by Don Cameron
11
Back at the station, Brady updated the board and drew a line from David Ryan to Ann Lawlor. It meant nothing, but it did show that something was happening.
O’Neill took off his jacket. ‘Right, Pat, try and contact Ann Lawlor and get her to call us immediately.
Brady nodded. O’Neill was finally seeing this murder for what it was: a crime of passion – and that the husband did it. He knew it all along, so why couldn’t O’Neill see it too? He didn’t care – he was right, and that’s all that mattered. ‘Sure thing, Danny, I’ll call her in a mo.’
O’Neill got a coffee from the restaurant and headed back upstairs where the heat was palpable, even with two fans on the go. He got the number from Brady and dialled Jenny Collins, Barbara’s best friend. His correspondence tray was filling up but it would have to wait. He took a quick look. Memos and more memos. And a schedule of dates from the Police Golf Society that he checked and approved.
‘Hello,’ said the female voice.
O’Neill introduced himself.
‘Oh,’ she said, the surprise obvious. ‘How can I help?’
He told her about his meeting with David Ryan, and that he now wished to speak to her. She was Barbara’s best friend, wasn’t she?
‘Yes, we were friends forever. Since we were in junior school.’ She sounded nervous. ‘Longer than I care to remember. Friends for life.’
He could hear the anguish in her voice; it was unmistakable. ‘I’m very sorry that you have lost such a good friend, but I would like to talk to you. The sooner the better.’
‘I’m at the golf club now and will be here for another little bit. I … just had to get out of the house, Inspector. Be among friends, you know.’ She sniffled. ‘I loved Barbara, and I’ll do anything to help.’
‘I hear what you’re saying. I’ll be along as soon as I can. How’s that?’
‘Fine, that’s fine. By the way, I’m at Foxrock Golf Club. Do you know it?’
‘I know it very well, played it many times. See you later.’
He checked his emails and read the report from Gary O’Connell. It was what he had expected, nothing new in it. Next, a joke from one of his golfing buddies brought a smile. And then a message from John O’Toole of The Local. Sniffing around, no doubt. He could wait, but Jenny Collins couldn’t.
*
Foxrock Golf Club was looking good in the late afternoon sunshine, its red-tiled roof adding to the warm glow. The car park was busy and O’Neill got a spot near the back and walked past the putting green where a few players were getting in some last minute practice. The smell of freshly cut grass was in the air when he walked to the back of the building and into the Secretary’s Office. Scorecards covered a table and various clubs stood against a wall waiting for their owners to return.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the man at the desk; his silver hair short and spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
‘Yes, I’m here to see Jenny Collins. She’s expecting me,’ O’Neill said, and showed his warrant card.
The man looked shocked. ‘Is there something wrong?’ he queried nervously, pushing his chair away.
‘Nothing that you should be worried about.’ He said no more and waited as the man passed him and went upstairs, shooting a quizzical look at O’Neill as he went. All around was the organised clutter that kept the club running – timesheets, handicap details, competition schedules and results. All very time consuming and important, but made easier these days by the computer that was purring away on the crammed teak desk.
‘This way,’ said the man. ‘She’s in the bar. Do you know where it is?’
O’Neill nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve been here before. Thanks,’ he said, and made his way up the red-carpeted stairs.
Jenny Collins waved him over, stood up and offered an elegant hand. ‘Hello, Inspector. Can I get you something to drink?’
‘A coffee will be fine.’
Coffees were ordered and they sat in a corner of the room far away from any eavesdroppers. Club gossip was one thing, but murder was something else altogether.
‘So how can I help, Inspector?’ asked Jenny Collins, eyeing him over the rim of her cup.
The woman across the table had been crying, her eyes red raw. She probably hadn’t slept last night and the makeup couldn’t hide the haggard look. She was distraught, tense and by the way she was tightly gripping her cup, angry. He knew the effect that a sudden and vicious murder had on family and friends – Jenny Collins was another casualty.
O’Neill put his cup down. ‘Firstly, may I say how sorry I am for the loss of your best friend. It’s not something that has happened to me, and I hope that it never does.’
Jenny Collins put her cup down and sniffled into a hankie. She let out a long sigh, and looked at O’Neill. ‘I’m sorry, you must think I’m an awful fool.’
O’Neill shook his head. ‘Nobody should be in your position, never.’
Jenny wiped her eyes with the back of hand. ‘God, I must look absolutely dreadful.’ She looked around but nobody was talking any notice.
O’Neill took a sip and put his cup down. ‘David says that you and Barbara were the best of friends, that you go way back.’
She nodded.
‘If you know her, sorry, knew her, so well, do you think that there was something in her life that might have caused this?’
She took her time before answering. A stray hair fell across her eyes and she brushed it away easily. She had a full figure in a white polo shirt that told him she was someone who kept herself fit. She was a walking advertisement for all those keep fit gurus, proof positive that you can look good if you want to. For a woman in her mid-forties, she would put many women twenty years younger to shame. But it was the green eyes above high cheekbones that were most striking. She must have broken quite a few hearts along the way, he thought, and will do so for a while longer. And seeing those eyes with their distant, uncertain stare was something he would not forget.
He waited, aware only of the woman across the table who was slowly gathering her thoughts.
‘What are you suggesting, Inspector?’
‘I’m suggesting nothing; I’m trying to find out why a woman – an innocent woman by all accounts – is murdered in her own home. Whatever you can tell me will be appreciated.’ He didn’t mention Ann Lawlor. He picked up his cup, took a sip, and held it between his hands.
Jenny Collins leaned forward. ‘If you’re thinking that she was involved in any funny stuff, you know, hanky-panky, then you’re barking up the wrong tree,’ she said slowly and with some venom. ‘That was not Barbara, never was. She …’ Jenny Collins banged her fist on the arm of the chair. ‘Never, do you hear me, Inspector? Never.’ She sighed and shook her head.
O’Neill held up a hand. ‘I’m not barking up any tree at the moment. In fact I wish I was, as there is very little to go on. Nobody knows anything.’ He put his cup down. ‘Apart from a neighbour’s vague memory of somebody talking to Barbara shortly before she was killed, we have nothing. Nada. So, is there anything you can tell me about your best friend? Anything at all?’ He stayed sitting on the edge of the chair, not retreating until he got an answer.
She twirled her cup in its saucer, uncertain how to say whatever it was she wanted to say. How do you sum up nearly forty years of friendship and get it to mean something useful? Something that would give a stranger an idea of the person concerned? It wasn’t going to be anything in-depth, just a thumbnail picture of the woman who had meant so much to those close to her, and whose death had turned their world upside down.
‘You’re right; she was my best friend. I was very, very lucky to know her. She was always there for me and played it very straight. No messing around. Passed her exams each year in school and college. No repeating for Barbara. No siree.’ She laughed at the memory. �
��She would go off to America or Australia and spend the summer working and making money so that she would have enough for the following winter, and for clothes. She loved nice clothes. She was very independent, Inspector. Always had some money if I was stuck, and God only knows how often that happened.’ She smiled at the memory. She looked around the bar, but at no one in particular. ‘She qualified as a solicitor but never practiced much,’ she added. ‘She worked part-time in a solicitor’s office, but it was nothing serious. She was on the committee here, and she liked to write short stories.’
‘Short stories?’
‘Yes, and they were very good. She had a number of them published. She was very proud of that.’
‘And when did she meet David?’
Jenny Collins looked into the distance, back to more carefree days. ‘In her last year in college. They met at some faculty party and she was smitten.’ She paused. ‘It does happen, Inspector.’
O’Neill made a face and drank some coffee.
Jenny Collins continued. ‘They got on really well and were married within eighteen months.’ She looked directly at O’Neill. ‘Sadly there were no children. She would have loved to have one, but it wasn’t to be, and she got on with her life. She was devoted to David. They were very close, Inspector. To be brutally honest with you, I envied her.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘It was the happy life that I and so many women seek, but few of us find.’ Her eyes glazed over, and she rubbed them with a hankie. She exhaled a deep sigh.
‘Did you never marry?’
Jenny Collins leaned back, the tension in her body easing a little. ‘Too busy, Inspector. I opened a boutique in the city and after many years of hard work, travelling and what not, I built quite a good business for myself. It took time and I had to be, well, selfish, if I wanted to succeed. That’s my story, Inspector.’ She smiled, anticipating his question. ‘And yes, I’ve known men but,’ she shrugged her shoulders, ‘never found the right one for me. You understand?’
‘I understand perfectly, and thank you for being so open. I didn’t mean to pry.’
She put a hand up. ‘I know you didn’t, but there it is. Still single and …’.
‘And driving your sports car, that can’t be bad,’ he joked, trying to sound as friendly as possible.
She shrugged. ‘Haven’t grown up yet, I guess. Maybe never will.’
The television was showing a golf competition and a loud shout went up when a player made a long putt. Outside, the sun was sinking, bathing the room in its orange and gold light.
‘So I take it you have no idea why Barbara was killed, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time?’
Jenny Collins shook her head slowly. ‘Nothing, Inspector. She was such a good person and with her it was a case of what you see is what you get. No secrets, no funny stuff. It wasn’t in her nature, Inspector. Not in a million years.’
‘And David, what about him?’
She frowned, surprised. ‘You don’t think that David did it, do you, Inspector?’
O’Neill pinched his nose. ‘I don’t think anything at the minute, but in cases like these the husband is always a suspect. It happens.’
Jenny Collins shook her head like a disappointed teacher asking a question and finding out that nobody was listening. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but David couldn’t do it, couldn’t have killed Barbara. He can hardly raise his voice.’ She leaned closer. ‘In fact, I’d say that he’s really a bit of a wimp. Nice, intelligent, yes, but a bit too soft.’ She took a sip of coffee and looked at O’Neill. ‘Did I really say that?’ she asked, and sat back in her chair.
‘Yes, you did, and thank you.’
They looked at each other for a long moment.
‘Finally,’ said O’Neill, ‘David said he thought Barbara was meant to be playing with you yesterday.’
Jenny Collins sat up, alert. ‘Yes, she was, and I wondered what was keeping her. She’s usually a good timekeeper.’
‘And did you try and contact her?’
‘I did. I phoned a few times, but the line seemed dead.’ She put her hand to her mouth shocked at her words. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that.’
O’Neill ignored the comment. ‘And tell me, what time was this?’
Jenny Collins still had a hand to her mouth. ‘It must have been around 2:30, or so. We were meant to play at four o’clock and I wanted to check that everything was okay.’ She reached into her bag and took out her mobile phone. She tapped buttons and said, ‘I called her mobile at 2:35 and again at 2:46. And I also dialled the landline at 2:49, but got nothing.’ She was thinking about what she had said, and realised that Barbara might have been struggling for her life when she was on the phone. It was an uncomfortable thought.
After that there was nothing more to say.
O’Neill stood and said goodbye to Jenny Collins. She had lost her best friend and he knew that she was still in shock, although she was doing well to hide it. She was a strong-willed woman and she was going to need all her reserves of inner strength to help her face the future. It was not something that he wished upon anyone, especially someone on their own, but if anyone could handle it, Jenny Collins could.
Security lights were on in the car park when he left and headed back home to Sandymount. It had been a busy day, but even so he hadn’t made much progress. The profiler might have found something, or at least have some ideas, but that could wait. He decided to go for a run in an effort to clear his head.
An hour later, he jogged slowly to a stop just past the old swimming baths, his mind a whirl of thoughts.
What if David Ryan was the ‘wimp that turned’? It was hard to believe, but it wasn’t looking too good for the accountant. And if he was the killer, then O’Neill really had to reassess his approach. And if that’s what he had to do, so be it. Was he losing his edge? He didn’t think so, but others would make the assessment. And Brady’s insufferable righteousness was definitely beginning to get under his skin, much as he hated to admit it. ‘Bastard,’ he heard himself say, and glanced around to make sure he was on his own. He took a few long, deep breaths, straightened up and started running again. Nothing was any clearer, so he ran on, hoping that the jumbled ideas floating around in his head would find a natural place in the unfolding scheme of things. It was all he could do, and besides, he needed the exercise.
12
He had been cruising on his motorbike from Blackrock to Killiney before stopping in Dalkey. The crowd outside The Queen’s pub was colourful and noisy, with everyone straining to look cool. That was vital, and as he cast his eyes about the jostling group he saw her. He pulled deep on his Galois and never blinked as the smoke drifted in front of his eyes. She was so like her ... so like the woman who caused so much pain....
She finished her cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into his face. ‘Like that, you little brat?’ she spat and laughed, running her fingers through her bleach-blonde hair. He just managed to duck as her swinging hand caught the top of his head a glancing blow. He ran from the table to his room and slammed the door shut. ‘That’s it, run away like your useless father!’ she shouted, ‘that good-for-nothing bastard ran away when I needed him most. He left us, he never wanted you ...’ . She stopped and he heard her bang the table hard. ‘The waster, the prick, he ruined my life!’ She was screaming now and he started to shake because he knew what was coming. ‘And you, you little ungrateful shit, are just like him. What the hell did I do to deserve this life? Je-sus! I was going to go to college, but look at me now. It wasn’t what I wanted, do you hear me?’ He pressed against the door and closed his eyes, not wanting to cry. He heard her push her chair back on the wooden floor and then suddenly the doorbell rang. There was a momentary silence and he heard her talking to a man. Her latest admirer, who like the other men only ever came around once or twice, and were ne
ver seen again. They all had a sly look in their eyes and showed no interest in him. But she didn’t mind. She laughed and pushed his door open. ‘I’m going out now, so behave.’ He didn’t say a word and waited for the front door to close. He was on his own now. He spent the evening drawing and sketching in his favourite art books until he fell asleep on his bed.
The next day after the man had left she started screaming again and burst into his room. He jumped up, trying to stop her from destroying his books. ‘No, no, please don’t!’ he pleaded, but she was stronger and pushed him away. ‘Men, they’re all the same, all the fucking same,’ she shouted, as she picked up his colouring pens, breaking them into small pieces. He was crying and shaking when she finished and walked out slamming the door behind her. All around the room the pictures that he had spent hours working on lay like confetti. His pens were smashed and he crawled about collecting the bits, hoping that he might be able to use some of them again. She had acted badly before, but never like this. He went about his business as quietly as possible, all the while vowing that one day he would get even. The tears stopped and he felt that something inside him had changed. He wasn’t sure what it was but he could feel it and didn’t fight it. The future would be his, and when the time was right, he would let her know it.
13
Christine Connolly closed the last folder. ‘Nothing, absolutely nothing,’ she said, and leaned back in the chair.
‘What’s that?’ asked Grant, looking up from his terminal.
Connolly composed herself and took a deep breath. ‘There’s not a mention of Clipboard Man in any of the interviews.’
‘None?’
‘Nothing at all, except what the neighbour saw. So, it looks like he might be our man after all.’ She stood up and walked over to the window. ‘It had to be part of his plan, had to be. Otherwise it makes no sense.’