John was deeply asleep when she eventually eased herself into bed. The digital clock on the bedside table said 2.52 a.m. She punched her pillow and tried to make herself comfortable, but she was feeling hot and restless, and the inside of her mind was like a fairground, with everything that had happened during the day going around and around like carousels and whistling and clanging and thumping like dodgems.
She was almost asleep when John put his arm around her and cupped her breast through her nightdress.
‘You’re back, then,’ he murmured. His voice was so rumbly she could feel it through the mattress.
‘Yes. I’m sorry. We had another murder.’
‘Tell me about it in the morning. I don’t want to think about murder right now.’
‘I’m sorry about The Rising Tide. I was really looking forward to it.’
‘We’ll do it next week. That’s unless somebody else gets themselves whacked. But we can go out for lunch tomorrow, can’t we?’
‘We should be able to. I’ll have to go in for an hour or so in the morning. I’ll need to talk to the media, and Dermot’s replacement has arrived and I have to get him up to speed.’
‘Oh yes? What’s he like, this replacement?’
‘If he was any more full of himself he’d explode. Bryan Molloy, his name is, from Limerick. He has a very low opinion of women, especially women gardaí, and women superintendents most of all.’
John gently squeezed her breast and rolled her nipple between his finger and thumb. She could feel his hardened penis against the small of her back.
‘Obviously the man has no taste whatsoever. Either that, or he’s a faggot.’
‘John …’ said Katie, taking hold of his wrist and moving his hand away from her breast. ‘You know I can’t, not tonight. Give it a couple of days and I promise you we’ll have an orgy.’
John kissed her shoulder and then he lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck. ‘Okay,’ he breathed. ‘I guess everything comes to he who waits. Or he who waits eventually comes. Or something like that.’
He turned over on to his back. It was beginning very gradually to grow light, and Katie could hear wrens singing in the garden. She remembered that she had been taught at school that wrens were treacherous birds, because they had betrayed the Irish soldiers fighting against the invading Norsemen by beating their wings against their shields.
Treachery made her think of Ronan Lynch and Billy Daly, the two gardaí she would have to talk to tomorrow. She wasn’t looking forward to that at all.
John laid his hand on her hip and gave her a gentle shake. ‘You will find time to read my proposal for ErinChem tomorrow, though, won’t you?’
‘I’ll try, John.’
There was a long silence, interrupted only by the chirruping of the wrens outside. Then John said, ‘You know how much I love you, don’t you, Katie?’
She wrestled herself around and held him close and kissed him. His cheek was prickly and he smelled of himself and some woodsy aftershave. ‘I love you, too, John Meagher. Tá mo chroi istigh ionat.’
Twenty-seven
She found them sitting in their patrol car on Parnell Place, outside Mulligan’s pub, eating bacon sandwiches and drinking tea. She had been told where they were by central dispatch and it had only been a short walk from Anglesea Street.
She opened the back door and climbed in before they realized what she was doing. The driver twisted around and said, ‘What in the name of Jesus do you think you’re up to, girl?’ spitting out bits of sandwich as he did so, but then almost instantly he recognized her and said, ‘Oh. Sorry. Apologies, ma’am. Took me by surprise, that’s all.’
‘Just as well I wasn’t armed and dangerous, then?’ said Katie.
‘We was only having a bit of breakfast, like,’ said the garda in the front passenger seat. ‘Our shift started at six and the canteen’s cooker was banjaxed.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Katie. ‘I don’t expect you to go hungry. Not that I suppose you ever do.’
Before either of them could answer that, she turned to the driver and said, ‘You’re Billy, right?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Billy, frowning at his partner as if to say what’s all this about?
Billy Daly was black-haired, with heavy black eyebrows and blue eyes and a blob of a nose like Play-Doh. A double chin bulged over his collar and his uniform looked much too tight for him, as if he had to strain to button it up every morning.
In contrast, Ronan Kelly was fair-haired and thin, with pale eyes and angular cheekbones and a sharp triangular nose. He appeared almost lipless, and he barely opened his mouth when he spoke, like a ventriloquist.
Katie said, ‘You know about that Nigerian feller who was found murdered in Mutton Lane yesterday afternoon? Both of his hands cut off, and his head blown to kingdom come with a shotgun?’
‘Of course, yeah, we had the full briefing this morning,’ said Billy. ‘What’s the story on that, then?’
‘The victim was an illegal immigrant named Owoye Danjuma, better known as Bula. He worked as a general dogsbody for Desmond O’Leary, better known as “Mister Dessie”.’
‘Yeah … that’s right,’ said Billy. His tone was growing increasingly cautious.
‘As you know, we have a fair idea who the perpetrator is, especially since she doesn’t seem to be going out of her way to conceal herself. Twice now we’ve caught her on CCTV. In fact, the pathologist suggested that she might have a reason for doing this all so openly. He thinks she wants to get her revenge on these scumbags, but at the same time she wants to make a show of the Garda for being so useless in bringing them to justice.’
‘Well, that’s one theory,’ said Ronan Kelly. ‘It could be that she’s simply thick, like most murderers are, and doesn’t realize she’s making herself so fecking conspicuous. If most people knew how many CCTV cameras we have in Cork, you’d never get them walking down the street scratching their arses the way they do.’
‘We have her picture, like, and we’re keeping a lookout for her,’ said Billy Daly. ‘There’s not a whole lot more we can do than that, is there?’
‘You can keep tabs on your friend Mister Dessie,’ said Katie. ‘So far this Angel of Revenge has killed three of Michael Gerrety’s people, and if she carries on, there’s a strong possibility that Mister Dessie will be next. Maybe she even has her eye on Michael Gerrety himself.’
‘What do you mean “keep tabs”?’ asked Ronan Kelly.
‘Make sure that you know where he is, twenty-four hours a day, and make sure that I know, too. He may be a piece of shite, but it’s still our duty to protect him if we think he’s in danger of getting himself murdered.’
‘He won’t be happy about that,’ said Ronan Kelly.
‘He won’t be happy about what? Being kept tabs on, or being murdered?’
‘He’s not too keen on people knowing where he is, like, or who he’s with.’
‘Because why? Because he’s wheeling and dealing all the time for Michael Gerrety, and Michael Gerrety likes to make out that his hands are clean?’
Neither Ronan Kelly nor Billy Daly answered that, but they looked at each other warily.
Katie leaned forward and rested her elbows on the backs of their seats. ‘I don’t expect you to tell Mister Dessie that you’re keeping tabs on him. I want you to do it discreetly. But from now onwards, and I mean from now, today, this morning, I want to know his exact location, and as far as possible what he’s doing there.’
‘I don’t mean to be disrespectful, ma’am, but how in the name of Jesus are we going to do that?’
‘Don’t try to play innocent with me, Garda Kelly. When I called Mister Dessie your friend, I wasn’t joking. Mister Dessie gives you two money and women and in return you conveniently fail to notice that Mister Dessie is trafficking underage girls and running all of Michael Gerrety’s so-called massage parlours and health clubs for him. You two knew everything that Mawakiya was up to, and you knew immediately
that it was him who’d been murdered on Lower Shandon Street. I imagine you knew that the second victim was Mânios Dumitrescu, too.’
Ronan Kelly and Billy Daly stayed silent, but continued to stare at each other, as if they were trying to communicate telepathically what they were going to do next.
‘There’s no point in your trying to deny any of this,’ said Katie. ‘I have too many witnesses and too much evidence against you. I’ll have to file a full report later, but meanwhile you can mitigate your misdemeanours by keeping a close watch for me on Mister Dessie. I also expect you to report back to me anything you might hear him say, whether you think it’s illegal or not.’
‘What if he’s ordering a pizza?’ asked Ronan, bitterly, through that slit of a mouth.
‘You’re in no position to crack jokes, Garda Kelly,’ said Katie. ‘I’m talking about him calling for taxis to take women around the city, or arranging to meet flights from the airport, or booking doctors’ appointments, that kind of thing. And, of course, anything that directly relates to sex trafficking or prostitution. And anything at all that relates to Michael Gerrety.’
‘Well, would you believe it?’ said Ronan Kelly. ‘You’ve put me right off me bacon sangridge.’
‘I’m sorry about that, but the fault is entirely yours, and what you choose to do now is entirely up to you. If you help me, I’ll make sure that you get the credit for it when it comes to any disciplinary proceedings, which it will. It may even come to criminal proceedings.’
‘We’re not the only ones!’ Billy Daly protested.
‘Will you shut the feck up!’ Ronan Kelly snapped at him.
‘I’m aware of that, too,’ said Katie. ‘Meanwhile, what are you going to do? Are you going to assist me in this, or not? If you say no, you’re not, then I’m going directly to Acting Chief Superintendent Molloy and reporting you.’
Both gardaí were silent for a moment, and then Ronan Kelly said, ‘Why don’t we just warn Dessie that this black bird is out to get him, like?’
‘Because he’ll start to take precautionary measures, such as walking around with a bodyguard, and changing his daily routines, and maybe carrying a firearm.’
‘So? At least he won’t get his hands chopped off and his head blown to bits.’
‘What do you think I’m trying to do, Garda Kelly? I’m trying to catch this Angel of Revenge, but if Mister Dessie makes it obvious that he knows he’s next on her list, she’s going to keep well away, isn’t she? She needs time to do the things she does to her victims, time and seclusion. She follows her victims very closely. She won’t attempt to go for Mister Dessie if she sees that he’s always going to have some minder with him.’
‘How can you be so sure that he’s next on her list?’ asked Billy Daly. ‘There’s dozens of other pimps around the city, aren’t there? Jesus – I could count them on the fingers of three hands.’
‘Of course I can’t be one hundred per cent certain,’ Katie admitted. ‘But it was Bula who made me believe that it was highly likely. Mawakiya and Dumitrescu, they were both pimps, yes, but Bula was nothing more than a gofer. All that the three of them had in common was that they worked for Michael Gerrety, handling girls for him. There’s only one surviving person who does that for him, and that’s Mister Dessie.’
‘Michael’s going to hit the fecking roof if this all comes out,’ said Ronan Kelly, shaking his head. ‘I don’t honestly know what I’m the scareder of, losing my job or Michael losing his rag with me.’
Katie opened the car door and a warm breeze blew in, smelling of river. ‘I’m going to meet Acting Superintendent Molloy now. Text me as soon as you find out where Mister Dessie is, and what he’s doing. Copy the text to Detective Sergeant ó Nuallán. She knows all about this, and my meeting you here, and if I’m otherwise engaged she can handle any crisis that might come up.’
Twenty-eight
Acting Chief Superintendent Molloy was talking on the phone when Katie knocked at his open office door. He beckoned her in and then he covered the receiver with his hand and said, ‘The door. Close it, would you, Katie?’
Katie thought, ‘Close it would you, please, Katie’ would have been appreciated, but she closed it anyway and sat down next to his desk. She looked around the office while he was talking and noticed that he had already put up photographs of himself shaking hands with various politicians, like Alan Shatter the justice minister and Kathleen Lynch TD, and local dignitaries like the mayor of Limerick, as well as his awards and his certificates.
Propped up in the corner next to the bookcase there was a leather bag of golf clubs.
‘Pat – that’s the way we’re going to be doing it, whether you like it or not,’ Acting Chief Superintendent Molloy was saying on the phone. ‘No, Pat. No, boy! Absolutely not. I told you before. All right, then. Good. I’ll talk to you later so.’
He hung up the phone and scribbled some notes on the pad in front of him. It was only then that he looked up at Katie and gave her a questioning look as if he couldn’t understand what she was doing here.
‘Good morning, Bryan,’ said Katie. ‘I see you’re making yourself at home.’
Acting Chief Superintendent Molloy ignored that remark. ‘I saw the appeal you put out on the TV this morning. It’s a pity I wasn’t afforded the courtesy of vetting it myself before it went out.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I did ask Declan O’Donoghue to make sure you saw it.’
‘Well, there must have been a failure in communication. As it was, I wasn’t at all keen on the assumption that these murders are connected to the sex trade. The sex trade is a very prickly issue, both legally and politically, and it’s not our job to make moral judgements. We’re a police force, not some band of hymn-singing evangelists.’
Katie laid a blue manila folder down on his desk. ‘Dr O’Brien tells me that he won’t complete his post mortem on the third victim until later today, if not tomorrow, and the Technical Bureau haven’t yet sent me their final report on the Mutton Lane scene. But this should get you up to date on all three homicides – forensics, autopsies, witness statements and CCTV printouts. I think you’ll find from what’s in here that the connection to the sex trade is undeniable.’
Acting Chief Superintendent Molloy reached over and took the folder, but didn’t open it. ‘Dermot told me that you weren’t one to jump to conclusions. Meticulous, that’s what he said you were.’
‘Two of the victims were pimps and the third was an errand boy for the biggest organized prostitution racket in Cork. I hardly think I’m jumping to conclusions.’
‘It’s a question of attitude, Katie. We can’t be seen to be prejudiced.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at. I’m not at all prejudiced. I’m just making a logical assessment of the evidence. If two butchers and a butcher’s boy were murdered, you’d begin to suspect that their killings were connected to the meat trade, wouldn’t you?’
Acting Chief Superintendent Molloy stood up and walked over to the window. ‘Times are changing, Katie. Public opinion is changing. The Garda have to be responsive to that.’
Katie said nothing, but waited for him to continue. She could sense that he was building up to making some important announcement, but one that he didn’t think she was going to like. He kept his back to her, and both of his hands in his pockets, juggling with his loose change.
‘I might as well tell you now. I’m cancelling Operation Rocker,’ he said.
‘You’re what?’
‘I’m cancelling Operation Rocker. In my opinion, it’s outdated and misguided, and it’s a waste of our precious resources. The chances of successful prosecutions are next to nil, and I believe that it will cause serious damage to our relationship with the sex-working community.’
Katie was breathless. ‘Bryan – do you know how many months of surveillance have gone into this operation? Do you know how many women have put themselves at risk to give us witness statements? You talk about the “sex-working community”
, but do you have any idea how many of those women have been illegally trafficked, and have been forcibly drugged, or physically threatened, or both? Do you know how many of them are not even old enough to leave school, let alone work as prostitutes?’
Acting Chief Superintendent Molloy turned around, although he kept his hands in his pockets. ‘I’m perfectly aware of the statistics, Katie. I went through all of the reports with Dermot yesterday before he left. Yes – there are some women who are working in the sex trade less than willingly, but what choices do they have? If they didn’t do that, they’d be destitute, and we’d either have to deport them back to Africa or Eastern Europe for a life of even greater destitution, or else we’d have to pay them benefits at considerable cost to the Irish taxpayer, who is burdened enough as it is, God knows.’
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ said Katie.
‘That’s because you’re looking at it from a woman’s point of view. You’re still a bangharda, Katie. It’s the church’s job to take care of morality, not ours. It’s our job to protect people, regardless of who they are or what they’re up to, and the best way to protect women in the sex trade is to make sure that it’s all carried out in the open. If prostitutes have responsible organizers who give them somewhere safe to live and take care of their welfare, surely that’s better than seeing them back on the streets.’
‘“Responsible organizers”? Are you messing? Which “responsible organizers”? Men like Mânios Dumitrescu and Johnny-G and Terence Chokwu and Charlie O’Reilly? Men like Michael Gerrety?’
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