The aptly named Heather Goodbody smiled sweetly. ‘We need to do more advertising and education if you are not aware, Sergeant West, that we provide a twenty-four hour service. Unless we are with a victim you will find one of us in the station at any hour – day or night. I happened to be there because that’s the time slot I have volunteered for, six a.m. to ten a.m. It suits me best, I’m an early bird.’
‘Did you notice anybody around as you arrived?’
‘No. Nobody.’
‘Did Mrs Lee say she was worried about anything, anybody?’
‘No, Sergeant, she was too upset to say anything really. She is really shaken about the message.’ She looked at him intently, beady eyes in a pretty but faded face. ‘It was an evil thing to do, Sergeant, evil. Why would anyone do such a thing? What can it achieve, to frighten a little old lady like that?’
Did she think he would have an answer? West wondered, meeting her gaze. He had seen evil in many forms, many guises, it didn’t need reason or rhyme. It lurked maliciously, catching the wary as much as the unwary, and there was no answer to it. Or, if there was, he certainly didn’t know it.
Heather Goodbody opened a capacious bag and searched inside. ‘I’ll leave you my card, Sergeant West,’ she said, pulling a handful out, ‘in fact, I’ll leave a few for you. Just in case you need our services. And if you would pass one to Mrs Lee’s daughter, please, in case she needs us. I can come back, or one of the team can, if Mrs Lee would like someone to talk to. Or if her daughter would. We have to remember, Sergeant,’ she said seriously, ‘there is always more than one victim. So we are available anytime. She just has to call.’
West watched her as she walked down the road and climbed into a small Nissan. ‘We have to remember there is always more than one victim,’ he mimicked quietly and, shaking his head, turned on his heel and headed back into the kitchen. He looked around, taking in the carefully orchestrated disarray.
Frowning, he went back into the claustrophobically furnished sitting room, and was struck even more with the feeling that he had walked onto the stage set for a low budget horror movie. He could see how it would have been terrifying for the elderly woman to have come upon this in the early hours of the morning, but now, in the chilly light of day, the message verged on the silly rather than scary. It was hackneyed horror at its worst. He looked closely at the message. Someone had taken care in writing it; just enough blood, or dye, or whatever, had been used, so that each letter ran a little without dripping onto the mantelpiece. As in the kitchen, drawers had been opened and some of the contents taken out and placed on the floor. Nothing, West realised, was broken or damaged in any way. It was all very strange and, he thought, more than a little weird.
A clatter in the hallway announced the arrival of the scene of crimes team and, with a few words to Foley, who promised to keep him apprised, West made his departure.
Back at the station, the detective unit was empty apart from Garda Jarvis who was busy on the phone, one hand writing at speed whatever it was he was hearing. West filled a mug with the bitter coffee that was constantly brewing in the corner of the room and headed to his office.
He picked up his phone and dialled Inspector Morrison’s, quickly apprising him of the burglary and the elements that caused both Garda Foley and himself concern.
‘You think it was faked, Sergeant West?’ the inspector asked.
‘I’ve seen fake burglaries,’ West replied, ‘they tend to go over the top, smashing and breaking things to cover up the fact that nothing was taken. This wasn’t like that. This was staged to look the part, but too perfectly. Whoever did it, wasn’t interested in causing chaos, they appeared to be more interested in causing effect.’
‘Is Garda Foley capable of running the case, Sergeant?’
‘He’s extremely competent, sir, but inexperienced. He does, however, know his limitations, witness his calling for assistance this morning, for example.’
‘Mmmm,’ was the reply and West waited. ‘You’d better supervise, Sergeant West. It sounds like an odd one.’
Struggling to keep an even tone to his voice, West replied. ‘With all due respect, sir, Sergeant Clark is supposed to be handling burglaries. I have my hands full with this Roberts’ case.’
‘Mmmm,’ Inspector Morrison murmured again. ‘Unfortunately, Sergeant West, Sergeant Clark will be on sick-leave for some time. It appears he has strained his back and has to have intensive physiotherapy before he can return to work. So, for the moment, you will be covering his cases as well as your own. Hopefully, he will be back on his feet within a couple of weeks.’
Without more ado the inspector hung up leaving West holding the handset and seething impotently. He was still muttering imprecations against him and Sergeant Clark when Peter Andrews walked in five minutes later.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Andrews said, ‘let me guess. Mother Morrison doesn’t like your theory about the manioc dooda stuff.’
West grinned. ‘Manioc esculento or is it esculenta? Anyway, no, he thinks I have something there. It’s this burglary I was called out to.’ He quickly filled Andrews in on the case. ‘It seems we are to cover Sergeant Clark’s cases as well as our own until he gets back.’
Andrews shrugged. ‘Garda Foley does most of the work there, Mike. Everyone but Mother knows that. Sergeant Clark has been skiving for years.’
West ran a hand through his hair. ‘Well, I’m not worrying about his cases this morning,’ he said firmly. ‘Let’s concentrate on the Roberts’ case and get it sorted.’
‘I’ve arranged a meeting with the team at four, Mike. They’re all out following up on what we discussed yesterday. I’m heading to talk to that lady from Guyana, the one who brought in the stuff in the first place. Do you want to come?’
West shook his head. ‘I’ll leave her to your tender mercies, Pete. I want to talk to Gerard Roberts’ business partner, get the low down on his financial status. See if there is a money angle. I’ll see you at four.’ He stood and grabbing his car keys headed out, stopping at the front desk on his way to have a word with the desk sergeant.
Sergeant Blunt was well named. A large, big boned man with unusually short, stubby fingers, he was renowned for his inability to use two words when one would do. It had the effect of stopping agitated members of the public in their tracks. Station legend had it that a very irate father came in to complain that his son had been arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge. He stood at the desk complaining and promising retribution, railing at the sergeant about his son’s treatment, threatening to call his local TD, and throwing in names of various important people he had connections with. Getting no answer, he eventually asked the stony-faced sergeant if he’d been listening.
Sergeant Blunt stared him straight in the eye and said, ‘No,’ as cool and calm as you please. The deflated man had to start all over again but couldn’t work up the same ire second time around.
He greeted Sergeant West cordially, putting his pen down and waiting to see how he could help.
West hesitated, framing his question carefully. ‘This victim support group, Offer, what can you tell me about it?’
Sergeant Blunt didn’t reply immediately but cast an eye over West’s shoulder at a young man who sat on a plastic chair in the public area. He tilted his head toward the back office and without waiting for response led the way leaving a young garda to man the desk.
‘Coffee, Mike,’ the desk sergeant asked, closing the door behind them and indicating a coffee percolator half full of greyish coffee that West assumed had been brewing since early morning, although, by the looks of it, it may have been brewing since the day before.
‘Trying to cut back, Tom,’ he declined tactfully and perched on a stool while the other man filled his mug and took a long, noisy slurp.
‘Started four months ago,’ Blunt began without preliminaries, ‘a woman called Viveka Larsson came to visit Inspector Morrison and introduced this volunteer group she’d started. She brought all the required
papers for six volunteers. Mother Morrison was very taken with the idea, thought it was a good community support. So they started arriving and sitting there.’
He took another gulp of coffee. ‘At first, Mike, there wasn’t much of a need for their services. In fact, I would go so far as to say we never needed them. Then about a month ago we had a number of cases with...’ Blunt searched for the appropriate word, ‘...needy victims. You know how we are for staff these days, rarely anybody available to sit and hold a victim’s hand. The volunteers proved very useful.’
‘You don’t like them though?’ West guessed.
‘They’re always around, you know; hanging around the desk, reminding us that they are available. That young man out there now, he’s been there, just sitting there, for about three hours. He’s only about twenty five. It’s not normal, in my opinion.’
‘Remember that case last May, the dead body in the grave yard?’ West asked and continued when Blunt nodded. ‘The woman who found the body, Kelly Johnson, she’s one of the volunteers, have you met her?’
Blunt nodded again, slurped his coffee noisily. ‘She was here yesterday when the call came for assistance with Mrs Roberts. I don’t think she’s with them that long. She certainly wasn’t one of the original six volunteers. But I think they’ve had another seven or eight join since then.’
‘That many?’ West said surprised. ‘That’s a lot of volunteers.’
Blunt sniffed. ‘People like to be involved in the gory lives of others, as long as it’s on the periphery. Living vicariously isn’t that what those psychology people call it? Some of the volunteers seem genuine; they really want to help victims get through bad times. But some, like that man outside, seem to get their kicks from hearing about the cruelty and hardship people go through. A bit like someone who picks out and rereads the violent parts of a novel, or who rewinds and rewatches the violent parts of a movie.’
Nobody was more clued-in on the psyche of the individual, than a desk sergeant in a police station, West considered, nodding thoughtfully.
Blunt continued, his obvious dislike of the volunteers making him unusually garrulous, ‘And you know, Mike, no matter how many checks we do, it doesn’t keep the weirdoes away.’
‘They do their best, Tom, but the checks only tell us if the person has a criminal record, not if he is a bit odd or has unusual proclivities.’
‘Inspector Morrison wants us to use these people, Mike. He was quite taken with that Larsson woman, I gather. He thinks the volunteers are a valuable tool when we are short-handed.’
‘Has there been any feed-back?’ West asked, curious now.
Blunt shrugged. ‘None negative. I’d’ve heard. Some positive feedback from our lot, he admitted reluctantly, ‘they can’t always spare the hand to hold, so it’s convenient to be able to call on a volunteer to sit with a victim.’ He shrugged again and drained his coffee. ‘I s’pose I’ll have to get used to them, what Mother wants, Mother gets, eh?’
West grinned and moved to the door, hesitating at the last minute. ‘Let me know if you hear anything iffy about the volunteers, will you?’
Blunt merely nodded and followed him from the room.
8
Gerard Roberts’ business partner, Paul McMahon, was as helpful as it was possible to be. He printed out details of their current customers, their accounts, various companies they did business with and, West thought with a sigh, every person, place or thing the small company had had dealings with in the previous ten years. West would have been suspicious of this unusual helpfulness in the normal course of events. Even the most law-abiding of people weren’t willing, generally, to divulge business data, citing confidentiality, data protection act ad nauseum. Even when most didn’t have the faintest idea what they were talking about.
But Paul McMahon’s grief was obviously genuine as was his desire to do anything and everything to assist in solving the mystery of Gerard Roberts’ death.
‘We’ve known each other since junior school days, Sergeant West,’ he said, making no effort to hide the tremble in his lower lip. ‘Since we were five. We’ve been friends that long. I was his best man, he was mine. He is...was...godfather to my first child and I am to his.’ As he thought of David and Sofia, a tear ran from the corner of one eye and then the other, zig and zagging down the character lines of the man’s face. He reached up and brushed them away, leaving space for more to fall.
Reaching into his pocket he took out a handkerchief, one already soft with previous tears, and he wiped his face and blew his nose.
Most men would have apologised for their tears but this man didn’t as if the death of such a close friend was deserving of this outpouring of grief. West admired him for it and felt a tinge of regret for never having met the man who inspired such affection.
With a final snuffle, Paul McMahon continued, ‘We started this business together, you know?’ He smiled then, looking across the room at a photograph that West recognised as being the two men at a younger age. ‘God, it was a struggle in the early days. We’d stay up till two or three in the morning to meet deadlines. Then it got easier. Success came. Slowly and then building up speed. And it was fun. Always.’ He struggled to control his voice, the reality of his loss, the enormity of it, sinking in with every word. He looked angrily at the sergeant. ‘How could something like this have happened? You say you suspect poison? Who would have done such a thing to such a good man?’
‘We don’t know, Mr McMahon, but we will find out. Can you think of anyone who would have held a grudge against him?
McMahon shook his head emphatically. ‘No, no, definitely not. He was so easy going, so genuinely decent. A bit eccentric, he did go on about his diet, and he was a nightmare to go for a meal with, but he was a brilliant business partner. We were equal partners, Sergeant, but most of our success was due to him. He had an incredible ability to communicate both professional competence and trust and, as a result, our customers are incredibly loyal which, in a field like public relations, is unusual, believe me.’
‘So business is good?’
This time it was an emphatic nod. ‘We are right on target, Sergeant. As I said, we have very loyal customers. That’s a great cushion in the current climate, believe me.’
West phrased his next question carefully. ‘Mr Roberts’ share of the company, what happens to that now?’
McMahon smiled sardonically. ‘The money as motive theory, Sergeant? I’m going to have to shoot that down, I’m afraid. Gerard and I drew up our wills several years ago; his share of the business goes to his wife. If she decides to sell, I have first refusal to purchase at market value.’ He frowned, lower lip quivering as he thought of the catastrophic loss in business terms, a tremble in his voice as he spoke. ‘To be honest, I don’t know if I can carry on, on my own. Ger was more than a business partner and friend; he was the heart of this business. It sounds melodramatic to say it, I know, but we happily marched to the beat of his drum.’
He sat straighter, sniffed and with a stronger voice said, ‘If that is all, Sergeant, I really must get home. Patricia, my wife, is waiting for me. We’re going over to the Roberts’ now. I only came in this morning to get the information for you; the office will be closed until next week.’ He rose as he spoke, anxious to be gone.
‘Just a couple more questions, Mr McMahon,’ said West, anxious in turn to get the information he needed. ‘Is there any possibility Mr Roberts was having an affair?’
A look of genuine amusement crossed Paul McMahon’s face, superimposing the stricken look for a brief moment. ‘Of course, you never met Ger, did you? Believe me; he never looked at another woman once he met Jennifer. He used to say it was such a relief not having to worry about dating and all the second-guessing and mind-games that was expected in a new relationship. I think he was a little scared of women in a personal way. Business, now that was a different bowl of bananas, he had no problem there but there was never a sexual element in his dealings.’
‘Mr Roberts w
as seen speaking to a woman on the morning he died; about five feet six, dark-blonde hair, attractive. Any idea who she may be?’
McMahon shook his head. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid, but it’s a very general description, isn’t it? Could be any number of women.’
Nodding, West stood. ‘I don’t suppose your secretary would fit the description, Mr McMahon,’ he asked doubtfully, remembering his earlier hopes.
McMahon smiled in genuine amusement, his eyes sparkling. ‘Welcome to the twenty-first century, Sergeant West, our secretary is called a personal assistant and he is five foot eleven or thereabouts.
9
Louisa Leps was not having a good day.
It was her first day off after working six days of twelve hour shifts. She had planned to have a long lie-in and a lazy day doing nothing. She didn’t mind the long days, her meals were included and that saved her a lot of money on food. And every penny counted. Two more years, maybe three, she would have enough money to go home permanently and buy a nice house in a decent area of Georgetown. Once she had that, she would have no problem finding a handsome man to marry. It was how it worked, she had it all planned. Now it could all fall apart and all because of that blasted vegetable.
She had been only half awake when the doorbell went and had answered it while belting her robe tightly. The man who stood there looked harmless enough but the warrant card he held up for her attention made her eyes shoot fully open.
‘Are you Louisa Leps,’ the man had asked and she wanted to deny it, to take off and run because in Guyana, when the police came calling, that’s what you did. She took a deep breath, this wasn’t Guyana, and she hadn’t done anything, had she?
Andrews waited patiently seeing the hesitation, doubt, mistrust in her eyes. He hoped she wasn’t a poker player because he could read every emotion that flitted across her dark-chocolate skin as if they were subtitled. They were all there, shock, fear, guilt, resentment, anger, irritation and now, just coming, curiosity.
Close Ranks: A Garda West Novel (Garda West Crime Novels Book 2) Page 8