The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  There was no reaction to his comment. Careless stared straight ahead, ignoring them both.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Andrews said when they sat back into the car. ‘I feel like my brain has been scrambled.’

  ‘Direction and misdirection,’ West said, starting the engine and reversing out of the parking space. ‘He’s playing with us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He didn’t kill Fearon, but he knows who did.’

  Andrews yawned and stretched. ‘This blasted case is exhausting, why are you so sure he didn’t kill him?’

  West pointed to the glass he was holding. ‘There are fingerprints on the knife. Clear ones, forensics said, so they must belong to the killer. Careless knows that, that’s why he gave us the glass. There won’t be a match, and he’ll be in the clear. For murder anyway.’

  ‘Gloves?’

  West indicated to turn onto the Stillorgan dual carriageway. ‘Had the prints been smudged, maybe, but they said clear prints.’

  Andrews nodded and sighed loudly. ‘Should have guessed it wasn’t going to be that damn simple.’

  ‘We’ll get him as an accessory. Tomorrow, have one of the lads take a selection of photographs down to Kilkenny; see if that young lad, Bud, can pick him out.’

  ‘Buzz, not Bud. Yes, I’ll get someone to go down. If he can pick him out, it would be a start.’

  West said nothing. It would be a start but Careless’s presence in the shop could be discounted for any number of reasons. Even if Buzz could positively identify him, it wasn’t illegal to buy a knife, and probably impossible to prove that the knife bought there was the murder weapon. Any good solicitor would have it dismissed as circumstantial in seconds.

  ‘We’ll just chip away,’ he said, more for his own benefit than the solid man sitting beside him for whom chipping away was almost an art form. It was irritating to be played for a fool. His sympathy for the man’s predicament was fast disappearing. Careless may not have killed Fearon but West was positive he was instrumental in his death.

  They didn’t speak until West pulled into the station car park.

  ‘I’ll get the glass to the fingerprint lads,’ Andrews said, getting out of the car.

  The two men wore determined expressions on their faces as they went inside. Andrews headed to the Fingerprint Division, prepared to argue that his case deserved precedence over whatever robbery case they were working on. He knew they’d be happy to oblige and would take inordinate pleasure in telling Sergeant Clark that something more important had come up.

  Back in his office, West contacted forensics and asked for Fiona Wilson. Dealing with her would help to speed things up.

  ‘Mike,’ she said, when his call was eventually put through. ‘How good to hear from you.’

  He smiled and relaxed into his chair. ‘Good to speak to you too, Fiona,’ he said. ‘I wish I could say it was purely a social call, but unfortunately, it isn’t.’

  ‘But not purely business either,’ she said, picking him up on the word and laughing lightly.

  ‘How about we settle for business tinged with pleasure?’

  ‘That’ll do,’ she agreed. ‘Now what can I do for you?’

  It took just a couple of minutes to fill her in. ‘Our fingerprint team are taking the prints from the glass. When they upload them, will you check them against the ones you have on file that were taken from the murder weapon? We don’t think they’ll be a match, but we need to make certain.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve done it.’

  West thanked her and hung up.

  He ruffled his hair. This case was irritating him. He wanted to be shot of it. How much of that was due to his desire to concentrate on his relationship problem, he wasn’t willing to guess. Relationship problem. It was the first time he’d acknowledged that they had one. He brushed it aside to think about later.

  First things first. Who the hell killed Ollie Fearon? He rested his chin in one hand, and tapped the desk with the other, mentally reviewing everything they knew, putting what Careless had told them together with what they already knew about Lesere.

  A frown on his forehead grew deeper as he worked his way through the data. There was something there.

  When Andrews appeared in the doorway, he waved him in. ‘Sit down and listen for a minute, will you?’ He waited until he’d sat obediently into the empty chair before continuing. ‘We know Careless had something to do with Fearon’s death, yes?’

  Andrews nodded.

  ‘It’s a pretty safe bet that he didn’t wield the murder weapon himself, but if he’d hired a professional, why would he have left such clear fingerprints as evidence.’

  ‘Not a professional killer, then,’ Andrews muttered.

  West shook his head. ‘No, it was someone who didn’t care that their fingerprints were identifiable.’ He sat back in his chair; his eyes suddenly sharp. ‘Abasiama’s mother was dead, but what about the father, Utibe Omotoso? Wouldn’t he have wanted revenge for what Fearon did?’

  Andrews nodded. ‘You think Careless managed to contact him?’

  ‘Careless said they’d discovered where Abasiama was from a cousin’s Facebook page. Fearon told him that they’d left the area, but we know that was a lie; he took Abasiama and fled with her. Maybe Careless contacted Omotoso on the same Facebook page.’

  Andrews pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘He must have loved the child very much; he took her with him, kept her with him even when he had to flee from Cape Town. He must have been devastated when she was snatched.’

  ‘And more devastated to know she was dead. That’s a pretty good motive for murder.’ He slapped his hand down on the desk. ‘Contact the Immigration Service, Pete, and see if a visa was issued for him. If we are right, he’d never have risked trying to come in illegally. I’ll contact our friend in Nigeria; see, if by any chance, they have his fingerprints on file.’

  West wasn’t in luck. His contact in Abuja wasn’t available, and he spent several fruitless minutes trying to explain to the official the information he was looking for. After being told a number of times that he would have to speak to Mr Obayomi, he gave up.

  ‘I hope you had better luck than I had,’ he said when Andrews came through the door a few minutes later.

  ‘I have.’ He smiled. ‘Utibe Omotoso came to Ireland on a tourist visa two days before Fearon was killed.’ His smiled widened. ‘He’s still here.’

  West clenched a fist. Finally. ‘The visa application had to have said where he intended to stay.’

  ‘It did. It said he was staying in the Ambassador Hotel.’

  ‘But he isn’t,’ West guessed.

  ‘Afraid not,’ Andrews said. ‘But thanks to the Immigration Service, we now have his photograph. I’ve set Baxter and Edwards onto the delightful task of emailing every hotel in Dublin and sending his photograph. Jarvis and Allen are starting the even less delightful job of working through the B & Bs. We’ll find him.’

  When Andrews headed back out to give them a hand, West tried the Abuja office again with the same lack of luck.

  He’d just replaced the phone when it rang. ‘West,’ he said.

  ‘It’s your friendly forensic scientist,’ the cheerful voice said.

  ‘Fiona, please tell me you have some good news for me.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said with a short laugh, ‘I could, but I’d be lying. There’s no match, I’m afraid. Unless of course, that is good news.’

  Even though it was what they’d expected, he was still disappointed. He brushed the feeling away. ‘Thanks for putting a rush on it,’ he said. ‘I owe you a drink.’

  Her laugh gurgled down the line. ‘A drink? I’ll expect more than that.’ She hung up before he could answer.

  He checked the time. Six. He wondered if his Nigerian contact kept late hours and rang the number again. This time it rang unanswered, not even an answering machine where he could leave a message. He hung up.

  Home, he decided. ‘
Come on, Pete,’ he said when he was out in the main office. ‘They don’t need your help, do you lads?’

  Four heads shook on demand, as he knew they would. They’d much prefer if he and Andrews left, they’d relax, turn the radio up loud and laugh and joke through the boring job they’d been tasked with. ‘How far have you got,’ he asked, directing his question towards Baxter.

  ‘Almost finished contacting the hotels and have already had responses from some. In the negative, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve a long way to go before we cover all the B & Bs,’ Jarvis said with a yawn.

  ‘We also sent an email to a few hostels,’ Allen piped up, ‘funds may be tight.’

  ‘And every Garda station has a copy. If he’s visible, we’ll get him,’ Andrews added, standing and pulling on his jacket.

  With a final request that West be contacted if they located the man, he and Andrews left the station together.

  36

  The rain had been falling heavily all day and as a result the traffic was heavier than usual, and West’s journey home slow and frustrating. Enda Careless’s face kept coming into his head. There was an emptiness in the man’s eyes that worried him. He hadn’t killed Fearon, but he’d been instrumental in leading him to his death and had stood by while another had done the deed. Contrary to what Careless believed, a charge of accessory to murder would hold. He exhaled loudly. It would be easier if they caught the man who wielded the knife. It had to have been Omotoso. They needed to find him.

  Of course, he may have already left the country. His visa was valid for a month but there was no reason for him to stay. He could have caught a ferry to the UK and another ferry or even the train to France. By now, he could be anywhere and extradition would be impossible. After all, he had experience in staying beneath the radar.

  He pulled up outside his house and raced through the pelting rain to the front door. In the hallway, he took off his jacket and shook it before throwing it over the newel.

  The house was quiet. ‘Hello,’ he called up the stairs before picking up his post from the hall table and heading into the kitchen. He sniffed the air appreciatively. Something smelt good. Peering into the eye-level oven, he tried to make out what it was. Something in a casserole. He was hungry, whatever it was, it would be good.

  Then he noticed the bottle of champagne sitting on the dining table, beads of moisture indicating it hadn’t been out of the fridge long.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ he asked, turning as he heard footsteps in the hall.

  Edel almost bounced into the room, her face beaming. She put the laptop she was holding down on the countertop and pointed to the screen. ‘This,’ she said, ‘look.’

  It was her novel. A Family Affair. Live on Amazon.

  ‘Wow,’ he said, impressed, ‘it looks really good. The cover is very eye-catching.’ He grabbed her in a bear hug and kissed her. ‘Well done,’ he said, kissing her again.

  She couldn’t stop grinning. ‘It’s so great to see it there, Mike. I know there’s a lot of hard work ahead on the marketing side of it, but at least it’s out there and people can read it.’

  Shutting the laptop, she handed him the champagne and took two glasses from the cupboard. ‘Let’s drink to our success,’ she said. ‘I’ll be a bestselling author, and you’ll be the best bad-guy catcher.’

  The pop of the cork made them smile. West filled the glasses, handed her one and lifted the other. ‘To our success,’ he said, touching her glass with his.

  Edel sipped her champagne, chatted about her book and explained her marketing strategy; he nodded encouragingly without really knowing what she was talking about. He guessed, by the fervour in her voice, that situation was likely to change but tonight his mind was elsewhere.

  Bad-guy catcher. Enda Careless, Utibe Omotoso and Ollie Fearon. All bad guys? Or were there degrees of badness? It was the kind of philosophical question that Andrews would enjoy over a pint. He’d keep it for him.

  They finished the champagne before the casserole was ready. ‘It’s beef bourguignon,’ Edel said, taking the dish from the oven, ‘there’s a bottle of red in the cupboard, will you open it, please?’

  He busied himself with rinsing the champagne flutes, taking out red wine glasses and opening the wine. They didn’t speak, each lost in what they were doing until he sat at the table and looked across at her as she dished up the meal.

  He loved her; his life was immeasurably better when she was around. The ordeal with the photographs appeared, strangely, to have brought them closer as if together they could get through anything. And, thankfully, there was no more talk of her moving back to her Blackrock apartment.

  ‘I’ve listed the apartment with a rental agent,’ she said, as she placed the plate in front of him, surprised when he started to laugh. ‘What?’

  ‘I was just thinking you hadn’t mentioned the apartment in a while,’ he said, waiting until she sat down before picking up his fork and starting to eat. ‘Very good,’ he said, swallowing the first mouthful and tucking into the rest with gusto.

  ‘It seemed a shame to leave the apartment empty,’ she said. ‘It was tempting to sell it, but they don’t come up for sale very often so I thought it would be a good long-term investment.’ She watched as his fork stayed motionless for a minute and smiled across the table. ‘No, Mike,’ she said, ‘I’m not keeping it as a bolthole in case things go wrong. I love you, we’re good together.’

  He nodded and continued his meal. It had crossed his mind that was the reason but only briefly. They were good together. He picked up his wine glass. ‘To us,’ he said.

  ‘To us,’ she replied, picking up hers.

  * * *

  Next morning, Edel was still asleep when West came up to say goodbye. He dressed in the spare bedroom but he never left the house without speaking to her.

  She rolled over and smiled when he left. Things were good. Despite those damn photographs. Throwing back the covers, she stood and went to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, showered, dressed and bare-footed, she headed downstairs for breakfast. Since the photographs, she viewed every postal delivery with a feeling of dread. West had insisted on waiting until it had come for a few mornings, but at her urging he’d resumed leaving at his usual time.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she’d assured him. It was getting easier, but the slight feeling of panic when she saw the post lying on the hallway floor hadn’t gone.

  She scooped the few letters up, took them with her while she put the kettle on and slipped two slices of bread into the toaster. It wasn’t until she sat down with her breakfast that she sorted through them, dividing them quickly into his and hers.

  Two were for her. The first was from the estate agent she’d contacted about renting the apartment. A quick glance through the letter and an even briefer glance at the included contract had her putting it aside with a sigh. It was definitely something to go through after several cups of coffee.

  The second letter made her take a deep breath. She should have left it, called the gardaí, or at least called Mike, but instead, she picked it up. Using both hands, she flexed it. Firm. Photographs again? But this time addressed to her, not Mike. Holding her breath, she slipped a finger under the edge of the flap, eased the envelope open and emptied the contents onto the table.

  Four photographs landed face up, fanning out to tell their tale in full colour. Edel felt a wave of nausea hit her. She sat back, taking deep breaths, waiting for it to pass, hoping it would. Her heart was beating a rapid thump thump, her vision blurring. Afraid she was going to pass out, she pushed away from the table and leaned over to drop her head between her knees.

  It was a few minutes before she felt able to straighten, several more before the nausea eased and her heart rate returned to something near normal. With a final deep breath, she turned to look at the photographs. They were good. She was no expert, but they didn’t look like composites this time.

  Ignoring the subject of the photographs as well a
s she could, she concentrated on the surrounding details. Within seconds, her eyes narrowed and with a grim smile, she reached for the phone.

  37

  As soon as West arrived in the station that morning, he rang the Nigerian office and asked to speak to Ginikanwa Obayomi. This time he was in luck and was put through straight away. Keeping it brief, he filled him in on the progress of their case. ‘We’re looking for Utibe Omotoso now,’ he said, ‘he gave the name of a hotel on his tourist visa application but he’s not staying there.’

  ‘So how can I be of assistance?’ Obayomi asked.

  ‘Would you be able to find out if he has relatives here, someone he may be staying with?’ The sound that came down the line was definitely non-committal, so he rushed on with the other matter. ‘I’ve no idea what Omotoso did in Nigeria, or whether he has been involved in any criminal activity. Could you check and see if his fingerprints are on file anywhere?’

  ‘I can have a look, of course,’ he said, his voice not relaying any enthusiasm. ‘I’ll ring you if I find anything helpful.’

  Thanking him, West hung up. He’d not hear from him, he guessed, giving an irritated grunt just as Andrews appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Bad night, or is it already a bad day?’

  ‘Our Nigerian friend isn’t feeling too helpful this morning,’ West said, running a hand through his hair. ‘Did the lads have any luck with the search?’

  Andrews shook his head and perched on the side of the desk. ‘Not so far anyway, but they haven’t heard back from everybody yet. I did hear from the Kilkenny gardaí. I sent them a copy of Enda Careless’s and Omotoso’s photographs and asked them to do a line-up of both for that young lad, Buzz. No luck.’

  West shrugged. ‘There was never much hope there, was there? Right,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m going to get this blasted audit out of the way before Mother decides to come looking for it.’