‘He’s almost decapitated him,’ Allen said.
‘Well, I’m damn glad he didn’t,’ Andrews said, bluntly. He’d seen a decapitation once; he wasn’t sure he could face another.
One of the ambulance crew came in from the balcony. ‘It’s brass monkeys out there,’ he said, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them.
‘Well?’ West asked.
He shook his head. ‘If we’d been a few minutes earlier, he might have had a chance.’ The other paramedic came in, and without another word they gathered their equipment and left.
Andrews and Allen went out to put a face on the man they had been looking for, returning seconds later, both faces sombre.
‘It doesn’t get easier,’ Allen said. ‘But at least he’s with his daughter now.’
‘They’re all together,’ Andrews commented. ‘Lesere and Careless. Abasiama and Omotoso.’
Remembering what the man had told him about Lesere, West frowned. The truth or a different version of the truth. They’d never know.
The pathologist arrived shortly afterward, raising his eyebrows when he was informed of the second death. ‘Enda Careless and…?’
‘Utibe Omotoso, a Nigerian. He was the father of the child we found in the suitcase,’ West explained, and pointed to the photographs of Abasiama and Lesere. ‘Careless was married to her mother.’
Niall Kennedy picked up the photograph of each, his face unusually grave. ‘You’ll have to give me the details when you have time,’ he said, replacing the photographs and turning to look at the body of Careless. He shook his head. ‘The landlord isn’t going to be happy, is he?’
West frowned. ‘Landlord? I was under the impression he owned it.’
‘No, it’s a rental,’ Kennedy said with an authority that didn’t invite doubt. He saw the puzzled look on West’s face. ‘I thought you knew his story.’
‘So did I. We were told he sold his house in Cork and bought this when he moved to Dublin.’
‘That’s partially correct,’ Kennedy said. ‘He sold his house all right, but he’d taken out a huge mortgage to fund the search for the child. Private detectives, it seems, don’t come cheap. When Lesere came to Dublin, which she did frequently, she stayed in the Shelbourne Hotel and spent her time shopping. The staff in Brown Thomas knew her well.’
‘How do you know all this?’ West asked.
The pathologist grinned. ‘The missus, Fern, she works as a legal secretary in the law courts, didn’t you know?’
West shook his head.
He nodded toward the dead man. ‘When they married first, he brought Lesere to a few official functions in Dublin. She made quite an impression.’ He glanced around before leaning closer and dropping his voice. ‘The gossip goes that she wasn’t always alone when she stayed in the Shelbourne, Mike.’
West ran a hand over his face. ‘To Careless she was a distraught mother who couldn’t live without her child, to Omotoso, a manipulative woman who only cared for herself, now you’re giving me a third version of her.’
Kennedy shrugged. ‘Does it matter? She’s dead.’
West opened his mouth to explain. Only the first of the three versions gelled with her suicide. Maybe Careless learned about her dalliances in Dublin. Maybe he’d realised he was being taken for a fool. West closed his mouth without saying a word. The pathologist was right. It didn’t matter. All concerned were dead.
They waited until he’d finished and until the garda technical team arrived and then with a nod to them, and a final look at the dead bodies, they left.
Outside, it was bitterly cold, but when West suggested they walk around the park, Allen and Andrews nodded agreement. An icy breeze buffeted them as they took the path up the hill to where, even in the winter light, the view over the city was lovely. For a moment, they stood lost in thought and then, without a word, they turned and walked back to the car.
39
Edel was in a different part of the city, outside a different apartment block. Her first instinct to ring West had been brief, and she’d hung up before he answered. This was something she could handle herself.
He’d mentioned where the apartment was, and if she had to ring every apartment in each of the four blocks, she’d find the right one. As it turned out, it wasn’t that difficult in the end. She knew it had views over both the river and the Park, and it was a penthouse. So, she quickly narrowed it down to four.
A sleepy, annoyed voice responded after several rings on the doorbell of the second apartment she tried. ‘Who the hell is that?’
Edel breathed a sigh of relief. ‘It’s Edel Johnson,’ she said. She didn’t have to say anything more. The front door buzzed seconds later; she pushed through into the foyer and headed up the stairs to the top floor.
Fiona Wilson, a thin robe covering her obviously naked form, stood in the doorway of the apartment waiting for her. Her eyes swept over Edel dismissively. With a shrug, she stood back and gestured for her to come in.
Passing her without a glance, Edel strode across the open-plan room and headed to the small dining area. She pulled out a chair and sat, her handbag on the table in front of her.
Fiona took a chair on the other side of the table, her eyes sharp and assessing. ‘It’s a long way from Clare Island,’ she said, as if there had been nothing between them since that meeting.
Both women knew better.
Edel looked at the petite, attractive woman opposite and shook her head. ‘Why?’ she asked.
Fiona laughed and ran a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ears. ‘Shouldn’t that be my question?’
Edel’s smile was forced. ‘I think we both know why I’m here.’
‘Perhaps you’ll enlighten me?’
‘I’ve heard about predatory females like you,’ Edel said, her eyes sweeping over Fiona as if at an unattractive specimen in a laboratory. ‘Women who are only interested in men who belong to other women–’
‘Belong?’ Fiona interrupted with a sneer.
‘For want of a better word,’ Edel continued. ‘Your kind aren’t interested in a relationship; the thrill is in the conquest. The more difficult it is, the greater the buzz you get.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Fiona said, standing and walking to the kitchen where she busied herself putting on the kettle. ‘Tea?’ she asked, as though this were a perfectly normal social meeting.
Edel shook her head. She waited until Fiona came back with a mug of tea in her hand and resumed her seat, before placing the photograph she’d brought with her on the table.
It was a photograph of West in the act of taking off his shirt, his torso lean and smooth, the angle flattering.
‘Women like you,’ Edel said in a steely voice, ‘don’t understand the nature of honest, decent relationships. You probably thought he wouldn’t mention being encouraged to take off his wet shirt, but he told me all about it. He’s too decent a man to have been suspicious, but women like you have motives for everything you do, nothing is inspired by philanthropy.’
‘Women like me,’ Fiona sneered. ‘What about women like you?’ She smiled at Edel’s look of surprise. ‘Oh yes, I know all about you, Miss Poor Little Victim. He deserves a more worthy, equal match than a spineless woman like you.’
Edel laughed. It was a laugh so unexpectedly full of humour that Fiona, who obviously expected to see her reduced to tears, was taken aback. ‘Miss Poor Little Victim,’ Edel repeated. ‘Yes, for a while I was exactly that, but d’y’know something, Fiona? I’m not that woman anymore. Now,’ she said, picking up the photograph and standing, ‘I want letters of explanation written to my editor, Hugh Todd, and to Elliot Mannion, the managing director of Books Ireland Inc., to inform them that it was you who made and sent those photographs, and that I was entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. If I’ve not had confirmation that the letters have been received within two days, I will take further action, and expose you for the nasty piece of work that you are.’
Fiona laughed, but for the first time she looked slightly less self-assured. ‘Who’d believe such a ridiculous story?’
Edel shrugged and picked up her bag. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few days, Fiona, it’s that it doesn’t matter whether there’s truth in the story or not, it just matters how forcibly it’s told.’ Her eyes hardened. ‘With Mike on my side, we can make sure it’s told very forcibly indeed.’
She left the apartment with her bag swinging from her hand, feeling lighter than she’d felt in a long, long time. Outside, she stood a moment taking deep breaths. And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw West getting out of his car.
He ran towards her, stopped inches away and looked at her. Whatever he saw in her face must have satisfied him because he nodded and smiled. ‘I was going to take you for a celebratory lunch,’ he said, ‘so I went home early. The photographs were on the table.’
‘She won’t be bothering us again, Mike,’ she said.
‘You’re damn right she won’t,’ he said, fire in his eyes at the thought of what Fiona had done. ‘I’ll have her charged. This will be the end of her career.’
‘No,’ Edel said, reaching for his hand. ‘She’s going to write letters of explanation to Todd and Mannion, it won’t remove the damage, but it will lessen it. She’ll leave us alone now, that’s all I want.’
Seeing his hesitation, she squeezed his arm. ‘Please, this is the best way. Not dragging it all through the courts and reliving it again.’
‘Okay,’ he said, bending to place a kiss on her lips. ‘We’ll do it your way.’
Edel reached a hand up to caress his cheek. ‘Thank you. Now,’ she said, linking her arm in his and walking toward her car, ‘you mentioned celebrating. Does that mean you’ve solved the case?’
‘It does. Let’s go somewhere and I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘And we can talk about that hotel in Aughrim you want to take me to. Let’s go soon before something else happens.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, with a reassuring smile. ‘Foxrock will be quiet for a while.’
* * *
And with that promise, he saw Edel to her car before returning to his. He stood for a moment before getting in and looked back to the apartment block where Fiona lived. He hoped he was doing the right thing in not bringing charges. After all, if he’d brought charges against Denise Blundell, Ken would still be alive.
But Edel was right. It would be a messy case, the photographs purporting to be Edel would have to be submitted in evidence and Fiona would probably get off with a suspended sentence.
He climbed into the car, switched on his engine and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. She’d mentioned being recently promoted. He wondered if that entailed a new contract. And a probationary period? His eyes narrowed, and he pulled out his mobile. Her boss, Stephen Doyle, was a decent sort; he’d have a quiet word. If she were on probation, he would make sure it wasn’t extended.
Fiona Wilson would be advised to look abroad. He’d make sure of it.
He’d get it done and he’d take Edel to Aughrim.
And Foxrock would be quiet for a while.
Acknowledgements
Grateful thanks to the wonderful team at Bloodhound Books, especially, Betsy Reavley, Tara Lyons, Heather Fitt, Ashley Capaldi and Ian Skewis.
A huge thank you to all the readers, reviewers and bloggers who read, review and share – it makes it all worthwhile.
Ongoing thanks to my brother-in-law, retired Detective Garda Gerry Doyle, for answering my questions so patiently – as ever, errors are mine alone.
Thanks to my writing buddies who help keep me sane – especially Jenny O’Brien and Leslie Bratspis.
And, of course, thanks as always to my wonderful family and friends.
I love to hear from readers – you can contact me here:
https://www.facebook.com/valeriekeoghnovels/
Twitter: @ValerieKeogh1
Instagram: valeriekeogh2
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Copyright © 2020 Valerie Keogh
The right of Valerie Keogh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Print ISBN 978-1-913419-94-3
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For Ursula, who wanted a fifth.
An Garda Síochána: the police service of the Republic of Ireland.
Garda, or gardaí in the plural.
Commonly referred to as the guards or the gardaí.
Direct translation: “the Guardian of the Peace.”
1
The detective unit in Foxrock Garda station was Monday morning quiet. There were a few minor cases ongoing but nothing to take Detective Garda Sergeant Mike West from his desk where he was staring at the latest of the unending audits devised by Inspector Morrison for no other reason, West thought, than to drive him crazy. The murmur of voices drifted in from the main office. It would be either Baxter, who’d recently moved in with his girlfriend, extolling the joys of cohabitation, or Edwards telling yet another of his risqué stories. Sudden raucous laughter made West smile. Risqué wins.
There was no sound from Peter Andrews. West guessed he was hunched over the rota, checking and double-checking. Andrews would look up from it after a while and send the team scurrying to work without having to say a word.
West wasn’t in a hurry to start work and joined his hands behind his head thinking about the nice weekend he’d spent. The day before, he and Edel had made the most of the unseasonably warm March weather and gone for a walk around Marlay Park, stopping in the café for lunch. It had been a perfect day. Edel Johnson. She was never far from his thoughts, hadn’t been since they’d first met almost a year earlier.
So much had happened in that year. Remembering the catalogue of disasters made him shake his head. Edel was trying to shrug off the most recent one… the loss of her publishing contract. The woman who’d been responsible, Fiona Wilson, wouldn’t bother either of them again, West had made sure of that. Last he’d heard she was in Chicago – it wasn’t far enough away. It was the best he could do but it was frustrating that he couldn’t do more.
The ring of his desk phone interrupted his thoughts. He glared at it, then with a sigh reached for it and picked it up.
‘West.’
‘I’ve had the oddest call from Joe Ryan, the sacristan of St Monica’s Church,’ the desk sergeant Tom Blunt said without bothering with preliminaries. ‘If I didn’t know the man, I’d have said he was drunk.’
West heard an indrawn breath and waited.
‘I’d normally dispatch uniforme
d Gardaí to do a preliminary investigation, as you know, Mike, but Ryan is a solid man, not easily given to dramatics and all I could get from him was you have to come. Whatever has happened, it sounds bad.’
Blunt commanded a lot of respect in Foxrock Garda station. He was also normally concise to the point of being brusque. West couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard him string so many words together. Joe Ryan hadn’t said much, but an experienced man like Blunt could read as much in tone of voice as the words. Maybe something bad had indeed happened.
‘No harm in us being first to a scene for a change,’ West said. It might be nothing for the detective unit to be involved in, but if he had a choice between doing audits or heading out on what might be a wild goose chase, he’d choose geese any day.
He dragged a reluctant Andrews away from his perusal of the rota and they headed off on the short drive to St Monica’s Church.
‘Is that the sacristan, Peter?’ West asked as he turned into the car park and pulled up near the front of the church.
Broad, shallow steps led up to the wide double doors, one side of which stood open. A man leaned against the shut door. His unnatural stillness and pallor were striking and told West clearly that Blunt had been right, it was going to be a bad one. He should have known. Blunt had an uncanny ability to sense when something was wrong.
‘Yes, that’s Joe Ryan,’ Andrews said. ‘I know him to see, that’s all. Joyce and I come to mass here now and then because Joyce likes the choir. Ryan is known to be very efficient. The sacristan’s role has grown over the years and nowadays they run everything. It’s him you have to meet to organise christenings… and weddings.’ Andrews waited a beat to let that sink in before continuing. ‘Basically, he runs the church. If you want to know anything about St Monica’s, he’s the man to ask.’
The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 24