by Casey Hill
Or taunting her.
The cop flicked the lights on and right away the atmosphere changed. Trying to regain her composure, Reilly headed straight for the bedroom, her companion a respectful couple of paces behind her. She reached inside and, finding the light switch, flicked it on.
In the harsh light the scene looked almost as gruesome as it had when she first saw it. The bodies had gone but the blood splatter on the wall, now dark and dry, looked even more horrific. And the smell – that distinctive scent of blood, brains and death – still hung in the air, a brutal assault on Reilly’s sensitive nose.
She stood still for a moment, taking it all in, trying to picture the scene – not as she had before with just Clare and the man, but this time with someone else – perhaps a third party there in the room, and the uneasy knot in her stomach returned.
Concentrate, she told herself.
Putting aside her fears, Reilly took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to let her senses take over, trying to imagine it afresh – this time with someone else in the room.
First the killer shoots Clare in the chest, while the boy does what – just lies there, quiescent? She struggled to figure out how he had restrained them. Then, as Clare lay dying, gasping out her last few breaths with a hole in her chest, he turns the gun on the boy and splatters his brains across the wall.
Reilly gradually shook those thoughts from her mind and approached the bedside table – the reason she had come back.
Kneeling down, she carefully scanned the books lined up neatly on the table. She bent closer to examine the pile and still couldn’t believe she’d missed it first time round. But now that she was aware, it was screaming at her.
Out of all the books on the bedside table, it was the only one that wasn’t covered in blood splatter, which meant that it must have been put there after Clare and her boyfriend were killed.
Reilly’s heart pounded faster in her chest.
‘Find what you were looking for?’ the uniform asked. She started quickly; she’d forgotten he was there.
‘Sure did,’ she replied, trying to hide the tremor in her voice as she stared at the title along the spine.
There, by the side of the victim’s bed, and clean as a whistle, was a copy of The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund S. Freud.
A gruff voice answered the phone. ‘Kennedy here.’
Reilly cursed inwardly. She had been hoping to speak to Chris Delaney. She could only imagine what his cynical partner’s reaction would be.
‘It’s Reilly Steel from the crime lab,’ she said. ‘I think we’ve found something relevant to the Ryan case.’
‘Go on,’ he replied, cagily. As Reilly expected, he made little attempt to hide his suspicion of anything to do with the GFU.
‘Well, first of all, we’ve found material evidence common to yours and another more recent crime scene,’ she began.
‘OK …’
‘We just processed another case – an apparent suicide victim, Jim Redmond. Seemed fairly straightforward until we found a sample of paint and animal hair at the Redmond scene that matched samples we found at your Ryan scene.’
Kennedy was immediately sceptical. ‘What’s a suicide got to do with us? Maybe the common stuff has come from one of you lot – you walked it in or something.’
Reilly was ready for that. ‘I’m pretty certain that isn’t the case,’ she said. ‘I’ve spent the past few months drilling the problems with cross-contamination into my guys and I’d have to say their entry preparation is absolutely meticulous now. You’ve seen what we wear – nothing can get through those dust suits, and we change them after each crime scene.’
Kennedy remained resistant and Reilly figured the last thing he wanted was complications to his already baffling case. ‘Then one of our guys could have walked it in,’ he protested. ‘There was a bunch of uniforms at the Ryan place – it was like a bloody circus if you ask me.’
‘Considered that too,’ she countered. ‘I’ve already checked with the attending unit and nobody at the Ryan scene was common to this most recent one – the locations are at different parts of the city.’ She cleared her throat. If the paint sample had caused him to bridle, she knew that the Freud connection was sure to push him over the edge. ‘But there’s something else that links them …’
It was a moment before he responded. ‘Go on.’
‘Jim Redmond left a suicide note. I’ve just discovered it contains a Freud quote.’ When Kennedy didn’t answer, she went on. ‘Sigmund Freud, the father of modern psychology?’
‘Yeah, I went to college too,’ he growled. ‘What about him?’
‘Well, here’s the other coincidence – there was a copy of Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams on Clare Ryan’s bedside locker when she died.’
‘So? Nothing unusual about that – she was a psychology student.’
‘It had no blood splatter on it – so it had to have been added after Clare and the boy died.’
He grunted, unwilling to concede.
Reilly spoke quickly. She could tell she was losing him. ‘Don’t you think the fibers and the Freud connection are just too much of a coincidence? If there’s any chance these two cases could be connected, however remote, it means that someone else must be involved and—’
‘Look,’ Kennedy sighed, wearily. ‘I know that conspiracy theories are all the rage where you come from, but here things are usually more straightforward—’
Reilly was about to reply when on the other end she heard a shuffling noise, and a curse.
‘Reilly? Chris Delaney here,’ the other detective said, coming onto the line. ‘I’m sorry about that. My partner’s having a bit of a bad day. What have you got for us?’
She let out a deep, pent-up breath. ‘I was just explaining that we have some interesting new evidence on the Clare Ryan murder.’
‘What have you found?’
With a feeling of relief, Reilly went on to explain her most recent findings to the one person on the force, it seemed, who was prepared to listen.
6
Late that same evening, his head heavy and his joints groaning like a 100-year-old shipwreck, Chris drove home to his apartment.
He turned the key and stepped in the door, immediately feeling better. The small, two-bed place on the quays took a sizeable chunk out of his monthly salary but it was worth it just for the views down over the Grand Canal and was a welcome haven for his tired body, and his equally weary mind.
He dumped his keys and jacket in the hallway and headed for the living room. The view outside, city lights reflecting on dark water, instantly relaxed him. He stood still for several minutes, allowing the magic of the location to work its charm on him.
Although he was loath to admit it, the combination of recent events was beginning to take its toll. As well as the Ryan shooting, he and Kennedy were also working on the headless torso incident and both investigations were going nowhere. Despite Reilly Steel’s current belief that there was something unusual about the evidence in the Ryan case, it didn’t give them anything solid, or anything that helped move them forward.
‘I’m sorry, Reilly, I don’t see how this helps,’ he’d said when she’d phoned the incident room earlier.
‘Well, surely it tells you that there’s more to this thing than meets the eye,’ she argued. ‘Evidence common to two supposedly unrelated crime scenes – you guys should at least investigate the possibility of a third party.’
But he’d checked with the Ryans as to whether they or Clare had pets (they didn’t – she was asthmatic) and also if there was any link with the Redmonds. And as Kennedy pointed out, it was difficult to give the Freud thing too much in the way of serious consideration given that the girl had been a psychology student.
To top it all off, they still had no clue as to who Clare’s dead companion might be, and the lack of a solid lead was frustrating, disheartening and unbelievably bloody draining.
Hunger finally getting the better of hi
m, he headed to the kitchen to see what he could rustle up for dinner. He was no gourmet cook, but enjoyed experimenting when he got the time.
He opened the fridge and stared at the empty expanse of white – damnit, he’d been too busy this week to even make it to the supermarket. A half carton of milk and two overripe tomatoes did not sound like the ingredients for any meal Chris could think of.
He checked the freezer in the vain hope that there might be an old lasagne stashed in the back somewhere but no such luck. To hell with it, he’d just order in. There was a great Chinese place down the road that he reckoned he alone had been keeping in business for the past three years.
When he’d ordered his usual and was waiting for the obligatory thirty minutes delivery turnaround, he switched on the television and tried to put work out of his head, at least for the moment. Anything but the news; the media were still banging on about the lack of progress on the Ryan case, and it wasn’t as if Chris needed a reminder. A tedious game show was the best he could find, but at least it was something totally mindless, something to take his mind off it all.
But by not focusing on work, Chris couldn’t help thinking about his own situation. That spasm the other day at the station and the continuous throbbing in his joints meant that what had a few weeks ago been a barely noticeable ache, was now developing into something much more serious.
He ran through the options in his head, the things he knew of. It couldn’t be arthritis, could it? It might explain the aching joints, but would it explain the dead-on-his-feet tiredness?
Of course, the job was tough physically and getting tougher every year, but according to his most recent medical, he was lean, fit and in good overall health. His regular workouts kept him toned and relatively slim and, Chinese takeaways aside, he ate fairly well.
He exhaled deeply. Arthritis just didn’t bear thinking about – not at his age – not in a job like this.
With no home life to speak of, the job was his world. Indeed, it was the only thing in which Chris felt he really excelled. Out on the streets, striving to retain some semblance of justice in a country he loved was the only time he felt truly alive.
Even though these days he was finding it harder to be proud of his country with every violent death file that landed on his desk, any deterioration in his wellbeing, be it arthritis or otherwise, was not good. He ran a hand through his hair and sat back on the sofa, realizing that sooner or later he’d need to do something about it, or at least try to find out for sure what was wrong.
There was no question of his going to the in-house physician – no way. Anything suspicious or out of the ordinary would directly go into his file and be a question mark on his next physical. He might even be dumped into a dead-end desk job. No, he’d have to go an alternative route, go somewhere he wasn’t known, or more importantly, where his occupation wasn’t known.
He idly remembered reading an article in one of the lifestyle supplements of the Independent recently – a feature about a clinic on the Southside that did full-body medicals, like an MOT for people. They tested blood, diet, sight, hearing – the works. It might be worth a shot. At least if the clinic did discover something then he, and only he, would know about it. There would be no report or recommendations, no records sent to the force.
The phone rang, startling him out of his reverie and, checking the display, Chris raised a smile.
‘Matt, how are things?’ he said. Matt Sheridan was his oldest friend and it had been a while since the two had been in touch, what with Chris’s heavy workload, and Matt’s busy career as a barrister. In addition, he and his wife Emma now had a 6-month-old baby, and to his shame Chris realized he hadn’t seen his little goddaughter Rachel since the christening a few weeks before.
‘Just checking in to see if you’re still alive,’ Matt greeted. While Chris couldn’t help feeling guilty about his lack of contact, he also knew that this wasn’t his friend’s intention.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, mate, but it’d take a very strong wind to push me over.’
‘Don’t I know it. Anyway, good to see you’re home early for a change. Quiet news day?’
‘I wish,’ Chris groaned. ‘Anyway, never mind me, how’s Emma? And Rachel – she must be huge by now.’
‘Yep, huge, getting more like her mother by the day actually and … ouch, Em, that was a compliment!’ he gasped. Chris deduced that his wife had given him a sharp dig in the ribs for that last comment. Not that Emma Sheridan had anything to worry about in that regard. With her tiny waist, petite frame and wide-eyed gamine face, Matt’s wife was a million miles from huge.
‘Tell her I said hello and I’ll pop over to see you all soon,’ Chris told him.
‘That’s why I’m calling actually … wait, hold on, Emma wants to talk to you.’ Matt lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘Word of advice buddy, just before she says anything … if it were me I’d run a mile …’
Chris smiled, used to this kind of good-natured banter between the couple. Emma came on the line. ‘Hi stranger! Are you doing anything this Sunday? We’re having some people over for dinner, nothing major just one or two close friends and—’
‘Ah, not again,’ he groaned, reading between the lines. ‘I told you – I don’t have time for that kind of thing at the moment.’
‘Chris, “that kind of thing” as you call it, isn’t something you should have to make time for,’ she chided. ‘It’s called having fun, and Anne Marie, my friend, she’s lovely. Really career orientated like yourself. I know you’d have lots in common.’
‘Emma, when will you realize that I don’t need a matchmaker and I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself?’
‘Oh really, and when’s the last time you did that? It’s over two years since you and Melanie ….’ Chris could hear the discomfort in Emma’s tone at the mention of his ex and his mouth tightened. No need to remind him.
‘Honestly, Chris, you need to get out and enjoy yourself more,’ she continued quickly. ‘It’s great that you’re so dedicated to work, but one of these days you’re going to wake up and realize you’re an old man.’
‘Thanks, Emma, exactly what I need to hear after a hard day on the job.’
Little did she know that Chris was already feeling like an old man, and he wondered if he should confide in his friends about what was going on. He knew that Emma liked to mother him, particularly after losing both of his parents within a year of each other, but if he told them what was going on she’d be on his case night and day to do something about it. No he wouldn’t say anything just yet, but maybe if it got any worse.
‘You know what I mean. All work and no play. You need to relax more, take time out for yourself now and again.’
‘Well, even if I wanted to, Sunday’s no good for me anyway,’ he lied. ‘I’ve got something else on.’ Just then the doorbell rang and he smiled, grateful for the interruption. ‘Sorry, but I really have to go; my dinner’s here.’
‘More takeaways?’ Emma sounded horrified. Glad of the opportunity to avoid another lecture, Chris bade her a quick goodbye and promised to see them all soon.
He knew she was only trying to help, but he genuinely wasn’t interested in a relationship these days. Not that he’d have time for one anyway, and as for being a workaholic and a loner, at least he wasn’t a demon for the drink like a lot of guys in the force. In fact, alcohol was more of a social thing for him and as Emma had so delicately pointed out, he hadn’t done much of that in a while.
Which meant that hard living definitely wasn’t the cause of his current problems either, he thought, wincing as he stood up to answer the doorbell. Whatever was causing it, with any luck it would be something that could be dealt with quickly and easily, with no one any the wiser. A few pills, maybe a change in diet, something straightforward that wouldn’t distract from the job, or more importantly something he could handle by himself.
But whatever the thing was, Chris thought as he paid the delivery guy for his beef chow mein
, it needed to be sorted soon.
7
The narrow hallway was dimly lit, half blocked by a bicycle and a pushchair. Reilly squeezed past and stopped outside number twenty-three. She was reluctant to continue; she felt out of place in the dingy apartment block with her smart two-piece suit, her body language different from the confident persona she projected in her office and in the lab.
Slowly, she pushed on the door. It was unlocked and opened easily into the dark apartment. She stepped cautiously inside.
The hallway was short, just enough room for a small table, a couple of coat hooks and some worn old shoes. It led directly into a small living room.
She moved to the doorway of the living room, still stepping cautiously, taking everything in. She glanced around – the TV was on, the sound turned down low, and even though it was the middle of the day, the curtains were drawn, filling the room with shadows.
Reilly paused in the doorway and her nose picked up the reek of booze mixed with a pungent stench of stale food – leftover takeout, she guessed.
Finally, she stepped cautiously into the room. A body was on the couch, sprawled out on his back, one arm hanging free and touching the floor, mouth wide open.
Reilly walked around the couch and looked down at him. He was pasty with an unhealthy looking complexion, unshaven, his curly hair thinning.
She reached out and gently tugged at his arm. ‘Wake up. It’s me.’ She looked around, saw the empty whiskey bottle on the floor – no surprise there. ‘Dad, wake up.’ There was no conscious response. Mike Steel simply grunted, his head rolling helplessly on the grimy couch.