Page 31 of Hidden Daughters (Detective Lottie Parker #15)

Bryan was working in the barn when Lottie returned to the farm.

Though it was constructed of old stone, it was warm inside.

The air hung heavy. He was mucking about with a wheelbarrow and straw.

She had no idea if he was putting it into the barn or taking it out.

His broad shoulders moved up and down beneath his shirt, muscles rippling, his head bent over, intent on his work.

‘Bryan?’ She came up behind him.

He jumped. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’ He clamped a hand to his chest. ‘You could give a man a heart attack creeping up on him like that.’

‘I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.’ She wondered why he was uneasy. Had she really been that silent in her approach?

‘It’s okay.’ He wiped grimy fingers over his forehead, brushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. ‘I was in a world of my own.’

‘Can I give you a hand?’

He looked at her as if to say, You’re joking me . ‘You don’t think I can manage a job I’ve done all my life? Ha.’ She noticed some of the tension leach from his face as he leaned on his shovel.

‘Got time for a chat?’ she enquired. ‘When you’re done here?’

‘This can wait.’ He threw down the tool and wiped his hands on his jeans. She still found it difficult to believe he was in his mid fifties. He appeared to be even fitter than she was. Which wasn’t hard, she figured.

‘Is this a private talk,’ he asked, ‘or do you want to go inside to chat over a cup of tea?’

‘It’s private, I suppose.’

‘Let’s walk to the top field. I want to check on the flock anyhow.’

She followed him, wishing she’d taken time to change her footwear. She had on a pair of once white trainers, not the best for trekking through a field. At least it was dry underfoot.

The dog ran ahead of them, and they stopped at one of the many dry-stone walls that traversed the landscape.

‘What’s going on, Lottie?’ He smiled at her and she could see the charm that had more than likely seduced Grace.

‘I’d like to ask you some more about your time in Knockraw?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Was it very violent?’

‘Aye, it was.’ He gazed into the distance. ‘We were kids, but we were treated like criminals. Savage behaviour. I still have scars on my back and arse from being beaten with a belt.’

‘And was it as bad as that in the convent? The Sisters of Forgiveness or whatever they were called.’

‘More so, I’d say. Being forced to work in that place was nothing short of child slavery.’

‘Can you recall any particular cases of extreme brutality in either establishment?’

‘Institutions, you mean.’ His eyes had a faraway look. ‘Don’t like talking about it much. Haven’t ever expressed my feelings to anyone. We were locked up, and by the grace of God, some of us survived.’

‘Did many die behind the walls that you know of?’ She shivered, remembering her own brother’s bones, undiscovered for decades.

‘In Knockraw, I knew a few. One lad was beaten to death by a fucker of a Christian Brother – or maybe he was a priest, I can’t recall. Another lad died of pure hunger. They starved us. Not that you’d think looking at me now.’

She thought he was actually quite lean, but then he was a farmer who worked on the side of a hill. A monster of a seagull flew low over their heads, and she ducked reflexively. The beggars were everywhere. Of course they were, she thought. The ocean was their habitat, not hers.

‘You get used to them,’ he said without humour, looking skywards. ‘You can get used to anything, even torture.’

His choice of word made her heart beat a little faster. ‘What sort of torture?’

‘Why are you asking these questions? I only wanted you to see if you could find out what happened to Mary Elizabeth and our child.’

‘I know, but…’ What did she really want to ask him? ‘Did you know someone had started making a documentary about the nearby laundry?’

He remained silent, his face like the stone walls around him. He gazed fixedly out over his land. The seagull squawked overhead again before disappearing down to the sea.

‘Bryan?’ A cool breeze fluttered over Lottie’s face, and she found herself shivering.

‘Is it this documentary woman that’s dead then? Up at the cottages?’

‘No, it’s not her, but she may have been there.’

‘I heard there was someone renting one of the cottages and asking a lot of questions.’

‘Did you talk to her?’

He shifted as if the question made him uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think I ever seen sight nor sound of her.’

‘What did you hear then?’

‘That she was interviewing people.’

‘Okay.’ She kept her eyes on him, saw the tremble on his chin, his Adam’s apple wobbling. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

He was mute again.

‘Bryan? What else? I need the full picture if I’m to find out about your girl.’ She didn’t add that she wanted to find out anything he might know about the murdered woman or Imelda Conroy.

‘She was trying to link the goings-on at the convent with what went on in Knockraw.’

‘The woman making the documentary? That seems logical enough.’

‘It may, now that I’ve voiced it. But it was the first time anyone had come here with evidence.’

‘Evidence? Of what?’

‘I don’t rightly know, but she talked about things I hadn’t heard spoken of in years.’

‘Go on.’

He turned to face her, and she noticed an ashen hue on his weather-beaten face.

‘This Conroy woman, Imelda, she did come to talk to me.’

Lottie felt her mouth hang open. ‘Ah Bryan, why didn’t you say so at the start?’

‘I don’t know how it can be relevant if it’s not her who was murdered.’

‘What did you talk about?’

He continued his steely glare towards the horizon as he spoke. ‘She asked me if I knew of a man who’d been in a religious order back then. She thought he was a priest, or someone who masqueraded as one. That’s what she said, and it reminded me…’

He paused for a moment, sucking air into his lungs before continuing. ‘He was maybe early twenties, but to us lads, being nothing more than kids, teenagers, he was an auld fella. He was based at Knockraw, but this is the thing… he used to take girls from the convent at night.’

‘He rescued them?’ Lottie shook her head, trying to make sense of it all. She’d heard stories about some of the laundries where locals had helped girls escape and get to England.

‘No.’ His tone turned as sharp as a shard of broken glass. ‘He did not rescue them.’

‘Tell me, Bryan.’ She spoke in a whisper, dreading what he was about to say.

‘He abused them. That’s what he did. The prick. Him and others. The older lads and the wardens or whatever they were called. It was rumoured the girls were passed around and they had their way with them.’

‘That’s shocking.’

‘But one fine day… I don’t know how true this is, but it was said that one of the men was attacked up at the convent. I suppose the girls had had enough.’

‘The priest was attacked?’

‘No, another lad.’

‘What happened to him?’ She balled her hands into fists, with an urge to beat the attacker of young girls herself.

‘Like I said, there were rumours, none consistent. But I heard that they threw buckets of boiling water over him and damn near boiled the skin off him. He almost died. Pity he didn’t.’ Something of a crooked smile curved one side of his mouth.

‘Holy fuck. Jesus Christ,’ Lottie said.

He flinched at the shriek of horror in her swear words. ‘Aye, it was bad. You’d think they were too weak to rebel, but those young girls were heroes.’

‘Why has this not come out before now?’

‘The question should be why did so much of the horror not come out? Very few know what really went on behind those massive walls and closed doors. All anyone knows who didn’t experience it first-hand is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.’

‘But it needs to be made public. All of it.’

He shook his head, weary now. ‘No one believed it at the time. Those of us who were eventually let out, or escaped, wanted to leave it all behind us. Like I said, I hightailed it to the United States. It wasn’t and still isn’t something anyone wants to talk about.’

She heard it then. In his tone, the nuance of his words. Those men, whoever they were, had abused more than the girls. She would let him tell her about that in his own time. And she had to find out who the others were too.

‘I’m so sorry you had to go through it, Bryan. Do you have any idea who this person was? His name?’

‘I can’t remember it, and I don’t know where he went or if he’s even alive today.’

‘But you do believe he survived that boiling water incident?’

‘I presume he did, or I would have heard it in the rumours. This documentary woman seemed to know something about the incident and I reckon she asked the wrong person the right question and that’s what got her killed.’

‘But I told you, it’s not Imelda’s body up at the cottage.’

‘Well it may not be her that’s up there, but I reckon she’s as good as dead.

And if that bollox is back looking for revenge, it won’t be the last murder.

’ His gaze returned to the horizon, his voice so low she had to lean in to hear him say the words she had thought of herself only a little while ago.

‘Lottie, this might only be the start of it.’