West grinned. ‘And take you away from those delightful guests you’ve invited, that just wouldn’t be fair, now would it?’
Andrews picked up the clipboard again and read out some of the names. ‘Honestly, Fearon knew every damn shady customer on our patch and beyond. We’re not going to run out of people to interview for a while.’
West took the list and scanned it. He recognised fewer than half the names. ‘Maybe Dr Kennedy can give us something to narrow the field a bit,’ he said, handing it back.
‘Well, I hope so,’ Andrews said, with an exaggerated sorrowful shake of his head. ‘If I have to listen to days of the crap I’m bound to hear today, I’m going to need counselling.’
Smiling, West picked up his jacket and headed out. It was unlikely to take almost two hours to get to the mortuary, but there was a bakery in Blanchardstown that was renowned for its meringues. They were Edel’s favourite, he planned to stop and buy some to surprise her.
There was limited parking outside the bakery. He waited; his patience rewarded minutes later when a car pulled out. Inside the small shop, there was a queue of people, giving him time to look around and take in what was on offer. Tempted, he ended up buying a lot more than he’d planned, leaving the shop with the meringues, a loaf of bread, a fruitcake and some Danish pastries.
At the hospital, he parked, took out his mobile and rang the mortuary.
‘Can I speak to Dr Kennedy, please?’
He was connected within minutes. ‘Kennedy.’
‘Niall, it’s Mike West, I’m early. I’ve got Danish pastries if you’ve time for a break before you start.’
‘Perfect, Mike,’ the pathologist said, ‘tell reception to direct you to the office.’
Several minutes later, West was directed down the narrow corridor to the fifth door on the right. The door was glass-panelled; he could see Kennedy inside pouring coffee. Giving a rap on the door, he opened it and waved the pastry bag.
‘Good timing, I usually allow ten minutes from the car park, you made it in eight,’ Kennedy said with a grin before reaching a hand out for the bag. ‘I have fifty million things to do, you know,’ he said, filling a second cup and handing it to him. ‘For you, however, or maybe it’s for the pastries, I’ll take ten minutes.’
Munching, they did the usual chat about weather, holidays and life in general before turning to the specific.
‘Thanks for sending me the image of the girl that Dundee did for you, Mike. Any feedback on it yet?’
West brushed flakes of pastry from his hands and sat back. ‘We sent it to various agencies; the ones that have replied have done so in the negative. We’re still waiting for a couple to get back to us.’ Picking up his mug, he took a mouthful. ‘Why does everyone have better coffee than we do?’ he complained before returning to the subject. ‘The image is great, Niall, but even Dundee admit they’re not sure how accurate it is. Children of that age, it seems, have ill-defined facial characteristics.’
‘You’re doing all you can, it might be that this is one you’re not going to be able to solve.’
It was what West had been telling himself, hearing it from someone else didn’t make it any easier to accept. ‘At the moment, I’m busy trying to find who killed our friend Ollie.’ Deciding the conversation needed lightening, he told the tale of Connor Shields and his claim that they were accusing him of patricide. ‘It descended into farce, from what I gather,’ he said, as Kennedy chuckled.
Leaving the pathologist to prepare for the post-mortem, he made his way to the viewing area and sat looking down. To his surprise, Fearon’s body was already on the table. His clothes had been removed, but the knife remained, dramatically jutting from his pale, naked body.
Although he listened intently, most of Kennedy’s commentary during the autopsy was of little concern to him. He had no interest in how tall the man was, or that he was in rudimentary good health. Only when Kennedy grasped the handle of the knife and removed it, with a sucking sound that was loud in the quiet of the room, did he pay attention.
Putting the knife down on a separate table, the pathologist held a measuring tape along its length. ‘The knife is, 300 millimetres in length, with a blade itself measuring’ – he moved the tape – ‘180 millimetres.’ He looked up to where West sat. ‘That’s just over seven inches for those of you still thinking in imperial.’
West waved his thanks. He was trying to mentally convert millimetres to inches and wasn’t getting far. Seven inches. That’s a big blade.
‘The blade is three inches wide and curves inward at the tip. It appears to be composed of steel.’ Picking it up, Kennedy examined it closer. ‘It has cutting edges on both sides and they appear to be very sharp.’ Turning, he looked around for something to try it on, settling for a piece of connecting tubing. The blade sliced through it with ease. ‘Correction, based on this small demonstration, the blade is very sharp.’
Kennedy placed the handle of the blade under a microscope. ‘There’s a maker’s name. Wild Ranger.’ He turned to look up at West. ‘Generally, the knife injuries we get are caused by kitchen knives, sometimes pocketknives. But this is not something you’d buy in your local department store. I’d say possibly it’s a specialist hunting knife. I’ll have it sent to forensics; they’ll be able to tell you more.’
West waited for the rest of the autopsy, tuning out the irrelevant data about lungs and liver, both of which testified to Fearon’s liking for nicotine and alcohol.
‘The blade entered the abdomen with lateral force,’ Kennedy said. ‘It sliced through bowel and almost severed the abdominal aorta. He’d have bled out in minutes. From the direction, the assailant would more than likely have been right-handed.’
West stood, catching Kennedy’s eye with the movement. He gave a wave of acknowledgement and left. The rest of the autopsy would be details that wouldn’t be of any interest. He’d flick through it all when he received the pathologist’s formal report, until then he’d go with what he knew.
Back in the station, he met a bad-tempered Andrews whose mood wasn’t improved with what little he had to tell him.
‘That’s just great,’ Andrews said with heavy sarcasm, ‘so we can rule out all the left-handed thugs that we drag in, can we? Bloody helpful that.’
‘Come and have some coffee,’ West said, wishing he’d thought to bring some pastries back. He’d better not mention the ones he’d brought to Kennedy. That would definitely not improve the situation.
Leaving Andrews sitting to cool down in his office, he filled two mugs and headed back.
‘Bad?’ he asked, when they were both sitting.
Andrews rubbed his face with his free hand and gave a rueful smile. ‘I should be used to it, shouldn’t I?’
‘Did you learn anything?’
‘Huh,’ he grunted. ‘Only that almost everyone we interviewed could have killed him. Not one said he had been sorry to hear the news about his demise; they were just sorry he hadn’t departed a bit earlier.’
‘What about alibis?’
‘Oh yes,’ the frustrated garda replied, ‘everyone was watching television until the wee hours, then they slept like babies beside their wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, you name it.’
Silence was broken by Andrews slurping his too-hot coffee.
‘You think any of them is a likely candidate?’ West asked. Andrews could read people better than anyone he knew.
‘For every burglary, assault and drug deal that’s taken place in the last few weeks, yes.’ He put his empty mug down on the desk. ‘For murder? No, I don’t think so. All of these idiots would punch your lights out for looking at them sideways. But to a man, they were terrified of Fearon; I don’t think any of them would have taken him on.’
‘We might get lucky with the knife. Dr Kennedy thinks it’s some kind of hunting knife.’ He held his hands apart. ‘The blade is about this size, Pete. A vicious weapon. It had Wild Ranger stamped onto the handle; it might give us a lead. Get one of the lads
to check out specialised knife shops, see if it’s a common brand.’
It was a long shot but for the moment it was all they had. ‘Are there many more to interview?’
‘Just a couple,’ Andrews said with a yawn, ‘we’re speeding through them because nobody has anything to say.’ He held up his hand. ‘No, that’s not quite true. They all said that Ollie Fearon’s death was no loss.’
On that note, he picked up the two empty mugs and left the office, leaving West to consider where they should go with the investigation. Despite what Andrews thought, any of the men they’d interviewed could be lying. He picked up the list of the men they’d called in and read a summary of their previous convictions. The only knife crime listed was an assault on a neighbour by a drunken man wielding a dull-bladed kitchen knife.
Very different from the rather expensive-looking knife that was pulled out of Fearon.
He considered previous knife crimes he’d investigated. Simon Johnson and Ken Blundell were both killed with kitchen knives, the first pre-planned, the second spur-of-the-moment. This murder had to have been pre-planned, nobody walked around a suburban street with a hunting knife tucked into their belt.
If that was the best he could come up with, he’d better not ring Morrison just yet. Forensics, he knew, wouldn’t get back to him for a day or two. He supposed it would do no harm to give them a buzz, and let them know they’d be expecting the knife in.
He was put through to the forensic lab manager, Stephen Doyle.
‘Hi Mike,’ Stephen’s gravelly voice came down the line. ‘What can I do for you, but before you tell me, let me just say the answer is no.’
West laughed. ‘I suppose the only reason I ring you is to ask you to hurry something along.’
‘Absolutely the only reason,’ Doyle said without rancour, ‘and the answer is still no. We’re inundated at the moment. The only thing I can promise you, is that I’ll get to it as soon as possible. Give me a clue as to what to look out for.’
‘It’s the murder of Oliver Fearon, a hunting knife. There’s marking on it, Wild Ranger. It would be a help if you could tell us anything more.’
A deep sigh came down the line. ‘I’ll keep a look out for it. But I’m not making any promises.’
West had to settle for that and hung up.
In fact, it was two days before he heard back. By then Andrews had followed up the interviews by checking alibis. It was a fool’s game; they both knew it and their frustration mounted.
When Doyle rang with information about the knife, West breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I hope you have something for me, Stephen.’
‘You’ll get the official report, of course, but I thought I’d give you a buzz. First of all, the only blood on the knife was from your deceased, Oliver Fearon.’
‘Could it have been cleaned really well?’
‘I’d go with a no on that,’ Doyle answered, ‘we took the handle apart, tested the screws and the joins. Nothing. Either it was bought specifically to use here, or your killer has had it a while and never used it. The good news is that there was a clear fingerprint on the handle, the bad news is that we found no match in the database.’
Match or no match, a fingerprint was good news. Now they just needed to find someone to match it to. ‘That’s something,’ West said, doodling on the notepad in front of him. ‘Anything else?’
Doyle’s sigh was loud. ‘People always want more.’ He gave a quick laugh. ‘Actually, this time, I do have more. The only place in Ireland that sells this particular brand, Wild Ranger, is a shop just outside Kilkenny city called Outdoor Sport.’
At last, something concrete to go on. ‘Thanks, that’s a great help,’ West said. ‘We’d hit a wall here; it was getting us all down.’
Armed with this new piece of information, he headed out to find someone to share it with. Unusually, there was nobody around. He was just about to give up and go back to his office when Andrews, Baxter and Allen walked in together.
‘We’d gone for some lunch,’ Andrews said, ‘were you looking for us?’
‘I had some news from forensics,’ West said. ‘The knife that was used on Fearon is only sold in one place in Ireland, Outdoor Sport, in Kilkenny.’
None of the three looked impressed.
West gave a half-smile. ‘Okay, it’s not much, but it’s something and it might lead somewhere.’
Baxter sat at his desk and frowned up at him. ‘What about the internet? He could have bought it online, couldn’t he?’
‘Could he?’ West snapped at him. ‘Find out where? See how easy it would be.’
Without another word he headed back to his office.
He was sitting behind his desk when Andrews appeared minutes later and leaned against the door frame. ‘Tempers are getting a bit frayed,’ he said.
‘Is that a criticism of me?’ West said sharply, then held his hands up. ‘Don’t answer that, Peter, and please don’t stoop to if the cap fits, wear it.’
Andrews, who had opened his mouth to say just that, grinned.
West saw the grin and relaxed. ‘You were, damn you!’
‘You took Baxter’s head off, and he was probably right. He spends enough time on the internet to know.’
West dropped his face into his hands. The child in the suitcase, and now Oliver Fearon. Neither case looked like it was going to be solved any time soon. Maybe his run of luck had run out. He rubbed his face and straightened. The clock on his wall said four. He’d be damned if he was driving to Kilkenny now.
‘Let’s go to Outdoor Sport first thing,’ he said, ‘you and I. We’ll get lunch somewhere on the way back, get out of here for a while.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Andrews said, pushing away from the door frame. ‘I’ll go and put a plaster on Baxter’s head.’
The rest of the day went without drama. The post-mortem report told West nothing he didn’t already know and the full forensic report just confirmed what he’d been told over the phone.
Maybe they’d get a lead in Kilkenny. Fearon was a minor thug. A bully who was quick with his fists, he didn’t have the discipline or intelligence to be more than that. His long and varied crime sheet didn’t indicate any involvement with organised crime.
So, who did he get mixed up with?
Someone smart enough to have left no trace. Except for the knife. And a single fingerprint.
Kilkenny, he hoped, would throw some light on the case. He made a quick courtesy call to the local station. As he expected, they offered assistance which he, as was also expected, turned down. Formalities over, he hung up, grateful, not for the first time, that the Garda Síochána was an all-Ireland police force and not divided up into regional areas as in the UK.
At least there was something to be thankful for.
15
West admired the curve of Edel’s legs as she stood looking out the window. She was sipping her coffee, lost in thought.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, moving behind her and slipping his arms around her waist.
She leaned back against him briefly before turning and smiling. ‘Yes,’ she said, reaching to give him a peck on the cheek, ‘I was just thinking about this meeting.’
‘With your publisher?’ West asked.
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. ‘With my agent, Owen. Remember, I told you about it last night? He wants to meet with me to discuss overseas rights.’
‘Sorry, yes, of course, your agent, not your publisher.’
She moved away from him, refilled her mug from the cafetière and sat at the table with a sigh. ‘We haven’t spent much time together since we got back, have we?’
Guilt flickered. He’d cancelled their dinner plans at the weekend because he’d been exhausted, wanting to flake out in front of the television and chill. It wasn’t fair on her. He sat down and reached across the table for her hand. ‘How about we go away for a couple of nights? Not immediately,’ he added hurriedly, seeing her expression lighten. ‘When this murder investigatio
n is done.’
Edel let her breath out in a puff. ‘Okay,’ she said, returning the pressure of his fingers. ‘And do you know what I’m going to do,’ she said, standing and taking her mug to the dishwasher.
‘What?’
‘I’m going to have A4 pictures of my publisher, editor and agent made up with their names underneath, and pin them to the wall. Maybe if they remind you of criminals you might remember their names.’
West was still laughing as she left the room, his eyes following her, admiring the curve of her bottom in a skirt he was sure he’d not seen before. His eyes narrowed slightly. He hoped she’d follow through with her promise of the photographs. It would be interesting to see what this agent and editor looked like. Smiling as he recognised the green monster lurking in that thought, he brushed it aside. He’d no reason to be jealous. After all, they’d cleared the air; they knew where they stood with each other.
Wishing her a successful meeting, he headed to the station. Andrews was already waiting in the car park, his radio blaring out an old Johnny Cash song that immediately made West decide to drive. His car, his choice of music, and Johnny wasn’t on his playlist.
Luckily, Andrews was more tolerant of musical choices and apart from raising his eyebrow slightly when West asked, ‘Is Ella Fitzgerald okay?’ he said nothing.
Taking the quickest route, the M7 and the M9, they arrived at Outdoor Sport an hour and ten minutes later. The car park to the front of the shop was empty apart from a couple of cars occupying spaces marked, with more emphasis than either thought necessary, Staff only!!!!’
‘Maybe they’re very busy at the weekend,’ West said, shaking his head at the four exclamation marks. He was a member of the Garda Síochána, not the punctuation police, but still…
Andrews, opening the car door and getting out, looked around the otherwise empty car park and commented sarcastically, ‘Too early for the hunter-gatherer type, is it?’ He stretched and looked at the shop. It was an uninspiring set-up. A square, flat-roofed building of no architectural merit.
The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 10