by Don Cameron
The door suddenly swished open as an officer came in and O’Neill stepped out into the freshly painted corridor.
Picking up a coffee and a Danish pastry, he headed back to his desk. He read Gary O’Connell’s report. It was exactly as he had expected and he made a few more notes.
The door opened and Pat Brady came in, newspaper folded under his arm. He was the eldest of all the detectives in the station, mid-forties, and dressed conservatively – as always. He liked to wear dark suits, plain shirts, sober ties and was world-wise, if a bit narrow-minded for O’Neill’s liking. He often used gel in his thick head of hair – now that was brave. If Pat was anything, he was old school. There was nothing flash about him, but he got the job done. ‘Morning, Danny,’ he said. ‘I see you’re the lucky boy again. Anything?’
O’Neill finished his coffee and dropped the paper cup in the trash bin. ‘No, nothing yet, but it’s early days.’
Brady sat at his desk and swivelled his chair to face O’Neill. ‘And the husband?’
‘He was kept in hospital overnight. Apparently he banged his head when he fainted. He found her when he came home.’
Brady twisted slowly back and forth in his chair. ‘Have you spoken with him yet? Family members are always the first port of call, especially the husband.’
‘Not yet, but maybe you’d like to tag along with me when I do.’
Brady sniffed. ‘Yeah, and I can use what I learnt on that course I was on yesterday. Strike while the iron is hot.’
‘Good. What was it about?’
‘It was about Behavioural Science – so I’m the perfect man for the job.’
‘And I thought you knew it all.’
Brady waved a finger. ‘Now, now, don’t be like that. It’s beneath you, Danny. We never stop learning, you know that, and when you think you know it all, something jumps up and bites you in the ass.’
O’Neill raised his hands. ‘Yep, got it in one. The voice of experience?’
Brady got up. ‘Have you set up a murder board yet?’
‘No, but feel free to do so.’ He slid the file across the desk. ‘There’s nothing much in it. And I’ll print out Gary O’Connell’s report for you.’
‘Anything from the Coroner?’
‘Should be here this morning,’ O’Neill replied. ‘And I want you,’ he said, looking at Grant, ‘in on the meeting at ten o’clock. Doyle will arrange for some uniforms, need them for house-to-house work, and we’ll see what else needs to be done.’
Brady opened the file. ‘I see what you mean about “nothing much,” but we must start somewhere.’
A few minutes later he had wiped clean the whiteboard on the back wall and wrote in the few details he had. Where will it end? he thought, and began writing.
Shortly after ten o’clock the meeting began.
O’Neill stood in front of the board and let the officers know the scant details of the crime. Four uniformed officers stood side-by-side, looking a little out of their depth. Doyle sat on the edge of a desk, his arms folded. Paul Grant had turned his chair around and was looking directly at O’Neill, his legs stretched out in front of him.
O’Neill began: ‘What I don’t get is the killer knocking on the door and being invited in. Firstly, he must have sounded credible for Barbara Ryan to let him in. And,’ he paused, ‘he must have known that she was alone in the house.’
This was the question he had thought of earlier and he wanted to see if anyone had something to offer.
‘Maybe he had been stalking her,’ Brady said.
O’Neill nodded. ‘I agree, but there’s a problem. If she was killed about two o’clock, or thereabouts, then the killer must have been watching the house until the attack. That seems unlikely, as somebody would, more than likely, have seen him hanging around. Bear this point in mind,’ he said to the four uniforms, ‘when asking questions. Okay?’
They nodded as one.
‘So what are you thinking?’ Doyle asked, as all the heads turned to look at the boss.
O’Neill shrugged, looked at Barbara Ryan’s photo and tapped the marker on his knuckles. ‘I think he knew she was alone; so yes, he must have stalked her. And – this is the important point – he must have known that David was not there when he saw his car was gone.’
Brady held up a finger. ‘I see where you’re going, but he could not be certain that the husband was not in the house just because his car was gone. I mean, Barbara could have taken it. It’s possible.’
‘Very possible. And here’s the rub. He still went ahead and knocked on the door.’
There was quiet in the room with only the sound of car horns intruding.
O’Neill continued. ‘I think he must have phoned the house, and when Barbara answered he knew she had to be alone. There was one car in the driveway, and whether it was hers or David’s it didn’t matter, as she was the only one in the house. He could have been watching the house from early on and seen David leave. It’s possible, especially if this guy is such a planner.’
Doyle liked what he heard. ‘So …’.
O’Neill turned to Paul Grant. ‘What I want to know is, can we find out if she received a phone call shortly before the attack? More likely to be from a mobile than a landline.’
Everyone knew what he was thinking, and it made perfect sense. The killer phones to make sure that the coast is clear, because he has seen David leave earlier, and as soon as she answers, his plan starts. Brilliant.
Grant sat up in his chair. ‘I can do that, but I may need to get permission from the telephone company with something as sensitive as this.’
‘Let me know if you need help,’ said Doyle. ‘I’ll make a call to the company or a certain person in The Park.’ Doyle was referring to police headquarters in the Phoenix Park, where someone would make sure they had access to whatever was needed for the investigation.
‘And don’t forget that the telephone cable was cut, probably by the killer.’ He stopped, lost in thought. ‘And that maybe gives us a better time frame. Because then the telephone company can tell us when it happened, and it was probably cut when the killer was leaving the house.’
Brady was looking at the board. ‘That’s very good what you just said. And if you’re correct, then we are dealing with a very calculating bastard. This could be very tricky.’
‘Still given to understatement, Pat, and I hope that I’m wrong. I really do. But in the meantime we need to get going.’
Thirty minutes later, after tasks had been assigned, O’Neill and Brady headed off to meet David Ryan at his brother’s house. He had been released earlier, as doctors decided there was no reason to keep him in.
‘The husband’s usually good for it, you know,’ Brady offered again, as they got into O’Neill’s car.
‘Yeah, that would be nice, case closed in no time.’ He started the engine. ‘But I don’t think so, Pat, not with this one. What you get in crimes of passion is overkill, frenzy. They are lacking here. A smack on the head to disable her and one stab wound to the neck. Very efficient, very cold.’
Brady made a face, and nodded. ‘I see what you mean, Danny.’ He sounded unconvinced. He knew better than to say any more right now, and clunk-clicked his safety belt.
They slipped into traffic and headed for Ballsbridge in silence, the two officers considering the dark implications of O’Neill’s words.
*
Shelly Tobin put on her green overalls and headed for the autopsy room. It was a little after ten o’clock and the day outside was warming up nicely. The weatherman on the radio had said that it would be like this for another four or five days. About time, she thought, as did the rest of the country. People did crazy things when the weather was hot, she’d seen the results, but the warm air was something to be embraced.
She pushed through the swin
g doors and walked along the tiled corridor where the whiff of disinfectant caught her nose. She fixed her cap, and with a few more steps in the dull artificial light, entered the Body Shop.
‘Are we ready, Trevor?’ she asked, taking a mask from her pocket and tying it in place. She saw that her assistant had taken the corpse from one of the cold-storage units and wheeled it on a gurney over to the steel examination table where it now waited for her.
‘Good to go,’ he replied, pulling the sheet from Barbara Ryan’s body and taking a step back.
No matter how often she did this it was never easy. She couldn’t help but think of what this woman might have planned for the coming weekend: friends around for dinner maybe, a game of golf, shopping, or just sitting at home with her husband sharing a glass of wine. But that was not to be – how sad. How very, very sad indeed. It was a waste, a bloody tragedy.
‘Is the microphone on?’
Trevor tapped it lightly and heard the live buzz. ‘Yes.’
Shelly examined the body for marks, scratches, and other signs from the attack, and called them out clearly as she proceeded. She saw the bruising around the neck and pointed to where she wanted Trevor to wash with the jet spray. The water hissed and blood flowed along tiny grooves into the drain below. The puncture mark in the neck was black and blue, and gaping.
She continued and felt a large indentation at the back of the head. That must have been where she was hit with the vase, she thought, and called it out. There were other bumps on the top left side of the head and she knew that the killer had bashed it repeatedly against the floor. ‘Help me turn her over, please,’ she said, and the two of them flipped the body with practiced ease. More observations were noted before she decided to start cutting.
Although this appeared the most difficult part to the uninitiated, she thought otherwise. Going inside had a real purpose, and that made it easy. On the outside there was the person, the individual that people knew and cared for, the recognisable face that had lived and loved and been someone. It was who they were. Inside, they were all the same. Well, almost. A heart is a heart, and once you’ve seen and handled one, they’re all pretty much the same.
She flipped the switch on the small electric saw and steadied herself. The blade whizzed, its high-pitched screech bouncing off the walls, making Trevor suck in his breath.
‘Right,’ she said, and carefully brought the blade down. A fine mist of blood covered her rubber gloves as she expertly made the first incision. Trevor watched, his eyes focused in deep concentration on the blade as it cut with such ease, and went deeper. Minutes later, she put the saw down and slowly, expertly peeled the skin back. It was gruesome, bloody work, but she never blinked. Not once.
4
The room was warm and dank, the windows closed and curtains pulled. A layer of stale cigarette smoke hung in the fetid air, a dirty-blue presence barely disturbed by his breathing. Every time he blew a stream of smoke, he watched as it climbed, then crashed, into the silent unmoving barrier. The rushing smoke mingled with the hanging cloud, before it weakened and was slowly subsumed into a greater swirling mass. It was a lesson in cosmic physics, he thought, his very own universe that he could observe and control.
He had learned from life thus far the absolute importance of control. That’s what it was all about.
He leaned back on the sofa, his head on a soft cushion and tilted at a slight angle. An ashtray rested on his chest and moved with the easy rhythm coming from below. He was relaxed in his nakedness and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. He stretched his toes and took a long drag before blowing another plume of smoke into the universe above his head.
‘There’s been a murder in Booterstown,’ said the presenter on the news, grabbing his attention. He reached to the floor, picked up the remote and increased the volume. He listened intently as the scene changed to the one outside the victim’s home and continued for another forty or fifty seconds. ‘And now for the sports news,’ said the voice. He hit the mute button.
He sat up a little and put the ashtray on the table, which was covered with newspapers, unopened envelopes, and a selection of empty beer bottles. A camera with a zoom lens, its straps hanging over the edge, was fully charged and ready for action.
Directly across from him the fireplace stood empty, the old wire guard dusty and unused. There were various small statues of elephants and frogs on the mantle piece, none of which he’d bought. Granny, God bless her, collected them, and there they would stay. A wind-up clock, silent, was in the centre with a candlestick on either side. Above all the clutter was a small collection of photographs of girls and women, all blonde and all taken from a distance.
A black X was drawn across the image of Barbara Ryan. He picked up a knife and stuck it into it – the final act. The blade shook for a few seconds and he was excited. He still hadn’t washed and he could almost smell her on him – her fear, her struggle, and finally her submission. He closed his eyes at the memory and felt his chest rise and fall. He exhaled loudly.
It had been good, really good. After all the planning and anticipation, the moment had been everything he wanted it to be. It had been so easy. What had he been worrying about? He grinned and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He had smiled, disarming her, controlling his urge to look around when a neighbour passing them said hello. Yeah, that was impressive. He liked that – he was in control.
He was surprised when she put up such a struggle; she was stronger that he had anticipated. Must remember that next time, he thought, nodding his head. She had nearly slipped from his grasp and they had crashed through the kitchen doors before he tripped her up and she fell onto the cream-coloured carpet. He remembered the bright carpet and the first specks of blood that flew and splashed across the patio window. He knelt on her back, and with her long blonde hair wrapped around his fingers, he slammed her face into the carpet as she screamed. ‘No, please, no … for God’s sake, stop,’ she pleaded as he leaned down and spat into her ear. ‘You’re all the same, all the fucking same.’ He smashed her head again and again into the carpet until he felt the fight slip from her. He reached into his pocket, took out a pencil and rammed it viciously into her neck. The blood exploded like a geyser and he was both stunned and excited at the same time,. ‘Fuck me!’ he shouted, and stood up, looking at the body lying at his feet. He was buzzing, his mind and body alive like never before. Yeah, it had been really good, better than anything. Better than any fucking thing. The best.
5
They drove along the Rock Road and O’Neill looked out at Dublin Bay and the tall towers of the Poolbeg Power Station in Irishtown. Smoke leaked from the stacks and drifted high as the on shore breeze carried them along. The DART raced towards the city, its sleek carriages a moving emerald streak against the blue waters of the bay.
‘What’s on the radio?’ O’Neill said, and pushed a button. Some economist was talking about ‘things getting worse’, so he pressed another button and heard classical music. ‘That’s better; had enough bad news,’ he said, and leaned back.
They passed Booterstown Station, and the Punch Bowl pub on the left, when something hit the car.
‘Jesus!’ screamed O’Neill, standing on the brakes and sliding to a halt in the bicycle lane.
‘What the fuck!’ shouted Brady, opening the door and looking at the smiling face of a local councillor. His campaign poster had fallen from a nearby lamp post and now lay across the car’s windscreen.
O’Neill was out of the car at once, and extremely agitated. He reached over and pulled the election poster from beneath one of the windscreen wipers where it was snagged, and threw it on the ground. ‘And who the fuck are you anyway?’ he shouted, kicking it away.
‘Ray Lowry, he was in the recent local election,’ said Brady, picking the poster up. ‘We should report this. These posters are meant to have been taken down within a week of
the election, and that’s nearly three weeks ago.’
‘Okay … put it in the boot and you can give them a bollicking later. And I mean a real bollicking. They fucking deserve it. That could have killed somebody!’
‘Death by poster,’ Brady quipped.
O’Neill grinned, finally. ‘That’s enough weirdness for one day, Pat.’ He opened the boot and the smiling politician found a dark, uninviting home.
‘That’s the right place for you, mate,’ said Brady as he closed the boot and got back into the car.
The Merrion Gates were closed at the level crossing as a train passed and cars backed up, waiting. On the left, St. Vincent’s Hospital was bright and busy, the new extensions sitting comfortably with the older structure; they were easy on the eye. They got caught at the traffic lights at the bottom of Ailesbury Road or Embassy Road as the locals often called it, due to the number of countries that had their embassy there. It was one of the most expensive roads on the Monopoly Board and the fabulous red-bricked houses were testament to that. Through Ballsbridge they turned left and drove along Pembroke Road, slowing down before turning into Wellington Road.
Christopher Ryan had done well, very well indeed, by the look of things. His house, set well back from the road, had a Mercedes and a Porsche parked in the pebbled drive. It was like an image from some flash advertisement in a glossy car magazine. The three-storey house, where a steep granite staircase led to a yellow door, was pretty, and the red-leafed creeper around the sash-windows completed the look. Yes, there was money in boy bands, mused O’Neill, as he pushed the old gate open.
It didn’t creak.
Christopher Ryan opened the door almost immediately. His eyes were red, from crying, no doubt, and his face couldn’t hide the tiredness. His dark hair, with traces of grey above his ears, was uncombed, adding to his sad demeanour. Murder had reached out and touched him. It was as if a big stone had been thrown into a pool of water and the ripples kept on going. Nobody ever knew where it ended. That was the real tragedy.