Death in Foxrock (A Garda West Crime novel Book 4)

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘When he arrived it was obvious there was something wrong. He was gaunt, his eyes red and he barely spoke until Halima came running in.’ She looked across the room to where Halima was watching a children’s movie, a smile on her face, her eyes glued to the screen. ‘He cried when he saw her, frightened her actually, it took a while to calm her down. When she was asleep, he told us about the death of Abasiama. He told us how much he’d loved her, how close they’d been, how they’d done everything together and how one day she vanished.’

  ‘Why didn’t he contact the child’s mother?’ West asked. ‘He must have known that she was trying to get custody of Abasiama and that it was likely she’d taken her.’

  ‘He tried,’ she said, ‘he rang her number but it was disconnected. He sent letters that came back unopened and when he rang her old job in Nigeria, he was told she’d left. They wouldn’t give him her new address, or even a contact number. In France, he did what he could.’ She shrugged. ‘But he’s not a rich man; there was only so much he could do. After a while, he said he’d started to accept he’d never see his daughter again. Then he had a call from someone here in Ireland to tell him that both Lesere and Abasiama were dead.’

  Her eyes were tear-filled when she looked around. ‘I don’t know if you have children, but I know how I’d feel if someone took Halima, and then to find out she was dead. I don’t think life would be worth living.’

  There was no arguing with this point. Those of the three who were childless, looked across at the giggling child on the sofa, and Andrews thought of his son, Petey. But they still had a job to do.

  ‘Where can we find him?’ West asked her.

  She sighed. ‘He had a phone call earlier this morning and then he said he had to go out.’

  West bit back the groan of frustration. So damn close. ‘Did he say who he was speaking to?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, but it was someone local.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I heard him say he’d be there in about twenty minutes.’

  West frowned. ‘Did he know many people here?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, ‘but he didn’t stay here every night so he must know some.’

  Andrews leaned forward. ‘The night of the twenty-first of November, did he stay here then?’

  Mrs Lawel stood and walked to a wall calendar pinned on the back of the kitchen door. ‘He was very considerate, he told me the nights he would be away so that I wouldn’t have to cook for him. I’ve marked them on here,’ she said with a smile before looking at it. She turned back to them. ‘No, that was one of the nights he was staying elsewhere.’

  The three man exchanged glances. The night in question was the night of Fearon’s murder. At least now, when they found him, he couldn’t claim the Lawel’s as his alibi.

  There was nothing else to be learned from her. West stood and handed her his card. ‘When he returns, tell him to contact me, Mrs Lawel.’

  She took it, but said nothing.

  Outside, they stood for a moment.

  ‘What now?’ Allen said impatiently.

  ‘Let’s go back to the station,’ West said. They fell into step, but nothing was said until they were in the car. He started the engine and then sat, his brow furrowed.

  Andrews look at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Just thinking of what she said. How much Omotoso had loved his daughter, his devastation at her disappearance. He probably felt justified in taking the life of the man responsible.’

  ‘Probably,’ Andrews agreed.

  West turned to him. ‘But Fearon wasn’t the only man responsible, was he?’ He started the engine and pulled out onto the road. He pulled out his mobile and tossed it to Andrews. ‘Ring Careless, his number is there under C.’

  ‘There’s no answer,’ Andrews said, the phone pressed to his ear, ‘you think he might be in danger?’

  ‘If it hadn’t been for Lesere and Careless’ attempts to get custody of the girl, she’d still be alive. Lesere is already dead, that leaves the solicitor. You could argue he’s as much to blame for her death as Ollie Fearon.’

  They pulled up outside Careless’ apartment fifteen minutes later and got out. West pushed the doorbell, pushing it again when there was no answer. After a few seconds, he pushed every doorbell and finally got an irate answer through the intercom.

  ‘It’s the gardai,’ he said without preamble, holding his identification up to the camera, ‘can you let us in please?’

  The door buzzed almost immediately and the three men sped up the stairs. On the landing they stopped, eyes drawn to the open door of Careless’ apartment. West nodded at the other two and they drew their guns.

  West pushed the door fully open and waited. ‘Armed gardai,’ West shouted loud and clear. And then again, ‘Armed gardai.’

  When there was no sound, he moved in, Sig held in both hands pointing toward the floor. He moved to one side as Andrews moved to the other, Allen following close behind. They stayed there for a moment, their backs to the wall as they surveyed the open-plan apartment. Only Careless was there, slouched on the sofa and he wasn’t moving.

  From where they stood, they could see where arterial spray had peppered a wide area around him. West, with Andrews covering him, darted across the room. It was useless. Careless’ upper torso was sodden with blood, his eyes wide and staring. West carefully felt for a jugular pulse. There was none.

  They searched the rest of the apartment, room by room, checking any possible hiding place, covering one another, grunting as each door opened.

  ‘We just missed him,’ Andrews said when they’d cleared the last room.

  Back in the living room, they holstered their guns. West looked down at Careless with a sudden feeling of helplessness, then, with a shake of his head, he turned to Allen. ‘Phone for an ambulance, and get a...’

  A groan made him stop and turn around, his hand grasping the holstered Sig. It wasn’t until the sound came again that they pinpointed the direction. It was coming from the balcony, the door to it hidden behind full-length curtains.

  Pushing them back, they saw the man they were looking for propped against the balcony wall, his face waxy. He held a knife in one hand, the blade pressed to his wrist, blood dripping from the wound to the balcony floor.

  His Sig drawn, West slid back the door. ‘Utibe Omotoso,’ he said, stepping outside. It was bitterly cold but the sky was blue and winter sun shone through the trees in the park. Looking down on him, seeing the shallow breathing and the waxy sheen of his skin, he knew the man had chosen this place to die.

  Squatting down, he said, ‘You are Utibe Omotoso?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ West asked. Holstering his gun, he shuffled closer and saw that the blood was oozing, not spurting from the self-inflicted wound. There was still hope.

  Turning, he shouted through the open door behind him. ‘Get an ambulance.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Omotoso said.

  West looked back to him. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said again.

  It seemed, for a second that he would ignore him, but then, in a barely audible voice he said, ‘Lesere was never interested in Abasiama. It was I who rose during the night to feed her, who changed her when she was wet, washed her when she was dirty. My friends laughed at me, told me I was turning into a woman. I told them they didn’t understand. She was the light in my life. That’s why I wanted to move to Cape Town. There she had a better chance. But Lesere wouldn’t move, her career was too important, so I went without her.’

  ‘But she wanted her back?’

  Omotoso smiled. ‘Lesere was beautiful but she only cared for herself and what people thought of her, she’d no real interest in Abasiama. But she would have enjoyed the role of the grief-stricken mother. It would have gained her a lot of sympathy and attention.’

  In the distance, the sound of a siren grew louder.

  ‘Careless contacted you?’

 
‘He told me Abasiama had been found, tossed away like garbage. Then he told me about Lesere.’ He lifted the knife for a moment and looked at it as if wondering why he was holding it before looking back at West. ‘I don’t know why she killed herself,’ he said, ‘but I doubt it was because of Abasiama.’

  The siren grew louder, it would soon be outside.

  ‘Did you kill Oliver Fearon,’ West asked.

  The Nigerian looked puzzled for a moment and then his face cleared. ‘The man who carried my daughter over in the suitcase, yes, I killed him.’ He held the knife up. ‘I had a very sharp knife, it went in easily. This one,’ he waved it gently, ‘is not so good.’

  ‘And Enda Careless,’ West asked, hearing the ambulance siren switch off as it arrived outside the apartment block.

  ‘It was his money that allowed that man to take my daughter. But for him, we would still be in France. Abasiama would still be alive.’ With a quick movement, he brought the knife back to his wrist and sliced across, the blood spurt immediate and dramatic. ‘Stay back,’ he said, as he saw West move. ‘You would do me no favours if you succeeded in saving me, and justice is better served in letting me die.’

  West drew a ragged breath before sitting back and watching as the spurt quickly reduced to a gurgle. Omotoso gave him a faint smile and his lips moved. From where he crouched, West could hear Abasiama, whispered like a prayer.

  Raised voices in the apartment alerted him to the arrival of the ambulance crew. He threw a last assessing glance over the man. There was no sign of life. Paramedics pushed him aside with no ceremony, their attention on saving the man, his story unknown to them. Within seconds, as West watched from the doorway, monitors were attached, his wrist bound, and intravenous fluids pumped in to save a man who didn’t want saving.

  He turned away from the indignity of the scene and stepped back into the apartment. Andrews saw his pale face and caught his upper arm in a tight, reassuring and brief grip. ‘A scene of crime team and the pathologist are on their way,’ he said, releasing him and nodding toward the balcony. ‘We’re giving them a two for one offer are we?’

  West shook his head at the man’s grim sense of humour. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. He turned to watch the crew through the glass door. ‘I hope so,’ he murmured, as Andrews moved away to join Allen who was standing over Careless body, examining it dispassionately.

  ‘He’s almost decapitated him,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’m damn glad he didn’t,’ Andrews said, bluntly. He’d seen a decapitation once, he wasn’t sure he could face another.

  One of the ambulance crew came in from the balcony. ‘It’s brass monkeys out there,’ he said, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them.

  ‘Well,’ West asked.

  He shook his head. ‘If we’d been a few minutes earlier, he might have had a chance.’ The other paramedic came in, and without another word they gathered their equipment and left.

  Andrews and Allen went out to put a face on the man they had been looking for, returning seconds later, both faces sombre.

  ‘It doesn’t get easier,’ Allen said. ‘But at least he’s with his daughter now.’

  ‘They’re all together,’ Andrews commented. ‘Lesere and Careless. Abasiama and Omotoso.’

  Remembering what the man had told him about Lesere, West frowned. The truth or a different version of the truth. They’d never know.

  The pathologist arrived shortly afterward raising his eyebrows when he was informed of the second death. ‘Enda Careless and...?’

  ‘Utibe Omotoso, a Nigerian. He was the father of the child we found in the suitcase,’ West explained, and pointed to the photographs of Abasiama and Lesere. ‘Careless was married to her mother.’

  Niall Kennedy picked up the photograph of each, his face unusually grave. ‘You’ll have to give me the details when you have time,’ he said, replacing the photographs and turning to look at the body of Careless. He shook his head. ‘The landlord isn’t going to be happy, is he?’

  West frowned. ‘Landlord? I was under the impression he owned it.’

  ‘No, it’s a rental,’ Kennedy said with an authority that didn’t invite doubt. He saw the puzzled look on West’s face. ‘I thought you knew his story.’

  ‘So did I. We were told he sold his house in Cork, and bought this when he moved to Dublin.’

  ‘That’s partially correct,’ Kennedy said. ‘He sold his house all right, but he’d taken out a huge mortgage to fund the search for the child. Private detectives, it seems, don’t come cheap. When Lesere came to Dublin, which she did frequently, she stayed in the Shelbourne Hotel and spent her time shopping. The staff in Brown Thomas knew her well.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ West asked.

  The pathologist grinned. ‘The missus, Fern, she works as a legal secretary in the Law Courts, didn’t you know?’

  West shook his head.

  He nodded toward the dead man. ‘When they married first, he brought Lesere to a few official functions in Dublin. She made quite an impression, Fern said.’ He glanced around before leaning closer and dropping his voice. ‘The gossip goes that she wasn’t always alone when she stayed in the Shelbourne, Mike.’

  West ran a hand over his face. ‘To Careless she was a distraught mother who couldn’t live without her child, to Omotoso, a manipulative woman who only cared for herself, now you’re giving me a third version of her.’

  Kennedy shrugged. ‘Does it matter? She’s dead.’

  West opened his mouth to explain. Only the first of the three versions gelled with her suicide. Maybe Careless learned about her dalliances in Dublin. Maybe he’d realised he was being taken for a fool. He closed his mouth without saying a word. The pathologist was right. It didn’t matter. All concerned were dead.

  They waited until he’d finished and until the scene of crime team arrived and then with a nod to them, and a final look at the dead bodies, they left.

  Outside, it was still bitterly cold but when West suggested they walk around the park, Allen and Andrews nodded agreement. An icy breeze buffeted them as they walked along a path and up the hill to where the view over the city was lovely, even in the winter light.

  For a moment, they stood and stared and then, without saying a word, they turned and walked back to the car.

  28

  Kelly was in a different part of the city, outside a different apartment block. Her first instinct to ring West had been brief and she’d hung up before he answered. This was something she could handle herself.

  He’d mentioned where the apartment was and if she had to ring every apartment in each of the four blocks, she’d find the right one. As it turned out, it wasn’t that difficult in the end. She knew it had views over both the river and the Park, and it was a penthouse. So she was quickly down to four.

  A sleepy, annoyed voice responded after several rings on the doorbell of the second apartment she tried. ‘Who the hell is that?’

  Kelly breathed a sigh of relief. ‘It’s Kelly Johnson,’ she said. She didn’t have to say anything more. The front door buzzed seconds later and she pushed through into the foyer and headed up the stairs to the top floor.

  Fiona Wilson, a thin robe covering her obviously naked form, stood in the doorway of her apartment waiting for her. Her eyes swept over Kelly dismissively and then, with a shrug, she stood back and gestured for her to come in.

  Passing her without a glance, Kelly strode across the open plan room and headed to the small dining area. She pulled out a chair and sat, her handbag on the table in front of her.

  With a shrug, Fiona took a chair on the other side of the table, her eyes sharp and assessing. ‘It’s a long way from Clare Island,’ she said, as if there had been nothing between them since that meeting.

  Both women knew better.

  Kelly looked at the petite, attractive woman opposite and shook her head. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  Fiona laughed. ‘Shouldn’t that be my question?’

  Kelly�
�s smile was forced. ‘I think we both know why I’m here.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll enlighten me then?’

  ‘I’ve heard about predatory females like you,’ she said, her eyes running over Fiona as if over an unattractive specimen in a laboratory. ‘Women who are only interested in men who belong to other women...’

  ‘Belong?’ Fiona interrupted with a sneer.

  ‘For want of a better word,’ Kelly continued. ‘Your kind aren’t interested in a relationship, the thrill is in the conquest. The more difficult it is, the greater the buzz you get.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Fiona said, standing and walking to the kitchen where she busied herself putting on the kettle. ‘Tea,’ she asked, as though this was a perfectly normal social meeting.

  Kelly shook her head. She waited until she came back with a mug of tea in her hand and resumed her seat before placing the photograph she’d brought with her on the table.

  It was a photograph of West in the act of taking off his shirt, his torso lean and smooth, the angle flattering.

  ‘Women like you,’ Kelly said in a steely voice, ‘don’t understand the nature of honest, decent relationships. You probably though he’d not mention being encouraged to take off his wet shirt so you could throw it into the tumble dryer. But he told me all about it.

  ‘He’s too decent a man to have been suspicious of your motives. But women like you have motives for everything you do, nothing is inspired by philanthropy.’

  ‘Women like me,’ Fiona snarled. ‘What about women like you?’ She smiled at Kelly’s look of surprise. ‘Oh yes, I know all about you, Miss Poor Little Victim. He deserves a more worthy, equal match than a spineless woman like you.’

  Kelly laughed. It was a laugh so unexpectedly full of humour that Fiona, who expected to see her opponent reduced to tears, was taken aback.