Page 8 of Hidden Daughters

Rose turned up her nose. ‘A biscuit would be nice.’

With an exasperated sigh, Chloe fetched the almost empty packet of biscuits. Another item for the food list. ‘You can have the last two.’

‘One is fine. Do you want me to get diabetes as well as all my other ailments?’

‘Tell me the story from the radio.’ Chloe knew this was a good way to stimulate her gran’s brain.

After dunking the biscuit into her tea, Rose waited till it was soggy before biting into it. ‘Ah, you can’t beat a ginger nut.’

Chloe sipped her coffee. She didn’t think Rose would remember what she’d heard on the radio. She probably wouldn’t even remember what she’d been saying ten seconds ago. However, her gran continued to surprise her.

‘A lassie out for a jog saw the body caught up in the reeds. Down by the bridge at the end of the link road. Apparently it hadbeen burned and tied up, or something like that. That’s what it said on the radio.’

‘Oh.’ Chloe put down her mug. She wasn’t sure if her gran was recounting what she’d actually heard or something from an old memory. ‘Anything else?’

‘Isn’t that bad enough?’ Rose slurped her tea, and dribbles ran down her chin onto her shirt.

Chloe dampened a cloth and gently wiped her gran’s face. ‘Do you want to do some knitting?’

‘I recall something like this from long ago.’

‘Someone wiping your face?’

‘No, girl, don’t be stupid. I remember Peter telling me about it. Where is he?’

‘Grandad Peter died years and years ago. Now how about that knitting?’

‘It seems an awful way to die.’ Rose stood up so suddenly she tipped over the mug. Chloe watched the milky tea pool on the table before drip-dripping to the floor.

She wished her mam was home because she was losing patience.

She heard a letter drop onto the mat and escaped to get it, hoping against hope that this might be the one she’d been waiting for.

7

‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ McKeown said as he returned upstairs with Martina.

Martina didn’t think it had been a waste of time talking to the victim’s son. She felt sorry for Noel Butler, but she kept her lips sealed because McKeown was in a mood. They’d had a recent enough relationship. She’d fallen hard for him. That was until his wife and kids appeared in the station one morning looking for him. Now she detested him, but they still had to work together. Suffering for her sins, she concluded.

He dropped the file on an unoccupied desk. ‘I’m heading out for a coffee.’ He left without offering to buy one for her. Typical of the bollox.

At the incident board, she studied the sequence of photographs. The first was of Edie Butler holding a glass of white wine like she was toasting whoever was taking the photo. Her eyes shone red in the reflection of the flash. Her skin was smooth, not puffy like it’d be if she’d been a drinker like McKeown claimed. Her hair was coloured a deep brown. It was easy to see she was thin, even though it wasn’t a full body shot. Sunken cheeks, and hollows curved around her eyes. The fingers clutching the glass were long and bony. Nails painted black, ormaybe burgundy. Martina squinted but could not make out the colour.

In the photo, Edie was unsmiling, her mouth set in a flat line as if she was indulging the person behind the camera. Martina could see that she had once been beautiful. She wondered if the death of her husband years ago had dimmed that beauty, to give her an air of sadness evident even in a photograph.

The next photo she looked at was in stark in contrast to the first one. It was taken before the body had been moved from its grim surroundings of reeds clogged with discarded bottles and cans. A body disposed of like mere rubbish. So sad, Martina thought.

The following image showed SOCOs laying Edie on the body bag after she’d been brought up from the river. Another had the assistant state pathologist leaning over the body. The next was of Edie lying sideways in the black body bag, her spine misshapen and bruised, skin burned in places, sagging off in others. The indents on her wrists. She’d definitely been bound at some stage, and that pointed to murder.

Finally Martina allowed her gaze to linger on Edie’s face in death. She was shocked at the scalded skin of her face and lips, frizzed hair stuck in places to her scorched forehead and neck. Evidence of the horror Edie had endured made her turn away to look instead at the photos of the woman alive.

‘What do you think happened?’ She knew it was Kirby even before he spoke. The odour of cigar smoke lingered on his clothing.

‘Whatever happened,’ she said softly, ‘it was cruel.’

‘It was definitely that.’

‘It was planned,’ she murmured.

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