The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  Less than an hour later, they were searching for a parking space on Earlsfort Terrace, West unwilling to park illegally and stick up a Garda business card, and Andrews arguing they should. It was an old argument that thanks to his seniority, West always won.

  ‘There,’ he said, spying a car pulling out several yards ahead.

  They walked the short distance to the Earlsfort Centre, following directional signs for Alexandra House where the South African embassy was located.

  ‘It’s on the second floor,’ Andrews said, pushing open the door into a wide ground-floor reception area. A security guard stood to one side, and two reception staff sat behind a long, curved desk.

  There was no stairway visible; signs directed the two men toward a lift, which took them past the watching security man. West could feel the man’s eyes boring into them. Not much would escape him, he guessed. It might be a good idea to have a word with him before they left.

  The reception area on the second floor was smaller. Again, it was manned by one security guard and two reception staff, both of whom were dealing with customers.

  Rather than wait, they approached the security guard and explained who they were looking for.

  He gave them a quick once-over before nodding and walking to a wall-mounted phone. Moments later, he returned and indicated that they follow him.

  ‘A man of few words,’ Andrews muttered as they followed him down a short corridor.

  The guard stopped abruptly at the third door. He knocked on it, pushed it open and waved them inside without a word.

  Jason Betterman stood with a smile. Tall and gangly, he reached a hand across the desk to shake their hands. ‘Cal is a great security guard, but social niceties aren’t his forte, I’m afraid. Please, have a seat. May I offer you a drink?’

  Both men declined. ‘Thank you for replying so promptly to our email this morning, Mr Betterman,’ West said, following introductions. ‘We’re investigating the possibility that this man, Ollie Fearon, was responsible for the death of a young child. She was found in a suitcase. We’ve recently learnt that Fearon used this means to smuggle children into the country.’

  ‘In a suitcase? You’re kidding me.’ Betterman grimaced. ‘Mind you, I shouldn’t be surprised. We stop one means of people trafficking and they come up with another.’

  ‘The child in question was around two years old. Malnourished, she would have been small for her age. And children,’ Andrews said with a sad smile, ‘are remarkably limber.’

  ‘She had sickle-cell anaemia,’ West told him. ‘We’re running with the theory that she died from lack of oxygen. Fearon was paid, probably very well, to bring her into the country. When he opened the case and found the child had died, we think he panicked and dumped her. He has subsequently been murdered. We’ve only recently discovered the connection.’

  ‘You think whoever paid him to bring over the child, killed him when he didn’t deliver?’

  ‘He was murdered recently; she died around six months ago. But yes, we’re running with the theory that whoever paid him, also killed him. We just need to find who his contact was.’

  ‘You think that’s why he was hanging around the embassy?’

  West shrugged. ‘People at refuge centres probably wouldn’t have had the wherewithal to pay him. Embassies were the other option.’

  ‘I’m not sure why,’ Betterman said, his forehead creasing as he tried to see where the detectives were going with this. ‘South Africans would have no problem bringing their children here legally.’

  ‘But Fearon was here in the embassy,’ West said, frowning. ‘And he wasn’t here for travel advice.’ He was close, he knew it. ‘What about illegal immigrants to South Africa? Isn’t it true to say that your townships can have upward of several thousand illegals at any one time?’

  Betterman smiled grimly. ‘Unfortunately, that is true of some of them. However, there would be no point in coming to me for help finding someone there. If they were undocumented, there would be no way I could trace them, and even if I could, I couldn’t help. Illegal immigrants to South Africa are sent back to their country of origin, wherever that may be.’

  West’s frustration was clear. ‘We have it on fairly good authority that Fearon was smuggling children into Ireland. He was hanging around your embassy several months ago, and six months ago a child from the sub-Saharan continent was found suffocated in a suitcase.’

  Betterman held his hands out. ‘I’m not disputing your argument, Sergeant West; I’m just not sure how I can help you.’

  West rubbed a hand over his face. ‘You might not have been able to help bring the child out, but did you have any requests of that nature?’

  ‘Have you any idea how many queries we deal with on a daily basis?’ he said. ‘Hundreds. The desk staff deal with most, pointing people in the right direction, giving them answers to simple questions. Many of the requests and queries wouldn’t even have been logged.’

  ‘Can we speak to them?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, picking up the phone. ‘It will have to be one at a time.’

  Betterman sat back with his long arms crossed while West questioned each of the two desk staff. When the second left the office, he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help. I do hope you find who you’re looking for. Although’ – his face turned harsh – ‘to be honest, it sounds like your Fearon got what he deserved.’

  People always said that when a bad guy got killed as if it was poetic justice of a sort. There was nothing poetic about murder, no matter who the victim was. Thanking Betterman, they left the office.

  In reception, they stopped to speak with the security man before they left the second floor. He looked at the photograph they handed him, shook his head, handed it back and said nothing.

  ‘Do you reckon he can speak?’ Andrews said before the lift door had even closed.

  Suddenly, the guard put one muscular arm between the two doors, causing them to bounce open. ‘Goodbye, and have a nice day,’ he said, and stood back.

  West and Andrews exchanged looks when the door closed. ‘Jesus,’ Andrews said, ‘that’ll teach me to keep my big mouth shut.’

  Since West had been thinking much the same thing, he didn’t comment.

  The security man they’d seen in the main reception wasn’t around when they exited the lift. They lingered, Andrews reading information leaflets on the noticeboard, West checking messages on his phone.

  They didn’t have to wait long before he reappeared. He came through a door on the far side, his eyes sweeping the room to check it was as he left it. When his eyes landed on the two detectives, they stayed there.

  ‘Maybe he’ll be chattier,’ Andrews said as they crossed the reception to speak to him.

  They were in luck. As soon as they introduced themselves, the man’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘I guessed; you might as well wear a uniform it’s so obvious.’

  ‘We’re looking for information,’ West said, ignoring his comment. ‘You might be able to help.’ He took out the photograph of Ollie Fearon. ‘We know this man was seen around here several months ago. We’re wondering if you remember him.’

  ‘Sure,’ the man said, handing the photo back. ‘He called up to the South African embassy a few times, and he hung around here until I told him to sling his hook.’ He shrugged. ‘Never saw him again after that.’ His expression turned mean. ‘When I tell someone to go, they generally stay gone.’

  ‘How do you know he went to the South African Embassy?’ Andrews asked. ‘There are other businesses in the building, other floors he could have got out at.’

  The guard jerked his head toward the lift. ‘I watch the floor number,’ he said. ‘I know where everyone goes.’

  ‘Do you remember seeing him with anyone?’

  A group of people came through the door, chatting loudly. The security guard’s attention was immediately diverted to them and he watched as they got into the lift and until it stopped at a floor. He nodded as
if he’d guessed rightly and returned his attention to the detectives.

  ‘The third or maybe fourth time he came in, he didn’t go upstairs at all. Instead, he hung around the noticeboard, taking his time reading the posters, writing stuff down. He’d look up when the lift door opened and watch as people came out. Drugs was my first thought; I thought he’d approach some of what I considered the more likely candidates but’ – he shook his head for emphasis – ‘he didn’t. It wasn’t until a young woman came out, her eyes red from crying, that he moved. I don’t know what he said, or what she said. Seconds later, he walked off, leaving her alone.

  ‘Next time he came in was a few days later. Again, he didn’t go upstairs, just hung around the noticeboard writing stuff down. Just when I thought he was going to head off, the lift opened and a woman came out. She was stunning.’ He waved his hand in front of his face like a fan. ‘I’m talking smoking hot here. He followed her, stopped her outside and spoke to her for a long time. I watched her open her bag, take out something and hand it to him, then she put her hand on his arm and they went off together.’

  West frowned. ‘Any idea who she was?’

  The guard shook his head.

  ‘Did she come from the embassy floor?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said, ‘I didn’t see her come in. I’m the only security guard on this floor; they’re supposed to relieve me from the other floors if I need to take a leak. They never do, so I have to leave the place unattended for a few minutes now and then. They don’t complain because each floor has its own security guard anyway. Since I didn’t see her coming in, I’ve no way of telling where she went, and I don’t watch the lift when it’s coming down. She could have been visiting any of the floors.’

  ‘Okay,’ West said, ‘thank you. You’ve been a great help.’ He started to walk away, Andrews at his side. They’d gone a few steps when something struck him and he stopped. He smiled at Andrews. ‘The lift has CCTV,’ he said.

  They both took a deep breath. This was it; they were going to find the woman. And when they found her, maybe they’d find out the name of the child in the suitcase. Finding out who killed Ollie Fearon would be a bonus.

  31

  It took two days to get permission to view the CCTV footage from the lift; the building’s management company cited privacy despite West’s assuring them that they’d no interest in anyone apart from one particular woman. Finally, a court order persuaded them to co-operate.

  The security man, Bob Singer, was easily persuaded to come out to Foxrock to look at it when he was promised he’d be paid for his time. ‘A consultant’s fee, I assume,’ he said, and mentioned a sum that caused their eyes to widen in disbelief. He wouldn’t budge, guessing they’d never find one woman among all the females that visited the building in the course of several days. He was right, and despite Andrews’ protestations, it was agreed to pay him what he asked.

  Since Singer was only able to provide a rough idea of the month, they allowed several weeks either side to allow for error. They sat in the Big One and watched the discs one after the other. Copious amounts of coffee were consumed and several packets of biscuits munched before they heard what they’d been waiting for.

  ‘That’s her,’ Singer said, spraying biscuit crumbs over the table in his excitement.

  West and Andrews leaned in and watched the woman as she stood impassively in the lift until it opened on the second floor.

  ‘The South African Embassy,’ West said.

  She stepped out and vanished from sight. They checked the time on the screen and watched until she appeared again only six minutes later, her face now hard and grim in contrast to the expectant look of earlier.

  ‘It looks like she was quickly dismissed,’ West said. He pressed the repeat button and watched again as she arrived and as she left. The guard was right. She was stunningly beautiful. ‘Get some hard copies,’ he said, ‘let’s see if we can find out who she is.’

  Back in his office, hard copy in hand, he admired the woman’s bone structure. She really was lovely. Did that mean she would be easier to identify? He hoped so. Folding it in four, he put it in his jacket pocket and sat thinking about their next step.

  Andrews came in moments later. ‘I’ve sent an email with her photograph to all the embassies as before. I also sent it to an immigrant woman’s support group, and a few other places I thought might be relevant.

  ‘You’re assuming she’s not Irish then?’ West said. He laughed when he saw Andrews lost for words; it was a rare occurrence.

  ‘Relax, I’m kidding you, it’s a fair assumption based on what we know, but we could be wrong and need to look at the alternative. Perhaps she’s an Irish woman looking for assistance from the embassy, maybe to trace a young relative? When they tell her they can’t help, she comes outside and meets Fearon. He offers enough sympathy to have her spill her sad story, then he offers to help her.’

  Andrews pulled up a chair and sat. He thought for a moment. ‘Lots of refugees have made it out of their countries and gained refugee status wherever they land. But often they’ve left loved ones behind. That’s where people like Fearon excel. They find these vulnerable people and exploit them because they have no choice. Oh, and by the way, I had replies from all the embassies. Fearon was recognised by two others. All he had to do was wait; someone would eventually arrive, desperate and willing to pay whatever he asked.’

  ‘Whoever this woman is,’ West said, ‘we’ll find her. Her face is not the kind you forget in a hurry.’

  While Andrews busied himself sending the woman’s photograph to every conceivable group, West made a few phone calls. If the woman was trying to get a child into the country, she may have tried the legal route first. He had a contact in the family court, a solicitor he’d been friendly with in a different life, and he didn’t mind asking for a favour.

  ‘I’ll send you her photo, Dominic,’ he said after several minutes on the phone, the first five of which were spent in catching up.

  ‘Great, I’ll have a look, and send it to a few people I know who may be able to help. We must meet for a drink sometime, Mike,’ he said.’

  ‘I’d like that, Dom,’ West said, knowing they never would. The other man knew the same, the social intercourse of life. It had been much more prevalent in the law circle he’d worked in; he breathed a sigh of relief, not for the first time, at having left it all behind him. But he knew Dominic would do as he asked. It was a long shot but one worth trying.

  Morrison would be happy with some movement in both cases. He just hoped the information led to a conclusion. At least, they were doing something.

  He gave a thought to Edel’s case, smiling as he realised it had become that in his head. The Blundell Incident, Edel’s Case, why did he feel the need to label things?

  He tapped a finger on the desk as he thought about it. He’d expected something more by now. The arrival of the post in the morning made them both stop whatever they were doing and stare toward the hallway with a sense of trepidation. He’d pick it up and sort through it, relieved when it turned out to be the usual glut of circulars and bills.

  The sense of waiting was taking its toll. Edel’s face had become drawn, her mood irritable. She’d stopped writing too, shaking her head when he mentioned it. Instead, she passed the time watching daytime television, and cooking more and more elaborate meals that they sat over in virtual silence.

  Still mulling over her, he was startled when his phone rang, picking it up with a more than usually curt, ‘West.’

  ‘Mike, hi,’ a female voice said. ‘You sound busy, sorry for interrupting you. I’m in the area and wondered if you were free for a coffee.’

  ‘Fiona,’ he said, recognising her voice immediately. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ He checked the time. An hour out of the station would be just the thing to clear his head and give him room to think. ‘Yes, I could do with a break right now. Are you in Foxrock?’

  ‘I’m in Cornelscourt,’ she said. ‘I’d just
pulled into the shopping centre, when I realised it was not too far to Foxrock and thought of you. Join me here; I’ll buy you a coffee.’

  ‘Perfect, see you in about fifteen minutes.’

  He made a vague reference to meeting someone when he passed Andrews in the office and walked on before questions were asked. Andrews wouldn’t believe there was nothing in it apart from a pleasant friendship so what was the point explaining?

  * * *

  West saw her immediately when he pushed through the doors of the café. She was sitting, one crossed leg gently swinging, as she watched the world go by. Her face was turned in the other direction so she didn’t see him as he approached. He took the opportunity given and let his eyes drift over her. A gauzy black shirt was matched with a fitted black skirt. A chilly outfit for a very cold day. He guessed the dark cream leather jacket that had been thrown casually onto a vacant chair was also hers.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, bringing her eyes lazily back to him.

  ‘Hello yourself,’ she said, and nodded toward the coffee on the other side of the small table. ‘It should be okay; I’ve only been sitting a couple of minutes and I did ask for it extra hot.’

  Smiling, he sat and sipped it. ‘Perfect,’ he said, sitting back with a sigh. ‘This was a good idea.’

  ‘You look like you could do with a break. You’re paler than I remember, and your eyes look tired.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Personal or work?’ she said, her voice soft. ‘Remember, I told you I was a good listener.’

  Personal or work? It was a good question. The line between both was constantly being blurred. Time and time again, he and Edel were put into situations where she was occupying the role of victim and he the policeman. After Clare Island, it was their turn to have a long period of calm, yet here they were again, thrown back into those well-dug holes.

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ he said, picking up his cup again. ‘To be honest, it’s just nice to be away from all the mayhem for a while and pretend I’m just a guy having coffee with an attractive woman.’