by Jo Spain
‘Thank you,’ the inspector responded curtly, hoping the expert from the IT department hadn’t been as rude to Laura.
He looked at the number again in disbelief. What kind of genius would make an anonymous call from their home phone?
Just as he was about to send a car out to pick up Gerard Poots – their now identified caller – Tom’s phone rang, the screen displaying an internal number.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Sir, we have a man called Gerard Poots down at the front desk. Says he’s the one who rang the park body in.’
Tom sat back in his chair. Curious. Of all the stations . . .
‘Put him in an interview room and get detectives Brennan and Geoghegan in with him.’
He looked at the clock. It was 8 p.m. and he wanted to go home. He’d yet to solve a case on day one, outside of those where the perpetrator confessed up front. The press conference had been well attended and every media outlet they needed was now carrying the story. They’d kept back the gruesome details of the murder for now and just released information about the woman’s appearance and where she was found.
Over the next twenty-four hours, that should translate into an identity. He hoped. Missing persons had turned up nothing.
He picked up the phone to ring Ray, just as the door opened.
Ray strolled in, brandishing his phone. ‘You rang?’
‘Now that’s the kind of prompt response I like in a subordinate.’
Ray rolled his eyes. ‘The caller is downstairs.’
‘I know that, and I even know where he lives.’
‘Really? And he hasn’t even been interviewed yet. You’re good.’
‘I’ve sent Laura and Michael in to scope him out before we scare him with the big guns.’ Tom flexed his biceps comically. He hadn’t completely lost the muscle tone in his limbs from years of swimming and running, but he was sitting in a room with a man still in his prime, who happened to work out every day. He sighed and muttered:
‘ “An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick.” ’
Ray drummed his fingers on the other side of the desk and raised an eyebrow.
‘Forgot to take your meds?’
‘It’s William Butler Yeats, you philistine,’ Tom retorted.
*
Twenty minutes later Laura and Michael arrived in Tom’s office, shaking their heads.
‘We left him down there giving a formal statement to Ian,’ Michael reported. ‘He’s an emotional vomiter, told us all his problems as soon as we walked in. He’s a married man, a solicitor, and he picked up the rent boy in the park around midnight. Not a pleasant character, but if he’s the killer he’ll be appearing in next year’s Oscar nominations. Said he was in shock when he rang last night – frightened his wife would find out what he’s been up to. Implied he was the one being taken advantage of.
‘Anyway, they saw nothing and heard nothing, but at some point . . .’ Michael coughed. ‘At some point he said he felt like someone was watching them, which apparently isn’t unusual among this fraternity, so he used his mobile to shine a light around the hollow. That’s when the pair of them saw the victim. They fled the scene in a panic. He doesn’t have a name for the lad, but Vice will track him. He’s probably telling all his mates what happened. We’re taking Poots’ DNA now.’
‘I think we should do him for using rent boys. I’ve seen those kids,’ Ray said. ‘Pitiful.’
‘I know,’ Tom said. ‘But imagine what that would do for other potential witnesses. One member of the public comes forward to help and is done for soliciting. There’ll be dog walkers out there trying to recall if they neglected to pick up their pets’ poop, rather than what they might have witnessed.’
‘Fine,’ Ray said. ‘Are we done for tonight?’
‘Yes. Team meeting at 8 a.m. and let’s see what we have then. I hope nobody had plans for the weekend.’
Tom managed to get out of the building without encountering anyone who might cause him further delay. One of the joys of working from a suburban station. Had Sean McGuinness caught him leaving at this hour he’d accuse him of taking a half-day.
He headed in the direction of the bus stop. The bus for town would leave him close enough to his house on Blackhorse Avenue to walk the rest of the way. Someone could have driven him home, but he needed some alone time.
He sat, anonymous and freezing, waiting patiently for the elusive late evening bus, the Pearl Fishers duet blaring from his earphones.
The well-known piece of music was brutally interrupted by his ringtone.
It was Ian Kelly.
‘I’ve just left,’ he answered. ‘What’s happened?’
Ian hesitated before speaking. Tom sensed he was rattled.
‘We’ve an ID. At least we think we do. I hope you’re sitting down. You’re not going to believe this.’
‘Well? Who is she?’
Ian took a deep breath. ‘She’s a nun, Tom.’
The blood drained from the inspector’s face.
‘God,’ he whispered.
‘I don’t think God had much to do with this,’ Ian replied. ‘There’s another nun coming up from Limerick in the morning to ID her. But she said Reverend Mother Attracta – that’s her name, by the way – has been missing since the day before yesterday and matches the press description.’
‘Limerick? That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it – geography-wise?’
‘A two-hour drive if you put your foot down, which I assume you would if you’d a body in the boot.’
‘Well, if I’d a body in the boot I wouldn’t want to risk being caught speeding, Ian. Hell, what are we saying?’
‘Sorry.’
Tom turned over the news in his head. Could a missing nun from Limerick be their dead woman in Dublin?
‘Tom? You know, I had this feeling she was a nun.’
Hindsight was a glorious thing.
‘We discussed a religious dimension. Could it be someone hitting out at the Catholic Church?’ Tom wondered aloud.
‘There’s been a lot of media coverage lately around the Church and abuse. I had a notion that was mainly directed at priests, though.’
‘Mainly,’ Tom replied. ‘Why do I feel like a can of worms has just been opened?’
‘Because it has. You’ll be meeting Sister Concepta at Store Street station beside the morgue at 10 a.m. I’ll ring Ray.’
Tom hung up as he saw his bus rounding the corner. Another one with the same number followed it.
There was truth in those old sayings.
*
The inspector walked briskly alongside the granite wall that circled the Phoenix Park. He had lived facing that wall for over twenty years. The park provided an amenity for all the city’s residents, but particularly for the people who lived beside it. Now, a murdered woman had been hideously displayed there, a sinister addition to the handful of tales that scarred the park’s history.
Tom was old enough to remember vividly the murder of Bridie Gargan. The young nurse had been sunbathing in broad daylight in the park in 1982 when unhinged society playboy Malcolm MacArthur bludgeoned her to death while attempting to steal her car.
Today’s finding, though, was in a league of its own.
He slipped off his shoes in the hall, unknotted his tie and wondered why the house was so silent. Through the sitting-room door he caught a glimpse of an undecorated Christmas tree. He’d smelled it before he’d seen it.
Louise and Maria were huddled in conference at the kitchen table in the centre of the large kitchen/dining room. Their body language unnerved him. Maria was visibly upset.
Louise shot up in her seat when she saw him. His daughter just groaned and hid her head in her hands.
‘Tom, you’re home early.’ His wife sounded guilty.
He glanced at the clock. Wondered if it was too late to turn round and go for a pint.
‘Not particularly.’ He nodded inquiringly at Maria.
Louise
sank back into her chair, her beautiful face creased with worry. ‘She was planning on telling you tonight, but with everything that’s happened—’
‘What is it?’ Tom was suddenly alert.
When he needed to, he was very good at leaving his work at the door. His family took priority, no matter what he was dealing with in the job.
He pulled out a chair beside his daughter.
Maria’s mop of auburn hair hung over her arms as she remained prone, head buried. Sitting there, in that position, she could have been ten years old again.
He placed his hand gently on her elbow.
‘You need to tell him,’ Louise said.
‘I am mummified,’ Maria mumbled.
‘You’re what—?’ Tom asked.
‘Tom, just listen to her,’ Louise interjected.
‘I am listening to her. She said she’s mummified – whatever the hell that means.’
‘Mortified, I said mortified!’
The voice came louder from under the hair.
Well, it was hard to hear anything the girl said when she mumbled it to the table, he thought.
‘What’s wrong?’ he sighed, adding ‘now’ in his head.
She groaned again.
He took a deep breath and tried to be calm.
‘I’m sorry you’re upset, Maria. I just want to know what’s wrong so I can help. I’m here for you. Are you in trouble? Is it college?’
Maria looked at her mother, and some sort of silent conversation was had between the two of them. It resulted in his daughter sitting up straight and collecting herself. The tears were wiped away and a loud sigh, complete with a sobbed hiccup, was emitted.
Then she hit him with it.
‘I know this will come as a shock to you, Dad, but I’m not the first and I won’t be the last. I’m pregnant . . .’
Chapter 7
At twenty-eight years of age, and to her eternal shame, Laura Brennan still lived with her family.
Up to a number of years ago they’d lived in Kerry. But as recession hit the country hard, jobs became thin on the ground in the Southwest. Although Laura was excelling professionally in the ranks of the guards, her parents had begun to worry about the prospects for the remaining four in their brood.
Laura could understand why. Most of her schoolmates had already emigrated, and she feared her younger brothers and sisters would follow.
Then her father’s mother had passed away and left her only son her Dublin home. Her father, also a guard and nearing retirement age, found a desk job in Dublin shortly before Laura was offered her first detective post, based in the capital. The city, while reeling from the economic crisis, still had more to offer by way of jobs for her siblings, even if the move had been a wrench – especially for her mother, who was Kerry born and bred.
Laura wearily unwrapped her scarf and draped it on top of the many coats slung over the end of the banister.
Her brother Daithí, sixteen and one of the twin babies of the family, thundered down the stairs, carrying a bowl of grapes. He stopped on the last step, rocking on his heels.
‘So, that old woman in the park – was it gory? What did they do to her? Was she butchered?’
Laura made a disgusted sound. ‘Daithí, you really are a little freak.’
He popped a grape in his mouth and grinned as he chewed. ‘Yuk! These have seeds in them. Really, why would you buy grapes with seeds in them? Mam is going Lady Gaga.’
Laura’s other brother, Donncha, emerged from the sitting room, and she found herself trapped between the two of them.
‘Somebody took the time to figure out how to cultivate grapes without seeds,’ Donncha said, eyeing Daithí. ‘If only they could figure out how to do that with morons. Stop them propagating.’
‘I hope you don’t mean me!’ His younger brother was indignant.
Laura laughed.
Donncha was next in age to Laura. After some turbulent initial years, starting when she was four and their mother brought the little interloper home from the hospital, they had become the best of friends. They had to unite against the three that came after them.
‘I’d love to have a bath and relax,’ she groaned. ‘Can’t the children be put to bed?’
Donncha laughed. ‘No such luck. Mam kept a plate warm for you, by the way – meat and two veg.’
‘What else would it be? If she made a curry, I’d die from shock.’ She gave her brother a conspiratorial grin before heading into the kitchen in search of dinner.
Her father was sitting in the corner in his pea-green recliner. When they’d moved, her mother had leapt at the opportunity to remove the offending piece of furniture from the sitting room, claiming lack of space. The colour green had never been her favourite – ‘You just can’t work with green in a living room’ – and she was determined to design the sitting room to her own preferences.
The war over whether the chair could stay or go made the Battle of the Alamo look like a friendly tiff. The concession, ungraciously acceded to by both sides, was for the chair to go in the kitchen – as far away from the black leather suite in the living room as it could get without being dumped in a skip.
The arrangement worked out surprisingly well. Their mother liked to bake and their father liked to sit in the kitchen, where the two of them would chat while he half-read the paper and she sifted, mixed and kneaded.
‘Ah, there you are, pet. Sit down there and take the load off. Gracious, the hours you work.’
Her mother bustled around her, ushering her into her chair. They all had their allocated chairs; only someone looking for an argument would sit in the wrong seat.
Laura’s mother never considered for a moment that anyone coming into her kitchen might have already eaten. She was of a generation that considered it a duty to feed anyone who crossed the threshold.
On this occasion, Laura realized she was indeed starving. The gruesome discovery this morning had dampened her appetite and she’d survived the day mainly on caffeine. She welcomed her mother’s home cooking: moist roast chicken breast, buttery mashed potatoes and glazed carrots.
Laura liked the idea of cooking for herself. Maybe even adding such exotic ingredients as garlic or ginger to a dish. But on late nights like this, it really was nice to be handed a hot, home-made meal.
She poured gravy liberally over her dinner as her father inspected her over his newspaper, glasses propped on the end of his nose.
‘Having some dinner with your gravy, are you?’
Donncha had followed her into the kitchen. ‘Jesus, you can take the girl out of Kerry . . .’ he said, watching her shovel the food into her mouth.
‘That’s just awful what happened today.’
Her mother, seamlessly moving from one chore to the next, now stood washing dishes at the sink, which sat conspicuously beside the brand new dishwasher Laura had bought her when they moved.
‘Now, Kaye,’ her father admonished.
‘I’m just saying, Jim. I’m not asking for a detailed report. It’s a terrible thing, when an old woman can’t even . . .’ Kaye paused to think what the woman might have been doing in the park before she was killed. ‘Go for a walk . . .’ She stopped washing the dishes for a moment and looked at her reflection in the kitchen window. ‘It must be nearly time to get a Christmas tree.’
Nobody expected Laura to talk about what she did at work. Jim was a lifelong guard; they knew the score. But sometimes she wished she could come home to a boyfriend, or a best friend, and say ‘I’ve had a rubbish day’ and not get a lecture about professionalism.
She felt her phone buzzing in her pocket and cursed herself for forgetting to turn the bloody thing off.
She withdrew it discreetly and saw Bridget’s number flashing. In their line of work, there weren’t many females and Laura had been grateful to meet another young woman when she joined the NBCI. In her experience, there was a type of professional woman who liked to pull the ladder up behind her once she’d climbed it. Laura thought
women were better uniting to support one another, and she was delighted to find Bridget shared that mentality. They became fast friends.
‘I have to take this, sorry.’ She excused herself from the table.
‘I hope that’s not work again . . .’ Her mother’s voice carried out to the hall.
‘Bridget?’
‘Hiya. You home?’
‘Just in time for curfew. What’s up?’
‘Are you still interested in getting your own place?’
‘It’s like my thoughts are bugged. Of course I am. But I can’t afford to rent on my own, and I’m not moving in with total strangers. Mad and all as my lot are, they are my lot.’
‘What if I told you I was looking for a new place?’
‘Are you serious?’
Bridget already had a set-up in a two-bedroom apartment with another woman and seemed happy enough.
‘No joking. The lease is up here and my flatmate is moving in with her boyfriend.’
‘I’d love to share with you!’
‘Brilliant. I’ll start looking at rental sites. Now, go to bed. And don’t be having any naughty dreams.’
‘Excuse me?’ Laura responded, demurely.
‘Don’t take that tone with me, missy. I know.’
‘Know what?’ Laura said, blushing to her toes.
‘I know who you’ve a crush on.’
Chapter 8
‘. . . I’m pregnant.’
Maria said this in the same tone of voice she used whenever she had rehearsed bad news for him. She may as well have said, ‘Now, don’t be annoyed, Dad, but I’ve just failed maths.’
Tom’s jaw dropped.
Nothing could be heard in the kitchen bar the ticking of the wall clock. Then both Louise and Maria spoke together.
‘Tom, really, stop sitting there gaping like a fish. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘Dad, say something!’
Tom slowly closed his mouth and stared at his daughter. Was this really happening or had today just been a very long bad dream? His baby, his little girl, barely nineteen and just started in college . . . the girl who never talked about boys . . . pregnant?