’ Lottie asked.
‘It was dark. I didn’t see anything.’
‘I know you had no key, but did you try the back door? Check if it was locked?’
‘N… no. I didn’t stop to think. I assumed it was locked but I didn’t try it. Oh God, maybe Granny was alive and I could’ve saved her.’ Emma curled up, arms around her chest, heaving back sobs.
‘There was nothing you could have done, Emma,’ Lottie said, reaching out to the girl. ‘You did exactly the right thing, leaving the premises.’ Now I’ve frightened her even more, she thought. Wild eyes stared back at her. If the fragility of the girl’s mind mirrored her body, she was ready to collapse.
‘Could he have been waiting for me?’
‘No, pet. He was gone. But we need to take your fingerprints and DNA. Just to rule you out of the investigation.’
Emma’s eyes widened to balls of fear. ‘Why would you need my DNA? I didn’t do anything.’
‘It’s procedure,’ Lottie said, then relented. ‘For now, though, I think you need to rest.’
‘How can I rest when all I see is… is…’
Leaning over, Bernie Kelly squeezed the girl’s elbow. ‘Try not to fret too much.’
‘I know this isn’t easy, Emma,’ Lottie said, ‘so thank you for speaking to us. You’ve been a great help. This is my card with my number. Call me if you remember anything else.’
‘Just find my mum.’ The teenager convulsed into sobs.
At the door, Lottie turned. ‘Your dad, when did you last see him?’
Emma looked up, confusion skittering across her face. ‘My dad? Surely you don’t think he did this?’
‘Not at all. We have to follow up with everyone. Where might we find him?’
Shaking her head, Emma shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea where he is.’
Lottie exchanged a look with Boyd. She dearly wanted to interrogate Emma further, but another girl had appeared in the doorway. Lottie assumed the tall, gangly teenager with red hair tied up in a ponytail was Natasha.
Bernie Kelly ushered the two detectives to the front door. ‘I think Emma needs some rest, don’t you, Inspector?’
‘Yes, of course. But if she remembers anything at all, contact me straight away.’ Lottie handed over another card. ‘Like I said, there’ll be a family liaison officer allocated to stay with her,’ she added.
‘No need for that. I’ll look after her. I do most of the time anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lottie pulled up her hood against the rain hammering down.
‘Poor Emma. When she’s not at school or working part-time in the hotel, she’s here with Natasha. I don’t think Marian has been well since… you know…’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Since that business with Arthur.’
‘You mean the barring order?’ Lottie wondered where this conversation was going.
‘Yes, and the other stuff.’
‘Mrs Kelly, can we go back in to talk?’
‘I really ought to watch the girls. I’ve said too much already.’ Bernie Kelly turned to go back inside.
Lottie put a hand on the woman’s arm, stalling her.
‘You haven’t said near enough. Emma’s grandmother has been murdered, her mother has disappeared and we have no idea where Arthur Russell is. Do you know where Marian might be?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘I can do with all the help you can give.’
‘I don’t know anything.’ She made to close the door. Lottie thought of blocking it with her foot, but decided she would speak to her tomorrow.
‘You know an awful lot more than you might think. Call in to the station in the morning. I can take a full statement then. Ten suit you?’
‘I’ll have to stay with the girls.’
‘The family liaison officer will be here. Ten a.m. See you then.’
Lottie crept up the stairs and listened. Not a sound. Thank God. She slipped into her room and eased the door shut. Without removing her jacket, she slumped down on the bed and breathed a sigh of exhaustion. After a hurried meeting at the station to set up an incident team, she’d called it a night and Boyd had dropped her home. Everything was in place to resume investigations in the morning, while searches were ongoing through the night to find Marian Russell.
She jerked her eyes open. Her brain wouldn’t ease down. Hopefully the SOCOs would find something for them to go on, but her first priority was locating Marian Russell and her husband. Then she might have a better idea of just what had gone on in that house.
‘Shit,’ she said, jumping up. Her jacket was wringing wet. She tore it off and saw the damp patch on her duvet. ‘This is all I need.’
Scooping up the Argos catalogue from Adam’s side of the bed, Lottie dumped it on the locker. The heavy book gave her the sense of someone in the bed beside her. A feeling that she wasn’t alone. Sometimes it was the little things that helped. She fluffed up the duvet, flipping it over so the wet patch was now at the bottom, on Adam’s side. He wouldn’t mind. He was dead. As she went to replace the catalogue, she paused. Four years was long enough to mourn an empty space. Her breath caught in her throat as she nudged the book under the bed. Four years was a long time in some respects, but the life she’d lived with Adam was still as fresh in her mind as if it were yesterday. A shroud of loneliness settled on her shoulders as she pulled off her damp clothes, dragged an old T-shirt over her head and got into bed.
A cry from the room beside hers told her Katie’s baby was awake.
‘Ah, God, not again,’ Lottie whispered at the ceiling.
Katie’s footsteps reverberated as she walked around her room soothing little Louis. Should she get up to help? No. Katie was adamant she wanted to care for her own baby.
The clock showed 3.45 a.m. Tapping her fingertips against her forehead, Lottie willed sleep into her brain. No use.
She sat up.
Opening the bedside locker, and without turning on the light, she felt for the bottle. A few sips wouldn’t do any harm. Help her sleep, that was all. Medicinal. Yeah.
Two paracetamol for good measure, and a few more slugs, and she was soon fast asleep.
He watched the tall detective get out of the car and enter her house without switching on any lights. The other detective drove away.
He waited five minutes.
Saw a light go on in an upstairs bedroom and a shadow move around behind the blinds.
He waited a further five minutes, then ma. . .
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