Death in Foxrock

by Valerie Keogh

  With an exchange of glances, both men shrugged and followed him.

  The apartment was open-planned and light-filled, two floor to ceiling windows looking out over the park. It was impeccably furnished, matching tables, chairs, just the right pictures and ornaments. West guessed it had been a show flat and bought fully furnished. It said nothing of the personality of the bleak-eyed man who stood looking at them.

  ‘You were expecting us,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘Dominic?’

  Careless shrugged. ‘We go back a long way.’ Turning, he walked to the window and stared out. ‘You’d better read me my rights, hadn’t you?

  Andrews did the necessary while West’s eyes drifted around the room. There were photographs of his wife in a number of places. She was even more beautiful than he remembered or maybe it was the setting. Then he saw another photograph and moved to pick it up. Abasiama. Dundee had done a good job, the likeness was amazing, the professor would be pleased.

  ‘You saw the poster I’d pinned to the notice board outside the interview room at the station, didn’t you?’ he said, turning with it in his hands, and holding it out to show Andrews who raised an eyebrow in response.

  Careless turned to face him.

  ‘Do you know what Lesere said to me weeks before she killed herself?’ He walked across and sat into one of the armchairs. ‘Sit down, please, this might take a while.’ When they sat, he continued. ‘She said it would be easier if Abasiama were dead, she could grieve for her and try to move on. It was the thought that she was somewhere, maybe in pain or distress that ate away at her day and night.’

  He rubbed his face hard with both hands, leaving his cheeks red. ‘The poster on the notice board caught my eye immediately. I’d never met the girl, of course, but the likeness to that photograph, he nodded at the one West continued to hold, ‘was inescapable. I made some enquiries about her; found out that she’d died months before Lesere’s suicide.’ He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, they were bleak. ‘I’d never felt such rage. It consumed me.

  ‘Fearon killed her as surely as if he’d tightened that belt around her neck. It was only right that he pay with his own life.’

  ‘So you killed him?’

  Careless’ eyes grew cold. ‘You think killing him would make up for the loss of my wife and her daughter? His miserable, squalid life equating to both of theirs. He shrugged. ‘I did, however, arrange to meet him,’ he said.

  ‘He wasn’t suspicious?’

  ‘Suspicious?’ he said with a sneer. ‘Why would he be? He’d never met me. I rang him, told him I needed someone brought over from Calais and heard he was the man to go to. You know the way it is, flatter their ego and they’ll believe anything. I stressed we needed to be discreet and arranged the meeting place and the time.’

  Standing abruptly, he walked over to the kitchen. ‘Would you like a drink? Some coffee?’

  ‘Coffee would be good,’ West said, and seeing Andrews nod, he added, ‘For both of us. Lots of sugar in his, milk in both.’

  Several minutes later, Careless handed them each a mug of coffee, returning to the kitchen to pick up a wine glass he’d filled nearly to the brim. ‘Now where was I?’ he said, sitting back into the sofa. ‘Ah yes, my meeting with Oliver Fearon. There isn’t much to say really. He obviously didn’t see me as any sort of threat.’ He laughed. ‘Well, look at me, weedy is one of the kinder epithets that have been applied to me. The laneway was perfect, once I emphasised the need for discretion, he followed me in without question.’

  He emptied half the glass of wine in one mouthful and put it down. ‘I don’t think he even knew what hit him,’ he said conversationally, with a shake of his head, ‘one minute he was telling me how clever he was at getting people through border security, the next he was lying at my feet groaning.’

  Andrews glanced in West’s direction. He didn’t think he was capable of beating someone to a pulp, but this cold, calculated and surprisingly detached method of killing, maybe he’d be capable of that in the right circumstances. He thought of his wife, would he be capable? He wasn’t sure.

  ‘I said their names,’ Careless continued quietly. ‘Lesere and Abasiama. He looked at me with a puzzled frown on his grey, sweaty face so I repeated them.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Do you know what he said?’

  He waited until one, and then the other, shook their heads, and then, a tear, alone and unnoticed trickled from the corner of his left eye. He didn’t brush it away and it continued, gathering momentum, falling to his shirt where it caused a round dark spot on the pale blue.

  West watched as Careless’ lower lip trembled. He pictured him, bending over the dying man, his hand still gripping the knife, waiting for some words of reparation, of justification before ending it with one push.

  Careless gulped. ‘Do you know what he said?’ he asked again, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘He said, Who?’

  The final insult. West closed his eyes and bit his lip.

  ‘Then I stood and watched him die.’ He picked up his glass and drained it. ‘He did it without any fuss, actually. Afterward, I left, got back into my car and drove away.’

  ‘We’ll need you to come to the station and make a statement,’ West said. ‘But would you mind answering a few questions first?’

  Careless shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Did Lesere meet Fearon at the South African Embassy?’

  ‘Yes, her ex-partner had taken Abasiama to Cape Town; she never gave up hope of finding her.’

  West frowned. This was the part that didn’t make sense. ‘But Fearon couldn’t have taken her from Cape Town to Ireland in a suitcase.’

  Careless laughed. ‘You’re missing a bit of the story, I’m afraid. Fearon approached my wife. He told her his area of expertise was getting people over from France,’ he shook his head, ‘she said he actually phrased it that way, area of expertise. He gave her his card and told her to give him a ring if things changed.’

  West’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then the child was spotted in Cape Town.’

  ‘Yes, but the police arrived too late and Utibe Omotoso, Lesere’s ex, and the child vanished. Lesere was distraught to have been so close to being reunited with her. Over the next couple of weeks we did everything we could to try to locate him but it was impossible there were just too many places he could have gone. Lesere spent a lot of time on Facebook, monitoring contacts, looking for something that might give us a clue. Then she had a stroke of luck. A cousin of Utibe posted a photograph of a party on Facebook, in the background, almost unnoticed, was Abasiama.’

  ‘Lesere wouldn’t have missed her child.’ Andrews commented.

  Careless smiled. ‘Actually, at first I thought she was imagining it. It was just a profile shot of a very small child, but, as you say, a mother wouldn’t miss her own child.’ He blew out a weary sigh. ‘After that, it didn’t take long to find out where they were. A small village in the south of France.’

  ‘So you sent Fearon over to snatch her?’

  He nodded. ‘He asked for extra money but Lesere would have given anything so we agreed. The plan was that he’d snatch her, hide her in the suitcase and take her over on the ferry. A week later we had a call from him to say that Omotoso and Abasiama had left the area and he couldn’t find out where they’d gone. We never heard from him again.’

  He stood, walked to the kitchen and refilled his drink. ‘Three months later, Lesere killed herself.’

  ‘You’ll need to come with us, Andrews said, eyeing the full glass of wine.

  Careless shrugged. ‘I’ll go into the station tomorrow and make a statement.’

  Andrews shot West a puzzled look. The man was a solicitor he’d know how it went. He was being charged with murder, waiting until the next day wasn’t an option.

  ‘What Garda Andrews is trying to say, Mr Careless,’ West said quietly, ‘is that you’ll need to come with us now. You’ll be charged with Ollie Fearon’s murder.’

  Careless lifted his gl
ass and took a deep drink before looking at West. He laughed startling both men.

  ‘Murder. Oh dear, Sergeant West, you have it wrong. I didn’t murder him.’

  25

  ‘What?’ Andrews said, looking bewildered. ‘You’ve just told us you killed him.’

  West shook his head. ‘No,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘he didn’t. He said he watched him die.’

  Careless nodded his head. ‘I heard you were a good solicitor, Sergeant West. You listened well, that’s exactly it. I watched him die. You could, of course, charge me with failure to report a crime, but I think that’s probably it.’

  Andrews scowled. ‘You admitted luring him into the laneway where he was killed. That would get accessory to murder, if nothing else.’

  Careless shook his head. ‘I told you, it was necessary to be discreet. Being seen with a well-known criminal would not be good for my reputation. I just wanted to ask him about Abasiama and Lesere.’

  He was good, West acknowledged. There was no point in pursuing the matter. ‘Ok,’ he said, reaching to put his empty mug on the coffee table before standing. ‘Let’s go, Garda Andrews, we’ve wasted enough time.’ He looked down on Careless who was smiling slightly. ‘We’ll get proof,’ he said, ‘and we’ll be back.’

  Careless’ smile grew wider. He finished the wine in one long gulp and handed the empty glass to him. ‘Fingerprints,’ he said, ‘just in case you’ve any to compare them to.’

  West took the glass by the stem. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘that will save a lot of time.’ He glanced at Andrews who, true to form, reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. He dropped the glass inside. ‘We will need you to come down to the station and make a statement about what happened,’ he said firmly. ‘There will be questions asked as to why you didn’t report the crime. Even if you had nothing to do with Fearon’s murder, which I do not for a minute believe, your career is over, Mr Careless.’

  There was no reaction to his comment. Careless stared straight ahead, ignoring them both.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Andrews said when they sat back into the car. ‘I feel like my brain has been scrambled.’

  ‘Direction and misdirection,’ West said, starting the engine and reversing out of the parking space. ‘He’s playing with us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He didn’t kill Fearon but he knows who did.’

  Andrews yawned and then stretched. ‘This blasted case is exhausting,’ he said, ‘why are you so sure he didn’t kill him?’

  West nodded at the glass he was holding. ‘There are fingerprints on the knife. Clear ones forensics said, so they must belong to the killer. Careless knows that, that’s why he gave us the glass. There won’t be a match and he’ll be in the clear. For murder anyway.’

  ‘Gloves?’

  West indicated to turn onto the Stillorgan dual carriageway. ‘Had the prints been smudged, maybe, but they said clear prints.’

  Andrews nodded and sighed loudly. ‘Should have guessed it wasn’t going to be that damn simple.’

  ‘We’ll get him. Tomorrow, have one of the lads take a selection of photographs down to Kilkenny; see if that young lad, Bud, can pick him out.’

  ‘Buzz not Bud. Yes, I’ll get someone to go down. If he can pick him out it, it would be a start.’

  West said nothing. It would be a start but Careless’ presence in the shop could be discounted for any number of reasons. Even if Buzz could positively identify him, it wasn’t illegal to buy a knife, and probably impossible to prove that the knife bought there was the murder weapon. Any good solicitor would have it dismissed as circumstantial in seconds.

  ‘We’ll just chip away,’ he said, more for his own benefit than the solid man sitting beside him for whom chipping away was almost an art form. It was irritating to be played for a fool, he thought. His sympathy for the man’s predicament was fast disappearing. He may not have killed Fearon but he was positive he was instrumental in his death.

  They didn’t speak for the remainder of the journey. West pulled into the car park and parked in his designated parking spot.

  ‘I’ll get the glass to the fingerprint lads.’ Andrews said, getting out of the car. ‘It’s a waste of time, but we’d better get it done.’

  The two men wore determined expressions on their faces as they headed inside. Andrews headed to the Fingerprint Division, prepared to argue that his case deserved precedence over whatever robbery case they were working on for Clarke. He knew they’d be happy to oblige and would take inordinate pleasure in telling the Robbery Division sergeant that something more important had come up.

  Back in his office, West contacted forensics and asked for Fiona Wilson. Dealing with her would help to speed things up.

  ‘Mike,’ she said, when his call was eventually put through, ‘how good to hear from you.’

  He smiled and relaxed into his chair. ‘Good to speak to you too, Fiona,’ he said. ‘I wish I could say it was purely a social call, but unfortunately, it isn’t.’

  ‘But not purely business either,’ she said, picking him up on the word and laughing lightly.

  ‘How about we settle for business tinged with pleasure?’

  ‘That’ll do,’ she agreed. ‘Now what can I do for you?’

  It took just a couple of minutes to fill her in. ‘Our fingerprint team are taking the prints from the glass. When they download them, will you check them against the ones you have on file that were taken from the murder weapon? We don’t think they’ll be a match, but we need to make certain.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve done it.’

  West thanked her and hung up.

  He ruffled his hair. This case was irritating him. He wanted to be shot of it. How much of that was due to his desire to concentrate on his relationship problems he wasn’t willing to guess. Relationship problems. It was the first time he’d acknowledged that they had a problem. He brushed it aside to think about later.

  First things first. Who the hell killed Ollie Fearon? He rested his chin in one hand and tapped the desk with the other, mentally reviewing everything they knew, putting what Careless had told them together with what they already knew about Lesere.

  A frown on his forehead grew deeper as he worked his way through the data. There was something there.

  When Andrews appeared in the doorway he waved him in. ‘Sit down and listen for a minute, will you?’ He waited until he’d sat obediently into the empty chair before continuing. ‘We know Careless had something to do with Fearon’s death, yes?’

  Andrews nodded.

  ‘It’s a pretty safe bet that he didn’t wield the murder weapon himself but if he’d hired a professional, why would he have left such clear fingerprints as evidence.’

  ‘Not a professional killer, then,’ Andrews muttered.

  West shook his head. ‘No, it was someone who didn’t care that their fingerprints were identifiable.’ He sat back in his chair, his eyes suddenly sharp. ‘Abasiama’s mother was dead, but what about the father, Utibe Omotoso? Wouldn’t he have wanted revenge for what Fearon did?’

  Andrews nodded. ‘You think Careless managed to contact him?’

  ‘Careless said they’d discovered where Abasiama was from a cousin’s Facebook page. Fearon told him that they’d left the area but we know that was a lie; he took Abasiama and fled with her. Maybe Careless contacted Omotoso on the same Facebook page.’

  Andrews pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘He must have loved the child very much; he took her with him, kept her with him even when he had to flee from Cape Town. He must have been devastated when she was snatched.’

  ‘And more devastated to know she was dead. That’s a pretty good motive for murder.’ He slapped his hand down on the desk. ‘Contact the Immigration Service, Pete, and see if a visa was issued for him. If we are right, he’d never have risked trying to come in illegally. I’ll contact our friend in Nigeria; see, if by any chance, they have his fingerprints on file.’r />
  West wasn’t in luck. His contact in Abuja wasn’t available and he spent several fruitless minutes trying to explain to the official the information he was looking for. After being told a number of times that he would have to speak to Mr Obayomi, he gave up.

  ‘I hope you had better luck than I had,’ he said when Andrews came through the door a few minutes later.

  ‘I did,’ he smiled. ‘Utibe Omotoso came into Ireland on a tourist visa two days before Fearon was killed.’ His smiled widened. ‘He’s still here.’

  West clenched a fist. Finally. ‘The visa application had to have said where he intended to stay.’

  ‘It did. It said he was staying in the Ambassador.’

  ‘But he isn’t,’ West guessed.

  ‘Afraid not,’ Andrews said. ‘But thanks to the Immigration services, we now have his photograph. I’ve set Baxter and Edwards on to the delightful task of emailing every hotel in Dublin and sending his photograph. Jarvis and Allen are starting the even less delightful job of working through the B&Bs. We’ll find him.’

  When Andrews headed back out to give them a hand, West tried the Abuja office again with the same lack of luck.

  He’d just replaced the phone when it rang. ‘West,’ he said.

  ‘It’s your friendly forensic scientist,’ the cheerful voice said.

  ‘Fiona, please tell me you have some good news for me.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said with a short laugh, ‘I could but I’d be lying. There’s no match, I’m afraid.’

  Even though it was what they’d expected, he was still disappointed. He brushed the feeling away. ‘Thanks for putting a rush on it,’ he said. ‘I owe you a coffee.’

  Her laugh gurgled down the line. ‘A coffee. I’ll expect more than that.’ She rang off before he could answer.

  He checked the time. Six. He wondered if his Nigerian contact kept late hours and rang the number again. This time it rang unanswered, not even an answer-machine where he could leave a message. He hung up.