“I made friends. There was a group of us, we’d sit together. Share our stories, jokes, united in our hatred of the system. Those friends, in any other walk of life you’d move away from but inside they felt like family. And as I got to know them, I saw how common my life was, a dad absent or abusive. With only a stern hand to guide my youth, how could I help but slip out from under it? These guys knew that life well. It was like talking into a mirror.”
CHAPTER 23
I STEP OUT ONTO THE FLOOR, and Helen is up from her desk immediately. “We’ve got some prints from the container.”
“Go.”
“Brennan’s prints were found on the lock outside the container. A further two sets of prints from inside and hair from two of our victims, Sheridan and Alan Shine.”
“Any match on the prints from inside the container?”
“Yes. Jimmy Lynch. Both on the lock and on the freezer door.”
And I thank fuck that finally the ball is rolling. “The other set?”
“Not on record. Ryan’s gone to pick Lynch up now with a couple of uniforms.”
“Getting crowded in here. He won’t come easy. Again, organize a CSI sweep on Lynch’s flat while he’s in for questioning.”
“Right away, Chief. Also, Abigail has confirmed that the fiber taken from Conor Sheridan’s cheek during autopsy is a match to the carpet inside the container.”
“Great. We can use that during interview. Thanks, Helen.”
I meet Baz in the viewing area outside interview room one where David Brennan is waiting for our questions. I fill Baz in on Jimmy Lynch.
“The fuck? So Jimmy Lynch is living with Conor Sheridan, his housemate for five years, and now he’s involved in his murder? These assholes.” He presses a hand against his ribs and winces. “So is his mate McDonagh featuring here?”
“Not sure. The plainclothes we’ve put on his house say he’s still spending all his time with his ma. Not moved much since we let him out.”
“Well, he’s been awfully fucking quiet.”
“Something tells me his ma is prison guard enough for him.”
I peer through the window at David Brennan. He’s vacated the interview chair. Stretched out he is, on the floor, as if he was on the fucking Côte d’Azur sunning himself. Sleeves of his lemon-colored shirt rolled up, his arms clasped lightly across his stomach. He’s removed a white trainer, pitched it under his head to act as a pillow. His mouth gapes open, his eyes closed.
“Bet he snores,” Baz says.
“No need to bet. Come on, let’s wake Sleeping Beauty.”
I rap hard on the door and walk in. His eyelids lift, lazy and slow. He doesn’t move.
“You comfortable, Mr. Brennan?”
He stretches his arms above his head, thick muscles packed tight beneath his thin shirt. “Could be better,” he says.
“This is Detective Barry Harwood. He’ll be joining us for this interview.”
Baz pulls up another chair, sits down. And David Brennan peels himself off the ground. Runs a hand over his hair.
“Howya.”
“Not so bad, my friend. Not so bad,” Baz answers. He nods to the chair. “Would ye take a seat for us, David? We’ve a few questions for you.”
Brennan drags the chair back, sits down, crosses his legs, cups his hands around his knee. Yawns.
Baz gives him a wide smile, drops Brennan’s file down onto the table, and then settles into the seat across from him. He rests a foot on his knee, matches Brennan’s chilled posture. And I relax, whatever bad thoughts were twitching away in him earlier are gone. You’d not think for one moment that Baz had anything but the easiest of nights. His eyes are alert and direct, his hand, pen ready, taps once on the cover of the file. “Can I get you a coffee, mate?”
“I’m grand,” Brennan replies. “Caffeine gives me shocking heartburn.” He beats his chest with his fist, burps into his hand as if to prove a point.
“We’ll get started then so,” Baz says with another smile.
I don’t sit but stand just inside the door, facing the table. Waiting for Brennan to settle. See what face he’s playing with. He’s got an air of control about him. He’s feeling comfortable.
Baz turns on the recorder. “Interview with David Brennan, conducted by Detective Barry Harwood and Detective Chief Superintendent Frankie Sheehan.” Then he sits back, rests his hands on the table. “Let us tell you how we got here, Mr. Brennan.” A patient smile. “We’ve been tracing the last known movements of your wife’s ex-husband, Conor Sheridan. You know who we’re talking about?”
“Of course I bloody do.”
“Okay. We’ve footage of him in Fairview car park on Wednesday the fifteenth of August at approximately ten P.M., doing a bit of late-night shopping. He exits the shop and his attention is drawn to the road. He walks up to the car park entrance and appears to have a brief interaction with someone driving past. Do you know who that could be?”
“No.”
“Where were you on the night of the fifteenth of August between ten and ten forty-five P.M.?
“I was at home.”
“Do you have someone who can verify that?”
He glances over at me. “My wife, Jane.”
“This is Jane Brennan, Conor Sheridan’s ex-wife?” Baz asks.
“That’s correct.”
“So you did not have a run-in or meet or see Conor Sheridan that evening? You were at home?”
“That’s correct.”
Baz pulls out a photograph of the footage. “This is an image of Conor Sheridan and beyond him that of a vehicle that slowed and stopped before driving off on the night Mr. Sheridan was last seen. Do you recognize the vehicle in this photograph?”
Brennan studies the photograph for a few seconds. “No, it’s blurry.”
“We’ve been able to identify it as a BMW sedan, 2012. Nice and new.”
Silence.
“What vehicle do you drive, Mr. Brennan?” Baz continues.
“Similar, I suppose.”
“Okay. So a person driving this vehicle slows and speaks to our victim on the evening we suppose he went missing, possibly murdered. And you, who live in the area, drive a similar vehicle, and not only that but the victim is your wife’s ex?” Baz blows air through his lips. “You see how this looks for you?”
The color drops from Brennan’s face.
Baz smiles at him. “Can you take us through your movements on Sunday the nineteenth of August?”
He looks over at me again. “I was working. My shift started at five.”
Baz scratches his ear. “Right so, right so. How long did your shift last?”
“It’s an eight-hour shift, until one A.M.”
“And did you visit the container that held Alan Shine’s body in that time?”
David Brennan’s mouth opens. He looks to me then to Baz then back again. Then he tucks his hands between his thighs like a child ready for scolding. “What are you talking about?”
My cue. I move to the table. Sit down. “Mr. Brennan, we’ve found the container. One of your colleagues has already verified that you’ve been seen heading in the direction of the . . . what did he call it?” I look to Baz.
“The container graveyard,” Baz offers.
“That’s right. The container graveyard. And you know what we found there. Our murder scene.”
He swallows, his eyes widening. “No. That’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Your prints were on the lock of a container at the port. Can you explain that?”
His hands have moved to the table, palms down, fingers spread. He stares down at them and then shakes his head.
“We recovered from this container hair strands from two of our victims, Alan Shine and Conor Sheridan. During postmortem examination we recovered fibers that came from the in
side of the container on Conor Sheridan’s body.”
His neck snaps up. “I don’t know what this is but I’ve nothing to do with that.”
“Tell me what you know about this container, Mr. Brennan?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“We want to help you out of this mess, but to do that we need you to tell us the truth. This is your chance. You’ve already lied to us and we found you out.”
“I swear to you. All I was told was to check over the generator. I had no idea what was inside. Wasn’t it drugs?”
“No.”
He swallows.
“It was used to store bodies. Murder victims, Mr. Brennan.”
He pales. “I don’t know anything.”
“Who told you to keep an eye on the container?”
“A bloke. Someone I met inside a few years ago, we do a bit of work for one another from time to time.”
“His name.”
“Jimmy. Jimmy Lynch.” He continues in a rush, “I just found the location for him. Kept an eye on it from time to time. That was all. I was never inside it. The generator was just to the back, on the outside, covered in black tarpaulin.”
* * *
—
BY THE TIME the interview finishes, there are circles of sweat darkening the soft lemon of Brennan’s shirt. His hand goes to his temple often to scoop away droplets of moisture. His eyes are round with fear. We leave him bent into his arms, and Ryan enters the room to take his statement.
“What are you thinking?” Baz asks when we step onto the office floor.
“I think he’s telling the truth. His prints weren’t inside. He’s just about thick enough to take money for this and not ask questions.”
“I agree. I can see him getting caught up in this mess all right but murdering Geraldine Shine, putting a bullet through his wife’s ex, strangling Alan Shine.” He shivers. “And the whole way the bodies were laid out. I dunno.”
“Exactly. Don’t think Brennan has the gray matter to put this together.” I take up the file.
Lynch is settled in our second interview room, and we go straight for him. Baz follows me down the short hallway into the viewing room. Someone has left some boxed sandwiches on the small round table in the center of the tiny viewing room and a couple of coffees. Baz dives on them like a red kite on prey. He splits a packet open and offers me one. “No thanks,” I say, trying to hide the grimace. Food is the last thing I can think about right now. Taking up a coffee, I turn to the window and look in at Jimmy Lynch’s bulk.
Lynch is motionless in the chair. I get the image of a crocodile in water when I look at him. Eyes pinned to the wall across from him. Breath so even, it’s impossible to pick out the rise and fall of his chest. His hands are cupped into each other on his lap. The only movement that betrays him is the slow beat of his index finger against the back of his hand. I let out a long breath, remind myself to stick to the right questions, wrap this fuck’s answers around his own neck so my victims get their justice. I throw an impatient glance at Baz.
“All right, all right,” he says, and puts down the sandwich. “I can see you’re about ready to jump through the fucking glass.” He takes a swig of the coffee then pulls a face. “No sugar.”
I open the door and greet our latest suspect with a sure smile.
“Jimmy, how’s it going?”
“Fuck off.”
I wait for Baz to sit next to me.
“Interview with Jimmy Lynch of 9b Beagan Heights, Tallaght. Present are Detective Chief Superintendent Frankie Sheehan and Detective Barry Harwood.”
“Mr. Lynch, have you been read your rights?”
“Fuck off.”
“You’ve turned down an offer of legal representation. That right?”
“Don’t need a fucking lawyer. Bloody blood-sucking layabouts.”
“Right. Let’s start then.” I look to Baz.
Baz looks briefly through the report in his hand. “Mr. Lynch, did you meet or know Alan and Geraldine Shine of One Kincora Drive?”
Jimmy brings up his big knucklehead. Sets those beady brown eyes on Baz. Folds his arms. He doesn’t even give us a no comment answer.
“Mr. Lynch, can you answer the question?”
“No, I can’t.”
I look down at the table, nod. “Okay.” When I lift my eyes, he’s watching me, his eyes hard, his body still locked tight to the chair, his breath controlled. And I get the impression that he’s waiting for something. Like he’s built up all his defenses because he suspects what might be coming.
I fix my gaze on his. “Tell us what you know about the container at Dublin Port.”
He looks out from the thick ledge of his forehead. “What container?”
“We already know all about the container.”
The muscles at the tops of his arms tense beneath the thin T-shirt he’s wearing, and he gives a stiff shrug. “Well, then you know more than me, don’t ye.”
I change tack. “Are you familiar with the Hennessy case, Mr. Lynch?”
“No.” You could miss it, the tiny flicker that crosses his face. But I see it, a little spark of emotion at the mention of the Hennessys.
“It’s been all over the news.”
He sighs. “Well yeah, I’d heard of it, but I don’t know either of them.”
I straighten. “Either of them?”
“Seán or the sister,” he adds.
I give him a moment, watch the movement of his thick neck, the muscles convulsing as he swallows. He throws his head to the side and his neck pops. Cracks each of his knuckles in against his palm.
“Let’s go back to the container, shall we? We located it in Dublin Port and we believe it was used to store Alan Shine’s and Conor Sheridan’s corpses. Mr. Brennan has kindly let us know that you were the one who used it most. He says you instructed him to look out for it.”
He draws his chin in. “Is that so?”
“Your prints were found inside this container.”
He glances at the camera again. Sighs. And I can feel the change in him, and it makes me nervous. Like someone’s flicked a switch. He looks down at his hands.
“Okay,” he says.
I glance at Baz. Surprised at the change in Lynch’s tone. “Why were your prints found inside this container?”
He looks up at me, a curl of a smile on his mouth. “I’d say that’d be from when I packed Alan Shine’s cunting body into the freezer. And Sheridan’s too, for that matter. Forgot to wear gloves on one of them, can’t remember which though.”
In my mind I’m running backward, trying to correct the pace of this interview where we are suddenly playing catch-up. Baz is choking, flicking through his notes like a newbie.
“When was the last time you saw Alan Shine alive, Mr. Lynch?”
“Must be up on three weeks ago now. Yeah. Was a pisser of a day. I remember the rain beatin’ down on the metal roof of the container.”
“You killed Alan Shine?”
He grins. “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath and the playing field of his chest swells.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Why not.”
“And Conor Sheridan?”
He lifts his chin. “Him too.”
“You strangled him?”
He lifts both his hands, holds them up at the level of my neck, squeezes the air in front of me. “Wouldn’t have taken long but no, I shot him.”
“Where is the gun now, Mr. Lynch?”
“The sea.”
“Right, so you shot Conor Sheridan, your housemate of five years; what did you do then?”
“Put him in the freezer ’til the right tide came up. Then dressed him up nice and clean and laid him out on Clontarf beach.”
It should feel good to get his confession but it reeks of lies.
“Did you carry him down? To the beach?”
“No, came in by water.”
“By boat?”
“No, I fucking swam. Of course by boat. A friend of mine owns one. I asked if I could borrow it. Has a nice wee inflatable he didn’t mind me taking out as long as I put fuel in the engine.”
I remember that the boat information is up for grabs. That it’s public knowledge.
“So you left Conor Sheridan on the beach. Then what?”
“Then I left.”
“You wrote something in the sand?”
He looks down at his hands, and for the first time, he seems uncertain. “Dunno. Maybe. I was in a bit of a rush.”
I straighten. Test his story. This killer will not have forgotten a single aspect of Sheridan’s death. Particularly the one-word label he left at his victim’s feet for us to find.
I take a drink of coffee. Nod. Keep my tone light. “What did you write?”
His hands come up, move over the top of his hairless head. He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I don’t remember.”
“We found a knife in Alan Shine’s hand. There was something written on that too. What was it?”
He leans forward, irritation knitting his brows together. “Who cares? I killed them both.”
Baz looks up from his notes. He takes up the thread, catching on quickly to the problem Lynch is building around this interview. “Can you describe the inside of the container, Mr. Lynch?”
“It has carpet on the floor, dark. A big fuck-off freezer hooked up to a generator.”
“Anything else kept in the freezer apart from your victims?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure? Nothing important to you, perhaps?”
Lynch’s narrow eyes glare at Baz. His jaw thrusts out so that his bottom lip rests in a stubborn pout over the top. “Nope,” he answers.
No journal.
“Did you set it up?” Baz asks.
“I did, yeah.”
“And what about Brennan? What has he got to do with it?”
The Killer in Me Page 26