by Jo Spain
She gave him a playful clip on the ear. He responded with a sheepish grin.
She hated him smoking, but he was nearly fifty and couldn’t kick the habit of a lifetime. He had a preference for intensely flavoured, if prohibitively expensive, Cuban cigars. Luckily, a few puffs were generally enough to keep him happy.
It was one of his only vices. His wife devoured crime novels populated by detectives who drank too much, suffered with depression, were addicted to painkillers – their list of afflictions endless, their lives unfailingly miserable. The fiction shelves had done a great job convincing the public that all police detectives were stereotypical flawed geniuses, battling secret demons. In reality, although the job took its toll, most of Tom’s colleagues were normal men and women with all the usual human qualities and flaws, and most officers retired intact, not as quivering wrecks.
‘I apologize. It’s too cold to sit out back. I could get the flu.’
‘I’ve no sympathy.’ She shook her head. ‘Not when you’re worried about flu but not about lung cancer. Will I send Ray up? He’s chomping at the bit down there.’
Tom nodded, braced himself for the cold air and threw his legs out from under the warm bedspread.
He had his trousers on and was buttoning up his shirt when Ray rapped on the door.
‘It’s okay, I’m decent,’ Tom called.
Ray Lennon was fifteen years younger than Tom. His height, chiselled features, dark grey eyes and buzz cut all contributed to make him an attractive man. The intense, brooding appearance, however, belied a boyish sense of humour. That light-hearted aspect of his personality in turn masked an insightful intelligence, which explained his relatively swift rise through the ranks to become Tom’s lead detective sergeant in the NBCI’s esteemed murder unit.
Tom chose a navy tie and turned round. ‘Cold got your tongue this morning?’
The teasing grin died when he saw his deputy’s face.
Ray’s features were grim, the colour faded from his cheeks. He looked shell-shocked.
‘What is it?’ Tom asked.
There had been a spate of gangland killings over the last few months, but the situation appeared to have calmed. Every guard in Dublin was praying the hiatus would last through December.
Ray swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, still choosing his words.
Tom grabbed his suit jacket from the chair beside the en suite. ‘Please don’t tell me one of the scumbags has shot an innocent bystander.’
Ray shook his head. ‘No. It’s worse.’
‘Not a child?’ Tom’s heart thumped as he said the words.
Again, a shake of the head.
‘It’s a woman, sir, an elderly woman. They found her body in the Phoenix Park.’
The inspector sat down on the edge of the chair, ostensibly to lace his shoes, but in truth because he felt he should be sitting for whatever was coming next. He couldn’t imagine what could provoke such a reaction in an experienced detective outside of a child being harmed.
‘Spit it out, Ray.’
‘She’s been crucified, Tom. An old woman has been crucified in the park.’
‘What do you mean, crucified?’
Tom wondered for a moment if he was still dreaming. His house faced one of the outer walls of the Phoenix Park, a public green space that encompassed over 1,700 acres of Dublin city land.
‘I haven’t seen her. Michael and Laura were the first of our team at the scene. They just said she’s nailed to a tree.’
Tom stared blankly at his deputy for a long moment before his senses kicked into action.
‘Let’s get down there. It’s not in public view, is it?’
‘No, it’s off road.’
The two men hurried downstairs, meeting Louise in the hallway.
‘It’s cats and dogs out there, Tom. Take your raincoat . . .’ She paused. ‘What is it?’
Tom shook his head.
A look of well-worn understanding settled on his wife’s face.
Tom took his heavy black coat from her outstretched hand.
‘I might get a Christmas tree today,’ she said, as he fastened his zip. The world he had to deal with outside might be brutish and chaotic, but she’d be damned if she’d let it infringe on their home life. ‘And you said you’d order that mini skip for me for those boxes of junk in the attic.’
‘I’ll do it later.’ His response was automatic.
‘When you die, Tom Reynolds, I’m going to have “I’ll do it later” inscribed on your tombstone.’
‘As they say, love, if you ask me to do something, I’ll do it. You don’t need to nag me about it every six months.’
She raised one eyebrow in the ‘I don’t think you’re funny’ expression he knew so well.
‘Anyway, isn’t it a bit early for a Christmas tree? I won’t be here to help you.’
‘We’re only a couple of weeks away. Maria can help.’
‘Isn’t she in college?’
Louise hesitated. It was barely noticeable, but long enough for her husband of over a quarter of a century to stop moving towards the front door.
She mentally kicked herself. Sometimes, it was necessary to delay the truth.
‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’ll fill you in another time. Go, do your job.’
Tom paused a moment longer, then leaned over to hug and kiss her goodbye.
Maria had been causing them more than a few headaches these last few months. She wasn’t settling well in college and at nineteen years of age it had gone beyond the point of them telling her what to do. Tom was starting to wish, much and all as he loved her, that she would cut the apron strings and flat-share with a friend.
Louise closed her eyes and enjoyed the brief embrace, inhaling the smell of musk and toothpaste. He was on the brink of yet another case that would steal him from her, just when she needed him.
She sighed. Life with Tom was never boring, but it was often lonely.
Chapter 2
Traffic in the park was light in the still dark morning. In an hour, the roads would be backed up as people awoke to the heavy rain and decided to avoid unpredictable public transport and drive to work.
They were in Ray’s car. Tom’s mechanic saw more of the inspector’s vehicle than he did these days. The old man had advised against an Alfa Romeo, but a pig-headed Tom had willingly sacrificed reliability for the car’s magnificence when it was on top form.
These past two weeks, though, relying on either Ray or his oft-time garda driver Willie Callaghan had been painful. Both men observed the speed limit with what Tom considered undue reverence.
‘You do realize fifty kilometres per hour in this park is for law-abiding citizens, not the police, don’t you?’ he griped, as they toddled down the Phoenix Park’s main avenue.
A grim smile played on Ray’s lips, but his eyes stayed focused on the road.
‘I think you’ll find, sir, the speed limit is for the benefit of the deer, who don’t really care who’s driving the car.’
The park was home to over 400 fallow deer, descended from an original herd introduced in the 1660s. Dublin residents knew to look out for them bounding across the main avenue at night, but many an unfortunate visiting driver had been known to swerve with fright into the roadside ditches upon seeing the magnificent animals canter out, eyes glinting in the headlights.
Tom and Ray had entered via the Castleknock gate and now took a right turn before the American ambassador’s residence. Further on they took a narrow road to the left, freshly marked with police cones. A lone officer stood sentinel, hunched against the driving rain.
The uniformed guard peered through the car’s windscreen from under his dripping cap as they slowed for him. Seeing who they were, he waved them through enthusiastically.
At the road’s end they pulled in beside two other squad cars parked on the grass verge.
‘Prepare to get drenched,’ Tom warned, as he pulled his hood over his head and stepped on t
o the sodden grass. The smell of damp greenery assaulted his nostrils, followed by the uncomfortable sensation of wet seeping up his trouser legs. All the heat he’d absorbed in the car seemed to instantly leave his body.
Michael Geoghegan was waiting for them. He was wearing a heavy black Nike rain hoody, hands shoved in the pockets.
The inspector knew Michael was only back on the job a few days. He hadn’t seen the young detective since Michael’s wife had miscarried three months previously. Anne had been almost halfway through her pregnancy and the baby’s loss was a devastating blow to the couple. Michael had been granted compassionate leave, combined with overdue holiday time, so he could be with her.
Tom placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘Michael, good to see you. How are you? How’s Anne?’
Michael shrugged and shuffled nervously. ‘We’re all right, sir; getting on with things.’
It was obvious the young detective didn’t want to dwell on the tragedy.
‘What have we got here, then?’
‘We had a hard time finding her. The man who rang it in was incoherent and, to be honest, describing a wooded area — ‘Michael cast his arm at the many trees in their vicinity ‘— well, one copse looks the same as the next around here.’
‘Did you say corpse?’ Ray looked astonished.
Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Copse, you illiterate! It’s a collection of trees. Carry on, Michael.’
‘Right. Well, a patrol car was sent out first, but we were pulling an early morning shift and heard it on dispatch, so we got here minutes after the uniforms. Pathology and the Technical Bureau are sending teams. There were gunshots fired at a house in Clondalkin last night and an incident in town so they’re stretched. I think McDonagh himself is coming. He gave me a big lecture about how busy he is, and put the phone down.’
Michael looked uncertain, as if he was wondering whether he should have confirmed that the chief superintendent in charge of the Garda Síochána Technical Bureau was indeed en route.
‘He’s on his way, Michael,’ Tom reassured him. ‘Have we secured the scene as much as we can for now?’
The Technical Bureau would assess the crime scene for forensics, but Tom’s team would set up an outer cordon to protect against public or media intrusion.
‘There’s a guard at the entrance to the road you came up and another behind this set of trees, making sure no one can get in. The hollow where we found her is pretty much inaccessible, bar where you come off the main path. There are dense bushes and briars surrounding it.’
‘We’ll go as far as the hollow,’ Tom said. ‘We’d better not go in until the Bureau gives us the okay.’
They set off into the trees, taking torches from the car. Tom could see they were following a rough path, but he knew no woman would walk this route alone, day or night.
‘Michael, the man who rang in – how exactly did he say he came across this woman? This doesn’t look like the sort of place you’d be walking your dog.’
‘He didn’t. No name either.’
‘Suspect number one, so,’ Ray offered.
It took them five minutes to reach Laura Brennan. The youngest detective on the team was resting her back against a tree. Her copper curls hung forward, her face illuminated by the smartphone in her hand. Laura’s fingers flew over the screen, issuing diktats via text. Unlike Michael, who took casual dressing at work to a new level, the female detective always wore smart, well-fitted suits. She was young, so she dressed older to make a point. Right now she was wearing a sensible black parka over her tailored clothes to keep out the rain.
She looked up at their approach and hauled herself to a standing position.
‘Morning, sir. The victim’s in there.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s pretty bad.’
‘Nothing has been touched?’
‘Nothing.’
Tom and Ray walked to the very edge of the dark hollow, careful to go no further for fear of contaminating the scene. Both men raised their torches. Their combined arcs of light illuminated patches of the clearing in the trees, casting a ghostly glow on the leaf-strewn soil.
At the same moment, both men trained their respective beams at the far side of the small circle.
Ray dropped his torch in shock. ‘Christ,’ he exclaimed, sinking to his knees and fumbling to retrieve it.
Tom was frozen to the spot, a slight tremor in his hand as he kept his light focused on the nightmarish sight in front of him.
The woman appeared to be standing, ready to meet them. Her head was positioned grotesquely to one side, resting on one outstretched arm. Her chest was exposed beneath torn, blood-saturated fabric. Thin strands of lank grey hair framed her wrinkled face. She was in her seventies or thereabouts. Nondescript clothing – a brown skirt and lace-collared blouse.
The elderly woman’s facial features were frozen in a moment of terror, eyes wide with horror, mouth hanging open in permanent shock. Dried blood covered the bottom half of her face.
Her arms extended at an unnatural angle from her body, hands impaled on long nails hammered into the wide tree trunk. Her feet, barely raised off the ground, were joined and similarly affixed with a single nail.
As if the nails were not enough, a rope tightly cinched her waist to the tree.
None of it, though, shocked Tom as much as the words.
On the bare flesh of her chest, letters had been crudely carved.
The inspector had to squint to make out the words, barely discernible amid the congealed blood.
Satan’s Whore
Tom instinctively took a step back. In that chilling moment, he was glad he hadn’t eaten breakfast.
Behind him, Ray was polluting the outskirts of the crime scene, vomiting as he clutched a tree for support.
Chapter 3
‘Good morning, Tom. What have we here, then?’
Emmet McDonagh, head of the Technical Bureau, walked briskly towards them. Two others followed, momentarily obscured by his girth.
‘I thought I’d lend you my extensive expertise, as you’re on my home patch. Where’s the victim?’
Tom pointed into the hollow.
Emmet abruptly stopped and directed his torch nonchalantly into the dark space.
The accompanying technicians crashed into the back of him.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Emmet exclaimed.
‘You did stop with no warning,’ a woman’s voice snapped, before its owner came round to stand beside him.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ Emmet replied. ‘Look.’ He brandished his light at the hollow, creating a gruesome flickering effect on the victim.
The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Well. That’s novel,’ she declared.
Emmet shook his head and the mop of brown hair atop it, still distracted by the sight in front of him.
Tom reckoned he dyed his hair. Emmet had twelve years on the inspector and there wasn’t so much as a grey strand in sight.
‘Hell, Tom, a bit of notice would have been nice. I thought we were coming down for some gang shooting.’
‘Michael didn’t tell you?’ Tom was surprised. Then he remembered Michael telling him Emmet had been his usual brusque self on the phone.
The other man shook his head. Without taking his eyes off the victim, he waved his hand at the two people beside him. ‘Sorry, you know Ellie Byrne and Mark Dunne, don’t you?’
Tom leaned forward to shake their hands. He’d seen both technicians on occasion, and he certainly remembered Ellie. The woman was beautiful. Long raven-black hair framed a love-heart face, her bone structure the envy of any model. Even exhausted from her heavy workload, with bags under her eyes, she was still breathtaking. He suspected Ray had a crush on her, along with most of the men on the force.
Both of them shook his hand distractedly, busy staring at the woman nailed to the tree.
‘We need to secure this,’ Emmet said. He shone his torch over the ground in front of them. ‘Has anyone been in there?’
‘None of o
ur lot,’ Tom said.
‘Who left that?’
Emmet waved his torch at the rank-smelling puddle to the left of the entrance.
‘We can account for that,’ Tom replied, deflecting the question.
‘Hm. I’ll need some halogen lamps. It’s at least another hour until proper daylight, and if it keeps raining it will stay dull.’
*
Tom spent most of the hour and a half that followed on the phone. The state pathologist was en route, along with Tom’s boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Sean McGuinness.
When Emmet eventually allowed Tom into the hollow, he crossed straight to the victim, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘What do you think, Emmet – mid to late seventies?’
His colleague walked over and joined him, nodding his head slowly.
They peered at her chest.
‘She’s been stabbed,’ Tom said, aware he was stating what was probably obvious to Emmet. ‘Repeatedly.’
He would take in everything he could before the pathology team arrived and took over. After that, they’d take the woman down from the tree. The inspector didn’t plan on being in the hollow when they removed the nails from the victim’s hands and feet.
A crucifix hung around the woman’s neck. Tom pulled on a pair of latex gloves and very gently lifted it. The figure of Jesus hung on the cross. The hideous irony of the victim’s crucifixion was inescapable.
He turned the cross over. There, on the back, were the initials MM.
They had been engraved. They didn’t look like the mark of the manufacturer.
‘MM,’ he said to Emmet. ‘That would be religious, rather than her initials, do you think?’
‘Probably. It could be Mother Mary. Maybe a Roman numeral?’
Tom gently placed the crucifix back on the woman’s neck.
‘She’s tall, but I’d hazard a guess she barely weighs seven stone,’ Emmet observed. ‘It would have been easy enough for her killer to tie her to this tree, once she’d been propped against it.’
‘Even if she’d tried to fight?’ Tom asked.
‘She didn’t fight. Not here,’ Emmet replied. ‘She wasn’t killed here.’