‘You busy?’
A shake of his head gave Andrews the answer he wanted. He closed the door, sat in the only other chair in the office and told Blunt exactly what he needed from him.
‘It’s really just to make sure she is as settled down there as her brother is making out,’ he finished. ‘Have you someone who you can trust to check her out discreetly?’
Blunt gave the question some thought before saying, ‘Garda Libby Forster.’
Andrews didn’t know the name, but if Blunt thought she was up to the job, that was good enough for him. ‘Perfect. Thanks, Tom. I’ll leave it to you then.’
And that was that job done. Andrews often thought that if they could just get on with their job without excess chat and paperwork, they’d get a lot more done.
His phone was ringing when he returned to his desk. He reached it just in time. ‘Andrews,’ he said.
‘It’s Jarvis. We’ve found the guy; he has some interesting things to tell us. We’re bringing him in; we think the sergeant needs to hear what he has to say.’
‘Okay,’ Andrews said, ‘I’ll let him know. What time do you expect to make it back?’ He listened, asked a couple more questions, hung up and went to West’s door.
‘Jarvis and Allen are heading back. They’re bringing Fearon’s friend with them. Jarvis says you’ll want to hear what he says.’
West looked up from his computer screen. ‘Did he give you any indication what it’s about?’
Andrews shook his head, a frown of annoyance on his brow. ‘I’ve noticed that to be a trend with the lads recently. They’re all becoming divas, wanting to ramp up the excitement before communicating anything.’
‘Let them have their fun. Did they say what time they’d be back?’
‘About eleven. I’ll go and book the Big One before Clark lays claim to it. I spotted him lurking around a while ago.’ With that, he vanished from sight.
West returned his attention to his computer screen. With a bit of luck, he might get the audit finished before they got back. He probably would have done, only his mind started to wander. They’d obviously found something interesting. He hoped it would be enough to put someone in the frame for Fearon’s murder. They could do with getting one of their outstanding cases solved.
Forcing his attention back to the numbers and columns on the screen, he kept it there until Andrews once more appeared in the doorway. Perhaps he should have shut the door. With a deep breath, he looked up. ‘What?’
‘Just wondered if you wanted some more coffee,’ Andrews said, arms crossed, shoulders resting against the door frame.
West saved what he’d done and shut down the programme. There was always tomorrow. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and a biscuit if Clark hasn’t pinched them all.’
Andrews returned with two mugs and a packet of biscuits. ‘I hid them when I saw him around this morning,’ he admitted, dropping the packet on the desk. ‘He’s a pig; he’d just eat the bloody lot and look around for more.’
Fig rolls. West’s favourite. He opened the packet and took out a couple before pushing the remainder across the table. Andrews shook his head and patted his belly. ‘Joyce has had to sew trouser buttons on a few times recently. She says I’ve put on weight and blames my inability to say no to a biscuit.’
West smiled. Joyce Andrews was a tiny woman with a huge personality. She was also a wonderful cook. He’d eaten in their house often enough and had seen the meals she put in front of her husband with the same instructions every time, get on the outside of that. He didn’t think the odd biscuit Andrews ate in the station made a huge difference, and he said so.
‘I told her I ate a packet a day here,’ Andrews said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘I’m not stupid, if I told her I only ate the odd one, she might think about cutting down my meals. I told her I wouldn’t eat any more biscuits and this way, we’re both happy.’
‘You’re mixing with the wrong sort too often,’ West said with a shake of his head.
They switched to talking about their caseload until they heard voices approach, Sam Jarvis and Mick Allen jostling one another as they tried to be first into the office with the news.
‘This is going to make your eyes widen,’ Allen said.
‘Widen? More like pop from your head.’
Andrews gave West an I told you so look that was ignored.
‘How about you grab a couple of chairs and tell us,’ West said. ‘Where have you put…’
‘Richie Gallagher,’ Allen said, supplying the name. ‘He’s sitting in the Big One.’
‘Right,’ Andrews said, ‘will one of you tell us what’s going on?’
Jarvis, with a look at Allen, nodded. ‘We’d called round to Gallagher’s flat a few times yesterday. He was never there so we went to a few places where he was supposed to hang out, without any luck. It was beginning to look like he’d done a runner. This morning, early, we decided to give his place another try and there he was, cool as you please. He swore he didn’t know we were looking for him, said he was busy all day yesterday and didn’t get home until very late.’
‘Busy doing what?’ Andrews asked.
Allen met Jarvis’ eyes and they both shook their heads. ‘We wanted him to talk to us about what Fearon was into, so we didn’t ask him,’ Allen said with a shrug. ‘In fact, when he looked a bit nervous, we told him we hadn’t the slightest interest in what he was doing, that we just wanted to know about Ollie Fearon. He was very forthcoming then.’
Jarvis nodded. ‘He said Fearon had contacted him last year and asked if he were interested in doing a bit of smuggling.’
‘Drugs,’ Andrews said, shaking his head.
‘No, not drugs. People.’
29
‘People?’ West and Andrews exchanged looks.
Jarvis nodded again. ‘Fearon told him they’d go over in a camper van or something similar and bring people back hidden in a false bottom. Gallagher was paid five k upfront and another five when they arrived back in Ireland. He did it twice, then he didn’t hear from Fearon for a few months. About seven months ago, he bumped into him and asked if there were any more trips planned. Fearon laughed and said he was going solo. He told Gallagher that it was more lucrative for him, he got to keep all the money for himself.’
Jarvis stopped and ran a hand over his face. ‘He was bringing children over. Gallagher said some were for families who wanted a relative rescued from migrant camps, but not all of them. Fearon didn’t care as long as they coughed up the money. He said it was less risky than trafficking adults. He went over with a suitcase, spent some time in a hotel, organised someone to bring the child in question to a designated space, then the child was squeezed into the case and carried back on the ferry.’
‘You see now why we wanted you to hear his story,’ Allen said, his face grim. ‘It puts a different spin on our child in the suitcase.’
West sat stunned, his mouth hanging slightly open. Not in his wildest imagination would he have linked the child in the suitcase to Ollie Fearon’s murder. He closed his mouth and gulped. ‘So, Ollie Fearon may have been paid to bring our child to Ireland?’
‘That’s our guess,’ Jarvis said, jerking his head to include Allen. ‘But then, probably because of the sickle-cell disease, she dies before he can deliver her.’
‘Leaving one very unhappy customer,’ Allen said.
‘Who got his revenge by killing Fearon,’ Jarvis added.
West nodded; mostly, it made sense. ‘Why wait till now though? The child died around six months ago. Why wait until now to get revenge?’
‘What’s that expression about revenge being a dish best served cold?’ Andrews asked.
West shook his head. ‘She was a child, hardly more than a baby. If it were family, I think they’d have acted immediately.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t family,’ Jarvis said. ‘According to Gallagher, Fearon was happy to supply children to whoever paid him. We all know what that means.’
Unfortunately, they did. Was Fearon supply
ing paedophiles? ‘Let’s go talk to Gallagher,’ West said, standing, ‘maybe we can persuade him to remember more of the details.’
But Richie Gallagher, intimidated by the grim-looking men who sat opposite, had no more to contribute. In fact, he was desperately trying to recant all he’d told them. ‘Made it up, didn’t I?’ he said, looking wild-eyed at the detectives.
Allen and Jarvis had made the right call to get as much information out of the man while he was in an expansive mood. Despite reassurance that he wasn’t being charged with any crime, he insisted he knew nothing, getting more and more panicked as the minutes passed.
Finally, almost an hour later, West shook his head. ‘Get him out of here,’ he said to Jarvis. He didn’t have to tell Gallagher twice, the man leapt up and was out the door before anyone could change their mind.
‘It’s a shame we can’t arrest him for people trafficking,’ Andrews said, as the door closed behind him.
‘With him spouting that he made it up to impress the lads,’ West said with a regretful shake of his head. ‘We’ve no proof. I think we should just be grateful he was initially so forthcoming.’
They headed out of the room together and stopped in the corridor outside where the main noticeboard covered most of the wall. The photo of the reconstructed child’s face was there, its central positioning unchallenged. ‘So maybe someone wanted the poor child,’ West said. ‘I just hope it was for the right reason.’
Back in his office, he picked up the phone and rang Morrison.
‘Inspector,’ he said, when the phone was picked up. ‘I have some news for you regarding two of our cases.’
‘Well, I hope it’s good news,’ Morrison said bluntly.
‘Of a kind,’ West said. ‘It appears that our child in the suitcase might be linked to the murder of Ollie Fearon.’
‘What?’
West smiled, remembering his own reaction to the news. He decided to take the man literally. ‘It appears that our…’
‘Yes, yes, I heard you the first time,’ Morrison said testily. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Jarvis and Allen have just interviewed someone who knew Fearon. He told us about his involvement in trafficking.’ West decided it was in his best interest to leave out the details of Gallagher’s involvement. He wasn’t too sure the inspector would agree with letting him leave. When Ken Blundell’s face popped into his head, he batted it aside. ‘It was adults initially,’ he continued, ‘and then, it appears, he found smuggling small children to be more lucrative.’ He waited a moment before he added the clincher, smiling to himself as he thought of what Andrews would say. Maybe it was diva behaviour, but sometimes it was allowed. ‘He carried them across in suitcases, Inspector.’
‘Well, well,’ the inspector said, obviously as stunned as they had been with this turn of events. ‘A very interesting twist, Sergeant. Is this going to assist in solving both cases?’
West had no idea, but he wasn’t going to say that. ‘It’s opened up a range of possibilities, sir.’
Morrison, who had to play politics every day, said, ‘Indeed,’ and hung up.
The smile on West’s lips faded as he sat back in his chair. A range of possibilities. He couldn’t think of one. Clasping his hands across his stomach, he twirled his thumbs, and thought hard. It was worth reinterviewing all Fearon’s associates. It would also be worthwhile showing Fearon’s photograph around. He was getting his customers somewhere. He picked up a pen and started writing.
When Andrews appeared in his office doorway a few minutes later, he waved him in and tapped the list he’d made. ‘Have Fearon’s photograph emailed to any sub-Saharan embassy we have in Dublin, Pete. He may have been sourcing his customers there. Same with any immigration assistance groups. In fact, anywhere you can think of. We need to narrow this down somehow.’
Andrews took the list and nodded. ‘Gallagher said he’d been given five k upfront and another five on completion. Fearon was more than likely receiving a lot more, but even at a conservative estimate we’re talking about twenty grand. I think embassies may well be a good place to start.’
Unsure where sub-Saharan Africa started or ended, Andrews emailed the photograph to every embassy on the African continent that had an office in Dublin. To his surprise, less than an hour later, he had a reply from one of them.
30
‘The embassy of South Africa,’ he said, standing in the doorway and grinning at West who had returned to working on the audit.
‘You’re kidding me,’ West said, taking the email and skimming over it quickly before rereading it slowly. ‘So Fearon has been seen at the embassy several times?’
Propping his shoulder against the door frame, Andrews nodded. ‘I rang them and spoke to a Jason Betterman. He said Fearon called several times with spurious questions about applying to work in Cape Town, and vague queries about health and welfare. Initially, he was viewed as harmless. They began to be suspicious when he just started hanging around, and he was told to take a hike.’ He waved a hand. ‘They put it more politely but it amounted to the same thing. The time frame gels with what Gallagher said.’
‘It might be worthwhile going to speak to them,’ West said.
‘How about at three?’
‘You’ve already organised it?’ West said with a shake of his head. ‘Where is the embassy anyway?’
‘Earlsfort Terrace. We’ll need to leave pretty sharpish.’
West closed the audit with a sigh of relief. He’d get it done, eventually. Morrison, he knew, would be far happier with a result in the case than a result in the audit. Actually, he reconsidered; he’d want a result in both. But he would just have to settle for one.
Less than an hour later, they were searching for a parking space on Earlsfort Terrace, West unwilling to park illegally and stick up a Garda business card, and Andrews arguing they should. It was an old argument that thanks to his seniority, West always won.
‘There,’ he said, spying a car pulling out several yards ahead.
They walked the short distance to the Earlsfort Centre, following directional signs for Alexandra House where the South African embassy was located.
‘It’s on the second floor,’ Andrews said, pushing open the door into a wide ground-floor reception area. A security guard stood to one side, and two reception staff sat behind a long, curved desk.
There was no stairway visible; signs directed the two men toward a lift, which took them past the watching security man. West could feel the man’s eyes boring into them. Not much would escape him, he guessed. It might be a good idea to have a word with him before they left.
The reception area on the second floor was smaller. Again, it was manned by one security guard and two reception staff, both of whom were dealing with customers.
Rather than wait, they approached the security guard and explained who they were looking for.
He gave them a quick once-over before nodding and walking to a wall-mounted phone. Moments later, he returned and indicated that they follow him.
‘A man of few words,’ Andrews muttered as they followed him down a short corridor.
The guard stopped abruptly at the third door. He knocked on it, pushed it open and waved them inside without a word.
Jason Betterman stood with a smile. Tall and gangly, he reached a hand across the desk to shake their hands. ‘Cal is a great security guard, but social niceties aren’t his forte, I’m afraid. Please, have a seat. May I offer you a drink?’
Both men declined. ‘Thank you for replying so promptly to our email this morning, Mr Betterman,’ West said, following introductions. ‘We’re investigating the possibility that this man, Ollie Fearon, was responsible for the death of a young child. She was found in a suitcase. We’ve recently learnt that Fearon used this means to smuggle children into the country.’
‘In a suitcase? You’re kidding me.’ Betterman grimaced. ‘Mind you, I shouldn’t be surprised. We stop one means of people trafficking and they come up with another.’<
br />
‘The child in question was around two years old. Malnourished, she would have been small for her age. And children,’ Andrews said with a sad smile, ‘are remarkably limber.’
‘She had sickle-cell anaemia,’ West told him. ‘We’re running with the theory that she died from lack of oxygen. Fearon was paid, probably very well, to bring her into the country. When he opened the case and found the child had died, we think he panicked and dumped her. He has subsequently been murdered. We’ve only recently discovered the connection.’
‘You think whoever paid him to bring over the child, killed him when he didn’t deliver?’
‘He was murdered recently; she died around six months ago. But yes, we’re running with the theory that whoever paid him, also killed him. We just need to find who his contact was.’
‘You think that’s why he was hanging around the embassy?’
West shrugged. ‘People at refuge centres probably wouldn’t have had the wherewithal to pay him. Embassies were the other option.’
‘I’m not sure why,’ Betterman said, his forehead creasing as he tried to see where the detectives were going with this. ‘South Africans would have no problem bringing their children here legally.’
‘But Fearon was here in the embassy,’ West said, frowning. ‘And he wasn’t here for travel advice.’ He was close, he knew it. ‘What about illegal immigrants to South Africa? Isn’t it true to say that your townships can have upward of several thousand illegals at any one time?’
Betterman smiled grimly. ‘Unfortunately, that is true of some of them. However, there would be no point in coming to me for help finding someone there. If they were undocumented, there would be no way I could trace them, and even if I could, I couldn’t help. Illegal immigrants to South Africa are sent back to their country of origin, wherever that may be.’
West’s frustration was clear. ‘We have it on fairly good authority that Fearon was smuggling children into Ireland. He was hanging around your embassy several months ago, and six months ago a child from the sub-Saharan continent was found suffocated in a suitcase.’
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