by Don Cameron
She faced him, holding her cup in both hands. ‘I spent eighteen months in Quantico, studying with the FBI. It was very informative. Maybe not what you would expect someone like me to be doing, but I was sent there by HQ. I have a law degree from Trinity College. I studied psychology at Edinburgh and I have been with the force for almost nine years.’
‘Fast tracked?’
She made a face that said it was not her fault – just the way things were. ‘I studied Behavioural Science for three years and when the opportunity came to go to Quantico, well, it was too good to miss. America is the “land of serial killers.” They have made a science from studying them, their make-up, and what makes them tick. It’s an ongoing process.’
‘I’ve never worked with a profiler before, so how do you think you can help?’
She put her cup down. ‘It’s good that you haven’t, otherwise the country would be in a right mess.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Profiling looks at the evidence and tries to find patterns, unique patterns, that indicate certain crimes were carried out by one person. They might be the type of weapon used; place of attack; and how the bodies are left. It could be anything, that’s why it is so important to learn as much as we can from each crime scene.’ She paused. ‘It may not be totally accurate, but we are getting better.’
O’Neill nodded. ‘That’s fine by me. I need all the help I can get, so welcome aboard.’
‘Thank you, Inspector.’
‘And did you get involved in any cases when you were there?’
She nodded her head. ‘Yes, but only on the fringes of an operation. It was useful though.’ She wiped a crumb from the edge of her mouth. ‘The killer looked so normal. That’s the thing with most of these guys, they don’t look like the monsters we expect them to be. That’s why it’s so hard to catch them.’
‘Well, I hope that we’ll be able to use your knowledge to catch Clipboard Man or whoever the bastard is.’ His voice left no doubt about his hatred for the killer and his determination to catch him.
She looked across the table and liked what she saw. Doyle had told her about O’Neill and his record of success. It was the best record of any of the detectives in the station and she knew that the man across the table was the right man for the job. When he spoke about the case his eyes showed the steeliness that she recognised from her FBI colleagues, the quality that was necessary to conclude a difficult case. He was no quitter.
He changed tack. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you met Patricia Cornwell when you were in Quantico? I’ve read a few of her books and she always mentions the place.’
She leaned closer and her voice dropped. ‘Inspector, you don’t really expect me to tell you that, do you?’
He laughed and the officers at the other table looked over and then just as quickly turned away. ‘Enough,’ he said, ‘we should get back up and see what we have. Okay?’
She drained her cup. ‘Fine with me, Inspector.’
*
O’Neill stood in front of the board and didn’t see much there. A few names and times, but apart from the Clipboard Man, there were no leads. He turned and looked at the faces watching him. Pat sat on his desk next to Dave Conroy who was fiddling with the knot on his tie. Paul Grant, looking more scrubbed up than anybody could remember, was sitting beside Christine Connolly, his smile barely suppressed. Doyle was last to arrive and settled near the door.
‘From what the Forensics team tell me, Barbara Ryan must have let her killer in as they have no signs of unlawful entry. That’s one,’ he said sticking out his index finger. ‘There was no sign of theft even though there was plenty of money and jewellery in the house, that’s two. Forensics did find some traces of blood not belonging to the victim. That’s three. Someone telephoned the house shortly before the murder. At least the timing suggests that, but we’ll know more when we get the final report from the pathologist later on. That’s four.’ He turned to the board. ‘A neighbour saw a man talking to the victim around the time of the murder and he was carrying a folder or clipboard, that’s the best she can remember.’ He turned back. ‘That’s five, and that’s where we are now. It’s not much.’
Connolly put a hand up. ‘If Clipboard Man is our target, what do you think he was doing?’
O’Neill looked at the faces for an answer. ‘I don’t know. What do people with clipboards usually do?’
‘Surveys,’ offered Conroy. ‘Asking stuff about what you eat or what TV programmes you watch. One of them came to my door last week and wanted to know what I liked to drink. She was there for a long time,’ he said. The laughter broke the tension.
O’Neill looked at the board again. ‘Okay, if that’s the case, we need to know if he went to other houses. We’ll need to carry out more house-to-house interviews and see if anybody remembers anything like that. Might be luckier second time around asking a definite question.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Doyle, nodding. McEvoy rolled his eyes to heaven when O’Brien gave him a little nudge.
‘Right, Christine, I want you to check the notes from the initial house-to-house interviews and see if Clipboard Man was mentioned. He should be if he was carrying out a survey. Otherwise ...’.
‘He’s our man,’ said Brady, winking ‘Nice One’ to O’Neill.
‘And the pencil?’ asked Connolly.
‘Yes, the pencil.’ O’Neill took a few steps in front of the board, and turned. ‘Nobody knows about the pencil apart from us. It stays with us. Do not say anything about it to anyone, and I mean anyone. Clear?’
It was loud and clear.
‘It’s very strange – I’ve never heard of one being used to kill before. Was it an opportunistic weapon or did he plan to use it to murder Barbara Ryan?’ O’Neill was thinking out loud and nobody interrupted. ‘If, and this is stretching it a bit, if Clipboard Man is our man, then he must have stalked the house and got to know the family routine. He knew that David would be at work and phoned Barbara to make sure that she was at home, alone,’ he stressed. ‘So, that level of planning suggests nothing was random.’ Everyone was paying attention, with the only sound being the whirring fan competing with O’Neill’s carefully spoken words. ‘He might even carry a favourite weapon with him. If this guy is such a meticulous planner, then why shouldn’t he plan to bring along his own murder weapon?’ He looked down. ‘It’s just a thought, but I do believe that our guy is a planner, he likes to control.’
He rolled his neck, relieving a stiffness that was as much imagined as real. ‘Paul, you can search, or whatever, on that computer of yours and see what you can find. You’ll have to identify companies who carried out surveys in the area, or whether it was someone from the local council. Who knows?’
‘Will do.’
Dave Conroy raised a hand. ‘Why don’t I check back for previous attacks? Not murder files, but attacks that might be similar. This bastard had to start somewhere, didn’t he?’
‘Go for it. It’ll keep you out of the sun, you know it’s bad for you anyway,’ said O’Neill, looking at the most sun-tanned face in the room. ‘You can catch up on some reading, too.’ A ripple of laughter filled the room.
Doyle looked at Christine Connolly and she smiled, indicating that she was fine.
‘Right, that’s it everyone, so let’s go,’ said O’Neill. He went to his desk and checked his emails. There was a reminder to visit his dentist later and he rolled his tongue across his teeth and noted the time. ‘You can work at my desk,’ he said to Connolly, ‘I’m off to see the husband with Brady.’
The traffic on Seapoint Avenue was heavy, with cars heading into town and as many going in the opposite direction to check out the regatta in Dun Laoghaire harbour. He turned on the radio and heard U2, singing ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’ Brady angrily flicked it off. ‘What the fuck do you know
anyway?’ he spat.
O’Neill didn’t say a word.
8
The electronic notice board changed to show 10:15a.m., indicating that the train for Dublin was due in three minutes. The sun was high in the sky, bathing the city in a clear hot glow that had an effect on what the passengers were wearing. T-shirts and shorts were everywhere – yes, the summer was here to stay. Many showed signs of sunburn and sunglasses were a must for those talking and joking on the platform. It was going to be another hot day with just a whiff of a sea breeze tickling the skin. Booterstown station was a mix of old and young, most of them looking forward to a day in the city. Some, no doubt, would be hitting the summer sales that shops were putting on to encourage the crowds.
Nobody paid attention to the man leaning against the wall in the last piece of shaded area on the platform. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, chinos, and on his feet he had a pair of NIKE trainers. A baseball cap with NY above the peak covered his dark hair; a pair of mirrored sunglasses covered most of his face. They not only kept out the sun but allowed his eyes to wander and not be followed. He loved sunglasses – they made him feel invisible and he loved that. Money couldn’t buy that shit.
The train slowed and people moved forward, ready to get on. He waited until a blonde-haired woman moved and he casually stepped aboard behind her. The doors hissed closed and he stood in the corner, shielded by a group of Spanish students where he had a clear line of sight to the blonde woman. It was the way he liked it. The train headed into the city, racing along the bay where yachts with brightly coloured sails tacked their way across the blue waters.
The train pulled into Pearse Street station and passengers hustled to get off, talking and laughing as they went. The man in the baseball cap waited until the blonde woman joined the crowd on the platform, before stepping down onto the black and white tiles. It was like walking on a giant chessboard, he thought, and it’s my move. He liked that, liked it a lot.
Outside, some people hung around talking, others turned left along Westland Row towards Nassau Street, and a few turned right towards Pearse Street, which was bathed in bright sunlight. The blonde turned left and he followed at a discreet distance, the lively Spanish students and others still between them. He wasn’t panicked, he knew her routine, and from previous trips he had a good idea where she was headed. Planning was everything, he knew that. It’s what he had done with Barbara Ryan and look how that turned out: like clockwork, like a fucking Swiss clock. Perfect, in and out like a flash, and not a word. Neither the radio nor television had anything to offer – they had nothing. That rag, The Local, had a piece in it, but it was less than useless. What did any of them know? Nothing, and that’s how it was going to stay. He was in control and walked a little taller, his confidence growing with every step he took along the pavement.
The crowd in front of him thinned out as the Spanish students turned into Trinity College, past Sweny’s Chemist on Lincoln Place. The tour buses parked on Nassau Street disgorged their travellers into the sunlight but the blonde stepped around them, crossing the road in front of the Kilkenny Design store. Was she going in there for lunch? Panic rippled through him for a few moments and he slowed to check his watch. The place was nice but small and not what he had expected. Not from her. She’d never gone in there before. Fuck, I don’t like that, he thought.
She checked her hair in the reflection of the tall glass windows, brushed it with her hand, and kept walking towards Grafton Street.
He breathed a sigh of relief and soon fell into step behind her, confident that he knew where she was going.
The girl continued up Grafton Street past Brown Thomas, making a right turn into the cool shade of Johnson’s Court. The church was emptying after Mass and he had to push his way through the crowd to keep up. He now knew where she was going and was less than ten feet away from her when she walked across Clarendon Street and up the steps into the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre.
People jostled in the narrow passage that opened out into the large atrium that was bathed in diffused sunlight from the glass roof. Above, balconies with shops looked down on the hustle and bustle of the main restaurant where a queue was growing. The blonde waved and a friend called out, ‘Over here!’
Two men in casual summer wear turned and liked what they saw. She slipped in front of them and hugged her friend, an attractive young woman with long brown hair and sunglasses strategically placed on her head. They all did that, he thought, as he passed them moving on towards the far end of the busy shopping centre.
He climbed the stairs and spent some time looking at paintings in a trendy art shop before making his way to the balcony. He leaned on the smooth rail to take in all the life below as it went about its bustling business.
He took a camera from his backpack and casually snapped a few shots. He was like any other tourist enjoying the sunshine and the buzz in one of the city’s favourite shopping arcades. Slowly he panned around and through his lens watched the blonde and her friend talking, hands going back and forth, animating the conversation. He slowly zoomed in on the blonde’s face and snapped. He took another one and whispered, ‘You’re mine, all mine.’
Suddenly, something poked him in the ribs, and he froze.
‘Mister, you take picture, pleeze?’ said the girl when he turned his head. She offered him her camera and smiled.
He looked at her and her taller boyfriend and reckoned they were Polish, and if not, then definitely two of the many Eastern Europeans who had come to Ireland in search of work. They were in their early twenties and both seemed happy to be enjoying the day. She had short mousy-fair hair with greyish eyes in a round face; her partner looked to be in the military, with a closely shaved head and colder blue eyes set in dark sockets. Probably from too much work, he thought, and took their picture. ‘Another one, for luck,’ he said quietly, and snapped again.
He handed the camera back to the smiling girl.
‘Thank you. I hope you have good time,’ she said in a thick accent, and her partner beamed.
He gave them his best smile. ‘Thank you, I’m having a great time,’ and turned back to the scene below.
She was sitting down now and he whispered the words again. ‘You’re mine.’ He looked around the noisy centre but heard only his own words. He slung the camera around his shoulder, went down the stairs, and was soon lost in the teeming crowd.
9
The pain behind John O’Toole’s eyes was blinding and showing no signs of getting any better. The stuffy office, with the smell of stale smoke hanging around like an uninvited guest, was stifling. He felt like throwing up but knew there was nothing left in his stomach. The taste of puke hadn’t gone, even after a large mug of strong coffee. He was feeling really rough and made sure the door was closed – he didn’t want to talk to anybody, he couldn’t handle it right now.
The office was small and stuffed with old newspapers. Stacks of them stood at odd angles, dominating the room, covered in dust, unwanted. His desk was crammed with more of them and his correspondence trays overflowed. There was just enough space for his keyboard, monitor, notebook and another mug of coffee that was now cold and growing a dirty skin.
He checked his diary to see what he was supposed to be doing: he had to check out the local girls’ school to do a piece on their winning hockey team. What a drag! That’s what it had come to. After showing early promise in the business, he had stalled and couldn’t get going again. He saw others progress, younger reporters with a hunger to succeed. They passed him by and his resentment grew. So did his drinking and before he realised it, or wanted to, he was an old alcoholic hack going through the motions. Those far-off dreams of making it onto one of the big national dailies were a fuzzy memory now, too painful to think about. He had gone as far as he could go, and working for The Local was no more than punching in a card each day. His dreams were gone, just like last night’s
banter in the pub. Booze was his best friend and had been for far too long.
He was sliding – going nowhere.
The pain spiked again. ‘Fuck,’ he said, and a tear fell from his eye. He was suffering.
Outside, the young and energetic employees went about their business, getting the next edition of The Local ready. Deadlines were still deadlines regardless of your hangover.
The ringing phone demanded his attention, and he opened his eyes.
‘Johnny boy, how are ya?’ Marty Murphy’s squeaky voice grated on O’Toole’s sensitive condition.
‘Fine, boss. Couldn’t be better,’ he lied and closed his eyes again.
‘Drop in, I want to have a word,’ said Murphy, and hung up.
What now? thought O’Toole, slowly standing and shaking himself awake. It didn’t make much difference. He straightened his tie and dragged fingers through his hair. Murphy wouldn’t notice and wouldn’t care either.
The main office was busy with plenty of telephone chat in progress. The lights from the computer screens danced on the ceiling, giving the room an eerie feel. All around, desks were stacked with papers, behind which young boys and girls sold advertising space and took instructions. Most of them were paid on commission and they worked hard to make a living. It was a noisy room and O’Toole made his way through it as quickly as he could.
Passing a darkened window, he caught a reflection of himself and stopped. He took a closer look and realised the shape he was in. He felt bad inside and now looked just as bad on the outside. He had to stop drinking or it would stop him, and soon.
Murphy’s office was open and he entered a room that was even more cluttered and dirty than his own. Stacks of newspapers and magazines lined the shelves and hadn’t been disturbed in years. A few media awards from long ago hung on the wall behind the large desk that Murphy seemed to fill. He was overweight, nearly twenty stone, and his red face made him a certainty for a heart attack. Despite only being in his mid-forties, he looked much older, and a thinning hairline gave his round face a comic look. He was a picture of ill health if ever there was one. Looking at him wedged behind the crammed desk, O’Toole suddenly didn’t feel too bad. How sad was that?