‘What are you looking for,’ Joyce asked, coming to find him when she’d not seen him for hours. He quickly filled her in. Joyce, who, like Andrews, hoped to see the lovely Mike West settled, came to sit beside him. ‘Are you hoping to find something, or hoping not to?’ she asked.
‘She’s seeing bogey men behind every face,’ Andrews explained. ‘If Mike can assure her these people are run-of-the-mill, ordinary people, maybe she will relax. And if she relaxes, Mike won’t be so worried about her.’
‘And if he isn’t worried about her, you won’t have to worry about him,’ Joyce said, standing and dropping a kiss on her husband’s head before heading down to see what trouble five year old Petey had got himself into. He was a bit like Kelly that way, she thought to herself, if there was trouble around both Petey and Kelly were sure to find it.
Andrews kept at it for another hour. Keen to see if he could get the information he wanted without using Garda resources, he’d rung around local estate agents earlier, and by telling a mixture of half-truths and lies he found out the surname of the couple, Blundell. When he had that, he rang someone he knew in the department of Inland Revenue who owed him a favour and found out what they did for a living. Denise Blundell, it turned out, was a consultant paediatrician, currently working in Crumlin. Ken Blundell, the manager of a gym in Cabinteely.
With this information, he was able to access both their workplaces and find some photographs. Denise’s looks were bland, forgettable, the kind of face people never remember, the forensic artist’s nightmare. Ken on the other hand, in a gym kit that showed off bulked-up muscles, looked like a poster boy for steroid use. Mean looking too, Andrews thought, and with that he knew he was going to break the rules and check him out at work. Maybe Kelly had good instincts. But being dodgy-looking didn’t necessarily mean anything.
Just as Andrews was having this thought, Kelly returned from a longer than usual walk. Every day she pushed herself and she was beginning to feel good. Everything was falling together nicely; her offer on the apartment had been accepted without delay. It was a vacant purchase, the owners having moved to France a number of weeks before so it was a matter of waiting for the paperwork to get sorted. Four weeks max, she’d been told, and she couldn’t wait.
She’d just reached the gate, bent down to lift the latch, when a car pulled up outside her neighbours. She hadn’t seen either in a couple of days, and she turned automatically, determined to say hello.
It was Denise who stepped out, she was relieved to see, less sure about confronting the rather large Ken. ‘Hello,’ she said, moving to intercept the woman who was reaching into the back for her bag, pulling it with her as she straightened.
‘Hi,’ the woman replied in a tone that didn’t invite further conversation.
‘Are you settling in ok,’ Kelly persevered.
‘Fine, thank you,’ Denise replied, turning away, but she’d closed the car door on the end of her scarf and was forced to turn around to release it. When she did, Kelly noticed the bruise on her cheek. It had been fairly well camouflaged, and probably wasn’t noticeable earlier in the day, but at this late stage whatever make-up she had used to cover it, had been worn away.
‘You’ve hurt your cheek,’ Kelly said.
Denise gave a small, self-deprecatory smile, ‘I walked into an open door,’ she said and with that, turned and walked into her house.
‘I knew it,’ Kelly said under her breath. ‘I just knew it.’
When West came home shortly after, she told him what she’d seen. ‘I told you she looked the nervous type, Mike. He’s hitting her. The bruise proves it.’
West, tired after a day where everything seemed to go wrong, just wanted a nice meal and a glass of wine. He was just about to say so, when he saw Kelly’s concerned face. ‘She might just have walked into a door, Kelly,’ he tried.
‘Do you really think so?’ she said, shooting him a look that told him there was no getting out of this discussion.
Opening a bottle of wine, he poured a glass for her and one for him. ‘Accidents do happen,’ he said calmly. Then because he knew she was genuinely worried about the woman, he decided to confess what he’d done. ‘Because you thought there was something funny about these people,’ he told her. ‘I asked Andrews to have a look at them. He’s doing some digging.’ It was just a little white lie, he thought, she didn’t need to know it was Pete’s idea.
Kelly’s beaming smile, and look of gratitude almost gave him a twinge of guilt but the ache of hunger was stronger. He’d missed lunch, and saw no sign of dinner being ready any time soon. ‘How about we go out for dinner,’ he said. ‘Indian,’ he suggested, relieved when she agreed. There was an Indian restaurant a short walk from the house, the food was good, and he was starving.
Over dinner, to his dismay, Kelly brought up the couple next door again. ‘Can’t you talk to him, Mike? Warn him he’ll be in trouble if he hits her again.’
Mike took a swallow of the cold beer he’d ordered. ‘Let’s just wait and see what Andrews find out, Kelly, before we go in heavy-footed.’ When she looked about to argue, he put his fork down and held his hand up. ‘Enough,’ he warned, ‘I can do nothing. Give it a rest.’
Her mouth almost dropped open; he’d never spoken so sharply to her. She was about to say so when she stopped. She couldn’t have it both ways, could she? Either she wanted him to treat her like an equal, or like a victim. Being treated like an equal meant accepting the good, and the bad.
‘Fair enough,’ she said, to his surprise. He thought he was in for a protracted argument. Relieved, he tucked into his chicken vindaloo with renewed pleasure.
‘When do you expect the sale to be completed?’ he asked, knowing it was something she’d like to talk about, even if it was something he didn’t particularly want to hear. It was going to happen; he should deal with it in good grace.
Happy to talk about her plans, Kelly chatted on while West finished his meal and sat back with his beer watching her. She’d put some weight on, he noticed, her cheeks were fuller. He’d thought she was too thin when they’d first met, she wasn’t now. He finished his beer, raised a hand to a passing waiter and ordered another. Something cold was definitely in order, between the vindaloo and Kelly’s curves, things were definitely too hot for him.
By mutual, if unspoken agreement, they hadn’t pushed their relationship on to the next step, both waiting to see how things panned out when she moved out, when they were, for the first time since they’d met, just a man and a woman who were attracted to one another. Maybe then they’d stop dancing around one another, West thought, watching her animated face.
He wasn’t really listening, he realised, coming back into the conversation when he heard her say three weeks.
‘Three weeks,’ he repeated, surprised. Surely she didn’t mean moving out so soon?
Kelly nodded, smiling. ‘Yes, I know, it’s quick isn’t it? Everything is going so smoothly.’
‘What about Wilton Road,’ Mike asked, preferring to talk about anything, rather than her moving out.
‘The agent has had a few viewings,’ she said, ‘he seems pretty positive about it.’ A silence followed, both of them lost in very different thoughts. Kelly was the first to speak, ‘I thought I’d go over there tomorrow, and pick up all my personal stuff. When the house is sold, I thought I’d get a house clearance company to come in and take everything else.’
West frowned. He remembered some nice pieces of furniture and said as much.
Kelly shook her head. ‘I want to start afresh, Mike. I’ll offer the new purchasers first dibs, but then I want it all gone. It’s the easiest way.’
Starting afresh. Where did that leave him?
7
A poor night’s sleep didn’t help Mike’s mood the next day.
‘I shouldn’t have had chicken vindaloo so late last night,’ he told Andrews when the latter commented on his red-eyed, pale-faced look.
‘Oh, was that it?’ Andrews said, in th
e tone of voice which said loudly, he didn’t believe him for a minute. However, he knew when not to push so instead he tossed a folder onto the desk.
‘The Blundells,’ he said, sitting down and nodding toward the folder. ‘They moved from their last rented house because the police had been called following a domestic. No charges were brought but shortly after, they gave their landlord notice to quit. Funny thing,’ he commented, ‘they move quite frequently.’ When West lifted an eyebrow in disbelief, Andrews nodded. ‘Yes, I checked back with various stations. A domestic dispute was reported at each of their previous dwellings, sometimes more than one.’
‘And no charges, were ever brought,’ West said, with a shake of his head at the predictability of it all. Why didn’t the woman just leave? If she didn’t have family or friends to go to, there were lots of shelters. Pride, fear, disbelief, all of the above, West had heard it all before. He sighed loudly and reached for the folder. ‘So if they follow that cycle, it’s only a matter of time before someone, and it will probably be Kelly, has to ring the gardai.’
He scanned the first couple of pages quickly, and then raised his eyes, meeting Andrews’ in disbelief. ‘Her!’ he said. ‘She’s beating him up; you have to be kidding me. He’s my height, she’s tiny, five one, at a guess.’
Andrews smiled. ‘I thought it was a misprint, when I read the first report, but I spoke to the garda who wrote it up. They’d been called by neighbours, arrived a short time later and knocked on their door. They had to knock a few times before it was answered, and then it was Denise who answered. She tried to convince them it was the television, some programme they were watching too loudly, she promised to keep the noise down, tried to push them away. But they insisted that they needed to see her husband. They were going to give him a ticking off; sure it must have been him. When they insisted, she got angry and flounced into the house. They found Ken Blundell in the kitchen, washing the blood from a nasty gash on his arm. He’d taken off his shirt, so they could see other injuries, older bruises, small scars.
‘When they questioned him, he refused to talk. Said it had all been a misunderstanding. He refused to press charges. Shorty after they moved.’
Tutting, West flicked through the reports. Six in all, the same sad tale in each. ‘I’ve heard about it, but never come across it before, have you?’ He looked across the desk at Andrews.
‘Once,’ he said, ‘a couple of years ago. There was a young couple living in the village. She beat the shit out of him on a regular basis. He ended up in hospital a couple of times but, like Ken, he never pressed charges.’ Andrews drew a deep breath. ‘I spoke to him, asked him why. He said he didn’t want to be known as the man whose wife beat him up. He’d never live it down, he said.’ He shrugged. ‘They moved a year or so later, and I’ve no idea what happened to them.’
‘Denise Blundell is a paediatrician,’ West said, as if that should prevent her being abusive toward her husband, as if he weren’t all too aware that domestic abuse crossed all social barriers.
‘It takes all sorts,’ said Andrews with a dismissive shrug. ‘More importantly, what are you going to tell Kelly?’
West decided he wasn’t going to tell her anything. She’d be moving out in three weeks. Flicking through the reports he noticed it was generally after a few months that troubles began. Once Kelly had moved into her fancy, sea view apartment, the Blundells would be of no concern to her.
He was just about to leave the station, had tidied his desk, locked away any confidential documents, including Andrews’ illegally obtained folder, when the phone rang.
‘Mike,’ Kelly cried in a tone of voice he knew only too well. She was in trouble.
He gripped the phone. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, trying to keep his voice calm, feeling arteries tightening.
‘I can hear screaming. From next door. I think he’s killing her.’
West closed his eyes. Damn and blast. Why couldn’t people behave? ‘Ok,’ he said, ‘I’m leaving here now; I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Stay put. Ok?’
‘Twenty minutes! That’s too long, Mike. I have to go and try to help her now.’
‘Kelly,’ Mike called, ‘you don’t understand...’ but he was talking into a dead phone. Hanging up, he swore loudly and went out into the squad room. Andrews was gone, home to his wife and son. He wasn’t a man to hang around unnecessarily, a sentiment West usually heartily endorsed. But not today when he could have done with his solid, calm presence.
But his luck was in. If it was solid and dependable he wanted, he couldn’t do better than the young garda sitting at a desk, brow furrowed in concentration. Garda Declan Foley was definitely the type he needed. More importantly, he wouldn’t ask too many questions and was always willing to oblige.
‘Declan,’ he called, attracting the younger officer’s attention. He was assigned to DS Clarke and had little to do with West on a day-to-day basis. ‘You in a hurry away?’
Garda Foley shook his head, his ready smile appearing. ‘No, you want me to do something for you?’
‘Yes, come with me,’ West said, and filled the young man in as they walked. Seeing the desk sergeant was Tom Blunt, he stopped. ‘I’ve had a call from Kelly,’ he explained, ‘there’s some disturbance in the house next door. I thought I’d take Garda Foley here, and go and investigate. The call hasn’t been logged in. Will you do that for me?
Blunt, a man who never used two words when one would suffice, simply said, ‘Ok.’
West nodded. The call would be logged in and nobody would know it came through a slightly irregular route. And Kelly would be kept out of it.
He explained the truth of the situation to Foley before they reached his car. ‘We came by the information through less than regular channels,’ he said. ‘If you’d prefer not to get involved, I completely understand.’
‘I’m working with Sergeant Clark,’ Foley said with a grin, ‘most of our information comes through irregular channels. Some of it comes from very dodgy places, indeed.’
West who didn’t regard Clark too highly, raised his eyebrows but then, with a shake of his head, realised he wasn’t exactly in a position to criticise. This is what came from irregular practice, he thought, laying the blame for his niggling guilt unfairly at Andrews’ door.
Slightly less than twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside the neighbour’s house. Getting out of the car, both men listened for a moment. If anyone was still screaming, it couldn’t be heard out on the road. West didn’t bother trying his house; he knew Kelly would have been unable to stop herself. He wasn’t sure if he admired or despaired of her reckless disregard for her own safety.
They approached the neighbour’s house slowly, listening for sounds of violence, checking windows for signs of breakage. Everything seemed ok.
The front door was shut, West used the heavy metal knocker, banging firmly, waiting only a minute before banging again, harder and for longer.
Finally, they heard the latch being turned, and the door was opened. West breathed a sigh of relief when Kelly stood there, whole and unhurt. ‘Mike,’ she cried, ‘thank God, he’s bleeding, badly, and they won’t let me call an ambulance.’
West took Kelly into his arms for a brief hug, reassuring himself she was safe, before nodding over her head at Garda Foley, who, returning his nod, reached into his pocket for his phone.
‘Where are they,’ Mike asked, holding Kelly back. She pointed into the back room. ‘Ok,’ he said, ‘now I need you to go home and stay there. We’ll handle it from here. Ok?’
Kelly nodded, relieved to be getting away. She’d run to help because she knew what it was like to be a victim, to be at the mercy of someone else. But when she’d knocked and Denise had answered, as cool as a cucumber, staring at her in a very strange way and not at all like a woman who’d been shrieking only moments before, Kelly was taken aback. She stood there, not knowing what to say. She’d have gone away, feeling like a fool, if she hadn’t heard cries of despair from inside the h
ouse.
Denise had tried to close the door, but Kelly pushed by and ran to the sound, stopping in disbelief and horror when she saw the big burly man, lying on the floor a pair of scissors embedded to the handle in his belly.
‘Call an ambulance,’ she’d shouted at the woman who followed her into the kitchen. Ken, perspiration rolling down his cheeks, shook his head. ‘No, we can’t do that. Denise,’ he begged her, ‘you have to pull it out, put some stitches in it. It’ll be fine.’
Kelly looked from one to the other, aghast. Some stitches? The blades of the scissors had to be at least six inches long. They must have perforated something. There was sure to be some internal injury. Already, his clothes and the floor around him were red with blood. It was going to take more than a few stitches to sort this out.
She watched as Denise approached him. She wasn’t really going to pull it out, was she? A vague memory came to her, from some film, or novel. Something about not pulling knives or sharp objects out, in case the removal caused worse bleeding. ‘Don’t,’ she cried, startling the woman who turned to her, a puzzled frown between wide staring eyes.
‘We have to call an ambulance,’ Kelly repeated, looking around for any sign of a phone. Why hadn’t she thought to bring her mobile?
Ken held a hand toward his wife, ‘No, please, you can’t do that. I’ll be fine.’
Kelly looked at him, and then at the silent, staring woman. ‘You stabbed him,’ she said, deciding bluntness might be the only way to get through to the woman who seemed almost catatonic.
Denise blinked, and then looked at Ken before shaking her head. ‘It was an accident,’ she whispered.
Good, Kelly thought. ‘Ok,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell the ambulance men, it was an accident. Where’s your phone?’
Murder on Clare Island: A Garda West Novel (A Garda West Crime Novel Book 3) Page 3