Close Ranks: A Garda West Novel (Garda West Crime Novels Book 2)

by Valerie Keogh

  Taking yet another tissue, Mrs Roberts dabbed her eyes and again gently blew her nose and dropped the tissue onto the growing hillock on the floor. She took a shuddering breath and started to speak, slowly and so quietly the detectives struggled at times to hear.

  ‘Gerard got up before me. He always does, but we had a late night last night so I stayed in bed even later than usual. He went for a cycle. He does, when he can; he’d taken a few days off work because the children are back to university next week. He kissed me goodbye, as he always does, and went...I don’t know where he went. Probably down by Marley Park, up to Two Rock. I don’t know definitely but that’s where he usually goes, he likes the variety. I got up about eleven and he was just coming back.’ She stopped and frowned, remembering. ‘Actually, he was gone longer than usual, now that I think about it.’ She looked at the sergeant worriedly. ‘He usually went for an hour at the most but it must have been at least an hour and a half this morning.’

  ‘Did he say why he was delayed?’

  She shook her head sadly, a solitary tear plopping to her blouse, shimmering there for a second before soaking in. ‘I didn’t really speak to him much, you know,’ her voice quavered, ‘but he was definitely later than usual. He didn’t say why and I was too busy, bustling about, to ask. I’d planned to do a big fried breakfast later for the children. You know, sausages, bacon, eggs.’ She smiled tremulously. ‘Everything really. A treat for the end of their holidays.

  ‘Gerard is...was a bit of a health fanatic, would never eat a fry. He said he’d do his own brunch; he’d been to that vegetable shop in the village while he was out. But that wouldn’t have delayed him,’ she added quickly, anticipating their interruption, ‘he often did pop in there, when out for a ride. He said he’d bought some interesting vegetables and had something different to eat.’ She looked at West with a shake of her head. ‘I was barely listening, Sergeant. To be honest, he was always trying new things, experimenting...he had some odd ideas.’ A smile tried to materialise but drooped under the weight of sorrow. ‘He had some odd ideas,’ she repeated, ‘but he wasn’t an odd man. He was a very good man. And I wished I had listened to him.’ The sobbing she tried hard to control took over again and she wailed uncontrollably.

  Kelly, sitting back quietly while Mrs Roberts gave her account of the morning, looked across questioningly at the sergeant with a tilt of her head and waited. For a moment their eyes met and, it was again as if the last five months had never been, as if they were still in Cornwall, and both of them thought, perhaps they had misjudged the other.

  West raised the corner of his mouth in a slight smile and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Kelly tilted her head further in a mock bow and sat closer to Mrs Roberts, taking her hand and speaking soothingly into her ear. With a nod at Andrews, West stood and both men walked to a far corner of the room separated by the fronds of a giant fern. They listened to the murmurs from the table, the wailing slowing then ceasing, the restoration of calm.

  Five minutes passed without a sound before they heard a firm Sergeant called from the table. As they sat, Mrs Roberts reached for yet another tissue releasing her tight grip on Kelly’s arm. West, observing the crescent-shaped marks that Mrs Roberts’ manicured nails had left on the smooth skin of Kelly’s hand, frowned.

  ‘Are you able to continue, Mrs Roberts?’ he asked, dragging his gaze from the marks and settling it firmly on Mrs Roberts, trying to blinker his gaze to filter out hands, marks and any other part of Kelly.

  She nodded and continued her description of an unexceptional morning in the Roberts’ household. ‘I had everything ready and was going to start the fry for the children but they still weren’t out of bed so I decided to wait. Gerard went ahead with his brunch because he was hungry after his cycle and he wanted to get some work done in the garden afterward. He was a bit of a faddy eater, didn’t eat meat very often, was happiest really with a big plate of vegetables, and he didn’t like them over-cooked either. They had to be crunchy; verging on hard if I’m honest. It was a bit of a nuisance when the children were here for meals, I had to cook his vegetables separately; he wouldn’t eat them if they were overcooked and the children wouldn’t eat them if they were too hard. So I was happy to let him do his own brunch.

  ‘I went into the garden. There were some plants that needed repotting and I was busy with this when I heard a shout from the kitchen.’ Her eyes awash with tears, closed momentarily. ‘I thought he had dropped something, or maybe cut his finger or something equally trivial. He did tend to make a fuss at minor incidents.’ Her breath caught on a sob and she reached for Kelly’s arm again, grasping tightly. She opened her mouth to speak but her lips trembled. She pinched them shut, nodded and said slowly, ‘I was used to him making a fuss about nothing. So I ignored him.’ She looked around at them, eyes shimmering, lips trembling once more, a stricken look in those wet eyes as she thought back to those crucial moments. And then she spoke, in a whisper they all strained to hear. ‘My husband was dying,’ she said, ‘he called out, probably for help and I...ignored him.’ She sat unmoving, the tears now drying on her pale cheeks, and when she spoke again her voice was a barely audible breath. ‘When I came in, he was leaning over the table.’ She looked at them all again, her eyes darting from one to the other as if in one of their faces she would find something that would make sense of it all. ‘I thought he was resting.’ Her voice was a little stronger but her eyes had glazed as she thought back, remembering the details. ‘To be honest, I didn’t think much of it. I had too much to do to getting the breakfast started. I wanted to make it special.’ She laughed and then looked stricken again. ‘I went to the drawer to take out the frying pan to start the breakfast, turned the ring on, threw on some mushrooms, then looked for the salt. Gerard had taken the salt-cellar to the table, I could see it, went to fetch it and saw his face.’

  Remembering his own feeling when they had seen the man’s face West felt a tug of sympathy for this neat little lady. He reached across and took her free hand. ‘I know it is very difficult for you, Mrs Roberts, thank you. We’re going to have a word with Sophia and David now and leave you with Mrs Johnson. A family liaison officer will be assigned to you, and he or she will keep you informed of what is happening in the investigation. As soon as we know what happened to your husband, we will inform you either through the liaison officer or, more than likely, in person. Do you have any questions?’

  There was one, he could tell, and it was one he had heard so many times he had the answer primed before she asked the question. ‘If I had gone to him when he shouted, would I have saved him?’

  At least this time he could be honest, not bend the truth or lie outright as he had done so many times to too many people. ‘I spoke to the pathologist before I came through, Mrs Roberts; he thinks death was almost instantaneous. Had you come straight away, the outcome wouldn’t have changed.’

  She gave a small nod of acknowledgement and reached for a tissue.

  Neither of the two siblings had anything to add. They had run down the stairs on hearing their mother’s shrieks and had immediately called an ambulance, although they had known from the start there was no hope. ‘I’ve done a first aid course,’ David had offered in a colourless voice. ‘I could see he was dead even before I tried for a pulse. His eyes...he looked terrified.’ His voice broke on a sob that he tried hard to cover with a cough. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead. He was the healthiest man, you know, didn’t smoke or drink. Rarely ate red meat. All the things you are supposed to do to live forever, that’s what my Dad did, and he’s dead anyway.’

  West repeated the information about the family liaison officer. ‘At the moment there’s a volunteer from a victim support group called Offer sitting with your mother. She is not linked to the police, and is not privy to information about the investigation, but she seems to be helping your mother cope. Is there anybody you would like me to call, anybody who can help you through all this?’

  ‘We’re going to ring my aunt,
Mum’s sister. She doesn’t live far away. She’ll come when we ring; and her husband, he’ll be able to help too,’ David said, relief in his twenty year old voice at the thought of having an adult take over; knowing he wasn’t quite grown up enough yet to face organising his father’s funeral.

  ‘Good. Meanwhile if you have any questions or if there is anything you want to discuss, please, either talk to the family liaison, or,’ he handed him one of his cards, ‘you can contact me, directly, ok?’

  The young man nodded, put the card in his pocket and sat beside his younger sister, both of them looking dazed. As West watched, David moved closer to his sister and put his arm around her, pulling her close, she resisted a moment then laid her head on his shoulder. He wished he could tell them he would find who did this, make them pay. But he was too experienced a copper to make promises he couldn’t guarantee he’d keep. He could promise he’d do his best. But he doubted it would be of any consolation.

  Back in the hall, West rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Let’s see if they’ve found anything of interest in the kitchen, Pete. Mrs Roberts mentioned her husband had bought some vegetables this morning. It would be nice to find he had bought some of that...what was it Dr Kennedy said contained cyanide?’

  ‘Cassata?’ Andrews guessed, reaching for his notebook where he knew he had written it down.

  ‘Isn’t that a type of ice-cream thing?’ West asked with a frown.

  Andrews flicked through his notebook. ‘No, not cassata, cassava.’

  ‘Cassava,’ West repeated, ‘never heard of it. Let’s see if they found any indication he used that for his lunch today. His wife said he didn’t like his vegetables well done. Maybe he used this cassava stuff and didn’t cook it sufficiently to destroy the toxin.’

  The crime scene manager, Sean Keane, was deep in conversation with one of his four strong team so West and Andrews waited patiently, neither of them patient by nature but both knowing it was an essential of their job that couldn’t be escaped. Nothing could be achieved by bullying their way in, all intimidation and loud noise full of their own importance. Nothing would be achieved and vital rapport would be lost, perhaps forever, and so much of their job depended on a free and fluid exchange of information. The most frustrating part of their job was finding out that an essential piece of information had been held back for self advancement by some ambitious, ladder-climbing colleague.

  So they waited; Andrews musing over his young son’s upcoming birthday and Garda Sergeant West mentally rewinding the tape of what he had said to Kelly, rewinding, deleting and starting over again. Why couldn’t life be so easy?

  Finally, Keane turned to them, a ready apology on his lips. ‘Sorry, guys. Have to keep checking. Was there something specific you wanted?’

  ‘It seems the victim ate a meal of lightly cooked vegetables shortly before he died. Dr Kennedy said that cassava contains cyanide and we wanted to know if you found any, or remnants of any. To be honest, I haven’t a clue what cassava looks like, neither does Pete here, so we’re grasping a bit.’

  ‘Cassava,’ Keane muttered, ‘don’t think I know that. Hang on though, I have someone who might.’ He called one of his team over, a tall, serious looking man with thick glasses. ‘This is Samir, he cooks a mean curry and uses things I have never heard of. He may know about your cassava.’ He looked questioningly at the younger man.

  ‘Sure, I do. Cassava, it’s a root vegetable, a bit like potato to eat. Looks like a long, fat, brown parsnip. You peel the rind and cook the flesh really well. It can be eaten in a variety of ways, on its own or added to a curry. I’ve used it once or twice but it’s not that common. You don’t ever see it in Dunnes,’ he said the last with a derisive smile.

  ‘Have we found rind from it here?’ West asked.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. The entire food recycling bin is going back to the lab for examination. I could have a quick look, if you like and that’s ok with Sean.’ He looked at his manager for permission and at a nod he headed to where a small green bin had been put to one side. A label attached to the handle of the bin, identified where the bin had been found. It had been sealed shut and both men initialled the seal which they would replace, and sign again, when they had finished their examination of the contents.

  Samir used a gloved hand to move the contents around, concentrating on looking for a specific discard. ‘Yes,’ he grinned and pulled out a piece of what looked like wood. ‘This is the rind of a cassava root. There is some more, not much. Perhaps enough for one small cassava root, no more.’

  The two detectives, and Sean, peered at the harmless looking piece of rind. Andrews sniffed. ‘This is our murderer?’

  Samir shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so. Even if he had eaten it raw I don’t think it would have killed him. Maybe he would have been very sick, and perhaps he may have suffered from a form of paralysis.’

  ‘Paralysis?’ Andrews said, taken aback. He reached out to take the rind, sniffed it curiously. ‘It looks so...so nothing.’

  ‘I did some voluntary work, some years ago, in central Africa,’ Samir explained. ‘There had been some tribal unrest and, as a result, villagers from isolated regions were cooking the cassava in a hurry without the proper preparation. These were people who already suffered from malnutrition and several weeks eating nothing but this cassava resulted in cyanide poisoning. It didn’t kill them but left many with a form of paralysis called Konzo which is irreversible. Whole villages were affected because they ate the same thing.’ He shook his head, the memory taking him back to a dark time he preferred to forget. ‘It was pretty horrendous, believe me.’

  He took the rind back and returned it to the bin, closing it and resealing it. ‘I have read research since which suggests Konzo is caused by the combination of protein malnutrition and high dietary exposure to cyanide. I can’t see that as being a factor here, somehow, even if he was paralysed rather than dead.’

  ‘Well, it’s about the only thing we are sure of yet, he is definitely dead,’ Keane said and with a nod dismissed Samir and his recycling bin.

  ‘It’s too much of a coincidence, though, isn’t it?’ West asked, as they walked together from the room. ‘Here we have a guy who we believe died from cyanide poisoning and a vegetable that contains cyanide is found in his recycling bin. Tell me there isn’t a connection.’

  Keane shrugged. ‘If there is, we’ll find it, but you heard Samir, and believe me, this is not a guy who talks about things if he doesn’t know what he is talking about. One cassava root would not have killed Mr Roberts.’ With a wave he left them and returned to organise the removal of the specimens to the laboratory for forensic examination.

  West had great respect for the forensic process but more of a respect for his knowledge and experience, and in his experience coincidences that resulted in a dead body just didn’t happen. How many people eat cassava root, for God’s sake, and how many people died from cyanide poisoning in England?

  He put the question to Andrews.

  ‘Few and none,’ came the brief answer as Andrews, stepping through the front door spied the dark cloud overhead.

  ‘Exactly.’ West replied, opening the car door. He drove slowly down the drive, admiring the well kept flower beds and lawn, wondering when it was he had last cut his own, much, much smaller lawn. He’d make time this weekend, he promised, knowing as he did so that this case might very well run into the weekend. So what’s new, he thought with a sigh. When did he last have a weekend free? Worse, when did he last care? He loved his job but it was starting to be his social life and, he acknowledged glancing at Andrews, his family as well.

  He hadn’t gone to see his parents for weeks, he realised with a twinge of guilt. Another thing he would do this weekend. He knew his mother would understand. She’d stood by him, when he turned his back on his law career to join the gardai. Unquestioning support in the face of loudly voiced criticism from friends and colleagues. The support didn’t falter. She’d understand, she always did.
His father would look at him, as he always did, as if he’d just left the room. He’d continue conversations where they’d left off at their last meeting, almost to the word. Unquestioning acceptance. Hard to beat.

  He drove through the impressive, wrought iron gate, stopping for a brief word with Garda Doyle who had moved to the gate at the first sign of the press. They surged forward as soon as his car stopped, recognising both the car and the occupants; West in turn recognised a reporter from a small local paper, The Foxrock Weekly and one from a larger national. He firmly believed in using the press when it suited him and considered the use as being one of the tools at his disposal. To this extent he fed them information when it was expedient to do so but this wasn’t one of those times and he gave them the standard ‘no comment at this point’ dismissal and headed back to the station three miles away. He’d leave issuing press releases to the press office or to Inspector Morrison who, freshly returned from extended sick leave, was delving into everybody’s work with the zeal of a chocoholic recently introduced to Thornton’s.

  A muttering from the passenger seat drew his attention to Andrews who was gazing balefully out the window.

  ‘For goodness sake, Pete, you’re not still obsessing about the weather, are you?’ he asked half amused, half irritated. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you pre-empt the weather. Give that kid’s club...what’s it called...Clang-Clang, Cling Cling?

  ‘Bang Bang!’ Andrews said with a grin. ‘With an exclamation mark’.

  ‘Very appropriate, by all accounts,’ West replied. ‘Anyway, give them a call see if they have a vacancy for Saturday.’

  Bang Bang! was a newly-opened children’s club with a number of individually designed rooms providing facilities for play, parties or events. There was one large well equipped playroom that was used on a pay-as-you-play basis and other rooms which were rented for parties where games, entertainment and food came as a package. It was increasingly popular especially for the five to ten age-groups. But it cost. A lot. It wasn’t a venue West would normally have known about but the law firm he had worked for had done some work for the owner and, when they had opened a few weeks before, he had read about the development with interest.