He checked the time. Six. He wondered if his Nigerian contact kept late hours and rang the number again. This time it rang unanswered, not even an answer-machine where he could leave a message. He hung up.
Home, he decided. ‘Come on, Pete,’ he said when he was out it the main office, ‘they don’t need your help, do you lads?’
Four heads shook on demand, as he knew they would. They’d much prefer if he and Andrews left, they’d relax turn the radio up loud and laugh and joke through the boring job they’d been tasked with. ‘How far have you got,’ he asked, directing his question towards Baxter.
‘Almost finished contacting the hotels and have already had responses from some. In the negative, I’m afraid,’ he said.
‘We’ve a long way to go before we cover all the B&Bs,’ Jarvis said with a yawn.
‘We also sent an email to a few hostels,’ Allen piped up, ‘funds may be tight.’
‘And every Garda station has a copy. If he’s visible, we’ll get him.’ Andrews added, standing and pulling on his jacket. He knew, as well as West, that they’d prefer to be left alone to get on with it. He wasn’t going to argue.
They left together.
26
The rain had been falling heavily all day and as a result the traffic was heavier than usual, and West’s journey home slow and frustrating. Enda Careless’ face kept coming into his head. There was an emptiness in the man’s eyes that worried him. He hadn’t killed Fearon, but he’d been instrumental in leading him to his death and had stood by while another killed him. Contrary to what Careless believed, a charge of accessory to murder would hold. He exhaled loudly. It would be easier if they caught the man who wielded the knife. It had to have been Omotoso. They needed to find him.
Of course, he may have already left the country. His visa was valid for a month but there was no reason for him to stay. He could have caught a ferry to the UK and then another ferry or even the train to France. By now he could be anywhere and extradition would be impossible. After all, he had experience in staying beneath the radar.
He pulled up outside his house and raced through the pelting rain to the front door. In the hallway, he took off his jacket and shook it before throwing it over the newel.
The house was quiet. ‘Hello,’ he called up the stairs before picking up his post from the hall table and heading into the kitchen. He sniffed the air appreciatively. Something smelt good. Peering into the eyelevel cooker, he tried to make out what it was. Something in a casserole. He was hungry, whatever it was, it would be good.
Then he noticed the bottle of champagne sitting on the dining table, beads of moisture indicating it hadn’t been out of the fridge long.
‘What are we celebrating,’ he asked, turning as he heard footsteps in the hall.
Kelly almost bounced into the room, her face beaming. She put the laptop she was holding down on the countertop and pointed to the screen. ‘This,’ she said, ‘look.’
It was her novel. A Family Affair. Live on Amazon.
‘Wow,’ he said, impressed, ‘it looks really good. The cover is very eye-catching.’ He grabbed her in a bear hug and kissed her. ‘Well done,’ he said, kissing her again.
She couldn’t stop grinning. ‘It’s so great to see it there, Mike. I know there’s a lot of hard work ahead on the marketing side of it, but at least it’s out there and people can read it.’
Shutting the laptop, she handed him the champagne and took two glasses from the cupboard. ‘Let’s drink to our success,’ she said. ‘I’ll be a best-selling author and you’ll be the best bad-guy catcher.’
The pop of the cork made them both smile. West filled both glasses and they lifted and drank to Kelly’s toast.
Bad-guy catcher. Enda Careless, Utibe Omotoso and Ollie Fearon. All bad guys? Or were there degrees of badness? It was the kind of philosophical question that Andrews would enjoy over a pint. He’d keep it for him.
Kelly was talking about marketing strategies, he nodded encouragingly without really knowing what she was talking about but he guessed, by the fervour in her voice, that situation was likely to change.
They finished the champagne before the casserole was ready. ‘It’s Beef Bourguignon,’ Kelly said, taking the dish from the oven, ‘there’s a bottle of red in the cupboard, will you open it, please?’
He busied himself with rinsing the champagne glasses, taking out red wine glasses and opening the wine. They didn’t speak, each lost in what they were doing until he sat at the table and looked across at her as she dished up the meal.
He loved her, his life immeasurably better when she was around. The ordeal with the photographs appeared, strangely, to have brought them closer as if together they could get through anything. And, thankfully, there was no more talk of her moving back to her Blackrock apartment.
‘I’ve listed the apartment with a rental agent,’ she said, as she placed the plate in front of him, surprised when he started to laugh. ‘What?’
‘I was just thinking you hadn’t mentioned the apartment in a while,’ he said, waiting until she sat down before picking up his fork and starting to eat. ‘Very good,’ he said, swallowing the first mouthful and tucking in to the rest with gusto.
‘It seemed a shame to leave it empty,’ she said. ‘It was tempting to sell it, but they don’t come up for sale very often so I thought it would be a good long-term investment.’ She watched as his fork stayed motionless for a minute and smiled across the table. ‘No, Mike,’ she said, ‘I’m not keeping it as a bolt-hole in case things go wrong. I love you, we’re good together.’
He nodded and continued his meal. It had crossed his mind that was the reason but only briefly. They were good together. He picked up his wine glass, ‘To us,’ he said.
‘To us,’ she replied, picking up hers.
Next morning, Kelly was still asleep when West came up to say goodbye. He’d taken to dressing in the spare bedroom so as not to disturb her when he got up. But he couldn’t leave the house without speaking to her.
She rolled over and smiled when he left. Things were good. Despite those damn photographs. Throwing back the covers, she stood and went to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, but still shoeless, she headed downstairs for breakfast. Since the photographs, she viewed every postal delivery with a feeling of dread. West had insisted in waiting until it had come for a few mornings, but at her urging he’d resumed leaving at his usual time.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she’d assured him. It was getting easier, but the slight feeling of panic when she saw the post lying on the hallway floor hadn’t gone.
She scooped the few letters up, took them with her while she put the kettle on and slipped two slices of bread into the toaster. It wasn’t until she sat down with her toast and coffee that she sorted through it, dividing it quickly into those addressed to West and those to her.
Two were for her. The first was from the estate agent she’d contacted about renting the apartment. A quick glance through the letter and an even briefer glance at the included contract had her putting it aside with a sigh. It was definitely something to go through after several cups of coffee.
The second letter made her take a deep breath. She should have left it, called the gardai, or at least called Mike, but instead, she picked it up. Using both hands, she flexed it. Firm. Photographs again? But this time addressed to her, not Mike. Holding her breath, she slipped a finger under the edge of the flap, eased the envelope open and emptied the contents onto the table.
Four photographs landed face up, fanning out to tell their tale in full colour. Kelly felt nausea hit her. She raced to the kitchen sink and retched, bringing up the small amount of coffee she’d drunk. Still leaning over the sink, she turned on the tap to rinse it away, scooping some of the water with her hand to rinse her mouth, spitting into the sink, holding her hair out of the way with one hand, feeling her heart pound.
She’d have liked to sit down, but was afraid to let go so she stood for a few minut
es, taking deep breaths and waiting for the pounding to stop. It was several minutes before she was able to move across the room and look at the photographs. They were good. She was no expert, but they didn’t look like composites this time.
Ignoring the subject of the photographs as well as she could, she concentrated on the surrounding details. Within seconds, her eyes narrowed and with a grim smile, she reached for the phone.
27
As soon as West arrived in the station that morning he rang the Nigerian office and asked to speak to Ginikanwa Obayomi. This time he was in luck and was put through straight away. Keeping it brief, he filled him in on the progress of their case. ‘So we’re looking for Utibe Omotoso now,’ he said, ‘he gave the name of a hotel on his tourist visa application but he’s not staying there.’
‘So how can I be of assistance?’ Obayomi asked.
‘Would you be able to find out if he has relatives here, someone he may be staying with?’ The sound that came down the line was definitely non-committal so he rushed on with the other matter. ‘I’ve no idea what Omotoso did in Nigeria, or whether he has been involved in any criminal activity. Could you check and see if his fingerprints are on file anywhere?’
‘I can have a look, of course,’ he said, his voice not relaying any enthusiasm. ‘I’ll ring you if I find anything helpful.’
Thanking him, West hung up. He’d not hear from him, he guessed, giving an irritated grunt just as Andrews appeared in the doorway.
‘Bad night or is it already a bad day?’
‘Our Nigerian friend isn’t feeling too helpful this morning,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘Did the lads have any luck with the search?’
Andrews shook his head and perched on the side of the desk. ‘Not so far anyway, but they haven’t heard back from everybody yet. I did hear from the Kilkenny gardai. I sent them a copy of Enda Careless’ and Omotoso’s photograph and asked them to do a line up of both for that young lad, Buzz. No luck.’
West shrugged. ‘There was never much hope there, was there?’
Andrews stood and stretched. ‘Coffee?’ he asked.
‘No, thanks,’ West said, ‘I’m going to get this blasted audit out of the way before Morrison decides to come looking for it.’
Two hours later, he breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the last piece of data before saving and closing the programme. Then with perfect timing, the phone rang. To his surprise, it was the Nigerian.
‘I have some news for you,’ he said without any preliminaries. ‘Utibe Omotoso has a cousin who lives in Dublin, in a place called Rathmines. Would you like the address?’
A bit of luck at last. ‘That would be good,’ he said, trying not to indicate just how helpful this piece of information was.
‘It is number twenty-five, Saddler’s Court, and the cousin’s name is Dayo Lawal. He has lived there for a number of years and is married to an Irish woman. I have no name for her.’
‘That’s great,’ West said, writing the name and address down. ‘Thank you for your assistance. I will be sure to inform you how the case is resolved.’ Hanging up, he quickly used Google maps to check the address. ‘Just off the Lower Rathmines road,’ he muttered before standing and going out to the main office.
Allen, he noticed, was still working on the list of B & Bs. ‘I think you can call a halt to that,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘It turns out Omotoso has a cousin living in Rathmines. I’m hoping we’ll find him staying there.’
Andrews, who had been busy refilling the coffee post, heard the end of what he’d said. ‘You’ve found him?’
West explained that his Nigerian contact had come through. ‘With a bit of luck, he is either staying there or they know where he is.’ He looked around the room. ‘Where are the others?’ he asked.
‘Baxter and Edwards were called to an assault and Jarvis is helping Foley with a robbery since Clarke is taking personal time,’ Allen said.
‘Again,’ West growled at him. ‘Who told Jarvis to assist?’
Allen blinked, his mouth hanging slightly open.
‘I did,’ Andrews said quickly, ‘you were buried in your audit; I didn’t want to disturb you.’
West knew he was lying but shook his head. There was no point in complaining, he’d have agreed if he’d been asked. Sometimes he wondered if he weren’t just a little too easy-going. Pushing the idea away, he looked at Allen. ‘Well, you may as well come with us,’ he said, ‘we may need someone young and fit if this Omotoso tries to do a runner.’
Allen laughed at Andrews’ look of outrage and the three made their way to West’s car, Andrews muttering under his breath about easily being able to run a marathon if necessary. West inputted the address into the car’s satnav and thirty minutes later they turned onto Ardee Road.
The road was a mix of older semi-detached houses and newer town houses. Half way down they found Saddler’s Court. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a gated cul-de-sac of town houses. They couldn’t drive up but West was relieved to see an open pedestrian gate.
‘We’ll park where we can and walk to it,’ he said, looking ahead to find a space.
‘It’s resident’s permit parking only,’ Andrews told him, pointing to a prominent sign with a knowing grin. ‘We could go and park in the Swan Centre, if you like.’
West had no intention of parking in the nearby shopping centre. He was just about to say so when Allen, stretching forwards from the back seat, said, ‘Not up there,’ he said, pointing ahead. ‘That’s a Pay and Display sign.’
Breathing a sigh of relief, West drove on and found a space.
‘Luckily it’s not raining,’ Allen said getting out and looking around as West paid the parking fee and placed the ticket on the windscreen. ‘I don’t know Rathmines at all. It looks like it might be a nice place to live.’
‘Not on a garda salary,’ Andrews said. ‘These would be expensive.’
The car locked, they walked back to the gates of Saddler’s Court.
‘I bet they are hammered with maintenance fees,’ Andrews said, eyeing the gate with its keycard control. ‘These cost a fortune to maintain.’
The town houses that comprised Saddler’s Court were large and modern. Very nice, West thought looking around before spying directional signs pointing them to number twenty-five, toward the back of the development. They walked and stopped outside the house.
Hanging baskets rocked gently in the breeze on either side of the uPVC door. They squeaked with every sway, providing background music as the three detectives stood with narrowed eyes assessing entrance and egress; a quick risk assessment none were actually aware of doing.
West took the lead up to the front door, the other two keeping a few steps back, their eyes constantly moving, their stance on high alert.
He pressed the doorbell once, and waited. The swaying baskets caught his eye. They’d probably been a riot of colour in the summer, now they bore straggly ends of dead plants. A passing thought that winter pansies would look good in them was swept away as he heard the distinct sound of approaching footsteps.
The door was opened without hesitation, a pleasant faced woman holding the door open with one hand and holding onto a mischievous looking child of indeterminate sex with the other. ‘Yes?’ she said.
West held up his identification card. ‘My name is Detective Sergeant West,’ he said, watching as her pleasant open face quickly shut down. He indicated the two men behind him. ‘Garda Andrews and Garda Allen.’
‘What do you want?’ She bent, scooped the toddler up and held him close.
‘May we come inside, please, Mrs...Lawel, is it?’
She nodded, stood her ground for a moment as if to make a point and then, with a grunt of dissatisfaction, stood back to allow them in. The hallway was too small to accommodate three tall men comfortably so she reluctantly indicated an open doorway. ‘Go on in,’ she said and followed them into the sunny kitchen-diner that stretched across the back of the house.
&
nbsp; She put the child down who immediately scampered toward the men grabbing hold of one leg after the next, beaming up at them, unafraid.
‘He’s a cute lad,’ Allen said, watching as a sticky hand left an imprint on his trouser leg.
‘Her name is Halima,’ the woman said, taking the child by the hand and walking her over to a small sofa in front of a television. She switched it on and put on a DVD. ‘She’ll be happy for a while,’ she said. ‘Now, what is it you want?’
She didn’t waste her time on polite chitchat. That made their job easier. ‘We’re looking for Utibe Omotoso,’ West said, ‘we’ve been told he is a cousin of your husband.’
‘A very distant cousin, as it happens,’ she said grudgingly, ‘and what of it? Utibe is here legally on a tourist visa.’
‘We’d like to speak to him,’ he said without elaborating.
‘Why?’
West smiled. She didn’t look to be a stupid woman. She’d know that if three detectives arrived looking for Omotoso, there was likely to be a good reason.
‘For goodness sake,’ she said, when the silence stretched out. ‘Utibe has been through enough. He’s lost the daughter he adored. All he wants to do is find out who killed her. That’s not a crime surely?’ The look on West’s face made her catch her breath and reach out to the back of a chair for support. ‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘what’s happened?’
‘May we sit down,’ West said.
All the fight seemed to have left the woman. She nodded and sat in the chair she’d been holding, body slumped, eyes looking down at clasped hands.
West sighed. Breaking bad news never got easier. ‘We believe that someone contacted Omotoso and told him that Abasiama’s body had been found. The man we think was responsible for her death was found dead a few days ago.’ She didn’t move. ‘Two days after Omotoso arrived in Ireland, Mrs Lawel.’
She ran a hand over her face and sat up. ‘Dayo didn’t have much to do with his relatives in Nigeria. He knew Utibe by name and that was all, so he was surprised to hear from him.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t remember exactly when, maybe a couple of weeks ago. Anyway,’ she went on, ‘he asked if he could stay for a day or two. Dayo asked me and I agreed. Our child is half-Nigerian, I thought it was important to keep up connections.
Death in Foxrock (A Garda West Crime novel Book 4) Page 22