Last Goodbye_An absolutely gripping murder mystery thriller

by Arlene Hunt

  ‘The second man is older, more calculating. If I had to make an educated guess, he’s someone known to the victim. She invited him into her home, so to a degree she trusted him. This attack was violent and there were no drugs in her system, so he’s pretty powerful. Andrea Colgan was not a small woman, and she was physically fit; it would have taken great strength to overpower her.’

  ‘Or because she trusted him, he caught her completely unawares,’ Miranda said.

  ‘That is also a possibility.’

  ‘We can’t rule out the possibility that Andrea Colgan was a victim of the Sweetheart Killer,’ Fletcher said, stubborn to the end.

  ‘I told you already, Sergeant Fletcher,’ Quinn snapped, ‘keep that tabloid crap out of my investigation.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Lizzie spread her hands. ‘Then by all means investigate her death as such, but my feeling is you’re going to get caught in another current if you concentrate on her. You asked for my opinion, Inspector. This is it.’

  ‘All right.’ Quinn got to his feet. He looked tired and despondent. ‘Okay, well thank you for your time and expertise.’

  The meeting was over.

  As the group dispersed, Lizzie came over to where Roxy was collecting her things.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made a mess of your investigation.’

  ‘Not my investigation. I knew all along she didn’t fit.’

  Lizzie put her hands in her pockets.

  ‘So what do you do now?’

  Roxy shrugged, put the strap of her bag over her head.

  ‘Back to the drawing board.’

  ‘If you need any assistance, I’m more than happy to help.’

  Roxy nodded stiffly. In the background, a couple of officers were watching the exchange, both wearing the same stupid grins on their faces. Roxy scowled at them. Was nothing in this place ever private?

  Oh God, why was she still standing there?

  ‘You know,’ Lizzie said, ‘I’ve been meaning to … speak with you. It’s just, with … um … everything that happened, I wasn’t sure if—’

  ‘Sergeant Malloy!’ Miranda bustled up. ‘Oh, sorry to interrupt, Dr Brennan. Malloy, I’ve asked you about interviewing Gregory Milton twice now and you still haven’t got round to it. I’m sorry, but it can’t wait, okay? I need you to take care of it right now.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Chop chop, let’s go.’

  Roxy nodded to Lizzie and followed Miranda out into the hall. When they were out of earshot, she glanced at her colleague.

  ‘Who’s Gregory Milton?’

  ‘Oh, just some guy Andrea Colgan did a PR job for a few months back.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was supposed to talk to him.’

  Miranda grinned. ‘Relax, Malloy, you weren’t.’

  ‘Then what was that about?’

  ‘That was a rescue. You should have seen your face. You looked like you were going to be sick all over yourself.’

  Roxy was genuinely touched. Before she could express her gratitude, Miranda handed her a name and address.

  ‘Oh, you do actually want me to interview him.’

  ‘Two birds, one stone, that’s what you promised Quinn, right?’ Miranda Lynn winked. ‘You’re my bird now, ducky. Quack quack.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Roxy stood in the shadows behind the cameras and the sound man, trying not to get in anybody’s way or trip over what seemed like a million cables criss-crossing the floor.

  On set a few feet away, Dr Gregory Milton was leaning back in his wing chair, his index finger pressed to his lips, one leg crossed over the other. He was wearing canary-yellow socks, Roxy noticed.

  Sitting opposite him on the famous velvet sofa was a couple in their late sixties with a cold gap between them. The woman kept twisting a handkerchief between her fingers.

  ‘It’s like my needs don’t matter,’ she wailed, tears threatening. ‘I’m tired of trying to be patient.’

  ‘Tom.’ Dr Milton gave the older man a gentle encouraging smile. ‘How long have you felt this way?’

  ‘Well,’ the man said, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘Ever since Bonnie died, I guess.’

  ‘Bonnie?’

  ‘My dog.’

  ‘That damned dog!’ the woman cried. ‘I sometimes think he loved her more than me!’

  Dr Milton looked at Tom, who shrugged unapologetically. ‘She was a good dog,’ he said. ‘She certainly never belittled me every day of the week.’

  Someone tapped Roxy on the shoulder. She looked around to find a smartly dressed woman standing at her shoulder. She beckoned her to follow.

  Outside in the corridor, the woman introduced herself as Maureen Kelly, the station manager. Her handshake was firm, her manner efficient, even brusque. She certainly did not beat about the bush.

  ‘You’re here about Andrea.’

  ‘That’s right, but don’t worry, it’s a formality. We’re interviewing everyone who worked with her in the last year.’

  ‘I see, a formality.’

  Something in her tone caught Roxy’s interest.

  ‘Did you know Andrea?’

  ‘I met her a few times. Charming girl, very pretty.’

  ‘Yes, I saw her photo.’

  ‘Smart, too.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Of course, she wasn’t the only pretty girl to work with Dr Milton. As he’s fond of saying, he values beauty.’

  Roxy was impressed by the injection of sheer loathing Maureen used when she mentioned his name.

  ‘Oh?’ She paused. ‘He has a preference?’

  ‘He likes them to be young, pretty. Preferably involved.’

  ‘Is he married himself?’

  ‘In name only.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘His wife, Nadine, suffered a catastrophic brain injury from an accident some years ago. She survived, but never recovered.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Roxy tilted her head slightly. ‘Why would Dr Milton want the women who work for him to be involved?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ Maureen said. ‘I’ve often wondered that myself.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I get the distinct impression you don’t much like Dr Milton.’

  ‘Well.’ Maureen Kelly’s eyes were hard and direct. ‘Far be it from me to disrespect the talent – he is after all the biggest star we have currently – but let’s say I find him problematic and leave it at that.’

  ‘Albas Entertainment promoted his last book, didn’t they? That’s how he met Andrea Colgan.’

  ‘That’s right. Milton and Dy Anderson are very old friends. There was another pretty girl before Andrea, now that I think of it. Delia I believe her name was.’

  ‘Delia?’ Roxy said, frowning a little. She had gone through the whole list of employees Albas had given Miranda and Quinn; there had been no mention of a Delia.

  ‘That’s right. I believe she and Andrea were friends. You should talk to her.’

  ‘I will, thank you.’

  ‘Yes, well, best of luck with your interview, Sergeant. I hope you get to the bottom of it all. I’m not sure the world can afford to lose any more bright young things. But then I hardly need to tell you that, do I?’

  And with that, Maureen left.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The idea began to take flight. Padding through the house, the wolf thought about the logistics.

  The upper floors were out: too many windows, and the old fire escape was too much of a risk. But the basement could be perfectly adapted. Five rooms, two interconnected. There was even a toilet. The windows to the front were barred, and it wouldn’t take much to block up the old door under the steps of the main house: some bricks, a little cement, and voilà.

  He looked around. He could haul the mattress from his mother’s room downstairs. It had some mildew, but it was serviceable.

  He took the measuring tape and wrote the distances on a slip of paper. If
he put a ring in the ceiling right there – he looked up and calculated – she could access the toilet, but not the door leading to the internal stairs, though it might be sensible to install a security door just in case.

  All the work made him hungry. He went back upstairs and microwaved a ready meal. While he ate, he considered his evolution.

  Celine had been wrong about him. He was not stupid, no indeed.

  Not at all.

  When he was done eating, he tossed the plastic container towards the bin and went back upstairs. He had work to do, research.

  As soon as he logged on, he went to his usual online clothes store, and for the first time ever, hit women’s clothes.

  The array was astounding, complicated. He himself only wore black: black jeans with an elasticated panel, black T-shirts, black jumpers. But women should look bright, pretty, like tropical birds.

  His woman would be feminine; she would wear dresses that showed a lot of leg, pretty blouses, white bras, white knickers. She would wear satin and lace, she would take pride in her femininity. She would wear make-up and leave her hair down. She would please him, and in return he would take care of her, feed her, love her.

  It was the natural order of things.

  It was, he smiled, perfect.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Gregory Milton was a real piece of work, Roxy decided, watching him accept his hot lemon from his assistant, who shot Roxy a vaguely dirty look as though she disapproved of her sharing the same oxygen as her boss.

  ‘Ah, this is wonderful, April.’ He touched his knuckles to her cheek and the girl positively glowed with delight.

  ‘Sergeant, are you sure there’s nothing we can offer you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  April left. Milton settled back in his swanky chair and blew on the cup.

  ‘Lemon and honey, nature’s finest balm, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Roxy opened her EN and waited for him to stop faffing about.

  ‘Andrea Colgan—’ she began.

  ‘You have wonderful bone structure, Sergeant. I detect some Slavic influences, perhaps?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘No, your colouring is too dark. Any Romanian heritage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘So, Doctor, Andrea Colgan—’

  ‘Ah.’ Milton cut her off. ‘Andrea, such a beauty, a gorgeous, vital, intelligent young woman on the cusp of her life.’ He sighed theatrically. ‘I was devastated to learn of her passing.’

  ‘Devastated? Did you know her well?’

  ‘No.’ He smiled. ‘We worked together very briefly.’

  ‘But you were devastated.’

  He spread his hands wide. ‘I am an empath by nature, Sergeant, and as much as I try to control my emotions, the death of a young woman like Andrea is a heavy burden on my soul.’

  ‘She handled your last book tour, didn’t she?’

  He sprang up out of the chair so fast he scared the wits out of her. Within seconds he had plucked a book from the shelves and thrust it into her hand. She looked at it.

  Rewiring the Heart by Dr Gregory Milton, ‘renowned psychologist and therapist’.

  She flipped it over. The back was taken up by a black-and-white photo of Milton standing at a huge window with one finger pressed to his lips. It was the exact same pose she had watched him perform on set not an hour before.

  ‘You’ll be putting the cardiologists out of business, Doctor.’

  Milton threw back his head and laughed as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

  ‘Very droll, Sergeant, I like that.’

  She tried to hand the book back, but he waved it away.

  ‘No, please, keep it. A gift.’

  Roxy put it on her lap; it made balancing the EN easier.

  ‘So before this book tour, had you ever met Andrea?’

  He retook his seat.

  ‘No, I don’t believe so.’

  ‘When exactly did you meet her?’

  ‘About a week before the tour started. October, I think. I can get April to check the precise date.’

  ‘How was the tour?’

  ‘Demanding. I did various talks, shows, signings all over Ireland and the UK. It’s the nature of the beast, of course: you strike while the iron is hot.’

  ‘Andrea travelled with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she ever talk to you about her boyfriend?’

  Milton’s expression went from polite to scornful in the twitch of a lip.

  ‘The great artist, I presume.’

  ‘You know about Noel?’

  ‘Andrea spoke about him, of course, and very loyal she was too, but it was quite obvious to me that the man was more albatross than swan, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘He had one show that was semi-successful, and he traded on it like he was the next Damien Hirst.’

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘Twice, and I found him to be a very unpleasant fellow, very insecure. You should talk to Dy about him; he gave the staff at Albas no end of trouble.’

  ‘Dy Anderson, as in Andrea’s boss?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How long have you been with Albas, Dr Milton?’

  ‘Oh, years. Dy’s a personal friend. We met at college.’

  ‘Who was your PR before Andrea?’

  She threw the question from left field and hit a home run. Milton hesitated for a split second, even looked a little uneasy. It was a tiny flicker, but she noticed.

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Oh, it was another young woman … Della, Delia? Yes, I think that’s it, Delia.’

  ‘She worked for Mr Anderson too, did she?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Only I don’t recall seeing her name on the list of contacts.’

  ‘Oh well, she’s not there any longer.’ He smiled. ‘PR is not for the faint-hearted. People leave all the time.’

  Roxy wrote the name down and put an asterisk next to it.

  ‘Was she faint-hearted?’

  ‘Oh goodness, Sergeant, I didn’t mean anything by that.’ He laughed heartily, showing a lot of teeth. Roxy wondered if he had any idea how phoney he sounded.

  They talked for a little while longer, but Milton had recovered and kept his bases covered. He even managed to present an alibi for the day Andrea was murdered, though Roxy hadn’t asked for one.

  On her way back to the station, she thought about the performance and decided he gave her the absolute creeps.

  She sent her notes to Miranda and sat chewing her thumbnail.

  Delia.

  Where had she heard that name before if it wasn’t in the employee information?

  It came to her after a few minutes. The interview with Noel Furlong, the one Quinn had asked her to transcribe. Furlong had mentioned a Delia, she was sure of it.

  She glanced at her watch. It was almost knocking-off time.

  Quinn could hardly complain about what she did on her own time.

  Decision made, she grabbed her jacket.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Edwina King was a shrewd woman and understood only too well how the wheels turned, so she had been expecting the call ever since her findings in the autopsy. Nevertheless, when it came, she was angry and insulted and let her feelings be known.

  ‘This is ludicrous,’ she said. ‘It’s unlikely to stand up in court.’

  ‘Oh come now.’ The Garda Commissioner’s voice was so oily it practically slithered down the line. ‘You said yourself the dating process was inconclusive.’

  ‘What I said was that in my opinion the foetus came under the twelve-week gestational age period.’

  ‘You were to get a second opinion, I believe.’

  ‘That’s right. My colleague is unwell at the moment.’

  ‘Well then, this is a serendipitous solution. Dr Porter will be
with you within the hour.’

  ‘Is he at least an obstetrician?’

  ‘He is eminently qualified.’

  ‘How did you learn about this? I asked for the information to be contained until we had conformation.’

  The Commissioner made a strange sound. ‘Dear me, Dr King, I never took you for a naïf.’

  ‘Why are you interested in this case?’

  ‘Let’s just say there are interested parties and leave it at that.’

  Edwina looked up at the ceiling and took a breath.

  ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  ‘Goodbye, Doctor.’

  Porter arrived shortly before midday. He was an elderly man with thin wispy hair and a pronounced stoop. When he offered Edwina his credentials, which were numerous, albeit long out of date, she noticed he had a tremor in both hands.

  Where did he dig you up? she wondered, slowing her gait so that he could keep up with her as they went to theatre.

  An hour later, the ridiculous charade was over. Without making any eye contact, Dr Porter announced that in his professional opinion, the foetus was twelve weeks and five days old, and deserving of the status of personhood.

  Edwina didn’t bother arguing with the man. He was as much a puppet as she was, and it seemed almost indecent to belittle a man of his advanced years further.

  Later on, when filing her report, she considered making a complaint, but good sense prevailed.

  After all, the fish rots from the head down.

  She signed her report and sent it directly to Detective Eli Quinn. The DNA of pre-born Baby Colgan was now available.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  If Caroline Furlong had been frosty before, she was downright glacial when she opened the door and saw Roxy standing there.

  ‘You have some nerve showing your face.’

  ‘I know that, but I really need to speak to Noel.’

  ‘No, he’s been through enough.’

  ‘Look,’ Roxy said, ‘I don’t blame you for being angry. I’d be angry too.’

  ‘Angry?’ Caroline’s nostrils flared with indignation. ‘I’m not angry, Sergeant; I expected nothing more from a corrupt group of despicable bullies and thugs. You dragged our name into the mud, terrorised an innocent grieving man, and now here you are, not blaming me for being angry. How very gracious of you.’