by Sam Blake
‘He’d only come back from New York that night but he said something about having to go to a meeting that was rescheduled.’
‘He was jet-lagged – who knows, perhaps he never even realised he’d hit anyone.’ Cathy looked at him, incredulous, as he continued, ‘Maybe he was drinking on the flight?’
Cathy shook her head in disbelief. ‘Will we bring him in?’
‘I think we need to speak to him on his own, that’s for sure.’
Chapter 35
Monday, 9.45 a.m.
Conor Quinn was perplexed when they’d called at his house. He had looked in disbelief at Cathy when she’d explained that they needed to have a chat about his cars and the night of Tom’s death. He’d shrugged, shaking his head like going down to the station was all a waste of time, but, as he’d assured them, he didn’t have anything to hide. Cathy had been banking on his arrogance to carry them through. They didn’t have enough to arrest him but O’Rourke was right that they needed to explain to him what they did have, while he was on tape. They needed to see his reaction.
Mira had looked on anxiously as he’d reached for his jacket and accompanied Cathy down his front steps to the detective unit’s Mondeo. Orla Quinn had been at a breakfast meeting, but Cathy was sure Mira would be straight on the phone. And no doubt Orla would be on to his solicitor. They might not have much time.
The interview room was lit by a harsh fluorescent light that bounced off the cream walls and neutral flooring. Dressed in a casual check shirt and a navy V-neck sweater and jeans, his thick dark hair gelled, Conor Quinn had tried to move the chair closer into the table as he’d sat down, had been slightly surprised to find that it was bolted to the floor. Now he sat back in the chair, his arms folded.
O’Rourke sat opposite him, his jacket on, a notepad in front of him. Despite his assertions that he had nothing to hide, Cathy could feel the tension radiating off Quinn as she unsealed the discs for the tower recording unit on the wall beside them. She kept her face friendly, smiling warmly as she noted the numbers on each disc and handed them silently to O’Rourke, who loaded them.
O’Rourke glanced up to check the video camera was functioning as he began.
‘For the tape, those present are Conor Quinn, DI Dawson O’Rourke, and Detective Garda Cathy Connolly. Mr Quinn, you’ve agreed to come and have a chat with us voluntarily about events on the night your son Tom was killed in a traffic accident. Can you confirm your full name and home address for us, please?’
‘Is this really necessary? My son is the victim here. I . . .’
‘Please state your name and address for the tape.’
‘Conor Quinn, St Gabriel’s House, Sandycove, County Dublin.’
‘You are aware that you are not under arrest but that this interview is being recorded and that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence?’
Quinn pursed his lips as he thought about it, then said, ‘This is ridiculous.’
He shifted in his seat as if he was suddenly realising that this was a significantly more serious ‘chat’ than he’d expected. But from what she’d seen, Cathy was sure he wasn’t the type of man to lose face and show his fear. Arrogance was a dangerous thing.
‘For the tape, please.’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Cathy could see O’Rourke smile. It was the smile he reserved for suspects. It lifted the corners of his mouth but didn’t hit his eyes.
‘Now, Conor, can you take us through your movements on Thursday evening last please? The night that your son Tom was killed in a hit-and-run incident in Ulverton Road in Dalkey?’
Quinn paled, a sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead, but then, Cathy reasoned, being reminded of what had happened under these circumstances would make anyone go pale – it was all still very raw. But O’Rourke didn’t like Conor Quinn and he could be a total bastard.
‘You know all this.’ Quinn sighed theatrically, shaking his head. ‘I was in New York. I flew home on Thursday. The plane was delayed.’
‘How did you get home from the airport?’ Cathy kept her voice light.
Quinn stared at her impatiently, like they were wasting his time.
‘I caught the air coach in the end. I was going to get a cab but the coach almost delivers me to the door. No point in shelling out for parking or a taxi when it was sitting there when I walked out of arrivals.’
‘So you got off the air coach in Sandycove and made your way home?’
‘Glasthule, but yes, exactly.’
‘And what time was this?’ O’Rourke was holding his pen, making the occasional note in the form of hieroglyphics he used in front of suspects.
‘I got home just after eight, I think.’
‘And who was in the house when you arrived?’
‘Well, Mira, obviously. She told me Tom had just gone out. Orla was at her charity thing.’
Cathy leaned forward in her chair, her elbows on the table. ‘What did you do when you arrived?’
Conor Quinn looked at her like she was stupid. ‘I unpacked, had a quick shower, got changed.’
‘And then, Conor?’ The way O’Rourke said his name made him sound like a child in school.
Quinn looked at O’Rourke, objecting to his tone, but biting his tongue.
‘I told you before. I went to a meeting, with an investor actually. It was rescheduled when we left New York late. I wanted to get to it.’
O’Rourke raised his eyebrows. ‘Where did that meeting take place?’
‘At a house on the Vico Road. I met with a guy called Xavier Ayari.’
Cathy pushed a stray curl behind her ear. She’d arranged to meet Olivier Ayari, Tom’s friend, at twelve today. Now that suddenly everything had started moving fast, she doubted she’d make it. It was in the job book, though, so Frank Gallagher would have it covered.
‘That’s the Xavier Ayari whose family funded the new science wing at Trinity College?’
Quinn nodded. O’Rourke cut in, his tone clipped. ‘For the tape, please.’
‘Yes, one and the same.’
‘Do you normally have meetings at people’s homes that late at night?’
Quinn looked at O’Rourke like it was none of his business. ‘It was a private conversation. This is Dublin, Inspector, you can’t do anything or have a conversation without people seeing you or overhearing. We needed to be somewhere discreet and Xavier had to do something to his boat so he was going to be in Dun Laoghaire. The timing just worked out.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, apart from the flight delay, that is.’
Cathy wondered what they had been discussing. Karen Delaney had said something about Quinn’s US trip being related to expanding the station – was Quinn looking for investment in Life Talk? And if he was, why had he organised a meeting when his wife – who presumably was the other shareholder – was tied up at an event? Cathy was sure Orla Quinn had been busy all day bringing her fundraiser together. Did she even know about it? Cathy was desperate to ask, but right now they had more important issues to get to the bottom of first.
‘How did you get to that meeting, Conor?’
Cathy could see where O’Rourke was going, and he wasn’t messing about with preliminary chat, was going straight for the truth. Although what Quinn’s version of the truth might be remained to be seen.
‘I drove, obviously.’
Cathy watched him closely. Had he been drinking on the flight? Was he even capable of driving?
‘And what car did you drive?’
Quinn shook his head like the question was unnecessary. ‘My Z3. It’s the car I use most often.’
‘You’re quite sure?’ O’Rourke looked at him hard.
‘Of course I am.’
‘How many cars do you have?’
‘Five. All Beemers. Different models.’
‘But all the same colour?’
‘Yes,
estoril blue. To match my eyes.’
Ick. Cathy kept her face impassive.
‘Where do you keep them?’ O’Rourke straightened the pad in front of him, said it like it wasn’t important.
‘In the garage at the back of the house. I use the Z3 most of the time, sometimes the jeep. The others I usually only bring out to classic car events, rallies, that sort of thing.’
‘And when did you last use the jeep?’
Quinn shrugged. ‘Before I went to the States. I’m not sure. It’s not something I keep in my diary.’
‘And where’s your jeep now?’
‘In the garage at home, I expect. Where else would it be?’
O’Rourke shifted in the chair. ‘Actually it’s at JB Motors in Sallynoggin, getting some repairs done. Do you have any explanation for that?’
‘There was something adrift with the brakes. I asked Mira to call the garage and get it serviced – it was due one. It usually takes them ages to collect it. If one of those bloody mechanics has damaged it . . .’
‘We have reason to believe that the car involved in Tom’s accident was metallic blue.’
Quinn’s mouth opened and closed again. No sound came out. He at least had the decency to look shocked. O’Rourke changed tack.
‘Did the meeting with Xavier Ayari go well?’
Cathy smiled inwardly. O’Rourke was going for state of mind – exactly what she’d been thinking a moment previously. What sort of mood had Conor Quinn been in heading back home? Had he been driving recklessly? She’d been in a BMW jeep once, and knew from O’Rourke’s car that BMWs were very solid; you felt safe and invincible inside one. If he had been jet-lagged, would he have noticed hitting someone? It had been very dark and Karen Delaney had said Tom was wearing dark clothing. Maybe Quinn had fallen asleep at the wheel and mounted the pavement, clipping Tom. Then reversed to get back onto the road but, groggy and maybe confused, had changed his mind, and decided to drive forwards along the pavement instead. Surely he’d have felt a big jolt as he drove over Tom’s body. But that would be one good reason why he could be lying about the vehicle he’d used that night.
Quinn licked his lips, then he finally found his words. ‘I don’t know yet if it was successful. I want to expand Life Talk. Orla’s not so keen. I want Xavier Ayari to invest so she doesn’t have to worry about the company any more and we can develop it into new areas. She has enough going on in her own companies.’
Cathy was quite sure Orla Quinn wouldn’t be impressed with that.
‘But isn’t your wife Orla the majority shareholder?’ As usual, O’Rourke had done his homework. ‘Surely she’d need to be involved in that discussion?’
Quinn shrugged. ‘She’s very busy with her various roles. I know what direction I want to take Life Talk in – we need to shake things up a bit to increase our market share.’
‘And she’s happy with this, is she?’
‘We haven’t had much time to discuss it since I got back. A lot has been happening.’
O’Rourke nodded curtly. ‘So tell me about Lauren O’Reilly.’
A flash of shock crossed Quinn’s face but he hid it so fast, he thought they hadn’t seen it. Cathy felt O’Rourke shift in the chair beside her. He hadn’t missed it either. He didn’t miss anything.
‘What about her?’
Belligerent. He’d seemed genuinely surprised about the car – either that or he was a very good actor, but now his mask was starting to slip. He leaned forward and started to fiddle with his wedding ring.
And several things collided in Cathy’s head.
Quinn had organised the work experience for Lauren at Life Talk after meeting her at the Trinity event. But she was shy and Ronan Delaney had felt that she wasn’t cut out for the media. Cathy knew hundreds of students would give their eye teeth for that type of work experience, yet Quinn had brought someone in who wasn’t suited to it. And she hadn’t been friends with Tom at that point, so it wasn’t like Tom had put pressure on his dad to give her a job. Cathy suddenly had a very strong feeling that Conor Quinn had other reasons for getting to know Lauren O’Reilly. Hadn’t her friends said she’d dropped off the radar a bit when this term had started, that she’d become secretive and reluctant to come out with them? Cathy could think of one very good reason for that. She had been a very attractive girl.
‘How well did you know her, Conor?’
Her voice was low, but the way Cathy said it was loaded with innuendo. O’Rourke picked up on her meaning immediately. Quinn did too, his cheeks flushing red.
‘She worked for Life Talk last summer, she’s one of Tom’s friends . . .’
‘But she wasn’t one of Tom’s friends then, Conor.’
He pursed his lips.
Cathy looked at him hard. ‘She was coming to see you that evening, wasn’t she? Did she call you? We’ve got a pile of calls to a pay-as-you-go mobile in her phone records. Texts sent to the same number that would indicate that she was in a relationship with the recipient. A pay-as-you-go phone, Conor. Isn’t that what people use when they are having an affair?’
Quinn licked his lips like they’d gone dry. His hand went to his wedding ring again as he looked from one of them to the other.
‘Look, Orla can’t know about this, and I had nothing to do with Lauren’s death. Nothing, do you hear me, I wasn’t even there.’
Before O’Rourke could speak, there was a knock on the door. Fanning stuck his head in.
‘Solicitor’s here asking to see Conor Quinn.’
Chapter 36
Monday, 11.15 a.m.
Taking Quinn to his solicitor, O’Rourke kept his face straight until they got down the corridor and around the corner from the interview room.
‘Damn his solicitor arriving, but how the hell did you guess that one, Miss Marple?’ His face cracked into a grin as she leaned back on the wall beside him.
‘No guesswork, pure deduction. And brilliance, obviously. As soon as you mentioned Lauren’s name he started twisting his wedding ring.’
O’Rourke interrupted her. ‘Lots of people do that.’
‘True, but when my little brother is playing poker, he always looks for the tell, a movement or a twitch that says the other player is concealing something.’ She hesitated. ‘And he’s damn good at poker.’
‘He has you well trained. But you needed more than a twitch to get that one.’
‘Just a few things people have said suddenly made sense. Paula Garcia, Lauren’s friend in college, said her behaviour had changed after the summer. Ronan Delaney said that Conor had organised the job for her but she wasn’t a media type. Anna Lockharte said she was incredibly shy – she’s not the type who would want to work in radio, you need to be confident and outgoing for that. I think Quinn fancied her as soon as he met her at that Trinity thing and got her the job so he could see more of her. I thought Ronan Delaney could have been seeing her on the sly, but Quinn’s a much bigger fish – he owns the station. She has to have been flattered by his attention.’
O’Rourke looked thoughtful. ‘And when that photo arrived in her inbox she panicked, and who does she call?’
‘Her friend with the pay-as-you-go mobile. Exactly.’ She could see from O’Rourke’s face that it was all fitting into place for him too. ‘There were a few days between the first email arriving and her calling the pay-as-you-go that threw me a bit. But we can safely say she was a bit shocked when she saw it the first time, must have spent a couple of days frantically trying to work out what to do about it. Perhaps she thought she could sort it out herself. She must have been terrified of telling him too, that their relationship could be compromised and about to go public – who’s to know he’s not on one of the videos too? And she must have known Quinn was flying back from New York, knew what time he was due to land. There was no point trying to call him earlier.’
‘That would be grounds for panic all right. Imagine if the media got hold of this, they’d destroy him.’ O’Rourke tapped his finger
s on the wall, his face creased in thought.
‘I can’t imagine his wife would be too impressed either.’
O’Rourke rolled his eyes. ‘We’ve got him on tape admitting the affair. Think he killed her?’
Cathy screwed up her face. ‘Maybe it was the only way he could think of to get rid of the evidence. It’s not an entirely logical reaction, though, is it? It doesn’t solve anything, just makes a heap more trouble.’
O’Rourke turned to look at her, his blue eyes full of mirth. ‘Cat, when is murder ever logical? I mean, what are you like?’
She nudged him hard in the ribs. ‘Don’t you laugh at me. You know what I mean. People kill because they think it will solve their problems. If Quinn was filmed in a compromising position with Lauren O’Reilly, he’s hardly going to think that getting rid of her will solve the problem – the video is still out there.’
‘Maybe he thought, if she wasn’t around, then any links to him would be impossible to prove? That the only person who could say that he hadn’t been photoshopped into the video was Lauren. But I take your point. Well played on the connection between them. I love your intuition, Cat Connolly, it’s like you can see inside people’s heads.’
Cathy could feel herself blushing. Christ, she wished she could see inside his head. She kept talking, trying to hide her reaction.
‘Maybe he did arrange to meet her in the park and she slipped. Maybe the “I’m Sorry” was part of a note to him?’ Cathy hesitated, her mind suddenly at the edge of the cliff, gorse and brambles behind her, jagged rocks reaching up from the sea below, the wind freezing her face. ‘It’s just with this hacker being involved and connections between this case and those other cases – it’s like he has a preferred location. I’m wondering if she was going to meet him – the hacker, I mean – and maybe expected Quinn to come and help her?’ She hadn’t put it quite as clearly as she would have liked, but she could see from his face that O’Rourke knew what she meant.
‘You could be right.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s after eleven now, we’ve got this conference call scheduled for 1 p.m. Quinn could clam up on us but forensics should be quick enough now they’ve got a sample to compare to the paint chips that were found on Tom’s body. We need to get someone over to Quinn’s house to look at that Z3. Although I can’t imagine how you’d not realise you’d hit someone in one of those. They are tiny and so low to the ground that if you hit a pedestrian at speed they’d go sailing over the top, and would be more likely to land in the road than on the pavement.’