WHYTE LIES

by KC Acton

  “But Layla said that the family left Iraq to avoid Saddam’s secret police. We know that Saddam wanted to nationalise everything and didn’t like private business people. Layla claims that the regime didn’t like her family, so why on earth would her father launder money for him?”

  “According to the ambassador, the tension between Hisham and Saddam was a smokescreen. Apparently, Hisham helped to hide the millions around the world when American troops entered Baghdad following Operation Shock and Awe. The transactions were deposited in foreign accounts held by Iraqis who moved abroad.”

  “The al-Nins being some of those Iraqis,” said Faith.

  “Possibly.”

  “I know that Saddam deposited millions in Switzerland and France, but I’ve heard nothing about Ireland or England’s involvement,” said Faith.

  “This is where it gets interesting,” continued Byrne. “Several of the calls Daniel made on his mobile phone over the past few months were to Switzerland.”

  “Did you find anything on Amira’s phone?”

  “No calls to Switzerland, but there were several calls to Jersey and Guernsey.”

  “British tax havens.” Faith almost dropped her coffee cup.

  “Exactly. When we searched the Gleesons’ house, we found details of bank accounts in Jersey and Guernsey in Hisham al-Nin’s name.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly serious.”

  “But it’s possible that those accounts were legitimate,” said Kelly. “We know that Hisham al-Nin was a wealthy businessman in Iraq. Maybe he siphoned some of the money from the sale of his business into those offshore accounts.”

  “I wonder if the Gleesons knew where Saddam’s money was located?”

  “It would explain Special Branch’s involvement.”

  “Christ! They could have been the target of any Western intelligence agency,” interjected Kelly.

  “The ambassador mentioned that he’d heard a rumour about an Eastern European hitman who was paid to kill Iraqis in foreign countries,” said Byrne.

  “And?”

  Byrne sighed. “I spoke to the ambassador several times on the phone, but when I suggested meeting, he clammed up. I haven’t been able to speak to him since.”

  “Why would he offer to help and then refuse?”

  “Bloody bizarre, if you ask me,” said Byrne. “But it’s not like we can arrest him.”

  “Do you think he’s hiding something?” asked Faith.

  Byrne shrugged. “Who knows? I’d say someone must have told him to shut it down.”

  “Okay, Amira may have sent a few extreme emails to her ex-husband, but that doesn’t necessarily make her a security threat,” said Faith. “It’s difficult to believe an agent working for Mossad would have had his gun jam. There’s no evidence on either Daniel or Amira’s computers that they were selling secrets to Israel’s enemies. I think that’s one conspiracy theory too far! Having a rant via email isn’t enough to trigger Mossad’s interest. Otherwise, they’d have their work cut out for them tracking down the hundreds of people ranting in forums every day.”

  “The newspapers are running the Mossad angle,” said Plunkett, glancing at his iPad.

  “They’d print anything to make headlines and sell papers,” sneered Byrne.

  “Have you checked the Gleesons’ bank accounts?” asked Faith.

  “Nothing suspicious there,” said Nora. “Every transaction has been accounted for. No large sums of money have been deposited or withdrawn. I’ve checked the last three years’ statements for both Daniel and Amira.”

  “How much money was in the British offshore accounts?” asked Faith.

  “Ten grand.”

  Faith paced up and down, trying to get her head straight. “That would have been peanuts to Saddam Hussein. Even if the al-Nins are somehow connected with Saddam’s money, why would the Iraqi state only kill Amira? Why didn’t they go after Layla too?”

  “Maybe we should pay her another visit,” said Byrne.

  29

  “Maybe you should talk to my brother instead of hounding me,” snapped Layla.

  “Your brother?” asked Faith. “You didn’t mention that you have a brother.”

  “Why would I? You didn’t ask. Sami’s never been a big part of my life. Technically, he’s my half-brother. Father had a fling when he attended Oxford University, long before he met Mother. Sami has been in and out of psychiatric hospitals most of his life; he’s a paranoid schizophrenic. Father didn’t like us seeing much of him; he’s dangerous. He’s attacked his poor mother several times, convinced she’s the devil or some such nonsense.” She laughed and waved her hand dismissively. “Who knows what goes on inside his head?”

  Byrne and Faith exchanged glances.

  “Do you know where he lives?” asked Byrne.

  “Yes, he lives in Galway with his mother, Kathleen Nolan. I can give you the address.”

  ***

  Faith pulled up outside the row of terraced houses on the edge of Galway City. “What number is it?”

  “Number 2, Woodview Terrace, boss,” said Byrne, hopping out of the Jeep. “This is it.”

  Faith hit the automatic locking button on the Jeep as they walked past the pub on the corner. Two men, smoking cigarettes, eyeballed them as they passed. They sniggered and muttered something incoherent. Faith silenced them with a glare.

  “One o’ clock on a Tuesday, have they nothing better to be doing other than drinking?” asked Faith, loud enough for them to hear.

  “Lucky bastards,” said Byrne under her breath.

  “What was that?” asked Faith as they rounded the corner.

  “Nothing, boss. Let’s get this over and done with; I’m exhausted.”

  Faith didn’t retort; the stress of the case was getting to the whole team, herself included. She hesitated outside the freshly painted house before knocking sharply on the door. Moments later, a shadow appeared in the hall, visible through the glass panel in the door. “Who is it?” A woman’s voice came from inside.

  “It’s Detective Chief Inspector Whyte and Detective Sergeant Byrne. We spoke on the phone,” said Faith.

  The door opened a crack. A woman in her late sixties poked her head out. She looked them up and down and smiled tightly. “Come in.”

  Faith and Byrne followed her into the hall, which had newly laid tiles. The strong smell of fresh paint lingered. “Would you like tea? I’ve just boiled the kettle.”

  “That would be great, thank you, Mrs Nolan.”

  The kitchen looked like something from an interior design magazine with its black and white decor, marble-topped table, and a premium range cooker. The house was in stark contrast to the other houses on the street.

  “Is your son here?” asked Faith, when they were settled at the table with their tea and biscuits.

  Kathleen sighed. “What’s he done now?” She seemed to shrink even smaller than her five feet two inches at the mention of her son.

  Faith had obtained the reports on Sami Nolan, which listed several violent psychotic episodes that had brought him to the attention of the police; most of the incidents were outbursts against his mother and stepfather. The most recent report stated that police had been called to the house about a domestic dispute between Sami and his stepfather, Liam. Sami had punched Liam in the stomach and pushed his mother. The report stated that Sami was controlling and had threatened and assaulted his stepfather and mother on several occasions. Sami had trashed the house, and when the police arrived, he threatened more violence if they attempted to arrest him. Three other similar incidents were listed in the report. Sami claimed that Liam and his mother were abusing him, which was why he had lashed out.

  The report concluded by stating that Liam and Kathleen Nolan were afraid of their son, and that he had threatened to kill them on numerous occasions, saying that no one could touch him because of his mental health issues. It made for damning reading.

  “We’d like to talk to him about his wher
eabouts on the afternoon of August 31st,” said Faith. “Is that possible?”

  “He’s not here at the moment.”

  “Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “No, he never tells me anything. He comes and goes as he pleases. He left this morning before I got up. Sometimes, he takes off for days at a time. I have no idea when he’ll be back.” Tears shone in her tired brown eyes.

  “Is everything okay, Mrs Nolan?” Byrne leaned across the table and touched the older woman’s hand.

  “I’m fine. Sorry. Sometimes it gets to me, that’s all. It’s been difficult coping since my husband passed away.” She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “I’m making a show of myself.” She tried to smile through her tears.

  “When did your husband pass away?” asked Faith gently.

  “Last month. He had cancer. He’d been ill for the past two years. In many ways, his passing was a blessing because his last few months were agony, but I miss him so much.”

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” said Byrne.

  “I’m sure your son has been a big support to you,” Faith probed.

  Kathleen sipped her tea. “He tries.” Her smile was strained. “He and Liam never got along. Liam tried his best. He treated him like his own son, but Sami never gave him a chance. I met Liam when Sami was eight. Sami resented him; I suppose he had gotten used to having all my attention and didn’t appreciate having a man in the house.

  “Liam was as good as gold to him. I don’t know how I would have coped without Liam. It’s not like Sami’s father was on the scene. Hisham provided for us financially, but he thought it too much to send him a birthday card. I used to buy him gifts and pretend they were from his father.

  “Sami tried to contact Hisham when he was older, but Hisham didn’t want to know. Sami met his half-sisters a few times, but it was strained. It broke his heart. He could never understand why Hisham left us and started a new family with someone else. I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Actually, that’s why we’re here,” said Faith.

  “Oh?” Kathleen looked confused.

  “I don’t know if you heard on the news that Amira was killed on August 31st in Killarney. Her husband was murdered too.”

  “Oh my God.” The blood drained from her face and her hand shook as she placed her cup on the table. “How? Why?”

  “They were shot,” said Byrne. “We don’t know why.”

  “And the girls?”

  “They’re okay. Lucy was hurt, but her injuries aren’t life-threatening. Megan wasn’t injured.”

  “Those poor babies. I can’t believe it. Who would do such a thing?” Kathleen’s eyes were huge in her pale face.

  Faith cleared her throat, unsure of how to continue. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “What do you mean?” Kathleen looked from one to the other before realisation dawned. “You don’t think Sami had anything to do with this, surely? He might be a lot of things, but he’s not a murderer.” She stood up and gathered the cups, flinging them in the sink. “How dare you come into my home and accuse my son of killing his own sister?”

  “We’re not accusing anyone of anything,” insisted Faith. “We’re just making enquiries, trying to piece together potential motives for the murders. Your son is one of several persons of interest.”

  “Why are you interested in Sami?” She leaned against the sink and folded her arms across her thin chest.

  “Your son has schizophrenia,” said Faith.

  “What does that have to with anything?” she snapped. “Many people have mental health issues. It doesn’t mean they’re killers.”

  “Your son has a history of attacking you and your husband, according to the police reports,” continued Faith. “The reports state that Sami is controlling and has been violent and threatening towards you. During one incident, he threatened to kill your husband. Witnesses have seen him pushing you around in the shopping centre. Another report states that you and Liam had to lock yourselves into your bedroom to get away from him until the police arrived.”

  Tears shone in Kathleen’s eyes. “He blames me for his schizophrenia. He thinks I didn’t look after him when he was a child. I did the best I could, but he’s convinced that his problems are all my fault. He’s on and off his medication, which doesn’t help his moods. I don’t know what to do. Sometimes, I wish he’d move out, but I can’t help worrying about what would become of him if he did. At least here I can keep an eye on him.”

  “Do you think he’s capable of murder?”

  “Absolutely not. He’s always sorry after his outbursts.”

  The front door crashed open, making them jump.

  “It’s Sami.” She looked stricken as her son walked in the door.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked, standing in the doorframe. His towering six and half feet blocked most of the light from the hall behind him. Faith guessed he weighed in at almost twenty stone.

  “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Faith Whyte, and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Byrne.” Faith stood up.

  “What’s this about, Mother?” He glared at her. “What have you been talking to the police about this time?”

  “Actually, we’re here to talk to you,” said Byrne, getting up to stand beside Faith.

  “Oh yeah?” he sneered, reaching into the fridge for some milk, which he drank straight from the bottle. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Can you tell us where you were on the night of August 31st last?”

  “I could, but why should I?”

  “Amira and her husband have been murdered,” said Kathleen.

  Sami gripped the edge of the table. “Amira’s dead?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Faith. He looked like he was about to throw up. “Can you tell us where you were?”

  “I was at the local pub with a few of the lads, playing pool. I spend most evenings there. Ask any of them, they’ll vouch for me.”

  Kathleen looked relieved. “Detectives, I’d like you to leave.”

  “If you think of anything that might be relevant, call me — anytime,” said Faith, handing her a card.

  “Thank you.” Kathleen held her gaze, knowing what she meant.

  “Thank you for your time. Again, we’re sorry for your loss,” said Faith. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  30

  “Boss, there’s been a suicide,” said Byrne.

  “Why are you calling me about a suicide, Byrne, on my day off, to make matters worse?” snapped Faith. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re murder detectives.”

  “He left a note, boss, claiming he killed the Gleesons.”

  Faith jumped out of bed and threw on the clothes she had flung on the floor a few hours earlier. Within minutes she was speeding down the road, careering around the twists and turns at breakneck speed. Twenty minutes later, she pulled up at an apartment block on the outskirts of Killarney. Lights from police squad cars lit up the parking area. A small crowd had already gathered, eager to see what was happening.

  “This way, boss,” said Byrne, leading the way into the apartment block which was already sealed off. An officer stood guard outside the lift to the third floor, where the victim lived.

  “Victor Jones was an ex-soldier from Liverpool. He was a Royal Marine in the Iraq War. He’s lived in Killarney since 2012, designing bespoke furniture.”

  “I thought you and Plunkett were going to speak with him,” said Faith. “He was one of our most promising leads.”

  “We spoke to him briefly yesterday. He wrote in his suicide note that he felt he was being accused of the Gleeson murders.”

  “Are you serious?” Faith rounded on Byrne. “What the bloody hell did you two say to him? The last thing I need at this stage is the Super having yet another meltdown.”

  “We spoke to Mr. Jones in a routine and friendly manner for about half an hour. We explained to him that we were following up every possible lead and he was one o
f them.”

  Faith lifted the crime scene tape and stepped into the studio apartment. The place was immaculate with only the bare minimum of furniture: a kitchen table, one chair, an armchair, and a small television. It looked more like a prison than a home.

  “Can you confirm that it was death by suicide?” Faith approached the Assistant State Pathologist, Scott Mitchell.

  “You know I can’t confirm anything until I’ve examined the body,” Scott replied. He smiled up at her as he packed his bag. His thick brown hair stood on end, and he looked like he was in dire need of some hot dinners. Although he was pushing forty, he could have passed for a student in his late twenties. Faith didn’t know how he did it; being surrounded by death every day would have aged most people, but he seemed to thrive on it.

  “Okay, let me rephrase.” Faith took a deep breath. “In your professional opinion, would you say it’s suicide?”

  “It looks like it, that’s all I’m saying at this stage. Call me in the morning, and I’ll have my report ready for you; top priority.” He swept past her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have a vintage bottle of red wine at home with my name on it.”

  “Pompous ass,” muttered Byrne.

  “Where’s the suicide note?” asked Faith, ignoring her comment. Silently, she couldn’t help agreeing with her, Scott Mitchell was the quintessential “pompous ass” as Byrne so aptly put it. Educated at Trinity College Dublin, and Harvard University, he had a serious superiority complex. Usually, Faith took great pleasure in bringing him down to earth, but for once, she wasn’t in the mood. She’d deal with him in the morning.

  “Right here, boss,” said Reilly.

  “Jesus, Reilly, don’t sneak up on us like that.” Faith swung around.

  “Sorry, boss.” Reilly flushed and offered her the note.

  Faith pulled on a pair of latex gloves and started to read. “This doesn’t make any sense.” She frowned. “He’s written that he couldn’t handle being considered a suspect in the Gleeson murders. But he’s an ex-marine, who’s probably killed in the line of duty, who’s experienced in handling guns. He believed he was being charged with the murders. What’s he on about? If we had charged him, he’d have been behind bars.”