Dance With the Dead

by James Nally

  ‘He had raped her repeatedly, in her words, “every which way” while restraining her with a rope around her neck. After more than twenty-four hours held like this, she managed to sneak out of his bedroom and creep around the flat looking for a window to open to either escape or to raise the alarm. She finally found one on the second floor, opened it, grabbed onto a drainpipe and clambered down. She must’ve been desperate because it was a good thirty-foot drop.

  ‘We got round there. For starters, he was gone which I thought spoke volumes. We found her prints on the second-floor windowsill and on the drainpipe and we found the length of rope she’d described next to his bed. Medical examination confirmed she’d been violently sexually assaulted. We arrested him and, of course, he said the whole thing had been consensual. But what she told us was a real eye opener.

  ‘She’d come out of care in Dublin. She’d no money or relations who could help and was really worried about her future. Someone at the home said there was a middle-aged lady in Tullamore called Jenny Quinn who took in lots of kids from care, and she should give her a go.

  ‘She moved into Jenny’s, got a job washing dishes at a local hotel and became friends with Jenny’s 14-year-old daughter Dympna and with Jenny’s boyfriend, Robert Conlon. Let me quote a line from her statement here: “Bob was very kind to us all. He used to buy us cigarettes and drinks and runners, he’d take us to discos and pubs and if someone was stuck, he’d let them stay in his flat. I’ve never really had a proper dad so it meant so much to me.” I think these days they call it grooming.

  ‘In a later statement, she told us how he’d tricked her into going to his flat that Saturday night in the first place. She fancied a local guy who drives a taxi but felt too shy to approach him, so Uncle Bob said he’d get the fella around to his place that night and that she should pop in.

  ‘Needless to say, the taxi driver never showed. He gave her a few drinks, she complained of a bad headache – God knows what he’d spiked them with – so he gave her a couple of pills. She thought they were Anadin but says the next thing she remembers is waking up naked in his bed with the sun shining through the curtains. He tried it on with her, and she backed away. He said something like: “You didn’t have any problem with it last night.” She felt a rough rope tighten around her neck and he raped her, over and over, all throughout that day.

  ‘While she’s telling us this, a senior detective at the station, John Keegan, keeps banging the table demanding to know why she hadn’t escaped before Monday.

  ‘Now he started banging the desk asking why she hadn’t mentioned fancying this taxi driver before, or the drinks with Conlon. He kept saying “this doesn’t look good, you take drinks from a man, you spend the whole of Saturday night and Sunday night with him, then you cry rape Monday morning.” He started commenting on her denim skirt and how he’d seen her parading herself around the town in a vest top wearing loads of make-up. I remember saying “should we not have a female officer present here under the circumstances” and getting shouted down. That’s when I started to smell a rat.

  ‘Fair dues to Anne, she stuck to her story under fierce pressure. When they were finished, they told her she’d have to go back to the care home in Dublin. The last thing Keegan says to her is “if you think you’re pregnant, there’s a rape crisis centre up there you can call. I’m sure they’ll believe you and help you get on the boat to England”. She got no after-care, no health examination or psychological assessment at all. I’ve a daughter myself only a bit younger than her, Donal. Jesus, it could happen to any young woman, you know? You’d want your own daughter treated better than that.’

  He swallowed hard and sniffed.

  ‘Anyway, it was just as well Anne went back to Dublin. They charged Conlon with five counts of rape and one count of buggery, but granted him bail. Not only that, the judge imposed bail conditions that he must stay at Jenny Quinn’s home. Bearing in mind Jenny had a 14-year-old daughter at the time who regularly invited friends around, I found this unacceptable and raised it with Keegan.

  ‘Next thing I’m accused of getting too close to Anne Gahan and taken off the case. When I complained, Keegan threatened to leak it to the national papers. I couldn’t risk it. My wife and kids … well, you know what it’s like. I applied for a transfer to Birr and got it, in record time.

  ‘A few months later, Anne rings me in a state … they hadn’t called her to give evidence. They can’t stop me going down to the courthouse. I discover that the prosecution made no mention of the rope found at the scene. The rape charges had all been dropped. Conlon pleaded guilty to carnal knowledge with a minor and received a suspended sentence. Of course, because the case involved a minor known to the defendant, the judge imposed a reporting ban. And that was that. Case dead and buried, Conlon free to carry on grooming other vulnerable young women. No one would ever know what he did to Anne Gahan.

  ‘Two more over here?’ he called to the barman.

  ‘Why were they letting Conlon off the hook? I don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s only the half of it,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve heard about the Kilkenny incest case that broke earlier this year?’

  ‘I can’t say that I have, Frank. I don’t follow the Irish news that much any more.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re just as well. There’s a man charged with raping his daughter repeatedly over ten years and impregnating her aged fifteen. It’s a scandal for all sorts of reasons, chief amongst them the fact that the authorities didn’t believe her claims for many years. Even neighbours knew what was going on and did nothing. The dad was a real scumbag, used to go round the pubs showing pornographic photos of her, for Christ’s sake. Anyway, I met this girl, and she tells me Conlon was a family friend. I took a statement from her. Listen to this.’

  Frank picks up a piece of paper and starts to read. ‘“Bob used to come round to our house sometimes at night and he and my father would drink whiskey together. My father would say ‘where have you been?’ and Bob would say, ‘I’ve been away visiting some relations.’ Then my father would laugh. I could sense it was some sort of code. He was creepy and they were birds of a feather.” I could go on but you get the picture.’

  My blood froze. Those dreams I’d been having … Dad and the dark travelling stranger drinking whiskey by our fire … ‘away visiting some relations’ … it couldn’t be …

  ‘Jesus, are you alright there, Donal? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Have you decent photos of Conlon?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, reaching back into his case.

  He laid them out on the table and my brain went into spasm.

  ‘Excuse me, Frank,’ I managed to say before sprinting to the loo and spewing in the sink.

  I blew hard and examined my face in the mirror’s unforgiving white light.

  ‘What the hell have I been seeing?’ I asked my blood-red eyes. I ran the tap and swirled the water until the vomit had drained. I splashed more on my hot face and let the horror sink in. I’d seen Robert Conlon in my dreams, sitting by the fire with Da, drinking whiskey. They’d been ‘birds of a feather’.

  I walked over to the towel, yanked down a stretch and buried my face in it. So I’d now started seeing killers in my dreams. Perhaps I was psychic after all? I took a series of deep breaths and scolded myself. Da must have known Conlon once … somehow my subconscious unearthed that memory of him at our house. Somehow, my brain figured out he was tied up in these murders. Somehow …

  Why hadn’t Da mentioned it?

  I walked back to the mirror to check my face and mouth for remnants. ‘You’ve got plenty of time to figure all this out later,’ I instructed my porcelain white face. ‘Get back in there and hear Frank out.’

  I marched back into the lounge. ‘Sorry about that, Frank,’ I said. ‘I’ve been struggling with a bug. I thought I was over it.’

  ‘Jesus, that was some turn, Donal. I thought for a second you’d recognised Conlon.’
<
br />   ‘Christ no! Who’d forget a mug like that?’

  ‘So, as I was saying, he targets vulnerable women and girls who wouldn’t be taken seriously by the police or missed by anyone else. He realises he can do what he wants to them, that they have nowhere to turn. I have several examples here, all vulnerable young women.

  ‘I’ve met most of them. They couldn’t wait to tell me about his sexual kinks: cutting them and drinking their blood; inserting foreign items into them, particularly anally; coming in their hair then cutting it off and keeping it as a memento. They were so fucked up that they saw this as his way of expressing his love for them, for fuck’s sake.’

  The pints arrived, giving Frank time to work out where to take me from here.

  He swallowed a third of his in one gulp, wiped his mouth and moved on. ‘Conlon has always drifted between Ireland and England, usually going via Northern Ireland. Like I said, there’s no register of convicted sex offenders and he doesn’t have to check in anywhere. A group of us are working together trying to keep track of his movements, so that we can warn local police. I’ve got people in the ferry, airline and hire car companies looking out for him too. He travels under two false names, Lesley Cahill and Thomas Koschei, believe it or not, after some mythical Slavic child killer.

  ‘We worked out late last year that he was somewhere in the London area. When I read about the murder of Gillespie, I thought I’d better call him in. As soon as I asked you about batteries and hair, and you went quiet, I knew it was him. But at least now I know every cop in London is looking for him. That’s some comfort. I’ve done all I can.’

  I glanced up too quickly, giving myself away.

  ‘You have flagged him. Donal?’

  ‘I … not yet. I didn’t know anything about you, Frank.’

  ‘Jesus, I sent you his fingerprint and his picture. You’ve obviously matched that print to something. What are you waiting for?’

  ‘It’s a terrible picture.’

  ‘I could’ve got you a better one.’

  ‘I had to be sure about the source, Frank. I’ll call it in now, as soon as we’re done here,’ I said, a little defensively.

  ‘Jesus, I hope for your sake he hasn’t struck again since yesterday.’

  I ignored the shudder and pressed on. I needed to get on that phone, and quickly.

  ‘Why does he keep getting away with stuff in the Irish Midlands?’

  He helped himself to the next third of his pint.

  ‘Back in the 1960s, my uncle worked as a detective on the football corruption scandal in England, you know, when they uncovered players betting against their own teams and throwing games. I always remember one thing he told me. “No single player can throw a game. If three outfield players are in on it, they can ensure that their team loses. But if these three players can rope in the goalkeeper, then the sky’s the limit, they can basically deliver an exact losing result.”’

  He turned to me, eyebrows raised, mouth clamped shut as if to say “there, you have it”.

  ‘I’ve got to level with you, Frank, I’ve never been a great one for soccer, or riddles.’

  He shifted uneasily in his seat. I guessed whatever he was about to say he’d never uttered out loud before.

  ‘Conlon has three very big players on his side in these parts, helping him escape prosecution, a senior detective, a circuit judge and a local government minister. I’m not going to name names, because I don’t need to. You could probably figure out who I’m referring to in five minutes, if you still have even half an ear to the ground here.’

  ‘And why do these three powerful men choose to help a sexual deviant escape prosecution?’

  ‘The answer is in your question. Think parties attended by vulnerable girls still in care, some of them not yet legal age, organised by Robert Conlon and his birds-of-a-feather friends. Conlon would rent a house somewhere out in the country. They’d all tell their wives and colleagues they were away visiting some relations. That was the in-joke.’

  ‘Jesus. That’s a hell of an allegation, Frank.’

  ‘It’s a hell of a scandal, Donal.’

  ‘And you have proof?’

  ‘Robert Conlon has proof, video and photos. He couldn’t wait to tell me all about it as soon I arrested him, show me what a big shot he is, what a big mistake I was making trying to take him down, how he’d ruin my career.’

  ‘You’ve seen the material?’

  ‘I don’t need to see the material. I saw what happened to our case. He’s got them by the balls alright, and they’re not the only ones.’

  ‘You said if three players can rope in a goalkeeper, then the sky’s the limit. Who’s the goalkeeper in all this, Frank?’

  He chewed his bottom lip and shook his head. ‘I can’t say,’ he said.

  He stood, put the Conlon file back in his leather bag, snapped it shut and finished his pint.

  ‘Oh, come on Frank, it’s not like I can do anything with the information.’

  He downed the rest of his pint and planted the glass on the table. ‘Good luck with it all, Donal,’ he said, offering his right hand. ‘I hope you succeed where we failed and put that sick fuck behind bars.’

  I took it and shook, felt the slip of paper in his palm, turned my hand knuckle-down to ensure it transferred into mine. After he was out of sight, I got my stuff together, bid farewell to the barman and headed to the toilets. Once locked inside a cubicle, I opened my palm and inspected the piece of paper.

  I had to check the name scrawled across it several times before I let myself believe it.

  ‘Holy fucking shit,’ I gasped, ripping it up into as many pieces as I could, flushing it down the loo and getting out of there as quickly as possible.

  At least now I knew the real reason Da had come to London.

  Chapter 24

  Irish Midlands

  Thursday, April 08, 1993; 14.15

  As I bore left off the main Dublin–Galway road towards my home town of Clara, I began to wonder if springing a surprise visit on Mam now seemed such a good idea.

  Her chronic insomnia and haymaker medication made her skittish at the best of times. She’d be sick with worry about Da. I didn’t want my sudden appearance pushing her over the edge …

  I pulled up at a phone box just outside Kilbeggan and dialled that number you never forget. When the answerphone kicked in, I imagined her pottering about in the garden. She’d hear it and come in, knowing I’d try again. I gave it five minutes and redialled. Same result. Maybe she was staying with one of her sister’s, as Fintan had predicted. But she rarely spent more than a night away from home; something’s not right.

  I ordered myself not to panic, got back in the hire car and set off along ‘bungalow boulevard’ towards home.

  What a morning! At least now I’d made both the Cold Case Unit and the Liz Little incident room aware of Robert Conlon. I’d even tracked down a shop in Maynooth with a fax machine and sent over several images.

  Frank’s outrage that I hadn’t flagged Conlon yesterday had given me The Fear. He’d been right, of course. By now, every street girl in London should have had Conlon’s mugshot waved under their noses. Instead, because of me, that process would only just be starting.

  ‘Jesus, I hope for your sake he hasn’t struck again since yesterday.’

  I reached our place surprised to find the gates shut, so I parked up on the road.

  As soon as I got out of the car, I noticed the blinds closed against the front windows. I scraped open the over-painted gate’s stiff handle and crunched up the gravel towards the front door. I peered through the eye-level circular pane of ornate glass and saw that all the doors leading off the hallway had been closed. She only did this when they went away. Where had she gone?

  I rang the doorbell anyway, then strode around to the back door to discover it also locked. I checked about me before making the ten-foot walk to the squat little gas cylinder box. I slid the lid back halfway and leaned in. They always kept a spare ke
y under the bottle. Tilting the orange metal cylinder to the left while leaning down with your right could be tricky enough sober. I smiled at all the times I’d struggled to drunkenly perform this exercise and wondered how close I’d come to blowing up the house. Except today there was no key.

  I slid the lid completely off and looked in. There it was, lying on the ground to the left of the bottle, dropped in a hurry. As I grabbed it, a sudden breeze rattled the shed doors and rustled the trees, prompting a murder of argumentative crows to dry-gargle the muggy, discontented air.

  Something definitely isn’t right.

  I unlocked the back door quietly and tiptoed in. I then reminded myself that this was my home and quit the creeping. In the kitchen, every surface gleamed, uncluttered and empty. Through to the sitting room, the cushions on the sofa sat alert and plump. The TV had been switched off properly, not left on standby. There wasn’t a used mug or half-read newspaper or misplaced remote control to be seen. Too perfect.

  The framed Sacred Heart’s 3D eyes caught mine. God, I hated that picture, the way His eyes followed you about. It was like being stalked by the fucking Bee Gees. The Omnipotent Gibb managed to look even more pitying today than usual. I suddenly sensed real eyes watching me and checked out the window. Maybe I just wasn’t used to the quiet any more.

  Spooked, I headed upstairs. The ‘show house’ charade continued as I opened door after door to manic cleanliness. At the end of the hallway, I came to that dark brown, arched, fortified oak door that neither Fintan nor I had ever crossed. Da’s study, where he and his bottle of Bushmills would so often barricade themselves. He’d never left it unlocked, even with him inside. As a child, I imagined the walls sporting racks of ArmaLite AR-18s, or ‘Widow makers’ as his charming Provo pals called them. By my teens, I fantasised a crack team of SAS fighters hoofing down this door, hauling him and his hatred off to the H-Block for an indeterminate spell.

  I felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to get through this door, to find out what lay inside Michael’s hidden world. I spent half my childhood guessing where he kept the key, and concluded that it must have always been ‘on him’, somehow. Now, with both parents out of the way, I had an altogether more radical idea.