Murder on Clare Island: A Garda West Novel (A Garda West Crime Novel Book 3)

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘No,’ Ken shouted, trying to reach the handle, the movement causing him to groan and fall back. The puddle of blood increased. His face took on a waxy paleness and dropped to one side; his eyes flickered once, and then closed.

  ‘If we don’t get an ambulance soon, he’s going to die,’ Kelly said to the woman who stood unmoving, ‘now tell me, where’s the phone?’

  Waiting, afraid to leave in case she pulled out the scissors, afraid Ken would die in front of them, Kelly shouted, ‘Where’s the damn phone?’

  Just then she heard a banging on the front door. Mike, she thought with relief. Galloping to the rescue once again. ‘You’d better answer that,’ she told the woman but when Denise didn’t move, she ran herself, opening the door and falling into West’s arms.

  West waited until he saw Kelly reach his front door before heading into the kitchen. Denise Blundell stood against one wall, her face frozen in a mixture of shock and horror. Deciding she wasn’t going to be a danger to them, he concentrated on the wounded man on the floor.

  ‘How the mighty are fallen,’ he muttered, swiftly assessing the injury, noticing the blood loss. He laid a finger over the man’s pulse, it was thready and rapid. He guessed the blood he was seeing on the outside, had its match on the inside. If they didn’t get him into hospital soon, he wasn’t going to make it.

  Garda Foley entered the kitchen as West stood. ‘They’re on their way,’ he said, glancing at the grey-faced man on the floor.

  West approached the woman. ‘Denise?’

  ‘It was an accident,’ she whispered.

  West glanced back at the man on the floor and the handle of the scissors that stuck out of his abdomen at right angles. She’d jabbed it straight in, he guessed, the scissors probably pointed, probably sharp, going easily through the flesh, expanding the hole as it went, stopping only when the handle got in the way. What a rage she must have been in.

  ‘We’ll have to take you in for questioning,’ he said quietly, seeing her blink as the information sank in. ‘Is there anyone you’d like us to call. A friend?’

  Denise shook her head.

  ‘Do you know a solicitor?’ Mike asked, knowing the woman was going to need a good one.

  She shook her head again.

  The distant and distinct sound of an ambulance came to them through the open front door, the sound getting louder as it came closer. Without being asked, Garda Foley headed out to the road to direct it.

  Within minutes, the two-man ambulance crew entered, dropping a gurney down beside the injured man. They listened to West’s brief synopsis of events and then concentrated on their task.

  West and Foley stood back, admiring the speed and skill of the two men, neither getting in the other’s way as they tried to stabilise the man prior to moving him. One inserted a cannulla and started an intravenous drip, while the other carefully cut Ken’s shirt away and attached electrodes to his chest. Within seconds a monitor beeped reassuringly, the ECG bouncing across the small screen. They used a copious amount of tape to fix the scissors in place and only when they were satisfied with this did they slide Ken smoothly onto the waiting gurney. Raising it on its wheels, they quickly moved to the ambulance.

  Leaving Foley with Denise, West walked alongside. ‘What do you think his chances are?’ he asked, knowing men of this calibre usually had a fairly good idea. ‘His blood pressure is seventy over thirty and his pulse is a hundred and twenty,’ the paramedic answered, as if this said it all. When he noticed West’s blank look, he explained, ‘Indicates internal bleeding. If we can get him into theatre fast enough, maybe. If not...’

  West nodded and watched as the ambulance, siren blaring, headed off. Some neighbours, disturbed by the sirens, had come out to see what the problem was, neighbourly concern for a sick resident. West spent a few seconds reassuring them that all was ok, before he went back towards the house. Glancing at his own home, he saw Kelly peering out her bedroom window, and gave her a wave.

  Back inside, Denise Blundell still stood at the wall, looking blank. Garda Foley, with initiative West wished more of his team possessed, was taking photographs of the bloodstained floor. He looked slightly embarrassed when West came in, and blushed when the senior officer commended him on his actions.

  ‘Do you want me fetch a coat, or jacket?’ he said to Denise. ‘I don’t know how long you’re going to be.’

  When she nodded, he went upstairs, opening doors until he found what he wanted. Taking a warm jacket, he brought it down, and handing it to her, said, ‘We’d better go.’

  There were two interview rooms in Foxrock Garda station, each identical to the other, but for some unknown reason, although they had numbers one and two on the doors, they were called the Big One and the Other One.

  ‘Take her into the Big One,’ he said to Foley when they arrived. He stopped to fill Blunt in on the situation.

  ‘Is she under arrest, then?’ the big man asked.

  West shook his head. ‘Not just for the moment, Tom,’ he said, ‘we need to go carefully.’

  In his office, he chewed his bottom lip for a few minutes before picking up the phone. ‘Drew,’ he said, when the call was answered. ‘I need a favour.’

  Thirty minutes later, Drew Masters, an old friend from university, walked in without knocking. ‘This better be a good one,’ he said, opening his suit jacket and sitting down.

  West smiled. ‘Well, maybe an interesting one.’ In a few sentences, he filled the other man in on the situation.

  Drew Masters frowned. ‘There’s no doubt she did it, I suppose?’

  ‘Absolutely none. She said it was an accident but there’s no way, Drew, that a six inch scissor blade is going to accidently embed itself in your stomach.’ He opened his drawer and took out the file Andrews had prepared for him. ‘Have a look.’

  Drew flicked through the reports and then looked across the desk at West. ‘You hadn’t told me who it was, Mike. This is Denise Blundell. The Denise Blundell.’ Seeing Mike’s blank face, he explained. ‘Professor Denise Blundell, the paediatrician.’ He ran a hand over his face, his legal mind assessing the damage something like this could cause someone like her. ‘The highly regarded, and internationally renowned paediatrician, Mike, one who has revolutionised paediatric care in Ireland.’ He flicked through the reports again. ‘Jesus, Mike, if this gets out, she’ll be destroyed.’

  West groaned. ‘He may die, Drew.’

  Drew Masters was one of the city’s top criminal lawyers. ‘He may not,’ he argued, ‘and, anyway, maybe it was an accident.’

  Having seen Drew argue that black was white, West decided he had done the best he could for Denise Blundell. Why he had, he wasn’t too sure, but it may have been something to do with the absolute horror he saw in her eyes when she’d looked down on her husband, even as she was saying it was an accident.

  Drew spoke to Denise in the interview room and then returned to West’s office. They talked about old times, gossiping about mutual friends. ‘I hear you’re seeing a beautiful brunette,’ Drew said, when they’d talked about everyone else.

  West laughed. ‘Seeing is the right word, Drew. It’s a complicated situation.’

  To his relief, the phone rang with the news about Ken Blundell. He was going to make it. The scissors had nicked an artery but done no lasting damage. He’d be out of hospital within a few days.

  He murmured his thanks, and hung up. ‘Ok,’ he said, back in police-mode, ‘she didn’t kill him.’

  ‘And going on previous history,’ Drew said, ‘he’s unlikely to press charges.’ Seeing that West was going to argue, he held up his hand. ‘I spoke to my client,’ he said, ‘and if you’re willing to drop any charges, and keep this quiet, she’s willing to sign up for anger management training. I’ve recommended one in San Francisco, it’s more discreet than the one in London, and, I believe, more effective. It’s a two-week minimum course, followed by one week every year. She has to sign up for a five year plan.’

  ‘And
you can guarantee she’ll attend?’ West asked, slightly dubious about his friend’s ability to monitor this.

  Drew Masters crossed one beautifully creased trouser-leg over the other. He met his West’s questioning grey eyes and nodded, ‘I can give you a one-hundred percent guarantee. She will attend.’

  It was unorthodox, to say the least, and it was bending the law to suit the financially able. But, in any case, Drew was right. Ken Blundell probably wouldn’t want to press charges. West could proceed without him, drag Kelly in as witness, and Denise might get a custodial sentence. She might. But she was more likely to get a slap on the wrist and be sent home. Catching Drew’s raised eyebrow he knew the man knew the score as well as he did. Pressing charges would achieve nothing except to destroy Denise professionally. And the country would have lost a much needed, and obviously excellent, paediatrician. ‘Ok,’ he said, ‘If you can guarantee it.’

  Drew nodded. ‘And you can guarantee this won’t get out?’

  West nodded. He’d need to do a bit of manipulating, but luckily, nothing illegal. Well, not really, anyway. Drew Masters stood and returned to his client, leaving West sitting at his desk, wondering if he’d done the right thing. He should have gone through the appropriate channels. The end result would have been the same, but on the way, no matter how much he stressed the need for discretion, details would have leaked, and she would have been destroyed. ‘In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions,’ he muttered, before picking up the phone and getting to work.

  He was tired by the time he got home that night. It took longer than he’d thought to ensure Denise Blundell’s presence in the station would be kept quiet. Luckily for him, Tom Blunt was still on shift. A quiet word in his ear ensured nothing would get out from his desk. Drew agreed to take Denise home, both men agreeing that going in to the hospital to visit her husband at that time of the night wasn’t a good idea. There was no garda presence there to explain away. There might be some talk, but if there were it would soon fade away.

  It was nearly mid-night, and there was no light showing from Kelly’s room, just a soft glow from a lamp in the hallway.

  He was hungry, he realised, heading to the kitchen. Tyler, asleep in his bed, raised his head and then dropped it again. ‘Lazy bugger,’ West said, and went to the fridge. There was a note stuck on the front. Lasagne in the microwave, it read. Smiling, West switched it on, reached for a bottle of red wine and poured a glass while he waited for the ping.

  Of course, he put it in for too long, so he sat with it, the aroma tantalising while he waited for it to cool and continued to drink the wine, refilling his glass.

  He’d just started to eat when the door opened and Kelly padded in on bare feet, her body swathed in a heavy dressing-gown causing him to remember the camisole and French knickers with regret. ‘Hey,’ he said, around a mouthful of lasagne.

  ‘Hey yourself,’ Kelly replied, reaching for the wine and pouring herself a glass. ‘I’m sure you’re exhausted, and probably don’t want to talk about it but can you tell me what happened.’

  West was exhausted, he really didn’t want to talk about it, but she’d gone to the trouble of making sure he was fed on his return. Didn’t he owe her equal consideration? Deciding he did, he gave her an edited version of the evening’s events.

  Kelly watched him as he spoke, weighing up what he said, aware he wouldn’t give her all the facts, listening for the gaps in the logic. ‘So Ken’s ok?’

  He nodded. ‘They say he’ll be out in a few days.’

  ‘And she’s not going to be charged? He could have died.’

  ‘But he didn’t, Kelly. She’s promised to do an anger management course. That’s the best outcome.’

  ‘I scream when I’m angry,’ she replied. ‘It wouldn’t enter my head to hit someone.’

  ‘I remember,’ he said grinning. She’d certainly screamed enough times at him.

  Lifting her glass, Kelly looked at him with a smile. ‘So what do you do when you’re angry or upset?’

  ‘I don’t really get angry about things,’ he replied.

  ‘Upset then?’ she pushed, genuinely interested in knowing how this big, gentle man ticked.

  West, remembering Brendan Keogh, and the sight of Kelly lying unconscious in Heather Goodbody’s house, said quietly, ‘I cry.’ He smiled at her surprised look. ‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her, ‘it doesn’t happen often. Mostly, I surround myself with people who care about me.’

  There seemed to be a question included in that last sentence. Kelly reached out for his hand, ‘I care about you, Mike.’

  His eyes met hers over the rim of his wine glass.

  They both knew that wasn’t enough.

  8

  As it happened it was five weeks before Kelly moved into her apartment in Blackrock. And in those weeks, she saw very little of Detective Sergeant West.

  It wasn’t deliberate, he told himself. The following morning, he had a call from a colleague in the Drug Squad to alert him to a new designer drug on the streets and his days suddenly became busy.

  ‘It didn’t take long to replace Nirvana, did it?’ West said without surprise. They’d closed down the source of this designer drug just months before, arresting the manufacturer, Adam Fletcher who was also responsible for the murder of Kelly’s husband, Simon. West had no doubt he’d get a lengthy sentence.

  Inspector Bob Phelan chuckled down the line. ‘Nirvana, that’s so last season, Mike. I think we’ve had three or four since that, the current craze is called, believe it or not, Zombie Z, as in the letter but pronounced Zee, by the way, not Zed. It’s generally called, ZeeZee by the idiots who take it. It’s basically Nirvana under a different name. Gaps in the market don’t last for long.’

  ‘I’ll tell the lads,’ Mike said, making a note on the pad in front of him, ‘we might do a swoop on the usual haunts, see if we can get an idea of how pervasive it is.’

  ‘That’d be good,’ Phelan said, ‘I’d appreciate an update.’

  Hanging up, West checked his watch. He reckoned most of the team would be in the squad room, easing themselves into a new day with copious amounts of coffee.

  He was right. ‘Listen up,’ he said, raising his voice only slightly, catching their attention.

  He waited until they’d taken their mugs of coffee and moved to stand near him, faces showing various stages of interest, and alertness.

  Andrews quickly sipped his own coffee before handing a mug to West. His notorious mix-up of sugared and un-sugared coffee elicited small smiles from the group.

  ‘Ok, listen up,’ West said. ‘I’ve had a call from Inspector Phelan. Some of you know him from the Bareton Industries case.’ He saw heads nod, and continued. ‘Well, the gap has been filled with something new. Zombie Zee, it’s called, or Zee Zee. It’s Nirvana by another name, according to the Inspector, so some other crafty beggar has discovered how to manufacture it.’ He looked around the faces he had come to know over the last couple of years. They made a good team. ‘I want to know how much of it is out there. So that means we visit every pub, nightclub, and gathering place in our area.’

  ‘Garda Andrews, will you do a rota,’ he asked, getting the nod he expected in return. ‘We want to show a strong presence, so I’m going to ask uniforms to help. Hopefully, it hasn’t hit our patch yet, but if it has, I want to know about it. If it hasn’t, a strong Garda presence might help keep it at bay.’ Seeing sceptical looks on some of the older faces, he grinned, ‘Ok, I know I’m being naively optimistic, but let’s do our best, eh?’ He turned to go back to his office, and remembering something, turned back, ‘I probably don’t have to remind you, but speak to your contacts, see if anyone knows where the stuff is coming from.’

  Leaving Andrews to organise the roster, West headed back to his office where he sat and wrote a report for Inspector Morrison, setting out his plan to address the issue, and requesting permission to use uniformed gardai to ensure strong police presence. ‘Blah, blah, blah,’ h
e said aloud as he penned the politically correct letter and sent it to the inspector.

  He sat for a moment and then went back to the squad room. Andrews was sitting at his desk, a list of names in one hand, a pen in the other, and a half-filled A4 pad in front of him.

  ‘Put me on the roster too,’ West asked.

  Andrews looked up, both eyebrows raised. ‘You serious?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll go out with each of the men in turn. It will be good for me, good for them.’

  Andrews, who was sure the lads wouldn’t think so, shrugged, said nothing and waited until the he went back to his office before tearing the sheet off the pad he was writing on, rolling it into a ball and dumping it into the bin. He wished, not for the first time, that he and Kelly would get their act together, and give them all a bit of peace.

  ‘Cherchez la femme,’ he muttered under his breath.

  The news, as Andrews predicted, didn’t go down too well with the team.

  ‘Ah Jesus,’ Seamus Baxter muttered, when he heard.

  Paul Edwards and Sam Jarvis said, ‘What?’ in simultaneous horror and Jim Allen gulped noisily.

  West was well regarded by the men, they admired him, thought he was a good copper but they were also slightly in awe of him. Plus, as Edwards politely put it, he was keen on dotting every bloody I and crossing every bloody T. There would be no slacking, taking short-cuts or accepting the odd half pint from generous-minded landlords.

  Over a dinner of shepherd’s pie that evening, conversation between them stilted and strained, West told Kelly he’d be busy over the forthcoming weeks. ‘Something’s come up at the station,’ he said, without elaborating, ‘so you needn’t do dinner for me.’

  ‘Fine,’ Kelly replied, and minutes later got up, put her plate in the dishwasher and left the room.

  West put his fork down, his dinner half-eaten. He used to be good with women, he thought rubbing a hand over his face. He scraped the remainder of the dinner into the bin, Tyler, unfortunately, having a dislike for left-overs.

  Taking a beer from the fridge, he sat in the lounge, switched on the television and watched the news with little interest. Footsteps overhead, frequent at first, stopped after a while. He pictured her lying in bed, probably wearing that damned camisole and knicker outfit. ‘Maybe, I’ve gone about this all wrong, Tyler,’ he said, one hand caressing the little dog curled beside him.