Death in Foxrock

by Valerie Keogh

  It was tempting to say he hadn’t heard. Easier, too. But honesty forced him to nod. ‘The mechanics who towed it away seem to think so. We’ve given the owner a replacement loan-car until we get something sorted.’

  The something would be expensive. Morrison’s grimace went from sour to curdled and he waved West away with a sharp, ‘you’d better get this third gang member, West, get him quickly and put this lot away. Then, maybe, I can justify this expenditure to the powers that be.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Inspector,’ West said turning to leave and then, remembering an old adage, leave on a positive note, he said, ‘Baxter and Foley did well today, and they had excellent assistance from Nick Hudson and Gemma Ryan.’

  Morrison nodded in acknowledgement of the comment but said nothing. He would, West knew, note the comment down as soon as he left the office. Smiling to himself, he called into the observation room to check on the other interview.

  ‘How’s it going in there,’ he asked Hudson who was sitting back, legs crossed as if he were at the cinema.

  ‘He’s made of tougher stuff than your’un,’ he said, nodding toward the man in the Other One. Oliver Fearon was a bigger, older man than Mackin but whereas Mackin’s criminal history was heavy on the robbery side, his was heavier on violence.

  West stood listening for a while. They’d made the right choice; this man was never going to give them anything.

  Back in the Big One, he sat and the recording was restarted. ‘Ok,’ he said, looking to the solicitor, ‘with your client’s history my superior isn’t too happy at cutting a deal.’ He waited a beat. ‘But I persuaded him it was in everyone’s best interest.’

  Enda Careless gave a knowing smile. ‘I thought you might,’ he murmured before turning to his client. ‘This is the best option for you. Tell them what they want to know. Don’t be stupid and fuck it up.’

  ‘You have one minute before I make the same offer to your friend next door.’ West said, crossing his arms.

  Mackin’s lip twisted. ‘Ollie’s never going to deal with you lot.’

  West shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter. We have both of you, we’ll just question your friends, your relatives, everyone you’ve spoken to in the last year. We’ll have uniforms swarming your street, looking into every nook and cranny. I bet we’ll find plenty to interest us. Your friends will be so pleased.’

  Mackin paled. He could tell West wasn’t joking. Suddenly, taking the deal seemed like a good idea. They were going to find Connor Shield anyway.

  Five minutes later, West and Foley left the room together, and Mackin was taken away to a cell. Two hours later, Connor Shield was led in, growling abuse at the two gardai who held him.

  By midnight, they had written confessions from Mackin and Shield, each man trying to offload as much blame as possible on the other. Ollie Fearon, on the other hand, refused to answer any questions, sitting silently sullen in the face of Andrews’ and Baxter’s best attempts.

  ‘We have him anyway,’ Andrews said later as they went over the statements given by the other two men. ‘They’ll all go down for a considerable amount of time for this. And your boy, Mackin, won’t do so well from your deal,’ he said with satisfaction, ‘both women said it was he, not Fearon, who threw the blows.’

  There was a message waiting for West on his desk. The garage had rung to confirm what he already knew. The car was a right-off.

  He threw the note toward Andrews who read it and shrugged. ‘It’s a banjaxed car, not a dead body. We were lucky there, Mike.’

  Lucky? West remembered feeling the blood drain from his face when he saw Hudson’s body lying on the road. Yes, they’d been damn lucky.

  8

  Next morning, West left Baxter and Foley to complete the paperwork on the Cornelscourt case while he went over the information he had on the child in the suitcase, looking for something he might have missed. There was nothing. Without identification, it would be impossible to trace her movements. Without a face it was virtually impossible to identify her.

  Stymied.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. There must be something they could do. He’d no idea how much a facial reconstruction would cost; he’d no idea if they had the facilities to do it, even if funds were available.

  He stopped drumming. There was someone who might know. He checked his contacts book and reached for the phone to dial the number. ‘May I speak to Dr Kennedy,’ he said when the phone was answered, ‘it’s Detective Sergeant West.’

  Put on hold, he held the phone away from his ear. There was only so much terrible music he was willing to listen to. He moved it closer again when the pathologist’s cheerful voice hailed him. ‘Mike, what can I do for you?’

  West smiled. He appreciated someone who didn’t waste time on pleasantries. ‘It’s about the child in the suitcase, Niall. We’re no nearer to finding out who she is. I was wondering about facial reconstruction. Do we have the facility?’

  ‘Not us, I’m afraid, but I know who does. The University of Dundee. They have a computer programme that can extrapolate facial features based on bone structure and nationality. It’s in the research phase as yet, but they’ve had some remarkable results.’

  ‘I wonder if they’d be interested in working on our girl then,’ West said, feeling the first stirrings of optimism he’d had with the case. ‘I don’t suppose you have a contact there, do you?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ the pathologist said regretfully, ‘but leave it with me and I’ll ask around. I’ll get back to you by late morning, if not before.’

  Settling for that, West thanked him, and hung up. ‘This might work,’ he muttered, getting up and heading out to the main office. There was nobody there to share his news with so he fetched coffee and headed back to his desk.

  With little enthusiasm, he switched on the computer and brought up the case audit he’d been trying to complete since the previous month. He was still chipping away at it when the phone rang an hour later. Picking it up in the expectation of hearing Niall Kennedy’s voice, he was surprised to hear a female voice instead.

  ‘It’s Fiona,’ she said, ‘Niall asked me to give you a buzz. You asked about the facial reconstruction work they’re doing in Dundee. I was at a conference there last year and went to a symposium on it.’

  ‘Do you know if they’ve done any work with children?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid we’ve run into a brick wall trying to identify that child.’

  ‘They hadn’t a year ago, but it’s a work in progress, I’ve no idea how advanced their research is at this stage.’ There was silence for a few seconds and then she said, ‘I have the contact details. of one of the professors who spoke at the symposium. I’m afraid I can’t give it to you but I could contact him, explain the situation and ask him to get in touch with you. Would that be ok?’

  ‘That would be great,’ he said. He bit his lip on the comment he wanted to make, the can you do it ASAP? All he could do was hope she recognised the underlying urgency of his request.

  She must have done. ‘I’ll get right on it,’ she said, and then, before hanging up added, ‘you’ll owe me, of course.’

  He smiled briefly and put the phone down. He should continue the audit and get it finished but there was only so much time he could spend on filling in forms without going crazy. Luckily for him, Andrews appeared in the doorway with the offer of coffee. He’d not finished the last one but it was cold so he nodded.

  Coffee in hand, he filled him in on the news. ‘Even if she sent emails immediately,’ he said, ‘it’s unlikely we’ll hear back for several days.’

  But just as West finished his update, the phone rang.

  ‘Is that Garda West,’ the voice asked in a distinctive Scottish burr.

  ‘Yes, this is West.’ He raised an eyebrow at Andrews.

  ‘This is Professor Alistair McCleod,’ he said. ‘Fiona Wilson rang us about an interesting case you have there.’

  West, who’d expected her to email the man, was
gratefully surprised she’d taken the trouble to ring. He definitely owed her.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ the professor said.

  Another man who didn’t bother with unnecessary pleasantries. Keeping to the bare facts, West filled him in. ‘We’re at a standstill, I’m afraid. Sickle-Cell Anaemia does indicate she may be of sub-Saharan origin, but that’s all we’ve got to go on.’

  ‘And you say she’s between two and three years of age?’

  ‘The pathologist based the estimate on her dentition.’

  The silence lasted so long that West wondered if he’d been cut off. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh, I’m still here. Just giving the situation some thought. We’ve not worked on someone so young. We’d have to shift some of the parameters.’

  West gave Andrews a thumbs-up. ‘But you’ll give it a go?’

  ‘Aye, we’ll give it a go. It will be interesting to see what we can achieve. But I’ll warn you, Garda West, at that age, features are very poorly determined. It may not be of much help.’

  ‘But, then again, Professor McLeod, it may give us the break we need. Now,’ he said, wanting to get the process started as quickly as possible, ‘what do we need to do? And how much is this going to cost us?’

  A hearty chuckle came down the line. ‘Nae, it won’t cost you anything. We’re delighted to have this opportunity. All we’ll ask in return is for permission to use the results.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ West agreed. He’d be sure to tell Morrison, it might go some way toward making up for the car. ‘We can have the skull sent over to you in the next few days.’

  ‘No need for that,’ the professor said, surprising him, ‘all we need are a series of photographs and accurate dimensions of the various bones. I’ll liaise directly with Fiona, she knows what I need.’

  It was as simple as that.

  Then it was just a matter of waiting. The professor had given no indication of timeframe apart from his muttering about having to change parameters. West thought it wiser not to ask.

  There was enough work to keep him busy. A minor domestic, a few assaults, some dodgy merchandise being sold, and the rumour of yet another new drug on the street, which thankfully, proved to be just that. The routine day-to-day stuff.

  It was almost a week before he heard back from Professor McLeod.

  ‘This is a very interesting case, Garda West,’ he said, ‘we’ve learned a lot from it. I’ve sent you the reconstruction by email. As you will see, we went with your sub-Saharan origin. In a child this young, hairstyle can make a difference, so we added a variety of different hairstyles.’

  West held the phone tightly to his ear. ‘Hang on while I pull it up,’ he said, tapping the keys.

  He opened the email and stared in amazement. ‘Wow,’ he said, ‘this is better than I expected.’ He enlarged the image. The child was beautiful, rounded cheeks, luminous eyes, her hair a cloud of curls around her head. There were others with the hair styled differently, but it was this one that generated a frisson of excitement in West. ‘How accurate is it?’

  ‘We’ve had some very good results based on adult skulls, but this is our first child. Bone structure doesn’t lie, but as I already mentioned, children’s features are poorly defined. We’ll only know how close it is, if you manage to identify the child.’

  ‘Well, with this, we might have a shot,’ West said.

  ‘Keep in touch, let us know the outcome. The best of luck with it.’

  West thanked him and hung up.

  He spent several minutes looking at the images before clicking forward and sending the images to everyone who might be able to identify the child, including the South Africa Centre for Missing and Exploited Children. He also sent it to the National Centre for Missing and Exploited Children in several countries, to the Salvation Army, and to his colleagues in the National Crime Agency in the UK because, although the child might be of African origin, she could have been born anywhere. All the agencies, he knew, would add the images to their database of missing persons.

  He heard Andrews’ voice through the open door of his office and yelled out to him to come in.

  ‘Something new?’

  West swivelled the computer screen toward him. ‘Prof McLeod came through for us,’ he said, watching as Andrews’ eyes widened. ‘There are a few variations,’ he added, clicking the key to change the image, ‘But this is the one I’m printing out.’ He clicked to the one with the curls and saw Andrews smile in agreement.

  ‘If I were her parent,’ he said, ‘it’s the way I’d have left her hair, she’s a little beauty.’

  ‘I’ve forwarded it to every missing person agency I can think of,’ West said. ‘We might get lucky.’

  ‘Are you going to give it to the press?’

  West screwed up his nose. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll talk to Morrison.’

  ‘Might be better to wait and see if we have any feedback from the agencies.’

  It came in dribs and drabs over the next few days and all of it in the negative. West had a long, and very informative, email from the South African Centre. Despite its name, it was involved with missing children over the whole continent of Africa and, more surprisingly, was based in Virginia, USA.

  He read it, and then read it again. It made for a harrowing read. The number of children of all ages missing or displaced due to conflict, famine, and disease was staggering. And, he was told, they were conservative estimates. How many of these children ended up being sold was an absolute unknown.

  He brought back up the image of their child and shook his head. They might never find out who she was.

  The phone rang. ‘West,’ he said, closing the email, wishing he could switch off what he’d read just as easily.

  ‘Hello, it’s Fiona. I was wondering if you were free for lunch.’

  He stretched and ran a hand through his hair. The company of a charming and attractive woman was just what he needed. ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘I am.’

  ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Do you know a place called Nutmeg in Monkstown?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard it’s very good.’

  ‘It is,’ she said, ‘I’ll meet you there. Say one o’clock?’

  ‘One o’clock it is.’

  Hanging up, he checked the time. Eleven. The thought of lunch and pleasant company spurred him on. He finished the audit he’d been struggling with and sent it off to Morrison. ‘That’ll keep him happy for a while,’ he muttered.

  At twelve, he switched his computer off, grabbed his jacket and headed out. He met Andrews coming in, his forehead creased, lips a tight line.

  ‘Something wrong?’ he asked, hoping the answer wouldn’t require him to stay.

  ‘Not really,’ Andrews said, shaking his head. ‘I bumped into Clarke; he was complaining he’d been left high and dry because we took Foley. He had to work for a change so he’s not happy.’

  ‘Ignore him, Peter, he’s never happy. Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’m out for a couple of hours. I should be back around four.’

  Andrews waited expectantly to be told where he was going, but West merely raised a hand and headed off.

  ‘Now what’s he up to,’ Andrews muttered under his breath. It wasn’t like him to be so mysterious. But if ever a man looked as if he were up to something.

  And, not for the first time, he wondered if things were all right between him and Kelly.

  9

  Kelly’s determination to get her next novel started gave her little time to think about anything else. Her writing style was disciplined; she outlined the plot, chapter by chapter, and then wrote a biography for each of the characters she intended to introduce. It made for an easier time when she eventually started to write the novel.

  Life in the Greystones house had settled into a routine. She wrote from nine until lunchtime when she stopped for something to eat. Afterwards, she went for a short walk to stretch her legs and then wrote from two until late.

  She became an expert at cooking
large meals and freezing portions so she didn’t need to cook every day. Mealtimes were never at a set time, West would ring late afternoon and let her know when he’d be home. Occasionally, he’d tell her that he was busy and would eat at work. On those nights, she’d write until she was exhausted and have a snack when done.

  The worry that their relationship was in trouble never left the back of her mind. West had still never said those important words I love you and was still a little distant. She knew Ken Blundell’s death still preyed on his mind, so she tried to be supportive, but every now and then she’d think about her Blackrock apartment with longing. It was peaceful there and the view over the sea would be very conducive to writing. But she just couldn’t bring herself to go back. If she did, she knew that would be it.

  The bottom line was, she loved him. For the moment, she’d make that be enough.

  When she had the plot written out, and her cast of characters ready to go, she started writing the new novel, delighted when it came together easily. Two weeks later she looked down at the word count on the screen and smiled. ‘Fifty thousand words. Not bad going.’

  It was late morning, the sun was shining. She stretched before reaching out to press save and switch off the computer. She needed a break.

  They were going to the new restaurant in Foxrock village on Saturday. Idly, she considered what to wear. Maybe she should make an extra effort. Clothes shopping, she thought with a grin. Just what she needed.

  She’d thrown on her usual slouchy pants and sweatshirt that morning. Her writing clothes, as she called them, definitely weren’t suitable for the smart stylish shops she intended to visit. Stripping, she threw them into the laundry basket and then opened the wardrobe door. Minutes later, she stood in front of the full-length mirror wearing a baggy grey sweater, thick black leggings and knee-high black boots. ‘Not bad,’ she said to her reflection. The addition of dangling silver and grey earrings and a few silver bracelets brought a satisfied smile to her face. ‘Perfect.’ Finally, she slipped on a short grey and black jacket and headed down the stairs.