The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  Andrews, far less fussy, raised an eyebrow and when his sandwich was finished, he reached for it. ‘Shame to let it go to waste.’

  ‘I asked Kennedy about the science being wrong.’ West raised his voice to be heard over the cries of a baby sat at the next table.

  ‘Ha,’ Andrews said around a mouthful of avocado and brie. ‘I bet he loved that.’

  ‘Actually, he wasn’t in the least offended. Probably, in fairness, because his mouth was full of cream donut.’

  ‘Thunders?’

  West nodded absently. ‘He insists it would have taken two days to freeze Muriel Hennessy’s body to cause the level of cellular damage he saw. And another five to six days to defrost it.’

  ‘Maybe the body was dumped in that laneway when it was still frozen.’

  ‘Exactly what I said, to which Niall replied that rodents didn’t eat frozen meat.’

  Andrews picked up a piece of tomato that had escaped from his sandwich and popped it into his mouth. ‘Yes, I see his point there. There was quite a lot of damage done to her face, ears and fingers.’

  ‘Thankfully, she was dead before that.’ West glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better head.’

  The office of Pritchard and Lane Solicitors was across the street from the shopping centre. Above a shop, it was accessed through a narrow door which led to an even narrower steep stairway.

  To make up for the less than salubrious entrance, the reception area was decorated in aubergine and gold with dramatic paintings in ornate gold frames on every wall. Trying too hard, West thought, as they gave their names to the elegantly dressed woman behind the desk.

  They weren’t kept waiting. A door behind opened almost immediately and a short, slight man bustled through with a hand extended. ‘Come into my office,’ he said, shaking each of their hands in turn.

  The office, with tall windows looking out over the street, was large and bright. Ashley Pritchard took his seat behind the desk and waved to two chairs the other side. ‘Sit,’ he said, then resting his elbows on the desk he steepled long thin fingers together and looked over at the two detectives expectantly. ‘Now, what is it I can do for the gardaí?’

  ‘You are Doris Whitaker’s solicitor.’

  A wary expression came over the solicitor’s face. ‘That’s correct.’

  West chose his words carefully. ‘We believe her will was read recently. We know, obviously, that until probate is cleared, it’s not in the public domain but would you be able to answer some questions for us?’

  Pritchard’s long middle fingers tapped soundlessly against one another as he considered the question. ‘Ask them,’ he said finally. ‘If I can answer, I will.’

  ‘Fair enough. None are too complex. Some are things we already know and we simply need confirmation. For instance,’ West said, ‘we are aware that Darragh Checkley is Mrs Whitaker’s next of kin. Can we assume he inherits her estate?’

  ‘You are, of course, entitled to assume whatever you wish. But I’m not obliged to tell you the contents of the will.’

  Not an unexpected reply. West tried again. ‘How long has Darragh Checkley been her next of kin?’

  This made the solicitor drop his hands and sit back. ‘Perhaps if you would share why you’re investigating Mr Checkley I might be of more assistance.’

  ‘Even a conservative estimate would value Mrs Whitaker’s house and garden at around five million. It was Darragh’s wife, Lynda, who found her on the road, the victim of a hit-and-run. So, Mr Pritchard, we have a wealthy ninety-year-old who leaves her estate to her next of kin, found dead by that next of kin’s wife following a hit-and-run that nobody witnessed. You can see why we’d be a little bit suspicious, especially as Darragh Checkley comes across as a…’

  Pritchard jumped into his hesitation. ‘As a prize prick?’

  ‘I couldn’t have said it better, myself. So, what can you tell us?’

  ‘I only met Checkley once when he brought Mrs Whitaker in to change her will.’ The solicitor joined his hands together again.

  ‘And this was recently?’

  ‘Yes, about three weeks ago. I’d inherited Mrs Whitaker as a client from a partner who retired several years ago so I’d had no dealings with her. It was several years since she’d written the previous will and it isn’t unheard of for people to change their will after a long period. I did suggest that I call around in view of her age but she insisted on coming in.’

  ‘Those stairs up can’t have been easy,’ Andrews said.

  ‘I gather that’s why Checkley came with her: he virtually hauled her up the stairs.’

  ‘Not surprising if she was changing her will in his favour. He wanted to make sure she didn’t pop her clogs beforehand.’

  The solicitor gave West’s remark the courtesy of a slight smile. ‘Mrs Whitaker sat and introduced Checkley as her cousin. She told me that he and his wife were supporting her, and she wanted to repay their kindness by changing her will in his favour.’

  West frowned. ‘There was no indication that Checkley was putting undue pressure on her?’

  Pritchard shook his head emphatically. ‘I didn’t take to the man but had there been the slightest intimation that he was putting pressure on her I’d have refused to proceed.’

  ‘Maybe the pressure had been exerted before they arrived. Something along the lines of… leave everything to me or I won’t support you any longer.’

  ‘I had no sense of that being the case. Mrs Whitaker came across as sharp as a tack. I put some deliberately pointed and complex questions to her about her various bequests and there was no indication of any lack of comprehension. Her voice was low and quite frail, and when she picked up the pen to sign there was a noticeable tremor in her hand, but I’d have to swear that she was of sound mind and was making the change completely of her own volition.’

  ‘You don’t think it suspicious that less than three weeks later, she was the victim of a hit-and-run, and Checkley’s wife was the one to find her?’

  If he did think so, Pritchard wasn’t admitting it. ‘My hands were tied. I couldn’t refuse her request.’

  West said nothing, he knew the restraints the solicitor was under.

  Andrews, however, wasn’t so willing to be silent. ‘Looks like you might have helped sign her death warrant, though, doesn’t it?’

  19

  ‘A bit harsh,’ West said as they walked through the shopping centre to the car park.

  Andrews wasn’t backing down. ‘Didn’t he have a responsibility to his client?’

  West stopped and turned to him. ‘The same as we have a responsibility to the people we’re supposed to protect. It isn’t always easy. Remember Ken Blundell?’ The man was always in West’s thoughts. He frequently tortured himself by going back to the decision he’d taken that had cost the man his life.

  Andrews held a hand up in defeat. ‘Yes, of course, you’re right. It just galls me to think that poor old dear was conned by that nasty piece of work Checkley.’

  ‘We’ll get him, Pete,’ West said, wishing as he spoke the words that he believed them. Simple truth was, they didn’t always get their man.

  There was nothing more said as they made their way through the hordes of shoppers to the car. West opened the car door, then stood leaning on the bonnet looking across at Andrews. ‘Let’s have a meeting before end of shift, see where we are with all three cases. Morrison would be happy if we could at least solve one of them.’

  ‘We aren’t able to solve every case,’ Andrews said, ‘but if we have a choice, can we get that Checkley guy?’

  ‘He certainly hasn’t made any friends, has he?’ West exited the car park onto Marine Road and joined the slow queue of traffic, taking the side roads automatically until they were back in Foxrock. ‘That conundrum with Muriel Hennessy’s body is going to drive me insane unless we solve it,’ he said as he and Andrews walked back into the station.

  ‘We’re stuck with that unless we can change Cara Donaldson’s story and I don’t
think that’s going to happen.’

  ‘Or change the science.’

  Andrews laughed. ‘You arguing against the science? That has to be a first.’

  ‘It shows how frustrated I’m finding it. Maybe the lads have turned up something interesting.’

  In the main detective office, Baxter and Edwards had their heads together but the bark of laughter that greeted West and Andrews told them that whatever they were looking at it wasn’t to do with the case.

  Unembarrassed, Baxter launched into an update. ‘No news on the misper search. I’m still waiting for my contacts to get back to me.’

  ‘Nothing here either.’ Edwards stretched his hands out and flexed his fingers. ‘I’ve managed to contact the owners of almost half the vehicles that visited the recycling centre over the two-day period. Nobody remembers seeing anything suspicious. A couple of them laughed and said everyone was carrying black bags so how could they tell.’

  ‘Keep at it,’ West said. ‘We’ll have a meeting at 6pm, see if we can find somewhere to go in any of these cases.’ He filled a mug with coffee, headed to his office and sat sipping it, hoping the caffeine would enlighten him.

  It didn’t seem to do much good and he switched on his computer. Waiting for it to power up, he sent a message to Edel. I’ll be home around 7pm, why don’t we go to the Italian?

  When she didn’t reply, he guessed she was deep in the world of her characters working out who had done what. He wished it was as easy in real life.

  A few emails needed his attention keeping him too busy to watch the minute hand ticking around the face of the clock sitting over the office door.

  ‘We’re waiting,’ Andrews said from the doorway.

  West glanced at the time on the corner of the screen in surprise. ‘Right, just let me finish this.’ A minute later he was done and joined the rest of the team, noticing a lack of enthusiasm on every face.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, heading to the Wall where the sparse details of their three cases were laid out. ‘It’s not looking too great, is it?’ He turned, perched on the edge of a desk and looked around. ‘Anyone got anything?’

  ‘I’ve been doing some digging on Liam Hennessy’s finances,’ Baxter said. ‘Up to a year ago, they were living in a big, detached house in Rathgar. The company he worked for pulled a fast one with their accounts and when it folded, he got a far smaller redundancy package than he should have. The bare minimum. It didn’t pay the mortgage and bills so he took the sensible step and downsized. He’s doing okay and has a new job. The paltry sum he’ll receive from his dead mother’s estate isn’t going to make any difference to him.’

  Allen held up a hand. ‘I checked out his story about his wife and children. They flew to Moscow four weeks ago. Annika’s father is–’ he lifted a notebook and read the name, stumbling over the pronunciation, ‘–Misalov Isaak Yakovich.’ He tossed the notebook down. ‘The family are in banking. Seriously wealthy. I’m talking about private jets and large yachts kind of wealthy. Annika and the two children are living in a mansion outside Moscow and the two kids have been enrolled in private schools. It looks like they’re staying.’

  It explained Liam Hennessy’s miserable defeated expression.

  ‘Doesn’t Muriel Hennessy have a house to sell?’ Allen asked, puzzled. ‘It must be worth a bob or two.’

  ‘It was sold on an equity release thing,’ Jarvis said. ‘You know the way – they sell it well below the market value but then they are allowed stay in it for as long as they live.’

  ‘Anything on Cara Donaldson?’ West hoped his words didn’t have a lick of desperation. Three cases and they’d nothing.

  Allen raised his hand again. ‘She works for Stanton’s, an investment bank. Well regarded. Not as much as a parking fine recorded. One daughter living in New York. Husband is a teacher, again well regarded.’ He shook his head. ‘Average, middle-class family.’

  ‘Even average middle-class families have secrets,’ West said. ‘Dig a little more.’ He glanced at Edwards who was leaning back in his chair looking bored. ‘Have you finished working through that list yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Edwards’ slightly prominent brown eyes flicked to the printout he’d dropped on the desk. It was scored with thick, black parallel lines. ‘About twenty-five to go. I’m not sure it isn’t a waste of time.’

  There was a sudden silence and the rest of the team looked awkwardly at their feet.

  West stood up. ‘Get it done before you go off shift,’ he said sharply then looked to where Baxter was slouched against the wall. ‘Any progress on the missing persons’ search?’

  ‘One of my Interpol contacts got back to me.’ He shook his head. ‘A surprisingly large number of families go missing every year but many are from African countries. When I put the European ancestry into the mix it narrowed it down to only a few and none that matched the age group of our bodies.’

  ‘Right, chase up your other contacts.’ West looked at the photograph of the body parts and skulls someone had stuck in the centre of the Wall and frowned. ‘It might be one we have to let go,’ he said, turning back to the team. ‘But not until we’ve checked every avenue. Okay?’

  Nods all around.

  West filled them in on their meeting with the solicitor. ‘Three weeks before Doris Whittaker died, she changed her will to leave everything to the charming Mr Checkley. Then his delightful wife Lynda just happens to be driving by after Doris is knocked down and killed in a hit-and-run. We all know coincidences happen but this one stinks.’ He glanced to where Edwards sat keeping his head down. ‘On Monday, Edwards, I want you and Baxter to go over everything again. Talk to the uniforms who were first on scene, the ambulance driver and anyone involved. Shake their stories till something falls out, understood?’ He waited until Edwards muttered ‘Yes’ before looking away.

  ‘Anything else?’ When all West got were blank stares in reply, he turned and headed back to his office.

  20

  West wasn’t surprised when Andrews appeared in the doorway a few minutes later. ‘You should go home,’ he said without looking up from his keyboard.

  ‘It’s Friday. I thought you might fancy going for a pint.’

  West looked up at that, surprised. ‘You’re not rushing home to Joyce?’

  ‘I can rush home after a pint just as easily.’

  ‘Okay, you’re on.’ West looked at the email he’d started. It could wait until Monday. He switched the computer off and stood. ‘Right, let’s go.’ He took his jacket from the hook on the back of the door and pulled it on. ‘I could do with a drink.’

  In the main office, Edwards was the only member of the team remaining. He had a marker in his hand and scored through another line of the printout with rather more force than was necessary.

  West was slow to anger and quick to forgive. ‘Go home, Mark. It’ll do on Monday.’

  Edwards looked up, colour flashing across his sallow cheeks. ‘I don’t mind staying to finish.’ He fiddled with the marker in his hand. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded like an arse earlier. It wasn’t meant to be a criticism.’

  West stopped by his desk. ‘These cases are frustrating for us all. It’s probably going to prove impossible to find out who those mummified bodies are. We might never be able to prove that Darragh and Lynda Checkley were involved in Doris Whitaker’s death and we may never know why Muriel Hennessy’s body was frozen or who was responsible.’ He picked up the printout and looked at it. ‘Detective work is ninety-five per cent a boring trudge through things like this, Mark. It may seem a colossal waste of time and I’ve no doubt it’s boring but maybe, just maybe, you’ll find something interesting.’ He put the sheet down. ‘Go home when you’re done. See you on Monday.’

  He met Andrews in the car park of The Lep Inn and they walked into the pub together. It was busy, bustling with staff from nearby offices still in their formal suits. Some of the men had undone their ties to mark the end of the working week and for the same reason, perhaps, some of the
women had undone one more button of their shirts.

  ‘Over there,’ Andrews said and without waiting, negotiated the crowd to an empty table he’d seen at the back.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it.’ West sank onto a chair. ‘No matter how busy it is you always manage to get a seat.’

  ‘It’s a knack. You having a Guinness?’

  When West nodded, Andrews looked around, caught the eye of one of the lounge staff and waved her over. ‘A pint of Guinness and a pint of Heineken.’

  ‘These cases are frustrating,’ Andrews said. ‘Plus, we didn’t get a break after that murder in the church.’

  ‘Or the child in the suitcase. One brilliant crime novel title after the other.’

  Andrews opened his mouth to say something just as their drinks appeared. ‘Slainte,’ he said, lifting his pint.

  ‘Cheers.’ West swallowed deeply. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s all you’re going to say?’ West was surprised at his reticence. Normally Andrews was the first to jump in with his opinion.

  ‘Edwards was being his usual smart-arse self. He needed telling.’ Andrews drank more of his pint before putting it down. ‘Won’t do him any harm to be put in his place now and then.’

  West gazed into his pint. ‘Morrison will push us to drop both the dismembered bodies and the hit-and-run case next week if we can’t get anywhere with either. And the Hennessy case won’t be far behind.’

  ‘Let’s hope that nothing comes in over the weekend to require our input. Morrison will only moan if they start queuing up.’

  West’s mobile buzzed. He checked the caller and stared at Andrews. ‘You jinxed us, Pete. It’s the station. Probably a double homicide.’

  Andrews barked a laugh. ‘Foxrock isn’t the murder capital of Ireland, you know.’

  West pressed to accept the call, gave his name and listened. ‘Really?’ His eyes widened and he thumped Andrews’ shoulder with his fist. ‘Okay. No, Monday will do fine. They’re not going anywhere.’ He laughed at whatever the other person was saying before cutting the connection and sitting back. ‘You’re never going to believe this.’