by Des Ekin
She gave the address and asked for police and ambulance, stressing that an intruder might still be on the premises. Then she got another line and phoned the local GP as well. She was taking no chances. God knows how long it might take to get an ambulance out here.
All of this took precious minutes, during which she had to restrain herself from the one thing she wanted most to do – run upstairs and check her father.
Fearing the worst, hardly daring to hope, she replaced the receiver, mounted the stairs three at a time and threw open his bedroom door.
There he was – pale and gaunt, but sleeping as peacefully as a baby. She noted the bottle of medication on the table. He had probably slept through the entire episode, shotgun blast and all.
Next, a quick check around. Nothing. All the rooms were empty and undisturbed. The intruder, whoever he was, had gone. He had failed to get past Melanie, who had guarded her charge well.
Tears welling in her eyes, Tara ran back downstairs, practically clearing the entire flight in one long jump. She searched for a blanket and spread it carefully over the prostrate figure in the hall. The blood on Mel’s hair had come from an ugly head-gash and was already congealing. Tara winced as she looked at the unnatural angle of the leg.
Hurry, she willed the emergency services. Please hurry.
Steve McNamara, the garda sergeant, got there first. Cool and professional, he first examined Melanie, then checked the entire house, garden and surroundings. Finally he returned and questioned Tara.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. Just a bit shaken.’
‘Sure? Nothing physical?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
She told him as succinctly as she could, pausing only to admit the GP in response to his anxious knocking. Dr Eoin Maguire threw back the blanket and examined Melanie thoroughly.
‘Simple concussion,’ he finally said to the garda sergeant. ‘She’s sustained a very bad blow to the head, but there are no other wounds. The leg seems to be dislocated, not broken. She’ll need to get to hospital as soon as possible. Concussion is always a dicey business, of course, but the chances are good.’ He delved into his bag. ‘Who the hell could have done this, Steve?’
‘Who do you think?’ said Tara in frustration. ‘The same man who killed Ann Kennedy, that’s who.’
On the floor, Melanie groaned and opened her eyes.
She looked directly at Tara and winced as she tried to fight off a spasm of pain. Then…
‘Manus,’ she said in an almost-inaudible whisper. ‘It was Manus Kennedy.’
Steve McNamara turned to Tara, and his eyes were aghast as he realised the enormity of his mistake. ‘God, I’m sorry, Tara,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
It was now three-thirty am, and Tara’s eyes were almost crossing with fatigue as she sat in an upstairs anteroom at Clare County Hospital and told her story for what seemed like the thousandth time.
‘It was meant to be me,’ she told Inspector Phil O’Rourke. ‘If my car hadn’t broken down on the road to Galway, that would have been me in there.’
She gestured to the door of the private ward where Melanie lay, conscious but sedated into a semitrance, with several disfiguring stitches across the left side of her head. The matted, blood-covered hair had been partially shorn. The dislocated leg had been repositioned. X-rays had revealed no skull fractures or other broken bones, but the doctors were still monitoring her for complications.
O’Rourke’s bloodshot eyes followed her pointing finger. He had the look of a man who had gone to bed after a few pints and fallen straight into a deep sleep, only to be hauled out of bed an hour later.
‘It certainly looks that way, Tara,’ he agreed. ‘You were the intended target. First there were the threatening phone calls. Then the actual attack – he seems to have mistaken Melanie for you in all the confusion. It looks like she put up quite a fight. She’s some girl.’
‘Woman,’ corrected Tara icily. ‘She’s an adult woman. And the fact that she’s still alive is no thanks to you. You didn’t even take the warnings seriously enough to put a guard on the house.’
O’Rourke sighed. ‘We were taking them seriously. We were monitoring the calls, using the latest technology at our disposal to identify the caller.’
‘Right. But you didn’t think he meant what he said. You thought they must have been hoax threats. Because you thought you had Ann Kennedy’s real killer either locked up or under close surveillance at all times since the murder.’
‘In our business, we never jump to conclusions about other people’s thoughts or motives,’ said O’Rourke calmly. He looked at the notes he’d made of her statement. ‘So you really hunted Manus Kennedy all the way across Ireland? I’m impressed by your tenacity, but, let’s face it, it wasn’t the safest thing to do. Squats in Bernietown, smack-dealers’ shooting galleries in Ballymahon Flats. And all alone, unprotected.’
Tara picked up the unspoken reproach and realised he had a point. She’d disappeared for days, exposing herself to the gravest danger, and now she was complaining that the gardaí had not done enough to protect her.
But at that moment a dark surge of pain flared from her injured wrist and travelled up her arm with agonising slowness to join the anvil-pounding of a headache. She was in no mood to listen to a lecture.
‘Someone had to do your job for you,’ she said shortly. ‘You had your minds firmly made up. You had your culprit. As far as you were concerned, the case was a cinch and you could all relax.’
O’Rourke said nothing but shook his head in silent denial.
‘Don’t shake your head. You know it’s true. You already had Fergal Kennedy tried and convicted for murder. Even my evidence as to his whereabouts that night didn’t convince you. It took this’ – she pointed angrily at the hospital ward – ‘to prove his innocence.’
O’Rourke still remained silent.
Tara sighed with exasperation at his lack of response. ‘Unless you think Fergal has developed bloody bilocation and is responsible for this crime too?’
The detective took out a packet of cigarettes and absent-mindedly placed one in his mouth before remembering that he was in a hospital. He removed it again and carefully replaced it in the pack.
‘No, we’re not claiming that Fergal was responsible for the attack on Melanie,’ he said wearily. ‘As you point out, we’ve had him under surveillance at all times. And besides, you also know, Melanie has clearly identified her attacker as Fergal’s brother, Manus.’
He flipped back the pages of a black notebook to his earlier notes of Melanie’s statement. ‘She’s quite clear about it,’ he repeated. ‘She heard someone outside, assumed it was you, and opened the door to let you in. Instead she saw a wild-looking, unkempt figure crouching at the window trying to peer through the curtains. She tried to slam the door but he made a run for her, shouting some garbled threat that she was going to die. With admirable presence of mind, Melanie backed up, grabbed your dad’s shotgun, cocked it and pointed it at him. He kept coming, shouting at her. She can still remember his eyes, she says. They were crazy eyes, as though he was out of his mind on something. Anyway, the gun went off with a godalmighty roar and that’s the last thing she remembers.’
‘He must have hit her over the head with something,’ said Tara. ‘A very vicious blow. He could easily have killed her.’
‘Melanie has certainly sustained a serious head injury, yes. But it’s not life-threatening, and the doctors are confident that she’ll make a full recovery.’ She could hear the genuine relief in his voice. ‘Thank God for that, anyway. For a while there, I thought we’d another murder on our hands.’
Tara was still not placated. ‘I wouldn’t speak too soon. You’ve got a man on the run out there who’s shown his willingness to kill, twice.’
‘We’re fully aware of the dangers, Tara. We’ve got road blocks all around the area. We’ve notified all garda stations and we’ll have a full description on the radio news in
the morning. In the meantime, you’ll be placed under twenty-four-hour police protection.’
‘One question.’ Tara couldn’t keep the note of hopefulness out of her voice. ‘Was Manus wounded when the gun went off?’
‘As far as we can establish, no, he wasn’t.’ O’Rourke shook his head. ‘There’s no sign of his blood anywhere in the house or grounds, and there’s a huge hunk of plasterwork missing from the ceiling of your hall. Don’t look so disappointed. It’s probably for the best. It would only complicate our case when it’s time to take a prosecution.’
‘When? You mean if. If you catch him.’
‘We’ll catch him.’
‘And then you’re going to charge him with Ann Kennedy’s murder.’ She tried to make it a statement rather than a question.
‘That’s a matter for the Director of Public Prosecutions. You know that, Tara. You’re familiar with the law.’
‘But you’ll be sending a file to the DPP recommending his prosecution for the killing.’
‘We can’t send any file until we complete the investigation, and we can’t complete the investigation until we get all the evidence.’
Tara felt like exploding with frustration. ‘But what more evidence do you need? The man is crazy as a lamp, he has a history of violence and he’s in the area. He even had a motive for Ann’s killing. I’ve already told you the drug bosses were after him over a disputed three thousand pounds. He probably needed cash desperately and he went home to get it from his mother. She would have refused – and that’s all it took to push him over the edge.’
O’Rourke kept his cool. ‘There’s still the forensic stuff to complete. That takes time. The DNA tests, for instance, might not be completed for another few days.’
‘DNA?’ It was the first Tara had heard of DNA tests.
‘It’s routine these days. We look for skin, hair, minute traces of blood, and check their DNA configuration. The most important samples in this case were taken from under the victim’s fingernails. When there are defence wounds – that is, when the victim gets injured trying to protect herself with her hands and arms – it’s not unusual to find tiny portions of the attacker’s skin under her nails. We took nail scrapings and found workable samples. They’re being tested at the lab now.’
‘That’s great news,’ said Tara. All of a sudden, she felt like hugging him instead. ‘So it’s only a matter of time before we get official confirmation.’
‘Before we hope to get a result, yes.’
Tara looked out of the window of the little room and saw the night sky begin to lighten with the dawn. It wasn’t much of a change, you could hardly call it sunrise, but it was a start.
‘Yes, what is it?’
Tara turned around as O’Rourke snapped at the uniformed garda who had entered the room.
‘Sorry, sir, but there’s a fella in the downstairs waiting room wants to see Ms Ross urgently,’ he said. ‘I checked his ID and he seems kosher.’
Tara looked surprised. ‘I’m not expecting anybody. What does he want?’
The garda frowned. ‘He claims you know him. And he says it’s a matter of life or death.’
‘A matter of life or death?’ challenged Tara.
‘Okay, so I exaggerated a bit,’ said Gerry Gellick. ‘Journalistic licence. Would you have talked to me otherwise?’
Her jaw dropped at the sheer gall of the man. There he was, lounging casually in his sharp Armani suit, arms extended along the entire length of the waiting-room settee, smiling cockily at her as though they were old friends. The only thing that prevented her from exploding in a torrent of outrage and invective was that she knew it would be a total waste of energy. Phrases about ducks’ backs leaped to mind.
‘Smart tactic,’ she said, turning on her heel. ‘I’m sure Inspector O’Rourke will agree when he interviews you for wasting police time. In fact, I’ll get him right now. You’d better leave the rest of your day free for making statements.’
‘If you go out that door,’ said Gellick clearly, ‘you’ll never know why Ann Kennedy died.’
She froze in the doorway. Her brain told her to keep moving, but her feet refused to obey.
‘I thought you’d already made up your mind on that,’ she said without turning around.
‘Flexibility of thinking is the hallmark of genius.’
‘Which is a fancy way of saying you got it all wrong.’ She turned around to face him. ‘At least you admit it.’
He shrugged it off as a minor objection. ‘That story in the Evening Report! was yesterday’s truth. I’m only interested in today’s. I want to find out why Manus murdered Ann Kennedy.’
She tried to laugh sardonically, but it emerged as an incredulous gasp. ‘And you’re here to ask for help? From me?’
‘I’m here to offer you information you need. In exchange for information I need.’
Something in his voice made her take him seriously.
‘Keep talking,’ she said. ‘You have thirty seconds to start making sense.’
He propped his ankle across his knee and lounged back. A man who had plenty of time at his disposal.
‘It’s becoming obvious that Manus was the murderer, but as far as I can see, there’s no real evidence against him,’ he said. ‘No witnesses, no decent forensic.’
Tara said nothing. He obviously didn’t know about the DNA tests.
‘So they’ll get him for the assault on your friend Melanie. But they won’t get a murder charge to stick. Unless he talks, he walks. That means the file will stay open for ever, and your boyfriend will never be totally cleared. Is that what you want?’
‘Go on.’
‘So we’re both looking for more information about Manus. You need it to clear your boyfriend. I need it because I want to write the definitive story.’ He extended his arms in a gesture of good faith. ‘As far as I can ascertain, you know some things about him I don’t, and I know some things about him that you don’t. Together they may make up the full picture. What I’m proposing is a pragmatic alliance to enable us both to get what we want. Are my thirty seconds up yet?’
Tara hadn’t even bothered checking her watch. ‘I’m still listening,’ she said.
‘Think of it this way, Tara. It’s as though an item we both need is locked in one of those bank deposit boxes, the ones that need two keys to open them. I have one key, you have the other. I know you hate me, and personally I don’t give a shit. The question is: do you hate me enough to give up the chance of opening that box?’
There was a knock at the door. The garda she’d seen earlier poked his head in.
‘Just checking everything’s okay, Ms Ross?’
She hesitated.
‘Yes. I’m just having a chat with Mr Gellick.’
‘Fine. I’ll be right outside.’
The door closed, and Tara sat down slowly on the arm-chair facing Gellick. She couldn’t believe she was even entertaining this bizarre suggestion of a practical alliance. But in a world gone mad, his proposal had a sort of absurd logic to it.
‘You show me yours,’ she said, ‘and I’ll show you mine.’
Gellick set down his empty coffee cup on the formica table. ‘What you don’t realise,’ he told Tara, ‘is that you stumbled into a hornet’s nest in Ballymahon. You were there to witness the death-throes of Philo Romero’s heroin gang.’
‘I already knew that those two scumbags were tied in with the Romero gang. They said so.’
‘But you didn’t know how big they were. The tall skinny guy, the one with the hatchet face and the hate tattoo, was Romero’s top lieutenant. Christy Geaney. Career criminal, totally ruthless. He’s sold more drugs in Dublin than Boots the Chemist.’
‘And the other man?’
‘The Star Trek fan? Carl Ryan. Chemistry graduate, helped the Romero crowd mass-produce their own Ecstasy at a factory in the suburbs. Until the police busted it. And that’s the problem.’ Gellick sat back. ‘Ever since Philo went down for fourteen years, the Romer
o gang has been having a run of bad luck. The word from my mates in the underworld is that Christy is in big trouble. Most of his main men have defected to other gangs, and his top heavy, Paul Lawless, has been locked in a loony-bin for assessment over his recreational hobby of roughing up old ladies.’
‘And Geaney’s up in court soon himself,’ Tara pointed out. ‘He said so in Ballymahon.’
‘Yeah. Caught last April with thirty grand’s worth of coke in his soccer holdall at Dublin Airport. Carl Ryan was on a separate flight. He had ten grand’s worth of smack in a rucksack. But the cops were waiting for them both. “Excuse me, sir, may I have a look in that bag, please?” Ba-boom. We’re talking a total street value of over one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. They’re both going down for a long time – if anyone can find them, that is.’
‘But what has any of this to do with Manus Kennedy?’
‘I was coming to that. The cops couldn’t believe Geaney could be so stupid as to carry his own gear. But my man says he was forced to take the risk. It all started a couple of months earlier, when Christy took out a ten percent share in a shipment of cheap H from Amsterdam. Then suddenly Christy wasn’t able to find the money, and the sweetest deal of the decade fell through. The Irish importer, the guy who was organising the shipment, was not a happy man. And the only way Christy could keep his kneecaps was to agree to act as courier for him on his next drugs run.’
Tara nodded. It had all the hallmarks of a classic set-up. ‘And the importer tipped off the police?’
‘Maybe. It might have been worth his while to lose the drugs in order to kill off the Romero gang. We don’t know. What we do know is that, for some unknown reason, Christy blames Manus Kennedy. The way he sees it, Manus started off the whole chain reaction that left Geaney flat broke and headed for jail.’
‘He told me that Manus owed him three thousand pounds.’
Gellick nodded. ‘That’s about right. Three grand would have been his ten percent stake in the Amsterdam shipment. But there’s more to it than that. And this is where I need to see your key. So to speak.’