No Memory Lost

by Valerie Keogh

  Andrews sat, pulled a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket and passed it across the desk. ‘The date of the report on the squatter. Exactly fourteen months ago.’

  ‘Too far out of the time frame, if Kennedy’s rough estimate is anywhere near correct,’ West said, picking up the piece of paper and looking at it as if he’d learn something more than the basic date. He tossed it aside and sat back. ‘We need to liaise with our friends across the border and in the UK,’ he said, ‘check if they’ve any unsolved cases. I don’t need to tell you that we’ll have to pull out all the stops for this, Peter.’

  Andrews shook his head. ‘I’ll contact Interpol; they’ll have a list of missing children. It might save us some time later.’

  West saw a look of weariness on his face that hadn’t been there earlier. ‘Give that to Baxter to do,’ he said, correctly interpreting the look on his partner’s face. Reading the details of missing children was going to be harrowing. Baxter didn’t have any; it would be easier on him.

  Andrews smiled but shook his head. ‘I’ll do it. Baxter is still investigating that suspected arson attack. He’s pretty sure it’s an insurance scam, he’s out with the fire officer having a look around the site.’

  West checked his watch. ‘What about Allen?’

  ‘He’s on leave, back tomorrow, and Jarvis is, once again, helping Foley close one of Sergeant Clark’s cases.’

  West shut his eyes. Clark was an incompetent, lazy fool but nobody had died because of his incompetence. When he opened his eyes, he saw the glint of sympathy in Andrews’ face and said, more sharply than was necessary, ‘What about Edwards?’

  ‘Investigating a mugging in Cornelscourt car park.’ Andrews shrugged. ‘It’s the second this week. Edwards thought the first one might have been linked to a series of muggings in Stillorgan Shopping Centre a few weeks ago. He was going to talk to you about it today before we got called out.’

  ‘A series of muggings? Why does that sound like something from a Harry Potter book?’

  ‘You’re thinking of Muggles,’ Andrews said with a grin.

  West held his hands up. ‘Muggings, Muggles.’

  ‘Well there was definitely no magic involved here,’ Andrews said. ‘Three lads arrive in a stolen car, park, and wait patiently until they identify suitable candidates. They strike at the same time, take what they can and scarper. They hit five times in Stillorgan before they stopped. Two weeks later, we had the first in Cornelscourt.’

  West frowned. ‘Sounds like a high risk for minimal reward.’

  Andrews perched on the side of the desk. ‘In the five episodes in Stillorgan, there were twelve victims. Altogether, they’re estimating their take at over six grand.’

  ‘Six grand?’

  ‘They took their wedding and engagement rings, one of the women had a Rolex, many were carrying designer handbags, and most had over a hundred euro in cash in their purses. They choose their targets carefully.’

  ‘And now they’ve moved into our neck of the woods.’

  ‘It’s certainly starting to look that way. Edwards is definitely convinced they have.’ He shrugged. ‘But he’s been complaining of it being a bit boring around here recently, so it could be a case of wishful thinking.’

  ‘I’d settle for boring for a while,’ West said. ‘Ask Sergeant Blunt to have the uniforms patrol more regularly for a while. It might make them think twice.’

  ‘Or, if Edwards is right, they’ll just move on and hit another shopping centre car park instead.’

  West frowned. He knew where Andrews was coming from. This gang should be stopped, not forced to move on. ‘Okay,’ he said, holding his hands up again in surrender. ‘Let’s catch these guys.’ He picked up a pen and tapped it on the table. ‘I’ll ask Morrison if we can borrow Garda Foley for a while.’ It was a continuing source of annoyance to him that the robbery unit, under Sergeant Clark, didn’t handle anything outside of straightforward robberies. Any hint of violence and he declared it West’s domain.

  ‘If Morrison agrees, Foley and Jarvis can stake out the car park,’ he said, nodding at Andrews, who raised a hand in acknowledgement and left the office.

  West picked up the phone to talk to Morrison and minutes later had the permission he needed. Redialling the extension for the robbery unit, he hung up before it was answered. It was easier to deal with Clark face to face.

  The detective unit in Foxrock was divided into two sections. Robbery, and everything else. The robbery unit office was on the other side of the station, the office smaller than that of West’s unit and generally staffed by Clark and Foley. Assistance was given from West’s team as needed – which was often.

  Unlike West, Clark didn’t have his own office. Instead, he had a desk in a corner of the room; it was set at an angle to give plenty of space behind to accommodate Clark’s girth. When West walked in, he was concentrating on the morning paper’s crossword puzzle, ignoring the untidy mountain of paperwork in his in-tray. ‘What’s an eight-letter word for badge of office?’ he asked without looking up.

  West glanced across to where Jarvis and Foley were tapping away on keyboards. He looked back to Clark, noticing the stained tie and worn cuffs. ‘Insignia,’ he said.

  Clark scribbled the word down. ‘Perfect. Okay, what’s an eleven-letter word for someone unqualified for a task?’

  ‘Incompetent,’ West said with more force than was necessary. He knew Clark wouldn’t take offence. He, as everyone knew, didn’t give a toss.

  ‘Inspector Morrison has given me permission to borrow Garda Foley for a few days,’ he said without elaborating further.

  Clark normally didn’t care what went on, as long as it didn’t affect his workday, but losing Foley, even for a few days, definitely would. He lifted his eyes from the crossword and glared at West. ‘And what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Finish your crossword puzzle,’ West said and, turning on his heels, walked over to where the two detectives were trying to give the impression they weren’t listening. ‘Are you nearly finished wrapping up that case,’ he asked.

  Foley nodded. ‘Just need to get this form complete, and we’re done.’

  ‘Good, Inspector Morrison has given me permission to borrow you for a couple of days,’ he explained. ‘When you’re finished there come to my office. Both of you,’ he added, nodding at Jarvis.

  West went back to his office, ignoring glares from Clark as he passed his desk. Back in their main office, Edwards had returned and was helping himself to coffee. ‘I hear you have something interesting happening in Cornelscourt,’ he said by way of greeting.

  Brown was the adjective that best described Mark Edwards. His hair was brown, skin sallow, eyes brown and slightly prominent. He favoured tweed jackets, bought, he told everyone with a complete lack of embarrassment, for a few quid in charity shops. Unfortunately, they too tended to be brown.

  ‘Andrews said he filled you in,’ he said, excitement making his eyes sparkle. ‘It’s definitely the same gang. There were two victims this morning. They attempted a third but were scared off by a dog in the woman’s car.’

  ‘Foley and Jarvis will be here in a few minutes,’ he said. ‘You can fill them in. We’re going to stake out the shopping centre and catch these guys.’

  Ten minutes later, they crowded into West’s office. Edwards took one of the empty chairs, Jarvis the other. Foley dragged a chair through from the main office and squeezed it in beside them.

  ‘Okay,’ West said, looking at their eager, intent faces. He gave Edwards a nod. ‘Mark, fill them in on what’s been happening.’

  ‘It started in Stillorgan shopping centre in October,’ he said. ‘Every few days, three men arrived, parked, targeted two or three women to attack, and robbed them of anything of value. I have the dates and times on a handout for you.’ He flicked through the bundle of papers he held and withdrew a sheet for each of them. He waited until they’d scanned the page before continuing. ‘As you’ll have noticed, the last one in Stillor
gan was two weeks ago. Four days ago, they hit Cornelscourt for the first time. Look at the dates and times, there’s no pattern, just a random time on any given day. From the witnesses’ statements in Stillorgan, and from our witnesses here, we know there are three of them. But all the victims can tell us is that they’re white males of indeterminate age, well camouflaged with hoodies and scarves. They use different cars every time, all of them stolen for the purpose, and all abandoned shortly afterwards. And before anyone asks, they are wiped clean. They’re quick, efficient and smart. It doesn’t take a genius to see it’s the same gang. The security people in both centres have checked CCTV, but they haven’t been able to come up with anything useful.’

  ‘So, they hit five times in Stillorgan and, so far, twice here,’ Foley said, a finger running over the lines of print on the page he held.

  Edwards nodded. ‘That’s right. In Stillorgan there were twelve victims, and, so far, five in Cornelscourt.’

  West tapped the sheet with the back of his hand. ‘Seventeen traumatised victims. We’ve got to stop these guys.’

  ‘Why the same car park?’ Foley asked, his brow creasing. ‘Wouldn’t it have been more sensible to hit a different car park each time?’

  Edwards shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s easier to organise. Hit one place for a few weeks, then move on to the next.’

  ‘Why didn’t they organise a stake-out in Stillorgan?’ Jarvis asked, frowning as he read the page he held, searching for a pattern that wasn’t there.

  ‘It was under consideration,’ Edwards explained. ‘But the logistics there are more difficult – they have two car parks for example and the gang has hit in both. The main car park also has multiple entrances and exits which would have required extra staff to monitor. We’re in the luckier position of knowing from the start what this gang are up to, and we are lucky with a more restricted entrance and exit in Cornelscourt.’

  West put his two hands flat on his desk. ‘I’m leaving it to you three to organise this. Edwards’ – he nodded at him – ‘you take the lead. Ask Sergeant Blunt to organise a couple of uniformed gardaí to take with you.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Ask him to make Garda Mackin one of them, he shows promise.’

  When the three stood, he held up his hand. ‘Just one last thing,’ he said, ‘so far these guys have not hurt any of their victims, but stay alert, that may change. We don’t want another murder to investigate.’

  All three nodded in unison.

  ‘And keep me informed,’ West said, and waved them away.

  3

  When they’d gone, West rang the State Pathologist’s Office to get a rough estimate of the time of the post-mortem. Three o’clock. It gave him time to do the necessary paperwork before leaving.

  Shortly before one, Andrews appeared in the doorway, a sheaf of paper under one arm, two sandwiches in his hands. ‘Chicken, or ham and cheese?’

  West smiled. ‘Either, thanks.’

  The chicken sandwich was passed over. Andrews dropped everything else onto the seat of the empty chair and left, returning, minutes later, with two mugs of coffee. ‘I thought I’d fill you in while we had something to eat.’

  ‘Thanks,’ West said, biting into the sandwich. ‘You didn’t get these in our canteen,’ he said appreciatively.

  ‘I sent Jarvis out to the new deli, I told them they needed sustenance if they were going to start a stake-out. They’re huddled over a desk putting a plan together.’ He laughed. ‘They don’t realise yet how boring a stake-out can be.’

  ‘They work well together,’ West said, finishing the first half of the sandwich and reaching for the other. ‘What’ve you found out?’

  Andrews wiped his hand on the leg of his trousers and picked up the pile of papers. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, when he saw West’s eyes widen, ‘they emailed the details of all the missing persons, not just the one to five age group that I asked for.’

  ‘One to five?’

  Andrews sighed. ‘It’s hard to guess an age from bones. I thought I’d err on the side of caution.’ He waved the papers. ‘This is what I get for my troubles.’

  ‘Let Baxter have a look when he gets back,’ West said, ‘he’ll be able to narrow it down.’

  Andrews shook his head.

  ‘You’re stubborn, you know that?’

  ‘I prefer to call it old-fashioned.’

  West looked at the clock. ‘We’ll need to leave soon. The post-mortem starts at three.’

  ‘I could stay here and go through this,’ he said, waving the sheaf of papers like a fan. ‘You don’t really need me, do you?’

  West was surprised, and was about to make a smart comment when he saw Andrews’ shuttered expression. He was normally more intuitive. Andrews didn’t want to see the post-mortem of the little girl. ‘Good idea,’ he said, picking up his coffee. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours. You might be able to put a name to the child by then.’

  Connolly Hospital, where the post-mortem was being held, was formerly known as James Connolly Memorial Hospital, but was generally referred to by most as Blanchardstown Hospital because of its location. West took the M50, made good time to Junction 6 and thirty minutes after leaving Foxrock he was pulling into the car park.

  He’d been to post-mortems before so knew that the mortuary, with its dedicated post-mortem room, was to the back of the rambling hospital campus. He skirted around and between the newer structures to the grim, forbidding building, rang the doorbell and was immediately asked to state his business.

  ‘Detective Garda Sergeant West,’ he said, feeling foolish, as he always did when speaking to an inanimate object. ‘I’m here for a post-mortem.’

  He was buzzed through. Inside, they’d done their best to modernise the area, and two reception staff sat in front of large computer screens. One looked up as he entered and held out a hand. ‘Identification?’

  West took out his card, which was taken and scrutinised with closer intent than he thought was warranted. Did they have a glut of people faking identification in order to see post-mortems?

  The receptionist nodded, handed his card back and picked up a phone. The conversation was short. He hung up and gave West an apologetic smile. ‘It seems he’s a bit behind and is still on another post. You can wait in the canteen, if you want, the coffee is fairly decent.’

  He was directed toward a small cluttered room opposite the reception. Aware that he drank far too much coffee, he poured himself one anyway, and sat in a chair near a window overlooking a small courtyard. There were several large pots planted with small trees; acers he guessed, and in the summer, it probably made the view more appealing. Now, however, their bare jagged branches looked as if they would snap easily – like a small child’s bones. The thought made him shiver, he put the untouched coffee down and moved away.

  By three forty-five, he’d read a four-day old newspaper and every notice on the large, untidy noticeboard. He was checking his watch for the umpteenth time when a smartly-dressed woman put her head round the door. ‘He’s ready now,’ she said and vanished.

  ‘Great,’ West muttered when he followed her into a narrow corridor extending in both directions. There was no sign of her and he wasn’t sure which way to go. He’d been once before but Andrews had been with him and he’d followed him without thought. A door further up the corridor opened and the same woman popped her head out. It was like some stupid computer game, he thought, beginning to get annoyed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I assumed you’d know where to go.’ She pointed to the door opposite. ‘It’s just in there.’

  She’d disappeared again by the time West reached the door. With a shake of his head, he opened it and found himself in a small anteroom furnished with standard office chairs. On the far side, a door stood ajar. He crossed to it, went through to a viewing platform overlooking the post-mortem room below, and sat.

  There was only one person to be seen. Niall Kennedy, barely recognisable in a pale-blue scrub suit and white wellington boots, ones
that fit him properly West noticed with a grin. He was sat at a desk tapping on a computer keyboard.

  West rubbed tired eyes, wondering how much longer he’d be waiting. Since the Blundell incident, he hadn’t slept well. The Blundell incident. When had it become that in his head? Sounded like a good name for a movie. He’d have to tell Edel, it would make her smile.

  Pushing his hand restlessly through his hair, he wondered if the post-mortem was ever going to start. As if he’d given him a nudge, Niall Kennedy’s voice came loud and clear through a speaker set behind him in the wall. Deciding he could do without more voices in his head, he shuffled slightly further up the bench.

  ‘Sorry for the delay, Mike,’ the pathologist said, looking up to where he sat and giving a wave of acknowledgement. ‘It’s been one of those days.’

  A gurney was pushed through the double doors into the post-mortem room, the brown suitcase looking lost and abandoned on top of it. He recognised the woman who pushed it as the one who’d half-heartedly shown him where to go. She was dressed now in a scrub suit with her hair caught up in an unflattering disposable mob cap.

  As he watched, they lifted the suitcase from the gurney onto the examination table. A man holding a high-spec camera came in and took several photos of it, taking more as they opened the case and reached in to lift the body, slowly and carefully, from the case.

  ‘We’ll send the case and what clothes there are to the forensic lab,’ Kennedy said for West’s benefit before stepping back to examine the small body that lay on the stainless steel. Nobody moved for what seemed like a long time. West was suddenly very glad that Andrews hadn’t come. There was something deeply disturbing about the sight of that small child’s body, pathetically curved around itself in a desperate final search for comfort.

  ‘The connective tissue has mostly decomposed,’ Kennedy said, slowly… almost delicately… stretching the bones out on the table. ‘There is some tissue remaining on the right side, where it was in closest contact with the bottom of the suitcase.’ He removed some with forceps as he spoke and dropped it into a specimen bottle held out by his assistant. ‘We might get something from that,’ he said before removing the remnants of cloth from the bones. He shook his head as it disintegrated on contact. ‘Most of the fabric has rotted away, I’m afraid.’ He peered closer. ‘The labels are fairly intact, probably made from different material; they might be able to make out the manufacturer and get an indication as to where she’s from.’