by Jo Spain
In the inspector’s memory, Leinster House had never been subject to a terrorist threat and Ireland wasn’t exactly top of the list of target countries in current world crises. There was a first for everything, though.
Willie brought the car past the main door and parked across from a small gate in a curved wall that ran along the side of the building. A stranger stood ready to greet them. The dark-haired man had a military bearing not unlike Willie’s and was dressed in a distinguished naval-type uniform. He was well-built, bulkier than the inspector’s sinewy driver. The Chief of Security, Tom assumed.
Leinster House had its own security staff, responsible for the safe operation of the complex. The Chief of Security was assisted by the Head Usher and the Captain of the Guard in managing both internal security and the general running of the House. They, in turn, were supplemented by a full-time cadre of gardaí and armed members of the defence forces.
The man stepped forward and offered the inspector a firm handshake, his countenance grim. He seemed like somebody who was rarely rattled, but tonight was proving the exception to the rule.
‘Shane Morrison, Inspector, Chief of Security. Your Superintendent asked me to escort you. He’s with your colleagues at the scene.’
The man’s voice was deep and gravelly. It suited his authoritative air.
‘Thank you,’ Tom replied. ‘Should I use your official title?’
‘Mister is fine.’
‘Good. Did the incident occur in the main building, Mr Morrison?’
The other man shook his head. ‘Not quite. None of us are sure what he was doing where we found him. Shall we?’
So, the victim was male.
Morrison was eager to move their little group inside, away from any long-lensed prying eyes.
He led Tom and Ray through the gate and up a set of stone stairs. At the top, they found themselves outside a modern building, part of the complex not visible from the front or back vistas of Leinster House.
‘This is LH2000,’ Morrison said, slipping into what sounded like tour-guide mode. ‘It was opened, as you may have guessed, in the year 2000, to provide extra office accommodation for elected members and their staff. There are six floors and a basement containing rooms for committee meetings.’
The chief of security rapped on the glass door. An usher swiftly appeared to unlock it.
Morrison nodded at the man and maintained the fast pace as they made their way to a descending set of stairs beyond the building’s reception desk. He continued to narrate LH2000’s history and describe its layout as they walked.
‘These stairs lead down to the coffee dock, but also to an underground tunnel that connects this building to Leinster House proper. There are several rooms along the tunnel, but its main function is to provide speedy access for members, the Teachtaí Dála, to the chamber when debates or votes are called. The tunnel is where we found him.’
‘Were there people in this building when the body was discovered?’ Tom asked.
Morrison hesitated.
‘No. But you should know something. Normally, the military police are based in an office off the tunnel. They moved into temporary alternative accommodation last week. We are in the process of enhancing our security provisions and repairing some essential infrastructure. Their base is in a part of the building that is being upgraded with new technological systems and water and heating facilities. It was decided the work could proceed quicker if the offices were empty.’
The inspector swallowed. There was eating and drinking in this for the media.
‘Who found the body?’ Ray asked, as they arrived at the foot of the stairs.
‘One of our ushers. The door we just came through was locked at 9 p.m. this evening and the floors upstairs had been checked beforehand to ensure they were all empty. Jim, the usher, had left his bag behind the reception desk and came over from the main House to retrieve it. He used the underground passage and that’s when he found the body. This was at 10.45 p.m.’
A bellow brought their conversation to an abrupt close.
‘Tom! Thanks for coming in.’
Chief Superintendent McGuinness loomed large over the people gathered around him. The small group parted like water as he made his way over to shake the inspector’s hand vigorously with his vice-like grip.
‘I write with that hand,’ Tom winced, as usual unprepared for the sheer strength of the man. McGuinness ignored him. He was nearing retirement, but the Kerry native hadn’t lost any of his imposing physicality. Tom was barely shy of six foot himself and still McGuinness had three inches on him.
McGuinness regularly used his height and booming deep voice to his advantage. Those who didn’t like the man often remarked that he’d be more at home with his arm stuck up the backside of a calfing cow than running one of the most important garda divisions in the State. It was a serious underestimation. Tom and the chief went back a long time and were good friends. The inspector knew the other side of his boss, the sharp-witted aesthete who enjoyed fine wine and concertos, a man who read the Guardian daily and could quote the Bible and many other tomes, chapter and verse.
McGuinness could run rings around anybody who had him pegged as a loud-mouthed, thick culchie.
‘I wasn’t aware I’d a choice whether to come or not,’ Tom snapped irritably.
‘Hmm, sorry about that. I don’t need to tell you how serious this is, though. The assistant commissioner was just on the phone. This is going to explode when news gets out. The Taoiseach is climbing the walls.’
‘I get it,’ the inspector sighed. A murder investigation was challenging and wearisome enough without all the bells and whistles this one would come with.
‘Good. Right, to start you off, I want you to meet Darragh McNally. He’s the chair of the Reform Party. Speak to him while we’re waiting for forensics to finish sweeping the scene.’
Wonderful. The Reform Party was the governing party. Tom hadn’t even seen the body yet and already politics were a feature of the investigation.
McGuinness stood aside to introduce the man he’d beckoned over. The diminutive man had the look of someone who rarely slept – sunken eyes underlaid with deep bags. His colouring, naturally pasty excepting an unfortunately placed birthmark on his right cheek, made his face appear particularly gaunt in the low lighting. His brown hair was receding rapidly and greying at the roots – most likely further evidence of the stress that accompanied his job.
‘Inspector Reynolds, I’m glad you’re here. Your reputation precedes you.’
McNally was hoarse, his body language jittery.
Tom shook his hand, noting the clammy palm.
‘Do you know the victim, Mr McNally?’
The other man nodded.
‘Yes. I can’t tell you how shocked I am. He’s only back in work. He was in a car crash six months ago and nearly died. He’s literally just back a few days. I’m struggling to get my head around this.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Ryan Finnegan.’
Tom stared at McNally, waiting for more. It took the other man a moment to realise the name meant nothing to the inspector.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’m working here so long, sometimes I forget there’s a world outside. Ryan Finnegan is the political advisor to Aidan Blake. He is – was – one of the most senior advisors to the government.’
Blake. That was a name Tom knew. The Minister for State Resources and Energy Efficiency was the man of the moment – the most popular government figure and one of the youngest members of the cabinet. He had been elected in the Reform Party’s landslide victory earlier in the year when the former governing party had been dumped out of office, a consequence of their mismanagement of the economy and the arrival of the Troika. Blake, handsome, confident, assured and energetic, was tipped to be a contender for the party leadership. Even Louise, who generally greeted political coverage on the news with a long sigh, had mentioned during the election that she found Blake fascinating – his wi
fe’s code for I fancy him.
‘You can see our dilemma, Inspector,’ McNally said. ‘A man of Finnegan’s standing, murdered here, of all places. This is sensational.’
Tom noted the use of the word ‘dilemma’. Surely it would be more apt to describe this as an unqualified disaster? And ‘sensational’ – it was a word a PR handler would use.
He weighed up his reply. He wanted to say the victim’s standing meant nothing to him, nor the location of his murder, but he was conscious that McGuinness was eyeballing him. Putting McNally in his place would cause more of a headache than the fleeting satisfaction it would bring.
‘I need to take a look at the body,’ he said, instead. ‘I’ll want to speak to you again in the morning. Does the victim have immediate family?’
‘Yes. His wife, Kathryn. They’ve a small baby.’
Tom felt the familiar knot in his stomach. Before the night was out, he’d have to break the heart of a young mother and wife.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, making his way over to the plastic police tape tied at either side of the doors to the tunnel Morrison had mentioned. Beyond it, several officers, suited and booted in their white gear, laboured to secure the scene and gather evidence.
Amongst them, Tom could see one of his detectives, Laura Brennan.
She joined the inspector and Ray at the tape, removing her hood and letting long chestnut curls spill out. At twenty-nine, she was the squad’s youngest member and one of Tom’s most diligent and intelligent officers. To compensate for her age, Laura wore smart, tailored suits and a studied look of concentration. She was so classy that she somehow managed to make even the white forensics getup look sharp.
‘It’s definitely murder then?’ Tom asked, already knowing the answer.
Laura nodded. ‘Without a doubt. The forensics team isn’t finished yet, but Emmet is letting us in with protective clothing.’
Tom was relieved to know that Emmet McDonagh had personally taken charge of the scene. The head of the Garda Technical Bureau, the unit that dealt with crime scene forensics, McDonagh was thorough and, more importantly, had a good relationship with Tom. Luckily for the inspector and his team, because Emmet was an egotistical, smart-arsed git who acted the maggot with everybody else.
Tom and Ray stepped into the outfits provided and dipped under the tape.
A few metres ahead, the inspector could see the top of a stone sculpture sitting in an alcove. Even at this distance, he could see the splashes of blood on the cream ceiling above, the frenzied spray incongruous in the functional space.
As they approached, the forensic scientists – one of them the artificially dark-haired, extremely broad McDonagh – stood up and away from the body so the two detectives could see the victim.
Ray cursed and looked away. He’d never become inured to gore, no matter how often he was faced with it.
The inspector would later learn that the greenish-hued sculpture carved in a sitting position was called ‘Fame’ and had originally sat at the front of Leinster House, beneath a larger statue of Queen Victoria. The lady herself had been lent to Australia for its centenary celebrations in 1988.
The large angel-type figure held a trumpet of some sort across its lap in outstretched arms.
It also held the limp body of Ryan Finnegan.
Finnegan’s one remaining eye was wide open, its glassy surface caught in a petrified moment. Where his other eye should have been was a bloody cavity. His mouth was contorted in agony.
‘Hellish, eh, Tom?’ Emmet McDonagh said to the inspector. ‘Give me a good old-fashioned strangling any day of the week. The pathologist is going to move him shortly before rigor mortis sets in. Otherwise, it might be a tad difficult to get him off that sculpture. He has nothing on him, no ID, no phone, but I gather the people who work here know him.’
‘What happened, Emmet?’ Tom asked, slightly dazed.
The other man threw out his arms as he spoke, his mop of brown hair bouncing unnaturally (the inspector was starting to wonder if it wasn’t so much a dye-job as a wig-job), glasses slipping lower on his nose the more animated he became. Ten years older than Tom, Emmet was still renowned for having an eye for the ladies, hence the vanity. None of it, sadly, was for his wife.
‘Call me poetic, but it looks to me like the victim was fleeing something and fell into the arms of one of God’s angels. What he was running from, I don’t know, but it may have something to do with this. We found it between the body and the statue. Not sure if it has anything to do with him, but it seems like an odd thing to be lying about.’
He produced a plastic evidence bag and held it up for Tom to examine.
The background noise of the various police officers, security personnel and medical and science professionals died away as the inspector examined the image.
It depicted two young men performing a sexual act. It wasn’t the intimacy of the act that disturbed Tom. It was the knowing eyes one of the men was casting over his shoulder at the photographer. Experienced, old eyes, that screamed ‘sex for sale’ and carried the haunted look of someone who had witnessed too much. Only the back of the other man’s head was visible.
Tom looked back to the victim, cradled in the arms of that which symbolised purity and innocence.
Ryan Finnegan was wearing a light blue striped shirt and black trousers. Office wear. Professional dress in a professional setting, which made the blood-spattered crime scene all the more disturbing.
The inspector turned to Ray.
‘We’re in the basement of Leinster House,’ he declared, incredulous.
‘I know,’ Ray replied, having found the courage to look back at the body. ‘I had to see it before I could believe it. The shit has well and truly hit the fan.’
*
Kathryn Finnegan wasn’t sure if the baby was crying in her dreams or was actually awake and yelling in her ear.
It took her a few more moments to come to properly. She was so exhausted, she felt almost hungover. Her head ached with tiredness and her limbs felt like she had the flu.
The young mother raised herself from the pillow and looked down at Beth. The baby was headbutting her breast, trying to get at the milk through Kathryn’s vest top.
‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered, drowsily. ‘How can you be hungry again? This isn’t on. You’re six months old and feeding like a newborn.’
She pulled herself up into a sitting position, plumping the pillows to get comfortable. She’d feed her daughter this time, but – and Kathryn promised herself she meant it – if Beth woke again tonight Ryan would have to give her a bottle. She needed a break. Beth must be going through a growth surge as well as teething. The only thing that seemed to bring the child any comfort was being fed and walked.
She cradled the baby and adjusted her clothing to let the infant latch on. As she did this, Kathryn looked across at the empty side of the bed where her husband normally lay.
Her brain was only now starting to fully engage.
Where was Ryan? It was Friday night – wasn’t it? Or was it Thursday? No. It was definitely Friday. What time was it, anyway?
Kathryn reached across to her phone with her free hand and tapped the screen. One a.m.
She felt her heart beat a little faster. There were no missed calls on the phone. If Ryan was working late, he’d have rung or texted, surely? He knew how much she worried, ever since the car accident – and also that she was dead on her feet, with Beth being so cranky and wakeful lately.
Why hadn’t he sent her a message?
A feeling of unease began to creep into her stomach, but she held it at bay.
It was probably nothing. He’d got caught up in something or maybe he’d gone out for a drink to end his first week back at work. He’d forgotten to ring her or his phone was dead. She’d read him the riot act but there was no need to get herself worked up. The chances of him having been in another accident were surely minuscule.
With no hands free, Kathryn had to blow away the hair t
hat had fallen onto her face and was tickling her cheek. Despite all the advice from her friends and her hairdresser, she’d made the rash decision when she was pregnant to cut her hair short. Now it was bob-length. Long enough to be annoying, too short to tie back. Ryan had told her she’d still be beautiful even if she shaved it all off; right now Kathryn was feeling sorely tempted.
She dialled his number and listened as it rang out, willing him to pick up.
‘Ryan,’ she snapped when it went to voicemail, but quietly, because of the baby. ‘Where the hell are you? Ring me as soon as you get this.’
She flung the phone angrily onto the bed covers and stared at it, hoping to see the screen light up with her husband’s picture as he returned the call.
Beth pulled off the breast and looked up at her mother, sensing something wasn’t right.
Kathryn looked down at the baby.
‘Where’s your silly daddy, eh? Mammy’s going to kill him when she sees him.’
Chapter 4
Tom knelt beside Ryan Finnegan for a short time before the body was moved from its awkward position, half on, half off the lap of the sculpture. He studied the deceased man, trying not to dwell on the crater where his right eye had once been.
Who could have done this? Who hated the man enough to shoot him in the face? The state pathologist had indicated already that the victim had been shot twice – the other bullet most likely to the back. The inspector surmised that Ryan might have been running from his attacker when the first shot was fired. Perhaps he had turned to see his killer before sustaining the fatal wound. Emmet’s team was already suggesting that the murder weapon had been fitted with a silencer. Otherwise, the reverberations of the gunshots would have echoed throughout the tunnel and beyond, possibly drawing attention.
Had Ryan’s killer known the military police weren’t in their usual accommodation? Had they been there, would the murderer have dared to strike, even with a silencer, within spitting distance of the security services?
Finnegan was youngish, his skin relatively unlined. Nearing forty, maybe. He had a pale, sun-starved ring around his remaining eye, indicating he probably wore spectacles often. Where were they now? Or had he recently taken to wearing contacts?