The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  West nodded. He knew the statistics. ‘It sounds like she might have been looking for a needle in a haystack, Pete.’

  ‘Sandra said that Lesere had contacted social workers in several townships.’ He reached for the pad and opened it. ‘Kayalesha, Zwelihle, Langa and Khayelitsha townships,’ he said, pronouncing each phonetically. ‘They probably don’t pronounce them that way, but I had her spell them out to me.’ He tossed the pad back onto the desk. ‘She had no luck, obviously. A few months after the child went missing, Lesere attended the conference where she met Careless.’

  ‘She would have told him, and probably asked him for help.’

  The phone interrupted them. It was Ginikanwa Obayomi.

  ‘My colleague, Garda Peter Andrews is here with me,’ West told him, ‘may I put you on speaker?’

  ‘Of course, my friend,’ he said, ‘it will be good to tell my story to two rather than one.’

  ‘Thank you.’ West pushed a button for the speaker option and returned the handset. ‘Am I still clear?’

  ‘I can hear you perfectly,’ Obayomi said. ‘Greetings to you, Garda Andrews.’

  Andrews raised his eyes to the ceiling before answering. ‘Greetings to you.’

  ‘Well, since the formalities are done with, let me tell you what I’ve discovered about the poor lady, Lesere Osoba.’

  Most of what he had to tell them they already knew, but he had a few interesting pieces of information to add. Lesere had appealed for help to the authorities in Nigeria who in turn had contacted the South African authorities. Nothing worked, simply because they couldn’t locate either father or daughter.

  ‘Lesere met one of your countrymen, Enda Careless, at a conference in Abuja. He tried to intercede with the authorities for her before quickly discovering that their hands were tied. How can you do business with a ghost?

  ‘They didn’t stop trying to locate the child. Regular emails were received requesting updates on the situation. Then eight months ago, as you know, Lesere and Careless were married, and she relocated to Ireland. I suppose she felt she could do as much there as she could from here.’ A loud sigh came down the phone. ‘A few weeks later, Utibe Omotoso and his daughter were seen in Khayelitsha township by a social worker who had seen his photograph. Unfortunately, by the time the police arrived, he’d fled.’

  ‘Was the information passed on to Lesere?’ West asked, trying to keep the timeline straight in his head. Was this before or after she met with Fearon?

  ‘Yes, of course, Garda West,’ the Nigerian said, ‘she had a right to know.’

  Of course, she did. It was what she did with that information that West was more interested in. ‘Can you tell me what date she was told?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The date made him close his eyes briefly before he looked across at Andrews and nodded. A week before she met Ollie Fearon.

  There was nothing more to be learned from Ginikanwa Obayomi. West promised to keep him informed of any break in the case.

  ‘The child, Abasiama, she will be buried with Lesere?’

  West took a deep breath. It would be a fitting end for the child to be reunited with her mother. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I would hope so. At least now, thanks to your assistance, she will be buried with a name.’

  ‘Abasiama,’ Obayomi said quietly. ‘Blessed by God. Thank you, Sergeant West.’

  West hung up. He and Andrews sat in silence for a moment digesting what they’d heard.

  ‘What do you think happened?’ Andrews said.

  ‘She was desperate. Appeals to the authorities had achieved nothing. She was ripe to be milked by someone like Fearon.’ He picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk before sliding his finger and thumb down until it fell flat, then sliding it upright and starting again, lost in thought. ‘We’re missing a step, Pete,’ he said before tossing the pen aside with a grunt of frustration.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘The child… Abasiama… she was smuggled into Ireland in a suitcase, yes?’

  On cue, Andrews nodded.

  ‘Gallagher said they’d trafficked people using a camper van. I can’t see him driving that all the way from Cape Town to Dublin.’

  ‘Maybe, he came by sea?’ Andrews suggested.

  ‘There had to have been some plan,’ West said. ‘Lesere was an intelligent woman; she’d have wanted to know exactly how he was going to rescue her daughter before she handed over hard cash. We’re missing something.’

  ‘I think it’s time to speak to Enda Careless. I rang his office; they said he wasn’t working today, that we should be able to catch him at home.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, it’s time we spoke to him. Hopefully, he’ll be able to clarify what happened.’

  ‘He might also be our killer.’

  West looked down for a moment, and when he looked back up his face was sombre. ‘When I find out who’s responsible for destroying Edel’s career, I’ll want to beat the person to a pulp. If it turns out that Fearon was to blame for Lesere’s suicide, can we really blame Careless for killing him?’

  Andrews stood. ‘You might want to beat the person responsible to a pulp, but you won’t. You’ll ensure due legal process is followed. Anyway,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘you’re not the beat-someone-to-a-pulp type.’

  West stood and followed him. ‘I am,’ he said, slightly aggrieved.

  They were still discussing the matter as they drove towards Mount Merrion where Enda Careless had an apartment. If he were there, they’d ask to speak to him. If not, they’d wait.

  Careless’s apartment was in a three-storied building backing onto Deerpark. They pulled into a designated visitor’s parking spot and sat admiring the view.

  ‘This is very nice,’ West said.

  ‘I bet he’s on the top floor too,’ Andrews said, ‘he struck me as a penthouse kind of guy.’

  ‘I used to be a penthouse kind of guy,’ West offered. ‘But it was in the city, always noisy. This is much nicer.’

  They got out and walked to a smart front door bracketed on each side by brass plaques and doorbells. ‘Just numbers, no names,’ West said, ‘very discreet.’

  ‘He’s in number ten.’

  There was no sound when they pressed the bell.

  ‘How do we know if it’s even working?’ Andrews complained, looking balefully at the doorbell as if it were to blame.

  ‘We don’t.’ A buzz from the door caused them both to start. ‘Well, now we do.’

  34

  West pushed the door open into a small, bright hallway. ‘There we are,’ he said, pointing to a directory on the wall beside the lift door, ‘number ten. Top floor, just as you guessed.’

  They took the stairs rather than the lift and arrived on the top landing minutes later. There were only two doors. ‘Big apartments,’ Andrews said quietly. Neither door was numbered. West shrugged and went to move toward the nearer one, when the other door opened and Enda Careless appeared. ‘Come on in,’ he said and disappeared again.

  With an exchange of glances, both men shrugged and followed him.

  The apartment was open-planned and light-filled, two floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the park. It was impeccably furnished, matching tables, chairs, just the right pictures and ornaments. West guessed it had been a show flat and bought fully furnished. It said nothing about the personality of the pale-faced man who stood looking at them.

  ‘You were expecting us,’ West said with a slight smile. ‘Dominic?’

  Careless shrugged. ‘We go back a long way.’ Turning, he walked to the window and stared out. ‘You’d better read me my rights, hadn’t you?’

  Andrews did the necessary formalities, while West’s eyes drifted around the room. There were photographs of his wife in a number of places. She was even more beautiful than he’d thought or maybe it was the setting. He saw another photograph and moved to pick it up. Abasiama. Dundee had done a good job, the likeness was amazing, the professor would be pleased.

>   ‘You saw the poster pinned to the noticeboard at the station, didn’t you?’ West said, turning with the photograph in his hands, and holding it out to show Andrews who raised an eyebrow in response.

  Careless turned to face him. ‘Do you know what Lesere said to me weeks before she killed herself?’ He walked across and sat into one of the armchairs. ‘Sit down, please, this might take a while.’ When they sat, he continued. ‘She said it would be easier if she knew Abasiama were dead, she could grieve for her and try to move on. It was the thought that she was somewhere, maybe in pain or distress that ate away at her day and night.’

  He rubbed his face hard with both hands, leaving his cheeks red. ‘The poster on the noticeboard caught my eye immediately. I’d never met the girl, of course, but the likeness to that photograph’ – he nodded at the one West continued to hold – ‘was inescapable. I made some enquiries about the child and found out that she’d died months before Lesere’s suicide.’ He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, they were bleak. ‘I’d never felt such rage. It consumed me.

  ‘Fearon killed her as surely as if he’d tightened that belt around her neck. It was only right that he pay with his own life.’

  ‘So, you killed him?’

  Careless’s eyes grew cold. ‘You think killing him would make up for the loss of my wife and her daughter? His miserable, squalid life equating to both of theirs.’ He shrugged. ‘I did, however, arrange to meet him.’

  ‘He wasn’t suspicious?’

  ‘Suspicious?’ he said with a sneer. ‘Why would he be? He’d never met me. I rang him, told him I needed someone brought over from Calais and heard he was the man to go to. You know the way it is, flatter their ego, and they’ll believe anything. I stressed we needed to be discreet and arranged the meeting place and the time.’

  Standing abruptly, he walked over to the kitchen. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Coffee would be good,’ West said, and seeing Andrews nod, he added, ‘For both of us. Lots of sugar in his, milk in both.’

  Several minutes later, Careless handed them each a mug, returning to the kitchen to pick up a wine glass he’d filled nearly to the brim. ‘Now, where was I?’ he said, sitting back into the sofa. ‘Ah yes, my meeting with Oliver Fearon. There isn’t much to say really. He obviously didn’t see me as any sort of threat.’ He laughed. ‘Well, look at me, weedy is one of the kinder epithets that have been applied to me. The laneway was perfect, once I emphasised the need for discretion, he followed me in without question.’

  He emptied half the glass of wine in one mouthful and put it down. ‘I don’t think he even knew what hit him,’ he said conversationally. ‘One minute, he was telling me how clever he was at getting people through border security, the next he was lying at my feet groaning.’

  West’s lips compressed into a grim line. Anger and violence, he found easy to deal with, but this cold, calculated and surprisingly detached account of Fearon’s murder chilled him to the bone.

  Careless swilled wine around in his glass before taking another gulp. ‘I bent down beside him, my face close enough to smell his fear, then I looked him straight in the eye and said, this is for Lesere and Abasiama.’ He wiped a hand over his mouth and brushed tears away with his knuckles. ‘Fearon’s grey, sweaty face looked puzzled, so I repeated the names.’ He looked down at his glass. ‘Do you know what he said?’ A tear, alone and unnoticed, trickled from the corner of his left eye. He didn’t brush it away and it continued, gathering momentum, falling to his shirt where it caused a round dark spot on the pale-blue fabric.

  West watched as Careless’s lower lip trembled. He pictured him, bending over the dying man, his hand still gripping the knife as he waited for some words of apology or justification, for some trace of sorrow for what Fearon had done to his wife and her child.

  ‘Do you know what he said?’ Careless asked again, his voice barely more than a whisper. He raised his face and looked at them. ‘He said, Who?’

  The final insult. West shut his eyes on the swell of emotion that swept over him.

  ‘I stood and watched him die,’ Careless said, draining his glass in one jerky movement. ‘He did it without any fuss, then I left him there in the gutter where he belonged, got into my car and drove away.’

  The silence that followed was heavy with emotion. West could see Andrews from the corner of his eye, his face set. He’d be wondering, West knew, if he would do the same to someone who hurt his son, his wife. Careless’s action wasn’t an easy one to sit in judgment of. Luckily, that wasn’t their role. Theirs was to take him in for a crime he’d confessed to.

  ‘We’ll need you to come to the station and make a statement,’ West said. ‘But would you mind answering a few questions first?’

  Careless shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Did Lesere meet Fearon at the South African Embassy?’

  ‘Yes, her ex-partner, Utibe Omotoso, had taken Abasiama to Cape Town; Lesere never gave up hope of finding her and hoped the embassy would be able to help.’

  West frowned. This was the part that didn’t make sense. ‘Fearon couldn’t have taken the child from Cape Town to Ireland in a suitcase.’

  Careless laughed. ‘You’re missing a bit of the story, I’m afraid. Fearon approached my wife outside the embassy. She was understandably distraught at her ongoing failure to find her daughter. Fearon… his type… are expert at finding those who are ready to be exploited. When she told him that Abasiama was probably in Cape Town, he shook his head and told her his area of expertise was getting people over from France.’ His lips twisted in a grimace. ‘She said he actually phrased it that way, area of expertise. He gave her his card and told her to give him a ring if things changed.’

  West’s eyes narrowed. ‘But then the child was spotted in Cape Town.’

  ‘Yes, however, the police arrived too late and Utibe and the child vanished. Lesere was distraught to have been so close to being reunited with her. Over the next couple of weeks, we did everything we could to try to locate them but it was impossible, there were just too many places they could have gone. Lesere spent a lot of time on Facebook and Instagram, monitoring contacts, peering at photographs, looking for something… anything… that might give us a clue. Her vigilance eventually paid off when a cousin of Utibe posted a photograph of a party on Facebook. In the background, almost unnoticed, was Abasiama.’

  ‘Lesere wouldn’t have missed her child,’ Andrews commented.

  ‘Actually, at first I thought she was imagining it. It was just a profile shot of a very small child, but, as you say, a mother wouldn’t miss her own child.’ He blew out a weary sigh. ‘After that, it didn’t take long to find out where they were. A small village in the south of France.’

  West nodded as all the pieces started to fall into place. ‘You sent Fearon over to snatch her?’

  Careless looked at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘Outside the embassy, he’d mentioned the sum of twenty grand. When we rang him, he must have sensed the desperation; he said it was a more complex case and would cost fifty.’ His face clouded at the memory. ‘Lesere would have given anything to get her daughter back, so we agreed. The plan was simple. He would go to the village and find out where she lived. When it was safe to do so, he would snatch her, then hide her in the suitcase and take her over on the ferry. Two weeks later, we had a call from him to say that Utibe and Abasiama had left the area, and he couldn’t find out where they’d gone. We never heard from him again.’

  He stood, walked to the kitchen and refilled his drink. ‘Three months later, Lesere killed herself.’

  ‘You’ll need to come with us,’ Andrews said, eyeing the full glass of wine.

  Careless walked unsteadily back to his seat and sat. ‘I’ll go into the station tomorrow and make a statement,’ he said, holding his glass cupped in both hands.

  Andrews shot West a puzzled look. The man was a solicitor, he’d know how it went. He was being charged with murder, waiting until the next day
wasn’t an option.

  ‘What Garda Andrews is trying to say, Mr Careless,’ West said quietly, ‘is that you’ll need to come with us now. You’ll be charged with Ollie Fearon’s murder.’

  Careless lifted his glass and took a deep drink before looking at West. He laughed, startling both men.

  ‘Murder. Oh dear, Sergeant West, you have it wrong. I didn’t murder him.’

  35

  ‘What?’ Andrews said, looking bewildered. ‘You’ve just told us you killed him.’

  West shook his head. ‘No,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘he didn’t. He said he watched him die.’

  Careless nodded. ‘I heard you were a good solicitor, Sergeant West. You listened well, that’s exactly it. I watched him die. You could, of course, charge me with failure to report a crime, but I think that’s probably it.’

  Andrews scowled. ‘You admitted you lured him into the laneway where he was killed. That would get accessory to murder, if nothing else.’

  ‘I told you, it was necessary to be discreet,’ Careless said. ‘Being seen with a well-known criminal would not be good for my reputation. I just wanted to ask him about Abasiama and Lesere.’

  He was good, West acknowledged. There was no point in pursuing the matter. ‘Okay,’ he said, reaching to put his empty mug on the table before standing. ‘Let’s go, Garda Andrews, we’ve wasted enough time here.’ He looked down on Careless who was smiling slightly. ‘We’ll get proof of your involvement,’ West said, ‘and we’ll be back.’

  Careless’s smile grew wider. He finished the wine in one long gulp and handed the empty glass to him. ‘Fingerprints,’ he said, ‘just in case you’ve any to compare them to.’

  West took the glass by the stem. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘that will save a lot of time.’ He glanced at Andrews who, true to form, reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. West dropped the glass inside. ‘We will need you to come down to the station and make a statement about what happened,’ he said firmly. ‘There will be questions asked as to why you didn’t report the crime. Even if you had nothing to do with Fearon’s murder, which I don’t for a minute believe, your career is over, Mr Careless.’