Waking early, West resisted the temptation to stay just where he was. Instead, he kissed the sleeping woman beside him and got up and had a shower. Instead of hanging around drinking too much coffee, he decided to go into the station and get some work done.
He arrived early enough to chat with the night shift, swapping stories with officers he hadn’t seen for a while before heading to his office to switch on his computer and check emails. There were a number from various children’s groups he’d reached out to. But, like the others that had replied, they had nothing positive to offer.
The child in the suitcase. It looked like she was going to be left with that name and that didn’t sit easily with him. The team, especially Andrews, wouldn’t be happy having to put it to the back of the pile, but they’d understand. Despite their best efforts, they just couldn’t solve them all. They’d leave that reconstructed image of her on the noticeboard, and they wouldn’t forget.
The Ollie Fearon case was also stagnant. He had half a mind to head out with Jarvis and Allen to interview that friend, if they could find him. He sighed, they wouldn’t appreciate him tagging along and, if he were honest, he’d just be in the way. Opening his diary, he groaned. More damn audits due. This one an audit of their response time.
He wished he could do an audit of the time wasted doing them instead of proper police work but he was afraid if he suggested it, even with heavy sarcasm, Morrison would think it was a good idea. The man did love his audits. He might rarely interfere with what went on in the detective division yet forget to do the damn audits and he’d pester him for days.
He pulled up the relevant forms and figures and started on the tedious job of transferring one to the other. He’d made little headway when he heard voices outside and Andrews’ cheerful face peered around the door.
‘You’re in early. Coffee?’
He nodded, saved what he’d done and sat back with his hands locked behind his head.
Andrews returned moments later, a mug in each hand. Handing one to West, he sat down. ‘Jarvis and Allen are heading into the city first thing,’ he said. ‘They’re hoping to catch Fearon’s pal before he heads off to do whatever it is he gets up to.’
‘Let’s hope when they find him that he has something to tell us,’ West said, picking up his mug. ‘Before I forget, will you contact someone in Cork to have a look at Amanda Pratt?’
Andrews nodded. ‘I thought I’d ask Tom to do that. He has a lot of contacts down there.’
‘Good idea,’ West said and put the woman out of his head. ‘You know, I half expected to find more photographs in the post this morning. It seems to me, whoever is responsible, they’ve left the job half-done.’ He saw Andrews’ puzzled frown. ‘The photographs were sent to professional contacts, and they did a bloody good job there. But they were also sent to me. That’s personal, Pete.’
‘You think they’ll try again?’
‘I just can’t think that they’ll leave it at that, or what motive someone would have for trying to destroy her.’
Andrews sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘She has been involved in a number of high-profile cases. Maybe she’s picked up a follower?’
West nodded and smiled grimly. ‘A stalker? That’s what woke me so early this morning. If it isn’t someone she knows, it’s someone who has his sights on her for some reason, and what you say makes sense.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past that young Finbarr,’ Andrews said with a shake of his head. ‘I’m sure we haven’t heard the last of that young gurrier.’
West laughed. ‘I agree but for the moment Finbarr is safely ensconced on Clare Island. Edel has kept in touch with Sylvia. She says Finbarr has been very supportive.’
‘Hmmm,’ Andrews said, ‘I can’t imagine that will last.’
‘No. Probably not.’ West put his half-empty mug down. ‘I think we’ll just have to wait until whoever it is takes the next step. Meanwhile, Mother Morrison will be shouting for this damn audit, so I’d better get back to it. Let me know as soon as Jarvis and Allen get in contact.’
* * *
Dismissed, Andrews took his mug and headed out to have a word with Tom Blunt about Amanda Pratt.
Sergeant Blunt, a big man who listened intently, remembered everything and said little, was a popular garda, liked by both the uniforms and detectives. Andrews found him in his office directly behind the front desk.
‘You busy?’
A shake of his head gave Andrews the answer he wanted. He closed the door, sat in the only other chair in the office and told Blunt exactly what he needed from him.
‘It’s really just to make sure she is as settled down there as her brother is making out,’ he finished. ‘Have you someone who you can trust to check her out discreetly?’
Blunt gave the question some thought before saying, ‘Garda Libby Forster.’
Andrews didn’t know the name, but if Blunt thought she was up to the job, that was good enough for him. ‘Perfect. Thanks, Tom. I’ll leave it to you then.’
And that was that job done. Andrews often thought that if they could just get on with their job without excess chat and paperwork, they’d get a lot more done.
His phone was ringing when he returned to his desk. He reached it just in time. ‘Andrews,’ he said.
‘It’s Jarvis. We’ve found the guy; he has some interesting things to tell us. We’re bringing him in; we think the sergeant needs to hear what he has to say.’
‘Okay,’ Andrews said, ‘I’ll let him know. What time do you expect to make it back?’ He listened, asked a couple more questions, hung up and went to West’s door.
‘Jarvis and Allen are heading back. They’re bringing Fearon’s friend with them. Jarvis says you’ll want to hear what he says.’
West looked up from his computer screen. ‘Did he give you any indication what it’s about?’
Andrews shook his head, a frown of annoyance on his brow. ‘I’ve noticed that to be a trend with the lads recently. They’re all becoming divas, wanting to ramp up the excitement before communicating anything.’
‘Let them have their fun. Did they say what time they’d be back?’
‘About eleven. I’ll go and book the Big One before Clark lays claim to it. I spotted him lurking around a while ago.’ With that, he vanished from sight.
West returned his attention to his computer screen. With a bit of luck, he might get the audit finished before they got back. He probably would have done, only his mind started to wander. They’d obviously found something interesting. He hoped it would be enough to put someone in the frame for Fearon’s murder. They could do with getting one of their outstanding cases solved.
Forcing his attention back to the numbers and columns on the screen, he kept it there until Andrews once more appeared in the doorway. Perhaps he should have shut the door. With a deep breath, he looked up. ‘What?’
‘Just wondered if you wanted some more coffee,’ Andrews said, arms crossed, shoulders resting against the door frame.
West saved what he’d done and shut down the programme. There was always tomorrow. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and a biscuit if Clark hasn’t pinched them all.’
Andrews returned with two mugs and a packet of biscuits. ‘I hid them when I saw him around this morning,’ he admitted, dropping the packet on the desk. ‘He’s a pig; he’d just eat the bloody lot and look around for more.’
Fig rolls. West’s favourite. He opened the packet and took out a couple before pushing the remainder across the table. Andrews shook his head and patted his belly. ‘Joyce has had to sew trouser buttons on a few times recently. She says I’ve put on weight and blames my inability to say no to a biscuit.’
West smiled. Joyce Andrews was a tiny woman with a huge personality. She was also a wonderful cook. He’d eaten in their house often enough and had seen the meals she put in front of her husband with the same instructions every time, get on the outside of that. He didn’t think the odd biscuit Andrews ate in the station made a huge differ
ence, and he said so.
‘I told her I ate a packet a day here,’ Andrews said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘I’m not stupid, if I told her I only ate the odd one, she might think about cutting down my meals. I told her I wouldn’t eat any more biscuits and this way, we’re both happy.’
‘You’re mixing with the wrong sort too often,’ West said with a shake of his head.
They switched to talking about their caseload until they heard voices approach, Sam Jarvis and Mick Allen jostling one another as they tried to be first into the office with the news.
‘This is going to make your eyes widen,’ Allen said.
‘Widen? More like pop from your head.’
Andrews gave West an I told you so look that was ignored.
‘How about you grab a couple of chairs and tell us,’ West said. ‘Where have you put…’
‘Richie Gallagher,’ Allen said, supplying the name. ‘He’s sitting in the Big One.’
‘Right,’ Andrews said, ‘will one of you tell us what’s going on?’
Jarvis, with a look at Allen, nodded. ‘We’d called round to Gallagher’s flat a few times yesterday. He was never there so we went to a few places where he was supposed to hang out, without any luck. It was beginning to look like he’d done a runner. This morning, early, we decided to give his place another try and there he was, cool as you please. He swore he didn’t know we were looking for him, said he was busy all day yesterday and didn’t get home until very late.’
‘Busy doing what?’ Andrews asked.
Allen met Jarvis’ eyes and they both shook their heads. ‘We wanted him to talk to us about what Fearon was into, so we didn’t ask him,’ Allen said with a shrug. ‘In fact, when he looked a bit nervous, we told him we hadn’t the slightest interest in what he was doing, that we just wanted to know about Ollie Fearon. He was very forthcoming then.’
Jarvis nodded. ‘He said Fearon had contacted him last year and asked if he were interested in doing a bit of smuggling.’
‘Drugs,’ Andrews said, shaking his head.
‘No, not drugs. People.’
29
‘People?’ West and Andrews exchanged looks.
Jarvis nodded again. ‘Fearon told him they’d go over in a camper van or something similar and bring people back hidden in a false bottom. Gallagher was paid five k upfront and another five when they arrived back in Ireland. He did it twice, then he didn’t hear from Fearon for a few months. About seven months ago, he bumped into him and asked if there were any more trips planned. Fearon laughed and said he was going solo. He told Gallagher that it was more lucrative for him, he got to keep all the money for himself.’
Jarvis stopped and ran a hand over his face. ‘He was bringing children over. Gallagher said some were for families who wanted a relative rescued from migrant camps, but not all of them. Fearon didn’t care as long as they coughed up the money. He said it was less risky than trafficking adults. He went over with a suitcase, spent some time in a hotel, organised someone to bring the child in question to a designated space, then the child was squeezed into the case and carried back on the ferry.’
‘You see now why we wanted you to hear his story,’ Allen said, his face grim. ‘It puts a different spin on our child in the suitcase.’
West sat stunned, his mouth hanging slightly open. Not in his wildest imagination would he have linked the child in the suitcase to Ollie Fearon’s murder. He closed his mouth and gulped. ‘So, Ollie Fearon may have been paid to bring our child to Ireland?’
‘That’s our guess,’ Jarvis said, jerking his head to include Allen. ‘But then, probably because of the sickle-cell disease, she dies before he can deliver her.’
‘Leaving one very unhappy customer,’ Allen said.
‘Who got his revenge by killing Fearon,’ Jarvis added.
West nodded; mostly, it made sense. ‘Why wait till now though? The child died around six months ago. Why wait until now to get revenge?’
‘What’s that expression about revenge being a dish best served cold?’ Andrews asked.
West shook his head. ‘She was a child, hardly more than a baby. If it were family, I think they’d have acted immediately.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t family,’ Jarvis said. ‘According to Gallagher, Fearon was happy to supply children to whoever paid him. We all know what that means.’
Unfortunately, they did. Was Fearon supplying paedophiles? ‘Let’s go talk to Gallagher,’ West said, standing, ‘maybe we can persuade him to remember more of the details.’
But Richie Gallagher, intimidated by the grim-looking men who sat opposite, had no more to contribute. In fact, he was desperately trying to recant all he’d told them. ‘Made it up, didn’t I?’ he said, looking wild-eyed at the detectives.
Allen and Jarvis had made the right call to get as much information out of the man while he was in an expansive mood. Despite reassurance that he wasn’t being charged with any crime, he insisted he knew nothing, getting more and more panicked as the minutes passed.
Finally, almost an hour later, West shook his head. ‘Get him out of here,’ he said to Jarvis. He didn’t have to tell Gallagher twice, the man leapt up and was out the door before anyone could change their mind.
‘It’s a shame we can’t arrest him for people trafficking,’ Andrews said, as the door closed behind him.
‘With him spouting that he made it up to impress the lads,’ West said with a regretful shake of his head. ‘We’ve no proof. I think we should just be grateful he was initially so forthcoming.’
They headed out of the room together and stopped in the corridor outside where the main noticeboard covered most of the wall. The photo of the reconstructed child’s face was there, its central positioning unchallenged. ‘So maybe someone wanted the poor child,’ West said. ‘I just hope it was for the right reason.’
Back in his office, he picked up the phone and rang Morrison.
‘Inspector,’ he said, when the phone was picked up. ‘I have some news for you regarding two of our cases.’
‘Well, I hope it’s good news,’ Morrison said bluntly.
‘Of a kind,’ West said. ‘It appears that our child in the suitcase might be linked to the murder of Ollie Fearon.’
‘What?’
West smiled, remembering his own reaction to the news. He decided to take the man literally. ‘It appears that our…’
‘Yes, yes, I heard you the first time,’ Morrison said testily. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Jarvis and Allen have just interviewed someone who knew Fearon. He told us about his involvement in trafficking.’ West decided it was in his best interest to leave out the details of Gallagher’s involvement. He wasn’t too sure the inspector would agree with letting him leave. When Ken Blundell’s face popped into his head, he batted it aside. ‘It was adults initially,’ he continued, ‘and then, it appears, he found smuggling small children to be more lucrative.’ He waited a moment before he added the clincher, smiling to himself as he thought of what Andrews would say. Maybe it was diva behaviour, but sometimes it was allowed. ‘He carried them across in suitcases, Inspector.’
‘Well, well,’ the inspector said, obviously as stunned as they had been with this turn of events. ‘A very interesting twist, Sergeant. Is this going to assist in solving both cases?’
West had no idea, but he wasn’t going to say that. ‘It’s opened up a range of possibilities, sir.’
Morrison, who had to play politics every day, said, ‘Indeed,’ and hung up.
The smile on West’s lips faded as he sat back in his chair. A range of possibilities. He couldn’t think of one. Clasping his hands across his stomach, he twirled his thumbs, and thought hard. It was worth reinterviewing all Fearon’s associates. It would also be worthwhile showing Fearon’s photograph around. He was getting his customers somewhere. He picked up a pen and started writing.
When Andrews appeared in his office doorway a few minutes later, he waved him in and tapped the list he’d m
ade. ‘Have Fearon’s photograph emailed to any sub-Saharan embassy we have in Dublin, Pete. He may have been sourcing his customers there. Same with any immigration assistance groups. In fact, anywhere you can think of. We need to narrow this down somehow.’
Andrews took the list and nodded. ‘Gallagher said he’d been given five k upfront and another five on completion. Fearon was more than likely receiving a lot more, but even at a conservative estimate we’re talking about twenty grand. I think embassies may well be a good place to start.’
Unsure where sub-Saharan Africa started or ended, Andrews emailed the photograph to every embassy on the African continent that had an office in Dublin. To his surprise, less than an hour later, he had a reply from one of them.
30
‘The embassy of South Africa,’ he said, standing in the doorway and grinning at West who had returned to working on the audit.
‘You’re kidding me,’ West said, taking the email and skimming over it quickly before rereading it slowly. ‘So Fearon has been seen at the embassy several times?’
Propping his shoulder against the door frame, Andrews nodded. ‘I rang them and spoke to a Jason Betterman. He said Fearon called several times with spurious questions about applying to work in Cape Town, and vague queries about health and welfare. Initially, he was viewed as harmless. They began to be suspicious when he just started hanging around, and he was told to take a hike.’ He waved a hand. ‘They put it more politely but it amounted to the same thing. The time frame gels with what Gallagher said.’
‘It might be worthwhile going to speak to them,’ West said.
‘How about at three?’
‘You’ve already organised it?’ West said with a shake of his head. ‘Where is the embassy anyway?’
‘Earlsfort Terrace. We’ll need to leave pretty sharpish.’
West closed the audit with a sigh of relief. He’d get it done, eventually. Morrison, he knew, would be far happier with a result in the case than a result in the audit. Actually, he reconsidered; he’d want a result in both. But he would just have to settle for one.
The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 18