by Don Cameron
He looked up from making corrections, pen in hand. ‘Good morning, John, how goes it?’
‘It goes, Marty.’
Murphy looked at him but didn’t comment on the condition of his ace reporter. He saw the bags under O’Toole’s eyes and the crumpled shirt that hadn’t seen an iron in a long time. The unkempt hair and the five o’clock shadow finished the dishevelled look that had taken O’Toole years to perfect. He was on the slide, but at the salary The Local paid him, he was the best Murphy could get. His physical condition was less the editor’s concern than O’Toole’s journalistic output. ‘What have you got on your plate now?’ he asked.
‘The hockey story.’
Murphy tried to push his chair back but there was hardly any room. O’Toole knew that Murphy drank too much, and in the three years that he had worked there, Murphy had ballooned. He sat up noisily, the leather squeaking in weak resistance, his shirt revealing dirty underarm stains. ‘That murder the other day – I want you to sniff around. Call that cop friend of yours and see what you can find out.’
‘What’s the big deal, Marty? The radio crowd have already got it covered. What chance have we got?’
‘Johnny boy, how often does a woman get murdered in her own house in broad daylight? Tell me that.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s local. It’s on our own doorstep so we should cover it – know what I mean? Nothing ventured and all that.’ His eyes narrowed.
O’Toole didn’t argue, he couldn’t afford to.
‘People die all the time. Some are killed accidentally and some get themselves murdered. Most deserve it, sure, but this woman …’. He stopped and cleared his throat. ‘It just seems wrong to me. I mean, it could be anyone’s mother, daughter or wife. It’s crazy I know … it’s just a feeling. That’s all.’
‘Okay, Marty, I’ll call him and see what I can find out. Don’t expect much though.’
Murphy shrugged and went back to his corrections.
10
They drove along the coast road, past the big houses at Seapoint that had a clear view of Dublin Bay all the way to Howth. The sea was calm and in the distance a cruise liner was making its way into Dublin port.
‘So, what’s with the profiler?’
O’Neill shrugged and turned to Brady for a moment. ‘From what Doyle has been told, she’s very good at her job … and anyway, another pair of hands is what we need right now.’
‘That’s it?’ Brady was surprised.
O’Neill slowed for the traffic lights. ‘Doyle didn’t ask for her, and neither did I, if that’s what’s bugging you.’ Another shrug. ‘No secrets.’
‘Well, if she’s as good a profiler as she is a pretty girl, then we’ll catch this bastard in no time.’ Two women wheeled prams on the pavement, chatting in the sunshine.
O’Neill chuckled. ‘That’s it, Pat, nothing like a bit of sexism to start the morning, eh?’
Brady laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
The lights changed and he moved off.
Without realising it, O’Neill was lost in thought: he was uncertain about the case and where it might be headed. It was a feeling that he was not used to, at least not since the Helen Murray case four years ago. She had been attacked late one night coming home after work, and had been stabbed to death. Her body was found the next morning lying in the winter’s first snow by a boy on his way to school. It had been an intensive investigation but nobody was ever charged. A former boyfriend with a less than perfect alibi had looked good for it, but that was all. No evidence, nothing. Helen Murray never did get the justice she deserved. It hurt the investigation team badly, but O’Neill took it personally. It was the first time that he’d failed and the feeling stayed. He went over the case from time to time but nothing new ever showed up. ‘Can’t win them all,’ a voice inside his head said. ‘You can only do your best.’ It was something that Joe Dixon would have said, and that’s what he had done – his best. He was under the spotlight like never before, especially with the profiler involved, and he needed to focus. Getting some answers from David Ryan would be a pretty good start to the morning.
He got out of the car and it felt as though the rising heat was trapped between the trees and tall houses. He noted the dust on his shoes when he walked across the road, and the leaves above that lay dead still. Nothing stirred in the hot summer air that had been late in coming and was now making up for lost time. He felt his shirt sticking to him and tugged it away. But it was only a momentary relief.
A pleasant smell drifted from the roses in Christopher Ryan’s garden. There were red and yellow bushes, neatly trimmed and tied up along one side of the garden, fronted by a small strip of grass. It, too, was neatly cut and the border was leaf-free. Probably had a gardener in every week, he thought, as he and Brady climbed the granite steps and rang the doorbell.
When the door opened, Christopher Ryan’s red eyes had softened and he appeared calmer than on the previous day. His short-sleeved shirt, pressed dark trousers and polished slip-on shoes attested to it. It was an attempt at normality and it was good to see, thought O’Neill, as Ryan invited them inside and closed the door. ‘Good morning, Inspector, any news?’
‘No, nothing yet. It’s very early in the investigation but we are doing our best. We have a team in place, Mr Ryan, but I still need to talk to your brother. How is he today?’ asked O’Neill, noticing the years that seemed to have been added to Ryan’s face overnight. Although he’d obviously showered and shaved, the darkness inside couldn’t be hidden.
‘Much better, he’s much better, considering …’ said Ryan.
The two policemen nodded, this was good.
‘A doctor came after you left yesterday and gave him something. Helped him sleep. He’s the better for it. He needed it.’
‘That’s good to hear. Plenty of sleep is always good,’ said O’Neill. ‘Can we speak to him? I do need to ask him some questions and sooner would be better. I’m sure you understand.’
Christopher Ryan understood and went to get his brother. He pointed to the front room. ‘Please, I’ll be back in a moment.’
Pat Brady again looked up at the paintings on the high walls and smiled. He pointed to a large oil painting of girls on a sunny beach, the figures mere brushstrokes, but they rendered a beautiful impression.‘That one,’ he said, ‘is by Louise Mansfield and must have cost thousands. She’s wonderful, her stuff is very popular.’
‘And expensive too,’ said O’Neill, having a closer look.
Pat Brady pointed at the painting on the other wall. ‘And that one is by Graham Knuttel, and his stuff sells for even more. Mr Ryan is quite a collector.’
O’Neill looked at both paintings and preferred the girls on the beach. ‘I didn’t know that you were such a connoisseur, Pat. Kept that one quiet.’
Brady grinned. ‘Did art in school, liked it but I was never that good. I go to exhibitions in the National Gallery, and sometimes walk along Merrion Square on Sunday mornings, when the artists are there. Some lovely stuff on view … and some very ropey stuff, too. Anyway, it’s all in the eye of the beholder.’
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said O’Neill, hearing footsteps outside the door.
David Ryan looked better than he did yesterday, but then that wouldn’t have been hard. His eyes were not as red and he’d shaved. His face was pale, but he walked a little straighter. Good for him, thought O’Neill, nodding his hello.
The two brothers sat down on the long white sofa and Brady eased his way out of David’s eyeline and took out his notebook.
O’Neill sat opposite Ryan, not wishing to be looking down on him. He didn’t want to appear superior and wanted to observe David’s body language. A slight twitch of a facial muscle or the quick dart of an eye could tell so much – and, right now, he needed all the help he could get.
‘Good morni
ng, David, and I hope that you are feeling a little better.’
David Ryan nodded once. ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘That’s good, I’m glad to hear it.’
Christopher Ryan squeezed his brother’s shoulder.
‘Now, David, I know that this will be difficult for you, but I need to ask you some questions. I need to get whatever information you have so that I can find the person who killed Barbara. You understand?’
Another nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Excellent, and please tell me if you want to have a break. Take your time, that’s all I ask.’
David Ryan wiped his nose with a hankie, and looked at O’Neill. ‘I’m ready.’
O’Neill glanced at Brady. ‘David, have you any idea why this happened to Barbara? Is there anybody who she or you had difficulty with?’ O’Neill asked, his voice quiet and controlled.
David shook his head and looked up. ‘No, none whatsoever. Barbara was such a loving person, she wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve absolutely no ideas, none.’
‘Any problems with neighbours or at work? I mean, someone could be trying to get back at you for something. It may sound unlikely, but people do strange things.’
David bit his lip. ‘Nothing, Inspector.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing, over and over, but nothing. I can’t think of anybody who would want to hurt Barbara. Or me. Nothing. I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to be sorry, David, not at all.’ O’Neill paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘Friends, what about her friends, David? I wonder if they can help. You know how it is. Women talking with women, stuff they don’t discuss with us men. Who was she close to?’
Ryan answered immediately. ‘Jenny Collins is her best friend, has been since junior school.’ He looked at O’Neill. ‘They were supposed to be playing golf together yesterday. That’s what was strange when I got home.’
‘What was strange?’
Brady stopped writing and looked up.
‘Barbara’s car was in the driveway. She would normally make her way to the club and then be home for tea. So when I saw it there I thought that Jenny must have collected her.’ He sniffed. ‘She just got herself a new open-top sports car and loved driving around in it. Top down, of course.’
O’Neill smiled at the image. ‘And where can I find Jenny?’
Ryan reached into his pocket, took out his phone and read out Jenny’s number. Brady put it in his notebook.
‘And tell me, David, was Barbara a member of any other clubs or groups? Like a reading group, a tennis club or something?’
Ryan rubbed his face and held his hand to his mouth, thinking. ‘She used to go to the library, from time to time. She did not play tennis, and no, I never saw her paint or anything like that. She cooked, cooked very well. She liked trying new recipes and dishes, and loved all things Italian. And we liked to take walks.’
And that was it. A quiet life summed up in a few minutes. It was one of the things that O’Neill felt bad about and couldn’t really understand why. A life, be it seven years or seventy, could be summed up in a few sentences. All those dreams and emotions cut short, never to be fully realised; never seeing her husband again or any of her friends. Life could be cruel and he saw it written on David Ryan’s face. He was going to have a tough time ahead and O’Neill silently wished him well.
O’Neill rubbed a finger against his mouth. ‘David, we found a message on the answering machine. You said “sorry about last night”. Can you tell me what you meant?’
David Ryan exhaled. ‘I let Barbara down, Inspector. She had tickets to a Mozart concert in the National Concert Hall, but I forgot about it. I was working on a report for the meeting with the bankers, and it slipped my mind. Barbara was very upset.’
O’Neill glanced at Brady who shrugged. Next question.
O’Neill continued. ‘We are trying to establish an exact time for the crime, or at least as accurate as science allows, and we need to know where you were around 1:30p.m. After the meeting with your company’s bankers.’ O’Neill’s words were casually delivered, nothing sneaky or underhand, and he knew Brady was holding his breath.
Ryan looked at the carpet and coughed into his hand. ‘I was … at lunch.’
O’Neill leaned forward. ‘So, you didn’t go home?’
‘No, I did not go home, Inspector.’
O’Neill nodded. ‘Good. And where did you go for lunch?’
David Ryan shivered uncomfortably. His brother sensed something and stiffened. ‘I had coffee with a friend who lives on Strand Road.’
‘The one in Sandymount?’ queried Brady.
Ryan nodded, but kept his eyes on the carpet.
‘With …?’ asked O’Neill, suddenly aware of the change of atmosphere.
Ryan coughed into his hand and cleared his throat. ‘I was with Ann Lawlor.’
Christopher Ryan squinted, wincing slightly, wondering what was going on. David off having lunch with some woman that he had never heard off? That was a surprise. What next? What was he up to?
‘And I expect that this … Ann Lawlor can corroborate your story?’
Ryan nodded and his response was almost inaudible.
O’Neill had a quick glace over to Brady who remained stoney-faced, giving nothing away.
O’Neill glanced at Christopher Ryan who sat wide-eyed beside his brother. ‘And how well do you know Ann Lawlor?’
Ryan composed himself, exhaled loudly, and looked at O’Neill. ‘She used to work in the office, left last year. I, we, had a very short relationship, but that’s over.’
Maybe Brady was right after all, O’Neill thought. ‘When did this relationship start and end, Mr Ryan? This is very important.’
Ryan ran his fingers through his hair and sat upright. ‘It started after the office Christmas Party two years ago … and lasted until about Easter. Three months or thereabouts.’ His voice was stronger now, the benefit of ‘confession being good for the soul’ kicking in.
O’Neill had not expected what Ryan had just said, and knew it might be a game changer. ‘I appreciate what you’ve said and I will talk with Ann Lawlor as soon as I can.’ His tone was very serious. ‘I need to rule you in or out of this investigation, and right now Ann Lawlor is your best alibi.’ He stood up and buttoned his jacket. ‘I need her phone number and address, and do not try to contact her until after I speak with her. Is that clear?’ It wasn’t a question; it was an order.
‘I understand,’ said Ryan, and put his head in his hands. Christopher put his arm around his shoulder.
O’Neill stepped close to David Ryan. ‘What you’ve just told me puts a different complexion on things. So, before I leave, is there anything else I should know?’
Ryan shook his head back and forth. ‘No … nothing.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘I know I’ve been a fool, but I didn’t kill my wife, Inspector. You must believe me.’
O’Neill buttoned his jacket. ‘I don’t have to believe you or anybody else, David, at least until I have a word with your friend.’ He turned and headed for the door.
‘We’ll go and see her now,’ he said to Brady, opening the car door. ‘I want this cleared up immediately.’ He took his jacket off and tossed it angrily into the back seat.
Brady nodded, but said nothing. He was right after all; the husband did it. The quiet man had been tempted by some young thing and finally snapped. It was the oldest story in the world, and David Ryan was only the latest fool.
Less than ten minutes later they were outside Ann Lawlor’s house.
‘Right,’ said O’Neill, ‘this should be straightforward. I’m not concerned, right now, about their relationship, I just need her to confirm.’
‘Or deny,’ chipped Brady.
‘Or deny, his story.’
O’Neill rang the bell
and got no reply. He tried a few more times while Brady looked in the front window. ‘Take a look around the back, Pat,’ O’Neill said, just as the next-door neighbour opened her front door.
‘She’s not in,’ she said, looking at both men. She was probably in her sixties, O’Neill reckoned, and her eyes never left them. Her dark hair, laced with silver streaks, was tied up in a bun and she wore little or no makeup. She didn’t need it – she was a very good-looking woman. Her hands rested on her hips and O’Neill felt that she had been working. Gardening, maybe.
O’Neill showed her his ID. ‘I’m Inspector O’Neill and I’m looking for Ann Lawlor. She lives here?’
The neighbour nodded.
‘And you are?’
‘Tara Feeney. I’ve known Ann since she moved in … about nine years ago. She’s a good neighbour.’
O’Neill listened and made a note. ‘That’s good to hear. These days, it seems as if the concept of being a good neighbour is almost gone.’
Tara Feeney smiled.
‘When did you last see her?’ O’Neill asked as Brady got up on the wall and dropped down into the side passage.
Tara Feeney looked O’Neill over, from bottom to top. ‘Yesterday. She put a small travel bag into the backseat and drove off. She often goes away, it’s not unusual. She has a summer chalet in west Cork. She’s probably down there. She’s an artist, you know, and has a studio there.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s lovely down there, in Baltimore. You really feel away from it all when you’ve spent a few days there. Life is very slow, you know.’
O’Neill grinned. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, from time to time.’ He closed his notebook as Brady jumped down, shaking his head – nothing. ‘Nice talking with you,’ O’Neill said, and closed the gate behind him. There was nothing more to do here, so they headed to the station as the neighbour watched them go before heading back indoors.