West shrugged. She was a slippery customer, but so far, not a criminal.
The apartment block was old. Despite freshly-painted doors and windows, it looked defeated and tired. Inside the front door, a bicycle with punctured tyres propped against one wall drew a tut-tut from Bonini, but it was obvious her heart wasn’t in it. ‘They’re told time and time again that they’re not allowed to keep stuff here,’ she complained, ‘I may as well be talking to the wall.’ She jangled the keys in her hand. ‘It’s on the second floor.’
When they got to apartment six, she removed a labelled key from the bunch, slid it into the lock and pushed the door open. ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ she said, standing back. ‘I have some calls to make, so take your time.’
‘Before you go,’ West said, stopping her, ‘Were you aware your tenant was recently in prison?’
Bonini looked at him with the same disarming smile. ‘What’s that expression they used to use in the US army? Don’t ask, don’t tell? As long as the rent is paid, and the tenants obey the simple rules we have, what they do is their concern.’
‘And Ian Moore always paid on time?’
‘Sure, even while he was in prison. Eight months, direct debit. Never an issue.’
‘And you never had any indication he wasn’t who he appeared to be?’
Bonini shook her head. ‘He gave a reference from his job and one from his previous address. Both were adequate so I had no reason to refuse him.’
‘His previous address: can you let us have that? And the address of the person who gave the reference.’
‘Of course. I’ll look that up and give them to you before you leave.’ Her phone chirped. ‘Okay, I have to take this,’ she said, her brow furrowing. She walked off without another word.
‘Pay your rent, we don’t care what you do,’ Andrews said derisively, turning to peer through the door into the apartment.
West was more pragmatic. ‘It’s a business. She wasn’t his mother.’
The apartment was small. A single bedroom, tiny combined lounge and kitchen and a bathroom. There was little storage: a small built-in wardrobe in the bedroom and two compact cupboards in the kitchen. The tenant had improvised; two suitcases under the bed held extra clothes, a rack in the bathroom stored towels. A small sofa sat about two feet from an over-large TV screen mounted on the wall. Everything was designed to make the maximum use of minimal space.
It was under the sofa that West found what they’d been hoping for. A slim attaché case filled with paperwork. ‘Eureka,’ he said, pulling it out. Inside, he saw it was crammed with a mishmash of papers. ‘We’ll take it with us,’ he said, zipping it shut.
Andrews shut a kitchen cupboard. ‘Nothing else here.’
‘Let’s go.’ West took the apartment key from his pocket and locked the door after them. ‘This place has seen better days,’ he said, noting the worn carpets in the common areas, the overall air of neglect.
‘I’d say Ms Smiley-Face only does enough to stop the tenants complaining and nothing more.’
‘Cynical but probably correct,’ West agreed.
Outside, Bonini was leaning against her car, her phone pressed to her ear. She raised her head at the sound of their approach and by the time they’d reached her she’d finished her call. ‘Got what you were looking for?’
West lifted the attaché case. ‘We might be lucky. Did you manage to get that address for us?’
‘Of course.’ This time her smile was only for him. She took a slip of paper from her bag and held it out.
‘Thank you.’ West’s eyes flicked over the address. He folded it and put it in his pocket.
‘A pleasure.’ She looked towards the apartment block. ‘So, what’s the story? Can I remove all his stuff?’
Andrews coughed, drawing her attention to him. ‘I assume rent is paid to the end of the month.’
Her smile faded a little and her eyes narrowed. ‘That’s correct.’
‘Hopefully by then,’ Andrews said in a voice that clearly stated don’t hold your breath, ‘we’ll have managed to contact a next of kin. I’m sure they would like to pack his belongings themselves.’
Deciding it would be a good idea to leave, West handed her back the key, thanked her again for her time and crossed the car park to his car.
‘Thinks she’s the bee’s knees, that one,’ Andrews said scathingly.
West threw the case onto the passenger seat and straightened to look at him. ‘It’s a tough business being a property manager. It looks to me as if she’s learned how to handle it.’
‘Remember the last woman who was making sheep’s eyes at you, and how that ended.’ Always liking to have the last word, Andrews climbed into his car and seconds later was pulling out of the car park.
As Bonini had already reminded West of Fiona Wilson, he hadn’t needed Andrews’ dig. It would be a long time before he would be able to forget the woman who had almost destroyed his relationship with Edel. He felt in his inside pocket for his mobile and pressed the speed-dial key for her, wanting suddenly to hear her voice.
‘Hi,’ he said when it was answered. ‘I might be a bit late. Would you like to go out for something to eat when I get home?’
‘No, I’ve it all organised. I’m doing your favourite.’
There was a moment’s panic as West tried to remember what that was. He was about to say lasagne, but there was an air of excitement in her voice that didn’t seem to sit with a minced meat and pasta dish. He decided to temporise. ‘Excellent, I’ll be looking forward to it.’
He hung up and tapped the phone against his chin. Things had been good between them recently but, despite what she’d told him, he knew sales of her book weren’t going well. He wondered what had happened to improve her mood. After what was proving to be a long, difficult day, he hoped that whatever she had to tell him was going to be something he could respond to with a simple nod and smile.
Andrews was already sitting at his desk by the time West got back to the station, the rest of the team standing beside the percolator, sipping the coffee that by this time of the day had taken on a greyish tinge.
‘Right,’ he said, dropping the attaché case on Andrews’ desk before turning to look at them. ‘It’s getting late. Tell me we’ve got something so that I can send Morrison home happy.’
Seamus Baxter propped his hip on a corner of a desk. ‘I’ve been looking into anything I can find on our four priests. Jeffreys, Maher and Dillon have been in the parish for several years. There’s nothing out of the usual with any of them. McComb has been more difficult.’
West raised an eyebrow. The Catholic Church had been wracked with scandal, allegations of cover-ups over child abuse claims. He hoped they weren’t going down that road: child abuse was a harrowing crime to investigate.
Baxter ran a hand through his ginger hair causing it to stand up in spikes. ‘McComb has only been in the parish for a few months. Before that he was in Clontarf for six months, before that in Donabate for a little over a year, and before that in Rathmines for eight months.’ He looked up from the sheet of paper he was holding. ‘I could go on. Bottom line is, he never stays long in any one place.’
Did it have something to do with the murder in the church? Or was it one of those annoying details that needed to be followed up but went nowhere. Until they looked into it, they couldn’t be sure. ‘Okay, leave that with me, I’ll have another word with Father Jeffreys. As the parish priest, he’s bound to know McComb’s story. It might be nothing to do with what happened.’ He looked to where Sam Jarvis and Declan Foley were standing. He could tell by their expressions they’d nothing to add.
‘You spoke to Miss Summers?’
It was Foley who answered. ‘We were in luck, she was on a half-day from her job in the library. She wasn’t too pleased to see us, said she was trying to put it all behind her.’
‘When we told her that Ian Moore had been killed, she didn’t look surprised, in fact, she looked a bit odd. I thought we were
onto something,’ Jarvis chimed in.
Foley took over with, ‘She said she was sorry he was dead–’
‘And she looked genuinely sorry–’ Jarvis said.
‘But it turns out her sorrow was only because she dreamed about killing him herself and now she’d never be able to,’ Foley finished.
West held up his hand. ‘Please, one of you tell me the rest and save the double-act for another day.’
Jarvis grinned. ‘There’s not much else to say. Her parents live in Portugal. She’s an only child. She swears there’s no boyfriend on the scene.’
‘She was quite bitter when she said the last,’ Foley added.
West wasn’t surprised. Moore had had an eight-month prison sentence, hers, as always was the way, was a lifetime one. ‘Tell me you learned something in Mountjoy,’ he said to Andrews, anticipating his headshake. Had there been something to tell him, Andrews wouldn’t have been able to keep it quiet till then.
‘Moore was a model prisoner, kept to himself, didn’t get involved with anything or anyone. The administrator wasn’t sure if he’d been in contact with the prison chaplain. I left a message for him to contact me when he gets back from the retreat he’s on.’ He lifted some of the papers from the pile he’d pulled from the attaché case. ‘I don’t think we’re going to find much of interest here either. Seems to be every utility bill he’s ever had. Apart from this.’ He handed a sheet of paper to West.
West read it with a frown that quickly cleared. ‘Ian Moore’s birth certificate. Mrs Moore will be pleased.’ He looked up at his team. ‘Inspector Morrison won’t be though. Okay, first thing in the morning, Baxter and Edwards, you two head out to our vic’s place of work. I want everyone he worked with spoken to. I’m surprised they kept his job for him while he was in prison, find out why. Question his employer, workmates, customers if necessary. I want to know who this guy is. Someone has to know something.’ He reached into his pocket for the address the landlord had given him and handed it to Jarvis.
‘You and Allen look into this reference he gave the landlord eight years ago. Our vic didn’t simply wake up one morning and decide to change his name.’ He waited for their nod before turning to Foley who was standing to one side with a hopeful expression. ‘Unless something dramatic happens in robbery, stay here and do a search on the real Ian Moore and see what you can find on him.’
He pointed towards The Wall. ‘Tomorrow, I want that filled with information. Now, go home, you don’t want to hear Inspector Morrison’s screams of frustration.’
Grinning, the team headed off, leaving West and Andrews standing staring at the photo of their victim. ‘A strange one,’ West murmured.
‘Another strange one,’ Andrews said. ‘You always say you like complicated cases: seems like you’ve gone and got another one.’ He perched on the side of a desk. ‘You want me to go to the post-mortem with you in the morning?’
West shook his head. ‘There’s no need. I’ll be back by mid-morning. I’ll leave you here to protect Mother in case any of the clergy call around.’
13
West had been joking but a short conversation moments later with Inspector Morrison told him that his or Andrews’ presence in the station was going to be necessary while this case was ongoing.
‘I don’t want to be bothered with their sanctimonious claptrap,’ the inspector said. ‘Especially since I’ve nothing to tell them.’
Since this was a dig at their lack of progress in the case, West bit back a groan. Sometimes, it suited Morrison to forget he’d worked his way up the ranks.
‘I’m heading to the post-mortem in the morning, but Andrews will be here. He has a close relationship with the church.’ The last was an exaggeration but he didn’t want Morrison to insist that he stay in the station while Andrews went to the post. He’d not left a much more lucrative job as a solicitor to sit behind a desk doing paperwork, not even to make Morrison happy. He kept his expression carefully neutral as the inspector’s hairy eyebrows met in a frown as if trying to decide if wool was being pulled over his eyes.
Finally, the brows parted and he nodded slightly. ‘Fine, get some damn answers so we can get this case closed. As soon as, okay?’
Yes, West would work miracles and conjure information out of nowhere. He swallowed his irritation, assured the inspector he’d do his best to have the case sorted as early as possible and left the office.
Back in the main office, West wasn’t surprised that Andrews had gone. He gave The Wall a final glance before nodding a greeting to the late shift and heading for home.
Outside his house, a sense of contentment sneaked over him and pushed away the stresses of the day. His life was good, probably better than it had ever been. Andrews wasn’t the first to have dropped hints about marriage; his mother had been making pointed remarks, his sister, always less subtle, asked him what he was waiting for.
He’d brushed her off with a careless laugh but he knew what his answer was – he was waiting for a period of peace and stability. Ever since he and Edel had met it had been one catastrophe after the other; kidnapping, murder attempts, poisoning. They’d survived it all; it had probably made them stronger. But the mundanity of living together, day after day, the sameness of it all, could they survive that? He had to be sure before taking the next step. Overly cautious, perhaps, but it was the way he was.
A smell of food drifted towards him when he opened the front door. His stomach growled in response, reminding him that he’d once again missed lunch. ‘Hi,’ he said, pushing open the kitchen door, smiling to see Edel’s intense concentration on whatever it was she was stirring so rapidly.
‘Sauce,’ she said, lifting a wooden spoon. ‘If I stop for even a second it will end up lumpy.’
West kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Can I do anything to help?’
‘You can open the wine,’ Edel said, tilting her chin to where a bottle of red stood on the counter.
West picked it up, an eyebrow rising when he saw what it was. ‘Very nice.’ Edel seemed brighter, more animated than she’d been in a while. He didn’t have to be a detective to know she was bubbling with news. ‘You sounded excited on the phone. Are we celebrating something?’
‘Wait till we’re sitting down,’ she said, removing the pot from the hob and pouring the sauce into a jug. ‘It’s all ready. Sit.’
Doing as he was told, he sat at the table and opened the wine. ‘Very nice,’ he said when a plate was put in front of him. Fillet steak. So that was his favourite!
‘And pepper sauce.’ Edel placed the jug within reach and took her seat.
Edel considered how she would tell her tale. It seemed better to skip her fear at seeing the man on her doorstep and cut to the good news. ‘Remember I said I’d been getting emails from Owen Grady but hadn’t bothered to answer?’ She waited for the nod before continuing. ‘I decided to visit him today. A spur-of-the-moment decision. I wanted to put that part of my life behind me.’
She saw his expression flicker a little. He was probably thinking that she’d had to do that so many times. That her life was a series of catastrophes that any sane woman would want to forget. But instead of commenting, he cut into his steak, jabbed a fork into the meat and held it there, waiting for her to continue.
She shook off the twinge of irritation. It was probably the same way he dealt with criminals he was interviewing… giving them space to hang themselves. ‘It seems,’ she explained, ‘that I’m still under contract. Owen wants to remain as my agent.’
That did bring a reaction. ‘Really? I thought he wasn’t interested since you wouldn’t publish under a pseudonym.’
‘He’s not a well-regarded agent for nothing.’ Edel poured a tiny puddle of sauce onto the corner of her plate. ‘He had an idea. That’s why he’s been emailing me but because I’d never read them, I wasn’t aware of what he was doing.’
‘Which was?’
‘He’d spoken to my publisher, Hugh Todd and the managing director of Books In
c–’
‘Elliot Mannion?’
‘Yes, I forgot you’d met him. Anyway, Owen went to them both with a proposition. They gave it some consideration and decided it would work.’ She cut a piece of her fillet and pushed it through the sauce before putting it into her mouth, chewing slowly. The idea was so simple, she was surprised she hadn’t come up with it herself. She’d promised to keep using the name Johnson in memory of the man who lost his life because of her late husband. Now it seemed she’d be able to keep that promise and still have a career as a writer. ‘It’s easy really,’ she said with a smile. ‘Owen suggested I use the initials of my first and middle name. E.M. Johnson.’ Her smile grew wider. ‘It will work even better, actually, since I’ve decided I’m finished with writing family sagas. I want to write a crime series.’
His horrified reaction was what she’d expected. ‘I thought you didn’t want to write crime, that you wanted to escape from the reality of it all.’
It was almost exactly what she’d said. Edel speared a piece of carrot, swirled it around the sauce and popped it into her mouth. ‘That was after that awful experience with Adam Fletcher but since then…’ She placed her cutlery carefully on the plate and pushed it away. ‘I’ve nearly been killed twice and met some terribly dangerous and some extraordinary people. It’s made me think about the secrets they hide and the crimes they commit.’ She tilted her head to look at him. ‘Perhaps I see now why you love being a detective – you solve a puzzle. But I can go one better, Mike, I can make up the crimes, then solve them.’
She reached a hand out and laid it on his arm. ‘You’re worrying that you won’t be able to talk about your work when you come home, that I might use it in my books. I won’t, Mike, I promise. I have enough of an imagination to be able to make up my stories.’
Doubt coloured his eyes, making them hard. The cheerful, celebratory atmosphere was going to be ruined if she didn’t lighten the mood.
The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 31