The Taken

Book 6: DS Lucy Golden

by Martina Murphy

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Fourteen years ago, one hot Dublin summer, a little boy was snatched from his garden. Six weeks later, a girl was abducted from her mother's car. The case of these stolen children has haunted DS Lucy Golden ever since.

But now, a breakthrough...

DNA recovered from a recent robbery is matched to the missing boy. Lucy begs to reopen the case, even though it means returning to Dublin, which she left in disgrace over a decade ago. She'll have to face people who betrayed her... but now, with her trusted team at her side, she feels ready.

But she's not prepared for her personal life to fall apart. As she digs into the past, long-buried secrets begin to surface, and Lucy's trust and belief in those closest to her shatters.

As she closes in on the truth of what happened that terrible summer, she vows this will be her final case. The stakes are perilously high and she's desperate for answers, justice, and closure.

But Lucy's final ride with the Gardaí is twistier than she ever could have imagined, and takes her to a destination she could never have foreseen.


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Readers love the DS Lucy Golden series!


'10 out of 10 - would recommend! Tense, twisty, surprisingly moving!' - Amazon reviewer, ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐


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


'Brilliant... superb - Lucy Golden is a flawed heroine and mother but a brilliant detective... The plots are gripping and complex and the solutions are believable. Peppered with humour and great characters, these books are a pleasure to read. They deserve all the praise' - Goodreads reviewer, ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐


'Taut, gripping, brilliantly plotted. Lucy Golden gets better and better. With each book in this gripping series the reader is drawn in to a deftly spun web of half-truths and hidden betrayals' - Amazon reviewer, ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐



'It gripped me right from the start... I could empathise with Lucy, she is very relatable and completely dedicated to finding justice... the descriptive passages pull you right in to Achill island and I found myself transposed right there' - Amazon reviewer, ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Release date: August 20, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

He’s like a rat, pointy ears and quivering nostrils, half starved and braced for trouble. He eyes me and Larry warily as he slides into a seat on the opposite side of the table. His skin is dull and pock-marked, his eyes a faded blue. He’s young and volatile and dangerous. I don’t ask for his cuffs to be taken off.

‘I remember you.’ His lip curls in a snarl as he regards me. ‘How’d you get that scar then, eh? Someone decide to improve your face, did they?’

‘Hello, Richie.’ I keep my voice calm. ‘We’re wondering if you can help us.’

‘Don’t bleedin’ wonder,’ he says, barking out a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.’

‘That is a relief.’

Beside me Larry snorts back a laugh.

Richie is a little wrong-footed, so I take the opportunity to slide a grainy CCTV picture across the table. ‘We’re looking for this guy. I believe you know him?’

He doesn’t even look. ‘Nope.’

‘Oh, come on. He was with you at the warehouse raid in Castlebar only three months ago.’

‘Never seen him in me life.’ He challenges me to dispute this with a cocky twist of his mouth.

‘I don’t know what name you know him by but his real name, the one he had fourteen years ago, is Stephen Larkin.’

I have his attention now. He perks up suddenly, his back straight, eyes predatory.

I’ve been told I can tell him what we know. It’s not going to put Stephen in danger. And Richie’s not going to get out to blab it around. While I haven’t been given charge of this case yet, I have been reliably informed that I’ll be asked to run it. It’s a pressure but I’m glad to shoulder it, like ticking something off a bucket list.

‘Stephen is a person we’ve been searching for for the past fourteen years,’ I begin.

‘What? Like the Dalai Lama?’ Richie says.

He does not look like a fella who knows about the Dalai Lama.

‘Stephen disappeared when he was six.’ I ignore the interruption. ‘Taken from his family home. We’ve never been able to find him.’

Everyone, even children, know of the two kids who disappeared close together on those hot sunny days in Dublin fourteen years ago, Stephen Larkin and Evie Bright.

‘And then there he was,’ I tap the picture, ‘reappearing as part of your little Back Street Boys gang.’

The Back Street Boys is a moniker the guards gave to this particular group of young criminals who specialise in robbing anything left in back alleys. Warehouses, factories, empty houses and vans are their bread and butter. These gougers travel in groups from Dublin to raid rural, CCTV-less areas. Three months ago, we’d been tipped off about one such raid, and we’d apprehended three out of the four lads. One had escaped leaving his jacket behind, and DNA had subsequently revealed that he was none other than Stephen Larkin, who had disappeared as a boy fourteen years earlier.

Richie is momentarily speechless. He looks at the picture of Stephen, then brings his gaze up to mine. ‘What’s it worth?’ he asks.

I look at Larry. Larry looks back. We’d been expecting this.

‘Is doing your bit to reunite a boy with his long-lost family not enough?’ Larry says.

‘Fuck off.’ Richie tries to fold his arms but can’t because of the cuffs. The effect is comical. ‘Go fucking get me out of here and I might be able to help.’

‘We’re already in the process of transferring you and your little band of boys to Cloverhill so you can get family visits,’ I say.

‘Have you met my family?’ He barks out a laugh. ‘Wasters.’

‘Well, I can’t promise you anything but if you help it will look good when it comes to sentencing. And we will find Stephen. Without your help it may take longer but we will get there.’

‘It took ye fourteen years to get here,’ Richie scoffs, ‘so he’ll probably be drawing the pension by the time yez find him.’ He cackles at his wit.

‘Well?’ I ignore the – to be frank – very valid point he has just made and tap the picture. ‘What do you know about him?’

Richie is no fool. That’s why we picked him. We were told he was the leader on the night; reports from the prison suggest that he’s bright and quick. If anyone knows how to find Stephen, he’s our best bet.

‘They called him Ansil,’ Richie says, after a bit. ‘I only met him for the first time that night, the same night your arsehole friend,’ he glares at me, ‘walloped me when I was on the ground. I’m suing him for that.’

He means Dan, my partner, and omits to mention that he’d taken a swipe at Dan first.

‘I’ll let the detective know to expect a letter from your solicitor,’ I say, and he’s not sure how to take that. ‘You’re telling us you never saw Stephen before that evening?’

‘Nope, he was new. Fucker fancied himself, ordering us not to kick that smelly fella who was looking for money. Like, who the hell did he think he was?’

There’d been a homeless man caught up in the raid.

‘Fucking arsehole,’ Richie finishes off.

‘And who introduced Stephen to ye?’

‘I’m not going there.’ Richie rears back slightly.

‘So, to you, this picture is of a man called Ansil?’ When he nods, I ask, ‘Ansil is his first name?’

‘I don’t bleedin’ know.’ He looks at me like I’ve lost it. ‘It wasn’t like a tea party, for Jaysus’ sake. I was just told, “This is Ansil. He’s driving tonight.” ’

‘Anyone else there know who Stephen was?’

‘None of us three did. But, I tell ya, someone squealed on us, and if it was this Steve fella, he’s dead now.’

‘Yeah? Who’d kill him?’

His eyes deaden, his expression flattening. He’s done. We’ll get no more out of him.

I stand. Larry follows, buttoning his jacket. ‘Thanks, Richie, we’ll make sure and say what a help you’ve been. And, eh, if you think of anything else, just ask for me, DS Lucy Golden, or Detective Garda Larry Lynch.’

‘I’ve just thought of something,’ Richie says, as he’s being led away. Then, laughing, ‘You’re a pair of cunts, d’you know that?’

The prison officer gives him a shove out of the room as I mentally shake him off. I’ll go home later and wash myself clean of this place.

We can hear him as he shouts and roars his way down the corridor.

‘Come on.’ Larry, in a rare show of chivalry, holds the door open for me. ‘Let’s get back before the traffic builds. You did well there, Luce.’

I take the compliment, though from Larry it always sounds slightly patronising.

But he’s right. I did well. Now we just have to figure out where the name Ansil fits into things.

Larry fidgets in the passenger seat as I drive home from the prison towards Achill. It’s weird having him on board but Dan, my regular partner, is still on leave. He was involved in a car accident on our last case, and while he’s recovering well, he still has a limp. He’s dying to get back to work, though, because he’s drowning in despair at home: his partner’s mother, Delores, insists on minding him. She’s lovely but, like incense, she’s overpowering in a small space. And Dan’s house is tiny. He says having her around is like living with persistent tinnitus: there’s never a quiet moment. Hints to her that he doesn’t need to know all the local gossip have been met with disbelief and utterances along the lines of ‘But sure aren’t you a guard? Isn’t gossip your business?’

I cry laughing when he talks about her.

‘Can I turn on the radio?’ Without waiting for an answer, Larry reaches across and messes with the settings, flicking away from my regular listening to one of those stations where the DJs talk in an endless stream of consciousness before playing awful music.

‘What age are you?’ I roll my eyes.

‘Too young for you.’ He chortles.

‘Too immature for me,’ I flash back. I’d fancied him when I’d first come to work in Mayo. He’s the total alpha, tall, physically imposing with the Action Man jawline and sculpted face. He walks with a swagger, hands in his pockets, owning the space, and he has charm in abundance. It’s superficial, though, because beneath that exterior there lurks a complete chauvinist. It’s killing him that I’m driving, which is why I suggested it and, as I’m his superior, he’ll not say anything. Every time I take a corner, though, he grabs at the edges of the seat and grimaces. I have to hold myself back from commenting.

A couple of hours of head-wrecking music later, I’ve arrived in Castlebar to drop Larry at his apartment block. He insists on giving me directions even though I’ve programmed his address into Google.

‘Here we are,’ he says unnecessarily, as I pull to a stop. Then, turning to me, ‘You hungry?’

That’s unexpected. ‘Famished.’

‘Sure, pull in here.’ He indicates a spot. ‘That’s for visitors. Come up and I’ll make you a toastie.’

I’d been dying to get rid of him but the chance to see where he lives is too much for my nosy detective instincts. I’ve often imagined him in a cool, shiny bachelor pad with floor-to-ceiling windows and black leather couches. I wonder if I’m right.

Locking the car, I follow him into his building. After a trip up to the second floor in a slightly dingy lift and a walk along a tiled corridor, Larry ushers me into his apartment.

Black leather couch, check. Big windows, check. Steel kitchen appliances, check. Massive TV, check. My colleague is a stereotype. The only surprising thing is the enormous furry cat sleeping on the couch. It looks at us with slitted eyes as we enter before arching its back, hissing and hopping lightly down. It gives us another glare before stalking off, its tail flicking from side to side.

‘That is one shit-arsed cat,’ Larry remarks, as he pulls a state-of-the-art sandwich maker from what appears to be an immaculately ordered press. As he plugs it in, he adds, ‘Things might be better between us if I could remember its name.’

Just like the women he beds, I think uncharitably. ‘You don’t know your cat’s name?’

‘Jaysus, it’s not my cat.’ He snorts as he starts buttering some bread. ‘What do you think I am? Cheese, ham, tomato?’

‘All of them, thanks. Not your cat?’ I sit at the small breakfast bar. The countertop is black and sparkly.

‘It’s my neighbour’s. Her sister died and she had to go away for a couple of days so I said it could come to me. It hates me. Gave me this. Look.’ He pulls up his sleeve and there’s a massive scratch about a foot long up the inside of his arm.

‘Christ. Your neighbour must be good-looking.’

‘Maybe she was sixty years ago.’ He slides the bread onto the hotplate and presses down the levers. The sandwich begins to sizzle. ‘Tea? Coffee? Water?’

‘Water will do.’

He pours me a glass before pulling a bottle of Jameson from under his counter. ‘Might as well,’ he says, with relish, as he splashes the amber liquid into a tumbler for himself. ‘Sláinte!’ He swallows a mouthful, and adds, ‘Nothing like a Jemmie at the end of a day.’

This is the friendliest Larry has ever been towards me. I’m not stupid, he wants something, and I think I can guess what it is. I’m not going to make it easy for him so I chit-chat about things that I know will bore him. Life on Achill, and my favourite subject, my grandchild, Sirocco. God, I think in amusement, about forty minutes later, Larry must be desperate to be in my good books because he manages to remain animated when I show him about ten videos: Sirocco doing ballet, trying to break-dance, Sirocco saying a poem she learned in playschool, Sirocco running, Sirocco playing soccer. He laughs, though, when I show him one of Sirocco all cute in a pink leotard and soft shoes, trying to do a tumble. She’s not the most athletic and, after a few attempts, she tells the teacher she ‘can’t do the fucking thing’.

My mother had videoed that and found it hilarious. She would have killed me if I’d done it as a kid. My son Luc and I had fallen about the place laughing, too, though by all accounts it hadn’t gone down well with Sirocco’s other grandmother, Katherine, who blamed Luc for it.

She blames Luc for everything because Luc had two-timed her daughter, which was bad form, but it had happened more than a year ago. Luc and her daughter Tani have moved on. Tani is now seeing a lad who’s studying medicine, so, really, a step up from my poor son, and Luc is dating a woman called Cherry. And, yes, she is all that that name conjures up. I’d disliked her until two months ago, but I discovered she isn’t the worst, and she makes Luc very happy, which makes me happy.

When I think I’ve tortured Larry enough with the minutiae of my life, I say, ‘Go on, spit it out.’

‘Spit what out? The sandwich wasn’t that bad.’

That is truly an awful joke. I cross my arms and stare him down.

‘Right.’ He winces. ‘I see my attempts to woo you with a fantastic toastie have failed. You know what I want.’ He waits for me to say it, but I don’t. Finally, ‘If the powers that be let you get involved with the investigation into this missing-child case, would you consider bringing me onboard?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m the best CCTVer in the business,’ he says, modest as ever. ‘I may pick up something no one else did.’

There’s a pretty good guy in Dublin, too, and we both know it.

‘And I know that guy in Dublin is good,’ he says, pretending to forget his name, ‘but you know me and we work well together. There’s a lot to be said for familiarity.’

‘That it breeds contempt.’

‘Aw, come on.’ He’s annoyed now. ‘Look, I know you’d love to bring Dan but he’s not ready yet. Won’t be for a couple of weeks. A month maybe. Can you take me in the meantime?’

‘I’m thinking of taking Susan too.’

Susan and Larry do not get on.

‘I’ll be respectful.’

Wow, he must really want this. And yet I balk at including him. He’s just too much up his own arse, and that’s being polite.

He must sense my hesitation. ‘My mother disappeared,’ he says suddenly. He’s busy wiping down his spotless counter and doesn’t meet my eye. ‘Went up the road to the shops one morning and didn’t come back. It still haunts all of us.’ He pauses, before bringing his gaze to mine. ‘My granny died never knowing what had happened to her daughter.’ After another second, all bravado gone, he adds, ‘Have a think about me being involved, yeah?’

‘Sure.’ He’s just landed a large amount of emotional blackmail on me. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll be in touch. And, eh, what you just said, I’ll keep it to myself.’ I hop off the bar stool, dust myself down. ‘Thanks for the sambo.’

In my haste to leave, I almost trip over the monster cat, which yowls and hisses at me as I pass.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull in at Westport station. Hopping out of the District Detective Unit car, DDU for short – Dan jokes it stands for ‘destroyed, desperate, useless’ – I cross towards mine so I can drive home. My boss, William, spots me. He’s been working from Westport the last few days overseeing a case about some drug-smuggling off Pier 23. Not a very successful or covert drug operation, it has to be said, just some eejits trying to make a few bob for Christmas. They’d become a bit of a joke in the station but they’re still looking at a jail sentence. William raises a hand and I smile a ‘hello’ back. To my dismay, he jogs over. Aw, feck!

Two minutes earlier and I’d have avoided this.

He’s sharp-suited as always, despite the anorak that looks as if it needs a bit of an iron. Even in the gathering gloom, his eyes gleam, their gaze focused and intelligent. He’s actually not a bad-looking man, I realise, for the first time ever. Not conventionally handsome, like Larry, but there’s a sort of lived-in, cool confidence about him that’s very attractive.

But attractive or not, when he talks to you it just means more work.

‘Time for a drink?’ he asks.

He makes it sound like a question but, really, it never is. He’s basically telling me he wants to talk to me outside the station.

‘It’ll have to be quick.’ The words are out before I know it. But, honestly, I’m wrecked having been on the road all day, and talking to that idiot Richie had been exhausting.

‘I’ll talk fast,’ he offers, and actually grins.

I don’t return it, so he knows I’m not happy about it. Instead, I fire my car keys into my bag and trudge with him out of the car park. In relative silence we make the five-minute walk to Matt Molloy’s pub.

‘The music won’t start for another hour,’ William says, as he heads to the bar after first asking me what I want and telling me to take a seat.

This is a great pub for a night out, listening to music and having the craic, but for two guards discussing business, it’s not a place I’d pick. William arrives back with a creamy pint for himself and a cup of tea for me. I can only assume he’s getting a taxi back to wherever he lives.

‘Where do you live?’

He looks startled. ‘Why?’

I hadn’t planned on asking that. But now that I have, I want to know. He’s been my boss for almost ten years and we’ve worked together on five big cases. He’s always been notoriously private, only revealing truths about himself when it couldn’t be avoided. ‘No reason, just curious.’ I busy myself pouring tea into my cup.

‘Leenane.’

‘Jesus!’

Another startled look.

‘It’s in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing in it.’

He shrugs. ‘There’s a shop, a couple of bars and somewhere I can grab a coffee. What else do you need?’

He has a point but he came from Limerick’s inner city, noisy, rabid and, I’d imagine, during his time there a bit chaotic. ‘I suppose I thought you’d like to live in a busier place.’

He shrugs again, baffled. ‘Sure as I hardly spend any time at home it doesn’t really matter where I live.’

That strikes me as the saddest sentence I’ve ever heard and I think he must realise how it sounds because he moves hastily on. ‘Anyway, forget the small-talk, here’s the situation. You’ve been given permission to head up the investigation into Stephen Larkin.’

‘Brilliant!’ My smile must blind him.

‘There is a catch.’ He looks apprehensive.

‘How can there be? I’m either running it or I’m not.’

‘You can take five members with you.’ He winces. ‘One has to be Louis Devine.’

The chief super’s son. ‘No way.’

‘That’s the deal.’

‘They can’t make deals like that. This is a garda investigation. I can’t be told who to take.’

‘The chief super put in the request on your behalf only because he wanted Louis up in Dublin proving himself to the big boys.’

‘The big boys?’

‘That’s what he calls them. And the chief super in Dublin agreed to the request because he’s Louis’s, wait for it, godfather.’

I sit back in the chair. Louis Devine, the sneaky slippery little toad. Of course he’ll swear he had nothing to do with it but he must have begged his dad. I’m tempted to refuse but that’s only ruining it for me. I genuinely believe I am the only one who can solve this case. It’s been tantalising me for fourteen years, not just the mystery but the huge emotional toll of it. Two children, the same age as my boy, just . . . gone. It was horrifying. I had no idea how the parents could even stand up let alone live their lives not knowing. It was my job to find answers and at the time I had failed. ‘I can choose the rest of the team?’

‘You can. Personally I’d go with Larry, Kev, Susan and Ben.’

‘When Dan is back, I want him instead of Larry.’

William bites his lip. He loves Dan. ‘If he’s not doing anything urgent down here.’

There’s always something urgent. What’s he playing at? But there’s no point in asking. ‘I’ll talk to the others, see if they’re available and interested.’

‘This situation is unusual,’ William says to me. ‘And make no mistake, it’s only been granted because of Louis. Dublin will bear the expense of bringing ye up. Normal thing is everyone books their own accommodation, but Susan told me her father has a spare house up there and she’s offered it for free. It’s on the southside too, so handy.’

‘A house?’ Jesus. Imagine having to live with Larry. ‘But—’

‘It’s the cheapest option. You’ll all be given a small sub.’

I suppose it’s the best I can hope for. It’s public money, after all. Imagine if it got leaked we had a free house, yet we all went our own way. ‘Fine.’ I drain my tea and stand up, about to leave, when he says, ‘There’s something else.’

His tone has changed. There’s apprehension in it that causes a lurch in my stomach. He gestures for me to sit down again. I stare at him in trepidation.

‘They’ve finally made a decision on the Scott Medal.’

My heart flips. A few months ago William had told me that Louis and I were being considered for it. I’d hoped desperately not to get it because the Scott Medal is an award for only the bravest guards. The ones who’ve faced danger during a case. Eighteen months ago, during the Bone Fire case, Louis and I were held at gunpoint by a complete and utter lunatic. Louis had dived to the floor, distracting the suspect, allowing me the opportunity to subdue her but not before I’d been shot. In normal circumstances, getting a Scott Medal would be the pinnacle of my career. But during that case I’d also buried evidence. When I’d brought it to light, William had reburied it, saving my career. We’d managed to convince ourselves that nothing more would ever come of it, and if I keep my mouth shut, nothing more will.

‘And?’ I swallow hard.

‘Congratulations,’ he answers drily.

Shit. ‘I can’t accept it,’ I whisper, as a man in the band at the top of the room tunes his fiddle and someone else starts beating a bodhran.

‘What else can you do?’ William stares keenly at me.

‘I can tell them that the story was true, that I buried evidence, that I lied to you about it, that—’

‘And then what? Lose your job? Give up this glamorous career?’ It’s a joke but I can’t smile. ‘Cards on the table, you’re a great detective, Lucy. My best, if I’m honest. You do valuable work, and I firmly believe you can do more good in the force than out of it.’

‘Ah, so that’s why you saved me, I wondered.’

The look he gives me is unfathomable. After a moment, he says, ‘I know it’s a mess, this whole medal thing, but just suck it up and move on.’

It sounds so easy but how can I live with the congratulations and everyone thinking I’m an example to be followed? That Bone Fire case threw up a lot for me. I think I even collaborated with a gangland criminal but, again, there will never be any proof of that.

The music strikes up, musician after musician joining in. Within a minute the whole place is rocking.

William stands and I follow him out. He walks me back to the car park bef. . .