Marked Off

by Don Cameron

  ‘Not serrated?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘Definitely not, as there is no sign of skin tearing. The length of the cut would suggest that the blade was probably eight to ten inches long, so we are looking for a big hunting knife. And used by someone who knows how to use it.’ She saw the uncertainty on Trevor’s face. ‘Because whoever did this knew where to strike and got it right first time.’

  ‘So nothing random then?’ Boyd queried.

  Shelly shook her head. ‘Not very likely, sir. I would say that whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing and, sadly, did it very well.’

  ‘Thank you, Shelly, that’s been most informative.’

  Shelly left and Boyd continued working as the day outside warmed up. Two hours later he peeled off his gloves and left Trevor to apply the appropriate stitching to the corpse and slide it back into its steel cabinet.

  Boyd could now confirm that Burke had been killed with a single cut to the neck, and that there was no sign of alcohol or drugs in the victim’s body. He had to be grateful for that at least.

  *

  The office was empty when O’Neill and Connolly arrived back at the police station. A fan was whirring lazily in the corner, lifting papers on Pat Brady’s desk. They rose for a moment as if by an invisible hand, before falling back onto the pile.

  ‘I hope that they’re all at work,’ said O’Neill, slipping his jacket off and putting it on the back of his chair. He spotted the Post-It note on his computer screen and tore it off. ‘Boss wants to see you,’ it said. He recognised the handwriting – Dave Conroy had written it.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Connolly.

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t know, but I’ll go right away and find out.’ He turned and took a few steps to the door, and stopped. ‘Maybe we can get a coffee after?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ she said, and turned on her computer.

  Doyle, as usual, was signing letters when O’Neill entered. ‘Hello, Danny, how are things going?’

  ‘I’ve been to see O’Toole and Marty Murphy at The Local and I got a name.’

  Doyle sat back and put the top on his fountain pen. A little smile showed at the corner of his mouth. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Apparently O’Toole got a tip from one of his informants, a small time crook called Donie Driscoll. His nickname is Double D and he fancies himself a bit. He lives in Sallynoggin and I’m going to pay him a visit as soon as I have a coffee.’

  Doyle listened carefully, then stood up and walked over to the window. The pier was busy and he could see a crowd gathered around the recently renovated bandstand where a group were playing.

  ‘I had a call from The Park earlier.’

  O’Neill could feel bad news coming – it was in Doyle’s eyes.

  ‘The murder of Liam Burke is, as you can imagine, making a lot of people in high places very jumpy, and they want, need, a result quickly. So, those extra officers we’ve had are being re-assigned to that case. I’m sorry, but that’s the way they want to play it.’

  O’Neill was shocked and didn’t hide it. ‘Shit, do they want us to catch a serial killer or not?’

  Doyle walked back to his desk and sat down. ‘I know it’s tough, Danny, but that’s the way it is. At least until they catch their bastard.’

  O’Neill took a few deep breaths. ‘Right, we’ll get on with it, sir. Done it before, and no doubt we’ll do it again.’ The look on his face was anything but happy.

  Doyle frowned. ‘I know you will, Danny. If anyone is going to catch the Penman it’ll be you. Just a matter of time.’

  O’Neill made a face. He wasn’t looking for a compliment but accepted it. ‘Thank you, sir.’ he said. ‘It’s great to know that you’re behind us. It’s all we need, sir, but this is proving to be a real nightmare.’

  Doyle didn’t reply; he didn’t need to. He took the top off his pen and went back to signing more letters.

  O’Neill and Connolly had coffee in the restaurant and he told her about the reassignment of the officers.

  ‘I can understand why the government is so nervous about Burke’s murder. They see it as though it could be any one of them, and they want this guy caught.’ Christine Connolly put her cup down, and continued. ‘Catching the killer does two things for the government. One, it gets him off the streets and the public will be happy.’

  ‘And two?’ said O’Neill, as Connolly paused.

  ‘And two, it also sends a message to any political dissidents or drug lords that they will be hunted down if they try anything like this.’ She took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Very good, Christine. I think that you are in the wrong place.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, I think that you should be in government advising these guys.’

  She made a face. ‘You mean I should be a spin doctor, sir?’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ he replied, ‘but I do think that you see through the crap very quickly, and that’s a skill that is, I believe, more or less intuitive. But hey, you’re not going to up sticks and leave this investigation now that we’ve got a name to follow, are you?’

  ‘No, sir, definitely not. And I can’t wait to meet the man whose name sounds like a bra.’

  O’Neill almost choked as diners turned to see what the fun was about. He knew they were wondering how he could possibly be laughing while investigating a serial killer. But a funny line was always a funny line.

  O’Neill’s mobile trilled. ‘Hello, Jack, what’s going on?’ he said, making a face.

  Connolly watched him as she drank her coffee and then looked out at the bay and the yachts bobbing about in the blue water.

  O’Neill nodded. ‘Send it to my email, Jack. The address is doneill146@gmail.com, and I’ll print it off. I hope that my swing is okay, I haven’t had much practise lately.’

  He moved his fingers, indicating that the voice on the other end was a talker and Connolly grinned. He rang off and put the phone in his pocket. ‘Golf match on Saturday,’ he said, picking up his cup.

  Connolly put her cup down. ‘I wouldn’t have believed that there were 145 others out there with your name. I’m surprised.’

  O’Neill wiped his lip. ‘Do you play snooker?’

  She was surprised. ‘No, but I used to watch it on television with my father. He played it in his golf club.’

  ‘Well, the highest score a player can get is 147.’

  ‘A maximum,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Yes, it’s the best you can do. So...’

  She was listening intently, not wanting to miss a word.

  ‘... so when I opened my account I chose ‘146’ because it’s not the best.’

  ‘Almost.’

  He nodded. ‘Exactly … and it makes me think twice about things. Nobody gets everything right, all the time. And it’s no harm being reminded of that from time to time.’

  She nodded. Inspector Danny O’Neill was a complex man alright, she thought, and she liked him a little more.

  An hour later they were sitting with Donie Driscoll in Baker’s Corner pub. At the end of the bar a large flat screen television was showing horse racing, and a few of the patrons shouted encouragement to the deaf and distant equines.

  ‘Right, Donie, tell me how you know about the pencil’ said O’Neill.

  Driscoll was sitting at a table in the corner with the two officers opposite. There was to be no escape. He was going nowhere until he answered some questions – he knew the routine. He was nervous and kept his head down a little, looking up fleetingly at his inquisitors. It was subservient, but if it would help to get rid of the coppers, then fuck it. He took a mouthful of lager and his eyes shifted from O’Neill to Connolly and back again before he put the glass down.

  ‘Well,’ said O’Neill, forcing an answer.

  Driscoll hadn�
��t shaved for a few days and the silvery stubble wasn’t helping the cops in their assessment of O’Toole’s former informant. He would never contact The Local again, not when it brought this shit down on him. Jesus, he was just trying to make a few euros like everyone else, and now look at him, surrounded by coppers in his local boozer. His credibility would be shot to pieces and there’d be no more juicy little snippets of gossip and information to pass on. No money either. It was a bad day, and from the shouts at the television his horse had just lost – a loser. That makes two of us, he thought, and wiped his mouth.

  ‘My niece, Debbie, works in the Body Factory,’ he said.

  ‘You mean the Coroner’s Office, don’t you?’ said Connolly evenly, not buying his attempt at humour.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. She works in the Administration Office and sees all the files.’ He leaned forward. ‘And hears things.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked O’Neill clearly.

  ‘Like that those two women were both killed with a pencil. I mean, you couldn’t make that shit up,’ he said. ‘Debbie phoned me about it. So, I passed it on to Tooler, and now you’re here. Short and sweet, I’d say.’

  ‘More like short and bitter, Donie,’ O’Neill said, not taking his eyes off Driscoll’s shifty gaze. If you really needed to trust someone then Donie Driscoll was not your man. He was a toerag who feathered his own nest and like all criminals, was reliably unreliable. ‘Right, I’m going to make a call, Donie, and you’d better be telling me the truth, otherwise …’.

  O’Neill went outside and called Shelly Tobin. She answered on the second ring and they spoke for just over two minutes. ‘Yeah, looking forward to it,’ he said finally and hung up.

  ‘Our man here might just be telling the truth,’ he said as he sat back down. ‘Is that difficult for you, Donie?’

  Driscoll didn’t respond to the sarcasm and kept his mouth closed. The sneer that crawled over his face was answer enough.

  ‘Thanks for your time, and let’s NOT do this again. Okay?’

  Driscoll understood. ‘That’s fine by me. Abso-fucking-lutely.’

  O’Neill told Connolly what Shelly had said. Driscoll’s niece did work in the office and would be in serious trouble for her breach of confidentiality. And probably sacked.

  ‘Only to be expected,’ said Connolly.

  ‘I agree, but it doesn’t get us any closer to the Penman.’ He tapped the steering wheel a few times, thinking, before starting the car and slipping once again into Dublin’s seemingly never-ending traffic.

  28

  The talking heads on the radio programmes were busy. As the body count rose and peoples’ nerves started to fray, more and more listen to criminologists, psychologists and retired police officers discussing the killer’s motives and how he might be caught. In a not so obvious way it was still stoking the fires of interest, and kept ratings high. The radio presenters were, after all, performing a ‘service to the public’ and would keep doing so as long as the punters kept phoning in. At least if the crimes were being discussed then they were not forgotten – and that was good for business. It was June, the ‘silly season’ for newspapers and news in general, and anything was worth covering. If they gave it enough space it would generate its own momentum and that was what was beginning to happen.

  ‘And you wanted to say something, Charlie?’ asked the presenter. The show had been on for nearly twenty minutes and the presenter was in fine voice and full control. ‘About Liam Burke, was it?’ he added quickly.

  Charlie Reynolds, one of the country’s leading investigative journalists, was itching to make his contribution. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘And his involvement in certain property deals.’ He cleared his throat with a slightly practised cough. ‘It’s well known in certain circles that a number of his deals have gone sour and that his one-time partners are not happy. I heard only last week …’.

  ‘In the Horseshoe Bar, no doubt,’ quipped the presenter, who was familiar with one of the city’s leading watering holes, located in The Shelbourne Hotel.

  ‘Sure didn’t I see yourself there last week, Gerry, talking with—’

  ‘Now, now, Charlie, this is not about me, so back to Liam Burke, please,’ said the presenter, just about holding in a laugh. Gerry Kenny had been doing interviews for twenty years and there wasn’t a trick that he didn’t use to get the desired response. He was a slick operator and played the game better than any other radio presenter.

  ‘Of course, of course. As I was saying, I’ve heard that two bigwigs who were involved with Burke in that property in Irishtown are planning to take action against him.’

  ‘A bit late for that, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe for Burke, but not for his estate. If it has any money in it, and I suspect that it has, then his old mates may get their hands on some of it.’ He paused. ‘It’s all very nasty, really, and a million miles from the picture of himself that he presented to the public when he decided to stand for election. Did you know that in the property world he was called “The Dog” because he didn’t care what he had to do to get a property if he wanted it? He fought dirty and made a lot of enemies.’

  ‘Enemies, or just envious investors?’ asked Kenny.

  ‘Hmm. I’d say a bit of both, but his enemies are powerful people with long memories.’

  ‘Wow, Charlie, that all sounds very dark and dangerous.’

  ‘Well, when you’re talking millions, sometimes hundreds of millions, and not forgetting the little matter of egos, then anything can happen.’ He sniffed. ‘It has all the makings of a thriller, and I’ve no doubt that as we speak, someone out there is writing the bestseller.’

  ‘You’re such a cynic,’ said Kenny.

  ‘And you’ll be interviewing the author in no time. Mark my words,’ quipped the investigator before the presenter went to a commercial break.

  ‘That’s all I need,’ said Inspector Tony Lewis angrily, before switching off the radio. He took a long deep pull on his cigarette and then squashed it in the ashtray. It was filling up rapidly and he pushed it to the edge of his desk, out of sight. He had been off the weed for almost two years now, but Liam Burke getting himself murdered had put an end to all that good work.

  ‘I saw Burke’s solicitor and accountant yesterday, and yes, he hasn’t always played the game by the rules. He could sail close to the wind and really go for it when he wanted to.’ Detective Bernard Reilly was standing opposite Lewis and saw the desperation in his eyes. He looked rough and seemed to have aged years in the last few days. He was under severe pressure from on high and right now he hadn’t a clue. Not a sniff. Nothing. The best of the best were on board, and although the crime scene had been examined in the minutest detail, they had found nothing. No expense was being spared, but as Lewis was finding out, if there’s nothing out there, then there’s nothing out there. And you’re fucked.

  ‘Does that help us?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘Could do, sir. I have three financial experts examining some of the bigger deals and I’m going to see his main bankers when I’m finished here. Should be interesting to see what they know: what properties he bought and sold and any he may have used as collateral. Maybe he wasn’t as open with his property mates as he should have been.’

  Lewis listened carefully, leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands. He looked up at Reilly, his number two, and wondered what age he was: thirty-four, or was it thirty-five? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that his best man was on the case and maybe he would get lucky. He had cracked tough cases before and it seemed that he was enjoying being involved in this one. It would look good if he managed to catch the killer, but until that happened, Lewis, and everyone else, was under pressure like never before. ‘So, Bernard, who do you think did it?’

  Reilly sniffed. ‘Christ, I don’t know, sir, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the partners
were involved.’ He loosened his tie and took a deep breath. ‘If you’ve been cheated, tricked or whatever you want to call it, out of a very large amount of money,’ he shrugged, ‘then I could certainly see something like this happening.’ He paused and got a grip on the idea that was floating away. ‘You know that there are a lot of boys from up North who are out of work nowadays, and who would find something like this very easy.’

  ‘Jesus, Bernard, we don’t need a terrorist angle, for God’s sake. This is crazy enough without having to start chasing after those old ghosts.’ He paused. ‘And I even heard one smartass on the radio calling it Dublin’s version of the grassy knoll. For fuck’s sake!’

  Reilly bit his lip and kept a straight face. ‘I know, sir, but we can’t afford to discount it. I mean, we do know that some of these old boys are involved in extortion and protection. It’s not a big jump, certainly for some of those guys, to take out a bloke when he’s jogging. He wasn’t high profile and he had no protection. It would have been a no-brainer, if you were so inclined.’

  Lewis stood and came around the desk. Through the window he could see the crowds enter and leave Dundrum Town Centre, the city’s hottest place for a spot of retail therapy. Bargains were what most people wanted, and maybe a coffee with a friend. And a little gossip.

  How he’d like some gossip to help his case. ‘I hear what you’re saying, and thanks for that. I hope that you’re wrong about it, but I’ll pass it on to the boys in The Park. They deal with that sort of stuff all the time, so let’s see what they make of it. Okay?’

  Reilly nodded. ‘Fine with me, sir. I’ll let you know how it goes at the bank.’

  They walked to the door. ‘And which bank is it?’ Lewis asked as he began walking to the toilet.

  Reilly grimaced. ‘It’s Anglo Irish, sir,’

  Lewis rolled his eyes to heaven and kept going. The fact that Burke was a customer of a bank that was under investigation by the authorities for financial mismanagement was all that he needed. ‘What have I done to deserve this pile of shit?’ he asked quietly, as the sound of his shoes tapped along the hall. Nobody was listening, and he knew it.