by Don Cameron
‘And why would that be?’ asked Connolly.
‘He’s six feet tall and has long fair hair. Sometimes he wears it in a ponytail. You’ll see what I mean.’ A nervous giggle escaped and she stopped it with her hand.
‘Thank you, Kathy, you’ve been a great help. Bye now.’
Back in the sunshine, Brady looked at Connolly but said nothing.
‘Alright,’ she said ‘seeing as we are so close we might as well check him out.’
‘So, off we go and see lover boy.’
Connolly laughed. ‘Yes, that was obvious!’
They drove back past the library but took the right onto Tritonville Road, a sweeping left onto Sandymount Road and finally into the Green. Five roads met around the small green park that was surrounded by high railings, and where children played in the sun. A statue of W. B. Yeats, who was born only a few hundred yards away, kept silent guard on the fun and games.
The sun was high in the sky and the small houses afforded no shade as they drove.
They passed Sandymount Avenue but didn’t see anybody wearing a DropIt day-glow yellow bib. Gilford Park was on the right but Brady kept on straight, eyes searching for the bright bibs. He eased around to the left and at the corner of Durham Road, Connolly shouted, ‘Stop, I see something!’
Brady parked the car and they got out. There were two men with satchels, each wearing the distinctive bib, working the street on one side each.
‘Let’s have a word,’ said Connolly.
They walked towards them past tidy gardens in front of much sought-after houses with the desired Dublin 4 address. Location, location, location, Brady thought.
Connolly recognised Dano from the description, his fair hair hanging loose, hiding the wire from his music player. He spotted her as he closed a gate and took the earphones out, dropping them into his satchel. He stopped.
‘Have you been expecting me?’ asked Connolly.
He smiled. ‘Sure have, wondered what was keeping you.’ He ran his fingers through his hair and Connolly understood why Kathy had said, ‘You can’t miss him.’ Dano was over six feet tall, with fair hair that fell to his shoulders, and a charmer’s grin. Kathy would be putty in his hand, as would a lot of other girls. She knew he was checking her out as his eyes casually looked her up and down. She was used to it by now. She offered no encouragement, certainly not while on duty. It was just part of the game.
Connolly displayed her ID and explained why they were there. ‘Any surveys recently?’
He looked down and ran a hand across his mouth. ‘Naw, nothing like that for ages. Not since last year at least. It’s all drops now. It’s cheaper.’
Connolly decided to open up a little. ‘I’m looking for someone who is shorter than you with dark hair. Maybe not as long; to his collar. Mean anything?’
Dano shrugged. ‘God, that could be any of a number of dudes who’ve worked with me. It’s not much to go on, is it?’
‘No, I’m afraid it’s not.’
Brady leaned over to Christine. ‘Clipboard.’
‘Right,’ she said, ‘nearly forgot. When you carried out the surveys last year, did you each have a clipboard?’
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I still have mine back in the office. It’s in the store room.’
‘Good. But what about the others, did they hand in their clipboards?’
Across the road the other man with the yellow bib stopped. ‘Alright, Dano, need a hand?’
Dano turned. ‘No problem, Macker, we’re just talking. Go on, I’ll catch you up. Okay?’
Macker took a long look before he opened the next gate and went in.
‘Off the top of my head I can’t tell you, it’s over a year ago. In this business there’s such a huge turnaround of faces. Here one day, gone the next, that’s the way it goes.’ He picked up his satchel and rested it on his shoulder.
‘Tell me, Dano,’ she said, her voice quieter, friendlier, ‘why do you do it?’
He smiled genuinely. ‘It pays okay and Mr O’Reilly allows me organise the work schedule. I can suit myself, pick the best routes, and then keep an eye on the others. It works. And …’.
The two police officers waited.
‘… it gives me time to write.’
‘You’re a writer,’ said Connolly, ‘how interesting. What kind of stuff do you write?’
He drew his fingers through his hair and shook it loose. ‘Mostly short stories, I’ve had a few published.’
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Who would have thought?’
He grinned. ‘Now I’m writing a novel. Science fiction, sci-fi, you know the type? Should be finished by the end of the summer. That’s the plan anyway, so wish me luck.’
‘Best of luck,’ said Connolly. ‘I hope it works out for you.’ She opened her bag, took out a business card and handed it to him. ‘If you think of anything, anything at all, please contact me.’
Dano looked at the card. ‘I’m playing football with a few of the guys who used to work for DropIt in Herbert Park later and I’ll ask around. It’s the best I can do.’ He slipped the card into his shirt pocket. ‘You’ll be the first to know, Detective Connolly.’ He popped his earphones back in and continued on his round.
‘What does the profiler think?’ asked Brady, barely hiding his contempt.
‘He’s a handsome boy, don’t you think?’
‘Hmm,’ he said, begrudgingly. ‘His type lives on the edge of legality, always will. It’s genetic.’
Connolly watched Dano as he sauntered along the path, bag hanging casually from his shoulder, lost in music. ‘He’s not looking for trouble, he’s … just being a bit of a smartass. He’s a confident sod, I’ll give you that, but I don’t think he’s a bad sort. So I guess we’ll just have to wait and see if he finds out anything.’
He started the engine. ‘Fair enough, but if we hear from him, I’ll buy you lunch.’
She thought about that for a moment and decided that he was probably correct. ‘You’re such a non-believer, aren’t you?’ she said, facing him. ‘And I’d like a big pizza from Bits & Pizzas the day Dano calls.’ She smiled at the idea as they drove past the strand, where joggers and strollers were enjoying the sunshine.
Brady wasn’t sure what to say; he didn’t want to get drawn into anything with this clever woman, so thought it best to keep quiet for now.
14
Dave Conroy made the short drive to Eaton Square. He parked beside the small green around which terraces of Edwardian red brick huddled close. The park was busy with adults and children enjoying the sunshine. Trees moved easily in the breeze, their leaves and sunbeams dappling the path in small abstract shapes. The salty sea-air drifted warm and cool over the school building at the bottom of the square, where a weathervane on a chimney turned slowly.
After hours spent on the telephone, Conroy had established that one of the five victims he was interested in was dead. Killed in a car accident almost two years ago. Two of the women had left Ireland and a fourth was living in Castlebar, County Mayo. She had nothing to add and started crying hysterically before slamming the phone down. So, he was left with one name, a woman just back from holiday, and who was probably not in the best mood to answer painful questions. Shit happens, he thought, and hoped that he could get something, anything, to help the case. What he was doing was a longshot, but it was a shot, nonetheless.
Conroy opened the gate and saw a curtain upstairs twitch. He wasn’t surprised, and walked past a small plot of grass that was in need of cutting. A rose bush, its pink flowers open in full bloom, stood beside the porch and he sniffed a beautiful bouquet. He pressed the doorbell.
The door opened a few inches and a woman looked out. ‘Yes?’ she asked.
Conroy passed over his ID, which she examined closely.
‘I
called earlier,’ he said calmly.
The woman looked closely at Dave Conroy and then at his card. A moment passed until the door opened fully and Margaret Power handed back the ID and invited him in.
The hall was narrow with a white rug on a polished wooden floor. A grandfather clock that stood beside the stairs chimed and Conroy saw his reflection in the glass front. Two travel bags lay unopened on the floor. They would have to wait; police business and old nightmares took precedent. It wasn’t the way it was meant to be, but that was the way it was.
They moved to the kitchen and she pointed to a chair. Conroy sat down, placing his notebook on the farmhouse-style table.
‘Like a drink?’ she asked. ‘I’m having one.’ It sounded as though she needed it.
Conroy held his hands up, protesting. ‘No, thank you, a coffee would be fine.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on then.’ She filled it, plugged it in, and poured herself a glass of red wine. A large glass.
She opened a cupboard and took down a cup, coffee and milk from the fridge. As she did this, Conroy looked around a room that was tidy but fitted with all the necessities. Fridge, cooker, glass-fronted cupboards and the old pine farmhouse table where he was sitting. Five more matching chairs made a stylish, rustic set. A wine rack held a dozen full bottles and Conroy wondered how long they would last. Not too long if I was living here, he thought, and checked himself.
Margaret Power put his coffee on the table and sat down opposite him. She took a long sip of her wine and folded her arms. ‘So what do you want to know?’ Her tone was friendly, but wary.
‘I’m not sure.’
Her eyes narrowed, confused.
‘I’m involved in a case that I think has some similarities to yours. A woman called Barbara Ryan was murdered a few days ago, in Booterstown. Did you know that?’
‘No, no I didn’t. As you can see I’ve just come home – how could I?’
‘Of course, but I had to ask.’ He paused and looked at his notes. ‘Her case and yours may not be connected, of course, but I have to check this out. You understand?’
She nodded.
‘So, your attacker, is there anything that you can remember about him? I’m sorry to reopen an old wound, but it might be important.’
The face that looked back at him couldn’t hide the pain that was lurking just behind her eyes. The Spanish holiday had left its mark with a healthy suntan on her face and arms, and her blonde hair was bleached almost white. She was a picture of health, but her eyes couldn’t hide her nervousness.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, composing herself. ‘It was horrible, really horrible, and I try not to think about it. He nearly killed me, you know. I was very lucky, Detective.’
Conroy nodded. ‘I know, I’ve read the file.’ There was nothing to add.
‘A file, what does that say about the horror of it all? You can’t quantify that, can you?’ She spat the words out and shivered at the ugly memory.
Conroy said nothing, but he watched her closely.
‘Nothing, that’s what it says. Absolutely nothing.’ She held up a hand. ‘Sorry, sorry, it’s not your fault, Detective, but it can still be very raw. Alright?’
‘I’m sure it’s difficult … please take your time.’
Margaret Power put her chin on her chest and closed her eyes again. Thinking about that night, the night things changed, was painful, and Conroy saw her wince. He’d interviewed victims before and every time it was different. Some of them, who had put it behind them and moved on with their lives, spoke in the third person; distancing themselves from the event, as if somehow it hadn’t happened to them. It was their way of coping and who was he to judge them? They had survived and that was what mattered.
For others it was an every day thing.
In the garden beyond, Conroy saw the trees sway to a gentle rhythm, their leaves bathed in the sunshine, as Margaret Power relived her horror. The fear lived deep, a cancer of the mind that only time and love could hope to cure. The ripples of that night just kept on rolling, a sick, perverted tide that brought only pain and tears.
She looked up, her eyes glazed, close to more tears. ‘He called me a slut.’ She sighed.
‘A slut,’ echoed Conroy, and wrote the word.
‘Yeah, I remember that bit. “A slut, you’re all the same,” he kept shouting. It was insane.’ She buried her face in her hands.
The room was silent.
Conroy took a sip of coffee and wrote slowly, thinking. ‘And his voice, what was that like?’ he asked.
‘Normal, I guess. From Dublin definitely, but …’.
Conroy tapped the pen against his lip watching her all the time. She was a beautiful woman and he was at a loss, a complete and utter loss, to understand why someone attacked her. Why: such a small word that asked such big questions.
‘Do you remember anything else about him, anything at all? Do you think that he was taller than you?’
She took a sip of wine and swirled the glass slowly. ‘Yes, a little, and I also remember thinking that he smelled like an old boyfriend.’
Conroy raised an eyebrow, not daring to probe.
Margaret Power saw the look on his face and sniffed. ‘What I mean is that he used to smoke those strong-smelling French cigarettes. That’s the smell I remember.’ She drank some more wine and put the glass on the table. ‘That’s it, Detective, that’s all I can tell you.’ She pulled back the collar of her blouse and rested a finger on a small scar. ‘That’s what the bastard left me, Detective. Another inch and I might not be talking to you.’
Conroy made another note and then looked across the table. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ He paused. ‘I am very sorry that you had to go through it all again.’
Margaret Power rose. ‘If it helps put the bastard away then I’d do this every day, Detective. Believe me.’
He believed her and now saw the fight in her eyes. ‘Fool me once, but not any more,’ they seemed to say, and that was good.
He said goodbye and walked down the path. He stopped and turned. ‘Thanks again, and I’ll let you know what happens.’
Margaret Power was watching him closely. ‘Nobody did the last time.’
‘Last time?’
‘Yes, last time,’ she said firmly. ‘Nobody bothered to get back to me then.’ The door closed before he could reply, and Margaret Power was alone again with bags to unpack and painful memories to overcome.
Connolly was updating the board when Conroy arrived back. He told her about his meeting with Margaret Power and his observations. More names and words, but there was still no connections. Nothing. No change. It was as if Barbara Ryan’s murder was just another random act of violence, and her killer was in the wind. Gone.
15
He was ready.
He knew it, could feel it … he could almost taste it. He felt a shiver of excitement tingle down his spine. He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror.
Taste blood. Wow, he hadn’t thought of that before. That would be different … really different.
He allowed the curl on his lip to grow and he knew what he was going to do. It had been a week since he had done Barbara Ryan and the urge to act again had grown steadily. He could not deny it. He did not want to deny it. Things had changed. He had changed. He was different now … stronger. Stronger like he’d never known. Since he’d crossed that murderous line he walked taller. Now he was the keeper of the most secret of secrets. As he went about and passed people in the street, he knew that none of them had the slightest idea that he was – and had become – a killer. He had risen above them all, and now he looked down upon the little people as they scampered and jostled, going nowhere. He had grown and tonight he would grow even stronger. There was no stopping him, and he felt his lip curl a little more.
> She looked at him, smiling, unaware of what was to come. He touched her picture and felt a delicious tingle in his groin. Mmm, yeah, this was going to be nice, real nice.
He thought about her now and the anger increased. His breathing quickened but he took a few deep breaths to slow everything down. ‘Control, stay in control – it’s everything. You can do it, you must do it, you will do it – you were meant to do it.
*
He zipped up his black leather jacket, pulled on his helmet and closed the door. The roads were quiet as he cruised through Blackrock and turned left onto Mount Merrion Avenue, cranked the accelerator and zoomed up the long hill. He swung right on to Stillorgan Road and soon turned into the college campus at Belfield. He had made this trip many times and knew the layout intimately. He drove past the empty security gate, put out the headlight and moved quietly up the small rise past the trees and car park on his left. He was watching all the time but nobody was about. He parked the motorbike against a tall bush where it was almost invisible, and listened. He heard nothing.
He slipped his helmet off and laid it on the motorbike’s seat. The only sound he heard was the traffic on the main road that was now bathed in an orange-coloured, tungsten glow.
He scanned the glass buildings above him and saw only a few lights on. It was summer time and most of the college staff were away on holidays, except for a few academics putting in some hard-earned research. She would be coming from the Science Block on the other side of the lake, soon. He felt the excitement rise. He checked his watch and slowly, carefully, made his way past the research centre, and stopped. He saw her car, parked where he expected it to be, and slipped a small hammer from his jacket. He tapped the ground with it. He was ready.
He was crouching behind a small copse of bushes when he heard her footsteps climbing the incline to the car park. He stood up slowly, looked around, and saw that she was alone. It was time.
He let her walk past before he swung the hammer, hitting her on the top of the head. He was drawing the hammer back again when she buckled and fell heavily to her knees, her whimper almost unheard. He hit her again and felt her blood splatter on his face. He could taste her. He was wild, feral, as he swung and hit her again. She moaned her last desperate breath. ‘You’re all the fucking same,’ he hissed into her ear and savagely jabbed a pencil into her neck. He was kneeling on her when she let out a final bloody wheeze and went limp.