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

by Valerie Keogh

  Morrison stopped his pen exercises and gave him a sharp look. ‘Reparation? He asked, his tone inviting elaboration, explanation.

  West nodded and pushed himself away from the wall. ‘Running a brothel for years, seeing the seedy side of life, contributing to it. Maybe she took advantage of people, young women especially. People who were in trouble, desperate vulnerable people. Lured them into a life of vice with vague promises of money and God alone knows what else. Maybe, eventually, she had enough, had seen too much. A Damascene moment of some sort.’ He shrugged, ‘I’m just guessing, of course, but if she was trying to make amends what better way than to start some form of group to support people in need.

  ‘And if she really wanted it to work but it looked like it might fail, if Offer was to be her salvation, well, it might have pushed her into ensuring its success.’

  Morrison leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the sergeant. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘that’s the kind of far-fetched faradiddle that just might be true.’ Taking a key from his pocket, he opened a desk drawer. ‘Here’s your warrant. Let’s hope you come up with something concrete, Sergeant West.’ He handed the document over.

  Experience had taught West to check paperwork immediately, if that meant Mother Morrison thought he was checking up on him, so be it. It was good practice. And as he read the warrant, he bit back the oath he wanted to spit across the table to catch the inspector smack bang in the middle of his supercilious face. ‘They’ve put the wrong apartment number, sir,’ he said carefully, ‘she doesn’t live at number six, she lives at number nine. It will have to be reissued.’

  Inspector Morrison snapped the document from his hand and read it as if West must have made a mistake. ‘That bloody idiot, Dempsey, I always doubted he could count beyond five.’

  As if they read each other’s minds they both looked at their watches. Friday afternoon. The likelihood of getting someone to sign a warrant on a Friday afternoon was about as likely as the inspector staying in his office after four the same day. Wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘It will have to be Monday,’ Morrison said grimly.

  There was no point in railing at something that couldn’t be changed, at a system that insisted on a Monday to Friday response to a seven day a week need. But that didn’t stop West clenching his fists and his jaw.

  ‘I should have checked the damn thing when it arrived,’ Morrison continued to West’s surprise. ‘If I had, I might have been able to do something. Damn it.’

  The same thought had crossed West’s mind but now he just shrugged. Blame games were never a useful exercise.

  ‘We may have more to go on by Monday, anyway, sir,’ he said. ‘We recovered some of the equipment that was used to make the smoke bombs at the school; it’s being checked for fingerprints. We should have the results later today. If we could get the next warrant to include taking Ms Larsson’s fingerprints and we got a match...’

  The inspector nodded. ‘We need to get this case done and dusted, Mike. I don’t like it. We’ve been lucky, so far.’

  ‘I doubt Mrs Roberts would agree, Inspector,’ he said quickly, and then shook his head and sighed. ‘But, yes, you’re right. We’ve been bloody lucky so far. But this woman’s ideas are getting more unstable.’

  Inspector Morrison chewed his lower lip and tapped his index finger on the desk. ‘We don’t have the budget for this but I think we need to run surveillance on her, Mike,’ he said, firmly, ‘uniforms. Liaise with Sergeant Blunt, he’ll get it done. We can’t afford to let another situation like this morning happen again.’

  Back in his own office, West put a call through to Blunt. He filled him in on the situation and had surveillance arranged in the space of a few minutes and less words. Appreciating the brevity of the call even as he was smiling at it, West hung up and sat just as Andrews came in waving what West knew to be a laboratory report.

  ‘Fingerprint results?’ he asked, hoping something was going to go his way that day.

  Andrews’ smile gave the game away before he said the words, ‘We got prints. On one of them. A little smudged but good enough for a comparison. The rest were clean. She probably took one out to have a look at after she bought them, and then put it back with the rest. She knew to wear gloves when she threw them but forgot about the one she had already handled. We can pick up something with her prints when we’re there, can’t we? Get the comparison done before end of the day. The lab guys said they’d stay late if needed.’

  West hadn’t seen Andrews so enthusiastic for a long time. It seemed a shame to burst his bubble so he waited and watched.

  It didn’t take long, Andrews being a fairly perceptive man. Even if he hadn’t been, the lack of response to the good news of the finger-prints was striking and out of character for West. He stopped speaking, perched on the edge of West’s desk and asked, ‘What’s happened?’

  West quickly explained, watching Andrews’ face cloud over as he did so.

  ‘Monday?’

  West nodded. ‘You know the way things are, Peter. Anyway it’s good news about the prints. We can get the warrant to cover taking something to provide comparison prints. And the other good news is that Inspector Morrison suggested surveillance.’

  Andrews’ eyes bugged. ‘Mother Morrison is allowing surveillance?’

  ‘He suggested it.’ West smiled, ‘I’d never have thought about asking, to be honest. Never thought we’d have been allowed.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Andrews said sagely. ‘If you had, he’d probably have shot down the idea. But his idea. Well that warrants the expense.’

  West yawned, two hands covering his face, rubbing his eyes. ‘Well, at least we’ll have an eye on her over the weekend. No more crazy escapades. We’ve been lucky. Well, apart from Gerard Roberts,’ he hastened to add, almost making the same faux pas that Inspector Morrison had done.

  There was nothing more to be done so after some chit chat and some mundane outstanding paperwork West decided to call it a day. He hadn’t finished work so early in a long time, felt mildly guilty for no reason he could think of. Sitting into his car, he turned the key in the ignition then let the engine idle while he wondered what to do with himself on a Friday evening.

  He supposed he could go visit his parents. Long overdue. Or he could go visit his sister. Also long overdue. Or, he thought, tiredly, he could do some shopping, get some beer, some food and flake out in front of the television. Nothing appealed to him. Perhaps he should have stayed in the office, found something to do there. Maybe, he thought, he should double check with Blunt about the surveillance. But, he didn’t move.

  For one thing, Sergeant Blunt would take it very badly that he thought he’d need to check. And for another, he knew exactly what he wanted to do but didn’t want to admit it.

  He smiled. Damn it, he thought, why not.

  29

  Ten minutes later West was pulling up on the road outside Kelly Johnson’s house. He’d seen her at the school that morning, her and the other Offer volunteers. It struck him then that he should tell her their suspicions about Offer and that thought continued to niggle him all day. She was tougher than she looked. He knew that. But he also knew she had found it hard to come to terms with the months of lies her bigamous marriage had exposed her to.

  Now here she was, once more involved in something that wasn’t what it seemed.

  He needed to tell her.

  Unofficially, of course.

  Twilight faded to darkness as he sat and stared at her house, watching as lights appeared in an upstairs window. He remembered she’d said she had an office upstairs, wondered if that was it. Or maybe her bedroom. He tried not to think of that.

  He was tired. He should just go home. It was completely against the rules to tell her anything about an ongoing investigation. Completely. But the thought still niggled.

  Finally, bored with procrastinating, he opened the car door and climbed out. He’d just stretch his legs, he thought, walking up to the church gate. The s
ame padlock and chain were in place, he noticed, reaching for it, feeling its weight before letting it drop with a clunk. What was it now, he thought, peering through the gate? Six months? Lights around the church lit up some of the graves, but the one they had found the body on was set just a little too far back, it was shrouded in darkness. Simon Johnson. He wondered vaguely how his sister was coping.

  Turning from the gate he walked back to his car, kicking fallen pinecones as he walked. But instead of getting back into the car, he walked to the gateway to her house and stared in, wondering what she was doing.

  He was behaving like a school boy with a crush. Bending, he picked up a pinecone, tossed it from hand to hand and then with a grunt of frustration fired it across the road where it hit a stone wall with a dull thud. Just as he straightened, from the corner of his eye he saw a shard of light and turning quickly saw Kelly standing in the half-open doorway, her face pale in the bright light, looked puzzled.

  ‘Mike?’

  Feeling caught out, he nodded as he approached. ‘I’m sorry, I was passing, thought I’d call in and then...well, then I thought maybe I shouldn’t.’ West hoped it sounded less lame to her than it did to him. He stopped a few feet away, ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’

  Kelly opened the door wider, and tilted her head in invitation, ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, waiting as he did so and closing the door behind them both.

  He’d been in her house before, of course, all those months ago. Automatically, he went into the room they had been in then, pushing open the door into the kitchen and reaching blindly for a light switch. He stood back as she passed through, catching her scent, said nothing as she moved directly to the phone, picked it up and dialled a number.

  ‘My neighbour, across the way,’ she explained briefly, and then spoke into the phone, ‘Bill, it’s Kelly. Did you ring the guards? Ok, no don’t bother. It’s a friend of mine. No, that’s ok. Honestly. No, that’s unnecessary. Thank you. Yes, thanks. Ok, Goodnight.’

  She put the phone down and smiled at West. ‘He rang a few minutes ago to tell me there was a car parked outside and somebody acting suspiciously. He was going to ring the guards. I don’t know why, but it crossed my mind that it might be you. That’s why I went out. Bill wanted to come over to check I wasn’t being made say that, that I wasn’t being held hostage. I’d say he reads too many bad detective novels but he does know my story so maybe he was being understandably nervous.’

  ‘Mr Nosy Neighbour.’ West said, returning her smile. ‘Andrews had some dealing with him.’

  ‘Bill told me all about that. Told me he’d been asked to keep surveillance on me,’ she tried to look annoyed but couldn’t quite manage it. ‘I think he really enjoyed that.’

  West smiled again. ‘Peter enjoyed winding him up. He has a strange sense of humour.’

  Kelly moved to put the kettle on, stopping with her hand on the handle to ask, ‘Cup of tea or something stronger? I’ve got some nice wine chilling in the fridge.’

  ‘Wine would be nice,’ he said, leaning against the door frame and watching as she opened cupboards, took out two wine glasses and then fetched the wine, opened and poured. Her movements were unhurried and relaxed, he thought, and felt the stresses of the day easing with just the looking at her.

  If he had realised how much hard work went into making those movement so relaxed he would have been suitable impressed. Conscious of his gaze, Kelly forced herself to move slowly, resisting the temptation to hand him the bottle, to tell him to pour. This man had seen her at her worst, this time she wanted to make an impression.

  The room had certainly improved since West’s last visit. He’d thought six months ago that it was a remarkably pretty room. But it had been incredibly untidy, even dirty. There’d been piles of paper, dirty plates and cups. Every surface had been overflowing with paraphernalia. Now the countertops gleamed, the cinnamon-coloured tiles on the floor shone and the cushions on the old church pew in the alcove sat up straight, their edges perfectly aligned.

  Kelly put the glasses down on the old oak table he had admired even when it was covered in rubbish. Now it glowed with the patina of years.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ Kelly said, pouring the wine and then handing him a glass.

  He took it and sat, not at the table where she expected, but on the pew in the alcove, pushing cushions out of his way as he sat. ‘This is nice,’ he said, taking a sip and then putting the glass on the low table in front of him. He’d have to go slowly with the wine, he hadn’t eaten, the last thing he needed was to be caught over the limit. He knew the traffic boys liked working this area. They did well here. He didn’t want to be one of their statistics.

  He watched as Kelly took a seat at the table, crossed her arms on the table in front of her, the wine glass resting in the crook of her arm. She took a sip and then looked at him quizzically.

  He gave a short laugh, took another quick sip of his wine and then cleared his throat, surprised to find himself nervous. He put the glass down looked across to where she sat, looking impossibly calm and incredibly beautiful and wondered if things would ever be simple between them.

  He sighed, the sound loud in the quiet room.

  ‘You’ve had a rough day.’ It was a statement, not a question, but West nodded anyway. ‘Did you find the person, or people, who caused the explosion in the school?’ Kelly asked, and then immediately gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. Of course, you can’t discuss your work. I know that. Anyway,’ she continued with a half-smile, ‘you probably didn’t come here to talk about that.’ She looked at him quizzically again, her nose crinkling. ‘Why did you come? You haven’t changed your mind about Sunday, have you?’

  West debated lying to her, telling her he just wanted to see her, didn’t want to wait until Sunday. He pictured her response. But she’d had a husband who lied. He didn’t want to follow that trend.

  ‘No, of course I haven’t changed my mind,’ he said quickly. Then he hesitated, chose his words carefully. ‘It has been a rough day, I’ll admit. But then you’ve had part of that too. Offer were there quickly. Lending a hand,’ he added, not wanting her to think he was being critical.

  She nodded, wondering where he was going. He had a good poker face but even so, she knew there was something that was bothering him. Something he had come to tell her. She took a sip of her wine. ‘What is it, Mike?’

  He smiled. ‘Reading my mind are you?’ He picked up his glass, toyed with it for a moment, raised it to his mouth, took the minutest of sips and then put it carefully down again. He shouldn’t have sat in the pew, he realised. She was never going to sit beside him, far too intimate. Stupid mistake, he should have sat at the table. He rectified that now, stood and moved to the seat opposite her, sat and rested his arms on the table, mirroring her position, their arms only a short distance apart. The heat from her arms made the hairs on his stand on end or was he imagining it. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. Perhaps not.

  ‘Listen, Kelly,’ he said, catching her gaze, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. ‘I had to come, there’s something you should know.’ He ran a hand through his hair, his default gesture of frustration, anxiety. ‘This group Offer...’

  Kelly tried not to let her disappointment show. She’d thought the visit was personal. Putting her glass on the table, she sat back, her arms crossing her chest. Defensive posture. ‘I know you don’t like them,’ she said crossly, interrupting him, not sure if she was cross because she was disappointed or because he’d come, obviously, to criticise Offer. Again.

  ‘You haven’t from the beginning. Honestly, all Offer does is try to help people. And all we have had from that big lump of a desk sergeant, and from people like you, is derision and criticism. But you have to admit we did help this morning. Really, you should be grateful.’

  ‘Grateful!’ he said, annoyed. ‘I...’

  ‘Yes, grateful,’ she said, interrupting him again. ‘Honestly, if all you came here for was to criticise Offer, well
I’m sorry you came. And I think you should go.’

  Horrified that things had gone so badly wrong, West stood. ‘Now, just hang on a minute,’ he said trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable, ‘if you’ll just let me explain. Honestly, Kelly, you have the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘So you haven’t come to complain about Offer,’ she asked, standing to face him.

  ‘No, of course, I haven’t,’ he replied quickly, trying to put, what he had come to do, in words that she would accept. ‘Not complain about exactly. More,’ he hesitated, searching for the right word, ‘more to warn you about them. We think they may be involved in engineering some of the episodes where the volunteers subsequently appeared to help.’ He wasn’t sure he had made it clear, but he’d said it.

  ‘What?’ Kelly said, convincing him that clarity may not have been reached.

  He tried again. ‘We think that someone in Offer is orchestrating these accidents, events, whatever you’d like to call them. And then the volunteers appear like knights in shining armour to save the day.’

  She stood looking at him. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  He shook his head.

  She backed away. Kept moving till her back was against the window, then she turned and looked out, an outside light turning the trees that stood at this side of the house into alien beings that moved in the slight breeze that had been blowing all day.

  ‘You think Offer planted the explosives in the school this morning?’

  West sighed again. ‘There weren’t any explosives. Someone had thrown smoke bombs and fire-crackers into a couple of windows and the front door post-box. It was smoke and noise. No injuries, no damage. We’ve had a number of cases with a similar m.o.’ If only he’d stopped there, he thought later, if he had left it at that, given her time to think about it. But, unfortunately, he decided to elaborate, ‘We’ve been looking into Offer for a couple of days, specifically Viveka Larsson.’