Marked Off

by Don Cameron

  Murphy nodded. ‘Yes, there’s only the two of us, Inspector. My wife died many years ago, and I raised Angie pretty much on my own.’

  O’Neill said nothing, letting Murphy find the next words.

  ‘My wife and I were married late in life and Angie was our only child. We doted on her and now …’. He took another deep breath. ‘I’m on my own.’ He shook his head and looked up. ‘What am I going to do now, Inspector, what am I going to do? Tell me.’

  O’Neill let the uncomfortable silence hang there for a few moments. ‘I don’t know, but, as I said, we are doing everything to catch the person responsible for Angie’s death. She deserves it, and God knows you do, too.’

  Murphy bit his lip and exhaled loudly. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ He took another sip and sat up, his eyes clearing. ‘I’m not sure if I can help, Inspector, but please ask whatever questions you must.’

  O’Neill smiled gently, acknowledging the man’s effort. ‘Good, so can you tell me if you have any idea why this happened? Did Angie have any enemies?’

  Murphy could hardly believe the question. ‘Inspector, my daughter was a lovely girl with not an enemy in the world. And no, she had no steady boyfriend. She did a few years ago, but she’s been so absorbed with her work that she has no time for boyfriends. I used to rib her about it, but she would just laugh it off and say that she had time on her side.’ He shrugged. ‘Time on her side.’

  After the questions, the policemen had a look around Angie’s bedroom, but didn’t find anything useful to the case. The room was tidy, with shelves crammed with books and a laptop plugged in, charging. A small stereo system and a stack of CDs sat on top of a chest-of-drawers. A large watercolour painting of children playing on a sunlit beach hung above her bed; with the beach giving way to blue water that slowly vanished into the sky and the heavens beyond. How appropriate, O’Neill thought, turning away and feeling a pang of guilt. What a waste, what an absolute bloody waste.

  They left and O’Neill asked Conroy to arrange for a counsellor to visit Murphy. ‘And make sure to have a word with Angie’s colleagues, they might have something to add.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Then go home and get some sleep.’ He turned to Conroy. ‘You look knackered, and I need you in good shape.’

  They drove in silence, but O’Neill couldn’t help thinking about Joseph Murphy. The old man had done nothing to deserve this, and now his one and only child had been taken from him. Life could be shitty … no, was shitty. He felt tired and drained. And beaten. ‘What would Dixon be thinking?’ he thought. He let the idea drift. Outside, the traffic moved easily and people went about their lives, carefree, but for how long? That was the million-dollar question, and nobody had an answer. This case was nothing like anything he had dealt with before. He needed a break. But where was that going to come from? More questions but still no answers.

  As he drove, something started to nag at his mind. An idea, maybe Dixon was trying to tell him something. What was it? He squinted a little, trying to focus and see what was there, but just as quickly it slipped away, teasing him. ‘Let the idea float up,’ he remembered Dixon saying, and sat back. ‘It will show itself in its own good time, and be ready to see it then.’ It was all he had for now, a fleeting idea.

  Outside the police station a van with TV logos was setting up, the technicians making adjustments to broadcasting equipment. A journalist O’Neill recognised glanced at him when the two policemen passed. She took a few steps towards them but O’Neill stopped her with a raised hand.

  ‘I have nothing to say, and you can quote me on that,’ he said, and went inside.

  ‘I hope the press conference goes as well,’ said Conroy.

  ‘Fat chance,’ replied O’Neill, taking the stairs two steps at a time.

  The Detectives’ Room was noisy as Brady, Grant and Christine Connolly fielded phone calls. It was stuffy, too, and O’Neill opened a window and stood beside it, taking in the gentle breeze and observing the action. On the pavement below a car pulled up and two men got out and looked around. The younger one was carrying a camera bag and the other, balding and carrying far too much weight, a notepad and newspaper. More vultures, he thought, and went to sit at his desk.

  There was a yellow Post-It note on his computer screen. He phoned Gary O’Connell, and looking around the room, wondered again just who had caused all this. Where was he now and what was he thinking? Maybe he was planning another attack. But he couldn’t do anything about it and would have to wait. He hated that word. The idea wasn’t nagging any more and he tried to clear a space for it to let it show itself.

  ‘Danny, how are you?’ asked O’Connell.

  ‘Been better, been a lot bloody better, Gary.

  O’Connell shuffled the papers on his desk. ‘I haven’t found much beyond what you saw yourself. I can tell you that she was not robbed as there was no money taken from her bag. She wasn’t raped or sexually assaulted in any way. Her watch, an expensive Longines model, wasn’t taken. It wasn’t robbery, Danny, that’s for sure.’

  O’Neill dropped his head. ‘Anything else, Gary?’ He felt he knew the answer, but had to ask the question.

  ‘We found spit on the victim’s face and it matches with the blood from the Ryan house.’

  ‘Spit. You did say spit?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen it before when the attacker is either very excited or a really nasty bastard and he spits on the victim.’ He paused. ‘It’s a gross situation, Danny, and people do gross things.’

  O’Neill made a note. ‘Yes, Gary, I hear you. Is that it?’

  ‘Almost. We did find a shoe impression. It’s definitely from a boot, and the pattern on the sole is similar to the one found on boots worn by motorcyclists. Maybe even couriers. Probably a size eight. So?’

  ‘So what, Gary?’

  ‘So, if the guy that killed Angie Murphy wears size eight boots then he could be the one that killed Barbara Ryan. A size eight boot would more than likely mean that he is not that tall, at least not over six feet. And that is in line with your Clipboard Man. Am I right?’

  O’Neill was looking at his keyboard but could hear the cogs in O’Connell’s mind whirring away, calculating. ‘Sounds good to me, Gary. Now, have you a name for me?’

  O’Connell laughed. ‘Jaysus, Danny, I’m good but not that good. I wish …’.

  ‘So do I, Gary, so do I.’

  O’Connell rang off.

  Conroy slammed down his phone, stood up and left the room. It was another useless conversation with somebody who just wanted to ‘talk to police’ and feel part of the story. It was madness, but it happened. It wasn’t easy dealing with a nervous public and the increasing pressure didn’t help matters. Tempers frayed and O’Neill knew that he had to keep control of the situation. All around him the vultures were gathering for the feast and O’Neill might just be on the menu.

  He sat back and ran his hands through his hair. Time was moving on and he needed to know what Shelly had found. He dialled her number.

  ‘Hello, Danny.’

  O’Neill relaxed. Her voice seemed to knock down his guard. He was happy to be diverted. He wanted it, and who better to take his mind off things, if only for a few moments. She was able to do that, effortlessly, like Liz used to. It was a special trait they shared. He couldn’t fight it, didn’t want to.

  ‘And how are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Busy, stressed, hassled, chasing a ghost who happens to attack innocent women – yeah, I’ve got a lot on at the moment,’ he said.

  ‘It comes with the territory, Danny, that’s the deal. You know that better than anyone … and you can deal with it better than anyone in there.’ She paused. ‘So don’t get too down, it doesn’t help.’

  O’Neill was leaning on his desk looking at the computer screen but seeing nothing. ‘Thanks for
the support, that’s very kind of you. I … really appreciate it.’ He hoped he was saying the right things and left it at that. He wasn’t good with the small talk, especially with women, and didn’t what to say next.

  Shelly spoke. ‘You’re welcome, Danny.’

  He could hear his voice change and realised that for the first time in ages he was actually relaxing. He couldn’t hear the phones ringing any more and the conversations seemed to have stopped. That nagging idea slipped right through his mind and he could almost see it before it disappeared.

  ‘Danny, are you there?’ Shelly asked.

  ‘Sorry, Shelly, just trying to make sense of something. Sorry about that.’ The tone changed. ‘So, what have you got?’

  ‘Angie Murphy was killed with a blow to the top of her head. It cracked her skull, as did another two blows. She was probably dead by the time she hit the ground.’

  ‘The pencil, what about the pencil?’

  ‘That was done post mortem. It would have killed her but the damage was already done. It was a signature gesture, if you like, but not the murder weapon this time.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  ‘There was no evidence of any sexual assault either.’

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘So, this guy does not attack women for sexual gratification or robbery, but attacks women brutally nonetheless.’

  ‘Yes, it’s more likely that he’s a bit of a novice when it comes to women. You know the type, bad with the females, feels inadequate around them. Needs to control them so that he controls his own insecurity, a bit of a control freak. It’s the only way he can operate. And the ultimate form of control is death.’

  ‘I see. So you think that he may be getting revenge for whatever happened in his past that made him feel inadequate around them? And he needs to kill them to prove to himself that he is better than they are?’

  ‘Or she was,’ Shelly added.

  He let her words sink in. ‘You think he’s working out his aggression towards one woman?’

  ‘He sees them as substitutes. I’ve read about that sort of thing, but I’m sure the profiler will have more to say.’

  It was impressive. ‘Thanks, Shelly, that’s very helpful. And now who has hidden strings to their bow?’

  Shelly Tobin sniffed. ‘You don’t know the half of it. You’re not even close!’

  There was nothing more to say. ‘Thanks again, Shelly, keep in touch.’

  She hung up without saying another word, keeping him guessing. It was something that he was doing a lot of.

  19

  Just after three o’clock, O’Neill and the murder team met to review the state of play. With the press conference less than an hour away, it was vital that everyone was singing from the same hymn sheet and knew what was expected. The tension was palpable and the sticky heat added to the anxious, uncertain air.

  ‘Right, what have we got so far?’ He shrugged and turned to the board. ‘Not much, except a whole pile of trouble, that’s what.’

  The blank faces stared back, waiting.

  ‘It looks as though both women were killed by the same person, and that a pencil seems to be his signature. And an old pencil, at that. It’s different, like nothing any of us has ever seen before. And,’ he stressed, ‘it’s got to be kept quiet.’ He looked around the room and knew they agreed. ‘Good. So as far as the press conference is concerned, we have not established any link between the murders, and we need to keep it that way. We are under enough scrutiny already, and the idea of a serial killer on the loose would make this investigation almost impossible.’

  Doyle stepped up beside O’Neill. ‘I’ve just spoken to the top brass in The Park and they are right behind us. They know how difficult the case … sorry, cases are, and will deal with whatever flak that comes at us.’ He looked at O’Neill and grinned. ‘You’ll be happy to know that Councillor Whitehead—’

  ‘Shithead, you mean,’ snapped Brady quickly.

  O’Neill caught his eye, making a face. It wasn’t exactly an admonition, more like an acknowledgement of accepted fact. ‘Pat, please …’.

  Doyle continued. ‘He had a right go at me yesterday over the lack of progress in the case. Said he was speaking on behalf of the local traders who were beginning to lose business. “Protecting their interests” – I think was what he said. What rubbish! He never did anything for anybody unless there was something in it for him – even the dogs in the street know that. If he wants “to help” the investigation, then he should be supporting us and not trying to score cheap points. Anyway, he will be getting a call from the Department of Finance later today – about a possible audit of his finances, I believe. That should soften his cough and give us more breathing space. Carry on, Danny, and I’ll see you before we go downstairs.’ He then left the room and O’Neill continued.

  ‘Christine, make sure that we have photos of both women for distribution.’

  ‘Will do,’ she answered.

  ‘And make sure one of them is a black and white picture. That should reduce the immediate likelihood of someone making a connection. With a bit of luck it will put them off the scent.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ she said. ‘It will be fun watching the vultures in their confusion.’

  Others nodded and knew just why Inspector Danny O’Neill was such a clever bugger.

  ‘Pat, you help Christine and then keep an eye on proceedings from the back of the room. A different perspective and all that.’

  ‘Should be interesting,’ he replied, anticipating the exciting scene downstairs.

  O’Neill tapped the board. ‘And the rest of you keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t waste a minute. Time is murder.’

  Paul Grant looked at the others. ‘I’ve never heard that before, but I like it, in a dark sort of way.’

  O’Neill raised his hands. ‘Thanks … and keep at it, we’ll soon get a break-through.’ He wasn’t sure that he really believed it, but he had to let the team know that he did. If they didn’t believe, well, there was no point carrying on. He needed it for Liz, for Helen Murray and for the two recent victims. But most importantly, he needed it for himself.

  *

  Christine Connolly checked the room once more before the journalists were allowed in. A dozen chairs were laid out in three lines, leaving plenty of space against the walls for TV cameras and photographers. She placed photos of Barbara Ryan and Angie Murphy on a flip chart beside the desk that Doyle and O’Neill would use. As O’Neill had instructed her to do earlier, she closed the windows and removed the tall electric fan that stood in the corner. ‘No point in letting the bastards get too comfortable,’ he had said, and she understood. Getting them out of here as quickly as possible was the plan, and the room was now heating up nicely. It would be almost insufferable with all the bodies and TV cameras whirring – definitely not a place anybody wanted to stay in. She wiped her brow and smiled at what she knew was coming. She closed the door – the fiery dungeon was ready.

  Upstairs, Doyle and O’Neill made their final arrangements.

  Doyle straightened his tie. ‘I’ll open proceedings and give a general outline of the cases. Then you can elaborate just enough to keep them interested.’

  O’Neill took a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry, sir, I’ll give them as little as possible. Definitely nothing to suggest that the two murders were carried out by the same person.’

  ‘I know you’ll be fine, Danny. Don’t get rattled, and speak clearly … and slowly. It’ll give you time to think – it’s vital.’

  O’Neill nodded. ‘I know, sir. It’s just been a while since I’ve been in front of the cameras …’.

  Doyle shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Okay.’

  In the room set aside for the press conference, TV technicians were feverishly che
cking light and audio levels as the journalists fidgeted, feeling the heat. Two young officers stood at the door, admitting only accredited media folk. As Doyle and O’Neill came into the hall there were at least twenty journalists, photographers and TV camera crews stewing uncomfortably inside.

  The room had the stuffy feeling of an underground bunker when Doyle spoke. ‘Thank you all for coming and we really appreciate you being here.’

  Christine Connolly bit her lip and looked down at her shoes.

  ‘This is extremely difficult for all concerned and I would like to make a few points clear. In the past ten days two women have been murdered. My team is working as hard as possible in these circumstances. With that in mind and in consideration of the ongoing investigation, we will not be taking questions today.’ He heard a strangled ‘What the fu ...’ from deep in the pack, and then there was silence.

  ‘I’ll now ask Inspector Danny O’Neill to bring you up to date on the state of the investigations.’ He leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes trained on the journalists who were now really annoyed, and sweating. He didn’t care, and gently eased his shirt from his sweaty back. He noted that most of them, some of whom he recognised, were mopping their faces. As it should be, he thought, and caught Christine Connolly’s knowing grin.

  O’Neill pushed aside his notes and looked up at the TV cameras, photographers and journalists, and was suddenly aware of the quiet in the room. It was odd, he thought, that all those in front of him made their living by using words – written and spoken. And here they were now, silent. It was as if they had collectively lost the power of speech. Now there was an attractive idea!

  ‘Firstly, my officers will distribute photos of Barbara Ryan and Angie Murphy. These are the two women whose deaths have brought you here today.’ He made it sound suitably nasty and grubby, leaving little or no room for his thoughts on the fourth estate.

  ‘Hey, one is a black and white shot. What’s that all about?’ asked one young reporter sitting in the front row. He was red-faced and his brow was covered in a slick sheen of sweat.