by Don Cameron
He eased to a stop and placed his hands on his hips, smiling at the magnificent view. The bay was blue with the South Wall a long, white finger stretching to the Poolbeg Lighthouse. He saw great swathes of grey and red-roofed houses that occasionally rubbed up against green sports fields. Off to the left, the Liffey wound its way inland from the sea and passed through the city before disappearing into the fading distance.
Squinting, with his hands beside his head like blinkers, he took a few seconds to spot where the government buildings were and felt his chest fill. My new office, he thought, and took a few deep breaths. He nodded to himself and thought about his future as the new politician for South Dublin. He had been elected in the recent general election, on the fourth count, and with his twenty years of experience as a lawyer, he was set for a junior role in the Department of Justice. He would walk away from all those criminal cases and property deals that had brought him the life he had always desired. Now he had more property and more money than he would ever need and a pretty wife whose beauty always drew attention. He had been a lucky bastard, as some of his close friends had said, and he knew better than any of them just how true that was. And that was how it was going to stay.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and rubbed his hands on his shorts. He felt good and the heaving in his chest eased. A newspaper photographer had taken a couple of pictures of him for an article on newly elected members and told him he that was fitter and in better shape than any others he had snapped. He had thanked the man and suppressed a grin. He was proud of his good looks and he knew that keeping fit was essential for both his health and image. He was good at image. So many politicians seemed to become fat and lazy soon after their election and Liam Burke was determined not to be one of them. No, he was going to make a mark. People would remember him. He had been doing that all his life.
A hundred yards or so ahead of him another jogger came over the rise heading in his direction. He was wearing the standard jogger’s gear of trainers, long white socks, shorts and a red T-shirt. As he got closer Burke saw that the man was moving slowly, probably in bad shape, he thought, and rested his hands on his hips. He would let the jogger pass first and then continue on his way downhill and back home to Callary Road for a much-needed shower. Twenty minutes and he’d be having a cold drink and then setting up the barbeque. It was June, after all, and the weather had been warming up nicely for the past two weeks. It would be a sin to waste such an opportunity and Liam Burke was not a man for letting things slip through his fingers.
He grinned as he closed the distance between them, and he readied himself. He had checked that there was nobody behind him and had watched Burke as he entered the wood from his vantage point on a large exposed rock. It was not the first time he’d been here and knew that the wood was the perfect place for him to become acquainted with the newly elected politician.
He could see the sweat glow on Burke’s face as he smiled at a fellow jogger. It was an unspoken etiquette that he return the smile; a last insidious deceit. He liked that.
From three feet away he drew up his right arm, stretched it out and swung the long knife.
Burke saw the sun glint off the knife just before it slashed across his neck. The sharp blade sliced cleanly, leaving a cut nearly six inches long. It looked as if Burke was wearing a red tie as he frantically reached up to his neck and saw the blood spurt between his fingers. He tried to shout for help but blood shot from his mouth as he staggered, falling to his knees. A ray of sunlight danced on the ground in front of him and he tried to make sense of what had just happened. It couldn’t be true but he knew otherwise. The blood covered his fingers and palms and he was beginning to choke as it fell into his throat.
Behind him he heard footsteps fading in the distance. His mind was on fire as he tried to come to terms with his situation, and a tear fell from his eye. He couldn’t call out and with one last breath he heard himself gurgle ‘Why?’ and then fell forward, his face smacking loudly against a small rock.
The other jogger passed the tennis courts where a young boy and girl were playing. They never even looked up as he passed by, and in seconds he disappeared into the warm evening.
24
Gary O’Connell’s team were busy when the State Pathologist ducked under the yellow security tape that was flapping in the warm breeze. It was tied in a circle from a number of trees and the team, all dressed in white boiler suits, were examining the area that was bathed in a bright halogen light.
‘Evening, John,’ said O’Connell. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Someone must have called?’
John Boyd grinned, his eyes bright behind his silver-rimmed spectacles. He drew a hand across his beard a few times and set his old leather bag down. ‘Yeah, the Attorney General himself rang and said that I should attend.’ He held his hands out. ‘He made it very clear that there was going to be no discussion. Certainly not when something like this happens.’ He nodded at the white tent a few feet to his left that was lit by another blast from a crime scene photographer’s flash. ‘Better have a look, Gary, now that I’m here.’
Boyd slipped rubber boots over his shiny brogues and a white coat to cover his three-piece tweed suit. His red dicky bow stood out like a beacon and O’Connell noticed how out of place it seemed with the bloodstained body beside them. Boyd was his ‘own man’ and scoffed at the newspapers who often ribbed him about his attire. It was, they said, old-fashioned and out of place. The problem for them was that Boyd didn’t care what they said. He dealt with corpses of people who had been brutally murdered. And that, sadly, was not old-fashioned or out of place. In the country, where the Celtic Rat roamed, he was busier than ever before. If that was what progress was all about, he certainly wouldn’t thank you for it.
O’Connell held a flap open and Boyd stepped past him. The photographer took another photograph but left when he saw O’Connell point to the door.
Boyd stood still and looked at the body that was lying face down. A pool of dark blood circled Burke’s head and his hands were crumpled under his chest. His legs were splayed with his right knee twisted at an odd angle. Boyd thought of the letter
K and knelt to get a better look.
‘He was found by a local man who was walking his dog,’ said O’Connell. ‘He called the police on his mobile and waited until they arrived. He’s still in a state of shock.’
Boyd nodded. ‘I’m not surprised, Gary. It’s enough to scare the crap out of even the most hardened officers. What a mess!’
O’Connell continued. ‘From what we’ve found out so far, he jogged this way almost every day. It was his routine.’
Boyd was listening, examining the area around the body with his eyes. He saw blood on the stone that Burke’s face was resting against and more on the path about two feet away. ‘No sign of a struggle?’
‘Nothing obvious anyway,’ replied O’Connell. ‘He seems to have fallen almost straight down.’ He pointed to the clay beside Burke’s feet. ‘A small scuff mark, but nothing else.’
Boyd crouched and rested his elbows on his thighs, thinking. ‘If there had been a scuffle the clay and grass would be flattened and disturbed, and there’s no sign of anything like that.’
O’Connell shook his head. ‘Nothing at all.’ There was a slight uncertainty in his voice and Boyd heard it.
‘So what do you think? You’re the expert.’ He stood up, stepping over the body.
O’Connell had been expecting the question. ‘I think whoever did this is good. Really good.’ He wasn’t praising the attacker but it was hard not to admit that he had delivered a fatal blow in one, presumably quick, movement. And kept going. ‘He’s certainly done stuff like this before. It’s too … clean.’
‘I agree,’ said Boyd. He knew O’Connell was good and, right now, his line of reasoning seemed spot on. If that was the case then Burke’s death looked very much like it was planned. And if
that was true then this was an assassination. Christ, what was the AG going to say? Presidents and senior politicians in far-off, exotic countries were assassinated. But not minor politicians, especially someone who was only recently elected and hadn’t had time to annoy anybody yet. No, this sort of thing didn’t happen in Ireland, at least not since the Troubles had come to an end nearly twenty years ago. He knew the news was going to be bad, but he couldn’t concern himself with that. The facts were the facts, and the new member for South Dublin would not be making any maiden speech. Unless, of course, he had to bargain his way past the Pearly Gates. ‘Help me turn him over,’ he said, and the two men went about their grisly business as outside, the darkness fell silently.
25
John O’Toole was right; the shit did hit the fan when The Local made the news stands. In anticipation of such a reaction, Marty Murphy had printed twice as many copies of the paper than he usually did. ‘I’ll have to frame the front sheet,’ he said confidently when he picked up the first copy as it rolled off the press. He laughed and slapped a high-five with the Production Manager. ‘An issue to remember,’ he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
O’Neill got the news on the radio as he drove to the police station. ‘Fuck it!’ he shouted. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
The station was buzzing and Doyle was on the phone to HQ when O’Neill went to see him. ‘They want to know how this happened, Danny. Any ideas?’
O’Neill had seen the boss upset before, but not like this. He was unsure of what to say next. ‘No, sir, I haven’t, but the leak’s not in here. I can’t believe that any of the team would have said anything.’ He shook his head. ‘But I’ll be checking.’
Doyle was looking at the bold headline. ‘They’ve even given the bastard a name. What’s that all about? Do they think we’re in America? This is not a game. Fuck.’ He looked up, his eyes narrowed and seeking an answer.
‘I don’t know, sir, but I’ll be onto O’Toole as soon as I can get hold of him. I want to know where he got his information from. We have to know.’
‘I suppose you heard about the murder in Mount Merrion last night?’
O’Neill ran a hand over his brow. ‘Sure did, it’s dreadful news. Did you hear anything about it, sir?
Doyle pushed his chair back. ‘Only that Burke was out for his regular run and … someone killed him. One blow and it was all over.’
Danny frowned. ‘One blow?’
‘Yes, one blow or slash to the throat and he bled to death. Would have taken only seconds. That’s what my opposite number, Joe O’Higgins, in Dundrum told me earlier. The state pathologist was called in, or should I say, told to attend. It’s top priority, but it’s not our concern.’ He didn’t need another murder landing on his desk, and a high profile one at that. ‘Anyway, you’ve enough on your plate, Danny, so find out what you can about any leak and let me know. Pronto.’
‘Will do, sir.’ O’Neill went back to see his team.
Doyle got up, walked to the window and looked down on another wonderful summer scene. The sky was an unbroken blue above the calm waters of Dublin Bay. A windsurfer leaned back, pulling on his sail and skitted over the sea. Across the bay the last of the morning mist was burning off the cliffs in Howth, revealing windows that sparkled like tiny diamonds. It was a lovely day, but was now soiled by another act of mindless violence. Where would it all end?
*
Outside Government Buildings a large crowd of journalists and photographers gathered, talking excitedly about Liam Burke’s murder under a cloud of swirling cigarette smoke. One said that, as Burke was known to be a lady’s man, a jilted husband might have snapped and decided to carry out his own punishment. It wouldn’t be the first time that such a thing happened, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
‘Or maybe it was a partner in one of those dodgy property deals that he was famous for,’ added a guy with a cigarette-stained voice and open-necked shirt. He winked knowingly before letting out a loud rough cough.
‘There’s plenty of them out there,’ said someone else as he put his mobile phone to his ear.
‘Better form a queue then,’ said another, leaning in on the bitchy talk.
They laughed out loud as another black Mercedes slowed and passed by. Inside, the Minister for Justice gave a cursory wave and continued talking with his secretary.
‘He looks worried, doesn’t he?’ said one of the journalists as he and his media mates watched the disappearing state car. Photographers leaned in and took pictures, their flashes bouncing off the windows.
‘Yeah, and he’s still an ugly bollix,’ offered another media man, and the crowd sniggered.
Near the gate two policemen shook their heads when they heard the laughter. ‘Jaysus, your man’s only been murdered; he’s still warm for fuck’s sake, and those guys are laughing at him. Scum, that’s what they are.’
His younger partner said nothing but grimaced in silent agreement with the noisy reporters.
Inside the elegant building, in a room on the second floor that afforded a wonderful view of Merrion Square, three men sat at a polished oak table. Sunbeams highlighted the golden grains that spread from the centre in twisting, curving spirals. Tiny motes floated in the streaming sunlight, uninvited and uninterested in the grim discussion that was going on.
‘So what do we know?’ asked Philip Joyce. In office less than a month, he was determined to resolve the issue of Liam Burke’s murder as quickly and cleanly as possible. Known for his single-mindedness, especially after ousting the sitting Taoiseach in a stunning coup, he was a formidable performer and never suffered fools – gladly or otherwise. And right now his blue eyes were cold and focused. He was an intimidating sight, and those in the room were on their A-game.
The Attorney General, Christy Law, opened a pink folder and slipped a page from it with the tip of a finger. ‘I met John Boyd last night and he said that Burke was killed with a single cut to his neck. Probably done with a long knife that was swung with precision. The wound was six inches across and Burke would have bled to death in no time – a minute maybe. Boyd reckons he might as well have been decapitated.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘There were no marks suggesting a scuffle, and Burke died on the spot. He’ll have a full report for me tomorrow, and we’ll know if he had anything of interest in his system.’
‘Jesus,’ said Declan Campbell over his steepled hands. His eyes never moved from Law, who took his glasses off and left them down carefully on the folder.
A silence followed, and was broken when the Minister for Justice, Patrick Cooper, entered and sat down.
‘Fill him in, Christy,’ Joyce said. He took a sip of coffee and listened to the terrible news and wondered what Burke had got himself into. He knew that he had an eye for the ladies, but he had always been able to handle it and deflect any gossip. Hearsay was one thing, but proving it was an entirely different matter; something that never concerned the media too much. Burke was a legal animal and would have had his bases covered. At least that was what he had told Joyce when they had spoken a few months ago when he was being considered as a candidate. Had he been duped? Joyce hated the thought and how it might reflect on his judgement. He needed answers, and more than that, a killer.
Cooper, a balding man in his mid-fifties and overweight, was stunned. He looked open-mouthed across the table when Law finished. ‘Christ almighty, who the fuck did this? Is there anyone in the frame yet? Dissident terrorists, disgruntled drug dealers, who?’
Joyce put his cup down. ‘Right now we have absolutely no idea why it happened. Nothing, nada.’
Nobody said anything.
‘We need to find out something. The press won’t believe that we don’t know anything. They just won’t, okay?’ added Joyce.
‘I agree,’ added Campbell, who, as the Taoiseach’s political advisor, knew he was going to
be in the spotlight very soon and needed to have something for the feeding frenzy outside. As the government’s spin-doctor he was expected to deflect the bad news, and Burke’s murder was going to call on all his experience. Why hadn’t he just been caught with his pants down? he thought, and twirled his thumbs, thinking hard.
Joyce sat forward, elbows on the table. ‘So are there any skeletons in Burke’s cupboard that we should know about?’ This was a question for everybody, and although he needed to know any dark secret that Burke might have hidden, he didn’t really want to know anything.
‘Until some group or other claims responsibility we have to go with the idea of the lone killer,’ said Campbell. He leaned forward and looked from face to face. ‘I can’t believe that it was some irate husband trying to get even over his wife’s infidelity with Burke. Seems too extreme. I know he spoke about being tough on drug dealers in his campaign, but it’s hardly enough for one of them to kill him. He hadn’t done anything to them, yet, and they would pay an awful price if caught. The public would demand that we throw away the key.’ He wiped his mouth with the inside of his thumb. ‘Let’s go with the lone killer line, for now. It’s not a lie, and it doesn’t give the media anything to focus on.’
‘The Penman, could it be him?’ asked Cooper nervously.
Campbell was surprised and lost for a quick reply.
‘Do you mean that guy who has been terrorising women in Booterstown?’ said Law, wiping his glasses.
Joyce turned to his spin doctor, his eyes demanding a response.
Campbell shrugged, slightly. ‘From what I know about the Penman, he attacks defenceless women, so there’s nothing in common. Is there?’ He looked at the others.