by Don Cameron
*
O’Neill ran hard on Sandymount Strand. It was busy, as walkers, joggers and other less energetic souls enjoyed the early evening sunshine. It was still warm and a light breeze tickled the leaves on the trees that lined the pavement. Dogs barked as they chased sticks thrown high in the air. Further out, on a small sandbank, a group of boys shouted as they attempted to get their kites flying.
Small white horses broke on the incoming tide and he splashed in the water as it slowly came ashore. He felt good, but could only think about what Shelly Tobin had told him earlier, about Burke’s fatal wound. She knew that it had been made by someone skilled with a knife, and he wondered if the Penman could be involved. What a crazy idea, he kept telling himself. There was no connection, how could there be?
He eased to a stop and looked out at the incoming tide and beyond to the yachts in the bay. ‘I don’t have a connection anywhere yet,’ he said, and straightened up. So, there’s no obvious reason why the Penman should be ruled out of the Burke investigation. It was a scary thought, but one that he felt he should bear in mind. He would keep it to himself for the time being and just see what happened.
Nothing, hopefully.
The weird case could, possibly, get even weirder. Fuck, he needed that like a hole in the head. His demons were coming into focus and he scrunched his eyes, trying to chase them away. It was useless and he exhaled loudly and felt his shoulders drop.
A dog’s barking cut through his thinking. It ran, splashing loudly in the water, and retrieved a stick. O’Neill ran again, harder, much harder, and got into a familiar rhythm. Soon he was lost, unthinking, his feet crashing into the bubbling tide.
29
He took a deep pull on his cigarette and then put it out in the ashtray, his index finger pressing down hard. A wisp of smoke slid from his almost-closed lips as he started the DVD player again. The screen showed the police press conference, the stressed look on Tony Lewis’s face, and the tension in the room. It was nearly a week since he had murdered Liam Burke, but the case had not progressed beyond speculation and bitchy gossip. He didn’t stop the sneer that was growing at the side of his mouth. He liked it and reached for another cigarette. ‘And we’ve heard nothing from Inspector O’Neill either,’ he said bitterly, and lit up. When he put out his cigarette he knew it was time to move.
The train slowed as it approached Sydney Parade station, just as the girl opened her mobile phone and dialled. It rang twice. ‘I’m at Sydney Parade,’ she said.
‘Okay, darling, I’m on my way,’ her father said and hung up.
The girl put the phone back into her bag and looked around at the other passengers. The carriage was almost empty, with a kissing couple oblivious to the world at the far end and near the rear door, three boozed-up students were telling jokes and laughing loudly.
Otherwise, the carriage was empty.
He leaned closer to the wall with a perfect view of the incoming train and carefully put on a pair of tight-fitting leather gloves. He worked his fingers back and forth until he was happy and then took a couple of slow deep breaths to settle himself.
The train slowed and he could see the rich marsh reflected in the train’s windows as it screeched to a halt. The automatic doors hissed open and he felt his heartbeat quicken with anticipation as the blonde girl stepped down into the pool of yellow light.
She walked towards the exit as the train jerked into life and made for its next stop in Booterstown. Most importantly, she was on her own. He felt himself stiffen with excitement.
Behind him, the late night traffic on the Rock Road slid by, eerily lit by the tungsten lights that stretched along the road like giant alien visitors. In the darkness they looked threatening and the traffic seemed to speed past them before it was noticed. A local wag had said that the place should now be called Bogeytown, and many agreed.
The girl took out her mobile phone and flipped the cover open. Her face was lit up and he could see her as she came closer and turned into the ticket hall. She paused for a moment and stepped over a pool of vomit, the sharp smell making her wince. She heard her heels clicking on the tiles of the ticket office and wondered why it was so dark. There was always a light in the corner but now it seemed to be broken. She quickened her pace, pressed the speed dial and held the phone to her ear. ‘Hi Dad, I’m at the sta ...’ she said, and then the first blow landed.
‘Bitch!’ he said and hit her again on the back of the head, slamming her against the wall. She dropped her phone and handbag and felt her face scrape against the brickwork. She tasted blood at the corner of her mouth as her attacker kicked her in the side, knocking the wind out of her. She slid down the wall and felt his breath on her neck when he leaned down and spat in her face. ‘You’re all the same, all the fucking same!’ he spat and punched her in the face.
‘Stop, please … stop,’ she managed through tears and pain as he jabbed a pencil into her neck. The shock to her system was overwhelming and she fell into the blackness.
‘Fuck you, fuck you,’ he said through gritted teeth and spat on her with all the venom he could muster. He squatted down and looked at the crumpled body, listening. The blood was rushing in his head and his heart was beating like a freight train. He thought he heard a sound close by, and stopped. The darkness outside the station was suddenly cut in two as a car’s headlights sliced through it, highlighting the parking signs and a bicycle chained to the metal railings.
‘Fuck,’ he said, running back towards the tracks. The car stopped, the driver’s door opened and he knew who it was. ‘Well, my friend, you’re in for a big fucking surprise,’ he said, and his chest heaved in a silent laugh. He jumped from the platform onto the track, running carefully along the sleepers to a gap in the sea wall. He climbed over the fence and in a few strides was on the beach. The sound of the dark rolling sea was the only thing he heard as he jogged along the hard sand, the granite wall his protector. High above, a cloud slid across the face of the moon, dimming the last piece of light. The only witness, he thought, and grinned. He felt the exhilaration of the moment flood his body. He was complete again and in a few minutes even his footprints would be gone. No trace, just the way he wanted it. He was invisible.
30
A few glasses of Chateau Bellevue la Foret, Liz’s favourite wine, helped him to sleep and keep the demons at bay. They were showing up too often now and he wondered whether he should talk to his doctor. He hated feeling so weak, relying on a bottle of wine to ease his pain. I’ll see the doctor when this is over, he promised Liz’s photograph, and closed his eyes.
And then his mobile phone started ringing.
He reached over and picked it up. ‘Yeah,’ he groaned and pushed up against a pillow.
‘Sorry to call you at this hour, Danny, but he’s done it again.’ Pat Brady’s voice was calm.
O’Neill held his breath, waiting for the bad news.
‘the Penman, he’s attacked a girl at Booterstown Station.’
O’Neill took a deep breath. ‘Fuck … is she dead?’
‘No, she’s just hanging on.’ He paused and O’Neill could hear voices in the background. ‘She’s taken one helluva beating.’
O’Neill swung his legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Okay, Pat. Get a patrol car to collect me in twenty minutes. Oh, and have you contacted Forensics?’ he asked.
‘I have, and they’re on their way already.’
‘Very good. See you then.’ He rang off and went into the bathroom, and not daring to look in the mirror, turned on the shower. It wouldn’t wash away his demons but it might just clear his head. He needed that, and then some.
*
The flashing yellow lights on the two police cars cast an eerie, uncomfortable glow. An officer stretched a roll of yellow tape from a lamppost, forming a secure area. It flapped in the breeze, and behind it the Forensics’ van doors
were open. Gary O’Connell stepped down and nodded as O’Neill came over.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
O’Connell raised his eyes. ‘A lot of blood, there’s always a lot of blood,’ he said. ‘But ...’.
O’Neill gave him a sharp look. ‘But what?’
‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
The two men walked up the steps into the ticket hall, where Forensics officers in white boiler suits went about their grim work. One was taking photographs while another was dusting down the scene for fingerprints – the usual. Another adjusted a portable light that bathed the small space in a strong antiseptic glow. It highlighted the blood on the tiles, making the place look like an abattoir.
‘Jesus,’ said O’Neill. ‘What a mess.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slowly shook his head.
O’Connell pointed into a corner. ‘Over there,’ he said.
O’Neill’s eyes followed O’Connell’s finger and saw the small dark object. ‘What is it?’ he said.
‘I think it’s the girl’s mobile phone. And … I think it was on when the attack happened.’ He said nothing more.
‘You think that we might be able to get something from it? Christ, how weird is that.’
O’Connell nodded. ‘Yeah, we’ll take it back to the lab. I’ll let you know what we find.’
O’Neill heard footsteps behind him and turned. ‘The girl’s name is Caroline Dolan,’ said Brady. ‘Her father is outside. He was here to collect her and …’.
‘So he found her,’ said O’Neill flatly. It wasn’t a question, and the image of the father finding his daughter filled his mind. He felt the taste of bile creeping up his throat .
‘She’s been taken to St Vincent’s Hospital,’ said Brady.
O’Neill nodded. ‘Good, we’ll go there in a few minutes.’
The traffic on the Rock Road slowed as drivers and passengers tried to get a better look. No news was good news but the scene at the station had all the making of a scoop. It would be on the radio in the morning and the talking heads would be out in force. If this latest attack was the work of the Penman, then the pressure was going to increase even more. With a reduced team of officers, finding this crazy guy just got more difficult, if that were even possible, thought O’Neill. A Forensics officer took another photograph, the blinding flash followed by the whirr of the automatic winder.
‘In here,’ said the police officer, leading a man who looked as though he had just got out of bed. It was probably true, given that it was now nearly 2:30a.m. and that he was wearing old slippers. His grey hair was unkempt and his eyes were red and nervous. They darted from the young police officer to O’Neill and Brady. ‘This is Mr Fletcher, he’s the station manager.’
Brady spoke. ‘Thanks,’ he said to the officer who turned and went back outside.
O’Neill eyed the CCTV camera above the ticket office window. ‘I need to get the tape from that camera, can you help?’
Fletcher gulped nervously. ‘Yes, I can get that for you.’ He fiddled with a bunch of keys and walked to the office. He opened another door into a small cream-coloured room with a sink, fridge, table and three plastic chairs. A calendar with images of motorbikes and scantily clad models hung above the table and had names and times written on it. Must be the roster, thought O’Neill, as Fletcher bent down and pressed a button. A light flashed on the video machine and then a cassette was pushed out. He took it and handed it to O’Neill. ‘It only works when there is movement,’ said Fletcher. ‘It’s not on all the time.’ It sounded like an apology.
O’Neill looked at the cassette and then at the ticket office. ‘Probably not going to be too bright out there,’ he said, thinking out loud. ‘I hope that we can make stuff out.’
‘Maybe we can get it enhanced if we need to, sir,’ said Brady. ‘There’s a professor in Trinity College who is renowned for doing that sort of thing. I read an article about him in a technical magazine recently.’
‘Is that what you’ve been reading lately? I’m impressed.’
Brady was mildly embarrassed, as if a dirty little secret had been revealed. He chewed his lip and said nothing.
‘Fine, let’s have a look at it first and see what we have,’ said O’Neill. He went outside and felt the cool air on his face. It was damp and he shivered in the strengthening breeze. The salty air tickled his nose and he reached for a hankie. ‘Right, Pat, I’m going to St Vincent’s to see what’s what. You handle things here and I’ll see you in the office in the morning.’
‘Will do.’ Brady turned away and went over to speak to Fletcher. He took out his notebook and tapped his pockets as he searched for a pen. What next, thought O’Neill, as he sat into the police car and headed for the hospital.
*
It was almost 3a.m. when O’Neill entered the automatic doors of St Vincent’s Hospital and his nose turned in response to the smell, that hospital smell. The large atrium was almost empty, with only a worker sweeping between the rows of empty chairs where patients normally waited. Two young men sat and stared vacantly at the television where footballers moved in silence. It was a strange scene, but then sitting in a hospital at such an hour wasn’t exactly what most people did.
The quiet of the place was unsettling.
He asked about Caroline Dolan and was directed to the Intensive Care Unit on the third floor.
When the door slid open it hit him, the smell bringing it all back in an instant. He shivered and had to stop to take out his hankie to cover his nose. All those weeks lying in bed with that stab wound in his lower stomach came back in a rush. He was thankful that he had been in hospital, recovering and being cared for by friendly staff. He couldn’t have asked for more, but the smell brought him back to that horrible moment. A few more inches this way or that and he’d probably have died. It was a stroke of luck. He felt his fingers touch the wound.
‘She’s in theatre at the moment,’ the nurse at the reception desk said. ‘I’ve no idea how long it will be. You never know with stuff like this.’ Her voice was calm as she held his look.
‘So … you can’t tell me anything?’ he said a little awkwardly.
The nurse pursed her lips and put her pen down. Her brown eyes took him in as she silently appraised him. He reckoned that she was in her forties but she could have passed for someone ten years younger. She wore hardly any makeup, she didn’t need to, and the soft pink lipstick was her only indulgence. Her dark hair was hidden beneath a white cap, but a few strands had escaped and hung lazily above her ears.
She had the easy confidence of someone who had worked in the hospital for years and was well used to dealing with anxious relatives. And police. ‘Inspector, right now the young lady is fighting for her life and I cannot tell you any more than that. The operation could take a long time, who knows?’ A small smile curled at the edges of her mouth. ‘I appreciate your concern, but she is in safe hands now. Let the surgeons do what they have to do, and hope for the best.’
He knew she was right, and nodded. ‘I understand, thank you.’ He handed her a card. ‘That’s my number, please call when you have some news. It’s important.’
The nurse looked at the card. ‘Will do, Inspector Danny O’Neill, will do,’ she said.
‘And you are?’
‘My name is Doreen Shaw. And it’s Sister Shaw to you.’
He suddenly realised how much he liked this woman. For someone who dealt with distraught families every day, she was one cool customer. She was definitely the right person for the job, and very much in charge. ‘Shaw, like the writer,’ he said.
She leaned forward an inch or two, a gesture that held his attention. ‘He should be so lucky,’ she said, and raised an eyebrow.
O’Neill smiled; it was all he could do. ‘Indeed,’ he said quietly, and left.
31
; News of the most recent attack was everywhere, and callers to the morning radio shows were demanding answers. ‘What is going on?’ an angry voice had demanded. ‘The place is worse than Dodge City.’ It expressed the sentiment of all the other callers and O’Neill finally turned the radio off in frustration. He banged the steering wheel and shouted ‘Fuck!’ as the traffic lights changed to red.
The atmosphere in the Detectives’ Room was tense when O’Neill arrived. After a quick meeting with Doyle where he brought him up to date, he called all the team together.
‘You all know by now that another woman was attacked last night, at Booterstown station. I went to the hospital to see her but she was being operated on. They will contact me, hopefully this morning, with her condition.’
‘How badly was she injured?’ asked Christine Connolly, her voice edged with concern.
O’Neill shrugged. ‘I don’t know exactly, but judging from the crime scene she must have lost a lot of blood.’ He paused. ‘And she was stabbed.’
‘With what?’ It was Dave Conroy.
‘It looks like he used a pencil.’
‘So it’s the same guy?’ said Connolly.
‘We don’t know yet, but he looks good for it.’
Heads nodded, taking in the information, but nobody said anything.
‘So, today I want to find out everything we can about Caroline Dolan: friends, work, hobbies, clubs, boyfriends, girlfriends … everything. There has to be a connection between the victims and we must find it. Otherwise this guy is going to keep on attacking women and …’.
He didn’t have to finish the sentence – the team knew what he was saying.
Pat Brady spoke. ‘I’ve updated the board with the details from last night.’ He pointed to the three photographs and the information about each of the victims. There were plenty of lines drawn but none intersecting that might indicate a connection. He lifted the videocassette off the desk. ‘We still have to check this.’