Page 88 of Hidden Daughters

No, she didn’t. She tried to close the door on him. But his hand was on the thick timber and it was no problem for him topush it inwards. He stepped inside, shut the door and walked by her.

‘How about a nice cup of tea and a cosy chat.’

She couldn’t stop him. He was already in. He knew exactly where he was headed. She followed his loud clipping footsteps towards the kitchen. Before joining him, she slowly made the sign of the cross on her forehead, chest and shoulders.

‘Help me, dear Lord,’ she prayed.

55

FRIDAY

Father Phillip Lyons’s early-morning flight into Knock airport had been comfortable and on time, but the journey down the N17 was disrupted by a road accident. The detours were badly signposted and he got lost twice. By the time he parked outside the house, the good mood he’d nurtured in Lourdes was in shreds.

‘I’m home, Brigid,’ he shouted as he shoved his carry-on case inside the door.

Not a sound. He checked his watch. It was only breakfast time, and she always kept hot food for him. But there was no smell of anything recently cooked.

‘Brigid?’

She rarely went out unless to the shops for something, and that wasn’t a regular occurrence. They did online groceries with delivery added. He thought it was the best invention yet. He was so looking forward to a full breakfast of rashers and sausages and eggs. He sniffed again. No, he couldn’t smell it.

He sat on the bottom step of the stairs and kicked off his shoes. His socks were wet with sweat, so he tugged them off too.He found his slippers on the floor under the coat stand. It was good to be home.

He looked into the parlour – the good room, Brigid called it. Empty. Maybe she was still in bed. That would be unusual. She was always up at the crack of dawn. But she was constantly in pain from her arthritis, and he figured he should talk to her about taking things a bit easier. Maybe get her extra help. No, he couldn’t imagine her agreeing to that.

He pushed in the door to the kitchen. It appeared empty. Definitely nothing cooked for him. There was just a stale smell. Maybe it was from yesterday’s food. Or the bin. It was his job to empty the rubbish into the outside bin. He’d do that first before he boiled the kettle, or maybe he’d have a cup of tea first. He went to the corner where the kettle usually sat. No kettle.

‘Brigid?’

His voice echoed back at him in the stillness of the house. He backed out and glanced up the stairs. Her room was on the first floor. His, on the second, was an attic room, but he liked its quaintness and the privacy it provided.

‘Are you up there?’

Silence.

He climbed the stairs and knocked on her door. No answer. He turned the handle and peered in. Her bed was made and the room was spotless. He went to the bathroom. The door was ajar. Water on the floor. He pushed the door in further. His hand flew to his mouth and he stifled a shout.

There was no point in going in to check. He knew death when he saw it. He dropped to his knees and blessed himself. He said a prayer for the dead before gingerly making his way back down the stairs to the phone in the hall.

He’d forgotten he could have used his mobile, such was his shock at what he’d seen.

56

Matt Mooney wondered how the likes of Detective Inspector Lottie Parker coped with murder. He supposed he’d had a sheltered garda life to date; murder was rare enough, though suicide was more prevalent. But who murdered innocent elderly ladies? He hoped she was innocent, because he could not contemplate Brigid Kelly being anything other than that.

He’d seen her naked body in all its distress lying in the bath of water. First he’d thought she’d merely drowned but then he’d spied the kettle and he knew that Brigid Kelly had been scalded to death. Or perhaps, if God was good, she’d died of a heart attack before that torturous pain was inflicted. He couldn’t help noticing the similarities to Assumpta Feeney’s body in the holiday cottage. There was no doubt in his mind. It had to be the same killer. But why? What the hell was the motive? He could not get his head around it.

Downstairs, he watched the priest, Father Lyons, being interviewed by a young garda. She was good with victims and families. He’d noticed the suitcase and shoes in the hall and the slippers on the priest’s feet. Just returned from somewhere, or getting ready to leave?

‘Father, I’m so sorry for your loss, but I have a few quick questions.’

The young garda closed her notebook and shook her head. She hadn’t gleaned much from the distraught man.

He took her chair at the table and faced the priest.

‘You found your housekeeper’s body, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

---