No Memory Lost

by Valerie Keogh

  West waved his thanks. He was trying to mentally convert millimetres to inches and wasn’t getting far. Seven inches. That’s a big blade.

  ‘The blade is three inches wide and curves inward at the tip. It appears to be composed of steel.’ Picking it up, Kennedy examined it closer. ‘It has cutting edges on both sides and they appear to be very sharp.’ Turning, he looked around for something to try it on, settling for a piece of connecting tubing. The blade sliced through it with ease. ‘Correction, based on this small demonstration, the blade is very sharp.’

  Kennedy placed the handle of the blade under a microscope. ‘There’s a maker’s name. Wild Ranger.’ He turned to look up at West. ‘Generally, the knife injuries we get are caused by kitchen knives, sometimes pocketknives. But this is not something you’d buy in your local department store. I’d say possibly it’s a specialist hunting knife. I’ll have it sent to forensics; they’ll be able to tell you more.’

  West waited for the rest of the autopsy, tuning out the irrelevant data about lungs and liver, both of which testified to Fearon’s liking for nicotine and alcohol.

  ‘The blade entered the abdomen with lateral force,’ Kennedy said. ‘It sliced through bowel and almost severed the abdominal aorta. He’d have bled out in minutes. From the direction, the assailant would more than likely have been right-handed.’

  West stood, catching Kennedy’s eye with the movement. He gave a wave of acknowledgement and left. The rest of the autopsy would be details that wouldn’t be of any interest. He’d flick through it all when he received the pathologist’s formal report, until then he’d go with what he knew.

  Back in the station, he met a bad-tempered Andrews whose mood wasn’t improved with what little he had to tell him.

  ‘That’s just great,’ Andrews said with heavy sarcasm, ‘so we can rule out all the left-handed thugs that we drag in, can we? Bloody helpful that.’

  ‘Come and have some coffee,’ West said, wishing he’d thought to bring some pastries back. He’d better not mention the ones he’d brought to Kennedy. That would definitely not improve the situation.

  Leaving Andrews sitting to cool down in his office, he filled two mugs and headed back.

  ‘Bad?’ he asked, when they were both sitting.

  Andrews rubbed his face with his free hand and gave a rueful smile. ‘I should be used to it, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Did you learn anything?’

  ‘Huh,’ he grunted. ‘Only that almost everyone we interviewed could have killed him. Not one said he had been sorry to hear the news about his demise; they were just sorry he hadn’t departed a bit earlier.’

  ‘What about alibis?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the frustrated garda replied, ‘everyone was watching television until the wee hours, then they slept like babies beside their wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, you name it.’

  Silence was broken by Andrews slurping his too-hot coffee.

  ‘You think any of them is a likely candidate?’ West asked. Andrews could read people better than anyone he knew.

  ‘For every burglary, assault and drug deal that’s taken place in the last few weeks, yes.’ He put his empty mug down on the desk. ‘For murder? No, I don’t think so. All of these idiots would punch your lights out for looking at them sideways. But to a man, they were terrified of Fearon; I don’t think any of them would have taken him on.’

  ‘We might get lucky with the knife. Dr Kennedy thinks it’s some kind of hunting knife.’ He held his hands apart. ‘The blade is about this size, Pete. A vicious weapon. It had Wild Ranger stamped onto the handle; it might give us a lead. Get one of the lads to check out specialised knife shops, see if it’s a common brand.’

  It was a long shot but for the moment it was all they had. ‘Are there many more to interview?’

  ‘Just a couple,’ Andrews said with a yawn, ‘we’re speeding through them because nobody has anything to say.’ He held up his hand. ‘No, that’s not quite true. They all said that Ollie Fearon’s death was no loss.’

  On that note, he picked up the two empty mugs and left the office, leaving West to consider where they should go with the investigation. Despite what Andrews thought, any of the men they’d interviewed could be lying. He picked up the list of the men they’d called in and read a summary of their previous convictions. The only knife crime listed was an assault on a neighbour by a drunken man wielding a dull-bladed kitchen knife.

  Very different from the rather expensive-looking knife that was pulled out of Fearon.

  He considered previous knife crimes he’d investigated. Simon Johnson and Ken Blundell were both killed with kitchen knives, the first pre-planned, the second spur-of-the-moment. This murder had to have been pre-planned, nobody walked around a suburban street with a hunting knife tucked into their belt.

  If that was the best he could come up with, he’d better not ring Morrison just yet. Forensics, he knew, wouldn’t get back to him for a day or two. He supposed it would do no harm to give them a buzz, and let them know they’d be expecting the knife in.

  He was put through to the forensic lab manager, Stephen Doyle.

  ‘Hi Mike,’ Stephen’s gravelly voice came down the line. ‘What can I do for you, but before you tell me, let me just say the answer is no.’

  West laughed. ‘I suppose the only reason I ring you is to ask you to hurry something along.’

  ‘Absolutely the only reason,’ Doyle said without rancour, ‘and the answer is still no. We’re inundated at the moment. The only thing I can promise you, is that I’ll get to it as soon as possible. Give me a clue as to what to look out for.’

  ‘It’s the murder of Oliver Fearon, a hunting knife. There’s marking on it, Wild Ranger. It would be a help if you could tell us anything more.’

  A deep sigh came down the line. ‘I’ll keep a look out for it. But I’m not making any promises.’

  West had to settle for that and hung up.

  In fact, it was two days before he heard back. By then Andrews had followed up the interviews by checking alibis. It was a fool’s game; they both knew it and their frustration mounted.

  When Doyle rang with information about the knife, West breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I hope you have something for me, Stephen.’

  ‘You’ll get the official report, of course, but I thought I’d give you a buzz. First of all, the only blood on the knife was from your deceased, Oliver Fearon.’

  ‘Could it have been cleaned really well?’

  ‘I’d go with a no on that,’ Doyle answered, ‘we took the handle apart, tested the screws and the joins. Nothing. Either it was bought specifically to use here, or your killer has had it a while and never used it. The good news is that there was a clear fingerprint on the handle, the bad news is that we found no match in the database.’

  Match or no match, a fingerprint was good news. Now they just needed to find someone to match it to. ‘That’s something,’ West said, doodling on the notepad in front of him. ‘Anything else?’

  Doyle’s sigh was loud. ‘People always want more.’ He gave a quick laugh. ‘Actually, this time, I do have more. The only place in Ireland that sells this particular brand, Wild Ranger, is a shop just outside Kilkenny city called Outdoor Sport.’

  At last, something concrete to go on. ‘Thanks, that’s a great help,’ West said. ‘We’d hit a wall here; it was getting us all down.’

  Armed with this new piece of information, he headed out to find someone to share it with. Unusually, there was nobody around. He was just about to give up and go back to his office when Andrews, Baxter and Allen walked in together.

  ‘We’d gone for some lunch,’ Andrews said, ‘were you looking for us?’

  ‘I had some news from forensics,’ West said. ‘The knife that was used on Fearon is only sold in one place in Ireland, Outdoor Sport, in Kilkenny.’

  None of the three looked impressed.

  West gave a half-smile. ‘Okay, it’s not much, but it’s something and it might lead somewh
ere.’

  Baxter sat at his desk and frowned up at him. ‘What about the internet? He could have bought it online, couldn’t he?’

  ‘Could he?’ West snapped at him. ‘Find out where? See how easy it would be.’

  Without another word he headed back to his office.

  He was sitting behind his desk when Andrews appeared minutes later and leaned against the door frame. ‘Tempers are getting a bit frayed,’ he said.

  ‘Is that a criticism of me?’ West said sharply, then held his hands up. ‘Don’t answer that, Peter, and please don’t stoop to if the cap fits, wear it.’

  Andrews, who had opened his mouth to say just that, grinned.

  West saw the grin and relaxed. ‘You were, damn you!’

  ‘You took Baxter’s head off, and he was probably right. He spends enough time on the internet to know.’

  West dropped his face into his hands. The child in the suitcase, and now Oliver Fearon. Neither case looked like it was going to be solved any time soon. Maybe his run of luck had run out. He rubbed his face and straightened. The clock on his wall said four. He’d be damned if he was driving to Kilkenny now.

  ‘Let’s go to Outdoor Sport first thing,’ he said, ‘you and I. We’ll get lunch somewhere on the way back, get out of here for a while.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Andrews said, pushing away from the door frame. ‘I’ll go and put a plaster on Baxter’s head.’

  The rest of the day went without drama. The post-mortem report told West nothing he didn’t already know and the full forensic report just confirmed what he’d been told over the phone.

  Maybe they’d get a lead in Kilkenny. Fearon was a minor thug. A bully who was quick with his fists, he didn’t have the discipline or intelligence to be more than that. His long and varied crime sheet didn’t indicate any involvement with organised crime.

  So, who did he get mixed up with?

  Someone smart enough to have left no trace. Except for the knife. And a single fingerprint.

  Kilkenny, he hoped, would throw some light on the case. He made a quick courtesy call to the local station. As he expected, they offered assistance which he, as was also expected, turned down. Formalities over, he hung up, grateful, not for the first time, that the Garda Síochána was an all-Ireland police force and not divided up into regional areas as in the UK.

  At least there was something to be thankful for.

  15

  West admired the curve of Edel’s legs as she stood looking out the window. She was sipping her coffee, lost in thought.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, moving behind her and slipping his arms around her waist.

  She leaned back against him briefly before turning and smiling. ‘Yes,’ she said, reaching to give him a peck on the cheek, ‘I was just thinking about this meeting.’

  ‘With your publisher?’ West asked.

  A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. ‘With my agent, Owen. Remember, I told you about it last night? He wants to meet with me to discuss overseas rights.’

  ‘Sorry, yes, of course, your agent, not your publisher.’

  She moved away from him, refilled her mug from the cafetière and sat at the table with a sigh. ‘We haven’t spent much time together since we got back, have we?’

  Guilt flickered. He’d cancelled their dinner plans at the weekend because he’d been exhausted, wanting to flake out in front of the television and chill. It wasn’t fair on her. He sat down and reached across the table for her hand. ‘How about we go away for a couple of nights? Not immediately,’ he added hurriedly, seeing her expression lighten. ‘When this murder investigation is done.’

  Edel let her breath out in a puff. ‘Okay,’ she said, returning the pressure of his fingers. ‘And do you know what I’m going to do,’ she said, standing and taking her mug to the dishwasher.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to have A4 pictures of my publisher, editor and agent made up with their names underneath, and pin them to the wall. Maybe if they remind you of criminals you might remember their names.’

  West was still laughing as she left the room, his eyes following her, admiring the curve of her bottom in a skirt he was sure he’d not seen before. His eyes narrowed slightly. He hoped she’d follow through with her promise of the photographs. It would be interesting to see what this agent and editor looked like. Smiling as he recognised the green monster lurking in that thought, he brushed it aside. He’d no reason to be jealous. After all, they’d cleared the air; they knew where they stood with each other.

  Wishing her a successful meeting, he headed to the station. Andrews was already waiting in the car park, his radio blaring out an old Johnny Cash song that immediately made West decide to drive. His car, his choice of music, and Johnny wasn’t on his playlist.

  Luckily, Andrews was more tolerant of musical choices and apart from raising his eyebrow slightly when West asked, ‘Is Ella Fitzgerald okay?’ he said nothing.

  Taking the quickest route, the M7 and the M9, they arrived at Outdoor Sport an hour and ten minutes later. The car park to the front of the shop was empty apart from a couple of cars occupying spaces marked, with more emphasis than either thought necessary, Staff only!!!!’

  ‘Maybe they’re very busy at the weekend,’ West said, shaking his head at the four exclamation marks. He was a member of the Garda Síochána, not the punctuation police, but still…

  Andrews, opening the car door and getting out, looked around the otherwise empty car park and commented sarcastically, ‘Too early for the hunter-gatherer type, is it?’ He stretched and looked at the shop. It was an uninspiring set-up. A square, flat-roofed building of no architectural merit.

  ‘They take security seriously,’ West commented, noting the see-through security shutters on each of the large front windows.

  ‘And I’ve counted three CCTV cameras,’ Andrews said. ‘We might get lucky.’

  The solid entrance door didn’t encourage the casual shopper. Neither did the signs stating, one above the other, Restricted Access; Strictly Over Eighteen and Entrance at the discretion of the Owner. At the bottom, in plain font, a smaller sign read, Welcome.

  ‘I hope they let us in,’ Andrews muttered, pressing the doorbell.

  The door was opened almost immediately, leading both men to believe that the CCTV cameras were actively monitored, a fact the middle-aged man who showed them in was happy to confirm.

  ‘We’re hot on security,’ he said, smiling, before holding out his hand to each of the men in turn. ‘I’m Terry Whelan, the manager.’ He folded his arms across his chest and eyed the two men. ‘So, to what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from the Garda Síochána?’

  Neither man was surprised to be identified so quickly, it was something they’d become used to.

  West took out his identification and held it out for inspection. ‘I’m Detective Garda Sergeant West, and this is Detective Garda Andrews. We’re with Foxrock station, in Dublin. We’re investigating a homicide where the murder weapon, a hunting knife, has been identified as a Wild Ranger. Our forensic team has informed us that you are the only stockist of this range in Ireland.’

  Whelan nodded. ‘Come into my office,’ he said, ‘my brain is sharper with a mug of coffee in hand.’ In his surprisingly spacious and luxurious, if windowless, office, he waved them to a seat and offered them a drink. When they were all sitting, he rested his mug neatly in the middle of a coaster and linked his fingers on the desk in front of him. ‘Wild Ranger, eh?’

  Because it was expected of them, both men said yes simultaneously.

  ‘It’s a good knife, but not very popular because of its price. The Outdoor Ranger is similar and costs a lot less.’

  ‘So why would someone pay more for the Wild Ranger?’ West asked.

  ‘Most hunting knives have one cutting edge,’ Whelan explained. ‘They’re used for skinning and butchering animals. A double blade, like the Wild Ranger, isn’t necessary so it was probably just personal choice.’r />
  West and Andrews exchanged glances. They guessed why the man had chosen the double-sided blade. Doubly effective.

  ‘I suppose you want a list of our customers,’ the manager continued. ‘I should ask for a court order and cite all kinds of confidentiality issues.’

  West smiled. ‘But you’re not going to,’ he guessed.

  Whelan shook his head. ‘Hunting gets enough bad press, Garda West, without some idiot using one of our knives for the wrong reason.’

  West blinked at the wrong reason but let the man talk on. He was agreeing to be of help, he’d settle for that.

  The manager pulled his laptop over and opened it. His forehead creased as he squinted at the screen and tapped the keyboard with one hand. ‘Here we are.’ He looked at the two men. ‘How far back do you want me to go?’

  Andrews and West exchanged looks. How far? West, frowning, remembered that Doyle had indicated that the knife was new, probably never used, which would indicate a recent purchase. About to say a month, he shook his head and decided to be more cautious. ‘Go back a year.’

  It only took a few minutes, Whelan sipping coffee with one hand, tapping his keyboard with the other. ‘Okay,’ he said, sitting back. ‘Six people in the last year purchased a Wild Ranger. Four in person and two on the internet.’

  ‘On the internet?’

  ‘You’re surprised? We’d be very foolish not to offer an internet service; many of our customers do all their shopping online.’

  ‘Aren’t there restrictions on buying knives online?’

  ‘Same as there are here,’ the man shrugged, ‘you have to prove you’re over eighteen.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m careful, too careful you might say, but I refuse to provide weapons of any sort to the wrong type, so…’ He stopped for a moment, as if weighing up whether to continue or not, then with a shrug said, ‘I have a friend who’s a garda. I give him the name and he runs it for me. If it checks out, the sale goes ahead, if it doesn’t, I tell the person the item he requested is out of stock. Then I blacklist him.’

  It was all totally illegal and if it were found out, the garda providing the information would be suspended, and possibly prosecuted. West could have him stopped; it wouldn’t be difficult to find out who he was.