‘I’m supposed to wait for a warrant before I disclose guest information, but my brother’s a guard, so we’ll just keep it between ourselves.’
Fisher listened to the clack of keyboard keys as Donegal Peter checked the register.
‘They were here all right. Checked in on Friday, left us on Sunday.’
‘What time on Friday?’ Fisher asked.
‘No way to tell,’ Peter said. ‘We don’t keep a record of check-in times.’ More clacking. ‘There’s a charge for a late dinner for two to their room. That was delivered to their room around eight-thirty, if that’s any good to you?’
Shite. That probably wasn’t what Reilly had been hoping to hear. ‘Any way to know for sure that they were both there? That they checked in together? What about cameras?’
‘No cameras on the Estate,’ said Donegal Peter. ‘We’re very into our discretion in this part of the world.’
‘What about room service delivery? Whoever dropped the food to the room? Can you talk to them, confirm that they saw James Murtagh present when they brought the food?’
A trace of reluctance made its way into Donegal Peter’s voice. It was one thing to check something quietly on the register, another to answer questions about guests that could be traced back. Still, he didn’t say no.
‘That’d be Ania Kalinski. She’s not on again till tonight. I’ll ask her for you, like, when I see her.’
Fisher agreed to email a photograph of James Murtagh to the email address Donegal Peter provided, then hung up.
He went back to the case room, keeping his head down, and sat and stared vacantly at his own screen for a time. Was he really blinkered by the fact that he liked Emma Sweeney personally? That he liked and respected Cormac Reilly? Cormac was the best cop he’d ever worked with. It was hard to believe that he could have missed the minor fact of his girlfriend being a dual murderer. There was something so solid about the way they were together, Cormac and Emma, like they knew each other down to the bottom of their boots. It made you want to root for them.
Peter looked at his phone. How far should he go? He didn’t even know why Reilly had asked him to check it out. He couldn’t text him back to ask. If this whole thing blew up, Reilly’s phone records would be looked at. It was one thing to receive an unsolicited text message, it would be another if Peter was seen to be conspiring with his former superior officer.
Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. That thought had felt a little too slick, a little self-serving.
For a little while, he managed to turn his attention to the work he should be doing, but his eyes kept creeping back to his phone. When he found himself staring at it for the fourth time, like a teenager waiting for a message from his first girlfriend, he cursed. Fuck it. If their positions were reversed, Reilly wouldn’t make a half-arsed attempt then give up the ghost. Reilly pushed every angle until there was nothing left and then he pushed some more.
Fisher logged into the system, checked the forensics reports. The report was back on the analysis of paint flecks found on and around Della’s body. Paint had come from either a smart car, which Peter thought could safely be discounted, or from a BMW. Another click of his keyboard as he searched for cars registered to James Murtagh. Fisher was briefly disappointed to see that Murtagh drove a Mercedes, then ran a second search on Murtagh’s wife. Bingo. She drove a BMW X5 in Mocha Black Metallic. The paint matched. Fisher sat up, took a breath. He looked around the room, half-expecting heads to have turned in his direction, but everyone was still engaged in their own work. It was too soon to share, he needed to work it up. He ran another search. There had been no report of a stolen vehicle from the Murtaghs, and no reports in the system of a burnt-out X5 abandoned somewhere. Which meant they would have had to have it fixed. No way they’d be keeping a banged-up SUV in a garage somewhere, with Della Lambert’s brains all over the bashed-up bumper.
Rory Mulcair’s desk was close enough that Fisher didn’t have to raise his voice. ‘Rory, are you finished with that list of garages? Did you have any luck?’
Rory grimaced. ‘All no so far. Two body shops in Limerick, one in Mayo who said they’d call us back, but it didn’t sound promising.’
‘What about the North?’ Fisher asked.
Rory shrugged. ‘We sent a request to the PSNI on Monday. But you know yourself it’s not going to be a priority for them. Chances are it’ll be months before we hear back from them.’
Rory returned to his work. Fisher drummed his pen against his desk. He pulled up Google maps, looked up Harvey’s Point. It was so close to the border. Reilly obviously considered Murtagh a suspect, notwithstanding the fact that his wife had given an alibi. So, assuming Murtagh was guilty, what would he have done? The man wasn’t stupid. If he had killed Della using his wife’s car and needed to get it fixed in a hurry, would it have occurred to him that getting the car over the border would be the safest bet? That gardaí would not be able to make direct inquiry north of the border, that they’d have to wait on the Police Service of Northern Ireland, who had more than enough of their own work to do?
The pathologist’s report put Della’s time of death as some time between 9 p.m. and 10, but probably closer to the earlier limits of that timeframe. He had to proceed on the assumption that Murtagh’s wife had gone ahead to the hotel and checked in, maybe even ordered dinner for two believing that her husband was on his way. If Murtagh had stayed in Galway long enough to kill Della, could he have driven the car all the way to Donegal, damaged as it must have been? If so, what next? It would have been very late by the time he got there, too late to do anything with the car, but also late enough and dark enough that he could have parked the car somewhere without anyone noticing the obvious damage. Saturday morning he could have been up early, to bring the car across the border to any place that would take it.
Fisher ran a search for auto body shops on the other side of the border from Harvey’s Point. There was a scattering around Enniskillen, more around Omagh. But they were franchises, attached to big-name car dealerships. Places like that kept records. Wouldn’t their guy be looking for one of those small border towns, the kind of place with a population of seven hundred, but with twelve hundred people claiming social welfare, from both sides of the border? Maybe, maybe. But Murtagh would have had to find a place that could do the work immediately, somewhere that would have the paint colour, or the bumper parts to repair the BMW straight away.
Fisher sat back in his chair, absently took a sip of cold coffee, and rapidly put the cup down again. Murtagh would have wanted to stay off major roads. Fisher searched for minor roads that crossed the border, found a few possibilities, but ultimately there was only one BMW franchise within easy driving distance
Fisher took a quick glance around him. There was no one within earshot. Rory had left the room, gone for coffee maybe, vacating the desk to Fisher’s left. One more glance around and Fisher dialled the number. The call was answered almost before he’d remembered he’d need to use a northern accent. When he spoke it sounded ridiculous to his ears.
‘This is Constable Sammy McGinley, calling from Belfast.’ Cuhnstable Sammeh McGinleh.
‘Oh aye.’ The voice on the other end sounded less than impressed.
‘I’m looking for a car that was involved in a hit-and-run. Killed a young girl.’ The accent was fraying around the edges now. ‘Did you or any of your mates carry out any work on a black BMW, an X5? It would have been bumper work. Did you do any work like that on Saturday 26 April?’ The last words came out in a rush.
There was silence on the other end of the line. Too much silence. No clicking of a keyboard. ‘Twenty-sixth April?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re telling me he killed a young one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where exactly?’ The tone was very dry.
Shite. Shite. His accent had been rubbish. The man at the other end of the line had him well figured out. He should hang up. This sort of cross-border bullshit could ge
t him into serious trouble. But garage guy had something, Fisher could feel it.
Fisher took a breath. ‘Galway,’ he said, in his own flat southern accent.
And now the keyboard clacking started. Garage guy checking news reports of the hit-and-run, verifying what he’d been told. A long pause.
‘He was here on the twenty-sixth first thing. Tall guy with grey hair. Wanker. X5 BMW, front in bits, said he’d hit a deer. Paid extra – a lot extra – for quick service.’
Fisher’s pen was racing across his pad. He was breathing fast, as if he were chasing a gouger down the street and the gouger was winning. ‘And your name?’
‘You’re not getting my name, and you’ve no right to ask for it either.’
Silence. Fisher expected him to hang up, but the line stayed open. He hesitated. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘Just if you ever want to catch this guy you’d better stop with the bullshit and get the PSNI out here to ask their questions the right way. And keep this conversation to yourself. I will.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
Cormac wasn’t willing to leave Emma alone in the house by herself. He had visions of Carrie O’Halloran showing up to arrest her, or worse, James Murtagh showing up, knife in hand. He could have asked her to go to a friend’s house, but they needed more help than that. He was going after James Murtagh, and he was determined to get him, but what if he failed? If everything went to shit Emma would need a good lawyer, and the sooner she talked to someone the better. Over Emma’s protestations he called the only person he could think of, a defence attorney named Tom Collins. Despite his profession, Cormac was sure that Collins could be trusted. Collins was understandably surprised by the call, but he rolled with it quickly, suggested that Emma meet him at his offices at Abbeygate Street. They could talk things through. Emma could wait with him until they heard from Cormac, and worst-case scenario, she would be well prepared for whatever came. Cormac drove her to Collins’s office, hugged her, and left her. Then he got back in the car, and drove to the university, running through everything he knew and everything he didn’t.
Cormac took the turn for the chapel car park. It was jammed, so he dumped the car illegally half on the footpath, then walked down towards the lab. Cormac looked over the building as he approached it. It still looked like a World War II bunker to him. He felt sure that he would find Murtagh there, despite the fact that it was a Saturday. Things were reaching a crisis point, and this was Murtagh’s seat of power, wasn’t it? Cormac thought about the entrance camera, didn’t want to give Murtagh those few minutes warning, that time to mentally prepare himself. He wanted to surprise Murtagh, shock him if he could, put him off balance from the start. Given the security set-up Cormac couldn’t see any way around it. Murtagh would have at least a couple of minutes to mentally prepare himself, which was a problem.
Cormac walked on the other side of the road until he had passed the lab by fifty metres or so, then he cut across the road, across the grass, and right down to the water’s edge. He paused there for a moment, looking out across the rippling water. The concourse building was behind him now, and anyone could be watching him from its windows. Cormac began to amble back up-river, hugging the water’s edge, making an effort to look like someone out for an afternoon stroll. Moments later he was at the lab again. This time, instead of a bunker, the beating heart of the lab stood open to him through those great glass windows, as if he had taken a scalpel to it, peeled back its flesh with callipers.
That heart was mundane enough in its details. The first room was an open-plan laboratory. Two white-coated researchers were bent over their work. One of them looked up as he passed, but river-side walkers must be common enough – the man glanced at him for only a moment before turning his attention again to the apparatus in front of him. Cormac walked on. The next room was an office, smaller than the office where he had first met James Murtagh, and plainly furnished. There was a full bookcase, a screen and keyboard on the desk, a coffee cup. He wondered if it was Emma’s office, though there was nothing in particular to mark it as hers. Cormac slowed as he approached the pillar that marked the end of one window, and the beginning of the next. He wasn’t sure but felt that the next room should be Murtagh’s.
It was and there Murtagh was, sitting at his desk, hunched over a laptop. Cormac stepped right up to the window, loomed over it, allowed his shadow to fall across the room. Murtagh was caught up in what he was doing. Whatever was on the laptop had all of his attention and it took him minutes to realise that Cormac was there. Finally, the older man turned in his chair, and visibly blanched at what he saw.
For a moment Cormac said nothing, did nothing, didn’t even change his expression, just locked eyes with Murtagh until the initial shock of his presence had passed. Then, without explanation, Cormac turned and walked on, around the building and to the front door. He didn’t have to wait for the security guard to open the door, but was able to follow two female employees into the building. A flustered looking Roland Swaine lurched to his feet. With bare courtesy Cormac asked to be brought directly to Murtagh’s office. He was escorted back to the office. The security guard raised his hand to knock on the door. Cormac reached around him for the handle, and pushed the door open. He was very aware, in that moment, that he was about to cross a line. He was off the case, ostensibly on leave. But IA hadn’t suspended him, he was still a serving detective sergeant, and he intended to use it.
James Murtagh had recovered his composure. He sat ramrod straight behind his desk, as authoritative and unruffled as a judge in his own courtroom. Cormac closed the door behind him, leaving the security guard on the other side. He pulled the chair opposite Murtagh out of the ray of afternoon sunshine in which it sat, moved it to the left, and seated himself. The laptop was gone from the desk.
‘Mr Murtagh,’ Cormac said.
Murtagh’s face was cold. ‘The appropriate honorific, detective, is Professor.’
Cormac inclined his head. ‘Professor then. I have a number of questions. Today they will take as long as they need to take. You will sit in your chair, and you will answer them until I say I am finished. If at any stage in our conversation I feel that an answer you have given me is incomplete or an obfuscation, I will arrest you and charge you with obstruction of justice, for which you may receive a sentence of up to five years’ imprisonment. Do you understand me?’
‘I wish to call my lawyer. I will not answer any questions until she gets here.’
‘This is not a television program,’ Cormac said. ‘Call your lawyer if you will, and you may tell her that you have not been arrested. I am investigating the murder of two young women. I believe that you have lied to me. That you are continuing to lie to me. If you refuse to answer my questions, if you delay answering my questions, you are obstructing my investigation. You are obstructing justice. Should I arrest you now, or do we begin?’
A moment, the smallest hesitation, then Murtagh nodded.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Murtagh called his lawyer, but Cormac refused to wait for her arrival before he began his questioning. ‘You knew Della Lambert, didn’t you, Professor Murtagh? You met her right here in this building, many times,’ Cormac said.
‘No,’ Murtagh said the world coldly, clearly. ‘If I met her I don’t recall it. You say she spent time here and that’s certainly possible. I don’t know every individual who sets foot inside the doors.’
Cormac almost laughed. ‘You expect me to believe that? You knew Carline Darcy was not doing her own work. Despite what you said here when we first spoke, you didn’t think much of her abilities. And you expect me to believe that you felt zero curiosity about the girl who was producing the world-class work Carline was claiming as her own? That you didn’t so much as shake her hand?’
Murtagh snorted. ‘What are you talking about? World-class work? Someone’s sold you a story.’
‘You’re claiming that the work was not something special?’
‘I exagge
rated Carline’s ability when we last spoke,’ Murtagh said. ‘I suppose I’m as guilty as the next person of going along with the Darcy family agenda. The truth is that Carline’s work was … ordinary.’ Murtagh sighed. ‘You’ve fallen for a useful family legend, detective. The kind of thing the company uses to sell its reputation and ultimately its drugs.’
Cormac said nothing, waited. Murtagh wouldn’t need prompting. This part of the story he was dying to tell.
‘John Darcy is a fine scientist, no doubt about it. But his true genius, if you can call it that, lies in his ability to find the commercial value in something and squeeze it until he has extracted every drop of money. The Darcy family legend – that John single-handedly invented four blockbuster drugs – is a useful fiction, but you look at the patent filings for those drugs, detective, and you will find it’s not just John’s name that appears.’
‘You?’ Cormac asked. He allowed a little needling disbelief to creep into his tone.
‘On the first one, yes. After that, many other great scientists whose work John was able to commercialise.’
‘If they’re listed on the patent then Darcy clearly wasn’t trying to hide their contribution.’
‘Of course not. John would never be so stupid. But he is listed as lead designer in every case, and it’s John that people talk about, John about whom the articles are written, regardless of the degree to which he actually contributed to the work.’ Murtagh was trying hard to sound urbane, a man amused and cynical about the workings of the world, but resentment curled around the edges of his words.
‘The Darcy legend – a family company run by a true scientist – that legend smoothed the path for John as he built Darcy Therapeutics into the monolith it is today. Carline Darcy was a bright girl. A presentable girl. I suspect John was simply doing what he could to include her in the legend. Another family genius to continue his great work.’
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