The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘The group was small, four people all with sad tales to tell. Pa didn’t have any comment to make on the relative who died of a heart attack or the sister who died from drowning but he was very interested in the other two, the man whose daughter died when her boyfriend crashed the car while speeding and the man whose brother died from an overdose. Both men spoke about wanting revenge. I waited for Pa to tell them that revenge was wrong.’

  She shook her head, remembering the fanatic tone of his voice. ‘Instead, he seemed to encourage them, speaking slowly, emphatically… fanatically… and said that we lived in a world where perpetrators of crimes wrecked lives and went unpunished, or with a punishment that didn’t meet the crime.’ She looked around the room. ‘He made no attempt to counsel them or advise them that revenge was wrong.’

  Edel turned to meet West’s carefully-neutral gaze. ‘When I left, I waited across the street pretending to be using my mobile and watched them leave. Pa and Arthur – the man whose daughter died – were last out.’ There was no change in West’s expression; she blinked and looked away. ‘The street isn’t very wide, but Pa was so engrossed in whatever he was saying and Arthur was so intent on taking it all in that they didn’t notice me. Pa had a grip on Arthur’s arm, he seemed to shake it as if he was making a point and Arthur… he kept nodding as if he agreed with everything that was being said.

  ‘And that’s it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t follow him,’ Jarvis muttered without thinking.

  ‘Edel doesn’t work for the Garda Síochána, Jarvis, and I think she’s done enough of our work for us for one day.’ West’s voice was sharp enough to bring a flush of colour to the young detective’s face and an exchange of glances between the others.

  Andrews jumped into the silence that followed. ‘That’s all very helpful, Edel. Could you describe this Pa for us, best as you can?’

  ‘A slim man, a few inches taller than me, maybe five ten. Short, mousy-brown hair. Pleasant-looking, I suppose, but the kind of face you’d forget quickly. He became more animated when he spoke about justice and his eyes became a bit manic.’

  ‘Robert is on his way in to work with Mr Bennet on getting a sketch of him,’ Baxter reminded them. ‘Maybe between him, Bolger and Edel we’ll be able to get a good likeness.’

  ‘I’m happy to help,’ Edel agreed. At the edge of her vision, she saw West moving restlessly. He’d prefer her to be gone, she knew, but the detective in him was caught. Getting a third person’s input into the sketch could only help.

  ‘Anyone any idea what Pa could be short for?’ Andrews said, breaking the sudden tension in the room. ‘I was thinking Patrick or Pascal. Anyone heard it used as a diminutive for any other name?’

  ‘Pa,’ Allen repeated with a shake of his head. ‘I can’t think of anything.’

  Edel looked at him. ‘Say that again.’

  Mick Allen, who’d never lost his Tipperary accent, smiled. ‘Pa,’ he said obligingly.

  ‘That’s it,’ Edel said, turning to look at West with an excited expression. ‘He didn’t introduce himself as Pa, the way we’ve been saying it, but as Pa, the way Mick says it.’ She looked around at them. ‘Don’t you see? It’s Pa, as in father.’

  38

  West looked at Edel’s excited face and nodded. Pa, as in father. Father as in priest? One of the priests from St Monica’s?

  Baxter was first to move. He sat in front of his computer, and after a few seconds’ rapid tapping, sat back. ‘Here you go, a photo of the priests of St Monica’s Parish taken just a few months ago.’

  West put a hand on Edel’s shoulder. ‘Have a look and see if you recognise him,’ he said quietly and stayed close to her as she peered over Baxter’s shoulder to look at the screen.

  ‘Hang on, I’ll enlarge the image,’ Baxter said, tapping some more. ‘There you go.’

  Edel lifted a finger and pointed. ‘That’s him. That’s Pa. Not a shred of doubt.’

  ‘Father McComb,’ Baxter said, reading the list of names underneath the image.

  Andrews slapped his hand on a desk. ‘Father McComb. He was moved from parish to parish because he scared people with his fire and brimstone lectures. I heard him once, he sounded a bit fanatical. Maybe there was more to it than that.’

  West remembered the quiet man he’d met in the priests’ house on Westminster Road. The slight, unremarkable man he’d glanced at with barely a thought. A priest. If they were right, this was going to be a nightmare.

  ‘Print that photo out,’ West said to Baxter, ‘then see if Bennet and Bolger can pick him out.’ He turned to Edel. ‘Not that I’m doubting you, but it’s good to have confirmation from more than one person.’ There was a worried look in her eyes: he wanted to kiss it away. She’d had enough worry in the last year. Okay, she shouldn’t have gone to that meeting, but if she hadn’t, they’d still be floundering. Maybe it was time to accept she was intricately linked with all parts of his life.

  ‘Why don’t you sit in my office, I’ll get you some coffee.’ He saw her face brighten and watched with a smile as she went to sit in his office. He’d never hear the end of this. Something so simple and it took her to see it.

  His smile faded quickly. ‘Okay, I’m going to speak to the inspector. This is going to be his worst nightmare.’

  Inspector Morrison was drinking coffee when West arrived but the story must have been written clearly on his face because the inspector put the mug down with a weary, ‘Tell me.’ His expression darkened as he listened. ‘There’s no doubt?’

  ‘Andrews is taking the photos in for Bennet and Bolger to confirm but I don’t think there’s any doubt, Inspector. I’d like to bring him in for questioning. And yes,’ he said, anticipating the inspector’s next comment, ‘I’ll be as discreet as possible.’

  ‘I’ll have to ring the bishop,’ Morrison said, his mouth a tight line. ‘Go, do what needs to be done. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.’

  West left without another word and met Andrews on his way back to the main office. ‘You got confirmation?’

  ‘Neither as much as hesitated.’

  West exhaled loudly. ‘Right, let’s go and pick this guy up.’

  Andrews shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘This is going to be a tough one, Mike.’

  There was nothing more to say. ‘Give me a minute,’ West said.

  Edel was staring at her phone when he opened his office door. ‘You okay?’ he said, pulling a chair over to sit beside her.

  ‘A priest,’ she said. ‘This is going to be a tough one.’

  A smile flickered. ‘Honestly, you and Pete, you think alike. Yes. It’s going to be a difficult one but we’ve had them before. It’s also going to be a late one. Head home, I’ll send you a message later and let you know when to expect me.’ He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘It may be an all-nighter so don’t be surprised not to hear from me till morning.’ He walked her to her car, Andrews tailing behind. ‘Drive carefully,’ he said, tapping the roof of her car before she started the engine. ‘Right,’ he said as her car left the car park. ‘let’s go and pick up Father McComb.’

  There was no conversation on the short journey, each of them lost in their thoughts, mentally preparing for what was to come. They’d been there before, but it never got easier.

  It was Father Dillon who answered the door. ‘Detective Sergeant West, Detective Garda Andrews,’ he greeted them politely. ‘What can we do for you today?’

  ‘May we come in?’ West saw Father Dillon’s relaxed appearance change in a couple of almost imperceptible movements; a straightening of shoulders, a lifting of his chin. He guessed that priests, like Gardaí, developed a sixth sense when trouble was brewing. Without a word, he stood back.

  ‘We’re all in the sitting room,’ Father Dillon said, leading the way. ‘Father Jeffreys likes to have a meeting every week so we can discuss any issues.’ He opened the door into the room and waved them in.

  The priests were
sitting in the same seats they’d sat in the last time he’d visited, as if they’d never moved or if time had stood still. But this time, he looked at Father McComb more keenly. Such an innocuous-looking man. Such a deceptively innocent expression.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Father Dillon said.

  ‘No, we won’t, thank you,’ West said. ‘I’m afraid we’ve come with a difficult job to do.’

  Father Jeffreys got to his feet. ‘Don’t tell me there’s been another murder in the church!’

  The old priest staggered a little. West put his hand out and grasped his arm. ‘Sit down, please, Father. This is going to come as a bit of a shock, I’m afraid.’ He saw movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see Father McComb on his feet.

  ‘I’ll go fetch his medication,’ McComb said.

  ‘Perhaps someone else could do that,’ West said, holding up a hand to stop him.

  He saw the knowledge in McComb’s eyes, watched him assess his position, wondering if he could escape. But if he’d decided to run, it was too late. Andrews moved between him and the door.

  Father Jeffreys, still on his feet, looked from West to McComb and back. ‘I think you’d better tell us what is going on, Sergeant West.’

  ‘Kevin McComb,’ West said, dropping the man’s title. ‘You are under arrest for the murder of Cormac Furlong.’ He read him his rights as the other priests got to their feet, all of them speaking at once, disbelief in every word.

  ‘Is this true?’ Father Jeffreys’ voice was ragged with shock and he grasped West’s arm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ West said, covering the man’s trembling hand with his own. He stepped back as Dillon and Maher moved closer to support the parish priest, each putting a hand on his shoulder in solidarity. All three priests looked stunned. ‘Kevin,’ Father Jeffreys said, ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Sanctimonious fools,’ McComb said, a sneer twisting his mouth. ‘I’ve listened to you giving your all-forgiving sermons, and I’ve seen the penitents after you’ve heard their confessions bouncing with relief when they should have been bowed down with penance.’

  Father Dillon pressed Father Jeffreys into a seat before turning to look at McComb as if he’d never seen him before. ‘That’s what the sacrament of confession is all about, Kevin. Forgiveness.’

  ‘You would have offered that man, Cormac, forgiveness, but the soul that sins…’ McComb’s voice grew strident and echoed around the room. ‘The soul that sins shall die. The Son of Man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend and which do iniquity.’ McComb glared at the parish priest. ‘And I am such an angel, here to do the Lord’s work.’ He turned to West and Andrews. ‘The claws of the law, too, have been removed, leaving it impotent and useless. The world needs somebody like me.’

  Father Jeffreys stepped forward and stared at McComb with sorrowful eyes. ‘No,’ he said and his voice was heavy with sadness. ‘The world doesn’t, Kevin.’ He turned to West. ‘I’ll contact the archbishop, and we’ll send a solicitor to the station.’ He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he turned away and yielded to the comforting embrace of his fellow priests.

  ‘We’ll wait until the solicitor arrives before questioning him,’ West said, seeing Father Jeffreys nod in agreement. Both knew the wisdom of doing everything strictly by the book.

  In handcuffs, McComb made a token resistance to being led away, then shrugged and walked between them and sat in the back of the car with Andrews alongside. Back in the station he was quickly processed and left sitting in a cell to await the arrival of his solicitor while West and Andrews filled in the rest of the team.

  ‘He thinks he’s an angel,’ Baxter scoffed. ‘Sounds to me like he’s going for a not guilty by reason of insanity defence.’

  Allen agreed. ‘And he’ll leave Bennet and Bolger to pay the price for Furlong’s death.’

  ‘Such cynicism.’ West smiled. ‘Let’s see what his solicitor has to say. If McComb really thinks he’s an angel doing God’s work, he may be sent to Dundrum for assessment. If he is simply putting it on, they’ll quickly find out.’ He took a mouthful of the coffee someone had put into his hand. ‘McComb has been spouting fire and brimstone for a number of years and railing against what he saw as a world full of sinners. Maybe it all became too much for him and cracked him apart.’

  ‘Luckily, we got him before he took revenge on anyone else,’ Jarvis said. ‘The Parsons will be relieved.’

  West’s mobile phone rang. He took it out and looked at the screen. It was Edel’s name. He answered it, his heart sinking when he heard the panic in her voice.

  39

  Edel had driven from the station with the intent of heading straight home but remembered she’d nothing taken out of the freezer for dinner and decided to divert to Dunnes Stores. The clothes there were good; she might have a relaxing afternoon shopping. She deserved it.

  Having lived in Foxrock, she knew the back roads and took the turns without thought. At a T-junction she had come to a halt, waiting for a slow driver to pass, when her attention was caught by a woman on the far side of the road. She was bent almost double, her hand reaching out for the wall beside her.

  A woman in trouble. Instinctively, Edel made the turn, pulled to the side of the road and stopped, getting out and hurrying to the woman’s side. ‘Are you all right?’ When there was no reply, she bent to examine the woman’s face. Her eyes were shut, her skin so pale as to be almost luminous. A very sickly woman. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Leave me, nobody can help me.’ The voice was feeble.

  Edel couldn’t leave her. ‘My car is here, I’ll take you wherever you’re going. Please, I can’t simply drive away. You’ll be better off at home.’

  A humourless snort of laughter was the only response.

  Beginning to wonder if she should ring for an ambulance, Edel tried again. ‘Is there someone I can ring for you? Family? Or a friend maybe.’

  ‘No, there’s nobody.’ Sad, lonely words full of pain and grief.

  Edel had been there. She slipped an arm around the woman’s shoulder. ‘Come on,’ she said gently. ‘I’ll take you wherever you want to go.’ A gentle tug got the woman moving. Edel guided her to her car, reaching for the passenger door and pulling it open. When the woman sat inside, she pulled across the seat belt and fastened it.

  Back in the driver’s seat, Edel turned to look at her. ‘Where to?’ When there was no answer, she tried a different tack. ‘Maybe I should take you to the hospital.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where then?’ Edel wished she’d gone straight home. She could have stopped at a supermarket in Greystones. What was so great about Dunnes? But it was too late. She couldn’t abandon this poor, wretched creature.

  ‘Walnut Avenue.’

  Edel barely heard the whispered words but she recognised the name of the road. ‘Okay, let’s get you home.’

  It wasn’t far and ten minutes later she was driving slowly down the short road. ‘What number?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Eight, right,’ Edel muttered, peering from right to left, seeing a three, concentrating then on the other side of even numbers and stopping in front of the house with a brass eight dead centre of a black door. She stopped outside, got out and hurried around to open the passenger door. ‘Here you are then.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The woman levered herself from the car and stood with her hand on the door, staring towards the house.

  Edel took in the unkempt garden, the partially-shut curtains. It looked abandoned, uncared for. ‘Will you be okay now?’ she asked. She wanted to get away from the sadness that was coming from the woman in overwhelming waves.

  ‘You’ve been so kind. Please, come in and I’ll make us some tea. It’s the least I can do.’

  Edel didn’t want tea. She didn’t want to go inside the desolate-looking house. ‘No, I’m in a bit of a hurry, actually,’ she said. She waited for the woman to move so she could shut the car do
or but instead, the woman stood staring, holding onto the door as if she were afraid to let go. Perhaps accepting a cup of tea was the easiest option. ‘Well, maybe I’ve time for a quick cuppa.’ Edel was relieved to see the woman nod and take unsteady steps across the path to the garden gate.

  The air of neglect continued inside the house; the heating had been left on and the air was muggy and stale. Edel’s nose crinkled in defence as she followed the woman into a small, untidy kitchen.

  ‘Take off your coat, have a seat.’

  Intent on getting out of the house as soon as possible, Edel kept her coat on, perched on the edge of a chair and willed the kettle to boil quickly. ‘My name is Edel,’ she said, more to break the uncomfortable silence than from any desire to start a conversation.

  The woman turned with a smile. ‘I’m Joanne. It’s nice to meet you. You’ve been very kind.’

  She looked like a woman who hadn’t seen much kindness recently. Perhaps Edel wouldn’t rush away after all. With relief, she saw that the mug she was handed was clean, and the milk Joanne poured straight from the carton didn’t come out with an audible glug. It tasted okay too.

  ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ Joanne said, waving towards a cupboard. ‘I think I have some.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  The uncomfortable silence had returned. Joanne held her mug between her cupped hands and stared into space.

  Curiosity made Edel ask, ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘I didn’t this morning but I do now.’

  It wasn’t the answer Edel was expecting. In fact, she’d no idea what it meant. Joanne was wearing a wedding ring. ‘Did you lose your husband?’

  Joanne hugged the mug to her chest, huddling around it. ‘You could say that. The guards rang me earlier. He’s been arrested.’

  ‘Arrested! Why?’ What on earth could the husband of this frail, inoffensive woman have done?