The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  Jeffreys frowned. ‘Is this necessary?’

  ‘It’s standard procedure to get a statement from everyone involved. During the course of such statements we often uncover information that people don’t realise they have.’ It was a fishing expedition and would be the first of many in the case. He smiled gently at the parish priest. ‘It’s in all our interests to get this case solved as quickly as possible.’

  Father Jeffreys couldn’t argue against that. ‘Fine, we’ll be in tomorrow morning.’

  With a promise that all four would arrive sometime in the morning between nine and eleven, West and Andrews bid the priests goodbye and left. It wasn’t until they were sitting back in their car that Andrews let his breath out in a long, loud, ‘Whew!’

  ‘My sentiments exactly.’ West smiled. ‘I felt like I was back in school.’

  ‘Do you really think Moore might have gone to get absolution for his crime?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. Maybe he found God in his eight months in prison.’ He felt Andrews’ eyes boring into the side of his head and turned to look at him.

  ‘Why do I have a strange feeling I’ll be speaking to the Mountjoy prison chaplain tomorrow?’

  ‘Brilliant idea,’ West said, starting the engine. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that.’

  Andrews grunted but said nothing until they were once more waiting in traffic. ‘Do you want me to come to Dun Laoghaire with you?’

  West shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’d prefer if you checked in with the uniforms to see if by the remotest possibility anyone saw anything suspicious. Baxter and Jarvis should be back too. Fill them in and get them to start looking into the various connections.’

  ‘Will do. If Allen has turned up anything exciting on Ian Moore, I’ll give you a buzz.’

  West dropped Andrews off outside the station. He left the engine running and took out his mobile to ring the pathologist’s office.

  ‘Niall, it’s Mike West. Any luck in organising the post-mortem?’

  Dr Kennedy’s reply was unusually acerbic. ‘Luck has absolutely nothing to do with it.’

  There wasn’t any point in answering that, so West didn’t bother. He waited patiently. He’d known the pathologist long enough to realise Kennedy was simply venting the frustrations of the job.

  ‘It’s been one of those days,’ Kennedy said in a calmer tone. ‘And tomorrow is equally bad. Best I can do, is eight o’clock Wednesday morning.’

  Not as soon as he’d hoped but there was no point in railing about it. He knew Kennedy: if he’d been able to do it earlier, he would have done. ‘Okay,’ West said. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  The drive to Dun Laoghaire was slow. West turned the radio to classical music and thought of the ordeal ahead. The Moore family would have already been rocked by Ian’s imprisonment for rape and he was about to bring them yet more suffering. There were no words to make the telling any easier and there would be no way to stay outside their pain and sorrow. It would become part of him and leave its mark. It always did.

  The Moores lived in a two-storey Victorian house on Patrick Street. There was parking on the street immediately outside and West pulled in and stared at the neat, well-maintained house. It looked well-loved and taken care of. Double-fronted, its glossy black door was set with a brass doorknob and letter box, both gleaming in the glow of a lamp set to one side.

  West checked the time. Almost six. He took out his mobile and hit a speed-dial button. ‘Hi,’ he said when it was answered. ‘I’ll be another hour and a half, at least.’

  ‘No problem.’ Edel’s voice sounded preoccupied.

  ‘Have I interrupted your muse?’

  Her laugh was immediate, her voice more relaxed when she replied, ‘No, I think my muse has gone on holiday. I’ll see you when you get home.’

  West put the mobile away and smiled. A happy home life was the anchor that kept him from drifting. He looked at the house again and with a sigh, opened the car door and climbed out. He shut the door and stretched before straightening his jacket, checking his tie, and crossing the wide pavement to the front gate. It opened into a small, pretty, gravelled garden.

  A shallow step led up to the front door. He could hear the faint sound of a radio, or maybe a television. There wasn’t a doorbell, just the brass knocker. He picked it up and let it fall once. Almost immediately the faint sound from inside stopped, and a moment later he heard a key turning in a lock and the door was pulled open.

  The tiny woman who stood with one hand on the door, and the other on the collar of a large and mean-looking dog of indeterminate breed that seemed too big for her to control, gave an inquisitive tilt of her head. ‘Can I help you?’

  7

  West held his identification forward. She looked at it first with a puzzled frown, then took it from him and read the details.

  ‘Detective Garda Sergeant West,’ she read, and handed it back to him. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Are you Eve Moore?’

  The woman’s pleasantly puzzled expression changed, taking on a more worried look. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘May I come in, Mrs Moore?’ he said. He hoped there was someone else inside, someone to hold this delicate-looking woman together when he told her the news.

  Her eyes filled as she took in the implications. Without letting the dog go, she turned her head and called out, ‘Ben!’

  One word but filled with anxiousness. It brought the owner of the name hurrying to her side. ‘What’s going on?’ he said, putting an arm around her shoulder. The dog, alert to the change in emotions around him started to growl, a low sound that made the hairs on the back of West’s neck stand on end.

  ‘Sinbad!’ The man took the dog’s collar and opening a door beside him, pushed the dog gently inside. ‘Lie down, Sinbad,’ he said and shut the door. He put his arm back around his wife’s shoulder and addressed West. ‘He’s very protective,’ he explained. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’

  ‘It would be better to discuss this inside,’ West said, holding his identification forward again.

  The man peered at it. ‘A guard,’ he said, eyes flicking from it to West.

  ‘Detective Garda Sergeant West.’

  The man’s anxious expression was instinctive. West could almost see the cogs whirling in his brain as he tried to make sense of a member of the Garda Síochána appearing on his doorstep. It was never likely to be good news.

  ‘I’m Ben Moore.’ With a sigh, as if at the necessity, he looked down at his wife and they both stepped back. ‘We can go into the sitting room.’

  This large cosy room was at the back of the house. Curtains were closed against the night and a fire glowed in the fireplace. It was warm and inviting.

  Ben Moore settled his wife into a small sofa near the fire and with a final caress of her shoulder, turned to West. ‘Please take a seat.’ He indicated a chair the other side of the room and took the one beside his wife, reaching over to take her hand.

  West felt the two sets of eyes boring into him. ‘This is never easy,’ he said. It was a cop-out, he knew, looking for sympathy for his role as bringer of bad news. He lifted his chin. He never had been one to search for the easier option. ‘I’m afraid to tell you I have come with bad news about your son.’ He watched the truth register on their faces, the woman’s collapsing in on itself as if the heart of her had been dragged out, the man, more stoic, biting a lower lip that continued to tremble despite this anchor.

  ‘I am so sorry.’ Pathetically useless words were all he had. ‘He was found dead this morning in St Monica’s Church.’ That was all he was going to offer at the moment, he’d spare them the details and hoped they wouldn’t ask.

  It was always impossible to anticipate people’s reactions. He’d seen calm stoic acceptance of death, he’d also seen the loud wailing refusal. What he hadn’t anticipated was puzzlement as Ben and Eve exchanged glances and a brief smile.

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  West
had heard denial before, but never quite so calmly or with such emphasis. ‘It’s never easy–’

  ‘No,’ Moore said holding up a hand. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know who you think you found in St Monica’s, but it wasn’t our son. We spoke to him about three hours ago.’ He pointed to where a laptop sat on a small side table. ‘Via Skype. Ian is an engineer, he works in Dubai.’

  ‘Dubai,’ West parroted. It was tempting to ask were they sure, but that would have been making a farcical situation only worse. ‘It’s not often I’m lost for words,’ he said. ‘I am, of course, relieved for your sake that your son is safe.’

  Moore’s relief gave way to anger. ‘You come here and give us this terrible news, nearly frightening us to death! Surely, you should have had your facts straight.’

  West thought he had. ‘My apologies. Fingerprints were checked, the information they gave us was that the young man was Ian Moore and that his parents lived at this address. I have absolutely no idea how such a glitch occurred.’

  ‘A glitch!’ Eve Moore’s voice was scathing.

  It was a poor choice of word, one West regretted as soon as it was said. He ran a hand over his head. ‘All I can do is apologise. It is very unusual for such a mistake to occur. To be honest, I have no idea how it did.’ He waited a beat. ‘I hate to cause further offence but would there be any reason for your son’s fingerprints to be in our system?’

  Moore shook his head and replied calmly. ‘Ian was never in trouble a day in his life. After university he got a job with a big US conglomerate in Dubai and he’s been there ever since. Almost ten years now.’

  So, no reason for his fingerprints to be on their system. ‘It’s not much, but all I can do is apologise again and promise that I will find out how this–’ he sought for an appropriate word ‘–terrible mistake occurred.’

  ‘It’s very strange,’ Moore said. ‘I would like to be kept informed.’

  Promising to do so, West stood and with a final apology, escaped.

  Back in his car, he thought about ringing Andrews. Instead, he sat and thought about the body suspended in the church. A difficult case had become a lot worse.

  Who was the man? And why did his fingerprints lie?’

  8

  West puzzled over the fingerprints on the drive to Greystones. He pulled up behind Edel’s car, switched off the engine and looked at the light shining from the windows of his home. Tension left him in one long sigh. Home… it was so much better now.

  He and Edel Johnson. They’d been through a lot in the months they’d been together. From an inauspicious start where she was the prime suspect in a case he was investigating, through a series of crazy escapades involving kidnap, poisoning, a near-death experience in a cave and the targeting of her by a crazed woman, they had managed to survive. No, he amended, not merely survived, grown stronger.

  As he pushed open the front door, he heard music drifting from the kitchen and the smell of something cooking wafting from the same direction. It used to be that he’d need a whiskey to relieve the stress of such a difficult day, now simply coming home was enough.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, opening the kitchen door.

  Edel turned to him and smiled. ‘It’s grand, don’t worry, I got more writing done.’ She stepped closer and raised a hand to caress his cheek. ‘Bad day?’

  West bent to kiss her lips. ‘Good now.’

  He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, undid his tie and shoved it into a pocket. With his top button undone and his shirt sleeves rolled up, he was in full relaxation mode. He sat and watched as Edel fussed about and a few minutes later sniffed the plate of food that was put in front of him.

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘A chicken casserole is an easy one to keep for a while. It doesn’t mind being a little overdone.’

  West ate quietly for a while. When he looked up, Edel was watching him. He smiled. ‘Sorry, it’s been a strange day.’

  ‘You want to talk about it?’

  ‘Maybe later, first, tell me about your day. How are sales?’

  Thanks to a smear campaign by a forensic technician that West had met in the course of his job, Edel had lost the publishing contract she had with FinalEdit Publishing for her debut novel, A Family Affair. Instead, she’d decided to self-publish. He guessed by her expression that it wasn’t going too well. ‘I had two sales yesterday,’ she said. ‘Better than none.’

  And obviously none today. West wished there were something he could do. ‘Have you heard from your agent?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s emailed but I haven’t answered. What’s the point?’

  Edel didn’t like to tell him that she’d virtually given up. She’d lied about writing, she’d not written a word in days. The news about her sales too was a lie, there hadn’t been two yesterday, there’d been two in the last month. Self-publishing, getting the book available for readers to buy, was the easy bit – it was the marketing that she was finding impossible.

  Owen Grady, her agent, wanted to approach other publishers but only if she’d agree to write under a pseudonym. The compromising photos of her that had been sent to all and sundry had, he said, tarnished the name Edel Johnson. It didn’t matter: she’d promised to use the name Johnson as a tribute to the man who’d died as a result of dealings with her late husband, Simon, and she wasn’t going back on her word. Her agent had emailed her a few times in the last week, but she hadn’t read them. There was no point.

  She tried not to show West how despondent she was. He’d done so much for her. She knew he’d pulled strings to have that horrible woman, Fiona Wilson, given her marching orders. He said she’d gone to work in the US. It wasn’t far enough away for her liking.

  ‘Do you want to have a cup of coffee while we watch the news?’

  A glass of wine would have been her preference but they’d agreed not to drink during the week. She couldn’t remember whose idea that had been, hers she thought vaguely, with an eye to the calories she’d be saving rather than any health aspect. ‘Actually, I fancy a glass of wine,’ she said, deciding she deserved it.

  ‘That sounds good, I’ll join you.’ West stood and cleared the plates away, stacking them into the dishwasher while Edel opened the wine and poured two glasses.

  She carried them through while he switched on the lights and TV and they settled down on the sofa with Tyler, the chihuahua, curled up between them. She sipped her wine, trying to put her failure behind her. It was only when West sat forward that she focused on the television screen. She recognised the church straight away. ‘That’s St Monica’s, isn’t it?’

  West didn’t reply. Within a few minutes she knew why. A dead body. Almost on the station’s doorstep. He’d be involved. ‘Do you know who he is?’ she asked when the news report was over. It hadn’t given much information.

  ‘I thought we did.’ West took a gulp of his wine. ‘That was my last call tonight, to go and inform the next of kin.’

  ‘Never an easy task.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Especially when they weren’t.’

  Edel thought she might have misheard. She shuffled forward in the seat and turned to look at him. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I went to tell the parents that their son had been killed.’ He took another mouthful of wine. ‘They were shocked, obviously, but it quickly became clear that I’d made a mistake. Their only son is in Dubai. They’d spoken to him a couple of hours before I’d arrived via Skype.’

  Edel reached a hand out to squeeze his arm. ‘A little embarrassing.’

  ‘To say the least.’ He frowned, then drained his glass. ‘It’s a new one for me. They said he’d never been in trouble so there was no reason for his fingerprints to be on record so it can’t have been something as simple as a mix-up. Two men with the same name scenario. It’s all very bizarre and it throws us back a step. Now we’ve no idea who our victim is.’

  There was a long uncomfortable silence. Did he realise what he’d said?
Two men with the same name… a year ago, her late husband had been in much the same situation. ‘Identity theft,’ she said softly.

  He turned to look at her then and she saw his expression change. ‘Oh Lord, I’m sorry,’ he said, reaching for her hand. ‘I didn’t think.’

  ‘But you think it could be?’

  ‘My first thought was there had been some kind of cock-up but the Moores insist their son has never been in trouble, so his fingerprints couldn’t be in the system. The only other rational explanation is that our victim was using their son’s name.’ He raised the glass to his mouth, smiled to find it empty and put it down on the table in front of him. ‘It’s more complicated. Our victim had been in prison. His identification had to be good enough to get him through the courts.’

  Edel squeezed the hand that still held hers. ‘It’s going to make it a more complicated case, isn’t it?’

  ‘A bit.’

  Edel watched as his attention went back to the news. A bit? It sounded like this was going to be a very complicated case indeed.

  9

  As was his way, West was in the station before the rest of the team arrived. He could already feel a band of tension tightening around his head at the thought of telling Mother Morrison about the previous day’s fiasco. Before West faced that, he needed some information but 7.30 was probably too early to expect answers.

  In the main detective’s office, he emptied the dregs of the overbrewed coffee down the sink and made a fresh pot. Someday he’d buy some decent coffee, a promise he made regularly but never got around to fulfilling. He poured a mugful and, since there was no milk, drank it black while he perused The Wall. The previous year, during the complicated investigation into the death of Gerard Roberts, West had discovered that the large empty wall on one side of the office was a far more effective place to present their information than the too-small display boards provided. It had worked so well that it stayed in use. There wasn’t much on it now, but over the next few days, information would be added.