If I Never See You Again

by Niamh O'Connor

  ‘Do that to me again, and I won’t be responsible,’ Jo said as soon as she’d the door closed behind her. ‘You know as well as I do we are not in the middle of a gangland turf war!’

  Stanley’s legs were crossed, and a soft leather shoe pointed towards Jo. She could just about see the sole – and reckoned from the light scuffing that, before today, it had only ever traversed expensive wool carpets.

  She leaned towards him. ‘The killer we’re looking for is working alone, and not motivated by the money to be made from the drug trade. He’s got a biblical take on revenge, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. These are not – I repeat, not – gangland killings.’

  Stanley sighed. ‘That’s not how we’re going to play this. The party’s come under enough criticism for bailing the Roman Catholic Church out financially on the compensation for sex abuse victims deal. I will not have the public whipped into a frenzy by talk of a religious maniac until you find him.’

  Jo stared at him in disbelief. ‘Let me guess. The youngest in a house full of sisters, right? Wait, don’t tell me . . . Mithered by your mother, alcoholic father – how am I doing so far?’

  Stanley didn’t answer.

  ‘Married a woman who only speaks when she’s talking about you and insists that she, and not your housekeeper, should be the one to iron your socks?’

  Stanley looked unsettled.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ Jo said. ‘I’d go so far as to suggest the last time you had sex with your wife was more than ten years ago. But there’s a blonde behind the scenes somewhere . . .’

  ‘Your husband’s up for promotion, isn’t he?’ Stanley said, turning on Jo.

  ‘Ex-husband.’

  ‘Still, matters of the heart are never clear-cut, are they?’ he said. ‘You got kids? Think they’ll forgive you if Daddy is transferred to the back of beyond because of you?’

  ‘Is that a bloody threat?’ Jo said, looking straight at him. ‘That is a bloody threat! Gerry, I want that logged for Labour Court hearing . . .’

  Gerry shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Do you really think anyone will give a flying fuck?’ Stanley continued. ‘People are losing their jobs left, right and centre, taking pay cuts, having their homes repossessed. Do you think anyone will listen to poor little Ms Job For Life complaining her ex-husband has to move station?’

  Jo reached for the door handle.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, clasping her wrist.

  She stared at his hand.

  ‘You badly want rape victims protected in court, right? Well, I’ll recommend it – on one condition.’

  In the front of the car, Gerry stiffened. He knew what was coming.

  ‘You find the killer, and stick to my line until he’s brought to justice.’

  Jo thought about it for a few seconds. ‘I need the NSU file on Anto Crawley. That’s why I’m here. The team from NBCI won’t hand it over. They say it’s life and death for the touts. I say people are dying anyway.’

  ‘You’ll have it by this afternoon. But I need you to bring someone in. I don’t care if he was arranging flowers in the church at the time of the killings – bring him in and let the papers know you’re questioning him. That way you get both of us off the hook.’

  Jo opened her mouth to protest.

  ‘I’m not asking you to lock him up for good. You can release him again later, and no harm will be done. Justice must be seen to be done, Detective Inspector, as must the pursuit of justice.’

  He reached out his hand to shake hers. Reluctantly, Jo took it.

  ‘One other thing,’ she said, before getting out. ‘Your favourite artist of all time would be Constable, am I right?’

  He frowned. ‘Turner,’ he answered.

  On the pavement next to the Merc, Sexton and Foxy were waiting.

  ‘This afternoon, when I give the word, and not before, we are going to make our first arrest,’ Jo said.

  When she told them the name, they burst out laughing.

  49

  Before leaving the prison grounds, Jo told Foxy and Sexton the jobs she wanted actioned. Foxy was to have any working girls who’d had warnings about soliciting in the last year brought into the station; Sexton was to bring Stuart Ball’s mother in so Jo could question her herself. After hailing the team a cab, she commandeered Sexton’s Beemer to drive to Crumlin Hospital.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,’ she told him.

  He groaned as she revved up.

  ‘Relax,’ Jo said, bunny-hopping away – a trick she’d perfected when Dan was teaching her to drive.

  According to the girl on the administration desk in the hospital, Katie Freeman was on the second floor. Jo spotted Ryan Freeman as soon as she pressed the release button to the ward. He was standing midway down a narrow corridor painted with Disney cartoon characters, talking to a doctor in a white coat. The conversation with the doc ended before Jo reached him, but he stayed in the same position, apparently lost in thought.

  ‘What the hell . . .?’ he began when he saw her.

  Jo stopped and gave him a weary look.

  ‘Harassing sick children now, are you?’ Ryan demanded. ‘Not mine, you’re not. Nurse?’

  A nurse poked her head around the nurses’ station then began making her way towards them.

  ‘The easy way, or the hard way?’ Jo asked, leaning in close to him. ‘The former means I go into Katie’s cubicle and get a sense of what I am dealing with. You never know – maybe, just maybe, it will help.

  ‘The alternative is actually quite easy for me but hard on you. I do things by the book, go and get my warrant for your arrest, and the case makes headline news. How long do you think you can keep what happened to Katie quiet then? Because despite how it looks, I don’t think you had anything to do with the killings.’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure anybody reading about it will agree with me, though.’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ the nurse asked.

  Jo waited.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ryan said, looking at the floor. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘I saw you on TV this morning in connection with those killings, didn’t I?’ the nurse asked Jo. ‘You’re a garda. You can’t come in here without authorization.’

  ‘She’s family,’ Ryan said.

  The nurse looked unconvinced but was distracted by some children in pyjamas whom she shooed back into the playroom at the far end of the corridor.

  ‘I’m warning you,’ Ryan said, leading Jo into Katie’s room. ‘If you upset her in any way . . .’

  A sick toddler was lying in a cot on the right-hand side of the room. Jo took a deep breath. She’d always found visits to hospital wards a reality check – how fragile things were; how easily it could all be taken away; how day-to-day problems became trifling when compared with what some people were going through. But a kids’ ward, that was different. How would you cope if that kind of thing came to the door? And why shouldn’t it come to your door, as against anybody else’s? Like most people, she tried not to think about it – until days like this, when it was rammed home.

  ‘Darling,’ Ryan said, heading to the bed at the window where Katie was sitting listlessly. ‘This is a lady I work with.’

  Katie didn’t look up.

  Jo’s face softened as she looked over his shoulder. Katie’s fair hair was in two plaits and wisps had escaped around her hairline. She had on a pink cardigan, with the big-stitch look of having been knitted by a granny, over a pair of Hannah Montana pyjamas.

  Even a cursory glance at Katie told Jo that the girl was going through a lot. There was something seriously wrong with the way her eyes moved, as if the lights had gone out behind them.

  She suddenly felt overwhelmed with sadness. If somebody did that to your kid, you’d want to hurt them – of course you would. Ryan Freeman could be their killer: he knew the law, and he knew the victims, who must have known him through his reputation; and he had more motive than anyone else, given his daughter’s con
dition. But Mac had ticked all the right boxes too, Jo realized. And could Ryan really have murdered five people in cold blood? She didn’t think so. There was something about the way he was fumbling for a tissue to wipe a string of drool that was running from the corner of Katie’s mouth that told her that such murders required way too much planning for a man as shattered as he seemed to be.

  ‘You may well just be the prettiest little girl I have ever seen,’ Jo said, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting her hand over Katie’s. ‘You know, when I was younger, I was in hospital too. I lost my dad. Nobody blamed me, but I blamed me. I wished so hard I could go blind that I used to keep my eyes closed for days on end. It didn’t make any difference, though; in the end, I realized how sad it would make my dad up in heaven if he thought I couldn’t see, so I opened them.’

  Katie glanced over to her dad.

  ‘Who hurt you, my darling?’ Jo asked. ‘Did somebody tell you they would hurt the people you love if you said anything? But your dad and mum are safe. Nobody can touch them. All they want is for you to get better, do you understand?’

  Tears began to spill from Katie’s eyes.

  Ryan put a hand on Jo’s shoulder, warning her she’d gone far enough.

  Jo reached into her bag and pulled out a jacket of photographs. She pulled one out and held it to Katie. It showed Anto Crawley’s mugshot. ‘Him?’ she asked. ‘Was he there?’

  Ryan took a step and reached for the photos but dropped his hand when Katie responded with a stiff nod.

  Jo held up a picture of Rita Nulty – her mugshot.

  Katie fanned her fingers in front of her face and looked through them at Jo. She started to shake.

  Jo took this as a yes too. Ryan sat down on a chair as if his legs had gone weak. The next photo of Stuart Ball – taken from a line-up – made Katie’s fingers close tight together.

  ‘What about him?’ Jo asked, taking Katie’s hands down gently and showing her a picture of Father Reg.

  No reaction.

  ‘This is the last one.’ Jo held up Mac’s picture.

  Again nothing.

  It didn’t matter. Jo hadn’t expected to find either Mac or Father Reg on site.

  ‘You see, we know who they are, which means they can no longer hurt you,’ she told Katie. ‘Nothing will happen because of anything you say – do you understand, sweetheart? The only thing that matters now is that you get better.’

  But Katie was still shaking. Jo leaned towards her. ‘Somebody else was there, weren’t they?’

  Katie opened her mouth to say something – and then gagged, doubling up on the bed and choking in distress.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Angie demanded, appearing in the doorway.

  50

  ‘How dare you! What the hell do you think you’re doing? You have absolutely no right to be here!’ Angie Freeman shouted.

  They were outside Katie’s room in the ward corridor, and Jo was glad of the chance to stare so she could take Angie in properly and work out what it was about her that didn’t feel right. She was very pretty, in a Melinda Messenger kind of way – big teeth, big hair, and big boobs on a small, stick-like frame.

  Jo put her as mid-forties, with signs of resistance – she had that puckered-hem collagen look going on around her top lip, and too much concealer under her eyes was making her blusher look like stripes of war paint.

  ‘This isn’t ending here,’ she continued. ‘I want the name of your superior officer.’

  Jo noticed a slight tremble in Angie’s hand as she took a pink mobile out of her WAG-style glam handbag and tried to turn it on. She was wearing skinny white denims, a studded, big-buckled belt and high, shiny, white faux-crocodile-skin ankle boots that must have cost at least three figures, and possibly four.

  ‘I’m also going to complain to the registrar! And if Katie has suffered any setback because of this, I’m going to sue the Minister for Justice . . .’

  Jo frowned. ‘Do you always blame other people when things go wrong?’

  Angie blinked. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind? Have you any idea what I am going through in all this?’ She walked over to a stack of plastic chairs shoved against the wall, lifted the top one down and sank into it, spent.

  Jo had figured out what it was about Angie that just didn’t fit. She got the same irrational feeling any time she saw a drop-dead gorgeous man holding hands with a girl in glasses, an Alice band and socks under her sandals. It wasn’t fair, but it was life. Angie was way too glamorous for Ryan Freeman. He came across as all square edges – like a union official. He was clever, sure, but his accent was from the wrong part of town, and his clothes never quite fit. Jo would have brought them together as a couple if he’d had loads of money, or a great job, but he didn’t have either of these. He was a hack writing about the kind of people Jo suspected Angie looked down her nose at.

  Jo sat down too. ‘Here’s what I’m thinking,’ she said. ‘Katie’s abduction happened a month ago, but your highlights are no more than a couple of days old.’

  Angie looked at her disbelievingly.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Jo said. ‘I’m not going to judge you for having your hair done. But I’ve seen what happens to people when someone they love is hurt or killed. Personal appearance is one of the first things to go after a trauma. What this tells me is that either you know more than you’ve let on about what happened to Katie. Or you don’t care.’ Now Jo was looking at her too. ‘Personally, I’m leaning towards the former.’

  ‘I know your sort,’ Angie hissed. ‘Career first, kids last. Just because I don’t work, you think I should be wearing a tracksuit with gravy splashes on my tits. Some of us take a bit of pride in our appearance. That doesn’t make me a bad mother.’

  ‘Let’s go through this together, shall we?’ Jo said, thinking back to what Sexton had told her late the night before. ‘You’re filmed on a CCTV camera outside your daughter’s school rowing with the country’s most well-known drug baron. You drive off, and Katie is taken from school by the person you argued with. Later, Katie is released untouched. The way I see it, the only way that could have happened is if you contacted your friend Anto Crawley to say sorry. Is that why he let her go?’

  ‘You stupid bitch! You call what happened to her untouched? She can’t speak, for Christ’s sake! Do you know what selective mutism is? It’s a rare psychological disorder caused by extreme anxiety contributing to chronic depression. She’s nine years old!’ Angie put her face in her hands. ‘I was trying to protect her by telling Anto Crawley what Ryan was writing about to keep him away from Katie. He’d sent his scumbags to my home and threatened to hurt her if I didn’t. What was I supposed to do? What would you have done?

  ‘I thought, if I can just get Ryan to stop writing about Dublin criminal gangs, the nightmare would end. I kept telling him, it’s too dangerous, get out, nobody cares! What difference does any of it make? The laws don’t change. The politicians don’t resign. The gangsters get rich, get out of prison, go back to their villas in Marbella. I said to him, everyone is on the take. You can’t change that. We have a child. Think of her! The newspaper won’t protect you. They argue over your expenses bill for this, your expenses bill for that. They don’t care about the cost to you, to us, to Katie.’

  ‘But your insurance policy didn’t work like that, did it?’ Jo asked.

  Angie gave a sort of sob. ‘Crawley wanted more. He wanted the names of Ryan’s sources. Crawley was waiting for me at Katie’s school. I told him I’d tried to get the names, begged him to give me more time, but he wouldn’t listen. I drove away thinking he’d follow. I thought that would get him away from Katie. Instead he took her. Do you have any idea what that was like for me?’

  Jo leaned back. ‘So why didn’t you say something? All that time she was gone, you didn’t think to yourself, I’d better tell the police that Anto Crawley’s involved in this, to help them find Katie. You must have thought it possible he would harm her – kill her even?’r />
  ‘I was up the walls! But I still thought that this was between me and Crawley, and that if I told the police, he would harm Katie.’

  ‘And you needed to keep in with Crawley, didn’t you? Because, without him, who’d look after your cocaine habit?’

  Angie’s jaw fell open in shock, and she touched her nose self-consciously.

  Jo leaned towards her. ‘You were there, weren’t you? Is that why Katie won’t talk? She’s protecting you. Isn’t she?’

  51

  Lunchtime. Jenny Friar had just slammed the phone on Jo’s desk down as Jo arrived back in the office. Friar’s NBCI colleagues, Dave Black and Frank Waters, were standing on either side of her, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘That it?’ Jo asked, reaching for the file on her desk.

  Friar clamped her two hands over the paperwork. ‘First, I want an assurance that you won’t go off half-cocked,’ she said.

  ‘Request denied,’ Jo said, walking around to her chair. ‘As Senior Investigating Officer on this case, I reserve the right to explode if the mood takes me.’

  ‘Have you any idea what you’re dealing with here?’ Friar asked, her hands still on the papers.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Jo said. ‘Life and death, the importance of protecting sources, yada yada. Now, I’ve got a killer to catch and, while you may consider obstructing me your priority, my murder investigation takes precedent. I want the name of the cop who was handling Anto Crawley, and you’re the only person left in my way.’

  ‘It’s not going to make a blind bit of difference to the investigation,’ Friar argued.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much.’

  ‘I don’t see why you need to find out who Anto Crawley was feeding information to,’ Friar said.

  ‘Anto Crawley was bringing drugs into the country, drugs that we intercepted but which wound up back in one of our victim’s crime scenes, strongly suggesting he was briefing someone in here,’ Jo answered, sitting at her desk. ‘The garda handling him has a case to answer.’