Page 66 of Her Last Walk Home

‘Lei?’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Where did that plastic come from?’

‘Farmer had it in his jeep. He thought it might keep the birds away.’

‘Hmm.’ She hoped it hadn’t destroyed any potential evidence. But he was probably right to try and protect the body from further avian carnage.

She stopped before she reached it. The two uniforms who had been standing guard moved to one side to let her through. Noses blue with the cold, they tipped their caps. She nodded in solemn greeting.

It felt odd to be the first detective on the scene. She usually arrived to the hustle and bustle of activity from detectives and SOCOs. This morning, it was her private domain. She felt a fissure of distrust in her ability to remain professional as she lifted the plastic sheet from the deceased’s face.

The dead woman was unknown to her. Her face had a bluish-grey tinge. Not long dead, experience told her, but it could still be eight or nine hours. So young. Mid to late twenties, maybe, though in death it was difficult to judge age correctly.

She swallowed the bile that had risen from her stomach on seeing the evidence of the birds’ activity. Pecks in the skin, here and there. Eyelids shut, with no marks around them. She was grateful they had not got that far, and thankful for the farmer’s quick thinking in covering up the body. He had definitely done the right thing.

Biting her lip, she squinted at the dead woman’s hair. It was shorn short. Shorn was the only word she could think of to describe it. Ragged ends, odd lengths. Unwashed. She filed away these initial observations to return to later. She peeled downthe plastic covering and gulped away her rising anger. Red-hot anger.

There appeared to be a single stab wound to the chest, just below the victim’s breast. The pathologist would tell her more, but there didn’t seem to be any other injuries on the painfully thin body. Unless they discovered more when she was turned over. Through the light material of her ripped and blood-soaked grey cotton shift dress, Lottie could see protruding ribs. She glanced at the woman’s hands, forcing herself not to take hold of one of them to comfort her. The bones of her thin wrists and elbows stuck out and her stomach was distended. Her legs were like two hawthorn sticks. Thin, dirty and bare, as were her feet.

‘What happened to you, pet?’ Lottie whispered. ‘Who did this to you?’ She was aware that she was referring to more than the knife wound that had ended the girl’s life.

Carefully she replaced the plastic sheeting, hoping the tent would arrive soon. She rose to her feet and scanned the surrounding terrain. She could make out a criss-cross of boot prints. The farmer’s and the initial gardaí who’d arrived on scene, she surmised. Were the killer’s prints there somewhere too? She didn’t notice any small prints like there had been at the site where Laura Nolan had been found. But SOCOs would check.

She allowed her thoughts to return to the face beneath the plastic. Eyes closed. Mouth slightly open. A spectre of pain and horror. What had the girl seen in the last moments of her life? What pain had she endured in the weeks or months prior to that? Lottie bit down on her lip again so that she wouldn’t cry. She was certain something awful had been done to the young woman in the time before her murder. She’d have to wait for the post-mortem, because she knew this body had a lot to say.

50

George thought the guards might tell him to wait forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours, my arse. He’d go to the garda station and fight to be heard. He’d have to bring little Davy with him. The silence from Shannon’s phone had freaked him out. Hadn’t a girl been murdered already? His mind was in overdrive and all thoughts of evicting his sister disappeared. Where was she? Okay, she’d stayed out the night before, but she’d come home early enough the next morning. Swore she wouldn’t do it again unless she called him first. Was he overreacting? Maybe, but some internal switch had been flipped and he sensed he had cause to worry.

The small garda reception area was hot and smelly. The bench inside the door was free, but he had no intention of sitting there or anywhere else until he got answers. He marched up to the counter, keeping a tight hold on Davy’s hand. He knocked on the glass and waited for the tired-looking older guard to make his way from the small open-plan office behind the front desk.

‘I want to report a missing woman. It’s my sister. She’s about this height and?—’

‘Right, son. Take your time. What’s your name?’

‘George Kenny. What’s yours?’

‘Garda Thornton. Will you fill out a form for me?’

George swayed from foot to foot. ‘I’m really worried. That woman was murdered the other day, and now Shannon hasn’t come home.’

‘Okay. Does she often do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Not come home?’

He sucked in his cheeks. Lie? Or tell the truth? Maybe somewhere in between. ‘She’s had issues in the past. But her best friend hasn’t heard from her either and now her phone seems to be dead. She nearly always comes home in the morning if she stays out the night before.’ Shit, he’d said too much.

‘Nearly always, you say. What about other times?’

‘Look, Garda Thornton, I know my sister, and I know there’s something wrong.’

The man seemed between two minds on what to do. George could see experience in his eyes and demeanour. He figured that waiting was better than having an outburst.

‘Okay,’ Thornton said at last, ‘I’ll take the details. Have you a photograph? I’d also recommend you put a post on social media. Did you try contacting her that way?’

‘She hasn’t been online since yesterday.’

‘And that’s unusual, is it?’

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