by Don Cameron
‘I’m Inspector O’Neill and this is my colleague Detective Pat Brady.’ They shook hands and Ryan took a deep breath, letting out a low whistle.
‘My brother,’ he said, ‘is in a bad way, Inspector. A really bad way. Never seen anything like it.’ He shook his head at the thought of what the last twenty-four hours had brought, his eyes showing his disbelief. ‘I don’t think he slept, comfortably I mean, so please be easy on him. He’s my younger brother and I know him inside out.’ He paused. ‘He’s not hard, never has been. He’s an accountant for Christ’s sake. Nothing nasty going on there, or maybe you know something?’
O’Neill shook his head.
‘In here, if you don’t mind,’ he instructed, bringing them into the front room. ‘David’s in the kitchen. I’m trying to get him to drink a cup of coffee but … I’ll go get him.’ He took a few steps, stopped and turned. ‘I collected him earlier. The doctor said he would better be off with family, you see. I wasn’t trying to hide him away.’
O’Neill shrugged. ‘These are strange times, Mr Ryan, and nobody knows for certain what to do. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Thanks.’
O’Neill walked over to the marble fireplace, above which hung a gold-framed mirror. He ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted his tie as Brady took in the paintings and beautiful furniture. A long glass table displayed magazines on cars, photography and classical music. The high sash-windows were pristine, but he noted a slight flaw in the glass that made the cars outside look fatter. It was not unusual, especially with such old glass – it added to its quaintness. A deep red rug lay in front of the fireplace that was protected by a brass fire surround. Above, a chandelier sparkled, casting small prisms of light onto the cream walls.
‘You’ll be alright, come on,’ said Christopher, bringing his brother into the room, an arm around his shoulder, protecting him. Like he’d done since they were kids, O’Neill imagined. Big brothers protecting little brothers – it was the way of the world.
David Ryan looked very much like his brother; the same shaped mouth and nose and a full head of hair. He was thinner than Christopher, but not skinny. He didn’t carry much weight, and O’Neill reckoned that he must work out or do some sort of sport.
But it was the face that got him. He’d seen many people whose lives had been knocked sideways by murder, and they were never the same after it. Something snapped, and the past, that place where things were familiar, was gone forever. It was now poisoned, a place to be avoided. It was soul destroying, and many people never resurfaced after they fell into the pool of despair that sudden, violent death brought about.
Yeah, he knew all about that.
‘David, this is Inspector O’Neill and his colleague. They have to ask you some questions. You understand?’ Christopher Ryan said, holding his brother’s shoulder.
David, head on his chest, nodded and raised a hankie to his nose.
Christopher sat down and took his hand away.
O’Neill cleared his throat. ‘David, I’m very sorry for what happened. Really I am, but I have to ask you some questions. Alright?’
David’s head shook and his shoulders sagged.
Brady took out his notebook and stood near the window, out of the way.
David Ryan lifted his face and his eyes were raw from crying. They seemed to have fallen into his skull, just stopping before they completely disappeared. His skin was pale, and the spiky stubble on his cheeks and upper lip added an unhealthy greyness. He was lost in his own world, a world turned upside down and damaged beyond repair. He was a sad sight.
‘David, can you please tell me what happened? Please take your time, there’s no rush,’ O’Neill said, his voice even and clear. He had read the notes in the file but he wanted to hear it from David himself, and he knew that it was not going to be easy.
It wasn’t.
‘Have you any ideas why it happened, David? Is there anybody who wanted to hurt Barbara, or you?’ he asked, his tone quiet and friendly. Over the next thirty minutes, David relived, painfully and without tears, the previous afternoon.
O’Neill ran his tongue across his lips, moistening them, but he didn’t take his eyes off David Ryan. First impressions were important and he watched the broken man closely, his senses tuned in, and waited.
Christopher patted David on the knee. ‘You’re fine, you’re doing fine.’ He glanced at O’Neill who smiled a ‘Thanks’.
Then the words came, with no rhythm or stress – just words. ‘I’ve no idea, none whatsoever. I’m lost, absolutely lost.’ He waved his hands. ‘Why me, I’ve done nothing? Harmed nobody. And then this … Jesus.’ He started crying, and Christopher put his arm around his brother’s shoulder.
O’Neill decided that the man had been through enough. ‘We’ll leave it at that for the moment,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said Christopher Ryan.
O’Neill raised his hand. ‘It’s okay; we’ll let ourselves out. Stay where you are.’
In the car, Brady read through his notes. ‘What do you think?’
O’Neill tapped the steering wheel as a bumblebee buzzed against the windscreen.
‘Do you mean is he guilty?’ he said.
Brady nodded. ‘Yeah.’
O’Neill thought about David Ryan’s face, his eyes with the thousand yard stare and his body as limp as a broken doll. His voice, low and unsteady, was fearful and barely under control. He was a mess.
‘Don’t think so, Pat, unless he’s one helluva actor. An Oscar winner.’
Brady sniffed doubtfully, a sneer creeping from the edge of his mouth.
The reply was too quick, thought O’Neill, as he tapped the steering wheel again.
‘No, he was too distressed, Pat. Really broken up.’ O’Neill loosened his tie. ‘I don’t think he did it, and neither does his big brother. He would have to go to some effort to fool him first, you know. He’s known him all his life, looked after him, protected him, and I’ve no doubt that he could spot if David was lying.’
‘But I’d like to know a bit more. I mean, if he is covering for David, then big brother is not going to say anything.’
O’Neill listened, his eyes closed. ‘Hey, anything is possible; you know that. But here’s the thing.’ He turned to Brady. ‘Do you really think that David Ryan, a man I think never said boo to a goose, killed his wife? And … and got his big brother to cover for him?’
Silence.
O’Neill shook his head. ‘Sorry, Pat, I don’t see it. David Ryan is weak and we would break his story in no time, and what would that do for big brother?’ He closed his eyes again. ‘No, there is absolutely nothing in this for Christopher, but feel free to check him out.’
Brady nodded. ‘Fair enough, but I’ll do some digging.’ He looked at O’Neill. ‘I’ve worked plenty of cases like this; the husband is never far from the action. Know what I mean?’
O’Neill nodded. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean, Pat, but ...’.
Brady closed his notebook. ‘But it’s always better to eliminate him properly …’.
‘Exactly, and dig as deep as you have to.’ O’Neill turned to Brady. ‘I may not be as cynical as you, Pat, but check his story, inside and out.’
Brady slipped the notebook into his pocket, feeling better now that he had won a little battle. O’Neill was a good cop, but sometimes he could be a bit airy-fairy and could not see the obvious. He had noticed indecision creeping into O’Neill’s work since he failed to catch the killer of that young girl in Killiney. Everyone felt bad about that one, but O’Neill took it personally. And now he was a little too loose in his approach for Brady’s liking, but he kept that thought to himself.
O’Neill started the engine and checked that there were no more posters about to drop from the sky.
>
It was safe.
He swung the car out onto the road and took a final look across to the house where two brothers, grown men, were crying like babies. It was not good.
6
After Sergeant O’Connor had put an officer on guard in front of the house, he arranged for the other three officers to conduct house-to-house interviews, and then headed back to the station. He would have to check and re-jig the work schedule and he needed authority from Doyle for that. And, of course, the inevitable overtime. Murder cost money – always.
McEvoy would go to the left, O’Brien to the right and Keaveney would take the houses behind. ‘And don’t leave anybody out,’ O’Connor had said firmly. ‘You can go back later, but I don’t want gaps. Understood?’
They understood.
They also understood that this sort of work could be as boring as hell, so the sooner they started the sooner they would be finished. They had done this sort of thing before and didn’t expect to find out anything useful. ‘Best of luck,’ said O’Brien as he turned and walked into the adjoining garden. Keaveney was already walking to the corner, tapping his notebook against his thigh.
‘Yeah, you too,’ replied McEvoy.
On the green, a dog was barking and chasing a football that two small boys were kicking.
The sun was beating down as Garda McEvoy opened another gate and stepped into a well-kept, tidy garden. A tall hedge, recently clipped, surrounded the garden and gave a quiet air of privacy. The lawn was mown and the borders around it had been cleared. It was reflected in the window that looked out onto it and McEvoy liked what he saw. Someone was very garden-proud, he thought, and pressed the doorbell.
The door opened and Harry McEvoy knew he was in trouble. He swallowed hard and tried to hide the sound with a cough.
‘Ma’am,’ he said ‘we’re investigating the death of Barbara Ryan, your neighbour, and I wonder if you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?’ The last few words tumbled out and he felt a bead of sweat slide off his shoulders and run down his spine.
The woman in the doorway was holding a small spade in a gloved hand and had clay on her knees. She was wearing tennis shorts and her blouse was tied in a knot above her naval. Her red hair was tied up in a bun, silver clips holding everything in place, while a few strands escaped behind her ear. And her eyes, blue like the water on a tropical beach, looked right into him.
‘And who are you?’ she asked, her voice soft and warm.
‘My name is McEvoy, Officer Harry McEvoy, ma’am.’ More beads of sweat ran down his back and he felt even more uncomfortable.
She moved back from the door. ‘Well, Officer McEvoy, please come in.’
McEvoy stepped into the cool of the hall and had to almost rub against the woman who didn’t move an inch. His heart was going a hundred miles an hour and he began to understand what it might be like to be caught in a spider’s web.
She closed the door and walked into the kitchen, waving for him to follow. ‘This way.’ She put the spade down on a chair, took off her gloves and washed her hands. ‘I’m Jilly Lynch, and I’m as thirsty as hell. Been working the garden all morning. So, I’m going to have something to drink. What would you like?’
McEvoy tugged at his tie. ‘Orange juice would be fine, thank you, Mrs Lynch.’
The room was dark, north facing, and well appointed. Glass-fronted cupboards and matching counter tops filled the far wall. Beside it was a walk-in fridge and sink where plates and cups were drying. An oven topped with a silver extractor unit waited for work. A vase with a mix of flowers – from the garden, he guessed – stood on the windowsill beside a pair of sunglasses, and the fresh smell of lavender filled the room. The place definitely had a woman’s touch – it was spotless.
Jilly Lynch took two glasses from a cupboard and placed them on the counter, opened the fridge and poured orange juice from a carton. She put a glass in front of McEvoy and sat across the table. She took a long sip and moaned at the relief. ‘God that’s great,’ she said, and wiped the sheen of perspiration from her forehead. ‘And just so we get off to a proper start, its Miss Jilly Lynch, okay?’
McEvoy was confused. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but I thought you were married.’ He held his hands up.
She smiled; a beautiful, perfect smile that made him feel weak at the knees. Or maybe was it the sun shining on the top of his head all day. He didn’t know. He took a long sip of the ice-cold orange juice.
‘Kicked him out two years ago, useless bum. I knew he played around but there’s only so much a woman can take. Know what I mean?’
McEvoy had no idea but smiled a response.
‘So I’m back to being single again, and you know something, Officer McEvoy … it’s great. He was such a waste of space.’ She took another sip and leaned forward. ‘So, what are you going to ask me then?
McEvoy blew through his lips and watched as Jilly Lynch, single, enjoyed his discomfort. ‘Did you see anything out of the ordinary yesterday, say between one and three o’clock?’
Jilly turned and looked out the window and slowly drew fingers along her neck and wrapped a chain around a finger. She didn’t reply for some time and McEvoy didn’t mind taking in her beautiful profile. She was gorgeous, but well out of his reach.
‘The first thing I must say is that I am, although it may not appear so, deeply upset at what happened to Barbara. I’ve known her for almost ten years, and she was always friendly.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I did not see her socially, but we she was a good neighbour. I’m shocked … I mean nothing like this has ever happened around here before. It’s crazy.’
She sat back and took a long sip. ‘I was coming back from the newsagents and I waved over to Barbara. She waved back and then went on talking.’ She looked at McEvoy.
‘Who was she talking to? Do you know?’
She shook her head slowly, thinking. ‘No, I’ve never seen him before. So….’
McEvoy made a note. ‘And what time was that?’
Jilly Lynch made a face. ‘Don’t know exactly, probably after two o’clock. Yes … definitely after two o’clock because I called a friend when I came in and it was nearer to two thirty.’
McEvoy made more notes. ‘And what was this person like? Age, hair colour, height?’
‘Not sure about his age as I never saw his face.’ She paused and rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s odd, now that I think of it.’
‘Why’s that?’
She looked at McEvoy. ‘Even when Barbara waved over to me he didn’t turn around … to see who it was,’ said Jilly.
‘I see what you mean,’ said McEvoy ‘like he didn’t want to be seen?’
‘Exactly, that’s exactly right.’
‘And what about his appearance – hair colour, length?’
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, thinking. ‘It was dark and it was on his shoulders. I remember that. Don’t see too much of that nowadays, do you?’
‘No, ma’am, you don’t.’ He made a note. ‘Height, any idea?’ He took another sip of his cold drink and felt as though it almost hissed as it slipped down his hot throat.
She was staring at McEvoy and he was feeling even more nervous now. ‘He was a little shorter than you, Officer McEvoy … I think,’ she stood, and picked up her glass. ‘We could check … just to be sure.’
‘Err, check, ma’am?’ was the best he could manage, the words slipping clumsily from his drying mouth.
She stood up and came around the table, smiling. ‘Stand up, please. In the door frame there, that should give me a good approximation of the man I saw.’ She raised her brow. ‘Let’s do it.’ There was no argument.
McEvoy stood up carefully, took two steps and stood in the doorframe, feeling as though he was on fire. He thought about the fights that he’d broken up outside pubs late at night, and the t
hugs who swore at him threatening to tear his head off. That stuff was easy, real easy, but standing here in front of a very sexy, older woman was something different. And very unnerving.
Jilly Lynch stood close to McEvoy, really close, and he could smell her perfume and sweat. He closed his eyes for a moment as his pulse rocketed.
She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Yes, I’d say that he was a little shorter than you, Officer McEvoy. Maybe three or four inches, at the most. About five-ten, would that be right?’ she said and sat back down.
‘I’m six-one and five-ten sounds spot on. Thank you.’ He sat down and made another note. ‘Anything else?’
She blinked; a thought crossed her mind. ‘Yes, there was something else.’
McEvoy waited and wondered if she was going to tease him some more. He couldn’t wait to get out of the house and back into the blazing sunshine. It was a better alternative.
‘He was carrying something.’
McEvoy’s look was quizzical. ‘Like what … a newspaper, a briefcase?’
She tapped a finger against her lip. ‘No, no, no … more like what people carry when they’re doing surveys. You know the sort of thing?’
‘Like a clipboard,’ said McEvoy, the word coming of its own accord.
‘Yes,’ she cried, ‘that’s it exactly! A clipboard.’
McEvoy jotted this down. ‘Anything else?’ he asked, hoping perversely that Jilly Lynch had nothing further to add.
She relaxed and leaned into her chair and ran a finger around the rim of her glass, a low hum rolling across the table. ‘That’s all I can think of, Officer. I hope that I’ve been helpful?’
McEvoy closed his notebook. ‘Yes, ma’am, you’ve been most helpful, thank you.’
‘If you have any more questions don’t hesitate to call anytime. You know where to find me.’
McEvoy stood up awkwardly and almost knocked his chair over. He forgot to say goodbye and left Jilly Lynch’s house in a hurry. In the hall he stumbled on the rug, and closed the door as she started to laugh out loud, his discomfort now complete.