by Don Cameron
‘You think he knew something?’
O’Neill tapped his knuckles against his chin, thinking. ‘He must have known that she was on her own; otherwise he would never knock on the door. And that’s why he’s a dangerous man. No crazy here. This guy’s a planner.’
O’Connell made a face. ‘Jesus, Danny, I don’t like where you’re going.’
‘Nor do I, Gary. Now let’s see the victim.’
A dark halo of blood surrounded Barbara Ryan’s head and there were scratch marks on the back of her hands. She must have struggled, thought O’Neill, leaning down to get a closer look, and a cold dead eye stared though him. ‘What’s all the glass about?’
‘From a fruit bowl, sir,’ said a voice behind O’Neill.
Holmes stepped forward. ‘There were three big pieces of glass on the floor when I arrived. The forensics lads have taken them away.’
‘They need to give it a close look back in the lab,’ said O’Connell.
O’Neill stood up and turned to Holmes. ‘Tell me what happened, will you? And don’t leave anything out.’
O’Connell went outside as O’Neill looked around the smartly appointed room. A large flat-screen television sat in a corner opposite a leather sofa and matching armchair. A glass-fronted bookcase took up most of a wall and a painting of ballet dancers hung in the alcove by the fireplace.
‘The neighbour called it in after he found the body. He said Ryan knocked on his door and seemed to have lost his mind. He told him to wait there while he came over and checked the house.’
‘And this is what he saw?’
‘Yes, sir, a right mess.’ Holmes took a deep breath, settled himself, and continued. ‘The neighbour, Barry Hayes, then phoned 999, and that’s when I got the call.’
‘Thank God for good neighbours.’ In this age, when most people kept their distance, it was good to know that there were still some good guys out there.
O’Neill got down onto his hunkers for another close look at Barbara Ryan. Judging from her photograph on the mantelpiece, she was an attractive woman. Had been. What a waste. ‘Carry on, Holmes.’
‘He went back to his house and tried to comfort David Ryan who was still dumbstruck. They sat on the bonnet of his car and that’s where I met them. After me and Carter found the victim I phoned the station and the sergeant told me to tape the place off and wait for his call. I thought I should wait in here, especially as Carter wasn’t very keen.’
‘Fine, well done. And tell me about the broken glass – the bowl.’
Holmes swallowed before continuing. ‘I almost stepped on the biggest piece but Carter stopped me in the nick of time. It was lying about a foot away from her right shoulder. The other pieces were lying further away – one was between her knees and the other near her left ankle. I took photos of their position on my mobile phone. Do you want to see them?’
‘No, not now, but download them and send them to Paul Grant, our technical guy. That was good thinking to do that.’
‘Thank you, sir, I’ll transfer them as soon as I get back to the station.’
Gary O’Connell came back into the room. ‘Danny, I’ve someone here to see you.’
O’Neill stood up and felt both surprised and uncomfortable to see Shelly Tobin. He knew someone from the Coroner’s Office would show up, but he had hoped that it was not going to be her.
‘Hello, Danny, thought I’d see you here!’ she said, and set her metal case on the floor. ‘You get all the good ones!’
Holmes blushed and tried to hide his face in his hand.
Shelly Tobin knelt down, opened the steel case and took out a pair of rubber gloves that she expertly rolled on. She looked up at the three men. ‘Well, is one of you gentlemen going to tell me what happened? Or at least what you think happened? It might be helpful.’
O’Connell told her about his team’s findings and O’Neill told Holmes to tell his story. She listened intently and nodded here and there confirming what was an important point. ‘Okay, so you think that there was a scuffle of some sort, which started in the kitchen, continued through the adjoining door into this room where she was killed by a blow to the head. Most likely with the vase. Seems reasonable,’ she said, kneeling down closer to the victim.
She slipped her fingers under the blonde hair and felt for a pulse. There was none, and the body was stiff to the touch. Rigor mortis had set in – that would help in establishing a time for the murder. She’d know more when she got the body back to the lab, but that would have to wait.
As she moved her fingers along the victim’s shoulders, the blonde hair rippled in a macabre, bloodied response. The men were all straining to get a better look when her fingers stopped moving. ‘What have we here?’ she said, a trace of excitement clear in her voice.
She turned and looked at Holmes. ‘Nobody has touched the body since you found it, is that correct?’
‘No, ma’am, nobody. I’ve stood in here since I arrived.’
‘Good, I just wanted to be clear, absolutely clear on that.’ She slipped her fingers under the blonde hair again and pushed the hair back with her other hand.
The men were on their toes, but said nothing.
‘There’s your murder weapon,’ she said, fingers resting against a pencil. A yellow pencil.
‘A pencil,’ said O’Neill. ‘Are you serious?’
She gently pressed her fingers against the pencil, and pushed back hair so they could get a better look. It stuck out about three inches, so it was possible that the rest of its length, possibly another three to four inches, was buried in Barbara Ryan’s neck. Jesus, thought O’Neill, catching O’Connell’s eye.
‘I’ve never seen that before,’ said the head of the Forensics Unit, ‘a pencil in the neck!’
O’Neill winced when he realised the killer’s closeness to the victim. This was as intimate as a killing got, and he again thought about its planning and execution. Apart from the upturned vase in the kitchen there was nothing damaged or thrown about the house. It looked very controlled.
Shelly Tobin closed her case and stood up. ‘With all the blood around the head, I reckon that her carotid artery was severed. That means that if she wasn’t already dead, she would have bled out in less than two minutes. She was a goner as soon as that pencil was stuck into her neck. Very nasty.’
‘Time of death?’ asked O’Neill.
‘Too soon to tell, but certainly six to eight hours ago. I can’t be completely accurate until I do a post mortem.’
‘And when will that be?’ asked O’Neill, itching for her to leave.
‘The ambulance boys can bring her directly to Store Street and I’ll try and have it done tonight. I’ll ring ahead to make sure that there will be someone to assist me. Okay?’
‘Thank you,’ offered O’Neill, ‘that’ll be a great help.’
She picked up her case and headed for the door. The two men were looking at the yellow pencil as O’Neill followed her outside.
Shelly put her case into the car boot, opened the front door, got in, and started the engine. She rolled down her driver’s window when she heard O’Neill shouting to wait.
‘I’m sorry that I haven’t called, I really am,’ he said, the words thick and difficult to get out. He had been thinking about this moment for almost two months, about what to say, but now that she was here it didn’t make it any easier.
Shelly Tobin raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that the best you can do, Inspector?’ she said loudly as the onlookers giggled. A public, lover’s tiff between police officers, and a brutal murder – you couldn’t write that.
‘Shelly …’ he said, looking for some useful words but finding none.
She inched the car forward. ‘Call me when you’re ready, Danny, and not before. It’s been almost three months since we spoke and I don’t have that so
rt of time to wait around – for anyone.’ She pressed the accelerator and swept down the road, leaving Inspector Danny O’Neill stranded and embarrassed.
The onlookers looked away, doing their best to keep quiet. They were so caught up with the unfolding drama in front of them that nobody noticed a man on a motorbike, on the far side of the green, slip a small camera into his leather jacket, and head off down the road.
O’Neill went back to speak with Holmes. ‘Where’s the husband now?’ he asked.
‘He went to the hospital in our other car. Officers Dooley and O’Hara took him and the neighbour. It wasn’t pretty.’
‘Fine. Call them and find out how he is, will you? I’d like to have a word with him.’
Holmes took out his mobile and dialled.
While he waited, O’Neill took out a small notebook and made a few notes. First impressions were vital, something that his mentor Joe Dixon had always pointed out. He had solved cases that others couldn’t and O’Neill had learned much from him. They had developed a sort of big brother-little brother relationship and since then, O’Neill always felt that Dixon was looking over his shoulder. It was a reminder to do his best, a weight that sat easily.
‘Sir, they’re keeping him overnight, seems that he banged his head when he fell,’ said Holmes.
‘Okay, I’ll speak to him tomorrow,’ O’Neill said, looking around the quiet street and the green where the onlookers were leaving. ‘Call the station and arrange for the place to be secured with a guard overnight. The Forensics Unit will be here for some time yet and O’Connell will let you know when they’re finished.’
Holmes nodded, paying attention.
‘Okay, you know what to do, Holmes, and I’ll call the boss.’
O’Neill walked over to his car, leaned on the roof, and made the call. The killing had been so well carried out, in broad daylight, with such precision, that he felt there was more to come. The killer had walked away scot-free and O’Neill suspected that he would want to do it again, need to do it again, to get the rush. It was what drove them and O’Neill cursed his luck. He took off the plastic booties and gloves and tossed into the back seat.
A rumble of thunder made him look at the sky. Dark clouds rolled and tumbled, adding to his growing unease. A flash of lightning, almost overhead, lit the street and he grinned at the drama of it all. Shakespeare could not have written it any better, he thought, and eased his car away from the kerb into the gathering storm.
3
Doyle was reading The Irish Times when O’Neill knocked on the open door and entered.
‘Morning, Danny. Still running on the strand?’
‘Yes, sir, and on a day like today, it was a treat. It would be a sin not to be out there.’
Doyle grinned and looked closely at his detective. ‘Well, I must say that you are looking good. The clean living seems to be agreeing with you. Keep it up.’
O’Neill enjoyed the tang of the salty breeze as it drifted in through the open window that had a wonderful uninterrupted view of Dublin Bay. And that really was something. If Doyle could sell the view he would be a very rich man indeed. After all, location was everything.
Doyle folded the newspaper and dropped it on his desk. ‘I heard it on the radio on the way in. It was the third item on the news – the third item – what’s this city coming to?’ he shook his head. ‘Okay, tell me what we have.’
They discussed the initial findings and who was available to work on the case. ‘I’ll arrange a meeting for ten o’clock and allocate tasks. Must make a start,’ said O’Neill, closing his notebook. ‘Can you get some uniforms to carry out house-to-house interviews? We might get lucky,’ he added, but his voice lacked any real conviction.
Doyle listened carefully and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ll talk with the duty sergeant and arrange for the uniforms to attend the meeting. Anything else?’
‘No, nothing, but I’ll wait to see what the Forensics Unit and Coroner’s report have to say.’
‘Good … and how is Shelly?’ asked Doyle. He didn’t miss a trick. He made it his duty to know his detectives and what made them tick. They were his frontline troops, he needed them performing at their best. If they were not up to the job, he wanted to know why.
‘She’s good … I think.’
Doyle raised an eyebrow. ‘You think?’
O’Neill was uncomfortable. ‘We had a couple of dates, but I haven’t see her for a few months, and that’s about it really.’
Doyle took his time before replying. ‘It’s your business who you see, Danny, but I need you at your best. And with this case, from what you’ve told me, that’s exactly what’s needed. So, mind what you’re doing, that’s all.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Back at his desk O’Neill slipped off his Harris Tweed jacket and put it over his chair. He wasn’t a ‘suit-guy’ and preferred a good jacket. Wearing jackets meant that he was able to mix-and-match his shirts and ties, something that his wife Liz had liked him to do. ‘You’ve got more options,’ she used to say, straightening a silk tie, and he knew she was right. She was always right.
He checked his emails but there was nothing from Gary O’Connell or Shelly Tobin, so he phoned the Forensics Unit. ‘Hi, Gary, any news for me?’
‘You must be a mind reader, I was about to call you,’ said O’Connell. ‘Just a sec.’ He put the phone down and O’Neill heard the shuffle of papers.
‘Right, first things first. There was no sign of a break-in. We checked all the doors, locks and windows and there’s nothing. Nada.’
‘So she let the killer in,’ said O’Neill. ‘No doubt?’
‘No doubt, whatsoever. And … there’s no sign of any sort of robbery. We don’t think the killer went anywhere other than the crime scene. We found plenty of jewellery and almost two grand in cash upstairs in the main bedroom. Nothing was ransacked, the place was untouched. Very surprising, eh?’
O’Neill made notes. ‘So we can rule out robbery?’
‘Definitely, but we did find a few drops of blood in the hall.’
‘In the hall, where?’
‘Beside the front door. They might have dropped from the killer when he left the house. We won’t be sure until we get a match, but I’ll send on the report later.’
‘Good, Gary, thanks.’
He looked at his notes, wondering why Barbara Ryan had let her killer in. She must have known him, otherwise why did she do it? And she must have trusted him enough to ask him inside - there was a lot a familiarity there, which cut down the field of suspects. He tried to recreate the scenario, wondering who was so unthreatening to Barbara Ryan that she would invite them inside. A neighbour? A friend? Maybe a work colleague? Who?
An idea came.
The killer must have known that she was alone in the house otherwise it would have been an awful risk. If that was the case, he must have been stalking her. He wrote this down and tapped his pen against his teeth, thinking.
The fan in the corner rotated and tickled the papers on his desk. A large staff roster dominated the wall to his right, opposite the high windows that looked down on the street. He spotted a red dot against his name.
‘I’m going for a coffee,’ he said to Paul Grant. ‘Holmes has pictures of the crime scene on his phone. Make sure to get them from him.’
‘Okay,’ Grant replied, not taking his eyes off the computer screen.
O’Neill left the room, carefully passed the painter who was decorating the corridor, and went into the toilet. He stopped in front of the mirror, and leaned in close.
‘Not pretty,’ he said quietly, ‘definitely not pretty.’ He looked around to make sure he was alone, and looked again in the mirror. He was thirty-seven, but he felt older. How much older? He didn’t know, and he realised what a silly idea it was to ‘feel older’. You
are what you are and that’s it. But murder cases had a way of dragging you down and he had seen other men age before his eyes.
The head of fair hair was flatter now, there was less of it, and his eyes looked deeper and more cynical than he liked to admit. Since losing Liz three years ago, he had drunk too much. Anything to ease the pain, but he knew it was only a temporary respite. She was the love of his life, his ‘Beautiful Brunette’ – something that always made her smile. Life was wonderful with her, as she made him feel like a better person. He laughed more, and before he realised it he had surrendered to her. He didn’t mind, he had been a very happy man.
He remembered that night.
He had phoned Liz and asked if she would collect his suit from the cleaners. She, as always, had agreed. He was having a great time at a colleague’s leaving bash and didn’t want to leave – too much fun. However, Liz was knocked down and killed by a drunk driver, and O’Neill’s guilt was overpowering. Standing beside her naked body as it lay on the coroner’s metal table was an image that was burnt into his brain. He would never forget it. After nearly three months of ‘living in the bottle’, Doyle intervened. He was too good an officer to lose, and the confidence the boss showed in him helped O’Neill get back on track. It wasn’t always easy; he had fallen off the wagon a few times, but the last eight or nine months had been the best for some time. He was back running regularly on Sandymount Strand and actually looked forward to it. It was a change for the better.
He ran his fingers through his hair and thought about Barbara Ryan lying on the floor of her dining room. She wouldn’t be running her fingers through her lovely blonde hair any more, but who was the last person to touch it? Without realising it, he was back into detective mode. He looked at the man in the mirror, his eyes squinting to get the clearest image. The guy seemed to say that he was not alone, understood where he was coming from, and that he should just try to do his best. He could hear Liz’s calm voice in his head: ‘Do yourself a favour, and start looking outwards again.’ She had loved life so much, sitting around feeling sorry for herself was not for her.