The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  Edel watched him go, her eyes narrowed. It was obvious he’d lied about how well he knew Owen. Why?

  She smiled. It was time to put the real detectives on the case. Taking out her phone, she pressed the speed-dial button for West.

  23

  West had other things to worry about that day. Morrison was demanding results. Where he was expected to get them, he wasn’t sure.

  ‘IT couldn’t do anything with the disc,’ Andrews told him over the rim of his mug.

  ‘At least you had the good sense not to say I told you so,’ he growled.

  Andrews smiled. ‘There is some good news,’ he said, shaking his head when West’s frown vanished. ‘Don’t get too excited, it may not go anywhere,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Jarvis spoke to one of Ollie Fearon’s mates who told him he should speak to a guy Fearon had done some work with recently, name of Richie, no surname, but he told Jarvis where he’d find him. He and Allen have gone to talk to him.’

  ‘Good,’ West said, ‘let’s hope this gives us something. Morrison is nagging me for results.’

  ‘You’re spoiling his solve-rate averages,’ Andrews said with a grin.

  ‘Is Baxter here?’ West said, ignoring his comment.

  ‘Sure, he’s in the office. You want me to get him?’

  West sat for a moment. Unofficial or not, once he started a search it was garda business. ‘I want to do some digging on some new men in Edel’s circle,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Unofficially,’ Andrews guessed.

  West’s lips set in a grim line. ‘She doesn’t want to make an official complaint in case the photographs fall into the wrong hands.’

  ‘Sounds like they already did,’ Andrews said reasonably.

  ‘I think she was afraid of a bunch of lecherous gardaí drooling over them.’

  ‘Well, if you give me the names you want checked out, I’ll give them to Baxter and tell him to be discreet.’

  ‘Discreet but thorough,’ West said, taking a piece of scrap paper and scribbling the names down before handing it over.

  ‘I’ll get him on it straight away,’ Andrews said and left the office.

  West spent the next hour answering emails from the various agencies he’d asked for help in identifying the suitcase child. None offered any assistance or told him anything he didn’t already know. It was a cold case and getting colder. They’d nowhere to go with it. Regretfully, he knew they’d have to put it on the back burner unless something turned up within the next couple of days.

  Emails dealt with, it was tempting to go and ask Baxter if he’d made any headway with the names, but it was also a waste of time. If anything interesting turned up, Seamus would let him know. Instead, he rang the head office of Books Inc and asked to speak to the managing director, Elliot Mannion.

  ‘This is Detective Garda Sergeant West, from Foxrock,’ he introduced himself when he was put through. ‘I believe you received some pornographic photographs in the post yesterday.’

  There was a moment’s silence before a quiet voice said, ‘I didn’t contact the gardaí.’

  ‘No, I’m aware of that,’ West said, and wondered for the first time why the man hadn’t. ‘I’ll explain if I may, but not over the phone. In your office perhaps, or maybe,’ he said when there was a further protracted silence, ‘you’d prefer to come here?’

  It always worked. Mannion quickly agreed to see him. ‘I’m assuming discretion will be offered,’ he said.

  Discretion? It was a book wholesaler, not a bank. But what did he know; maybe the corporate world of bookselling was cut-throat? Anyway, there was no point in antagonising the man. ‘I can assure you of our full discretion, Mr Mannion. I’ll see you in about an hour.’

  He slipped on his jacket and headed out to the office. Baxter was tapping away on the keyboard with his left hand and scribbling furiously with his right. If there was something to be found, he was the man to find it.

  Andrews, he could see, was busy doing the rota, a job he proclaimed to hate, but which he did with incredible diligence. Nobody complained about their shift patterns in Foxrock.

  ‘I’m heading out for a while,’ he said to him, watching as he put his finger on the line he was checking before looking up.

  ‘You want me to come with you?’

  ‘And take you away from that,’ he said, nodding toward the sheaves of paper on the desk before him. ‘No, it’s okay. I’m heading out to Books Ireland Inc.,’ he explained. ‘The photographs that were sent there were written on. I’m going to pick them up and take them out to Fiona. We might get lucky this time.’

  ‘We’re due some luck, we haven’t had much recently.’

  Luck, so much of their job depended on it. They could work all hours, question everyone under the sun, and it still came down to one four-letter word. Shaking his head at the thought, West left.

  The head office of Books Ireland Inc. was in the seaside town of Bray, in a huge Victorian building overlooking the sea. There were four parking spaces in front, and here luck was on his side. One of the spaces was empty.

  Granite steps led up to a heavy wooden door. A neat sign, positioned dead centre, asked customers to use the doorbell to gain access. West fingered the brass door knocker beneath the sign with a hint of regret before pressing the indicated bell.

  Immediately, a light, friendly voice answered. ‘Books Ireland Inc., can I help you?’

  West bent his six-foot frame slightly to speak into the intercom. ‘It’s Mike West, here to see Elliot Mannion.’

  A buzzer sounded and he automatically pushed the door open and stepped into a small, poorly-lit hallway. Light came from the open door on the right. He headed towards it and stepped into a modern office where a plump young man sat behind a desk crammed with three computer screens.

  ‘Mr West,’ the same light, friendly voice greeted him, ‘come in and take a seat. I’ll let Mr Mannion know you’re here.’

  The chairs were comfortable. West sat and crossed his legs. In his experience, people liked to do one of two things. Play the power game and keep him waiting or betray an inherent nervousness in being questioned by the gardaí by seeing him immediately. It amused him to try to anticipate which it would be. Guessing from his brief conversation with the man that he’d go for the power play, he was surprised when, less than a minute later, the receptionist came over to him. ‘Mr Mannion will see you now,’ he said, and pointed back into the hallway. ‘If you go up two flights of stairs, it’s the first door on the right.’

  The stairway had an elegant curve that West admired as he took the two flights with ease. He stopped outside Mannion’s office, shaking his head a little when he noted the imposing sign stating, Managing Director. Mannion was obviously a man who knew his own importance. West knocked smartly.

  The come in came immediately, and he pushed the door open into a large office. It had a corner aspect with windows on two sides making it very airy and bright. Winter sun flooded through, causing him to squint slightly as he looked over to where Mannion remained seated behind a modern steel and wood desk.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ West said.

  ‘It didn’t appear as if I were being given a choice. Have a seat.’

  The chair he indicated matched the desk and was surprisingly comfortable. ‘Very nice,’ West said, sitting back and resting his hands on the broad armrest, his fingers automatically moving to feel the smoothness of the wood.

  ‘Timothy Higgins. Cork. I like to support young designers when I can,’ Mannion replied, sliding a hand over the top of his desk. ‘But you haven’t come here to talk about modern design, have you?’ He slid open a drawer and took out an envelope, holding it firmly in his hand. ‘I’d be interested in knowing how you found out about these.’

  West smiled. ‘And if I don’t tell you?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I could just drop them back in the drawer, but,’ he said with a sigh, ‘it’s not really the kind of artwork I like to have around me.’

  We
st’s smile faded. ‘They’re photographs of my partner, or at least that’s what they’re purporting to be. They’re not, but they are good composites.’

  ‘Edel Johnson is your girlfriend?’ Mannion’s voice was part shock, part surprise.

  ‘Yes. I was sent similar photographs, as was Hugh Todd. Someone is trying to destroy Edel, personally and professionally. They’ve already done a fairly good job on the professional end of things.’

  ‘But not the personal,’ Mannion said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Trust is an important part in any relationship.’

  ‘Image is an important part of an author’s relationship with her reader,’ Mannion countered. ‘Probably the most important part, after the book itself.’ He dropped the envelope on the desk and sat back. ‘We had no choice but to pull her books from sale.’

  ‘Guilty until proven innocent, eh?’

  Mannion shook his head and tapped the envelope with one finger. ‘With these? I’m afraid not, it’s more a case of guilt by association and, unfortunately, even if she’s as innocent as a newborn, the association will last.’ He looked at the detective with a grim expression. ‘We’re talking about children’s books.’

  ‘Are you saying her career is finished?’

  Mannion sighed. ‘The general public has the concentration span of a gnat, Sergeant West. One could be infamous one day and a nonentity the next.’ He tapped his nail on the wooden surface of his desk, the sound loud in the quiet office. ‘If I may make a suggestion?’

  West nodded.

  ‘Withdraw her novels from sale wherever she has them. Wait several months, or even a year, then release them under a pseudonym.’

  ‘You’d stock them again?’

  ‘Under a different name, yes.’ He nodded. ‘But she’ll need to find a new publisher. I know Hugh Todd. He’s a very unforgiving man and is also paranoid about protecting the reputation of his publishing company.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s no way he’ll take her back.’

  ‘There are other publishers,’ West said.

  ‘There are, but you’re fooling yourself if you think they won’t know about all this.’ He nodded toward the envelope. ‘This is a very tight-knit business.’

  West frowned, then remembered the sign on the door. Self-importance and image, they went together. ‘You’re the biggest book wholesale company in Ireland, aren’t you?’ He waited until the managing director nodded before continuing. ‘In that case, publishers will listen to what you say?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mannion said, before nodding with a wry smile. ‘Yes, I see where you’re going.’ He held his hands up. ‘Yes, okay, when… and only when… she’s waited a few months and reinvented herself with a pseudonym, she can tell any publisher she goes to that I said we’d be happy to stock her books again.’ He shoved the envelope across the desk. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, do you know who is responsible?’

  West shook his head. ‘Not yet. But,’ he said, his eyes narrowing, ‘I’ll find out.’

  Mannion smiled. ‘I have no doubt. Please, give Edel my regards and apologies. And now’ – he stood and stretched a hand across his desk – ‘it was good to meet you, but I really must get on.’

  24

  Minutes later, West was back in his car. Taking out his phone, he rang Fiona Wilson’s number. ‘I’ve got some more photographs,’ he explained after exchanging greetings. ‘He’s written on these and I’m hoping we’ll get lucky.’

  ‘Am I your go-to girl for private fingerprint analysis?’ she said.

  He could hear the smile in her voice and laughed. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘How about I bring them over now, and afterwards we go for lunch. There must be somewhere nearby?’

  ‘I know just the place,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you when you get here.’

  The M50 was busy and it was just over an hour later that West pulled into the car park outside the Forensic Science building.

  The receptionist had been told to send him straight through when he arrived. Fiona was sitting behind a desk in a large cluttered office that was obviously used by several people. Luckily, at the moment, she was alone, a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looked up at him when he tapped gently on the open door. ‘Mike,’ she said, taking off the glasses and tossing them onto the pile of papers that covered one side of the desk.

  ‘Fiona,’ he replied, smiling across at her.

  She held out her hand. ‘Gimme,’ she said. ‘I’m starving so will be motivated to get these done as soon as I can.’

  The envelope handed over, she told him to take a seat and headed off.

  West answered some emails on his phone. Then, from curiosity, he did an internet search on Elliot Mannion, and was still reading about him when Fiona came back. He put the phone away and stood. ‘Anything?’

  She shook her head. ‘Afraid not, he’s very careful. The writing is light and unsteady and I’d guess, although I’m no handwriting expert, that it was someone writing with their non-dominant hand.’

  ‘An easy disguise,’ West agreed. ‘We can take it to an expert if we find a suspect. Some things are harder to change.’

  As he spoke, Fiona took a raincoat from a coat hook behind the door. ‘Let’s go before I die of starvation,’ she said. ‘I missed breakfast this morning.’

  The day was cold and grey. ‘We can walk if you’re not in a hurry,’ she said, when they’d left the building. ‘It’ll take about twenty minutes, but driving can often take as long.’

  Nodding in easy agreement, he fell into step beside her and they chatted about trivialities until they crossed Conyngham Road. He looked at her, perplexed. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I thought I’d take you home,’ she said with a quick smile. ‘I made a quiche yesterday and planned to have the rest for lunch. There’s enough for two.’ When he said nothing, she turned to look at him. ‘There’s a pub we can go to, if you prefer, but they do tend to be very busy around here and it’s hard to have a private conversation.’

  He glanced at her. ‘Quiche sounds fine.’

  ‘So real men do eat quiche,’ she muttered with a chuckle.

  ‘This man eats anything as long as it’s not still moving on the plate,’ he returned and launched into a story of being on holidays in Indonesia as a student and being faced with a plateful of seafood, one item of which started moving across the plate as he ate. Soon they were swapping horror stories of meals eaten in strange places and any discomfort West felt at eating in her apartment was dismissed.

  They were only a few minutes from it when the rain started and, as it often did that time of the year, it came down in a deluge. She pulled up the hood of her raincoat and quickened her step. ‘We’re almost there,’ she said, pointing to the apartment block in front of them.

  It was only a few minutes, but the rain was heavy. Inside the front door of the apartment block, she turned and looked at him. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ she said, ‘you’re soaked.’

  West shook his head, sending droplets flying, and wiped his face with his hand. ‘I have a raincoat,’ he muttered, ‘shame I wasn’t wearing it.’

  She pressed the call bell for the lift. ‘I’ll get you a towel once we’re inside,’ she said.

  The apartment was a penthouse, spacious and bright with views over the River Liffey and the Phoenix Park from its wrap-around balcony.

  ‘This is very nice,’ West admired, as he dried his face and hair with the towel she’d given him.

  ‘I bought it a few years ago,’ she said. ‘I was living in Terenure at the time and wanted something closer, where I could walk to work if I felt like it. When plans were submitted for this development, I jumped at it.’

  ‘A wise buy,’ he said, combing fingers through his damp hair. ‘I lived in an apartment in the city for a while, but it wasn’t as nice as this.’

  ‘Greystones is nice though, isn’t it?’ she said. She put her hand on his jacket and screwed up her nose. ‘You can’t sit in those wet clothes. Hang your jacket on the back of
the chair in front of the radiator and give me your shirt. I’ll throw it in the tumble dryer. It will be dry in a few minutes.’

  He shook his head, feeling slightly embarrassed. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Don’t worry; you won’t have to sit around in a state of undress,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I’ve lots of scrub tops here. They come in handy. I’ll fetch one; you can slip it on and give me your shirt.’ She left the room as she spoke and came back with a scrub top in her hand, holding it out until he had no choice but to take it.

  With a raised eyebrow, she left the room as he took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. He loosened his tie, took it off and tossed it on the seat. His shirt was wet, especially around the shoulders. Peeling it off, he slipped the scrub top on. It was tight, but it covered him. It would do. Short-term, anyway. He could imagine the raised eyebrows if he wore it back to the station.

  Fiona returned, took the shirt and threw it into the dryer. ‘Sit down,’ she said, indicating the dining area, and busied herself in the kitchen

  He sat, looking out the window. Even in the rain, the view over the park was stunning. On a summer’s day, it would be a delightful place to sit. He said so as she came over, a plate in each hand.

  ‘Yes, you’ll have to come back then, it really is lovely. Okay, there you are,’ she said, putting the plate before him. ‘The aforementioned quiche, with some trimmings.’

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, waiting until she sat before picking up his knife and fork and tucking in. ‘This is very good,’ he said.

  She nodded her acceptance of the compliment. ‘I like to cook.’

  ‘Your history professor is a lucky man. Which university is he with?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s a very lucky man,’ she said, correcting him. ‘He’s in UCD.’

  West grimaced. ‘Not an easy commute from here.’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t live here,’ she said, spearing a piece of tomato with her fork, ‘he has a house in Clonskeagh, just a short walk from the university. We’re both used to our own space so it works perfectly for us. He stays over at weekends, or I stay over at his.’