by Jo Spain
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. I don’t think he and his wife have really ever got over it. I’m pretty sure he’s there out of guilt and I think she makes him stay to punish him. Everybody knows he still has little flings, though nothing as serious as what he had with Linda. So, there you have it. Emmet and Linda have inflicted so much heartache on one another that they can’t help themselves when they meet. But they need to put the past behind them. They’re two lovely people and circumstances conspired to ruin something that might have been very special. They need to be angry at that, not at each other.’
It all made sense to Tom now. The cutting jibes, the nasty remarks. What a tragedy. And at least Emmet had some redeeming part in the story. Tom had been really worried his friend had slipped irrevocably in his esteem.
‘You’ve a good heart, Louise,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think even you can fix this one.’
‘It’s worth a try.’
His wife snuggled into his chest and Tom inhaled the scents of her soft hair – coconut shampoo and hairspray.
‘There is something that bothers me about Linda’s story, though,’ Louise said.
‘Hmm?’
‘I’m not sure she told me everything.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just, I feel there’s something else to it. I don’t know what the catalyst was for her wanting to leave her husband. She’s Catholic to the brainwashed core and she had the family pressure – why not quietly maintain the affair? Why bring everything out in the open?’
‘She’s Linda, isn’t she? She doesn’t do things without theatrics. And maybe Geoff isn’t the saint you think he is.’
‘Hmm.’ His wife sounded unconvinced.
Tom’s eyelids were growing heavy. Louise would have to solve her Linda riddle herself, if there was anything more to it. He was drifting off to sleep when a little part of his brain started to niggle. Somebody had said something during dinner that had jogged his memory about the case. Or was it that someone had done something? What was it?
He was still wracking his brains long after Louise had started gently snoring.
He had missed some clue to do with Ryan Finnegan’s murder. But he couldn’t for the life of him work out what it was.
Chapter 21
Thursday
‘What do we have?’ Tom addressed his team, then took a gulp of water to wash down the headache tablets.
A dinner party in the middle of an investigation. What had his wife been thinking? What had his boss and colleagues been thinking?
The team was already gathered in the incident room when the inspector arrived. To a man and woman they seemed full of the joys and especially eager this morning. The racket as several detectives clamoured to speak at once nearly sent him over the edge.
‘One at a time, for the love of God! Laura.’
‘We’ve had a development. We did a background check on one of the Dáil bar patrons on Friday night – Damien Reid. Wait until you hear this: it turns out he worked for Udforske. Not in Ireland, but when he lived in Denmark, ten years ago. He worked as a safety officer on board one of their offshore drill stations. He was quite sketchy about his background in his interview. He was asked how long he’d been operating his own company and he wouldn’t give an exact date.’
‘Who interviewed him?’ Tom asked. ‘It seems a bit above and beyond, going ten years back because he was vague about his work history.’
‘Eoin Coyle,’ Laura said. ‘He just had a suspicion there was something off about the guy.’
‘Coyle – ace lover by night, super sleuth by day,’ Michael quipped, winking at Laura.
She blushed furiously.
‘Udforske is a multinational company with thousands of employees,’ Ray interrupted quickly. ‘We probably all know somebody who has worked for them. And didn’t the TDs vouch that all their guests stayed in the bar?’
Laura barely looked at him as she replied.
‘On your first point, yes, Udforske has thousands of employees, but not all of them were awarded merit plaques for bravery from Madsen himself. Damien Reid was one of a small team who helped to prevent a fire taking hold on the Ulysses oil rig off the coast of Denmark in 1998. He helped save hundreds of lives and the company gave him a special award. Madsen and the CEO presented the plaques themselves and brought the safety crew out for a special thank-you dinner.’
Tom frowned.
‘This guy was in the bar? Madsen never said anything. I knew there was something he wasn’t telling us when we interviewed him . . . I got the feeling he hadn’t been entirely alone that night.’
‘Reid was with a delegation from Galway,’ Laura said. ‘They were making a presentation about marine entrepreneurships at the invite of their local Reform Party TD, Jarlath O’Keefe. He brought them to the bar afterwards. The TD is already wavering on his story. Bridget spoke to one of the barmen who told her O’Keefe was drunk as a skunk on Friday night. She questioned the man himself this morning and he admitted he hadn’t been keeping tabs on everybody as closely as he’d originally claimed.
‘And here’s the thing.’ Laura paused. ‘Damien Reid has a gun licence.’
Tom felt a shiver of excitement. Could this be the development they were waiting for?
‘Well, let’s talk to Reid. He sounds like an unlikely assassin, but that’s too big a coincidence to ignore. Okay. Next. Ray?’
‘You’re not going to like this bit as much. Grace Brady lied. And our lads checking the CCTV footage cocked up. Don’t worry, I’ve already had words. Grace did leave the complex at 8 on Friday. But she returned at 8.55 p.m. One of the uniforms checking the footage noted her departure. A different guard spotted her re-entering – but, and here’s the clanger – he assumed the first guy had caught it. It was only when a third officer went over the information that had been compiled that we spotted Grace had left and gone back in, contrary to her statement.’
‘Ah, for crying out loud! That is taking the biscuit. How did none of the ushers at the entrance spot her coming back in?’
‘Shift change.’
‘Typical. There’s always something. Right. I want to take this Reid fellow. I have a bad feeling about Madsen and want to follow up. Laura, go back and scare the bejaysus out of Grace Brady. What time did she actually leave the complex?’
‘10 p.m.’
Tom groaned. What a nest of liars they’d stumbled upon.
‘Jesus. Arrest her for lying during an investigation or something. And if she has no alibi, bang her in a cell. Is she capable of having done this?’
Laura shrugged. ‘As capable as a government minister or a vice-president of a multinational company.’
‘God, let it be Damien Reid, the paid assassin. I want to get out of this rabbit hole. Next. Michael?’
‘I was following up on Ryan’s car crash. The investigation team at the time had no luck finding the other driver and vehicle, even though the accident report suggested the second car would have been quite banged up. A witness said she saw a dark blue saloon speeding down the side street that intersected the junction where Ryan’s car was stopped at lights. It’s a residential street and she noticed the car because the area is used as a bit of a rat run. Local homeowners – she is one – want the council to install speed ramps to stop cars racing down the road.’
‘How could the driver have known Ryan would be sitting at the lights at that junction?’
‘We have a theory. The lights are at a crossing between a school and a church. Apparently, they’re very pedestrian friendly – they give road crossers plenty of time. There are a number of streets off that main road and they interlink. If someone had been following Ryan and was familiar with the area, they just had to see him stop at the red light, turn up one side street and come down the other. He’d have been still sitting there. Ryan told the investigating officer that this was his usual route to work and that he always left home at 6.30 a.m., before the traffic got too busy. If
somebody was determined to kill him and make it look like an accident, they only had to follow him for a few mornings until they got lucky.’
Tom massaged his temples. The headache tablets were kicking in. He could feel the pain receding.
‘It seems a reckless way to attempt murder, especially if you want to get away with it. Wouldn’t the killer be at risk of injuring himself or being identified?’
Michael shrugged.
‘That’s less likely to happen if you’re controlling the impact of the collision and I suppose they could have claimed it was an accident, their brakes went or something like that. Or maybe our murderer is suicidal.’
There were a couple of titters around the room until Tom barked for order.
‘We really are having a morning of breakthroughs. It certainly looks like Ryan could have been previously targeted. Ian, get whatever CCTV footage you can dig up from around the scene of the accident. Have somebody help you – actually, get the two officers who made a balls-up of the Leinster House tapes. They’ll be bursting to prove themselves now. The original investigating team probably sought out footage from where the other driver fled the scene but check along Ryan’s entire route for that day and in the days preceding. If he was being followed and we’re really lucky, we might catch a licence plate. Anything else?’
‘We saved the best until last,’ Ray said. ‘I checked out the care home that Darragh McNally had his mother in. It’s a five-star set-up, privately run, attended by top clinicians. It has beauty therapists, a masseuse, etc., etc. It’s only lacking its own Michelin-star chef. Have a guess at the cost.’
‘No idea. A grand a month?’
‘Two thousand euro per week.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Tom was astonished.
Ray shook his head.
‘Top end of the market, like you said. That’s what they charge. His mother was in that nursing home for four years. She did run a farm, but it was leased and she gave it up fifteen years ago. She had a little cottage, which McNally sold for €150,000 when she went into the home – boom-time prices. The cost of his mother’s care over the last four years ran in excess of €400,000. Up to the election, his salary was sixty thousand annually. We’ve applied for a warrant for his bank records.’
‘Good work. While we’re waiting for the warrant, let’s question him again and put what we’ve discovered to him. McNally might just be in a place where he’ll admit to taking bribes from somebody like Carl Madsen, which would put him in the frame to want Ryan Finnegan out of the way.’
Tom assigned the follow-up work and watched as his team members, all except Ray, left to pursue their tasks. That was an excellent morning’s work, by any standards. Maybe he could take up full-time drinking and hangovers after all.
‘This Reid fella who worked for Udforske?’ Tom asked.
‘He’s in Dublin for the week,’ his deputy responded.
‘Good. Get him in. We’ll leave Darragh McNally until later. I’m in a terrible mood and you’ve all performed too well today to take it out on you. Mr Reid can bear the brunt. I’m bringing in Linda McCarn for this interview. She’s really growing on me.’
Ray raised a surprised eyebrow, but knew enough to make no remarks.
There was always logic to his boss’s decisions.
Usually, anyway.
*
Damien Reid looked an unlikely hitman. Bespectacled and with a neat beard, he was dressed in chinos and a corduroy jacket. The inspector would have tagged him as a college professor, educated and affable. Indeed, after a short time in his company, Tom found himself rather liking the man.
It was the similarities in interests that did it. Reid had arrived for the interview with a paper bag from the inspector’s favourite cigar shop off Grafton Street and explained that he was stocking up before he returned to Galway. They spent a few minutes talking about the brands they both liked, Reid impressing Tom with his extensive knowledge of tobacco.
After a few minutes of this enjoyable small talk, Linda passed the inspector a note.
‘I hate to interrupt the bromance but can you wrap up so we can start the interview? I thought I was your new friend. You’re making me jealous.’
The inspector smiled.
‘Sorry, my colleague is just reminding me we need to speed things up. I know you will have been over much of this with my officers at the weekend, Mr Reid, so bear with me if the questions seem repetitive.’
‘Not a problem. It’s sort of thrilling to be involved in such a sensational case. I hope that doesn’t make me sound insensitive.’
‘That’s a fairly normal reaction. Remind me, what were you and your group doing in Leinster House?’
‘We were there to make a presentation to a couple of TDs on our business. We harvest seaweed and convert it to high-grade fertiliser. We’ve started to export and there’s demand for our product. We want to franchise the business throughout the island. Try to create environmentally friendly jobs.’
‘Sounds fascinating. It’s a change in career for you, am I right?’
‘Of a sort.’ Reid smiled. ‘I guess you’ve done your background checks on everyone. I started life in science and technology and specialised in energy resources. Seaweed is actually a biomass; it can be used as a sustainable fuel. Not our forte, though, yet. We are also looking at branching out into the specialist food market.’
Linda cleared her throat, indicating she wanted to speak. Tom motioned her to proceed.
‘The sector of the energy game you were involved with before wasn’t as sustainable, Mr Reid.’
‘Ain’t that the truth. Oil and gas are dying entities – thankfully, for the planet’s sake. I knew that then and it’s even truer now. My job was always in the safety end of things, ensuring that drilling was at acceptable environmental levels, that the technological equipment in use was the best industry standard and up to date, that sort of thing.’
‘Thank heavens we have men like you.’
Reid blushed at Linda’s remark, taking it at face value. He was unfamiliar with the psychologist’s own brand of sarcasm.
Tom took up the questioning again.
‘So, can you tell us about your time working for Udforske?’
‘It’s so long ago now,’ Reid said. ‘But what do you want to know?’
‘You received a merit award for what you did on the Ulysses, didn’t you?’
The other man bowed his head, embarrassed.
‘Yes. Making sure I didn’t die and saving a few other people as a by-product. How gallant of me. I don’t like to brag about it.’
‘Most heroes are accidental, but finding courage in that moment of crisis is what sets them apart,’ Tom said. ‘We noticed Carl Madsen himself presented you with your award.’
‘He did, along with the president of the company. One of those rare occasions when the boss men paid a visit to us lowly employees.’
‘They brought you out for a celebration dinner also, didn’t they?’ Linda commented.
‘The president hosted the dinner. Madsen didn’t go. He’s notoriously strict about keeping work and pleasure separate. He’ll only entertain you if there’s something in it for him. An evening with employees doesn’t fit that world view. A good propaganda photo does.’
‘So, you only met Madsen that once, for a short period?’ Tom asked.
‘Yes.’
The inspector frowned.
‘And you didn’t notice him in the Dáil bar on Friday night?’
‘The bar? Are you kidding? Madsen wouldn’t be caught dead in a public bar. What would he even be doing in Leinster House?’
The other man’s expression was inscrutable. There was no telltale tic, no sheen of sweat or flicker of the eyes.
And yet Tom knew the man had just lied.
‘He was there,’ Linda remarked, her tone implying she’d made the same assumption. ‘Was the bar crowded?’
‘Yes. And we were all more than a little inebriated. It had been a good prese
ntation and we were toasting the future.’
‘Did you leave the bar at any point?’ the inspector continued.
‘I went to the gents.’
‘Tell me,’ the inspector said. ‘You know your stuff about natural resources. What do you think of this legislation that Minister Aidan Blake is introducing, the Bill that increases licence fees for exploration companies and royalties from their drilling? Do you know Minister Blake at all?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t and I don’t know much about the Bill. I gave up my interest in oil and gas when I stopped working for Udforske.’
Again, Tom struggled to believe the man. He could feel Linda bristling beside him. How could Reid not have an opinion on a Bill so relevant to his field of expertise?
‘When did you leave Udforske?’
‘2001.’
‘Was it a happy parting?’
The other man hesitated.
‘To be honest, at that stage I’d become quite disillusioned with the industry and wanted to start my own business. But I didn’t resign in a fit of pique or anything like that.’
Tom leaned forward, hands clasped.
‘You have a firearms licence for a pistol, Mr Reid. What type of handgun do you own? And can you tell me why you applied for the licence?’
‘It’s nothing sinister, Inspector. I’m a member at a target shooting range. I own a Ruger Mark .22. In case you’re wondering, it’s in a safe in my gun club this week. I don’t like leaving it in the house when I’m away for any period of time.’
‘Is that the only weapon you own?’
‘Yes.’
Tom held the other man’s gaze, but Reid didn’t even blink.
Ryan had been shot with a Glock. But it was interesting that the other man was a target-shooting enthusiast.
‘I think that’s everything for now, Mr Reid. Unless you’ve anything to add?’
Reid shook his head.
‘Not that I can think of, Inspector. I plan to return to Galway tomorrow, but if I think of anything, I will let you know.’
‘Please do,’ Tom said.
After Reid had been escorted from the interview room, the inspector turned to Linda.