The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  Meanwhile, the family of the boy who had died were falling apart. Desperate for justice, Mrs Bennet started calling upon the Parsons, begging Mrs Parsons to confess what she’d done and to take responsibility for Milo Junior’s death.

  There was no happy outcome for either family.

  West stopped by Andrews’ desk. ‘We’ll head off soon. Mrs Bennet is out in reception. I’m going to go and have a word while they wait for her husband to arrive.’

  ‘I thought the Parsons were going to take out a barring order against her.’ The corners of Andrews’ mouth turned down. ‘Not that that’s going to stop Mrs Bennet turning up outside their house. There’s no solution to this, is there?’

  ‘None,’ West said, and left to meet the bereaved woman.

  Mrs Bennet, dressed in a heavy brown coat, flat shoes and a thick scarf, looked as if she was dressed for the elements, for standing outside the Parsons’ home for hours. In reception, she looked lost.

  West sat beside her, drawing a slight smile of recognition. ‘Sergeant West, it’s nice to see you again.’

  ‘You promised me that you’d try and stay away,’ he said, reaching out to take the woman’s hand. It was cold. She’d forgotten to wear gloves.

  Her smile faded. ‘I did try, but I didn’t succeed.’

  ‘Joanne!’ The tall, pale man who pushed through the door had sad eyes and a downturned mouth. He looked like a man who bore the sorrows of the world on his slumped shoulders. He glanced at West but said nothing, merely taking his wife’s hand and pulling her gently to her feet. ‘Come on,’ he said gently, ‘let’s get you home.’

  West knew he should stop Mr Bennet and warn him, yet again, that his wife couldn’t keep going around to the Parsons’ house, or accosting Mrs Parsons in the street, or in the shops, all of which she’d done at one time or another over the last few months. Instead, he let them go, making a mental note to ring the grief counsellor Mrs Bennet had been attending.

  ‘How was she?’ Andrews said, closing the computer programme he was using.

  ‘She looked dreadful; Mr Bennet looked worse.’

  ‘Do you think it would have made any difference if Mrs Parsons had pleaded guilty.’

  West jangled his car keys as Andrews grabbed his coat and pulled it on. ‘Mrs Bennet thinks what she wants is justice but what she really wants is her son back. Nothing Mrs Parsons does now is going to change what she did that day.’

  They reached Griffith Avenue slightly before ten. The front gate of the Summers’ home stood open. A Micra took up half the parking area in front leaving enough room for West to park alongside.

  ‘Nice house,’ Andrews said, and climbed from the car. ‘She lives with her parents, doesn’t she?’

  ‘According to the file, yes,’ West said, shutting the car door.

  The half-glass front door had a doorbell on the side. One push sent a chime pealing within. It was ten o’clock, on the dot. They expected the door to be answered promptly but after a minute, when there was no sound of movement from within and no sign of anyone coming to answer, West grunted in annoyance and pressed the bell again, twice.

  They were both peering through the glass several minutes later when they heard a breathy laugh behind and turned to see a petite woman in Lycra running clothes wiping a hand across her forehead. ‘Am I late?’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, I must have been slower than usual.’

  She took a single key from a pocket on the side of her leggings, holding it up to them as if she’d found it by surprise.

  It was a deliberately choreographed act, as was her late arrival. West took an instant dislike to her.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, pushing the front door open. She waved them towards another door at the end of a narrow hallway. ‘Straight through, I’ll make us a cuppa.’

  The door lead into a small, tidy galley kitchen. A window overlooked an overgrown back garden, tall trees blurring the boundaries. West and Andrews stood as Laetitia hummed under her breath, filled the kettle and took down mugs. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  West would have preferred to refuse but if it helped her to treat their visit like a social one, maybe she’d find it easier to talk. ‘Coffee,’ he said. ‘Milk no sugar.’

  ‘Coffee with three sugars and milk for me.’

  ‘I go running every morning,’ she said, spooning coffee into three mugs. ‘I go earlier some mornings.’ She chatted about the route she took while the kettle came to the boil. Nothing she said required an answer.

  It was inane, meaningless nonsense. It came to West suddenly, that she was playing a role. The dizzy blonde with a breathy, light voice. She’d have succeeded but for the sharp calculating glances she was giving them from the corner of her eyes.

  ‘We can have it through there,’ she said, handing them their coffee and indicating the door behind them.

  This was a bigger, brighter room, sliding doors leading from it onto a patio where several pots held skeletons of the previous year’s summer flowers. The only furniture in the room was a square mahogany dining table surrounded by four matching chairs but indents in the carpet near the wall told West that some furniture had been removed.

  ‘You’ve been redecorating?’ he asked, taking a seat and placing his mug on the coaster she hastily pushed towards him.

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  He pointed to the telltale flattened marks on the carpet. ‘Something is missing.’

  Her titter was irritating. ‘I’m not keen on mahogany,’ she explained. ‘There was a sideboard there. I sold it.’ She slid her hand over the surface of the table. ‘This too, they’re coming back for it later. I prefer something more modern.’

  ‘Your parents don’t mind?’

  Laetitia picked up her coffee and sipped. ‘They’re living in Portugal most of the time. They’re happy for me to make some changes.’ She tilted her head to the wall behind her. ‘I’m going to have the wall knocked down and make this one big kitchen-diner. Much more modern, don’t you think?’

  West did, it was exactly what he had done when he bought his Greystones house. But it was his house; this belonged to her parents, didn’t it? They’d need to look into the Summers family a little deeper.

  ‘I’m sure you’re wondering why we are here,’ he said. Her expression didn’t change. As if it was quite normal that two detective Gardaí would call on her. He had expected to have to approach the subject obliquely, to have had to tread carefully around a woman who was herself the victim of a crime. But he knew, with instinct borne of his years in the Gardaí as well as his years as a solicitor, that there was no need to pussyfoot around this woman. ‘I know you spoke to Detective Garda Foley and Jarvis but the investigation into the murder of Ian Moore is ongoing and we’ve a few more questions to ask.’

  She nodded as if she’d expected this.

  ‘Were you shocked by his death?’

  Laetitia sipped her coffee slowly, as if taking time to answer, then her mouth twisted, making her look older, harder. ‘No, I wasn’t. Men like him who cause such pain and devastation are bound to meet a sticky end eventually.’

  ‘You said you’d both been drinking,’ Andrews said, holding his mug between cupped hands. ‘Can you remember what?’

  ‘Distinctly. I was drinking gin and tonic. He was drinking vodka and coke.’

  ‘And he bought all the drinks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t buy even one?’

  ‘I offered, but he insisted.’

  ‘His boss, and the other mechanics said they’d never seen him drink alcohol, never mind get drunk.’

  She shrugged. ‘I remember what they said. It didn’t change what happened. He got drunk and raped me.’

  Andrews looked at her. ‘In a laneway.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you got a taxi home afterwards. Didn’t tell anyone until the following Tuesday?’

  Laetitia folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’ve been through all of this. Nothing has changed.
He was found guilty and sentenced to five years, serving a miserable eight months of that. Eight months,’ she said, her voice scathing.

  ‘And now he’s dead,’ West said quietly. ‘Murdered.’

  ‘You hardly expect me to be sorry, do you?’

  West looked at her. Beneath the surface prettiness, there was something hard and unpleasant. There was no sorrow. Was there satisfaction? Did she have a hand in the man’s death? ‘You were the victim then, Ms Summers; he’s the victim now. Obviously, we’ll be looking at anyone who had a motive for killing him.’

  She laughed. ‘You think I might have murdered him? I don’t know how he died, but I’m four-foot-ten, he was six-two. How do you think I’d have managed it?’ She stood and glared at them. ‘If that’s why you’ve come, you’ve wasted your journey.’

  ‘Sit down, please,’ West said.

  When she didn’t, standing there with her arms folded and an irritated crease between her eyes, he said, ‘Ian Moore wasn’t his real name. Did you know that?’

  He saw the lie in her eyes before she spoke. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t. What was his real name then?’

  ‘That’s what we are trying to ascertain. Do you still have a copy of the calendar the mechanics made?’

  Laetitia blinked. ‘No… no, I don’t.’

  Not what calendar or no, I never had one. He saw the confusion in her eyes as she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing.

  The calendar had been brought up at the trial. She’d stated that she’d never seen it, didn’t even know of its existence. West knew now, with complete certainty, she’d lied.

  He stood abruptly, startling her. ‘Thank you for seeing us, Ms Summers. We may have more questions for you at a later date.’

  Back in the car, he and Andrews exchanged glances. ‘You think what I’m thinking?’

  ‘That she’s a conniving so-and-so that I wouldn’t trust as far as I’d throw her?’

  West started the engine. ‘I was thinking that she’s lying through her teeth, but that’ll do.’ He waited for a gap in the fast-moving line of traffic on Griffith Avenue, pulling out at a flash of lights, raising a hand in thanks as he took off in the direction of home. ‘She looks to be spending a lot of money on a house that isn’t hers,’ he said. ‘I think we need to look into her parents and their move to Portugal.’ A minute later, he indicated and turned off the main road.

  ‘We going somewhere?’

  ‘I thought we’d call in to the library and see if we can find out a little more about Laetitia Summers.’

  22

  There was a small car park beside the library and they were in luck: there was one space available. Pulling into it, West switched off the engine. ‘I want to know more about her,’ he said. ‘From someone neutral. Who better than her boss?’

  ‘Won’t she want to know why you’re asking?’ Andrews said.

  ‘I’m sure she will. I’ll wing it.’

  The library was quiet. A couple of people were perusing the bookshelves; an elderly woman sitting in an armchair was reading a newspaper; one other younger woman was reading the noticeboard. A long desk at the back was manned by a young, bespectacled male with a straggly goatee. West and Andrews approached and stopped in front of him and waited for him to look up from the book he was reading.

  When he did, he looked at them with a dreamy smile. ‘Such a good book,’ he said, waving a hand in apology. ‘Sorry, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to the librarian, please.’ West hoped not to have to show his identification, the more discreet their presence the better.

  But the goatee-wearing man didn’t as much as ask his name. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Hang on and I’ll give her a buzz.’ He picked up the phone and dialled a two-number extension. It was answered immediately. ‘Someone here to see you,’ he said, and immediately hung up. He was back in the pages of his book before the clickety-click of high heels crossed the library floor.

  ‘I’m Debbie Long, the librarian. You wanted to see me?’ A small, plump woman with an anxious crease between her eyes looked from West to Andrews. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Is there somewhere we could talk,’ West said. ‘Somewhere private.’

  The crease between her eyes deepened, and her rather narrow lips tightened. She looked like a woman who was used to hearing bad news. ‘My office,’ she said, waving back the way she’d come. She looked down on the bent head of the young man behind the desk. ‘Hold any calls for the moment,’ she said to him.

  Her office was a small windowless room. No effort had been made to personalise it; the furniture was standard office fare, the bookshelves jammed willy-nilly with books. Only the framed photograph on the wall beside her desk said something about the librarian. It was a family photo of a relaxed quartet… the librarian, a smiling man, an older boy wearing a football jersey, a pretty girl and two younger, scruffy-looking boys.

  West brought his focus back to the woman who’d taken her seat on the far side of the desk.

  ‘What’s this about?’ she said, her voice tight, then, as if remembering to be professional, she gestured to chairs behind them. ‘Please, sit,’ she said.

  West and Andrews sat in the grey utilitarian chairs. ‘Nobody’s in trouble,’ West said, sliding his identification across the desk. ‘We’re looking for information about one of your staff.’

  The librarian picked up the identification and looked at it for far longer than either man thought was warranted. When she put it down, she looked across the desk. ‘One of my staff?’

  ‘We need the utmost discretion,’ West said, leaning forward. ‘The person in question isn’t in any trouble, it’s simply that her name came up in relation to a case we’re investigating. We’ve discovered from experience that the more we know about every person who turns up in the course of an investigation, the easier it is to solve. Links and connections,’ he added vaguely.

  Debbie Long sat back and folded her arms. ‘I’ll do what I can to help, of course, as long as I’m not breaching any of my staff’s privacy.’

  ‘I won’t be asking for any details that would be classified as private,’ West reassured her.

  ‘Okay, so what do you want to know?’

  ‘What can you tell us about Laetitia Summers?’

  A flicker of surprise was followed by a second’s panic before Debbie assumed a carefully neutral expression. ‘Laetitia? She’s worked here for six years. Diligent, hard-working. Customers and the other staff like her.’ Her hands were clasped on the desk in front of her, the pad of one thumb rhythmically rubbing the nail of the other. ‘Laetitia rarely takes a sick day either. Obviously,’ she said, ‘she took a few days off last year with all that went on.’

  ‘You know about that?’ West said, wondering exactly how much she knew.

  ‘That Laetitia was raped? Yes, of course. She rang me in tears and told me what had happened. I was shocked.’

  West waited and when she didn’t elaborate, said, ‘It must have been difficult for her to return to work. Tedford Motors isn’t far away.’

  Long looked at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘It’s far enough, and the mechanics have never used the library.’

  ‘And I suppose Ms Summers didn’t have to pass it on her way home, did she?’

  The librarian looked at him blankly. ‘Why on earth would she need to? She lives the other direction.’

  ‘Do you use Tedford Motors for car servicing?’

  ‘You wanted to know about Laetitia. What interest would you have in where I get my car serviced?’

  West held a hand up. ‘I wasn’t involved in the rape case so I never got to meet the man responsible. I simply wondered if you had done, if you’d met him. To get your take on him, I suppose.’

  She frowned. ‘I didn’t need to meet him to get a take on him. Laetitia is a tiny, slight woman, he was a big man, over six foot. She hadn’t a chance. Anyway,’ she said, lifting her wrist to glance pointedly at her watch, ‘not that it’s any
of your business but I live in Swords and get my car serviced in a local garage. Now, that’s all there is to say, really. Laetitia recovered from her ordeal as far as I could tell. She does her work. I don’t know anything more about her. I don’t see her socially. We’re not big into work outings here.’ She pushed the corners of her mouth up into the semblance of a smile. ‘In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her at a social event.’

  ‘Not even at a Christmas party?’ Andrews said, surprised.

  Long’s smile wavered and faded away. ‘I don’t like Christmas.’

  West was hit by the sadness in the words, and by the desolation that flickered in her eyes before vanishing, her eyes hard as she tapped her watch. ‘Well, if that’s all, I really do have a lot of work to do.’

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ West said, getting to his feet. ‘You’ve been most kind, that’s all we really needed to know.’

  ‘And Laetitia isn’t in any trouble?’ She tried a smile; it didn’t work. ‘She runs the early readers group: I need to be certain she’s not a risk to them, or any of our customers.’

  ‘As I explained, her name came up in connection with another case, that’s all.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s the tedious nature of our job to follow up all the links and connections we find and eliminate every one.’

  West and Andrews left her sitting behind her desk and made their way through the library to the exit. ‘Let’s grab some lunch,’ West said. ‘I saw a sign for a café before we turned off.’

  The café was busy but, as usual, Andrews spotted a couple who were getting ready to leave. ‘We’d take your graves as fast,’ he said with a grin, standing beside them.

  ‘No problem, enjoy your lunch,’ the departing woman said with an answering smile.