by Arlene Hunt
‘So she lit some candles to take a bath, like millions of women do.’
‘Still,’ Quinn said, looking thoughtful. ‘The flowers, the champagne, her physical description, that’s too much of a coincidence for me to overlook. What about make-up? The frosted lipstick, did you find any of that?’
Johnson shook his head. ‘No, but that’s … It doesn’t mean it wasn’t used. She … Well, her face was too badly smashed up to find traces of it.’
‘Exactly,’ Miranda said. ‘This MO is all wrong.’
‘Maybe she tried to fight him off and he had to subdue her.’
‘He drugged Lorraine Dell to subdue her; there were massive amounts of ketamine in her system, remember? Is there ketamine in this woman’s blood?’
‘We don’t have toxicology results back yet,’ Johnson said petulantly. He was growing annoyed with Miranda for spoiling his moment. ‘But come on, what else could this be?’
‘I don’t know.’ Miranda shrugged one shoulder. ‘A copycat maybe?’
Johnson snorted.
‘We mentioned the flowers and the champagne in the papers,’ Quinn reminded her. ‘But we never mentioned that Lorraine Dell was found in her underwear.’
‘It doesn’t feel right,’ Miranda said, stubbornly persistent.
‘Maybe he’s changing up his MO, or he was disturbed or some shit. Look, we should at least consider it, okay?’
Quinn gathered up the photos and put them back in the envelope.
‘Thanks for the heads-up, Adam. I really appreciate it.’
‘I’m glad somebody does.’
‘You did great, and don’t worry about Morrissey, I’ll sort it out with him.’
Johnson nodded, somewhat mollified. ‘You know I told Malloy you should have been called in from the off, but she wouldn’t listen to me.’
‘Malloy?’
‘Oh, you haven’t had the pleasure?’ Johnson said archly. ‘Probationary Sergeant Malloy; she was there this morning throwing her weight around. I told her to contact you, but she wouldn’t take my advice.’
‘Roxy Malloy?’ Miranda asked.
‘You know her?’ Quinn asked.
‘I worked with her before. She’s a good officer, sharp.’
‘She’s a loose cannon,’ Johnson said. ‘You know who her father is, don’t you?’
As it happened, Miranda did know who Roxy’s father was; she also knew where he was. Frank Malloy was locked up in a maximum-security jail on Lambay Island, a couple of miles off the coast of North County Dublin.
‘What has her old man got to do with any of this?’
Johnson was smug, unbearably so.
‘They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Sergeant, but if you ask me, Malloy is still attached to the bloody branch.’
Chapter Eleven
As buildings went, Roxy normally liked the city morgue. It was quiet and clean, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic. The waiting room always had the best up-to-date scientific magazines, and if she didn’t feel like reading, she liked to watch the assistants bustle about the place with clipboards in hand, everybody moving silently on the weird rubber-soled shoes they all seemed to wear.
Roxy approved of practical footwear.
But that day she could find no comfort in her surroundings, and the tension headache building behind her eyes was not helped by the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about Dominic Travers.
After she’d called him to break the news, she’d run his name again, trawling online newspaper articles about him. Andrea’s father was a fascinating, terrible man, a criminal who was now considered a legitimate businessman, or so the story went. So why was his last file redacted. What had this man done to warrant that kind of secrecy?
She heard voices approaching and got to her feet as Lillian and Justine reached the administration desk. Lillian’s face was the colour of ash, and had it not been for Justine holding her up, it looked like she might collapse at any moment.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
Lillian looked at her. ‘Can you raise the dead?’
Roxy shook her head.
‘Then there’s nothing you can do.’
* * *
Back at the station, there was no sign of Cora, but there was a message from Superintendent Augustus ‘Gussy’ O’Connor. He wanted to see her asap.
Feeling a little apprehensive, Roxy took her place on a hard plastic chair outside his office. She sat ramrod straight, legs together with her hands on her knees. Gussy’s secretary, Nancy, sat behind her desk, typing and scrupulously avoiding making eye contact. Both women were acutely aware of the raised voice coming from behind Gussy’s half-glass door.
As brass went, Gussy was generally liked and considered pretty fair-minded … for a boss. He was a committed Christian, the last of a dying breed; and unlike the hypocrites who proudly proclaimed their moral superiority in church, his Christianity manifested itself in a quiet, muscular kind of decency.
Roxy had always respected Gussy a great deal, and not just because he’d had a large hand to play in her promotion to Homicide. Under normal circumstances she believed he understood policing better than most, and ergo understood the pressures the Gardai faced daily.
A green light on Nancy’s desk phone flashed. She cleared her throat before she picked up the receiver.
‘Yes, sir, she’s here … Certainly.’
She hung up and looked over at Roxy.
‘You may go in now.’
Roxy got to her feet and tugged at the hem of her jacket. After a moment, she raked her fingers through her hair, trying to tidy it up a little, and tucked her hat under her elbow.
‘How do I look?’
At least Nancy’s smile was kind.
Roxy opened the inner door and entered.
Gussy was on the phone, listening, bristling with anger. He was a tall man, with a slight paunch and long limbs. He wore a sparse, unfashionable moustache on his upper lip, and from the eyebrows up he was bald as an egg.
‘What?’ he demanded. ‘Irrelevant … No, absolutely not … I don’t give a damn. The press office will not be bullied, Gavin. No releases until further notice.’
He slammed the phone down and rubbed his eyes with his heels of his hands. ‘This place is like a bloody sieve sometimes. Sit down, Sergeant.’
Roxy sat.
He lowered his hands and looked at her. ‘You accessed Dominic Travers’ records.’
It was a statement, not a question. She gaped at him in mild surprise.
‘I did, sir.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘His name came up in connection to a case I’m working on.’
‘What case?’
She explained about her morning, how she and Cora had processed the crime scene in Dundrum; she told him about Lillian Colgan, she told him every detail she could think of except the part where Johnson tried to get her to call Eli Quinn.
When she was finished speaking, Gussy leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose as though he’d been hit by a wave of sudden fatigue.
‘Sir,’ Roxy said after a moment of silence. ‘Why are Dominic Travers’ records redacted?’
Gussy ignored the question.
‘Are you sure Andrea Colgan is his daughter?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s not on her birth certificate, but he is her father.’
He sat silent again, chewing his bottom lip.
‘Right, where’s Inspector Morrissey now?’
‘I don’t know, sir, I just got back.’
‘Okay, return to your workstation, Sergeant Malloy.’ Gussy reached for his phone.
‘Sir, what about—’
‘That will be all for now, Sergeant.’
Roxy took the not-so-subtle hint and left, baffled. What the hell was going on?
Downstairs, Cora was back at their cubicle, eating a yoghurt with little enthusiasm. She looked miserable.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Pe
ople are what’s wrong; society. A young woman is killed like that, you’d think they’d be queuing up to help.’
‘Let me guess: no one saw anything, no one heard anything.’
Cora’s expression told her she was bang on the money.
‘It’s so depressing.’
‘Human nature. People don’t want to get involved.’
‘Well that’s depressing too.’
‘Edwina said she was going to start Andrea’s autopsy at two, didn’t she? I should probably be there for it.’ Roxy gathered up her things and put her hat on. ‘You can stay here if you like. I understand.’
Cora put her spoon down and looked offended.
‘Why would I stay here?’
‘You know.’ Roxy waved a hand. ‘In case you keel over or something.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, I knew that stupid rumour had gone round. I didn’t keel over; I was a little light-headed, that’s all.’ Cora rubbed her temples. After a moment, she reached for her jacket. ‘You certainly live up to your reputation, Sergeant Malloy, you really do.’
‘What reputation is that?’
Cora pretended she didn’t hear the question.
Chapter Twelve
For the second time that day, the receptionist told Roxy to take a seat in the waiting room next to the administration office. To distract herself from Cora, who was whistling the same four bars of some unrecognisable tune over and over again through the gap in her lower teeth, Roxy opened her EN and read what she could on Dominic Travers, alternating between various news sources and court reports.
The more she read, the less she understood.
From what she could piece together, Travers had grown up in the system, the product of an alcoholic mother and a dangerous, violent father with gang connections. By age six, he was an orphan, his father murdered, his mother dead by her own hand. No one came forward to claim the little boy and so he spent the next twelve years shunted from one institute to another with time off for some fostering that never worked out. By the time he reached eighteen years of age, Dominic Travers was practically feral.
Yet something must have happened, because between the age of nineteen and twenty-six there were no further tangles with the law. For seven years, Travers managed to vanish off the map. Then he was back, and back with a bang. Over the next ten years he clocked up an impressive number of arrests and convictions: assault, robbery, affray, assault with a weapon, battery, affray, assault … Roxy shook her head.
The man was clearly a violent thug.
Yet strangely, there was nothing again until four years later, when Dominic Travers was arrested outside the salubrious Shelbourne Hotel on St Stephen’s Green at three in the morning, blood on his hands, his coat, his face. Only there was no mention of him going to trial and this was the file that was redacted.
Weird.
Roxy leaned her head back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling tiles.
Why redacted?
Her own father had been covered in blood when he was arrested.
No, she told herself, not today. This has nothing to do with him.
Truthfully, it had been a long time since she’d allowed herself to think of her father. Thinking of him brought other memories to the surface, memories she would prefer to keep buried. She wondered if he knew about her promotion. She wondered if he kept abreast of such matters. She wondered if he was remotely interested in anything she did.
Cora cracked her knuckles, startling her. The noise was uncommonly loud in the silence.
‘I hate waiting,’ Cora said.
‘I noticed.’
‘I don’t think she likes me.’
‘Who?’
‘Edwina.’
Roxy did not want to be drawn into a conversation about the pathologist, so looked down at her EN again, hoping Cora would get the message.
‘She likes you, though,’ Cora said after a while. ‘She’s not married, is she?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘I don’t think she is. I don’t think she’s the type.’
‘What type is that?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I don’t.’
Roxy was glad when an assistant appeared and asked them to follow her. She showed them to the viewing booth, a small chamber with an internal window overlooking the autopsy theatre. The booth had a rubber floor and contained two rows of connected seats. Roxy took one in the front at the end of the row. Cora remained standing by the wall, close to the door. Her body language was telling.
‘You don’t have to be here, you know,’ Roxy reminded her.
‘I know that.’
Roxy turned back round, eyes forward. She was learning it was pointless trying to reason with Cora when she was doing that thing she did with her eyebrows.
In the autopsy room, the double plastic doors buckled inwards and a figure clad in white backed in through them pulling a gurney. Edwina brought up the rear, also wearing white. Without seeming to glance in their direction, she flicked a switch on the wall and a speaker over their heads crackled.
‘You made it, Detectives,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Roxy replied.
‘Officer Simmons, would you be more comfortable waiting in the staff canteen?’
Cora’s cheeks flared pink with embarrassment.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Good, but should you feel faint, there’s also a water cooler down the hall.’
‘I said I’m fine,’ Cora replied with a defiant edge to her voice.
‘As you wish.’ Edwina turned to her assistant. ‘Rebecca, shall we?’
Rebecca unzipped the body bag and folded back the sides.
‘Oh my God.’ Cora put her hand to her mouth.
In life, Andrea Colgan had been a beautiful, vivacious young woman, with honey-blonde hair and dimples in her cheeks when she laughed. What lay exposed under the dazzling lights was as far from that as could be imagined. Bloodied, battered, bruised, disfigured, broken and torn, it did not look like Andrea Colgan; it barely looked human at all.
Edwina glanced at the clock, called out the time and reached for her camera. She took photos from every angle, reporting what she saw to Rebecca, who made notes.
Roxy watched the women work, fascinated by how they moved around one another with such practised ease and grace. When she was done taking pictures, Edwina put the camera down and began to comb through Andrea’s hair. She scraped under her nails, measured wounds and grazes. With Rebecca’s help, she removed the gown, the underwear and the garter, placing each item into a separate clear plastic bag.
Words like ‘blunt-force trauma’, ‘abrasions’ and ‘lacerations’ filtered through the speaker; polite words, accurate even, yet they bothered Roxy. Each time Edwina pointed out some bruise or wound, she thought of the young woman in the photo with the beautiful smile, her eyes filled with love. It didn’t seem right, somehow, referring to her in such clinical terms.
When Edwina reached for her scalpel, Cora, who had not moved a muscle up until this point, abruptly left the room.
* * *
Edwina made a deep incision into Andrea Colgan’s sternum, carving down and under her right breast, then repeated the same on the left side. She worked the scalpel down towards the groin and folded the skin back, revealing a thin layer of bright yellow fat, the colour of grass-fed butter.
The door behind Roxy opened. Thinking it was Cora coming back, she turned in her seat and found herself staring into a face she recognised from her earlier online snooping.
Dominic Travers.
She jumped up quickly to block his view.
‘Sir, I don’t think you should be here.’
Travers grabbed her shoulders and forcibly moved her out of his way.
‘Dr King,’ Roxy called.
Edwina glanced up, put down her scalpel and drew a sheet up over the body.
‘This is a closed environment,’ Edwina said.
Travers raised his
right hand and placed it on the glass. Roxy noticed that the back of it was cross-hatched with scars.
‘That’s my daughter.’
Edwina glanced at Roxy, who nodded.
‘Let me see her face.’
Edwina hesitated. ‘Sir, your daughter has sustained a number of injuries that—’
‘Let me see her, damn you.’
Edwina peeled the sheet back as far as Andrea’s shoulders, above the incisions. Travers made a strange choking sound and sank down into one of the chairs as though all the strength had drained from his lower body.
‘You have my condolences. I think it would be best if you let us take care of her now,’ Edwina said. ‘Sergeant Malloy, could you escort him outside, please?’
Roxy put her hand on his shoulder.
‘Will you come with me? Please.’
Wordlessly he stood up and followed her out of the room. Out in the hall he pressed his forehead against the wall and made a low groaning sound that sent the hair on Roxy’s neck straight up.
‘Sir, I am sorry for your loss …’
The sound stopped. Before her eyes he seemed to gather himself. He stood straight, squared his shoulders and stared down at her.
‘Where’s Noel Furlong? Is he in in custody?’
She blinked, alarmed by the sudden one-eighty he’d pulled, no longer grieving, no longer vulnerable.
‘I asked you a question.’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I imagine by now there is a warrant out for his …’
Beneath his skin, muscles seemed to move independently of one another, forming, hardening. His eyes were unreadable.
‘Sir, listen to me for a moment. Whatever you’re thinking …’
He walked off before she could finish.
Roxy didn’t like it. She hurried to find Cora and tracked her down in the canteen, sitting at the end of a long table, messaging someone on her phone.
‘There you are. I think we’d better skedaddle. Dominic Travers was here and he looked like he …’
She stopped. Cora’s hands were shaking.