by Don Cameron
He stayed there for a few seconds, tore the chain from her neck, and wiped his lip with the back of his hand. He could still taste her blood. He wanted to scream in exultation but stopped himself just in time. He was breathing hard, but he was in control. It felt great, better than before. He got even, just like he said, and she would never forget. He was a man who kept his word and soon they would all understand.
He rolled her body behind the copse, all the time listening intently. He heard nothing. Minutes later he put on his helmet, let the motorbike coast down the incline, slipped it into gear at the roundabout, and headed into the night.
16
He poured the last drop of wine into his glass and sat back. He had been thinking about the case for hours and he had a pain in his head. Across the room, Tiger, Liz’s cat, watched him. She had loved the cat and after she was gone it was a little reminder of her. ‘So, what do you think, Tiger? Any ideas? Because I’ve none.’
The cat moved its head sideways and then headed to the kitchen.
‘I know, I know. You want some food.’ He followed, finishing his wine and put some food down for the cat. ‘Right, I’m off to bed. See you in the morning … maybe.’
In his bedroom he stripped off and got into bed. His mind was still alive with ideas and they wouldn’t stop. ‘Please, let me sleep, please …’.
*
The sand squeezed between his toes, its heat ticklish and pleasurable. His sandals swung in his hand and the warm breeze filled his shirt. His other hand was around Liz’s waist and strands of her long dark hair flew, brushing against his face. He was smiling as they walked along the beach at Biarritz, the heavy rolling surf a noisy soundtrack.
He started humming.
‘What did you say?’ Liz asked.
‘ “On the Beach,” ’ he said. ‘It’s a song by Chris Rea.’
‘I know it. It’s a favourite of mine.’
He stopped and pulled her close, their noses almost touching. Her eyes were wide and smiling and the corners of her mouth turned up in a slow smile. ‘And you’re my favourite. Always will be.’ They kissed and Danny hoped that this moment would never end. He was happier than he had ever been, and held her tight.
Liz broke the kiss. ‘Easy tiger,’ she said playfully, smiling broadly. She touched his face gently, her fingers moving from his cheek to his lips. ‘Later,’ she said, and kissed him quickly on his nose.
‘I love you,’ he said.
She flicked her hair away from her face. ‘I know, and I’m a very lucky girl!’
He squeezed her again and she laughed out loud. ‘Later, baby,’ she said again. ‘Later.’
They walked on, hand-in-hand, their fingers entwined the way their bodies had been earlier that morning, and the way they would be later.
He started humming again and Liz leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I wonder if Chris Rea ever felt this good?’ Danny said.
Liz shook her head slowly and squeezed his hand. ‘I hope so, I really hope so.’
They continued along the beach; their matching footprints imprinted in the warm yielding sand. He was lost in the rhythm and felt his chest rise and fall in easy response.
The rhythm continued but seemed to be louder. How could that be? he asked himself, opening his eyes. The room was dark, the glow of the clock radio’s dial the only light. The time was 1:47a.m.
Liz was gone, in an instant, and he realised that he had been dreaming. It was painful, as he could still smell her scent and feel her touch. He let out a long sigh and the pain of her loss brought a tear to his eye. God, how he missed her.
His mobile phone continued to trill.
He reached over and picked it up. ‘Yeah,’ he gasped and pushed himself up against a pillow. His mind was buzzing; he closed his eyes, waiting for the bad news. Good news didn’t come at this hour.
‘Sir, looks like he’s done it again,’ said Dave Conroy, doing his best to stay calm.
O’Neill closed his eyes. ‘Fuck.’
‘Sir.’
‘Sorry, Dave, talk to me.’ He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Conroy spoke clearly. ‘A security guard doing his rounds in Belfield found the body of a woman. I’m at the scene and it looks as though she has a pencil stuck in her neck.’
O’Neill sat on the edge of his bed and looked down at his bare feet. He scratched his head and let it drop onto his chest. ‘Okay. Get a car to pick me up in thirty minutes. I just need to stick my head in the shower. What about O’Connell’s men?’
‘I’ve already contacted them, sir. O’Connell’s on his way.’
‘Good work, see you in a bit.’ He looked in the mirror before stepping under the shower and saw dark patches below his eyes. He looked and felt exhausted and realised that he had just swapped one nightmare for another. Is there no escape? he thought, and stood under the steaming-hot water, trying to forget everything, if only for a few minutes.
The bright lights were the first thing that O’Neill noticed as the police car passed the security gate. They cut a hole in the darkness, giving the place an eerie feel. Here we go again, he said to himself, and stepped out.
O’Connell’s men had already arrived and set up their bright halogen lights on tall metal stands. They flooded the car park where their Forensics Unit van was parked beside the only car in sight. Two young policemen were unrolling yellow crime scene tape from the branches of surrounding trees, cordoning off the area. As he looked up at the glass buildings beyond, O’Neill saw that they were all in darkness.
The Forensics Unit had already set up a white tent over the scene, and O’Connell and Conroy were standing a few feet away when O’Neill approached.
‘Well, what have you got?’ he asked.
Conroy glanced at O’Connell and then turned to his boss. ‘Angie Murphy, aged thirty-one, was a lecturer in chemistry. She’s had her head bashed in and there’s a pencil stuck in her neck. Almost the same as Barbara Ryan.’
O’Connell nodded in agreement.
Christ, thought O’Neill, a serial killer in Dublin. It’s madness, absolute bloody madness. This sort of thing never happens in Ireland, let alone Dublin. Sure, gangsters shot and killed each other, but at least that was between them: fighting over territory, drugs and whatever, but not killing defenceless women. No, this was different and he suddenly felt out of his depth. It was a scary feeling. Even with all his experience of murders over the last ten years, he knew that this was different. Completely different, but he had to show leadership – that’s what he was good at, and what Joe Dixon would expect. ‘Show me,’ he said, and the three men headed into the tent where O’Connell’s men were working the scene. One was taking photographs, another was using a video camera, while two others were on their knees searching for clues. A white marker had been placed on a patch of clay beside the tent. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
The technician looked up. ‘Looks like a footprint, possibly from a boot, so I’m going to take a cast of it.’ He looked up to O’Connell, who nodded for him to continue.
O’Connell pulled the tent flap open to reveal the broken and bloodied body. It lay face down, and the left arm was propped against the hedge. Her hair was almost entirely covered with blood that glistened sickly under the strong light.
O’Neill bent down and saw the pencil sticking out from below her chin and knew without doubt that he was after a serial killer. It was hard to take in. Thankfully, the victim’s eyes were closed and he wondered just who it was he was after. He thought about Helen Murray and how he had let her down. He told himself that this time he would get the bastard. It wasn’t that he wanted to catch the killer; he needed to. Like nothing before, this was his chance at redemption, and in a perverse, fucked-up sort of way, he was grimly satisfied at the thought of being able to prove himself.
He turned to O’Connell. ‘Right, Gary, I can leave this in your capable hands. Call me in the morning with your findings. Everyone will want to know about this one, okay?’
O’Connell’s eyes had seen the grisliest of murder scenes, but now they looked sad, and O’Neill couldn’t blame him. ‘He’s one sick fucker whoever he is,’ he said angrily. ‘I hope you get him before my guys do, Danny.’
O’Neill nodded agreement and thanked him with a thin smile. ‘I know you’ll do your best.’
Dave Conroy spoke. ‘The campus administrator is on his way. I’ll speak to him when he arrives.’ He pointed to the security camera outside the bank. ‘We may get something on the CCTV camera, so I’ve also contacted the bank manager.’
O’Neill looked around the car park and the darkness beyond. ‘Any idea of time of death, Gary?’
‘No, but we will when Shelly Tobin gets here.’
The mention of her name made O’Neill turn to face O’Connell. ‘Good, and make sure that she contacts me first thing.’ He looked around again, taking in the silence. ‘Looks like our man knew what he was doing.’
Conroy and O’Connell looked at him, and waited.
He drew his hand across his face. ‘He attacks late at night when it’s dark, and in a very quiet place. Apart from the traffic down on the main road this place is completely secluded. It’s perfect for an attack.’ He looked about the car park and the tall bushes that surrounded it. ‘This is not a random killing. No, this took some planning. Our guy knew about her movements, right down to her working late tonight.’ He rubbed his chin, deep in thought. ‘It wasn’t about getting lucky, he must have stalked this woman.’ He looked at the two men who were following his every word. ‘Now that’s worrying.’
‘Very fucking worrying,’ added Conroy, the words falling involuntarily from his lips.
All three men were silent, the hissing of the camera flashes disturbing their thoughts.
‘I’ll call Doyle now and I’ll see you in the morning, Dave. You can take care of things here, okay.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Will do, sir.’
‘I know, Dave.’ He turned to Gary O’Connell. ‘And we’ll speak early, okay?
‘As soon as ...’ he replied, and went back into the tent.
O’Neill phoned Doyle to give him the bad news, and his first thoughts on who might be responsible. He had never heard Doyle swear before and was surprised when he did. ‘Thanks for the call, Danny. I’m going to inform HQ. I’ll see you and the team first thing in the morning. Goodnight.’
O’Neill then realised that he had another call to make, and dialled.
A sleepy, surprised voice answered. ‘Yes …’.
‘Mr Ryan, this is Inspector O’Neill, and I need to know where your brother is.’
‘What? Do you know what time it is?’
‘Where is David, is he at your house? I need to know now, so please tell me if he’s there.’
Christopher Ryan exhaled loudly and O’Neill knew he was on the move, heading to check on David.
Moments later he spoke. ‘He’s in bed, Inspector. He’s fast asleep.’
O’Neill pursed his lips. ‘Okay, that’s fine. And he’s been there for hours?’
‘Yes, of course. I called my doctor and asked him to drop by and give David some sleeping pills. He’s been out since around ten o’clock. What is this about, Inspector?’
O’Neill took a deep breath. ‘I’ll see you in a few minutes, Mr Ryan. I’ll tell you then.’
The police car with it’s siren blaring headed down Stillorgan Road, as cars moved over and gave way. There was little traffic and O’Neill was running up the granite steps of the house in less than five minutes. A bedraggled Christopher Ryan opened the door and led him to where his brother was sleeping. He shook David and shouted at him but he was unconscious. He managed to groan a few times, and went to sleep again.
‘What is this about, Inspector? I demand to know.’ Christopher Ryan was standing with his hands in the air, demanding an answer. His eyes, now wide open, were boring into O’Neill.
O’Neill kept looking at David Ryan as his chest fell and rose in steady rhythm. He was definitely asleep, probably nearer to being unconscious, and O’Neill would talk with the doctor later. He turned to Christopher Ryan. ‘I have just come from another murder scene, Mr Ryan, and the victim also had a pencil in her neck, like Barbara.’ He let Ryan think about that for a few seconds. ‘And, although I believe in many things, I don’t believe in coincidence. Too flaky, too loose – however you want describe it. I believe in facts, Mr Ryan, it’s all there is.’ He looked down at David. ‘In cases of murder, especially in the home, we always look at the family first.’
Ryan didn’t say anything, but he was listening intently.
‘So when I find a second victim with a pencil stuck in her neck I want to know where your brother is. Understand?’
Ryan closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Yes, Inspector, I understand. And all I can say is that David has been here all night. The doctor gave him a shot of something to make him sleep, and you see it worked.’ They both looked at David who hadn’t moved a muscle.
O’Neill went downstairs with Ryan close behind. ‘I’ll want to speak with the doctor, Mr Ryan, so can I have his number, please?’
Ryan gave him the number. ‘I am very sorry, Inspector, to hear about the other murder. It’s almost impossible to believe. It’s …’.
‘... not a coincidence, Mr Ryan, but my case just became even more serious, if you can imagine that.’
Ryan didn’t answer and O’Neill went down the steps as the door closed behind him.
So much for Brady’s line about the husband being the killer. He was back to square one. Shit.
It was almost three in the morning now and there was a chill in the air. Although it was early June, it seemed particularly unseasonable and O’Neill shivered as he got into the waiting police car. He went home, fell into bed and hoped that the demons would leave him alone. They did, but not for long.
17
All the phones in the Detectives’ Room were ringing. The media vultures were up early and snapping for information when O’Neill took off his jacket and draped it on the back of his chair, just after eight o’clock. The weather forecaster on the breakfast TV news had said that it was ‘going to be a sticky one today’. He couldn’t help but grin at the man’s ironic words when he looked around the noisy, stressed office.
Dave Conroy had the look of a man who had had too little sleep. His skin was paler now than last week and his hair, although combed, was hanging untidily. He was wearing the same shirt that he had on last night and O’Neill didn’t blame him one little bit. It came with the territory and he certainly wasn’t going to give his assistant a hard time. He would pull his leg about it later and leave it at that.
At the board, Pat Brady studied the names and details collected so far and wrote something into a notepad. A few more details had been collected and now, sadly, another victim would be added. This really was the last place that you wanted your name to appear. There would be no privacy any more; the intrusion was just another part of the sick drama.
O’Neill waved Brady over. ‘For your information, I went from the crime scene directly to Christopher Ryan’s house.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘And David was in bed, and had been for most of the evening. The doctor had given him a dose of something that knocked him out. He was unconscious when I went into his room. So he didn’t kill the lecturer and he certainly didn’t kill his wife, because the same guy has killed both women. The husband did not do it,’ O’Neill said, looking Brady straight in the eye.
Brady stuck out his chin and made a face. ‘I guess I was wrong. I’m sorry, Danny, you were right.’
O’Neill didn’t break his look. ‘Thanks,
but it doesn’t get us any closer to the scumbag who did. We’ve lots to do, Pat, and your input is always welcome.’
‘You got it, Danny, always have.’
‘In that case, catch me a killer.’
Brady shook his head. ‘Yeah, no problem. And, by the way, I left a message for Ann Lawlor. And I also asked the police in Baltimore to knock on her door – just so she gets the message.’
‘Redundant, I think, Pat, but follow it up and then cross it off – it’s procedure.’
Brady would do exactly that.
The phones kept ringing and callers were told the same thing – no, there is no connection between the two murders, and yes, a news conference was planned for 4 p.m. Everything would be made clear then, and the press should not be jumping to any crazy conclusions. It didn’t do the public any good, although that was never a concern of the newspaper editors. A story is a story and that was all that the newspapers wanted. If they jumped to conclusions they were only expressing ‘what the people thought’ and would worry about consequences later. Much later.
For the police, investigating the families who were living with the horrific, ill-informed and sensational news was the last thing they needed. But the media didn’t always do responsibility, as O’Neill and anyone above the age of ten knew. He and his team had to keep a lid on things for as long as possible, otherwise the investigation could be damaged. And if this in some way alerted the killer, then it was anyone’s guess as to where that might lead.
Christine Connolly replaced her phone and picked it up immediately when the ringing started again. She looked around and saw O’Neill looking over at her. She shrugged her shoulders in a ‘this is madness’ sort of way, and started to write on her notepad.