Final Betrayal

by Patricia Gibney

‘A big man like you has to eat.’ She delicately teased open her own sandwich with a fork.

  Was that an insult or genuine concern? He noticed that she had extracted all the red pepper from her sandwich and lined it up neatly on the edge of the plate.

  ‘Since Gilly … you know … I haven’t been following any regular pattern. In anything, not just food. I just try to do my best in my job, though sometimes it’s way below par.’

  ‘Did you take compassionate leave?’

  ‘A week. I nearly drove myself mad. I’m better off at work.’

  ‘I was like that when my husband left. Can’t stand my own company any more. Me and the four walls don’t get along too well.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’ If he could keep her talking about herself, then she wouldn’t ask him questions.

  ‘Oh, a while ago now. I’m over him. He was a prick.’

  ‘Where is he? Local?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’ She took a tiny bite of her food and chewed it delicately.

  End of that conversation, Kirby thought, and shoved a giant mouthful of chicken, peppers and chilli into his mouth.

  She was eyeing him again.

  ‘What?’ he said, with his mouth full.

  ‘Nothing.’ She poured two cups of tea. ‘Milk?’

  ‘I’ll add my own, thanks.’ This was the most awkward he’d ever felt.

  ‘My husband was and is a bum. I should never have married him. He tried to fleece me for every penny I had, but I stood up to him. I’m happier without him.’

  Kirby nodded, not trusting that he’d say the right thing. He wanted to get her on to safer ground.

  ‘Tell me about Amy. What was she like? You know, to work with.’

  ‘Mmm. The detective has an ulterior motive in asking me out to lunch.’

  He felt his cheeks flush, but she laughed. ‘It’s fine. Most people want me for what they can get from me. I’ve grown used to it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She sipped some tea and put her cup down. ‘Amy was a challenge. To her father at home and to me at work. She was one of those girls who grew up with privilege. She latched on to Penny Brogan. Different backgrounds. Different upbringing and education. Amy lorded it over Penny. In a way, Penny brought it on herself.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She never tried to better herself. I mean, come on. Stealing from her employer. That was a bit of a cheek. Especially since Amy had got her the job.’

  ‘But despite their differences, they still got on well?’

  ‘I suppose they did. Opposites attract, so they say.’

  Kirby was sure she’d fluttered her eyelashes at him, but her face was unmoving. He must have imagined it. He pushed his plate away and finished his tea. ‘What did Mr Whyte think of his daughter being friends with the likes of Penny Brogan?’

  ‘I couldn’t comment on that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Richard. I don’t want to gossip.’

  Reading between the lines, Kirby guessed there was some animosity over Penny. He would have to see if that had any bearing on the murders. But no matter which way he looked at it, he couldn’t imagine the councillor murdering his own daughter.

  ‘Right, so,’ he said. ‘I better get back to work.’

  He paid the bill, ignoring Megan’s pleas to let her go halves.

  ‘It’s only a few euros,’ he said as he helped her slip her arms into the sleeves of her coat. He could have sworn she let her hand linger on his. No, he didn’t want that. It was too soon.

  He couldn’t wait to get back to work.

  Thirty-Five

  There was no answer when Lottie and Boyd called to Cyril Gill’s home, so they headed to the building site at the courthouse.

  He had just pulled onto the site before them. Boyd parked on the footpath outside the hoarding and Lottie jumped out of the car.

  ‘Mr Gill? Can I have a word?’

  He dismissed the man he was talking to and turned to her.

  ‘Have you come with news about Louise?’

  ‘Can we talk inside?’ Lottie said.

  She watched as the high colour that had flamed his cheeks slipped down his face.

  ‘No,’ he groaned. ‘Please. Not bad news.’

  Lottie took him by the elbow and steered him past the open-mouthed man at the office door.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said.

  He obeyed, and she wheeled a chair across and sat in front of him. Boyd entered and closed the door. The air immediately warmed up and the stench of mud and damp caught at the back of Lottie’s throat. There was no easy way to do this. In fact, she thought, each time became distinctly harder. She hoped she was never on the receiving end of such news about any of her children.

  ‘Mr Gill, I’m afraid to tell you that we do indeed have very bad news. It—’

  She didn’t get any further before he crumbled, hands clutching at the roots of his hair.

  ‘No. No. Don’t do this to me. Not my Louise. She’s all I have left.’ Then, as if he’d just remembered he had a wife, ‘This will kill her mother.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ Lottie began again.

  ‘Sorry?’ He raised his head, anger flashing in his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you’re sorry. I don’t want to hear it. But I do want to know what happened to my princess.’

  ‘It’s the early stages of our investigation …’

  ‘Don’t fudge the issue. Tell me straight.’

  If that was what he wanted, that was what she would give him.

  ‘We found Louise’s body in an apartment on the outskirts of town.’ Should she tell him about Cristina? Maybe not yet. ‘She was the victim of a vicious assault.’

  ‘What do you mean? What kind of assault?’

  ‘A post-mortem will have to be held, but we are treating your daughter’s death as suspicious.’

  ‘Some bastard murdered her?’

  ‘As I said—’

  ‘I heard you.’ He tore at his hair, then wrenched his knuckles into his eye sockets, but still the tears escaped.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Gill,’ Lottie added helplessly.

  He raised his head, eyes streaming. ‘She’s only twenty-five, you know. Her whole life ahead of her. And some bastard does this. Why?’

  Lottie went to speak, but he raised his hand.

  ‘I don’t want your apologies, I want you to find whoever did this. Today. And I want to throw the first punch. What did he do to her?’

  ‘I think it best to wait until the post-mortem is completed.’

  ‘Is Louise’s murder linked to Amy’s?’

  ‘I can’t speculate at the moment.’ But Lottie knew she was dealing with the same killer. ‘Can I phone anyone for you? Do you want us to accompany you home? To tell your wife?’

  ‘No. I’ll do that.’ He found a handkerchief in his pocket, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

  ‘Do you know of anyone who would want to harm Louise?’ Boyd said.

  ‘She was just a girl. Not much of a social life, but she was dedicated to her studies …’ He paused.

  ‘What?’ Lottie asked, feeling he had been about to say something else.

  ‘She was studying criminal behaviour, or something like that. She even talked to jailbirds, or whatever the PC term is nowadays. Maybe one of them …’

  He jumped up. Ran for the door. Boyd stopped him. ‘What is it, Mr Gill?’

  ‘Conor Dowling. He’s out on my site. I took him on so I could keep an eye on him. The slimy bastard. Wait till I get my hands on him.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Lottie said forcefully. ‘Leave Mr Dowling to us.’ The grieving father’s shoulders slumped and he returned to the desk, where he picked up a sheet of paper and began shredding it into long, thin strips. She continued, ‘This is my card. If you think of anything, call me. And we will need to have a look through Louise’s things.’

  He waved a handful of paper. ‘Yeah. But
let me talk to Belinda, my wife, first. She gets hysterical at times.’

  ‘Okay. Go home, Mr Gill. And stay away from Conor Dowling, you hear?’

  ‘I hear. Doesn’t mean I won’t throttle the good-for-nothing with my bare hands.’

  ‘Let justice take its course. We don’t know that he’s done anything wrong.’ Yet, she thought.

  ‘I bet every cent I’ve ploughed into my business that he’s involved.’

  ‘Don’t go near him,’ Lottie warned again, and made for the door as Boyd opened it.

  ‘One other thing,’ Gill said. ‘You said you found Louise in an apartment.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Cristina Lee’s.’

  ‘Cristina? That’s the girl I suspected Louise might be in a relationship with. I could never bring myself to talk to her about it.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Now it seems so inconsequential. My girl is gone. Was Cristina there? Was she harmed? Is she okay?’

  The questions came fast, and Lottie knew she had to tell him.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Gill. Cristina’s body was found with your daughter’s.’

  When they exited the office, Lottie walked over to the man she’d seen at the door earlier.

  ‘Is Conor Dowling around?’

  ‘He was here a minute ago. We were working in the tunnel. Do you want me to look for him?’

  ‘What’s your name?’ she said.

  ‘Bob Cleary. I’m the site foreman.’

  ‘Can I have a look around?’

  ‘No can do. Health and Safety.’

  ‘I need to speak with Mr Dowling. Urgently.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I know.’ She handed over her card. ‘Call me the minute you find him.’

  She looked around. Boyd was talking to the Ducky lad at the security cabin. To her right, a group of builders were huddled together near a gaping hole at the edge of the old courthouse wall. Conor Dowling was with them, talking to an overweight man of around his own age; she thought she knew him from somewhere but couldn’t remember where. She took a step forward. Cleary stood in front of her.

  ‘Inspector, we’re on a tight schedule,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, come on. I’m investigating a series of murders.’ She shouldered her way past him and approached the men. ‘Conor Dowling, I’d like you to come with me.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah, seriously.’ She watched as he folded his arms defiantly. Fuck this for a game of shite, she thought, and walked into his space. ‘Now isn’t the time to play the smart-arse with me. I have four murdered women. You’re just out of prison and you have connections to two of them, so I need to talk to you.’

  ‘This is victimisation.’

  ‘Get in the fucking car!’ Grabbing him by the elbow, she steered him across the site towards Boyd.

  Once Dowling was safely in the back seat, she exhaled loudly. She’d thought he would fight or run. She hadn’t expected him to acquiesce to her demands. He had acted like an innocent man.

  Thirty-Six

  With Conor sitting in the interview room, Lottie went to find someone who could fetch them all coffee.

  ‘You’ve nothing to hold him on.’ Boyd marched up and down the corridor.

  ‘Keep your voice down. McMahon will hear you. Jesus, the whole town will hear you.’

  ‘So what? It’s true. You’ve singled him out just because he’s been released from prison and has a decade-old connection to the dead women. This is ludicrous. You need something more.’

  ‘Right then, I’ll interview him alone and you can pussyfoot around for the rest of the day.’ She walked away, then stopped. ‘And get the damn coffee.’

  ‘Get it yourself,’ he said, and stomped in the other direction.

  ‘Boyd!’

  But he had disappeared around the corner. Shit. She needed him on her side. With no sign of McMahon’s new recruit, she’d have to look for Kirby to sit in. Then again, maybe she could let Dowling stew for an hour. She checked the time. No. It would have to be now.

  Once they were seated and Kirby had made the introductions for the recording, Lottie began.

  ‘So, Conor, nice to have you back with us.’

  ‘Don’t you have to read me my rights or something?’ He sniffed away a bubble of sweat that had gathered at the end of his nose.

  ‘Would you like to take off your coat? It’s warm in here.’ It galled her to be nice to this piece of scum who had robbed an old man and beaten him up so badly in his own home that he’d died not twelve months later. It was ten years ago, but as her mother would say, a leopard rarely changed its spots.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Nice to see you’ve found your manners.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Ah, normal service.’

  Lottie leaned back in her chair and tapped the buff folder on the desk with the tip of her pen, as if there was startling evidence between the covers. There was nothing. But he didn’t know that.

  ‘Tell me where you were last night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I asked nicely?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘You’re not going to start that again, are you? I can detain you for six hours initially. And if we charge you, what will your poor disabled mother do without you to care for her?’

  ‘She did fine all the time you had me locked up. And I won’t be here one hour, let alone six, because I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Louise Gill was found murdered this morning. You know who I’m talking about. Louise Gill who along with Amy Whyte gave witness against you in that trial.’

  She watched his face carefully. Checked for signs of guilt. But all she saw was his skin pale beneath his ginger freckles and his lips begin to quiver.

  ‘This is some kind of sick joke. You’re perverted, that’s what you are.’ He straightened himself in the chair.

  ‘No, I’m not. Louise is dead. Brutally murdered along with another young woman. So that’s four bodies in a few days. And two of them link back to you.’

  ‘You’re trying to stitch me up.’ He turned his attention to Kirby.

  Lottie thought the detective might have fallen asleep. His eyes drooped and his arms were folded, his chest moving rhythmically up and down. She nudged him with her elbow and he turned to look at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you listening?’ she whispered.

  ‘Course I am.’

  ‘This is a joke,’ Conor said.

  Lottie slapped the table. Kirby jumped. Conor remained still as a statue. ‘Look, smart-arse. Tell me where you were last night.’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘When did you last see Louise Gill?’

  He hesitated. ‘Ten years ago.’

  ‘You don’t seem so sure.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ His eyes bored through her. ‘Either charge me or let me go. You don’t have jack shit on me.’

  She had to admit he was right on that score. But she wasn’t letting him off that lightly.

  ‘I want a DNA sample. I want your fingerprints and I want a list of everywhere you’ve been and everyone you met since last Saturday.’

  ‘And I want my solicitor.’

  She had to leave Dowling in a holding cell while the solicitor was being contacted, so she cornered Boyd and drove to the Gill residence.

  The Gills lived in a modern mansion situated on a hill overlooking the town. Belinda Gill led them into what she called the reception room. The ceiling was high and white. The walls, decorated in deep red paint, looked as though someone had emptied a truck of blood down them and walked away. Expensive-looking paintings were dotted here and there, but it was the furniture that caught Lottie’s attention. She threw a look at Boyd, who turned up his nose.

  ‘Junk?’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s all antique,’ Belinda said, catching sight of Lottie’s interest. Lottie hoped she hadn’t heard
Boyd’s comment. ‘The rest of the house is modern and bright, but Cyril allowed me to indulge in my love of auctions. In my opinion, the contents of this room are worth more than the house itself.’

  Lottie wondered if Belinda had been informed of Louise’s murder. The woman wasn’t displaying any signs of grief, though her eyes were glazed and her voice was slightly slurred. She was wearing stained jeans, and her shirt was buttoned up incorrectly. Her short hair appeared unwashed, her skin pale. She might have been pretty once, but now she looked lined and haggard despite the fact that she couldn’t be more than fifty years old.

  ‘You’re here about Louise, I gather.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lottie said. ‘You heard the news?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. Is your husband home? Would you like him to be present while we talk?’

  Belinda’s laugh cut through the air and rebounded off the ceiling. ‘I don’t need Cyril for anything. Do you know, I was out shopping when he phoned me to tell me our daughter was dead? That slimeball is afraid of his own shadow.’

  ‘He phoned you?’ Lottie didn’t know what to say. What type of a man did that to his wife? Not a very nice one, she surmised.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  Before Lottie or Boyd could answer, Belinda had crossed to the distressed-looking cabinet beside the enormous wrought-iron fireplace. She poured herself a large gin, no mixer.

  ‘Nothing for us,’ Lottie said. ‘We’re on duty.’

  Belinda returned and sat down. ‘I drink. There. Got that out of the way. I’m an embarrassment to Cyril. Says I damage his reputation in the business world. He drinks too, but there’s not a word about that. He makes up the rules as he goes along.’

  She tipped her glass towards Boyd and downed it in one go. ‘Be a good man and get me a refill.’

  Lottie caught Boyd’s bewildered glance and nodded for him to go ahead.

  ‘Mrs Gill … May I call you Belinda?’

  ‘Of course you can. I’ve been called everything from bitch to whore in this house. Be nice to be called by my name for once.’

  ‘Belinda,’ Lottie said softly, ‘is Cyril here?’

  ‘No. He’s at work. Where else do you think he’d be? That project means more to him than his own flesh and blood. What happened to Louise?’