‘It wasn’t something we’d considered,’ West said, a frown creasing his forehead. Perhaps they should have done. ‘If she was put into the suitcase alive, that changes the direction of our enquiry. When nobody came forward to identify her,’ he explained, seeing her puzzled look, ‘we considered she may have been smuggled into the country somehow and, as a result, when she died, her relatives were too afraid to come forward. Now it seems she may have died while being brought in.’
Andrews frowned. ‘She could be the victim of a people trafficking ring.’
‘I know someone in the HTICU,’ West said, looking at him.
Fiona held one hand up. ‘Okay, what does an intensive care unit have to do with it?’
Both men looked puzzled before West gave a short laugh. ‘No, sorry, it doesn’t stand for an intensive care unit. It’s the Human Trafficking Investigation and Co-ordination Unit, a branch of the Garda National Protection Bureau.’ He looked back to Andrews. ‘Jos Cotter, I’ll have a word with him, see if he can offer some advice.’ He tapped a finger on the desk. ‘Pete, contact someone in the National Immigration Bureau. Tell them our situation and see if they can offer any assistance.’
Fiona Wilson picked up her briefcase and stood. ‘I can see it’s not a good time to be dragging you… either of you,’ she amended quickly, ‘for coffee.’ The comment may have been for both, but the smile she gave was directed solely at West.
His smile was perfunctory, his mind focusing on the best use of his limited resources. ‘Another time,’ he said, standing and holding out his hand, ‘you’ve been a great help, thank you.’
‘I’ll hold you to that, Sergeant West,’ she said and with a nod to Andrews and another smile to West, she left.
‘You’ve got an admirer there,’ Andrews said, watching her go with a flicker of admiration.
‘She’s just being friendly, Peter,’ West said, dismissing the woman immediately from his mind to concentrate on the news she’d brought him.
Andrews’ eyebrow rose. ‘I have a feeling it’s not the last we’ll see of Fiona Wilson,’ he said cryptically. ‘I’ll go make that call.’
Sergeant Jos Cotter wasn’t available when West rang his office. Leaving a message asking him to return his call as soon as possible, he hung up and drummed his fingers on the desk for a few minutes before switching on his computer. It would have been better to speak to Jos first, but there was no point in hanging about. A quick search found contact details for BINOCAR, Eurocat, and the National Congenital Anomaly and Rare Diseases Register. With the phone wedged under one ear, and a pen and pad in front of him, he started into the phone calls and explanations.
Two hours later, he put the phone down and stretched his arms over his head to ease the knots that had built up in his shoulders. He headed out to the main office where he spied Andrews, his phone in one hand, scribbling madly with the other. He stood watching him, mentally considering their next step. At least the reporters had lost interest. It took the pressure off.
‘Well, that was interesting,’ Andrews said, putting phone and pen down.
‘Tell me.’ West rested a hip against the desk.
‘I spoke to a very helpful woman, by the name of Helga Fischer. It appears there are between 20,000 to 26,000 illegal immigrants living in Ireland at any given time.’ He tapped the notes in front of him. ‘Oh, and by the way, the politically correct term, as she told me, is undocumented migrants, not illegal immigrants.’
West whistled. ‘That’s a much higher figure than I’d have thought. Do they know how many of these undocumented migrants are children?’
Andrews shook his head. ‘They’re understaffed, and overwhelmed.’
West knew the score. It was the same everywhere. ‘The three registers I contacted were quite helpful. They wouldn’t give me a list of names, but when I told them about our suitcase child they promised to contact the social workers who look after every child with sickle-cell anaemia within a year of our child’s age to ensure they are still hale and hearty.’
‘That’ll take a while.’ Andrews sniffed. ‘And it’s very unlikely to be one of them. A child on a register won’t just disappear.’
West nodded. ‘True. But someone may have panicked.’ When his phone rang, he motioned Andrews to follow him back to his office. ‘It might be Jos,’ he said, picking up the phone. ‘West here.’
He listened for a moment before saying, ‘I have my partner, Garda Peter Andrews here with me, I’ll put you on speaker.’ He pushed the button and immediately Jos Cotter’s voice filled the room. West reached for the volume and turned it down slightly. ‘Good to talk to you again,’ he said, sitting behind the desk. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to help us with a case we have here in Foxrock.’ It didn’t take long to fill him in. There wasn’t much to tell.
‘We had some results back today. The child had sickle-cell anaemia so was, more than likely, of sub-Saharan descent. They weren’t able to give us a cause of death but have proposed a theory that she might have suffocated.’
‘People with sickle-cell anaemia can suffer from breathlessness,’ Cotter said, confirming what Fiona Wilson had told them. ‘I suppose it’s reasonable that someone doubled over in a small suitcase might have had difficulties.’
‘Exactly,’ West said, pleased to see the theory gaining more credence. ‘It’s not something we’ve come across before, Jos. We have more homegrown crimes on our patch. Have you seen children trafficked this way before?’
‘I’ve seen a baby hidden inside a large stuffed toy, Mike,’ Cotter said. ‘Why not in a suitcase? A two to three-year-old, probably malnourished, she’d be small and light. It would be easy and a case that size wouldn’t have drawn attention. They wouldn’t have risked flying, of course, not with hand luggage going through scanners, but there are far fewer security checks on ferries.
‘Most children we’ve seen trafficked have been drugged to keep them quiet and compliant,’ he said slowly. ‘Depending on what they gave her, that also may have had a detrimental effect on her breathing. But, if it is trafficking, it’s a bit of a puzzle.’
West caught his partner’s eye. Just the kind of thing they liked. A good puzzle. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
Cotter cleared his throat, then noisily took a drink, the sound of his gulps coming clearly over the speaker. ‘Human traffickers,’ he continued, ‘are in it for the money. Bringing in one small child in a suitcase wouldn’t be lucrative, not for the risk involved. It sounds more personal. Maybe someone smuggling in a relation.’
‘Okay,’ West nodded, ‘that makes sense, I suppose. Or maybe it was someone willing to pay a lot of money?’
A short laugh was heard down the line. ‘I hope they didn’t pay upfront then; it sounds like they got a bum deal.’
Andrews closed his eyes at the callous remark, opening them when he heard West ending the call.
‘He doesn’t mean to sound like a jerk,’ West said, seeing his face. ‘It’s an occupational hazard, I think. I’ve heard the story of the baby in the stuffed toy before. What he didn’t mention was that the baby was dead when he found him.’
7
Over the next few days Edel worked hard on her edits. She had a few friendly emails from Aidan Power asking her how it was coming along, and if she had any questions. By the fourth day, she was finished.
‘It’s done,’ she wrote in an email to both the editor and publisher, attaching the completed edited manuscript. She was delighted to get a reply within a few minutes asking her to come to a meeting the following day.
Next morning, wanting to look the part, she took extra pains with her clothes and make-up. After a final glance in the full-length mirror, she headed downstairs.
West, sipping his morning coffee, stopped to give a soft wolf-whistle when she came into the kitchen. ‘You look amazing,’ he said, eyeing her appreciatively.
She twirled around. ‘You’re sure it’s okay? I was going for arty and professional.’
West p
ut his mug down and leaned back against the countertop. He let his gaze wander over her, taking in the fitted black skirt, just short enough to show her knees, the pale-pink silk shirt and the tailored black jacket with subtle grey detail.
‘Smart, professional and incredibly sexy,’ he said with a smile, ‘not so sure if you nailed the “arty” look though.’
Edel smiled and brushed back her hair to show multicoloured chandelier earrings that glinted as they caught the morning light streaming through the kitchen window.
‘Ah, now I get it,’ he said, moving over to admire them. ‘They’re lovely.’ Stepping away, with a final smile of appreciation, he picked up his mug again. ‘I thought you’d met your publisher before.’
‘I have,’ she said, ‘but I’ve a new editor. It’s important to make a good impression.’
He laughed and let his eyes linger on her long legs. ‘I think you’ll do that.’
She twirled on her high heels. ‘I haven’t worn these in ages; hopefully I won’t make a fool of myself and fall off them. Their office is on Dawson Street; I’m going to drive to the DART station rather than trying to negotiate the roadworks in the city.’
‘Good idea,’ he said, then his eyes flicked to the clock. ‘I’d better get going. Best of luck with your meeting.’ He bent and kissed her on the lips. ‘Knock ‘em dead,’ he said.
Edel was still smiling as she slipped on her coat. Maybe they were going to be okay. Handbag and keys in hand, and humming a tune she’d heard on the radio, she locked the house behind her and climbed into her car.
The car park was full when she arrived at Greystones DART station and she swore softly. ‘I should have asked Mike to drop me off,’ she muttered, driving up and down, eyes peering for a gap in the rows of parked cars. With a yelp, she braked, took the next lane down and pulled into a space. It was just big enough for the car, leaving little room for her to squeeze out and she cursed her tight skirt and high heels.
The train pulled up just as she stepped onto the platform. The rush hour was over, the carriage half empty. She sat in a seat by the window, hugging her handbag to her chest as the train sped along the coast. It was a blue-sky winter day with sunlight sparkling on the sea, but it was chilly and she was sorry she hadn’t worn a scarf.
She smiled. She could buy one, couldn’t she? Her publisher’s offices were on Dawson Street. After the meeting she could head to Brown Thomas and have a look around. She’d not been shopping in the city for a while.
Tara Street station was the closest stop to her destination. She got off and started down the long platform and, by the end of it, knew she was in trouble. Her shoes were great to look at but they weren’t designed for distance and it was a fifteen-minute walk to the Dawson Street office. Maybe if she walked very slowly? Outside on the street, she saw a taxi, and thinking about the arty, professional image she was trying to portray, she grinned and waved it down.
The taxi deposited her directly outside the old Victorian building where the offices of FinalEdit Publishing were spread over the top two floors. She hadn’t been back since she’d signed the contract for her children’s books three years earlier. A lot had changed in her life since then. Nervously, she rang the doorbell and was immediately greeted and asked to come to the second floor.
The receptionist hadn’t changed and recognised her immediately. ‘Edel,’ she said with a smile, ‘how nice to see you again.’
‘It’s been a few years,’ Edel said. ‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Todd.’ Glancing at the clock on the wall, she groaned. ‘Well I have one, in about forty-five minutes.’
The receptionist gave a polite laugh. ‘Better than being late,’ she said, ‘why don’t you take a seat and I’ll get you a drink. Tea or coffee?’
Edel, her mouth dry from a nervousness she hadn’t expected to feel, smiled. ‘Tea would be perfect,’ she said.
She crossed the spacious reception area to where comfortable chairs were arranged casually around a low table and sank into one of them with a sigh of relief. Tempted to take off the shoes that now seemed like instruments of torture, she resisted, afraid she wouldn’t get her feet back into them.
‘There you go,’ the receptionist said, putting a cup of tea on the table in front of her. She put some magazines down beside it. ‘To stop you getting too bored,’ she said with a smile before returning to her desk.
Ignoring the magazines, Edel looked around as she drank the tea. The place had been decorated since she’d last been there. The walls were a muted green, the colour chosen, she guessed, to highlight a collection of very nice paintings. Nice, but a little dull, she thought, reaching for a magazine.
The time passed quickly and suddenly she heard her name called.
‘Edel,’ the small rotund man said as he approached with hands extended. ‘How lovely to see you again.’ Hugh Todd took both of her hands in his, then stood back to look her over. ‘You look good,’ he said, nodding in satisfaction, before waving toward his office. ‘Come on in, would you like more tea?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks, Hugh,’ she said, stepping into his office. The room was huge and dominated by a large desk littered with books, papers and a small computer screen. But what made Edel stare was the wall behind the desk. She couldn’t remember what had hung there the last time she’d been in the office, but it certainly wasn’t filled, floor to ceiling, with framed book covers. ‘Wow,’ she said, moving closer to inspect them. Her eyes sparkled. ‘Will mine go there?’
Turning, she blushed when she saw the indulgent look that Todd gave her. What happened to the arty, professional image she’d hoped to convey?
Her blush deepened when she noticed the tall, elegantly-dressed man standing near the window.
‘Edel, I’m Aidan Power, how nice to finally meet you,’ the man said, stepping forward to take her hand in a firm shake.
She wasn’t vain, but she couldn’t ignore the obvious admiration in the man’s eyes, then wondered if it was reflected in hers. He was very handsome. Todd indicated a chair and she sank into it, Aidan Power taking the one beside her.
Over the next thirty minutes, Edel asked astute questions about her contract. At the end, she refused to sign until she’d had a chance to look over it again. ‘If that’s okay?’ she said, her tone of voice saying she didn’t really care if it were or not. What was that old expression? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. She’d learned something from her marriage to Simon.
‘Of course,’ Hugh Todd said, then steepled his fingers together. ‘Perhaps it’s time you thought about getting an agent?’
She looked dubious. ‘I’ve never needed one before.’
Aidan twisted in his chair to look at her. ‘Children’s books are far simpler. Now that you’ve joined the adult fiction group, you’ll need to look at foreign translation, audiobooks etc. FinalEdit Publishing can handle the audio aspect but we don’t do foreign translation. A good agent would be able to guide you through that minefield.’
She nodded. It made sense. ‘Is there anyone you’d recommend?’
Hugh Todd pursed his lips and met Aidan’s eyes. ‘Any ideas?’
Power nodded. ‘What about Owen Grady? He’d be an excellent choice.’ He felt in his inside pocket and pulled out a handful of business cards. ‘I think I have one of his,’ he muttered, flicking through them and giving a grunt of satisfaction when he found what he was looking for. After a glance at it, he handed it to her. ‘It’s worth giving him a ring.’ Then he smiled. ‘Maybe before you sign that contract. Make sure Hugh’s not cheating you.’
Edel looked across at the chubby face of her publisher and smiled. She’d dealt with FinalEdit Publishing for years; she’d complete faith in her dealings with them. But Aidan was right, if she was going to hire an agent, she might as well get him to have a look at the contract.
Another meeting was arranged for the following week. ‘We’re aiming to publish in about nine months,’ Hugh said. ‘We’d like to launch the second and thir
d in the series pretty quickly,’ he warned, ‘so you’re going to be on a tight deadline.’
‘That’s no problem,’ Edel said, hoping she was right. She’d written her children’s books to a deadline, but a fifty-page children’s book was easy compared to the 300 or so pages required for an adult one.
‘Good,’ Hugh said, standing and holding out his hand. ‘Unfortunately, I’m tied up for the rest of the day but,’ he smiled at the editor, ‘I know Aidan is looking forward to getting to know you better over lunch.’
‘Absolutely,’ Power said, with a glint in his eye that Edel ignored. She’d have been happier if Hugh had come along, but try though she might, she couldn’t think of a reason to refuse.
Taking Hugh’s hand, she shook it warmly and thanked him again before picking up her bag and coat and turning to leave.
Aidan moved ahead and opened the door. ‘I’ve booked a table at La Maison,’ he said, as she passed. ‘It’s just a short walk away and the food is excellent.’
Edel breathed a sigh of relief at the mention of a short walk, her shoes biting with every step. She tried to relax and enjoy the attention, but the more he talked, the more uncomfortable she felt.
It didn’t make her feel any more relaxed when she saw the restaurant. The small, discreet basement restaurant shouted clandestine meeting. The steps down to it were steep. Aidan shot an admiring glance at her shoes, his eyes lingering on the curve of her legs, and offered her his hand. ‘We don’t want our new author tripping and breaking something, do we?’
In the last year Edel had compared her life to an Agatha Christie novel and now… bloody hell, she was drifting into Mills and Boon territory. She laughed aloud and her anxiety vanished. After all she’d been through, she could handle someone as obvious as Aidan Power.
‘I think if I hold onto the rail, I’ll be just fine,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve managed stairs since I was about two.’
Over lunch she battled to keep the conversation firmly on her work, discussing the edits she’d done, her plans for the next novel and what her hopes were for the future. Power, who’d been so helpful by email, was irritatingly flirtatious the whole time and she decided future arrangements with him would definitely not be done face to face.
The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 5