WHYTE LIES

by KC Acton

  “You can’t blame them for guarding their privacy,” said Faith. “They want to make sure that nothing derogatory is printed about their son or daughter-in-law. In fairness, they’re probably thinking about their granddaughters who’ll read those newspapers when they’re older. They’ve been co-operative with us, so I can’t complain.”

  The front door slammed, making them jump. “Who’s that?” asked Angela. “Are you expecting company?”

  “No.” Faith headed for the stairs and peered over the bannister.

  “Don’t shoot! It’s only me,” said Kelly, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “You frightened the living daylights out of us,” said Faith.

  “Sorry.”

  “Besides, how did you open the door? I don’t recall giving you a key.”

  “I should hope not,” said Angela, eyeballing him disdainfully.

  “Hello to you too,” retorted Kelly. “How’s my favourite redhead this evening?”

  “Drop dead,” said Angela, retreating to the kitchen.

  “Well?” Faith stood with her hands on her hips. “Would you like to explain yourself?”

  “Actually, I did knock, but I suppose you were too busy gasbagging to hear me. I decided to try the key to the flat, and it worked.”

  “Do you randomly go around letting yourself into people’s houses?”

  “Not randomly, just yours.” He roared with laughter.

  Faith wasn’t impressed. “I could have had anyone in here.”

  “You could have been naked,” Angela piped up.

  Kelly sniggered. “I should be so lucky.”

  “Don’t make me give you your marching orders, Kelly.”

  “I’m sorry.” He held his hands up. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Make sure it doesn’t.” Faith resumed her seat on the couch. “Anyway, what do you want?”

  “I was bored in the flat on my own. I wondered if you fancied some company.” He looked a little embarrassed.

  “She’s got company — me. Thanks for the thought,” said Angela, flouncing in from the kitchen.

  “You’re here now, so you may as well have a seat. There’s beer in the fridge if you want it,” said Faith.

  Tentatively, Kelly sat in the recliner by the fire. “Cheers.” He raised his bottle.

  “How’s your wife?” asked Angela.

  “I haven’t heard much from her. She’s probably too busy with her fancy man.”

  “For your information, she doesn’t have a fancy man,” said Angela.

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Well, you heard wrong. Why don’t you pick up the phone and try talking to her?”

  “I tried that, but she doesn’t want to listen.”

  “Maybe you should start by saying you’re sorry.”

  “That’s the problem; I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. Not really. She said she was sick of my ways; whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

  “Let me translate.” Angela leaned forward. “Stop spending so much time at the pub with your buddies. Stop spending every spare minute you have on the golf course, and start spending some quality time with your wife. She’s not a glorified servant who’s there to cook your meals and take care of the house. She’s a person too. Take her out on a date. Who knows, you might actually enjoy it.”

  “We haven’t been on a date in years. We’re way past that nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense. Take her out to dinner. Go to the cinema. Do something for her for a change. It doesn’t have to cost a fortune. Make an effort.”

  “I’m willing to try, but she has to start talking to me.”

  “Look, I’ll have a word with her if you like.” Angela relented.

  “Would you? I’d be ever so grateful.” Kelly beamed.

  “Enough of the marriage counselling for one evening, people,” Faith sighed. “It’s at times like this that I’m glad I’m single.”

  “Don’t you get lonely?” asked Kelly.

  “Not really. I’m still waiting for my knight in shining armour.” She thought back to her last relationship and shuddered. “Saved by the bell,” she said, for once grateful at the sound of her phone ringing. “We’ll be right there.”

  “Kelly, you’re coming with me. That was Byrne. Police at the port have just arrested a man who meets our e-fit description.”

  As Faith drove, Kelly checked the iPad for the photo of the arrested man that Byrne had emailed.

  “Let’s have a look,” said Faith. She glanced at the picture.

  “He looks like he could be our guy; he has the same hair and same eyes as the guy in the artist’s sketch,” said Kelly.

  Faith nodded, already dreading who she would come face-to face with. She prayed she was wrong.

  27

  “Everything’s set up in the interview room, boss,” said Byrne, handing Faith a much-needed coffee.

  “Thanks.” Faith gratefully accepted the coffee, pausing for a moment outside the interview room. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and opened the door. Kelly was right behind her.

  “What’s this all about?” demanded the man. “Who do you people think you are, bursting into my house and arresting me in front of my wife and child? I’ll sue your sorry asses. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Faith took a seat at the table opposite him. Relief flooded through her when she realised that he wasn’t the man she had expected to confront. Kelly started the tape recorder. He glanced at his watch. “It’s 9.02p.m. on Saturday, October 4th 2014. Detective Inspector Greg Kelly and Detective Chief Inspector Faith Whyte in attendance. Please state your name for the record.”

  “Mark Lyons.” He mumbled. “Now will someone tell me what the hell I’m doing here?”

  “Did the arresting officer not inform you?” asked Faith.

  “He said something about a murder.”

  “You’ve been arrested in connection with the murder of Daniel Gleeson and his wife Amira Gleeson, in the Black Valley on August 31st last.”

  “On what grounds?” Mark demanded. “I wasn’t there. I didn’t even know those people. I’ve never heard of them in my life! This is insane.”

  “Would you like to have a solicitor present?” asked Kelly.

  “No. Someone already offered, but I have nothing to hide, so let’s get this over with as quickly as possible. My poor wife is probably worried sick.”

  Faith took a moment to review her notes. “I see that you previously worked for the Dublin Metropolitan Police.”

  “Yes. And? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “A difference of opinion.”

  “Or might it have had something to do with your fraudulent claim for expenses?” Faith goaded. “I also see that you had some issues adjusting to new members of your team, especially foreign nationals. Are you a racist, Mr. Lyons?”

  “I’ll sue you for slander.” Mark leaned across the table. “No, I’m not a racist, but I’m sick and tired of people coming over here and taking our jobs.”

  “Steady on.” Kelly raised a warning hand. “Hit a nerve have we?”

  “I don’t appreciate being slandered.”

  “It’s not slander; I was merely asking a question.” Faith smiled coldly at him. “But we’ll let the police in Dublin handle that issue. Moving on, how long have you been living in Killarney?”

  “I moved here a few months ago. My wife’s from Killarney, and she’s always wanted to move back. She wasn’t a fan of Dublin; it was too big and anonymous for her liking.”

  “How are you finding life here in Killarney?” asked Kelly. “Far cry from the Big Smoke and all the action, eh?”

  “I’ve had more than enough action to last a lifetime,” Mark retorted.

  “Officers found a large collection of guns at your house,” said Faith.

  “I collect guns, so what? I inherited most of the collection from my father.” Mark shrugged. “Every gun i
s licensed, so you can’t have a problem with that.”

  “Good for you,” said Faith. “Can you tell us where you were on the afternoon of August 31st last?”

  “I can’t recall off the top of my head. Can I get my secretary to check my diary and get back to you?” He sniggered, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms.

  “Don’t be a smart-arse, Mark. It won’t get you anywhere other than a night locked up in the cells. Would you like that?”

  He shook his head, turning pale.

  “Good. Now start talking. I’ll ask you again, where were you on the afternoon of August 31st?”

  “As far as I can recall, I was with my daughters. It was the summer holidays, and since I lost my job, I’m the designated babysitter while my wife goes out to work.” He sighed.

  “Are you a kept man now?” mocked Kelly. “It’s well for some.”

  Mark’s face flushed, but he swallowed his temper.

  “Your phone signal puts you in the area around the time of the murders,” said Faith. “Can you explain that?”

  “I live in the area.” He rolled his eyes.

  Faith stood up. She checked her watch. “It’s 9.30 p.m. Interview ended.”

  “At last.” Mark stood up as if to leave.

  “You’re not going anywhere, sunshine,” said Faith over her shoulder as she headed towards the door. “We’re holding you for at least twenty-four hours.”

  28

  “Have you found anything incriminating on Mark Lyons?” asked Faith the following morning at the team meeting. “We can only keep him until nine o’ clock tonight, unless we come up with something.”

  “Thirteen hours,” said Byrne, glancing at her watch. “I think we’ll be releasing him sooner than that, unfortunately.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “We found a motorbike in his garage, and forensics has already come back with the lab results; there’s nothing suspicious to report. Neither the motorbike or his helmet match the shepherd’s description. None of the guns in his collection matches the profile of the gun used in the Gleeson murders.”

  “I think he’s too thick to be the assassin,” interrupted Kelly. “He might be a gun-obsessed racist, but he’s not a killer.”

  “Has anything turned up on his computer?” asked Faith.

  “No, again nothing suspicious,” said Byrne.

  “Anything on his DNA?”

  “All clear too.”

  “Great,” said Faith, finding it difficult to hide her disappointment. She had hoped Lyons would prove to be a viable lead, but it looked like they’d have to go back to the drawing board. “Who the bloody hell is our killer?”

  “Maybe it was a madman on the loose, someone in the grip of a psychotic break who killed the Gleesons, and then returned to a normal life,” suggested Plunkett, trying to be helpful.

  “Only someone out of their mind could commit such a gross act of savagery and continue his life telling no one what he’d done,” snapped Faith.

  “The location in the Black Valley was the perfect place for a madman to lurk, knowing that so few cars drive there; it’s usually lone hikers or forest workers who pass through the area,” said Byrne, “but surely a trained assassin would have left no witnesses alive.”

  Faith sighed. “I want you to run checks at the psychiatric hospitals on all patients who were recently discharged, or were on day release. Cross-reference your findings with anyone who has previous convictions for gun violence, or anyone with an interest in firearms.”

  “Will do, boss.” Byrne scribbled a note in her diary. “I’ll contact the gun and hunting clubs while I’m at it. Handguns and semi-automatic weapons are legal if held by active gun club members.”

  “It’ll be interesting to see what turns up.” Faith made a note on the whiteboard. “Any other theories?”

  “The murders could have been politically motivated,” suggested Reilly. “A racist, lone killer may have targeted the Gleesons because of Amira’s Iraqi background. He may have spotted the family in Killarney and seized the opportunity to vent his hatred.”

  “It’s not beyond the realms of possibility,” agreed Faith.

  “What’s happening in the world?” Nora sighed. “Why can’t we live in peace? Life’s difficult enough.”

  “We’d be out of a job if it weren’t for the whackos out there,” Kelly piped up.

  “For heaven’s sake,” said Faith.

  “What?” said Kelly, “I’m just stating the obvious.”

  “I see you left your sensitivity chip at home as usual,” muttered Byrne.

  “It could have been a car-jacking that went wrong,” interrupted Plunkett. “The Gleesons’ car was UK-registered. Mr Gleeson imported it last month and hadn’t gotten around to transferring the registration number. I was reading an article the other day about a series of hold-ups by gangs across Spain and France. The attackers trick their victims by faking accidents, or pretending to need help. When the tourists stop, one gang member distracts them, while the other steals from their car. They target foreign-registered cars. Maybe some bright spark has decided to start doing it here in Ireland.”

  “But doesn’t that mostly happen on the motorways?” asked Byrne. “Who’d bother hanging around the Black Valley for a car to pass by?”

  “Yes,” agreed Plunkett, “but there have been reports of isolated, organised incidents in targeted areas.”

  “But nothing was stolen from the Gleesons’ vehicle,” said Faith, “Mrs. Gleeson’s handbag, an iPad, a camera, and two iPhones were found at the scene. If robbery was the motivation for the attack, those items would have been snatched. This wasn’t a robbery; if it was, why did he leave empty-handed?”

  “I’ve been researching hits in Ireland over the past few years,” said Reilly, clearing his throat. “The closest comparison to the Gleeson case is the murder of a gangland boss in Dublin last year. One shot to the head killed him, only a few metres from his house. Investigators believe that someone chased him so he would walk into the sights of the sniper who fired the shot that killed him.”

  “That’s all very interesting,” said Faith. “But it still doesn’t give us anything concrete. Has Amira’s email correspondence revealed anything?”

  “She had some rather provocative political exchanges with her first husband, Max Edwards,” said Nora. “Although she seemed to be guarded about what she said to most people, she confided in him. They had several heated exchanges about religion and various political conspiracy theories. She seemed angry about what she believed goes on in the government. She wrote that she wanted to do something about it, but Max told her to stay out of it.”

  “Maybe the Gleeson murders are connected with Mossad,” said Kelly. “Their hits are quick and clinical, seldom leaving any trace.”

  “Mossad?” asked Reilly.

  “They handle Israeli intelligence collection, covert operations, and counter-terrorism, as well as protecting Jewish interests. The director reports to the Prime Minister of Israel,” explained Kelly.

  “That’s an extreme hypothesis, even by your standards,” said Byrne.

  “Everything about this case is extreme,” retorted Kelly.

  “I suppose I can’t argue with that,” Byrne conceded. “Didn’t the Gleesons’ neighbour mention that Daniel was paranoid about security at the house? The same neighbour also said that Daniel and Amira were thinking of relocating to Iraq.”

  “Relocating to Iraq?” Faith was incredulous. “Who in their right mind would do that in this climate?”

  “I’m just repeating what he told me. Apparently, Daniel said that Amira was homesick, and that she wanted the girls to experience their Iraqi heritage while they were still young.”

  “Why would Amira, who has lived most of her life in the West, want to move back to Iraq, when almost every other Iraqi is trying to get out?”

  “I know, it doesn’t make sense to me either.”

  “Did you mention this to Daniel’s parent
s?”

  “They were appalled at the idea. They said Daniel mentioned nothing about moving away. He loved living in Dublin. They said he was a real home bird, who wasn’t keen on travelling abroad on holiday, let alone emigrating.”

  Faith rubbed her tired eyes. “You couldn’t make this stuff up.”

  “You’re telling me,” said Byrne. “It gets even more mind-boggling; another neighbour said that Secret Service officers had been watching the Gleesons’ house.”

  “That’s odd,” said Faith. “Have you followed it up with the Special Detective Unit?”

  “I’ve tried, but they haven’t been forthcoming, as usual. They said that there was nothing of concern.”

  “Do you think they’re holding something back?”

  “That’s their style,” said Byrne. “They’re aware of Amira’s Iraqi background but insisted that there was nothing of concern to report. They refused to elaborate further.”

  “Typical.” Faith sighed. “Have you found out why Amira had two Iraqi stamps on her passport?”

  “I spoke with Layla about that,” said Byrne, consulting her notes. “According to her, Amira returned to Iraq to check on their old family home. It was at the end of 2003, just a few weeks before Saddam’s downfall. Apparently, squatters were living there, but Amira got them out.”

  “How?”

  “Layla says that Amira was secretive about it. She said she used some connections and that everything was sorted.”

  “I wonder if someone wanted her dead because of what she did in Baghdad.”

  “More than a decade later? I doubt it,” said Byrne. “However, I spoke with the Iraqi ambassador to Ireland; he offered some interesting information.”

  “Specifically?”

  “Specifically related to Saddam’s secret millions.”

  “What? I thought Saddam’s secret millions was just a myth.”

  “So do most people, but not according to the ambassador. He claims that there are financial links between Saddam Hussein and Hisham al-Nin — Amira and Layla’s father.”