by Don Cameron
*
Back at the station, Brady added a few notes to the board, but they meant nothing really. So what did they have then? The perfect murder, that’s what. No clues, no motive, no witnesses … no nothing. This was going to be a bastard.
A knock on the door turned his head, and in walked one of the young officers who had been assigned to carry out house-to-house interviews. ‘What is it?’ Brady asked.
Officer McEvoy walked in slowly, looking for O’Neill. ‘Can I have a word, sir?’
O’Neill looked up from his desk. ‘What is it, got something for me?’ He raised an inquiring eyebrow. ‘Come over here, pull up a pew.’
McEvoy came over and sat down. ‘It’s about the house-to-house interviews, sir. The ones down in Booterstown.’
O’Neill’s eyebrows rose a little higher. ‘You got something then?’
McEvoy shifted in his chair. ‘It’s like this, sir,’ and he told him about his interview with Jilly Lynch. Brady listened, perched on the edge of his desk.
‘Sounds like some woman, doesn’t she, Pat?’ said O’Neill, rubbing his hands and grinning across the table.
‘Sure does. Too much for Officer McEvoy, eh?’
McEvoy blushed and bit his lip.
O’Neill leaned forward and put his hands on his desk. ‘Good work. Well done.’
McEvoy smiled.
‘Now do me a favour and write it up just like you told us. And then give it to Detective Brady. Okay?’
‘Will do, sir. I’ll do it straight away.’ He stood up.
‘And that’s it all? Nothing from anyone else?’
‘No, sir, nothing. Between O’Brien, Keaveney and me, that’s it. Nobody saw or heard anything. In broad daylight, it’s hard to believe, sir.’
‘It is hard to believe, but it happens like that sometimes.’ He opened his hands up to heaven.
McEvoy understood and went off to write his report.
O’Neill looked at Brady. ‘What do you think?’
‘Don’t know. Might be something, then again it might be nothing. Might just be some sexy bird playing a naïve Officer McEvoy. Who knows?’
O’Neill tapped his desk. ‘Agreed, but we’d better look into it.’ He paused. ‘Who carries clipboards around anyway? Check it out and let me know. Get Paul to lend a hand, he can do some fancy stuff on that computer and see what that shows up.’ He stood up. ‘Going to have a word with Doyle.’
O’Neill told Doyle about Clipboard Man as he had decided to call the unidentified man who had been seen with Barbara Ryan.
‘A start,’ said the boss.
‘Yes, sir, and we’ll follow it up. And I might need some more bodies to carry out more interviews. Can you spare any, sir?’
Doyle steepled his hands and the tips of his fingers brushed against his mouth. ‘I’ll check and let you know, okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘One other thing, Danny. I’ve been talking with a friend of mine in The Park, Commander Eamonn Farrell ...’.
‘I know him, sir. We all played golf last year in Powerscourt; he’s a big hitter.’ He remembered the big man with an even bigger swing. He was a fine golfer with a single figure handicap.
Doyle sniggered. ‘In more ways than one, Danny.’
‘I can believe it.’
‘He wants to send in a profiler, to help us with this case.’
O’Neill was surprised. ‘A profiler? Do you think we need a profiler, sir? It’s not a serial killer we’re after. They live in America, not South Dublin.’
Doyle shrugged. ‘It’s not my call, Danny. It’s from HQ and we’ve got to go with it. That’s it.’
O’Neill moved closer. ‘And why may I ask do they think we need a profiler, sir?’
‘Somebody up there is very interested in the pencil. It’s different, so they’re interested. Now you know as much as I do. The detective will be here tomorrow morning, so look sharp.’ He grinned and took the top off his fountain pen. ‘Letters, Danny, the curse of management. See you later.’
O’Neill left and walked back to his desk and checked his emails. There was one from Shelly Tobin. He phoned her.
‘Hello, Danny,’ she said, ‘you got my report?’
O’Neill was looking at the report on his computer screen. ‘Yes, thanks.’ He paused and ran his finger along a line of the report. ‘So the killer bashed her head on the floor before stabbing her with a pencil.’
‘That’s right, not a pen – a coloured pencil.’
‘Wow.’
‘And the smack from the glass probably only dazed her, so he had more work to do … and that’s what he did. Bashing her head only rendered her defenceless, not dead. The stabbing killed her, no doubt about it.’
‘You said it was a coloured pencil – is that the outside colour or the core?’ asked O’Neill.
‘Hmmm, very perceptive, Inspector.’ She told him that the core was a soft yellow, a style of pencil usually used by artists.
‘So you think that I might be looking for someone who likes to draw, eh? That could be anybody!’
‘I know, Danny, but that’s what the evidence tells me.’
‘Christ, that’s all I need.’
Shelly continued. ‘It’s more likely an artist than an architect or engineer. They tend to use hard core pencils; you know, the style from 9HB to H.’
‘HB?’ he said quietly, and uncertainly.
‘It means Hard Black, Danny. This is 5B, a softer core, and more suited to work by artists. That’s it.’
‘Okay, thanks for that.’ He paused and made a note. ‘And what about time of death?’ He could hear papers being flicked back and forth as Shelly searched a file.
‘Sometime between one o’clock and four. That’s the best I can do. Is it helpful?’
‘Yeah, it’s helpful, thanks. A witness saw someone talking to Barbara Ryan a little after two o’clock – so that fits.’
‘Good.’
O’Neill knew he had to say something but right now was not the time. And anyway, he didn’t know what to say. For as sure as night follows day he would screw things up and regret it. He was good at that, too good, and knew he had to have a script ready before even talking to Shelly. ‘And now The Park are imposing a profiler on us,’ he said, not knowing where the words came from.
‘A profiler,’ Shelly said automatically. She sounded surprised.
‘Somebody is interested in the use of a pencil as a murder weapon. They must have nothing much to do, if you ask me.’
‘Well, it is different, I’ll agree with that. And having a profiler can only be a help.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ offered O’Neill, wanting to finish the call.
‘Danny, everyone needs some help, from time to time,’ she said, ‘everyone.’ The phone clicked dead and O’Neill was left listening to the sound of silence.
He walked over to the board and looked at – nothing. That’s all they had, except, of course, the clipboard. It wasn’t much. Of all the cases he had worked, he felt he had never had so little to go on. Had the killer been lucky in leaving so little evidence or was he a clever bastard who made no mistakes? They all make mistakes at some time, he thought, and wondered what was to come. It was not a good feeling, but then looking back wasn’t much help. Joe Dixon used to say, especially in difficult cases, that it was not so much like looking for a needle in a haystack; it was trying to find the correct haystack first.
It was a sobering thought and one that he took with him later to Sandymount Strand. Soon he was lost in a steady rhythm and even the cawing gulls kept their distance as he ran along the water’s edge. Two words came to mind – pencils and clipboards. What would Joe Dixon have to say about that? He kept running, as out to sea, the sun was an orange ball silently sinking i
nto a shimmering Dublin Bay.
7
The ladders and sheets had been removed from the hall of the police station as the painters began work on the other side of the building. The smell of fresh paint still hung in the air and the heat seemed to intensify it. Creamy coloured and smooth, it was a far cry from the heavy green that had been there before. It was meant to be friendlier, made for a better working environment, at least that was what some psychologist was meant to have said, but then he or she probably never set foot in a busy police station.
Paul Grant tapped away at his keyboard, his phone wedged between his ear and shoulder. It was a position he was familiar with. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, ‘that’s fine. Thanks, I really appreciate that.’ He made some notes, checked the details on the screen again, and pushed back his chair.
He had his hands behind his head when O’Neill came into the office and caught his eye. ‘Any news for me, Paul?’
Grant sat up. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got great timing?’
‘I can think of a few girls. Why?’
Grant smiled and beckoned him over. He tapped his computer screen. ‘I’ve just been talking with the telephone manager.’
‘And ...?’
‘And guess what? A call was made to the Ryan house just after two o’clock – 14:05:24 to be precise. It lasted only eight seconds and was made from a mobile phone that we cannot trace. It’s odd because, as you can see, all the other callers are identified except one made at 12:34:53 that lasted seven seconds. It looks like your hunch might be correct.’
O’Neill looked closely at the screen, satisfied at what he saw. ‘Thanks, Paul, this could be important. He turned and walked to his desk.
Dave Conroy was back in the office. ‘You expecting someone, sir?’ he asked, noting O’Neill’s dark suit, ironed shirt, silk tie, and trousers with a sharp crease down the middle. ‘Hope she’s worth it after all the effort.’ Conroy winked at Brady who quickly looked away and returned to his desk.
O’Neill straightened his tie. ‘We’ve got a profiler coming this morning, and I don’t know if it’s a he or a she, but there’s no harm in scrubbing up. Cleanliness is next to godliness, or something like that,’ he replied, grinning. ‘What about the robbery?’
‘We caught the bastard – a gobshite really. He tried to drive a van like it was a sports car and he eventually crashed, driving onto the roundabout in Killiney, and that was the end of it. He’s in a cell downstairs licking his wounds.’ Conroy looked pleased and his smiling eyes confirmed it. They were brown and set in a face that preferred to smile rather than frown. Standing at six feet three inches, most people who met him preferred if he smiled. An expert in some form of oriental hand-to-hand combat, he could take care of himself, and belied the boyish face crowned with black hair that was longer than any of the other detectives.
‘What wounds?’ asked O’Neill.
Conroy sniggered. ‘Well I told you he was a gobshite, and this one didn’t put on a seat belt. So, he smashed into the steering wheel and damaged his already damaged bad looks. Broken nose, teeth knocked out and a pair of black eyes that only a Panda would love.’
O’Neill and Brady laughed. ‘I hope all that’s in your report. You couldn’t make that stuff up,’ Brady said, shaking his head.
‘And I believe that you’ve got yourself a beauty,’ said Conroy, walking up to the board.
O’Neill brought him up to date – it was easy.
He printed off Shelly Tobin’s report and was looking for a staple when Brady walked over.
‘I spoke to David Ryan’s partners yesterday and they said he was with them in a meeting with their bankers until lunchtime when he left the office.’
O’Neill sat back and looked at Brady. ‘And what time was that?’ It couldn’t be that easy slipping out and killing his wife, could it? he thought.
Brady grinned. ‘He left the office at about 1:30p.m., and was back later – just before 2:30p.m....’
‘So, what are you saying then? That he might have killed his wife?’
Brady pulled up a chair and leaned on O’Neill’s desk. ‘On my way home last night I took the same drive that Ryan would have taken, and I did it in less than fifteen minutes.’
O’Neill nodded. ‘Good stuff, Pat, but….’
‘But?’
‘But you drove at a later time of the day when it was quicker, less traffic. So does your theory really help?’
Brady wasn‘t giving in. ‘Don’t forget the time of the murder is a guesstimate, Danny. It’s not definitive.’
‘Okay, I’ll give you that.’ O’Neill sat back, joined his hands, and twirled his thumbs as he thought. ‘I suppose he could have driven home, killed Barbara, and then gone back to the office. And the timing fits.’
‘Oh, it fits alright,’ said Brady clearly.
‘But at the same time he might have a very innocent explanation for his whereabouts.’
Whose side are you on? Brady thought. We’re trying to catch a killer, and you, the cop in charge, is doing your best to let this guy go. He hated this shit. ‘Innocent until proven guilty,’ Brady countered.
O’Neill nodded. ‘I’ll keep that in mind, Pat.’
‘And, by the way, I spoke to someone about that poster.’ It was now standing against the wall beside the electric fan. ‘He was very apologetic and will be collecting it tomorrow.’
‘Good, at least we cleared something up.’ O’Neill smiled. ‘A good start to the day, well done.’
His phone rang. It was Doyle. ‘A word.’
The corridor was clear now, no painters to dodge past as O’Neill straightened his tie and knocked on Doyle’s door. The room was bright and Doyle was standing at the window, talking. He turned. ‘Good morning, Danny, this is Detective Christine Connolly, our profiler.’
The woman who reached out and shook his hand was not what he had expected. In fact, if he was being honest, he hadn’t known what to expect.
He was pleasantly surprised with Christine Connolly. She was dressed in a dark trouser suit and a white shirt, beneath which he could see a silver neck chain. Her dark hair was cut stylishly short and her bright eyes told him that she was observant and smart. They shook hands and he could see and feel her assessing him from head to toe. No doubt Doyle had already marked her card about him; it was to be expected. It was the nature of her job, and he felt as if he was going through an X-ray machine that missed nothing. Her firm handshake was a good sign. He liked that.
‘Christine is here to help us with the Barbara Ryan case. I’ve given her a brief low-down on what’s happened, so maybe you’ll bring her up to speed as soon as possible,’ Doyle said, looking at them.
‘Will do, sir.’
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said Connolly.
‘I’m going to hold a meeting in the main room shortly to review the case and assign tasks. I’ll call when I’m ready, sir. You might want to sit in,’ he continued, turning his gaze to Connolly.
‘Sure thing, Danny. Call me.’
Christine Connolly got plenty of admiring looks when she followed O’Neill into the Detectives’ Room, with heads turning at the attractive new addition. She noticed the momentary silence.
‘Gentlemen, this is Detective Christine Connolly, and she’ll be working with us for a while.’ He turned to her for a moment. ‘HQ have sent her here and she’s to be told everything about the Ryan case, just as if you were talking to me. Okay?’
Heads nodded.
‘Good, we’ll have a meeting in thirty minutes and see where we are. Don’t anybody go missing. I need you all here. Right.’
‘Right,’ said Nolan, speaking for the team.
O’Neill turned to Connolly. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘Sure,’ she replied, tucking her thumb under the strap of the
bag that hung on her shoulder.
A few officers sitting at a table eyed Christine Connolly as she went to the counter. O’Neill saw McEvoy elbow another officer who made some comment to those at the table. A look from O’Neill told them to behave and they kept their chat quiet.
He led the way to a table by the window that overlooked the harbour where early morning sailors were making their way to rocking boats. The breeze stirred the flags in the yacht club, and walkers enjoyed the brisk conditions on the pier.
‘Nice view,’ she said, sitting down and taking a sip of her coffee. ‘Better than the one I have in the Phoenix Park. My window looks down on a grey courtyard – doesn’t come close to this. This is terrific.’
‘It’s nice alright, but I suppose you get used to it. You get used to everything, in time.’
Connolly smiled. ‘Very profound, Inspector. And so early in the morning.’
He didn’t reply but drank his coffee and took a bite of the Danish pastry. He brushed away the crumbs and licked his lips. ‘So what exactly has you here, Detective? Is the pencil thing really that interesting?’
She looked directly at him. ‘The pencil is mightier than the sword, isn’t that what they say?’
O’Neill sniffed. ‘The pen, I believe, is the word used. But, I hadn’t thought of that. Very good.’
Connolly drank some more and put her cup down. ‘When my boss heard about the pen, sorry, pencil, he told me about it and, I have to say, I was intrigued. Hey, it may be nothing, but then again you never know. But if it is something, then it will be interesting being involved … from the start. Well, almost the start.’
‘And what do you know about interesting cases? I’m not sure it’s the right question, but I hope you know what I mean.’
She turned and looked out at the harbour and said nothing for a long time. He studied her profile; nice nose and full cheeks that showed little make-up, and an elegant neck where the sun glinted off her necklace. The sunlight danced playfully on a few loose hairs that stuck out from behind her ear. For a moment he thought he was looking at Liz and closed his eyes. His heart missed a beat, and when he opened his eyes he saw, thankfully, that she was still admiring the view.