Page 80 of Hidden Daughters (Detective Lottie Parker #15)

CONNEMARA

Mooney made his way up the stairs, decked out in his white protective clothing. The booties over his shoes were making him slip, and even though he wore gloves, he forced himself not to grab the banister. The two SOCOs stood back as he moved into the bathroom.

The sight of the body caused his stomach to turn.

He felt a lurch of unease. Should he have done more last night?

Taken Ann Wilson to the station? To get her to talk.

To take her out of harm’s way. To get her husband out of harm’s way.

But he was well aware that there was no point in mourning what he should or shouldn’t have done.

It was all too late now. The ravaged body in the bath bore testament to that.

Ann had been scalded. Her skin looked like it was ready to peel off.

Her face was twisted in anguish. She had found no relief in death.

A callous and cruel murderer had seen to that.

Mooney itched to run back down the stairs, to tear off the white suit, to scratch his own skin raw.

He had failed the woman, and he suspected she had been failed all her life.

‘Where’s Denis?’ he asked the SOCO nearest to him.

‘He said he’d be back. Doctor came to give him some sedation, but he headed for his car. Said something about knowing who had killed his wife.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Mooney said, and raced down the stairs.

Lottie drove around the unfamiliar roads, unsure of where she was going or where she could park so that they would be undisturbed and unseen. At least the rain had cleared, and the clouds were making way for a blanket of blue sky.

‘How did you get out to the Wilson house, Imelda?’

‘Bus. Ann gave me twenty euros for food and stuff.’

‘Where’s your car? It wasn’t at the cottage.’

‘I had to use it to escape a fucking murderer, didn’t I? Then I abandoned it in a housing estate because he might know what I was driving and find me.’

Or the police might know, Lottie thought. She had a host of questions, but instead asked, ‘Any ideas where we should go?’

‘We’re nearly in Salthill now. It might be a good place. It’s always busy.’

This surprised Lottie. ‘I thought you’d want seclusion.’

‘More chance of being seen when you’re trying to hide. In a busy seaside resort I can blend in.’

Lottie glanced at her passenger. No way could Imelda Conroy blend in anywhere in her current state. She looked haunted. Her clothing, face and hands were filthy.

‘Where did you stay last night?’

‘I walked around the city for a bit before bunking down in a shop doorway. A couple of homeless guys kept me company.’

‘Were you not scared?’

‘I’m more afraid of whoever is trying to kill me.’

This caused Lottie to grip the steering wheel tighter. She wasn’t yet sure if she had a killer in her car or a victim. ‘Who would that be?’

‘I have my suspicions, but I don’t want to say anything yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m not sure.’

Lottie scanned the area for a parking spot. ‘I think you are.’

Imelda kept her head down. ‘Leave it for now, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Lottie relented. ‘But you should have gone to the guards on day one.’

Imelda was quiet for a few moments before asking, ‘Do you know how Ann Wilson is?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I saw all the guards and news vans at her house. She killed her husband, didn’t she?’

‘Imelda, do you not know?’

‘Know what?’

‘It’s Ann who’s dead.’

‘No!’ A fractured sob escaped Imelda’s mouth and she pressed her hand to her lips.

Lottie waited while someone exited a parking space, and then pulled in. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘How could anyone eat at a time like this?’

She switched off the engine. ‘You need to eat. You look like you haven’t had a bite in a week.’

‘I can’t face food at the moment.’ Imelda paused, staring out the window, before glancing over at Lottie. ‘Is it all my fault?’

‘The murders?’

‘Ann’s death.’

‘Why do you say that? Do you think you’re responsible for hers but not the others?’ Lottie decided to say what had been lurking. ‘I think it’s time you explained your role in all this.’

‘I should have known you’d think I’m a murderer,’ Imelda snorted, her voice laced with derision.

‘You have done nothing to convince me otherwise.’

She put her head in her hands and sobbed. ‘No one understands.’

‘I’m willing to try,’ Lottie said, unsure if the tears were genuine or manufactured. She found it difficult to get a handle on the real Imelda Conroy. ‘Let’s walk and get some air.’

‘I’m not sure I can move.’

‘The fresh air will do you good, and then if you feel up to it I’ll get us some food. A cup of tea.’

Once out of the car, Lottie looked down along the promenade, at the strand where only yesterday she’d walked with Ann Wilson. Now Ann was dead.

She let her gaze wander over to Imelda, who in her current state was sure to attract attention. From the boot of the car she fetched a navy fleece jacket. It had GARDA emblazoned across the back, so she turned it inside out and Imelda put it on.

Once attired, the woman seemed unsteady on her feet. She took Lottie’s proffered arm and clung on.

‘Why did you decide to make this particular documentary?’ Lottie asked.

‘I wanted to tell a story. But the story became bigger than anything I could ever have hoped for.’

‘Start at the beginning.’

‘We haven’t time. You need to stop him. Did you look into Assumpta Feeney’s background?’

‘Imelda, if you know something that can prevent more murders you need to talk to the Galway detectives. Detective Sergeant Matt Mooney is a good man. I can bring you to speak to him.’

Imelda’s fingers tightened on Lottie’s arm. ‘No, I can’t do that. I’d be arrested and charged and locked up.’

‘If you’ve done nothing wrong, you won’t be.’ At least not initially, Lottie thought.

‘The thing is… I don’t know if I have or not. What if my documentary caused all this?’

‘How? It hasn’t even aired yet.’

‘That’s because I haven’t finished it. But I asked questions of people and I must have unsettled someone so much that they feared their long-held secret would be outed.’

Lottie had already mulled over this scenario. She had thought Imelda could be the killer. Now she didn’t know what to think. ‘Who did you talk to?’

‘All of them.’

‘All of who? You need to tell me.’ An empty bench was up ahead, so Lottie brought Imelda to it. They sat.

‘The sea can be beautiful but also rough, intimidating,’ Imelda said. ‘Just like my work.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I started this project, I was excited, happy even. I was invigorated, but then I felt threatened and that scared me. I should have stopped, but it made me more curious to discover the truth.’

‘The truth about what?’

‘What happened to Gabriel all those years ago.’

Okay, Lottie could understand that. Gabriel was the little girl she’d heard about from Ann Wilson. She turned on the bench to watch Imelda. ‘You investigated Gabriel’s death?’

‘Her murder, you mean. I knew nothing about it when I began my research. But I was told about it and then I felt I had something tangible. I had access to witnesses, those who were around when the horrific event occurred. And as macabre as this seems, it excited me. Does that make me a bad person?’

Lottie reserved her judgement until she knew more. ‘What went wrong?’

‘I talked to the wrong person.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know, but one of them had to have been put on alert by my probing. Assumpta was one of the first people I talked to, that’s why she could be the key.’

‘I don’t think she was the first to die, though, and I don’t know if Mooney has found out much about her yet. She was abroad for years, wasn’t she?’

‘She was a novice nun at the Sisters of Forgiveness convent in the eighties before she suddenly left. She then studied to be a nurse.’

‘Did she tell you why she left the convent?’

‘Not in so many words. But I figured it was shortly after the killing of the little girl.’

‘What did she tell you about that?’ Lottie was intrigued to know the version Imelda would relate.

‘Not a lot.’ The woman seemed to retreat into herself.

‘Let’s walk,’ Lottie said, and they stood and set off along the promenade. ‘Did Assumpta tell you who locked the girl in the machine and turned it on?’

‘She mentioned a Robert Hayes.’

Bingo. This matched what Ann had told her. ‘Did you interview him?’

‘No, but I did some research on him. He was a priest for a time before being kicked out of the clergy. Something to do with child abuse, but it was all vague. No garda involvement. A cover-up by the Church if ever there was one.’

‘He became a chef after that. He lived in Ragmullin, where I work. He could be the killer.’ Lottie crossed her fingers, because she still had a sense that Imelda was not an innocent in all this.

‘But why?’ Imelda said quietly.

‘To silence witnesses and to stop you investigating further for your documentary.’

‘I’m still alive.’

‘There’s no one left to corroborate your story, though. They’re all dead. They can’t talk.’

‘That’s not strictly true.’ Imelda looked straight ahead as they walked.

Lottie sensed the young woman felt sad in her company. But was she really sad? Was there something else at play here?

‘How is that so?’ she asked.

‘I can listen to their voices, their stories. I have the recordings.’

‘You have?’ She stopped sharply and turned to Imelda. ‘Where?’

‘Safe.’ Imelda walked on slowly.

Lottie decided to leave that line of discussion for now. She didn’t want to spook her any further.

‘Bryan O’Shaughnessy. How do you know him?’ She wondered if she should tell Imelda about the DNA, but it wasn’t conclusive and she had no idea if the further analysis had been finalised. She’d have to ask Mooney.

‘I don’t know him,’ Imelda said, keeping her eyes cast downwards. ‘Not really. I spoke to him early on. His name came up.’

‘Who brought it up?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

‘There’s a lot you’re not saying, Imelda. Why is that?’

‘I need to have some bargaining power.’

‘With Mooney?’ Lottie paused as Imelda turned to face her.

‘No, with the killer.’

Mooney was relieved to see that Denis Wilson had been taken to one side by the Dublin detectives. Thank God, he thought. At least he hadn’t been allowed to leave the premises.

He walked around the outside of the Wilson house, pulling at his beard, rubbing his head, tugging his ear lobe, generally baffled and more than a little annoyed with himself.

Last night Ann had said she’d talk to him in the morning. Tell him about Imelda and maybe a whole lot of other stuff. Now she couldn’t tell him anything, because she was dead.

What had she to say that she didn’t want her husband to hear? And how or why had Imelda come into possession of Ann’s phone? What did Imelda mean when she said that Assumpta Feeney was the key to it all?

He was being sidelined, he got that. He hadn’t succeeded in securing an arrest or a quick result and people were still being murdered.

The powers-that-be on the top floor with the huge windows overlooking the bay had not given him time to get his feet under the table let alone analyse the information his team had gathered.

But the murders had come so close together, he had hardly time to draw a breath, never mind draw a clear image of who he should be investigating.

He could not rid himself of the fear he’d seen in Ann’s eyes the previous night when she spoke of her husband’s anger.

That made him think of the altercation that had occurred earlier that day between Denis Wilson and Bryan O’Shaughnessy.

He should warn the farmer, because as sure as night followed day, Wilson would be gunning for the man Mooney had arrested and released without charge.

He also wanted to determine if O’Shaughnessy had been anywhere near the Wilsons’ house last night. He’d have loved to interview the councillor straight away, but that had been taken out of his hands. Damn.

Had he missed something yesterday? Had the killer been lurking in the trees? Had Robert Hayes been following him? Watching the house, watching the Wilsons, watching Mooney leave? A shiver travelled up his spine and down his arms.

He hoped to God he hadn’t led him to Ann’s door.