by Don Cameron
The heads nodded in agreement.
‘Right, so unless we can find out about some financial shenanigans that Burke was involved in, we’re better off saying nothing.’ He held his hands out. ‘Hey, it’s true, and that’s worth everything.’
Joyce spoke. ‘You’re right, Declan, and that’s what we’ll go with. Shit happens and maybe Burke was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ He looked around the table. ‘I still want the police to give this a high profile, and to continue digging into Burke’s background. I want to know why this has happened. Jesus, I still can’t believe it!’
Cooper loosened his tie. ‘I’ll be talking with the Garda Commissioner after I leave here. He’ll keep his men in place and I know that they are already digging into Burke’s affairs. He’s been in contact with the tax authorities and the law society. Let’s see what they turn up.’
‘Okay, and keep me informed,’ Joyce said clearly. ‘If it turns out to be a lone killer; then so be it. But if there’s a deeper conspiracy then I want it nipped in the bud, immediately. This is not something that I created, and I can tell you gentlemen, that I am in no way going to take any heat for it. No fucking way.’
The meeting ended.
Joyce sat alone in the sunny room wondering what the next few days held. He finished his coffee and left, cursing Burke for bringing this shit down on him. ‘Thanks, Liam,’ he said under his breath, slamming the heavy oak door behind him.
26
After a brief meeting with the team, O’Neill and Christine Connolly went to see John O’Toole at The Local. Nothing new of any significance had come in, so Conroy was back to reviewing more old cases, and Brady was on his way to talk to the neighbours again. They knew from previous cases that people sometimes remembered things days after an event when they felt less stressed.
It was worth a try.
Anything was worth a try, especially when they had nothing to work on. It was as if the Penman, or whoever the killer was, had disappeared into thin air without a trace. It was a weird case and O’Neill was really beginning to wonder if they would ever solve it.
The sky was blue and cloudless and the on shore breeze carried the tangy, salty air. Along the promenade trees swayed gently as boys skateboarded in their moving shadows.
‘Do you know O’Toole?’ Christine Connolly asked, as she looked out the car window to watch a pair of windsurfers riding the wind.
‘Sure do, known him for years,’ O’Neill replied, slowing for a set of traffic lights. ‘He’s a drunk, but he has passed on some useful information from time to time.’ He turned and looked at the profiler. ‘He was the one at the press conference who asked if there was a connection between Barbara Ryan and Angie Murphy.’
Connolly closed her eyes for a moment and tried to remember the face.
‘I want to know when he found out that there was a connection. It must have been after the press conference, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked the question then.’
‘I see what you mean,’ she said.
They arrived at a small business estate where a number of the units showed ‘FOR RENT’ signs. The economic collapse was all around them, and small businesses were hit especially hard. The grass on the sidewalks was long and uncut, and papers floated and scurried along the dusty road.
Connolly looked around, taking it all in. ‘A bit run down, isn’t it?’
O’Neill sniffed. ‘A shithole would be more accurate. The council doesn’t bother to clean the roads any more, and you see what it does to the place.’ He waved a hand. ‘It’s everywhere; it’s just terrible. And the sad thing is it used to be well maintained – easy on the eye.’
Dublin South Business Park had a grand name but, sadly, it was no longer living up to it. It had opened in the early eighties and a large granite stone at the entrance told that the Minister for Industry had officiated. Those days were long gone, and the few businesses that remained open were struggling, like so many others. The sun may have been shining but few of the companies would say that it was shining on them. Most of them worked under an ominous dark cloud and The Local was no different.
Its offices were in an anonymous, two-storey grey building at the end of the estate. Next door, the boarded-up windows showed that ‘Gallagher Cement & Stone’ had gone the way of so many in the building business. Once the backbone of the Celtic Tiger, the building business had been halved in less than two years.
O’Neill opened the door and asked for John O’Toole.
‘And who may I say is looking for him?’ asked the receptionist when she put down her copy of Marie Claire.
O’Neill produced his warrant card and saw the serious look come over the young girl’s face. He smiled as she scuttled off upstairs, and looked around at the bundles of newspapers and magazines that lay in dusty stacks against the walls of the small reception area. A crack in the window, covered with a strip of gaffer tape, seemed to say more about the state of the economy than any of the know-it-all economists who pontificated regularly on radio and TV.
‘He’s in his office,’ said the girl. ‘He’s waiting for you.’
O’Neill thanked her and headed upstairs.
It had been at least a year, maybe more, since he had been here, and nothing much had changed. Young people, many of them immigrants, were busy on the telephones chasing small ads and drinking lots of coffee. Pay wasn’t great, but that was the way of the world in such small businesses. No ads meant no jobs, and the main office was surprisingly busy. It was simple stuff, and he wondered how long the business could keep going. It was just another question that he couldn’t answer.
John O’Toole was in his room when O’Neill knocked.
‘Come in, Danny,’ he said, and turned from his computer. He knew that O’Neill would call and had made sure to clean himself up, and he wore a clean shirt and tie. His hair was washed and combed, and O’Neill thought he had lost a few years since the press conference. He was actually looking half decent – for him anyway.
‘Good morning, John, and how are you?’
‘Fine, Danny, and you?’ replied O’Toole, his eyes moving to take in Christine Connolly.
‘This is Detective Christine Connolly; she’s part of my team,’ said O’Neill. ‘Anything I should know, so should she.’
O’Toole nodded. ‘That’s fine by me. Coffee?’
Both police officers declined.
O’Toole sipped his coffee and looked over his cup with nervous eyes. ‘So, what brings you down here, Danny? It’s been a while … what, eighteen months?’
O’Neill nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s about it. Not since that bank robbery in Dundrum. Your information was helpful, you know that, and it was appreciated.’
O’Toole grinned and held his cup with both hands high in front of his face.
‘What brings me here today, John, is your new friend – the Penman. I’m very interested in how you found out that our two victims were stabbed. It wasn’t information that we released, for obvious reasons, and now that it’s out there I want to know what you know. I don’t like surprises.’ His tone was hard and left the journalist in no doubt about how serious the matter was. He would not be leaving the building without a proper explanation, and all of them knew it.
The air, stale and dry, seemed to slip out of the room due to the tension, leaving the place hot and uncomfortable.
O’Toole felt his shirt stick to his back and his pulse quickened. The two faces across the desk stared and waited, and not a single muscle moved. He knew that O’Neill didn’t ‘do’ sympathy and, looking at the woman beside him, he reckoned she was also missing the same gene. Must be a cop thing, he thought, but kept the idea to himself.
He sat up, lit a cigarette, and ran a hand over his hair. He exhaled. ‘Sorry, can’t help, Danny, confidential source I’m afraid.’
‘Con
fidential my arse,’ spat O’Neill, his words loud and angry. He leaned on O’Toole’s desk in an intimidating manner. ‘Don’t fuck around, John. I haven’t got the time. Two women are dead and you’re sitting there looking all pleased with yourself. Do you think that you are going to win a Pulitzer Prize or something? For fuck’s sake.’
Christine Connolly hadn’t taken her eyes off O’Toole, and he felt the room getting smaller and more uncomfortable.
‘I can’t, Danny, honest. If I do then that’s the end of my contact.’ He raised his voice. ‘It’s taken me a long time to develop the relationship.’
‘What fucking relationship?’ snapped O’Neill. ‘Don’t give me that shit. This is murder I’m dealing with.’
O’Toole was nervous and his eyes darted between Danny and the woman whose name he suddenly couldn’t remember. There was no help there. He knew that something like this might happen but had no idea how to play it. His story was a sensation and the emails that he’d received told him that. It was going to be his big moment, but all of a sudden a dark cloud had entered his room. All the years of pain, of dealing with trivial reporting, they could be a thing of the past – he deserved better. But now, with two angry cops in his face, all that promise seemed to be slipping away like last night’s hangover. ‘Better have a word with Marty,’ he said quietly and picked up the phone.
Two minutes later the three of them stood in the editor’s room, the stale air stinging like bad breath. Sunbeams struggled through the dust-covered window and cut across the spiral of smoke from Marty’s cigarette resting in an overfull ashtray. Christine Connolly felt like she was in a Dickensian novel and now realised why she never liked his books. The smell of stale sweat almost made her gag and she twitched her nose in response. How could someone live like this? she thought, looking at the bulging figure of Marty Murphy. Dark stains under his armpits seemed to be growing as she looked at him, and his hair was flattened and shiny. If someone had told her that Murphy hadn’t moved from his chair for a month she would have easily believed it. She would never forget the first time she met the editor, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.
Murphy leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking a losing resistance. He took a pull on his cigarette and blew a stream of smoke across his desk in the direction of the CD player that sat on an overcrowded cabinet.
O’Toole spoke. ‘Danny wants to know the name of my source for the Penman and …’.
‘… and you want me to tell him that he can’t have it. Is that what this is all about?’ snapped Murphy, taking a deeper pull on his cigarette.
O’Toole nodded but didn’t look at the cops.
O’Neill nodded slowly as if responding to his own internal debate. Connolly saw that his eyes had narrowed but didn’t think it was to do with the cloying smoke. A slight sneer curved his lips and he was not a pretty sight. He meant business and Marty Murphy was about to find that out.
O’Neill took two steps closer to Murphy and leaned on his desk. He looked down at the editor who let out another stream of smoke and seemed pleased with himself. ‘Now listen here, and listen well, as I don’t have the time to be repeating myself.’
Murphy held his hands up. ‘No problem, Detective.’
‘It’s Inspector, that’s the first thing you should know.’
All of a sudden Murphy didn’t seem so confident and he nodded, once. The silence in the room added its own pressure and O’Toole wiped his mouth and let out a low sigh.
‘I have two dead women and a lot of people scared shitless,’ said O’Neill, not taking his eyes off of Murphy. ‘And the last thing I need is for them to start worrying about a serial killer.’ He paused. ‘And believe me, you aren’t helping matters. Not one fucking bit.’
Murphy drew a nervous hand across his mouth, but said nothing. He glanced at O’Toole who seemed to have shrunk into the wall, not wanting to be involved. Spineless drunk, he thought, and waited for another earful.
O’Neill straightened up and looked at Murphy and the wisps of smoke that eased past the editor’s nervous face. He had split O’Toole away from Murphy, and that left only one. It wasn’t that he liked what he was doing, but the newspaper had put sensitive information into print and he couldn’t let that happen again. It was bad for the investigation, and that was all that mattered. Finding the Penman, or whoever the fuck it was, was difficult, but The Local was making it impossible. It had to stop.
‘So, here we are, and I want a name,’ O’Neill said, glancing over at O’Toole. ‘And let me be very clear, this is not open for discussion. There is no trading.’
Murphy swallowed hard and the noise filled the room.
‘I can do you, both of you, for withholding information, and that’s just for starters,’ said O’Neill, leaning closer.
‘You can’t do that,’ said Murphy, but without any real conviction.
O’Neill sniffed and turned to Christine Connolly who nodded. ‘I’m afraid he can, Mr Murphy, and a lot more,’ she said.
O’Neill was happy but didn’t show it. ‘I can have my friends in the tax office in here tomorrow to check up on your situation. They’d love to dig around, and I’m sure they would find something useful. Know what I mean, Marty? All those cash payments and off the book transactions. I know it goes on so don’t give me that innocent look.’
‘But ...’.
‘No buts, Marty, just a name.’ He paused. ‘And come to think of it, the guys in Health & Safety would have a field day if they dared come in. Just look at the place – it’s a firetrap.’
Marty Murphy knew that he was in a very tight corner. The game was up. And if there was one thing that he didn’t need right now, it was O’Neill threatening him with all sorts. It could be the end – probably would be the end. He looked at O’Toole. ‘Tell him, John, just give him the fucking name.’
Three pairs of eyes turned to O’Toole who shivered and ran a hand over his brow. ‘It’s Donie Driscoll.’
O’Neill thought for a moment and then smiled. ‘Donie Driscoll, do you mean Double D?’
O’Toole nodded. ‘Yeah, the one and only.’
‘And how the hell does he know anything about these murders? It’s not his style. He’s a small time crook, a little toerag.’ O’Neill couldn’t hide his surprise and waited for more.
‘He told me that he had a family member in the Coroner’s Office who … heard things,’ said O’Toole. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘So Donie is, how should I put it, a confidential source? Is that it?’
‘Yeah. I’ve known him for a few years now, and he sometimes passes on bits of information. But nothing as crazy as this.’ The journalist had nothing more to say and almost took a step back.
‘Good,’ said O’Neill. ‘I’ll have a word with him, and don’t call him. That would not be a good career move, as my friends would be here sooner than you could say “Revenue Commissioners.” Understand?’
They understood.
O’Neill and Connolly left the small room with a name and a surprise appointment with Double D.
27
John Boyd stepped back from the metal table and lifted the thin white mask from his nose. The bright fluorescent light cast a sharp shadow over the corpse as he moved his hand up to wipe his brow. ‘Trevor, can you please go and get Shelly Tobin? There’s something I would like her to see. She is the resident knife expert, after all.’
Trevor nodded at the reference, turned, and left the room. Shelly was indeed the resident knife expert, and it was also Boyd’s way of complementing his assistant. She was the sharpest tool in the State Pathologist’s department, and he often asked her for a second opinion when considering a difficult case. He didn’t get his hands dirty much nowadays as life was mostly about politicking and report writing. He had seen enough corpses over the last thirty-or-so years and didn’t reall
y miss the blood, guts or smell, if the truth be told.
However, lying in front of him was the cold, stiff body of Liam Burke, its whiteness all the more extreme under the strong unforgiving light. The Minister for Justice was anxiously awaiting this particular report and Boyd knew he had to get it absolutely right. There could be no room for argument or doubt as the little matter of the government’s credibility would be in question. And he knew only too well, from his years in committee rooms, that if things didn’t go the right way someone would pay a heavy price. In delicate situations like this it was not unknown for lambs to be sacrificed, and he wasn’t going to be that public offering. ‘What happened, Liam?’ he said quietly and then went to the window to look out at another bright morning.
Boyd turned as the door opened and Shelly Tobin and Trevor walked in. ‘Good morning, Shelly, and how are you this fine morning?’
‘Fine, sir, a lot better than your guest,’ she replied, casting a glance at the uncovered corpse. Boyd saw Trevor smirk and raised his brow in agreement.
All three moved over to the corpse and looked down on the politician whose life had been cut short, literally. Trevor had earlier washed away the blood that covered the face and neck area, leaving the fatal gash exposed in all its jagged ugliness.
Boyd spoke. ‘Shelly, before I start cutting, I’d like you to have a look at what we have. You know a lot about knife attacks, so I would like your opinion on what we have here.’
Shelly listened but never took her eyes from the gaping wound. She had seen many fatal wounds delivered to different parts of a body and this one seemed, at first glance, to be just another murderous cut. She put on rubber gloves and gently eased the wound open and slid a finger inside and moved it about. The skin was hard and she used a knuckle to keep it open as she probed. Boyd and Trevor watched silently, the only noise in the room coming from the traffic two floors below.
When she was finished Shelly Tobin stood up and slipped off her mask. ‘I would say that he was attacked with a long smooth blade.’