The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘Did it work?’

  Edel picked Tyler up and put him on her lap, sitting back on the sofa with a sigh. ‘I may as well tell you everything,’ she said.

  There was more? The tension that had started to ease ratcheted up again. ‘I think you’d better.’ The sooner he knew, the faster he could do some damage limitation. He tried not to think of Morrison’s tight-lipped annoyance if he heard.

  ‘I asked her to photocopy something for me. I don’t know whether she thought it was beneath her or whether she simply couldn’t be bothered but she quickly passed me on to another library assistant. Turns out he’d do anything for her, totally smitten. I’d say he hasn’t a chance in hell.’

  West waited for more and when she stayed silent, he turned to look at her. ‘That’s it?’

  Annoyance jerked her upright. Tyler did what any sensible dog would do, he jumped off and headed for some food. ‘What did you think?’ Edel said. ‘That I’d gone to her and said Detective Garda West had mentioned she seemed to be a bad ’un and I was curious as I wanted to have a young woman like her in my next book?’

  He wasn’t sure what he’d thought. Truth was, it had been such a shock to see the leaflet with Marino Library stamped across it that he’d reacted rather than thought. He sipped the whiskey, tapping the glass against his teeth. Rather than answering her question, he asked, ‘What did you think of her?’

  There was silence for a few seconds. Then with a loudly exhaled breath, Edel rested back against the sofa. ‘I thought she was absolutely perfect as a model for the devious, manipulative young woman who is the guilty party in my book.’

  West finished the whiskey. ‘Yes, there’s something about her that struck me as being a little–’ He hesitated. The word evil wasn’t one he liked to use.

  ‘Wrong?’ Edel suggested.

  Wrong? It would do for the moment. ‘Yes. I didn’t believe her story about being raped. Not a bit of it.’

  ‘That library assistant, Marcus, obviously fancied her. His eyes followed her all the time but he said he hadn’t a hope, that he was too young and unsophisticated for her. But if that’s the case, why would she have gone out with Ian Moore? He didn’t sound in any way sophisticated from what you said.’

  ‘Cormac Furlong,’ West said, smiling to see her puzzled expression. All tension had gone. She’d not done anything wrong. As Andrews said all too frequently, he needed to stop taking himself so seriously. ‘I hope you didn’t throw out that dinner,’ he said, reaching for her hand.

  ‘It’s in the oven,’ she said. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Does that mean I’m forgiven?’

  ‘For the moment, it means my hunger outweighs everything else,’ West said. Getting to his feet, he reached a hand down for hers and pulled her to her feet. ‘Over dinner, I’ll tell you all about Cormac.’ Why not? They’d spoken about cases before and she’d been involved in some of the recent ones. It was how they met. Maybe it was the way it was meant to be.

  Over dinner, he told her about Cormac Furlong and his possible involvement in Gary Bolger’s death. ‘It’s all so much guesswork and theory so far though,’ he said, pushing his empty plate away and reaching for the wine.

  ‘It strikes me that it’s always that way,’ Edel said. ‘Remember on Clare Island, more information kept turning up, pointing you in different directions, then it was the person you least expected who was guilty.’

  Clare Island. How could he forget? ‘There we had a surfeit of suspects. Here we’ve none.’

  ‘But you think, somehow, it’s tied in with that daft calendar?’

  West took a swallow of the wine and put the glass down. ‘For almost ten years Furlong lived a quiet life, kept himself to himself, didn’t drink or get involved in fights. Then he’s persuaded to do the calendar and within months this unassuming man is imprisoned for rape.’

  ‘You’re thinking he might have been set up by Laetitia?’

  ‘She didn’t report the crime until three days after the fact. Too late to do blood alcohol levels on Moore. He insists he’d not been drinking but the taxi driver who picked him up insisted he was.’

  ‘He could have been drugged.’

  ‘That’s what his defence team argued but the jury weren’t convinced. Baxter and Edwards spoke to the investigating officer in Clontarf who said he wasn’t convinced of Furlong’s guilt.’

  ‘But he was found guilty,’ Edel said, horrified.

  A long sigh was West’s only answer as he reached for his glass. Miscarriages of justice were, unfortunately, not as rare as they’d like. ‘He was a model prisoner which was why he was released early.’ He tapped a fingernail against the side of the glass. ‘It seems like someone felt he hadn’t been punished enough.’

  ‘And decided to finish the job by killing him.’

  West smiled at her wide eyes. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t write novels about crimes. Maybe you should join the Gardaí and help solve them.’

  ‘Now wouldn’t you love that,’ she said with a grin. ‘I’ll stick to writing about them.’ She lifted her wine glass and clinked it against his. ‘It’s fun being a sounding board for you, though.’

  ‘You know you’re more than a sounding board, Edel. You’ve a keen mind. It was your idea to look for missing people, remember, and thanks to that we were able to find out our victim’s identity.’

  She smiled, pleased at his praise. ‘I like to hear about your work and I think it’s good for you to be able to talk about it, too.’ Pouring more wine into both of their glasses, she lifted hers and sipped, her expression serious. ‘What are you going to do next?’

  West’s eyes hardened. ‘I’m going to turn over a few rocks to see what crawls from underneath.

  27

  West left the house early next morning. The roads were Saturday-morning quiet and it was a pleasant drive across the city to Marino. He turned on the radio, increasing the volume when he heard ‘Nessun dorma’, relieved that Andrews wasn’t there to demand he switch to something more his style. It was too early to listen to Johnny Cash.

  It was almost nine before he arrived at Summers’ house. She wasn’t expecting him and the gates were shut. The Micra he’d noticed on his previous visit was in the same position. He could have opened the gate and parked beside it, instead he pulled up onto the wide pavement and stopped there. He got out, stretched, and looked around. Griffith Avenue was one of the prettiest streets in the city. In the summer, the trees that lined its length were lushly green; this early in the year they were bare, their knotted and gnarled branches stretching out dramatically. They suited his mood.

  He’d half-expected to find that Laetitia had gone for a run and was prepared to wait but looking up at the closed curtains of the bedroom windows he thought perhaps it was other exercise she was having that day. An older, more sophisticated boyfriend, according to Edel’s chat with the other library assistant. Or was that the impression Laetitia wanted to give?

  There was something wrong about her had been Edel’s conclusion. He’d thought it apt, but if Laetitia were somehow involved in what had happened to Cormac Furlong, perhaps his first choice of word might have been more correct. Evil. He’d long come to understand that such people did exist.

  The front gate opened without a sound. To his surprise, the doorbell was answered almost immediately. Laetitia stared at him, her fingers tightening the belt of a silky robe. ‘Was I expecting you?’ Her tone wasn’t friendly.

  He tried a smile. It wasn’t returned. ‘I’m sorry to arrive unannounced,’ he said. ‘I was at an early meeting in Clontarf Garda Station and I thought I’d call on the off-chance you’d be here.’ The lie was believable but he could see by the glint in her eye that she knew he wasn’t telling the truth. She was a much sharper woman than the impression she liked to give. ‘If I could come inside for a few minutes, there’s a couple of things I wanted to ask.’ When she didn’t reply, he added, ‘Unless, of course, you have visitors.’

  ‘No,’ she said, th
en as if remembering the wisdom of staying on the right side of the Gardaí, she pasted an unconvincing smile in place and stood back. ‘You must forgive me,’ she said, running a hand through her hair. ‘I’ve had a very restless night. Insomnia is a curse.’

  West followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’ He stood, his hands jammed into his coat pockets while she filled the kettle and spooned coffee into two mugs. She didn’t ask him if he wanted sugar or milk, handing him the black coffee and going through the door into the other room without a word.

  West, following her, watched as she sat on a chair near the French doors and stared out across the garden. She raised the mug to her mouth, blew on the hot coffee and slurped noisily. He sat on the nearest chair, put his mug on a coaster and waited for her to turn his way.

  She kept her gaze fixed on the garden. ‘Ask away.’

  He’d have preferred to be able to see any change in expression, but he’d learned to make do. ‘Does the name Cormac Furlong mean anything to you?’ West kept his eyes fixed on her hands, saw the automatic tightening of her fingers, knuckles white against the dark-blue mug.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Should it?’

  They hadn’t had DNA confirmation yet, but in West’s head there was no doubt. ‘It was the real name of the man who assaulted you.’

  She turned to look at him then, eyes widened, her mouth a perfect O, a masterclass in feigning a look of surprise. ‘His name wasn’t Ian Moore?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘How odd.’ She lifted the mug to her mouth again and slurped.

  West picked up his coffee and took a sip. It was good coffee, easy to drink black. ‘Do you get to visit your parents often?’

  If she was surprised at this change in direction, she didn’t say, merely shrugging a shoulder that sent a ripple down the fabric of her gown. ‘I’ve been a few times. It’s a bit too hot in the summer for me, too boring in the winter.’

  ‘But they’re happy there?’ When she didn’t answer, he sipped his coffee. ‘I’ve often thought about buying something there myself, but a guard’s salary doesn’t run far. What was it your father did?’ The question lacked any subtlety so he wasn’t surprised when her eyebrows rose into her hairline. He laughed and held a hand out, palm up. ‘Sorry, nosiness becomes a habit. I suppose I’m jealous: as I said, it’s something I’d love to do.’

  Her eyebrows lowered a little, her lips curving in an unattractive sneer. ‘Perhaps you should look at cheaper places, parts of Spain perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, unoffended. She hadn’t told him what her father did. It didn’t matter. It was something he could easily find out for himself.

  As fishing exercises went, it wasn’t catching him much. He finished his coffee, put the mug down and stood. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Perhaps, if you feel the need to come again, you’d do me the courtesy of phoning first?’

  ‘That’s my wrist well and truly slapped,’ he said. ‘Don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.’

  He didn’t rush, stopping in the hallway to fasten his jacket, his head cocked to listen for sounds from above. If there was someone there, they were being remarkably quiet. A free-standing, ornate coat stand in the corner caught his eye. It was exactly what he’d been looking for for his home and he took a step closer, admiring it while his detective’s brain was assessing the two coats hanging there. The pink raincoat was most likely Laetitia’s; but not the long, heavy grey coat that would have swamped her.

  West would have liked to have gone through the pockets, but a multicoloured scarf was stuffed into the one nearest him. With a sigh of regret, he opened the door and left temptation behind.

  He had reached his car when he had the distinct impression he was being watched and glanced up to the bedroom window. There was nobody to be seen but he’d swear the curtain twitched. No more than anyone, he didn’t like being spied upon and lifted a hand in a wave. The curtain stayed motionless.

  Laetitia was entitled to a private life. Entitled to a boyfriend, lover, whatever. But, as he stared up at the window, his sense that there was something suspicious about Laetitia Summers went up a notch. More theories and suspicions. He hadn’t learned anything new and still had no hard facts. A smile flickered when he thought of what Morrison would say if he knew. But the inspector didn’t need to know everything. He sat into his car, pulled out his phone and rang the station.

  ‘Forensics got back to us with confirmation. Our vic is definitely Cormac Furlong,’ Andrews told him.

  Confirmation was good, but it wasn’t a surprise. ‘Nothing else?’

  Andrews must have heard the frustration in his voice, his own more than usually calm. ‘It’s early yet, the team is chipping away.’

  ‘I didn’t learn anything new from Ms Summers,’ West said. ‘Who’s looking into her and her family?’ He heard a rustle of paper before Andrews came back to him.

  ‘I have Jarvis on it.’

  ‘Good. Okay, I’m heading to speak to the Moores.’ He checked his watch. ‘I should be with you late morning. Anything else I should know about?’ He listened to the details of a minor domestic that Edwards and Baxter were dealing with. ‘That shouldn’t take them long,’ he said, relieved. He needed all their focus on this case.

  ‘And Mrs Bennet was brought in again,’ Andrews said. ‘I had a word with her and her husband when he came to fetch her. The Parsons want it to stop.’

  ‘I bet they do,’ West said with a weary sigh. ‘Dammit, I meant to ring the bereavement counsellor Mrs Bennet’s attending to give her a heads-up and it went out of my mind. I’ll ring her later.’ Hanging up, he sat for a few minutes thinking about Ella Parsons, guilty of a crime she might never serve time for, and Joanne Bennet, a grieving mother looking for justice. Sometimes, the law was an ass.

  There was nothing he could do for either except make that phone call. This time, he wouldn’t forget.

  28

  Before West drove away, he made a quick call to the Moores’ house. ‘If I could have a few minutes of your time,’ he said when the call was answered.

  ‘We’re not doing anything more exciting,’ Ben Moore said.

  It wasn’t exactly inviting. ‘Thank you,’ West said. ‘In about an hour if that’s convenient.’

  ‘As convenient as any other,’ Moore said and hung up.

  The journey across the city was slow but uneventful. Slightly later than the promised hour, West turned onto Patrick Street. There was no parking directly outside the house, nor on the rest of the street and it took a few minutes of journeying up and down side streets to find a space. He checked his phone for messages. There was nothing new from Andrews, but his expression brightened to see one from Edel. My crimes are getting solved quickly, hope yours are too!!!!

  I wish, he answered, adding a love you before sending it. He imagined her smiling when she got it.

  Heavy rain hammering a beat on the windscreen wiped the smile away. It was a few minutes’ walk to the house; a dripping, sodden man arriving on their doorstep wouldn’t endear him to the Moores. He grabbed a raincoat from the back seat and shrugged it on.

  Ben Moore’s earlier unenthusiastic response hadn’t led West to believe that he’d be greeted warmly so he was surprised when Eve Moore answered the door with a bright smile. It faltered when she saw his rain-drenched figure.

  ‘Oh dear, you’re soaked,’ she said, standing back. ‘Come in quickly.’ Leaving him to step inside, she hurried away and returned holding a fluffy towel that she pressed into his hands.

  West blotted his face. ‘Thank you. I couldn’t get parking outside.’

  ‘Parking around here can be a nightmare,’ she said, taking the towel from him. ‘Hang up your coat.’ She indicated the coat rack behind him. ‘I made some scones. They’re waiting to be eaten.’

  West followed her into the cosy living room where Ben Moore was slouched on a sofa, a newspaper folded in his hands, specta
cles perched on the end of his nose. ‘Come sit near the fire,’ he said without standing. ‘It’s turned a nasty day out there.’

  West unbuttoned his jacket and sat. The fire hissed and crackled in the hearth. Eve Moore fussed around, mother-hen-like, Ben Moore directing her actions from his chair, and soon there was teas, scones, butter and jam on a low table.

  The tea was strong, the scones delicious. ‘Have another,’ Eve said, pushing the plate towards West.

  He’d already eaten two. Tempted though he was, he couldn’t manage more. ‘Thank you, I won’t, but they were probably the best I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘Silver-tongued,’ Ben said with a shake of his head. ‘I told her you were.’

  ‘It isn’t always easy, telling the tales we need to tell,’ West said with an apologetic shrug.

  ‘Hmmm,’ was the reply. ‘Well, you’d better tell us what you’ve come to tell us this time then.’

  West put his cup on the saucer, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a folded document. ‘I thought you might like to have this back.’ He handed it to Eve.

  She took it, unfolded it, and gasped. ‘Ian’s birth cert.’

  ‘We found it among paperwork in the victim’s apartment. It seemed a good idea to return it to you.’

  Her eyes shone. ‘Thank you. This means a lot.’

  ‘I’d like to say it was the only reason I came, but unfortunately it isn’t,’ West said with a smile. ‘Does the name Cormac Furlong ring a bell?’

  Ben Moore quickly showed he was no fool. ‘That was the man’s real name?’

  ‘Yes. He’d been reported missing by his family ten years ago. For reasons that are not as yet clear, he chose to change his identity. We’d obviously like to know why he chose your son. He must have known he was going away for a long period of time.’