‘They take security seriously,’ West commented, noting the see-through security shutters on each of the large front windows.
‘And I’ve counted three CCTV cameras,’ Andrews said. ‘We might get lucky.’
The solid entrance door didn’t encourage the casual shopper. Neither did the signs stating, one above the other, Restricted Access; Strictly Over Eighteen and Entrance at the discretion of the Owner. At the bottom, in plain font, a smaller sign read, Welcome.
‘I hope they let us in,’ Andrews muttered, pressing the doorbell.
The door was opened almost immediately, leading both men to believe that the CCTV cameras were actively monitored, a fact the middle-aged man who showed them in was happy to confirm.
‘We’re hot on security,’ he said, smiling, before holding out his hand to each of the men in turn. ‘I’m Terry Whelan, the manager.’ He folded his arms across his chest and eyed the two men. ‘So, to what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from the Garda Síochána?’
Neither man was surprised to be identified so quickly, it was something they’d become used to.
West took out his identification and held it out for inspection. ‘I’m Detective Garda Sergeant West, and this is Detective Garda Andrews. We’re with Foxrock station, in Dublin. We’re investigating a homicide where the murder weapon, a hunting knife, has been identified as a Wild Ranger. Our forensic team has informed us that you are the only stockist of this range in Ireland.’
Whelan nodded. ‘Come into my office,’ he said, ‘my brain is sharper with a mug of coffee in hand.’ In his surprisingly spacious and luxurious, if windowless, office, he waved them to a seat and offered them a drink. When they were all sitting, he rested his mug neatly in the middle of a coaster and linked his fingers on the desk in front of him. ‘Wild Ranger, eh?’
Because it was expected of them, both men said yes simultaneously.
‘It’s a good knife, but not very popular because of its price. The Outdoor Ranger is similar and costs a lot less.’
‘So why would someone pay more for the Wild Ranger?’ West asked.
‘Most hunting knives have one cutting edge,’ Whelan explained. ‘They’re used for skinning and butchering animals. A double blade, like the Wild Ranger, isn’t necessary so it was probably just personal choice.’
West and Andrews exchanged glances. They guessed why the man had chosen the double-sided blade. Doubly effective.
‘I suppose you want a list of our customers,’ the manager continued. ‘I should ask for a court order and cite all kinds of confidentiality issues.’
West smiled. ‘But you’re not going to,’ he guessed.
Whelan shook his head. ‘Hunting gets enough bad press, Garda West, without some idiot using one of our knives for the wrong reason.’
West blinked at the wrong reason but let the man talk on. He was agreeing to be of help, he’d settle for that.
The manager pulled his laptop over and opened it. His forehead creased as he squinted at the screen and tapped the keyboard with one hand. ‘Here we are.’ He looked at the two men. ‘How far back do you want me to go?’
Andrews and West exchanged looks. How far? West, frowning, remembered that Doyle had indicated that the knife was new, probably never used, which would indicate a recent purchase. About to say a month, he shook his head and decided to be more cautious. ‘Go back a year.’
It only took a few minutes, Whelan sipping coffee with one hand, tapping his keyboard with the other. ‘Okay,’ he said, sitting back. ‘Six people in the last year purchased a Wild Ranger. Four in person and two on the internet.’
‘On the internet?’
‘You’re surprised? We’d be very foolish not to offer an internet service; many of our customers do all their shopping online.’
‘Aren’t there restrictions on buying knives online?’
‘Same as there are here,’ the man shrugged, ‘you have to prove you’re over eighteen.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m careful, too careful you might say, but I refuse to provide weapons of any sort to the wrong type, so…’ He stopped for a moment, as if weighing up whether to continue or not, then with a shrug said, ‘I have a friend who’s a garda. I give him the name and he runs it for me. If it checks out, the sale goes ahead, if it doesn’t, I tell the person the item he requested is out of stock. Then I blacklist him.’
It was all totally illegal and if it were found out, the garda providing the information would be suspended, and possibly prosecuted. West could have him stopped; it wouldn’t be difficult to find out who he was.
Then Whelan would have to supply knives to anyone who wanted to purchase them, as was their right. Personal rights, moral rights, they were an ongoing dilemma. And once again, Ken Blundell came to mind. Perhaps he’d leave things as they were.
‘I have the dates and times,’ Whelan continued, unaware of the issues he’d raised. ‘I’ve got all the details on the internet customers, of course, and they’ll have been cleared by my friend. Of the four who paid in person, three used credit cards, so I’ll be able to get those details for you too.’ He smiled, nodded and rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ll have them all printed out, don’t you worry.
‘The other customer paid in cash. I don’t know anything about him, but he’ll be on the CCTV. I’ll copy the footage of all four customers for you, if you want. It’ll take a while, an hour or two; they’re spread over several months. You’re welcome to wait here.’
‘Yes, to the CCTV footage, but no thanks, we won’t get in your way,’ West said, checking the time. It was only eleven thirty. A very early lunch? ‘We’ll be back around one thirty.’
‘Perfect,’ Whelan said. ‘I’ll have it all ready for you when you get back. I’ll make sure of that.’
Thanking the man, the two detectives left. Outside, West moved straight to the car and climbed in, barely waiting for Andrews to close the door before starting the engine and pulling away. ‘I don’t like the feeling that he’s watching us,’ he said, when he caught Andrews’ look of surprise.’
‘Not sure I blame you,’ he said. He waited a moment before turning to him. ‘Are you going to look into it?’
West didn’t insult his intelligence by misunderstanding him. He shook his head. ‘I should, I suppose, but do we really want him selling weapons to ne’er-do-wells.’
‘Ne’er-do-wells,’ Andrews repeated with a chuckle. ‘No, I suppose we don’t. I wonder if that’s the only thing our over-friendly garda does for him though.’
West looked at him sharply. ‘You think I should inform on him?’
‘I don’t think Whelan is to be trusted. In my experience, when members of the public set themselves up to be holier-than-thou, it is generally for their own benefit.’
‘I must admit, his over-helpful manner grated on me.’
Andrews nodded. ‘He was so incredibly helpful; we won’t need to get a court order to check out anything, will we?’
West’s hands gripped the steering wheel. He’d missed it. A quick glance at Andrews’ face told him that he hadn’t. He never did. ‘He’s playing us?’
‘For some reason,’ Andrews agreed. ‘I doubt if it’s anything to do with our friend Ollie though. Something else entirely.’
The silence lasted until West drew up outside a pub. ‘An early lunch?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Andrews said. He looked out the window with a dubious expression. ‘Not sure you’ll get that here, though.’
He was right. It didn’t open until one.
West pulled out his phone and did an internet search. ‘There’s a hotel about five minutes away,’ he said, ‘we can get something there.’
The hotel restaurant was closed but the lounge staff were happy to provide them with sandwiches. Andrews, who wasn’t driving, had a pint of Heineken that West eyed with disfavour. ‘I don’t know how you drink that stuff,’ he said.
‘You say that every time.’ Andrews took a large mouthful with obvious pleasure.
W
est sipped his mineral water. ‘I’ll talk to Morrison,’ he said eventually. ‘We can’t do anything else. Going to Kilkenny station and asking to speak to someone isn’t an option, we could end up speaking to Whelan’s pet garda.’
‘Don’t do anything until we get our CCTV footage anyway,’ Andrews said, eyeing the plates that had been put before them. ‘Nice,’ he decided, picking up a chicken sandwich.
They ate silently, working steadily through the sandwiches, salad and crisps until both plates were empty.
‘That was really good,’ West said, picking up his water.
‘I bet they do a good pudding here, too,’ Andrews said, draining his pint.
When one of the staff came to clear the plates, he asked and was brought a menu. Several minutes later, they were both tucking into apple pie and cream. ‘Told you they would be good,’ Andrews said, more than pleased to be right.
West finished with a coffee, drinking it slowly, his brain ticking over. He could tell Morrison, but what could he do? They’d no proof of any wrongdoing. ‘We could get some,’ he said, startling Andrews who was busy texting his wife.
‘Get some what?’
‘Proof,’ he said, and as an idea came to him his eyes lit up.
Andrews, seeing his expression, dropped his phone back into his jacket pocket and slapped a hand on his forehead. ‘Oh no, what maggot has got into you now?’
West laughed. ‘You’ll like it, Peter. Listen, Whelan’s not giving us the year’s CCTV footage, is he? Only the footage that shows the men that came in. What if I speak to a judge, explain that we think our murder weapon was bought there and that we asked for the footage, but when we were given it, we noticed it had been edited. I bet we could get a warrant for the rest and any other helpful information.’
Andrews’ eyes narrowed. ‘That’s very sneaky.’
West grinned. ‘Very.’
16
When they returned to the shop, there was one disc and an envelope waiting for them.
‘Terry asked me to give this to you when you came back,’ a young man with acne-pitted skin said, holding them in limp fingers as if he didn’t want to be contaminated by helping the gardaí.
West took them and put them into his jacket pocket without a word. ‘Tell Mr Whelan we’ll be in touch.’
Resentful eyes followed the two men as they exited into the dull winter sun.
‘Pleasant, helpful lad,’ Andrews commented.
West didn’t reply, his mind thinking ahead to which judge to approach and how to present his argument to achieve the outcome he wanted. Sometimes having a legal qualification acted in his favour. Judge Mahoney always came down hard on knife crimes. He’d try to contact him.
‘I’ll leave you to go through the disc while I sort out the warrant,’ he said.
Andrews, who had his eyes closed, murmured in agreement.
West gave him a glance and smiled. Beer or no beer, his partner invariably fell asleep. It suited him today; he had things to think about. It wasn’t until he pulled into his parking space in Foxrock, that Andrews opened his eyes. ‘We here already?’
‘You slept all the way,’ West said, turning off the engine. ‘You’ll be refreshed now and be able to watch this.’ He handed him the disc. ‘I’ll join you when I’ve spoken to Judge Mahoney.’
‘Okay, I’ll watch it in the Big One, I’ll get more peace.’ He walked back to the main office with West, grabbed his laptop and headed back to the vacant interview room.
West sat at his desk and considered his options. He needed to speak to the judge. Looking up a number, he dialled, tapping his fingers on the desk as it rang several times. He was just about to give up when it was answered.
‘Clerk of court,’ a familiar voice said.
‘You’re still keeping the judges in order, then?’
The hesitation was short. ‘As I live and breathe, Detective Garda Sergeant West, to what do I owe this pleasure… no, I don’t need to ask, you want something.’ A loud sigh was followed by, ‘Some things never change.’
‘And you were always helpful, Dobby,’ West said, remembering how William Dobson had taken him under his wing during those first days attending court.
‘So, what’s it today?’
‘I need to speak to Judge Mahoney. Can you help?’
The sound of voices passing by drowned out his reply.
‘Dobby, I missed that.’
‘I said you’re in luck. If you’re quick that is, he has about five minutes before his next case.’
‘Five minutes is all I need,’ West said, hoping he’d manage to get his proposal out in that time.
The phone went dead for a moment as the call was transferred to the judge’s chambers. ‘You have two minutes before I’m due in court,’ Mahoney said, more than halving the five minutes Dobby had mentioned.
‘It’s Detective Garda Sergeant West, your honour,’ he said, ‘we’ve had a brutal knife crime here in Foxrock resulting in a man’s death. We think the knife was supplied from a shop in Kilkenny called Outdoor Sport. They said they’d provide us with CCTV footage of the time in question, but they’ve carefully edited it and we think they’re hiding something. We want to go back with a warrant and get the lot. Gang-related knife crimes,’ he added, putting as much conviction into his voice as possible, ‘have to be stopped.’
The silence that followed made him wonder if he’d pushed his luck.
‘Indeed,’ the judge said finally, ‘we appear to be on the same wavelength, Sergeant West. Give the details to Dobby and I’ll have it drawn up when I finish this sitting.’
Five minutes later, he hung up. Dobby had the information he needed; he’d make sure the warrant was done.
Taking two mugs of coffee with him, he made his way to the Big One, awkwardly holding them in one hand as he negotiated the door handle, finally resorting to kicking the bottom of the door.
Andrews’ frown told him he wasn’t happy at being interrupted, but his face resumed its usual pleasant look when he saw who it was. ‘I thought it was that idiot Clark again,’ he said, taking one of the mugs. ‘He wanted to interview a suspect. I told him to bugger off to the Other One and leave me alone. He wasn’t too happy and went off grumbling about making a complaint.’
The interview rooms, despite their names, were virtually identical. West never cared which one he used, but he knew Clark did. He would complain to Morrison, his complaint would be dismissed, but he would bear a grudge. He always did.
Brushing thoughts of Clark and his moans out of his head, he took a chair beside Andrews and concentrated on the screen.
‘I’ve seen two of the customers,’ Andrews said, slurping his coffee and pressing resume to restart the footage. ‘Two more to go. Did you manage to get the warrant?’
‘Did you doubt me for a moment?’
Andrews grinned. ‘Judge Mahoney?’
West nodded and reached to freeze the picture on the screen and peer closer. He shook his head. ‘I thought I recognised that guy.’ Sitting back, he explained. ‘The judge was very happy to give us a full warrant to ensure that Oliver Fearon’s death isn’t the first in a spate of gang-related knife crimes.’
Andrews looked at him sideways. ‘Gang-related knife crimes? That was gilding the lily a bit, wasn’t it?’
West shrugged. ‘I had a couple of minutes to make my pitch; it had to be a good one. Anyway, he’s okayed it, so we’re good to go for tomorrow.’
They watched the remainder of the disc in silence. It didn’t take long.
The last customer was the one they knew nothing about, the cash buyer. Both men instinctively moved slightly closer to the screen. But they were wasting their time. ‘Bloody hell,’ Andrews said, sitting back with a frown. ‘So much for not selling to dodgy-looking types.’
The cash buyer, with a beanie hat pulled down to cover his hair and dark glasses almost completely obscuring his face, could have been anyone. All they were going to get was an approximate size and body shape.
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‘But there is one interesting thing,’ West said, pressing the backspace key. ‘Watch, Pete. See, he must have asked for it by name. The assistant immediately goes and gets the Wild Ranger and hands it to him. He’s the only one who doesn’t look at any other knives.’
‘You’re right,’ Andrews said, ‘the other three looked at one or two others before deciding.’
‘I wonder if the original recording has sound. His voice might give us an indication as to where he’s from.’
‘We’ll be able to find out tomorrow. That assistant,’ Andrews nodded toward the screen, ‘that’s the young lad that showed us out. We’re not going to get much help from him, I’d say.’
‘I doubt if we’re going to be popular with anyone when we go back. It will be interesting to see if we can wipe that helpful smile from Whelan’s face.’
Andrews removed the disc and switched off the computer. Tucking it under his arm, he picked up his jacket. ‘I think we can safely say that we’re going to make Outdoor Sport’s day,’ he said, opening the door with a grin.
17
The first thing that hit West when he opened his front door was the smell of cooking. If his nose was right, and he hoped it was, Edel had made lasagne, one of his favourites. He hung his jacket on the newel of the banisters, threw his tie on top and undid the top button of his shirt. The buttons on his shirt cuffs were next. With his sleeves rolled up, he was definitely in relaxation mode. Smiling, he reached for the kitchen doorknob before stopping with a whispered, ‘Damn.’
What was the name of the agent? Hardy? No… Grady. Owen Grady. With a sigh of relief, he opened the door.
‘I hope that’s lasagne I smell,’ he said, crossing the room.
‘It certainly is,’ Edel said, wrapping tinfoil around garlic bread and putting it in the oven. ‘Lasagne, garlic bread and a delicious bottle of Chianti to wash it all down.’
He kissed her on the lips, put his hands on her face and kissed her again. ‘Does this mean the meeting with Owen went well?’ he asked, stepping back and picking up the corkscrew to open the wine.
The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 11