by Don Cameron
Grant was listening carefully and enjoying the view. Christine Connolly was wearing a cream shirt and slim-fitting pants that help show off her eye-catching figure. Her perfume, subtle and intense at the same time, drifted in a room more used to strong, blunt aftershave. It was a pleasant change and much appreciated.
‘The phone call to the house minutes before he’s seen by the neighbour … it makes sense.’
Grant nodded, and sniffed deeply.
‘He knew that she was alone, definitely, and so he could carry out his plan.’ Connolly grinned. ‘He’s very good, this guy, and loves being in control. It’s all about control.’
Grant’s brow lifted.
Connolly stood in front of his desk. ‘This is no random act. No way. This guy has planned it, and planned it well. It’s what drives him. The need to control the situation is everything. He’s in charge. He needs to be in charge.’
Grant sat up. ‘And if he needs it, as you say, does that mean he’ll need to do it again?’
Connolly turned and looked down on the busy sunlit street where shoppers and skateboarders moved. ‘The murder was not about robbery, rape or any of the normal types of attack. It’s deeper than that. Our man will feel stronger now, and yes, I think he’ll do it again.’
‘Shit,’ said Grant, putting his hands behind his head. ‘Are you saying we might be looking for a serial killer?’
Although only one person had been killed, the manner of the attack suggested more were to come. The case had barely started and it was already clear that things were going to get worse. Connolly turned, looked at Grant, and without saying a word, went off to the restaurant.
*
Downstairs in the cool of the basement, Dave Conroy was sitting at a computer and feeding it questions. He started with attacks in which pens or pencils were used and, after getting no hits, moved onto skewers and other pointed objects. He refined his search for attacks in households and on women that bore any likeness to Barbara Ryan’s fatal one. He sat back, lit a cigarette, and waited while the electric brain did its thing.
It was a thankless task. He took a long drag, exhaling through his nose. A line of green dots ran along the screen as the search continued in silence and Conroy leaned back in his chair, thinking. Thinking about the information that might have been input about a crime and wondering if he was using the right words to get a hit. Shit in, shit out. He grinned at the phrase used by the techies to stress the importance of inputting information correctly. It was that simple. You put shit information in, you get shit information out. He took another drag and hoped that someone had their shit together when they were inputting. He crossed his fingers and watched the dots.
Smoke hung in the room and he put out his cigarette. He stood up, stretching his legs. Around him, metal cabinets stretched almost to the ceiling and wrapped themselves around the walls of the room that was kept at a constant temperature to preserve the documentation. He was happy to be out of the stuffy room upstairs where Grant was sitting close to Christine Connolly. Lucky bastard, he thought. He was about to light another cigarette when the computer screen changed and displayed a message, ‘Match Found’, listing five file numbers.
‘Fuck me,’ he said, and wrote down the information. He looked at the numbers and wondered, and hoped. No, it can’t be that easy, he thought. He pushed his chair back, stood up, and ran his fingers along the list of file numbers, willing a connection. Carefully working his way around the room, one by one, he pulled the case files out. He recorded the case file numbers in a ledger that rested on a shelf by the door, secured by a chain to the wall. Sensitive information like this had to be accounted for at all times, and everyone knew that Doyle was a stickler for this. Only last year an officer had been in serious trouble for not recording his removal of such a file and Doyle had made an example of him. A reminder in large black letters hung above the ledger – Sign Out or Get Out.
Conroy closed the door and, with the files under his arm, went to the restaurant for a coffee. And a think.
*
O’Neill was at his desk when Connolly came back into the office.
‘Any luck with the interviews?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she replied, and told him what she had already told Grant.
‘Jesus, that’s all we need,’ he said, and exhaled loudly. ‘A fucking serial killer, are you serious?’
‘As serious as I can be, sir. I’m thinking as a profiler, looking at the evidence and making assumptions.’
‘Assumptions,’ shot O’Neill. ‘I need more than assumptions. Assumptions never caught a killer, did they?’
Paul Grant watched the exchange and said nothing.
Connolly wasn’t fazed not in the least, and gently brushed a loose hair behind her ear. ‘Sir, from what we know, and you agree it isn’t much, I’ve suggested a scenario, that’s all. It may be true, or it may not. I don’t know, and nor does anyone else, except the killer. But we must have a plan, just like the killer has. And if we follow it, and change it when necessary, then we have a chance to catch the killer. Otherwise we’re flying blind.’
O’Neill regretted his outburst and knew Connolly was doing her best. She was sticking to her guns and he liked that. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘What else have you got?’
Dave Conroy came in and left the files down. ‘Got a minute?’ he said to O’Neill.
O’Neill waved him over. ‘Go on,’ he said to Connolly.
‘As nobody else has reported seeing Clipboard Man, he looks good for this. He is a planner, we know that from him making the phone call before the attack, and a very plausible actor, because he got inside the house.’ She looked at Conroy and back to O’Neill. ‘A woman might open the door to anyone, but bringing them inside is much more interesting indeed.’ She paused. ‘I think that she knew her killer, and that’s why she let him in.’
Conroy spoke. ‘You think she knew him, and knew that he wasn’t a threat?’
‘Yes. She must have known him well and felt safe in letting him in. Now that raises a question.’
This time O’Neill spoke. ‘And what’s that?’
‘How did she know him? From where?’
There was silence in the room at the weight of her words.
O’Neill stood and paced up and down. ‘So we need to find a connection, right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Connolly, watching him closely.
He nodded. ‘Clubs, groups, classes or whatever she belonged to; someone must know something. But, of course, we might be completely wrong. We don’t know.’
‘No, sir, we don’t.’
Conroy pointed to the files on his desk. ‘I’ve checked files for the past three years for stabbings and found five cases that might help. A pen, pencil, or something similarly pointed was used, and I’m going to contact the victims to see what they remember.’
O’Neill held his hands up. ‘Go for it, Dave, we need something. And, Christine, thanks for your thoughts.’
She nodded. ‘It’s not much to go on …’.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘but we must consider all the options, whatever they are. I’ll tell Doyle, thanks.’
When O’Neill left the office, Paul Grant handed Connolly a list of businesses in the area that carried out surveys, including the local council. ‘That’s all I have,’ he said.
She looked at the long list, then back at Grant, and made a face. ‘No time like the present,’ she said, and picked up her phone.
After more than an hour of repeating herself to no avail, she got a business that might just be able to help. ‘The owner, Gerry O’Reilly, is on his way in. He’s stuck in traffic, an accident or something, but he’s the one to ask,’ said the receptionist, a young girl by the sound of it, thought Connolly, writing the address on her pad.
‘That�
��s great, I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘A result?’ asked Grant.
‘Could be. Some company called DropIt Deliveries in Ringsend, and they have carried out surveys, but the receptionist couldn’t say when. So I’m going to see her boss.’
‘You never know,’ said Grant. ‘You just never know.’
O’Neill came into the office and picked up his jacket. ‘I just got a call from a barrister. I have to be in court this morning to give evidence about that robbery in Stillorgan last year.’
‘The Post Office?’ asked Brady.
‘Yeah, the very one. The scumbag is banged to rights but you know how these things go. Especially when the barristers start all that flowery stuff. They can make these scumbags seem like altar boys.’
‘Best of luck,’ said Connolly.
‘Thanks, and I’ll see you all in the morning, or earlier if we get this thing finished.’
‘Busy boy,’ said Connolly, after O’Neill had closed the door.
Grant lifted his cup. ‘The best, not one for sitting around is our Inspector. He’s a doer.’
Connolly pushed her chair back. ‘We need more like him. He’s an interesting man.’ She didn’t try to hide her admiration.
‘Can’t stop the profiling, can you?’ Brady smirked.
She pursed her lips. ‘Force of habit, Detective.’
He knew there and then that she had ‘profiled’ all the officers on the case, and decided to leave it at that. ‘In that case, we should force our way down to Ringsend, and drop in on DropIt Deliveries.’
Connolly shook her head. ‘I don’t think you’re going to make it as a comedian, Detective. In fact, I know you’re not, so just leave it and drive. Deal?’
‘Deal it is, but I’ll have to get a pool car.’
They collected the car from the car pool manager and headed for Ringsend. A flotilla of yachts, their sails rippling in the breeze, made their way across Dublin Bay. It was a postcard image with a few puffy clouds to complete the scene.
The traffic on Strand Road was light. ‘This is where our Inspector runs every morning,’ said Brady, tapping the window in the direction of the beach where the tide was on the way out.
‘Looks like a great place to do it. Lucky man. And what do you do in the morning?’ she asked, looking over at the twin towers of Poolbeg Power Station.
‘I,’ he started and wondered if this was some sort of loaded question. She was a profiler after all and, by her own admission, was always at work. ‘I jog in Marlay Park – up in Rathfarnham most mornings. Good for my leg. At least that’s what the physiotherapist says.’ He ran his hand over his left thigh. ‘It’s beginning to feel stronger recently, so maybe in another month or so I’ll be fit to play tennis in the club again.’ He felt hot under the collar and decided he had said enough.
‘Accident?’
Brady glanced at her and then back to the road. ‘Trying to stop a scumbag escaping with a load of money stolen from a betting office. Myself and another officer gave chase in our car and when the scumbag’s car crashed I got out and chased him.’
‘Go on, what happened next?’
‘Well, I rugby tackled him, and in doing so I smashed my leg against a lamppost. Didn’t break it, but ...’.
‘And the thief?’
‘He banged his head on the pavement and was knocked out. Hope it knocked some sense into him, but I doubt it.’
‘I’m impressed, Detective. What a busy and brave bunch you are. No wonder Chief Doyle is so highly thought of in HQ with such a good team around him.’
Brady grinned. ‘Thanks, and yes, we are a good team.’
They drove through Irishtown, around the sharp curve where the local library was, and turned into Thorncastle Street. He parked near the old church and the smell from the Liffey was both pungent and unpleasant. A cargo ship heading down the river blew its horn and the seagulls took to the air, screeching an angry response.
Christine Connolly pressed the bell and spoke into the intercom. She pushed the door and they stepped into a narrow hall where motes of dust floated in the streaky sunlight. Stacks of pamphlets of many different sizes lay against the wall, ready for distribution. ‘Must be busy,’ she said, and took the first step on a creaky staircase.
At the top of the stairs, a young girl sat on a chair polishing her nails. As Connolly thought earlier, she was probably only twenty years old, but like so many young girls, she was trying to look older. She wore a black T-shirt, tight black jeans with boots and too much black mascara that did a good job of hiding her attractive brown eyes. What a waste, she thought, and smiled at the girl.
A radio was tuned to a rock station that blasted out the Thin Lizzy favourite ‘Jailbreak’. The girl reached over and killed the sound when she saw the two police officers.
‘You must be the police,’ she said, and glanced from Connolly to Brady, and back again.
‘Yes, we spoke earlier. Is Mr O’Reilly in yet?’
‘Yeah, he got here a few minutes ago. I told him you were coming.’ She got out from behind her desk. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here. Just a mo.’
Connolly and Brady could see into the room behind the receptionist’s desk, stacked with more leaflets and bibs, stencilled with ‘DropIt’. In the corridor leading to O’Reilly’s office, piles of leaflets waited their turn to be put through an unsuspecting letterbox.
‘Recession proof,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
‘I wouldn’t have believed it, but appearances can be deceiving,’ Connolly replied, looking at the impressive work in progress.
‘I didn’t think that I’d ever hear you saying that,’ he said, poking his head into the room with all the leaflets.
‘Live and learn, that’s what I say,’ she replied. They could hear a man’s voice on the phone at the end of the corridor. ‘Gotta go,’ it said. ‘I’ve got visitors,’ and he hung up.
Gerry O’Reilly waved them into his room and pointed to a pair of chairs. ‘Please take a seat. Now, how I can help you?’
Surprisingly, his room was almost paper free. There was a filing cabinet and television set in one corner and a coat stand in another with a cream jacket hanging on it. O’Reilly sat behind a mahogany desk and checked out his visitors, his eyes flicking anxiously between them. His hair, dark and greying at the temples, was short, and his pink cheeks and forehead said that he’d been in the sun recently.
Connolly spoke. ‘I am investigating a case and have reason to believe that the person I am interested in might have carried out a survey recently. You know, the house-to-house type of thing. And I want to know if you’ve done any work like that lately?’
O’Reilly was surprised and he couldn’t hide it. He blew out a stream of air. ‘Crikey, what a question! I thought you might be calling about something else!’ He looked quickly from one to the other.
Connolly leaned forward in her chair. ‘Believe me, Mr O’Reilly, I have no interest in your business other than what I’ve just asked. Rest assured.’
O’Reilly’s shoulders relaxed. ‘We don’t do much survey work nowadays. Clients say it’s too expensive, especially with the internet and everything. Things are very tight out there, you know.’
‘You seem to be doing okay with all those leaflets and papers stacked about the place,’ Brady said, instantly regretting butting in. This was Connolly’s call and he told himself to shut the fuck up. So, he shut the fuck up.
‘We’ve been lucky, I guess,’ said O’Reilly, ‘but it’s still not easy. I need everything I can to keep the ship afloat. These days, if you don’t advertise then you die. People think you’re out of business and before long, that’s exactly where you are. It’s the old phrase of “speculate to accumulate.’’ ’
‘Surveys?’ said Connolly, reminding him.
‘
Sorry. Surveys, yes. Let me check.’ He pulled over his keyboard and started to type. He made faces as he looked at the information until he found something. ‘Did a survey in Kilmacud and another one in Stillorgan last year, that’s all I’ve got. Any use?’
‘Nothing in Booterstown or Blackrock?’
He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of, but ...’.
His visitors were looking intently at him. ‘But what?’ asked Connolly.
‘But … sometimes small jobs don’t always make it onto the system. Know what I mean?’ he said, and his face reddened.
‘As I said, Mr O’Reilly, I don’t care about your off-the- books work. I take it that’s what you’re referring to?’
O’Reilly reached up and loosened his shirt button – he suddenly needed air to breathe. He nodded.
‘Like I said, I really don’t care and nothing you say will leave this room. So, what can you tell me?’ Connolly was firm but fair as O’Reilly tossed a coin in his head and saw the way it fell. It was heads.
He spoke quickly, wanting this interrogation to be over. ‘You’ll have to speak to Dano; he’s the best man to answer your questions. Kathy will give you his number. It’s the best I can do.’ He opened his hands, indicating that that was all he could tell her.
Brady wrote down the name. ‘And who is, Dano?’ asked Connolly, happy now that she had a thread to follow.
‘He’s my distribution manager. Well, that’s what I call him anyway. Been here for four, maybe five years, and knows his way around. Most people come for a few months and disappear. And if I don’t pay cash in hand then I don’t have a business. You understand?’
‘I understand very well.’
‘Good, that’s good. I can’t help you any more, so I’ll have Kathy get Dano’s number for you.’ He was a relieved man and couldn’t wait for them to be off the premises. Outside, Kathy gave them the number and Connolly asked if Dano was working today.
Kathy ran a finger along a chart on the wall behind her desk. ‘He’s working in Sandymount today. Around the Green, Gilford Road and Park Avenue. They’re doing a drop for an insurance company and a new health spa. You can’t miss him,’ she added.