Page 35 of Hidden Daughters (Detective Lottie Parker #15)

Back at the house, Boyd told Lottie that Bryan was outside somewhere and Grace had gone to the village of Spiddal for a dress fitting. He was drinking a mug of tea with a sulky face. Oh-oh, she thought.

‘She’s a bit annoyed at you,’ he said as she filled her own mug with tepid tea from the pot.

‘Grace is? Why?’

‘She wanted you to see the dress or something.’

‘She never said.’

‘I think she expected you to go with her. That you were here to help her make final decisions. Or something like that.’

‘If she’d asked me, I’d have gone. I’m not a mind-reader.’

‘No, but you’re getting yourself involved in things that don’t concern you.’ Boyd was definitely not impressed with her. She wasn’t letting him get away with it.

‘Bryan asked me to find someone for him.’

‘He didn’t ask you to investigate a murder.’

‘I’m not investigating a murder,’ she said. ‘That’s Mooney’s case.’

‘Yes, and you met him yesterday and told him what you had to. So you’re done with it now.’

‘But he wanted me to make a formal statement. I refused. I’m sure he’ll contact me again.’

‘You do know this is the first time we’ve had a week away together in like for ever? I left Sergio with Amy so that we could enjoy ourselves without work. So tell me, where were you all morning? And don’t tell me you were shopping in the city.’

She hated lying to him, but she could do without another row. ‘I was going into the city, but you know what the traffic is like. I had to turn and come back.’

He sighed. ‘You’re deflecting from the truth. As usual.’

She sat opposite him, nursing her mug of tea. He was right, of course. ‘Okay, so I went to the convent. To see Mickey Fox, the gardener who worked for the nuns.’

‘Why would you even do that?’

‘Because he might have known this old girlfriend Bryan asked me to find.’ Shit, she hadn’t even asked the old man about her.

‘And did he know anything?’

‘He was busy burning stuff in an oil drum. I was trying to find out what it was, because it looked suspicious.’

‘Did you discover what was he burning?’

‘No. But he was scared. Genuinely petrified.’ Not quite, she thought, but near enough.

‘Leave it, Lottie. Go to the dressmaker’s and meet Grace. Have a coffee with her and chinwag.’

She grinned. ‘Have you ever known Grace Boyd to chinwag?’

‘No, but there’s a first time for everything.’

‘Tell me where she is and I’ll join her.’

‘Not so fast. Finish the conversation about the gardener.’

She knew she’d have to tell him something to pacify his interest. ‘The only thing he mentioned was a nun called Assumpta. I’ll pass it on to Mooney.’

‘Do that, then walk away from it. It’s not your case, Lottie. Nothing to do with you.’

‘But it might have something to do with Bryan.’

‘Don’t go there. Leave it to Mooney.’

‘Sure. Did you make this tea?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘It’s rotten.’ She brought the mug to the sink and poured the tea down the drain. ‘I’ll find Grace and have a coffee with her.’

She kissed his cheek and left the house, with absolutely no intention of going anywhere near a dressmaker’s.

She drove back to the convent to do what she should have done earlier.

She had to ask Mickey about Mary Elizabeth, Bryan’s teenage sweetheart.

That was the reason she’d gone there in the first place.

Not that an empty shell of a building had given her any answers. It had only thrown up more questions.

She parked out front and made her way through the maze of trees and bushes. It was a hazy kind of dark, with nature’s canopy blocking out daylight.

As she approached the clearing where his caravan was located, the trees seemed to shudder all around her before coming alive as a flock of birds rose like a black cloud into the sky, cawing and squawking.

A tiny trickle of fear travelled the length of her spine.

They’re only birds, she told herself. But it wasn’t the feathered friends that made her stop.

There was no smoke from Mickey’s clearing. No sound other than the birds flying away, leaving a breath in their wake. She sucked it in, held it. Listened. On high alert.

‘Don’t be daft,’ she said aloud, exhaling, and her words echoed in the silence.

Inching forward, she wanted to shout out Mickey’s name, but some inherent instinct held her back.

In the clearing, the barrel had ceased its smouldering. The caravan door stood wide open, the plunger and container on the ground by the step. He mustn’t have got to unblock the toilet yet, she thought.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

‘Mickey? Mr Fox? I’m back.’ Silly. Of course she was back. But there was no sign of the man.

Stealthily, her gut now on high alert, she crept forward into the clearing. She smelled it before she saw it. Burning flesh.

He lay on a bed of grass and leaves. His eyes wide open, staring heavenwards through a gap in the foliage, his mouth a silent scream.

‘Mickey!’

She made to run forward, but stopped. This was no accident. She knew that deep in her heart. It was a crime scene, and she must tread carefully. She had no gloves or any other protective clothing, but she had to check if he was still alive.

Crouched by his side, she held two fingers to his throat.

No pulse. She’d known that already. His upper body showed evidence of burning.

Blood on the grass around his head. Someone had knocked him out, maybe.

Or perhaps the blow to his head had killed him.

Why, though? Why do this to an old man? Because he knew something?

Something the killer didn’t want being made public?

Did the killer know Mickey had been visited by the guards?

A lot of questions, and then the one she had dared not think.

Had her visits to the convent put Mickey Fox in the cross hairs of a killer?

Surely not.

Whatever the answer, she knew Detective Sergeant Mooney was not going to be pleased with her.

After phoning Mooney, Lottie sat on the caravan step.

Her gaze fell on the container the old man had been holding earlier.

She poked a stick through the handle and shook it slightly.

Empty. Her eyes travelled back to the body.

Some bastard had poured the toxic drain cleaner over the old man.

First there was the body in the bath burned with boiling water, and now this.

More barbarity. She leaned her head against the door and tried to stem the rising panic taking a tight grip in her chest. Squeezing the breath out of her.

She took small, insistent gasps of air. Allowed the silence to wash over her. Tried to infuse calm into her brain.

She’d thought the forest had settled into quietness since the birds had taken flight, but now she heard the sounds of nature: the rustling of leaves, the drip of sap, the shiver of a breeze. Then something else. Footsteps. Moving away.

‘What the hell?’ she whispered.

Leaning forward without otherwise moving, she tried to determine where the sound had come from.

Once she had it pinpointed, she wondered if she should stay with the body, but then Mickey was going nowhere.

Making her decision, she set off in the direction from which she’d heard the retreating footsteps.

Winding her way through the branches, she followed what seemed to be a well-worn path of dry earth and trampled leaves.

Who was she following? Where were they going? Was she being led into a trap? That nearly stopped her pursuit, but not quite.

The trees gave way and the convent walls loomed up ahead. She thought she saw a flash of colour, maybe blue. Had someone ducked in through the large rear door? Should she stop now? Or carry on and see what happened?

Her breath caught at the back of her throat as she paused, trying to decide what to do.

She could be putting herself in danger, and thoughts of her three children and her little grandson, Louis, flashed before her eyes.

They’d be grand if anything happened to her, wouldn’t they?

Boyd would make sure they were looked after.

Her thoughts carried her inside the old building.

Oppressive darkness. Silence.

Then a bang.

A door swung shut somewhere above her head and the sound bounced off the walls. She took to the stone staircase and ran up it. Breathless, she found herself in a long corridor. Someone had tried to rip the mosaic tiles off the floor at one time, but seemed to have given up. She wasn’t giving up.

With no idea which direction to take, she turned left and made her way to a door at the end. Pressing her ear to it, she knew she’d chosen correctly.

The sound from inside puzzled her.

Crying.

Someone was crying?

Without fear for her safety, she turned the old brass knob and shoved the door inwards.