‘No, it’s okay,’ Edel said, handing the pen back. ‘I’ll remember the name.’ West’s description of Laetitia had been accurate, she was a very feminine-looking woman, her voice almost irritatingly breathy. Edel remembered commenting that he made Laetitia sound hard which was a contrast to how he described her. Now, having met her, Edel knew why. There was something unsettling about the juxtaposition of the feminine appearance and the hard, cold eyes.
Curiosity made her decide to extend the contact. ‘Perhaps I could photocopy the back of it,’ she said, as Laetitia turned away. ‘That’s permitted, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course. The photocopier is beside the desk.’
Edel gave a throaty laugh. ‘I’m useless with technology, do you think you could do it for me?’
Customer training had done its best. Laetitia put the same fake smile in place. ‘Of course, if you can’t manage it, it’s no problem.’
Her mouth might have been saying no problem, but her eyes were saying why can’t you do it yourself, you stupid cow.
According to West, the librarian had said Laetitia was well-liked by the customers. There was no reason for her to be any way suspicious of Edel, so this unfriendly, unhelpful manner was obviously the way she always was. The librarian had lied. Edel wondered why.
As they approached the desk, Edel saw a change in Laetitia’s manner. Her smile grew warmer and more genuine.
‘Marcus,’ she gushed, resting her small hand on the desk in front of the skinny young man with a goatee who was tapping the keys of a computer keyboard without enthusiasm. ‘Would you be a darling and look after this customer for me.’ She didn’t wait for an affirmative, handing over the book and with a nod to Edel, walked away.
Marcus looked after Laetitia with cow eyes before looking down at the book in his hands, then up at Edel with a genuine smile. ‘What would you like me to do?’
‘I’d like the blurb photocopied, please,’ she said. It was tempting to say she could do it herself, but Laetitia might drift back as suddenly as she’d gone. Anyway, maybe she’d get a chance to find out more about her from this obviously smitten man.
She followed him to the photocopier. ‘Thanks for doing this,’ she said.
‘No problem,’ Marcus said. ‘It’s been switched off, though, so it’ll take a minute or two to warm up.’
‘That’s okay, I’m not in a hurry.’ She looked around to see if Laetitia was within earshot before saying, ‘It must be nice working in the same place as your girlfriend.’
Colour chased up his neck into his cheeks. Even his rather protuberant ears went red. ‘We’re not–’
‘Gosh, I’m so sorry,’ Edel rushed in, feeling guilty for embarrassing the young man. ‘I jumped to the wrong conclusion.’
The photocopier chose that moment to clank and whirr into life. By the time Marcus had put the book into place and started the process, his colour had returned to normal. He must have noticed Edel’s sympathetic expression; leaning towards her slightly and in a hushed voice, he said, ‘I really like her but even though we’re the same age, she says I’m too young for her and too unsophisticated.’ He held his hand out to catch the photocopy as it slid from the machine. ‘But I’m hoping she’ll eventually realise we’d be good together – if I play my cards right.’
As he took the book out, Edel wanted to grab his arm and warn him that the only thing that was being played was him. A manipulative woman was keeping him dangling for her own benefit. But she said nothing, handing over the money to pay for the photocopying and taking the sheet from him with a smile. ‘Thank you. I hope everything works out for you.’
She hoped he got wise before he got hurt. Laetitia struck Edel as the kind of women who had her eye on the main chance, not a woman who’d be remotely interested in dating a poorly-paid library assistant.
Hoping for one more look at Laetitia, Edel hung around the noticeboard for a few minutes, taking leaflets at random. A few were interesting and might give her inspiration for her stories. She folded them and slid them into her pocket alongside the photocopy. She’d turned to leave when she saw Laetitia coming from a room at the back. Edel hurriedly picked up another leaflet, pretending to be engrossed in it while she watched her from the corner of her eye.
Laetitia ignored Marcus, picked up a pile of books and took them to the other end of the library where she was out of view. With a last glance after her, Edel folded the leaflet she’d taken and put it into her pocket beside the others. It was time to leave.
Outside, the sky was still dark but the rain had stopped and she took her time walking back to the station.
She was glad she’d come, glad she’d met and spoke to Laetitia. The character of the evil, murdering female in her crime novel was going to be easy to write now.
25
In Foxrock station, the detective unit was busy. Calls were being made, fingers flew across keyboards, frustrated hands pushed through hair or rubbed strained eyes.
West alternated between sitting in his office and going from desk to desk trying to see some connection, some missing link or jigsaw piece that would make it all come together. This was the job, the long hard, often thankless trudge down one blind end after the other until suddenly you found yourself heading in the right direction.
But that hasn’t come yet.
It was almost four when he heard voices raised slightly. He cocked his head to listen, hoping it wasn’t an argument. Stress tended to strain patience. He stood when he heard the pitch of the voice. It wasn’t annoyance, it was excitement. In the main office he saw Baxter, thumping Edwards on the back. The only thing that could make them this excited was a breakthrough. ‘This better be good,’ he said, moving closer.
‘It is, it is.’ A grin almost split Baxter’s round freckled face in half. ‘We’ve found him.’
Their noisy excitement attracted everyone’s attention and soon they were surrounded by the rest of the team.
‘Get on with it,’ Andrews said, nudging Baxter with his elbow.
Baxter wasn’t a man to be rushed, especially when he had the limelight. ‘Well, as you know I was doing a search for serious crime with multiple offenders in the year before the Moores’ home was burgled.’ He jerked his head to where Edwards was standing. ‘When I said to Mark that it was going to take forever to go through all the reports, he suggested we cross-reference with the search he was doing, the one for missing men in the same time period.’
‘It made sense,’ Edwards butted in. ‘My search turned up over thirty men missing in the same period.’
‘And it worked?’ West didn’t want to rain on their parade but if they had information, he could tell Morrison. Make his day.
‘It worked.’ Baxter picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Three months before the burglary, there was a fight outside a nightclub in Wexford. There were several youths involved. One of them smashed a bottle and used it as a weapon.’ Baxter looked up from his notes. ‘Eighteen-year-old Gary Bolger died at the scene. Three youths were arrested but one was witnessed fleeing the scene. From all accounts, it was the lad who got away who wielded the bottle.’
West frowned. ‘Did they get fingerprints from it?’
‘Nope, the bottle was never found. The nightclub is right beside the river. They guessed it was thrown in when the lad absconded.’
‘The three who were arrested didn’t give up his name?’ Jarvis asked.
‘Yes, and what about CCTV?’ Allen added.
Baxter waved the sheet of paper. ‘The three who were arrested were in Wexford for a weekend celebration, staying in a hostel. They didn’t know the lad who died or the lad who got away. They also didn’t remember what the fight was about.’ He looked down at the sheet of paper. ‘Their blood alcohol level was almost off the scale and there was a suggestion that drugs were also a factor.’
‘A month later,’ Edwards cut in, ‘seventeen-year-old Cormac Furlong was reported missing by his family. Despite TV and radio appeals, they never heard from hi
m again.’ He reached for the photocopy that lay on his desk and handed it over to West. ‘This is him.’
It was a family photo. An older couple and three teenage children. A ring had been drawn around the middle child. A sullen-faced skinny boy with the acne-troubled complexion of youth, he was still recognisable. Andrews scrabbled through a pile of papers on his desk to find the photo they had for their victim and held it beside the photocopy. The years had been kind to Cormac: the skinny boy had grown into a well-built, handsome man.
‘I spoke to the Garda station in Wexford. They have DNA on file for the missing lad. Forensics are going to do a comparison; they’ve promised us results by tomorrow.’ He tapped the edge of the photocopy. ‘Not much doubt, though, is there?’
‘So what are we thinking?’ Allen asked. ‘That he was the one who wielded the broken bottle that killed Gary Bolger, and what? He ran away?’
‘I spoke at length to Garda Sergeant Sinnott who remembers the case well,’ Edwards said. ‘The two families, the Bolgers and the Furlongs, lived on the same street, a few houses away from each other. Gary and Cormac were best mates, had been in school together right through since infant school.’
‘There were never any rumours that Cormac was involved in his friend’s death?’ West asked.
Edwards shook his head. ‘Not according to Sinnott. Cormac’s mother confirmed that he had come home at least an hour before the attack on Gary Bolger because he’d found the nightclub boring. Cormac was, by all accounts, devastated at his friend’s death and blamed himself for leaving without him.
‘After the funeral, Gary Bolger’s mother had a breakdown. There were younger children, a seventeen-year-old girl and ten-year-old twin boys. The father couldn’t cope, and the twins came to live with a sister in Dublin.’
A whole community torn apart. ‘Then Cormac went missing?’
‘Yes. His parents thought at first that he’d run away; that he’d hear the appeals and come back. But when weeks passed, they began to suspect a different scenario.’
‘Suicide?’ Andrews said with a grimace.
‘Yes. He was known to be devastated by his friend’s death, it seemed to be a logical enough conclusion.’
‘But now we know better,’ West said, handing the photocopy back. ‘Well done, both of you. At least I can tell Inspector Morrison that we’re making progress.’ The tension that had grown had relaxed a little. ‘Finding out our victim is Cormac Furlong is a big step in the right direction. Now we need to know who killed him and how he got his hands on Ian Moore’s ID.’
It was almost to a word what Morrison said a few minutes later.
West smiled to himself as he shifted his shoulder against the wall. ‘It’s a big piece of the puzzle.’
‘We seem to be missing a few facts,’ Morrison said, steepling his fingers. ‘You’re only theorising that Cormac Furlong left Wexford because he killed his friend.’
‘Cormac came to Dublin and took on a whole new identity. I think it’s reasonable to consider he had a good motivation for doing so.’
‘Reasonable,’ Morrison said, his mouth twisting as if it were a dirty word. ‘I don’t want reasonable, West, get me facts.’
26
Andrews was waiting when he got back and followed him into his office.
‘Don’t ask,’ West said, dropping onto a chair.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Andrews said with a grin. ‘He said is that all you have?’
West laughed. ‘Not quite, but near enough.’ He ran a hand over his head. ‘He’s right, of course, it’s great to know who our victim really is but it doesn’t get us much closer to knowing who murdered him.’ He leaned back, tilting the chair onto its back legs.
‘You won’t be able to do that for much longer,’ Andrews remarked. ‘They’re replacing all the chairs with proper, ergonomically-designed chairs. Something to do with health and safety or some such nonsense.’
West brought the front legs of his chair down with a bang. Ignoring the discussion about chairs, he picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. ‘We’ll need to speak to everyone again. See if anyone recognises the name. I know St Monica’s clergy can’t break the sanctity of the confessional but maybe they know the name Cormac Furlong from elsewhere.’
‘I’d thought of that, plus the Moores might recognise it – or maybe their son, Ian. It would be worth getting them to ask the next time they speak to him. Furlong had to have known Ian Moore in some capacity.’
‘Knew him and burgled his house to get the documents he needed to allow him to take his identity.’ West sighed loudly. ‘It’s all speculation, Peter. We need to get some facts.’
‘We will,’ Andrews said calmly. ‘It’s early days. Don’t let Morrison get to you. He knows as well as we do that cases like these are a long trudge to the end.’
‘It suits him to forget.’ West threw the pen down and pushed to his feet. ‘Let’s get out of here, Pete.’
‘Are you going to Baxter’s party tomorrow?’ Andrews asked as they walked to the car park.
‘Yes, Edel is looking forward to it. We can pick you up, if you like? No point in us all driving.’
Andrews shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Joyce has already said she wants to drive. We don’t like leaving the babysitter too late so we’ll probably head home from it early.’
West stood. ‘I think I’ll head back to Fairview in the morning. Surprise Ms Summers and see if she recognises Cormac Furlong’s name.’
‘You don’t need me to come?’
‘No, you can have the clergy.’ West grinned.
‘I’d a feeling that would be my penance,’ Andrews said. ‘Tell Edel I said hello.’
There was a time West used to envy Andrews heading home to his wife and child. A time when he’d try to drag him to the pub for a pint rather than facing the long evening home, alone. He sat into his car with a smile. Now he was in that same state, or almost. For the first time, he wondered what it would be like to be rushing home to Edel and a child. They’d never discussed the future, or children. Maybe it was time.
Edel was in the kitchen when he got home, humming along to a song playing on the radio, the volume loud enough to drown his arrival. He stood in the doorway watching her.
‘Hi,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard over the combined noise of the radio and the extraction fan.
Startled, she dropped the wooden spoon and whirled around on her heels. ‘I was in a world of my own,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Thinking about the book you’re writing?’ he asked, kissing her on the cheek before sniffing loudly. ‘Smells good.’
‘Me or the food,’ she said, turning to kiss him back.
He slipped his hands around her waist. ‘My heart says you, my belly says whatever it is you’re cooking.’ Guilt flickered. ‘You know you don’t have to cook every night, Edel. We could go out or get a takeaway.’
She shook her head. ‘I like to cook. It relaxes me; sometimes it helps get a story tangle untangled.’ She waved a hand to the table where an open notebook was surrounded by papers and pencils. ‘My muse even responds to the sound of bubbling rice. I jotted down a few notes while it cooked.’ She turned to switch off the oven. ‘It’s almost ready.’
‘I’ll move your notebook,’ West said, reaching over to close it. The scraps of paper and leaflets that were strewn willy-nilly over the end of the table made him smile. She really was very disorganised. He gathered them together and opened the cover of the notebook to slip them inside when something caught his eye. Not the leaflet itself, but the stamp on the back of it. Marino Library.
He remembered how interested Edel had been in hearing about Laetitia Summers and felt a leaden weight in his chest as he looked across the room to where she stood dishing up the dinner.
‘You went to the library.’ It wasn’t a question, he didn’t need to ask. Where else would she have found it.
She looked up, startled, sauce dripping from the serving spoon to the counter,
her eyes flitting to the leaflet he held in his hand. He watched the colour drain from her cheeks, the slight tremble in her lower lip, her eyes darting from right to left as if looking for a way out. Signs of guilt he’d seen so often in the course of his work, it wasn’t something he wanted to see at home. Not something he wanted to see on the face of the woman he loved.
He put the leaflet on the table and walked from the room, shutting the door quietly after him. Slamming the door and dramatically storming from the house wasn’t his way; anyway, it wasn’t really anger that surged through him, more a deep disappointment.
Tyler was curled up on the sofa. West poured himself a large Jameson and sat beside the little chihuahua who opened one protuberant brown eye to look at him before guessing it wasn’t a good time to ask for attention and closing it again.
Half the whiskey was gone before the door opened.
‘I’m sorry.’
He didn’t look at her. ‘Sorry for going or sorry for my finding out?’ He heard her quick indrawn breath and waited for the apologies, the excuses.
‘I’m not sorry I went,’ she said, surprising him. ‘I’d decided to make the bad guy in my first crime novel a young woman… mainly because it was away from everything I’d experienced. Remember, I said I wasn’t going to write about anything close to what I’d been through.’ She moved to perch on the sofa beside Tyler, her hand sneaking out to caress the dog’s head. ‘Problem was, I found I couldn’t see the character in my head. I kept seeing Liz Goodbody and if I managed to shoo her out of my head, Fiona Wilson popped in.’
West turned to look at her. Liz had tried to kill her, Fiona had tried to destroy her. She’d not had much luck with the women she’d met recently. What on earth dragged her to see Laetitia Summers?
‘When you told me about Laetitia,’ Edel said quietly, ‘you made her sound fascinating and I knew I could build her into the kind of character I wanted.’ She reached a hand out and rested it on his arm. He could feel the warmth of it through his shirt. ‘I wanted to see her, to drive out the other women.’
The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 38