‘Your uncle says the apartment was never rented, so we know you lied,’ Allen said, drawing the man’s eyes towards him.
‘And if you lied about that, what else did you lie about?’ Jarvis added.
Ricci looked from one to the other. ‘Listen,’ he said, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, a we’re all in this together kind of camaraderie that sent the hairs on the back of Jarvis’ neck standing to attention. ‘Okay, yes, I remember the man. He came in here a few times for pizza, always on his own. If it was quiet, I’d sit with him, maybe have a beer if Luca was out of the way.’ He looked behind as if to check his uncle hadn’t crept behind him to listen. ‘Then, one night, he asked if I’d give him a reference. He wanted to move into an apartment and his new landlord was looking for one.’ Ricci narrowed his eyes as he thought back. ‘He must have known I’d say yes; he had the letter with him. All I had to do was sign it and stamp it with the restaurant stamp.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘I never saw him again.’
‘You did that out of the goodness of your heart?’
Ricci shot Allen a dirty look but said nothing.
Jarvis wondered how much Moore had had to fork out for this worm of a man to lie for him. More importantly why did he have to? He wasn’t sure there was any point in asking but he did anyway. ‘Do you know where he was living? Why he couldn’t ask for a reference from his landlord? Or was he still living at home?’
Ricci’s uninterested shrug didn’t surprise him.
‘Do you know if he drove here or walked?’
Ricci lifted his shoulder to shrug again, then stopped, his eyes suddenly alert. ‘What’s it worth?’
‘It’s worth you not being prosecuted for lying on a legal document,’ Jarvis said, guessing rightly that Ricci would have no idea that he was stretching the truth considerably. ‘Now tell us what you know.’
‘One night, it was raining heavily. I commented that he would get wet and I remember him saying he’d run home, that it wasn’t far.’
That was it. All they got. Moore always paid cash according to Ricci and until he’d signed that letter, he didn’t know his name.
‘There was no reason to know it,’ he admitted. ‘He was a customer. In and out. I forgot about him as soon as he left, never thought about him again.’
And he wouldn’t have remembered him but for the money he earned for the signature on that letter. Jarvis finished his coffee and stood. ‘We may have more questions for you at a later date,’ he said. He didn’t think they would but there was no harm in putting a scare up the weasel.
They settled their bill and Jarvis insisted on paying for the second coffees.
Outside, he eyed the row of shops. ‘I wonder if it’s worth getting a clear photo of Moore and asking around?’
‘The only photo we have is the one on his prison record. Eight years is a long time at that age. He was a boy when he was here, eighteen maybe. He’d have changed quite a bit. Filled out, bulked up.’
‘Might still be worth it,’ Jarvis said, unwilling to dismiss the idea completely. ‘Let’s go back, see what West says.’
18
When West strolled into the station after the post-mortem, Andrews was on the phone and Foley was peering at a computer screen. Otherwise the room was empty. The coffee percolator bubbled away in the corner. West hoped whoever had made it that morning had emptied out the previous days rather than topping it up. He poured a cup and tasted it and knew they hadn’t bothered.
He took it with him anyway. It bore scant resemblance to coffee but it was caffeine.
A minute later, he was grimacing at the taste when Andrews appeared in the doorway. ‘Learn anything interesting?’
West put the mug down and sat back. ‘Kennedy thinks the puncture wound was caused by a common screwdriver. There were fibres found around his nose and mouth. Looks like our perp disabled the vic by spraying something in his face, then finished off the job by holding something over his nose and mouth. We’ll need to wait for forensics to see if they can be more specific as to what was used. If it’s GBH though, we may not be lucky. It’s metabolised very quickly, as you know and some metabolism takes place after death. Let’s hope we’re lucky.’
Andrews nodded. Unfortunately, they all had enough experience with date-rape drugs for him to recognise the name. ‘We might be getting close to the how, but we’re a long way from the why and the who.’
West didn’t need to be told, but he bit his tongue. ‘Any word from the chaplain?’
‘I was on to Mountjoy Prison: he’s back this afternoon. I’ve left a message asking him to ring.’
‘Hopefully, he won’t feel the need to come here,’ West said with a grin. ‘I think Morrison would have a coronary if we told him more priests were on their way.’ He checked the time. ‘Let’s have a meeting at four, see where we are.’
‘Right, I’ll let everyone know,’ Andrews said and turned to leave.
‘Oh, by the way,’ West said, waiting until Andrews turned back before waving him to a chair. ‘Sit for a second, I have some news.’ He saw Andrews’ suddenly arrested expression and shook his head. ‘No. It’s not that! Edel has decided to write crime novels.’ He hoped his voice sounded enthusiastic. ‘Her agent has come to an agreement with the publisher. She’ll publish as E.M. Johnson.’
‘But you’re not crazy about the idea?’
West was about to lie, to insist that of course he was pleased for her but he knew the lie would be heard. He never could manage to hide the truth from Peter Andrews. ‘I’m wondering about conflict of interest, you know, if she accidentally uses things she’d heard or seen.’
Andrews ran a hand over his short hair. ‘I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again, you take yourself way too seriously. Lots of people write crime books, they don’t come to us and ask for a story to use, they use their imagination, and so will Edel. Forget all that legal hocus-pocus you learned and let the poor girl write whatever she likes.’
‘Woman,’ West automatically corrected. He hadn’t realised he was tense about the whole crime-writing thing until he felt himself relax. Andrews had a simple way of looking at things that always seemed to put things into perspective. Hocus-pocus… perhaps he was right.
Andrews got to his feet. ‘You’re hungry. I’ll get you a sandwich from the canteen.’
A cardboard-tasting sandwich with unidentifiable rubbery filling wasn’t likely to make West feel much better but he nodded anyway and picked up the phone to ring the forensic lab.
Stephen Doyle answered his extension number on the first ring.
‘You must have been waiting for my call,’ West said.
‘I wasn’t, and if I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have bloody well answered.’ Doyle’s gravelly voice was unusually testy.
‘We’re lost here,’ West admitted, hoping for the sympathy vote.
‘Well, we’re snowed under here.’ A long-suffering sigh drifted down the line. ‘Sorry, Mike, I’ve had a hell of a morning.’ The distinct sound of glass clinking against china, told West coffee was being poured. He’d been in Doyle’s office: it was small and untidy with the constant aroma of good coffee. His mouth watered at the thought; he could almost smell it. He pushed his half-drunk mug with its acrid contents further away. A moment later, a clunk and thump told him Doyle was sitting in his chair, then a loud slurp and a sigh. ‘God, I needed that. Okay, yes, I heard about your macabre death but I’ve no results for you yet.’
West wasn’t surprised but he was still disappointed. He quickly gave Doyle a precis of the post-mortem results and their current running theory about what had happened.
‘Hmmm, okay,’ Doyle said, ‘it sounds interesting. I’ll get the team to prioritise samples taken from the confession-box mesh and the fibres from around the victim’s mouth. But it’s going to be tomorrow at the earliest.’
It would have to do. Thanking him, West hung up.
Andrews arrived a few minutes later with a carrie
r bag from a local deli that made West’s stomach rumble. The faint aroma of coffee made him more hopeful.
‘Coffee and a sandwich. You’ll feel way better after both,’ Andrews said, lifting a takeaway coffee from the bag and peering at the lid. ‘This is the without-sugar one.’
He sat in the chair opposite and for a few minutes both ate and drank in companionable silence.
‘No forensic results yet,’ West said, wiping a hand over his mouth.
‘Didn’t think there would be,’ Andrews said, balling up the sandwich wrapper and tossing it in the bin. He missed and reached for it with a shrug.
‘Doyle has promised to prioritise the confessional and the fibres around his mouth. Maybe by tomorrow evening, we’ll have the how he was killed right and tight.’
Chatter coming from the general office told them that some of the team had returned. West checked his watch. ‘We can have a meeting as soon as they’re all back. It’ll give me a chance to speak with Morrison before he heads off.’
It was another twenty minutes before Andrews told him that everyone had returned.
‘I hope they’ve something to tell us,’ West said, getting to his feet. His hopes weren’t raised by the rather subdued air. No backslapping or loud congrats. With a sigh, he stepped up to The Wall. ‘Please tell me you got something.’ He looked around hopefully. ‘Okay, I’ll settle for anything.’
Jarvis and Allen exchanged glances. ‘We did find out something,’ Allen said. His Tipperary accent was always more pronounced when he was nervous, the words coming out in a sing-song, melodic way, the vowels stretched. ‘Not much, but a start. We were debating on whether to go back with a photo and canvass the area.’ He stopped, grinned and pushed a heavy fringe back from his forehead. ‘Perhaps I’d better start from the beginning.’ He gave a quick summary of their meeting with Ricci.
‘Okay,’ West said at the end. ‘As you say, it’s not much but it’s something. That Ricci character, does he have a record?’
‘One arrest for assault several years ago,’ Jarvis said. ‘He got a suspended sentence. Nothing else.’ He hesitated before asking, ‘What do you think about going back, maybe canvassing the area?’
‘Sallynoggin is a well-populated residential area,’ Andrews said. ‘And you’re talking about eight years ago. Plus, the only photo we have of Moore is a recent one, he’ll have changed a bit.’
‘I agree,’ West said. ‘Also, he’d acquired his new identity by this time. He was hardly going to stay in an area where he was known by his old name.’ He saw the look that passed between Jarvis and Allen and guessed that there’d been division over whether it was worthwhile. ‘Having said that, it wouldn’t do any harm to canvass the rest of the shops along that strip. If my mind serves me correctly, there are a few.’
‘Six in total. Plus a pub,’ Jarvis hurried to explain.
‘Okay, take a photo and check them out but don’t waste time on it.’ He turned to Baxter. ‘How did it go in Tedford Motors?’
Baxter gave them a quick rundown of their chat with Ronan Tedford. ‘All the other mechanics agreed that Moore didn’t drink. And also that Laetitia Summers was definitely slowing down and looking intently at the garage as she walked past, trying to draw attention to herself.’
‘Moore’s attention?’
Edwards shook his head and told them about the calendar. ‘Tedford thought it was a case of Moore being the first to speak to her but it’s hard to know.’
‘We went to Clontarf Garda Station to speak to the investigative officer on the rape case. I got the impression he wasn’t convinced of Moore’s guilt. Basically, it was a case of her word against his, and she, by all accounts, is a petite, girly girl and he was a strapping lad. Plus the taxi driver gave evidence that Moore appeared to be drunk getting into his cab.’
‘What about his blood alcohol levels,’ West asked, frowning as he tried to remember what he’d read of the case.
‘She didn’t report the rape till the Tuesday. According to Mitchell she was too distressed and only reported Moore on the advice of a friend.’
‘So there was no DNA evidence then?’ Jarvis asked.
‘No, she’d been so distressed she hadn’t washed any of the clothes she was wearing either. They were all available for forensic testing and Moore’s DNA was found.’
‘All very convenient,’ West muttered.
Baxter and Edwards nodded in tandem. ‘We think maybe Moore was set up, maybe because of who he really was. If so, it may be that Laetitia Summers knows the truth.’
Instead of the case becoming clearer, it was fast becoming more and more tangled. West tapped the side of the desk he was leaning against. ‘We need to be incredibly careful here. Unless, and until proven otherwise, she’s a victim not a perpetrator.’ He looked from Baxter to Edwards. ‘If things are going to go haywire, it’s best if I take the flack, so leave her to me, okay?’
It wasn’t a request, both men knew it, but as this was the outcome they expected, they were neither surprised nor disappointed.
‘Right and finally, the post-mortem results,’ West said. There wasn’t much to tell them so it didn’t take long. ‘We’re waiting for forensics to see if we can identify what was used. When we do, it might give us a lead.’
‘If we’re going with the theory that someone sprayed something through the mesh in the confessional,’ Allen said, his tone of voice clearly sceptical, ‘wouldn’t someone have heard or seen something? I mean that would take time and be noisy, wouldn’t it?’
Jarvis backed him up. ‘It sounds a bit unbelievable. The guy in the priest’s box would have to come out and go into the penitent’s box and shut the door behind him. I’m not sure two men would fit.’
West hadn’t given the logistics of their theory much thought; he did now. Jarvis had a point. He checked his watch. ‘The technical team are still processing the scene but they’re finished with the confessional. We could go and put our theory to the test.’
‘Moore was tall, well-built,’ Jarvis said. ‘You could double for him, Sarge.’
‘If the guy wielding the poison was working alone, he had to have been equally tall and strong,’ Baxter said. ‘You’d probably fit the bill, Peter.’
There was silence for a few seconds before grins crept over the four men who stood watching West and Andrews as they considered trying to fit into a penitent’s box.
‘Well, I suppose it was my idea,’ West said, resigned to making a fool of himself.
Thirty minutes later, three cars pulled up outside the church and the entire team scrambled out, nobody wanting to miss the sight of West and Andrews jammed into one small box-sized space. Even Foley, who’d been called back to robbery early in the afternoon, managed to sneak away when he was told what was happening.
The technical team were working at the altar end of the church so the area around the confessional was free for their re-enactment.
Edwards opened the priest’s box. ‘Here you go, Father Andrews.’
Andrews smothered a sigh and stepped inside, sitting on the small wooden chair. Although tall, he wasn’t bulky but he still managed to fill almost the entire space.
‘And one for you, Sarge.’ Jarvis opened the penitent’s box where Moore had been found. The technical team had obviously given the go-ahead to clean it. There was no sign of blood and a faint smell of bleach lingered.
West peered inside. The space was tiny, barely room to stand. He shut the door behind him, the space becoming dark and soundless. Awkwardly, he knelt as Moore would have done. ‘I can barely see a thing. Is this as it would have been when Moore was here?’
‘There’s a light over my head. It’s on, so I assume so,’ Andrews said from his seat. He pulled back the curtain that covered the mesh from his side and looked through it. ‘I can see there’s someone there but I wouldn’t be able to tell it was you.’
‘Same here, I can make out your outline, I wouldn’t be able to identify anyone. I suppose the anonymity makes it easi
er for people to confess their sins.’ West, who hadn’t been to confession since he was a child, shivered at the thought of kneeling here and telling a stranger of the sins he had committed. ‘Never again,’ he muttered.
‘What?’ Andrews put his nose to the mesh. ‘Did you say something?’
‘No, but let’s get on with it. Okay, so you spray something, and I collapse.’ West tried to fall back, but the space was so small, he didn’t manage to move far. ‘Best I can do is drop back onto my calves and slump either to my right or left.’
‘Okay, so then I come out of the priest’s box and go in with you,’ Andrews said, appearing in the doorway.
With West slumped to his left, Andrews stepped inside and pulled the door after him. It was a squash but it was doable. ‘I’d need to be quick, to get a pad over his mouth before he came to.’ Andrews pushed the door open and stepped outside. ‘I’d also need to be very quick or be overcome by fumes myself.’
‘He could tie something around Moore’s mouth and nose, step outside and leave it to work,’ Edwards said, as if they were discussing baking a cake. ‘Since confessions weren’t being held that night, nobody would go in. All he had to do was sit down in a pew and wait.’
‘He’d have done research, found out how long it would take,’ Baxter said. ‘Easy enough to find out those kind of details on the internet.’
West climbed out and stretched. ‘It’s doable, and there wouldn’t necessarily have been any noise to alert anyone. There’s really nowhere to fall in there.’ He looked around the church. ‘We need to get in touch with the sacristan. See if he remembers seeing anyone around the confessional that night. Or if there were any regulars who might remember something.’
‘I’ll take care of that,’ Andrews said with a nod.
‘Good.’ West looked at the others. ‘Look into both Tedford Motors and that Italian restaurant more closely. I want to know everything there is to know about Ronan Tedford and every mechanic who works there, and both Luca Esposito and his nephew. Someone knows more than they’re telling. They have to. I refuse to believe Moore kept his secret all these years without letting something slip. Find out. Meanwhile, I’ll visit Laetitia Summers and see what I can find out from her.’ He checked his watch. ‘Okay, go home. Start early tomorrow.’
The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 34