Final Betrayal

by Patricia Gibney

‘At least we’ll be able to get his DNA and see if it matches any of the forensic material found on the bodies or at the crime scenes.’

  Fifty-One

  Megan Price entered the pharmacy feeling the dullness permeate the walls. It was odd without Richard there being his usual bustling self. He’d given her the keys and told her she was in charge until such time as he could get his head together and Amy’s funeral organised.

  She let in the first two assistants and asked Trisha to make tea. She hung up her coat and pulled on her white work coat. It was old-fashioned, but she liked it because it gave her a feeling of importance and differentiated her from the underlings who struggled to put in a day’s work. At least Amy wasn’t around any longer with her smart comments and pungent perfume. She hoped the assistants were on top form today, because she needed to take a few hours off.

  The door opened and she looked out from behind her counter to see Detective Kirby marching towards her.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  He glanced around furtively, then leaned over to her and whispered, ‘You never told me about Tony Keegan.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You were married to him.’

  ‘That’s no one’s business but my own.’

  ‘He’s friends with Conor Dowling.’

  Megan’s expression was neutral. ‘So?’

  ‘Dowling is a person of interest in the recent murders. I’d have thought you’d tell me about your association with him.’

  Sparks of red flashed behind her eyes. ‘How dare you. I have no association with Dowling, nor with Tony. What are you insinuating?’

  Kirby seemed to physically step back. ‘Nothing. I don’t know. I would’ve liked to know.’

  ‘A sandwich and an Irish coffee doesn’t mean there’s anything between us. I thought you needed a companion, someone to share your grief with, but I was mistaken.’ She paused to take a breath. ‘I’d like you to leave.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’

  He turned and exited. She half expected him to bang the door, but it slid softly closed. Only then did she release her hands from the counter and see that they were white with the effort of clinging on.

  * * *

  Sam McKeown had a grin from ear to ear when Kirby stepped out of the pharmacy.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ Kirby shuffled by him.

  ‘You. What were you accusing her of?’

  ‘Never you mind. Come on.’

  Back at the station, there was still no word from Lottie or Boyd on the status of her daughters’ whereabouts.

  McMahon shoved his head around the door. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Who?’ Kirby asked in mock innocence.

  ‘Inspector Parker, of course.’

  ‘Not sure.’ Play it neutral, he thought.

  ‘Soon as she appears, I want her in my office.’ McMahon walked away muttering audibly. ‘When I get my hands on her … Using prime-time news slots for her delinquent kids …’

  ‘He’s narky this morning,’ McKeown said.

  ‘That’s mild. Finish up that CCTV today, will you?’

  ‘I will.’

  Kirby pulled the Thompson file across his desk and opened it up.

  * * *

  ‘Lottie, we’ve been down this road twice already this morning.’

  ‘I know, but they have to be somewhere. Pull in over there.’

  Boyd parked the car and left the engine running. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘They’re around here. I can feel it in my bones.’

  ‘I can feel my bones and I can tell you they are fairly sore.’

  ‘Thanks for saving me.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ He opened the door, stepped outside and lit a cigarette.

  She joined him and took a pull, but it made her light-headed so she handed it back to him. Their breath hung in the cold air and she scanned the car park. The Petit Lane houses were to her right, and she wondered if Mrs Loughlin had remembered anything further from the weekend. But her mind wasn’t on the murder investigations.

  ‘Bernie’s grandmother, Kitty Belfield, lived at Farranstown House. It’s locked up. No one has been there since Kitty passed away. It might be worth checking out. Send someone to take a look.’

  ‘Will do. Is the probate sorted yet?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Lottie didn’t want to talk about a family inheritance she had no desire to claim. She said, ‘I’m sure Leo knows something. What was he thinking of, taking her out of a secure facility?’

  ‘Being impulsive must run in your genes.’ Boyd took a long drag on his cigarette and watched the smoke hang in the air.

  ‘Don’t you dare, Boyd. I want nothing to do with that family. Come on. We need to check in with the station.’

  As they drove away, her eye caught the shadow of the lifting equipment over at the courthouse. Smoke billowed into the air. She had yet to discover if Cyril Gill was dead or alive. And then there was Conor Dowling to think of.

  * * *

  Detective Sam McKeown wasn’t sure he was going to stick it much longer in Ragmullin. Everyone seemed to have an issue with someone or other. He pulled up the next disc of CCTV footage, forwarded it to the relevant time and leaned back in the chair to watch. He’d been through it all once and found nothing. The worst job in the world.

  As he clicked the mouse, the time slid by on the screen. 01:00. 01:30. He yawned. 01:35. He sat up straight. Clicked the mouse again. Zoomed in. He could see the grainy image of a parked car. He’d seen it on the first run-through. But now a shadow caught his eye. Two shadows. Out of shot, at the rear of the car. He zoomed in again, trying to get a look at the number plate. It was covered in mud. Intentional or unintentional, he did not know.

  He clicked the images forward, slowly this time. The shadows moved out of shot. At 03:02, one shadow reappeared and the car disappeared. It had been parked in such a position that the doors were not visible and he could not see the driver. Whoever it was knew exactly where the cameras were. He pulled up the traffic cams for the same time, but the car seemed to have disappeared. There were no cameras outside the houses where the first two bodies had been found. He brought up the council office cameras and scanned for the relevant times. Again, nothing.

  He moved on to Monday night. Saw the two young men stumble across the car park towards the disused dwellings. Backed up the tape. Kept rewinding it. A shadow moved along the perimeter wall of the car park towards the council offices. And then it was gone. What the hell? It was too large for an animal, so it had to be human.

  He pulled up the incident report from Monday night. Someone had been in the house when the two lads arrived. They had been attacked and one person had run out, according to Mrs Loughlin. He twisted the heels of his hands into his eyes, then opened them wide. Concentrate, he told himself. Think.

  Forwarding the tape slowly, he kept his eyes glued to the wall. Waiting. Watching. Then he saw it again. The shadow moved in the opposite direction and disappeared.

  It might be nothing, and then again it might be something. He printed off screen shots and went to tell Kirby.

  * * *

  Kirby’s eyes felt like they were about to fall out of his head. The lines of print on the pages morphed into each other. He’d let himself down with Megan. It had been a silly move on his part. What difference did it make that she had been married to Tony Keegan? She was right. It had absolutely nothing to do with him. They’d only had a couple of coffees. You’re a total arse, he told himself.

  He blinked and turned a page. Garda reports were so boring.

  Bill Thompson. Sixty-four years old. Publican and councillor. Interesting. Kirby hadn’t heard any mention over the last few days that Thompson had been a councillor. He made a note. Continued to read. Turned the page. And then he saw a name that made the breath catch at the back of his throat. Surely that couldn’t be right. It had to be a mistake. Or was it? He looked around, wishing Lottie was here. But neither she n
or Boyd had appeared yet.

  Why hadn’t someone made the connection before now? He picked up the file to bring to McKeown.

  McKeown was already standing behind him with a sheaf of pages in his hand.

  ‘You have to see this,’ they both said in unison.

  Fifty-Two

  Lottie found Kirby and McKeown sitting side by side at Kirby’s desk, their heads down, reading.

  ‘Any news on my girls?’

  The two men looked up.

  Kirby spoke. ‘No, boss. Nothing at all.’

  ‘I’ve phoned all their friends and they haven’t been seen. Have you coordinated searches?’

  ‘Superintendent McMahon wouldn’t okay them. Spouting about budgets and KPIs. Said the cost of running the murder investigations had sent his neatly balanced spreadsheets off the page. And he wants to see you.’

  Lottie turned and bumped into Boyd. ‘I’m going to have a word with McMahon.’

  Boyd caught her by the elbow. ‘Wait up. Don’t go storming the castle just yet. Let’s see what we have first.’

  ‘I don’t have my daughters.’

  ‘I mean you’d better be armed with up-to-date information on the murders. That’s his priority and you know it.’

  ‘Not mine and you know it.’

  ‘Be sensible. We need to get up to speed.’

  She slumped against a desk and sensed the eyes of her three detectives on her. The heat was oppressive, and with the palpitations in her chest and the strain of worry in her brain, she felt weak-kneed. Boyd wheeled out a chair and she sat.

  ‘I take it there’s been no sighting of Bernie Kelly?’ she said.

  ‘None,’ Kirby replied.

  ‘Anything at Farranstown House?’

  ‘Uniforms had a drive by. Nothing.’

  ‘And no other searches organised?’

  ‘Nope,’ McKeown said. ‘But I’ve got traffic and uniforms on the watch. Just to warn you, the superintendent is on the warpath over Cynthia Rhodes’ news clip from last night.’

  ‘Feck him. Any calls come in after that report?’ She couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Fear trawled through her brain, squeezing it tight in a blasting headache.

  ‘A few cranks, but nothing concrete.’

  ‘Okay. Bring me up to speed on the murders then, before I see the super.’

  Kirby stood and paced the cluttered office. ‘I was reviewing the Thompson file this morning, like you asked me to.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I discovered that Bill Thompson was a councillor in his day.’

  ‘True. But as far as I recall, that had no bearing on what happened. He was a noted publican in Ragmullin. His business made a lot of money. Money that was stolen from him on the night in question and never recovered.’ She stood and went to the window. The crispness of the morning had given way to misty rain. ‘So, you discovered he was a councillor. What else?’

  ‘That made me wonder if there was another reason why he was targeted, apart from robbery.’

  ‘What other reason?’ Lottie frowned; she was finding it hard to follow where Kirby was leading her.

  ‘I cross-referenced with the local newspapers to see what was going on in Ragmullin at that time.’

  ‘And?’ She listened to Kirby’s feet pad around the office.

  ‘Cyril Gill had drawn up fairly sophisticated and progressive plans for an urban renewal project in the town. Most of the area was in the vicinity of the council buildings and the courthouse. In other words, Gaol Street and Petit Lane. And we know Thompson’s pub was situated on Gaol Street. A public meeting about rezoning of the development plan was held in the Joyce Hotel, recorded at the time by the local newspaper, The Tribune. One of the loudest objectors was Bill Thompson. He’s quoted in the article.’

  Lottie continued to stare out the window. Had she missed something ten years ago?

  ‘In relation to the date of the attack on Thompson, when was that meeting held?’

  ‘Three weeks prior.’

  ‘It was unrelated,’ she said, trying to instil certainty into her voice. Superintendent Corrigan had been the SIO and she’d been the investigating detective. She couldn’t remember if they’d made the connection at the time. She’d have to read the file. When she got time. When she had her daughters home.

  She turned to face the room. ‘Let me get this straight. Cyril Gill was behind an urban renewal planning application …’

  ‘Worth millions in EU grants,’ Kirby said.

  ‘… and Bill Thompson, who was on the council at the time, objected to the rezoning. Am I right so far?’ Jesus, her brain was in reverse this morning.

  ‘Correct,’ Kirby said.

  ‘Okay. Then Thompson was attacked and robbed. We had two witnesses who placed Conor Dowling near the scene.’

  ‘Cyril Gill’s daughter, Louise,’ Kirby said, ‘and Councillor Richard Whyte’s daughter, Amy.’

  ‘Shit. Was Whyte a supporter of Gill’s plans?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Double shit.’ Lottie rubbed her bitten fingernails around her bruised chin. ‘It sounds like a conspiracy theory. Are you trying to tell me that Conor Dowling was innocent and someone else beat up Thompson to silence his protests?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kirby admitted.

  ‘But how would Gill and Whyte get their daughters to tell such believable lies?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. The other question is, was Conor Dowling framed for something he didn’t do, or did he do it at the behest of Cyril Gill, who then hung him out to dry?’

  ‘Dowling never offered an alibi or any sort of defence,’ Boyd said.

  ‘But,’ McKeown said, ‘in Louise Gill’s notebooks, she mentions a meeting she had with Dowling in prison. She writes that she’s sorry and that she’s going to find out the truth.’

  ‘The truth about what, though?’ Lottie said. ‘Louise is dead, so we can’t ask her. Amy is dead too. Do their deaths actually relate back to the attack on Bill Thompson? But then we have the murders of their friends, Penny Brogan and Cristina Lee. None of this makes sense.’

  ‘And Cyril Gill is missing, presumed dead, after the incident at the courthouse,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Any update on that?’

  ‘We went down there this morning,’ Kirby said. ‘Gill is listed among the dead.’

  ‘And Conor Dowling?’ Lottie asked. ‘Any sign of him?’

  ‘Mrs Dowling rang Conor’s friend Tony Keegan, saying her son wasn’t home.’ Kirby paused, puffing out his chest as he took a deep breath, and Lottie thought his shirt buttons were about to pop. ‘I found another anomaly in the Thompson file.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Lottie said. ‘Next I’ll have the commissioner breathing down my neck for making a balls-up of that case.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ Boyd said. ‘It’s all conjecture at this stage. Isn’t that right, Kirby?’

  ‘Not really, to be truthful.’ Kirby stood at his desk and turned back a few pages in the file. ‘Tony Keegan was Conor Dowling’s best friend. He was interviewed after Conor’s arrest.’

  The hairs stood to attention on Lottie’s neck. ‘You have the file. What does it say?’

  ‘There’s half a page. A brief interview. Just to confirm that he was not with Conor at the time.’

  ‘Okay. What are you getting at?’

  ‘I found out this morning that Tony Keegan was once married to Megan Price.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Megan Price is the pharmacist at Richard Whyte’s shop, where Amy worked.’

  ‘I’m not following you, Kirby,’ Lottie said. She really wanted to get on to her daughters’ disappearance. The fear for their safety was all-consuming.

  ‘Megan Price is mentioned briefly in the file.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘She was Bill Thompson’s stepdaughter. Her mother died five years before the attack on Bill.’

  Lottie paced a little, then walked into her own of
fice and sat.

  ‘You okay?’ Boyd said.

  ‘I’m thinking.’ She didn’t move.

  ‘You don’t look okay.’

  ‘Speak for yourself. Close the door. Give me a couple of minutes.’

  She heard the door close with a soft thud. Feeling faint, she rested her head on her folded arms and allowed the coolness to seep into the bones of her cheek.

  * * *

  Boyd turned to Kirby and McKeown. Kirby tried to turn down the heat on one of the radiators. Rattles rang out through the office as the water cooled inside the steel.

  ‘Is the boss all right?’ McKeown said.

  ‘Give her a few minutes,’ Boyd said. ‘She’s dealing with a lot.’

  ‘You don’t look the best yourself,’ Kirby said.

  ‘What’s your thinking about these Tony and Megan characters?’ Boyd sat and went to put his feet on the desk, but a pain shot up through his hip so he rested them on a stack of box files instead.

  ‘I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘Could they have any connection to the current murders?’ McKeown asked. Neither Kirby nor Boyd answered, so he added, ‘I suppose anything is possible. But my money’s on Conor Dowling.’

  ‘We need to bring in Keegan and Price, and find Dowling,’ Boyd said.

  Kirby shrugged. ‘He’s probably buried in one of those tunnels.’

  ‘What tunnels?’

  Kirby explained the conversation he’d had with Tony Keegan.

  ‘That’s interesting.’ McKeown waved the sheets of paper he had in his hand. ‘I have CCTV stills here from the night the two drunk lads broke into the house at Petit Lane.’ He laid them out on Boyd’s desk.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘Shadows.’

  ‘Jesus, what have shadows got to do with anything?’

  ‘Give the man a minute,’ Kirby said, and traced his finger along the edge of the wall.

  ‘I see it.’ Boyd spread the pages out in a line.

  ‘And once it reaches this point, it disappears.’ McKeown sounded triumphant.

  ‘Probably a fox,’ Kirby said.

  ‘What’s down there?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet. But when you mentioned tunnels, it got me thinking.’