Marked Off

by Don Cameron

  ‘Very profound,’ said Conroy.

  She looked at him but didn’t see any cynicism. ‘Well it’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, and long may she … run. It saved her life?’

  She stepped back and looked at the board. ‘All three victims are from the same neighbourhood, that much is clear. But we can’t find any connections between them. They are of different ages, blondes, but aren’t friends. A mother, a lecturer and someone who works in advertising, who somehow crossed the killer’s path – but where?’

  ‘That’s the million dollar-dollar question, Christine,’ said Conroy. ‘But in all the years I’ve been working on murder cases I’ve never seen anything like it. Not a clue in sight.’

  ‘I spoke with someone in Quantico yesterday and he was at a loss,’ she said, and rolled her eyes.

  ‘Jeez, if those boys can’t help, well …’.

  ‘They did say that the killer must appear as presentable, very presentable, and non-threatening, otherwise Barbara Ryan would not have invited him inside,’ she added.

  Conroy unfolded his arms. ‘Okay, but what about the other attacks? He wasn’t being very presentable then, was he?’

  Connolly shrugged. ‘Fair point, Dave, and I don’t have an answer to that.’

  ‘If the same man is responsible for all three attacks, and it looks like he was, then it’s surprising that he was most exposed just before he killed Barbara Ryan. His first attack, agreed?’ said Conroy.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Connolly.

  ‘Maybe because the first attack did not go according to plan, whatever that was, he now attacks in the dark. He’s safer there.’

  Connolly nodded. ‘Go on, this is good.’

  Conroy wasn’t sure where to go. ‘As you said before it appears that his actions are escalating. He thinks that he’ll never be caught and he can do whatever he likes, when he likes. So, if that is the case, then his next attack is coming in the next few days and, more than likely, at night.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, but it’s not getting us any nearer.’

  Conroy exhaled loudly. ‘No, nothing’s getting us closer.’ Connolly shook her head back and forth, trying to get the pieces of the puzzle to somehow fall into place. ‘I’d give anything to know what it is that we just can’t see. I’m not saying it’s staring us in the face but we must be close. We’ve turned over so many stones, and still there’s nothing.’ She was stumped.

  ‘Maybe when we see the video, we may get a good look at the bastard.’

  She nodded. ‘Hopefully … but I’m not so sure.’

  ‘And why do you say that?’

  She faced Conroy. ‘This guy is very clever, and to date, he has given us nothing.’

  ‘There’s a blood sample from Barbara Ryan’s home, and the spit,’ he offered.

  ‘Yes, I’ll give you that, but since then, nothing. And that may tie-in with what you just said about why the second and third attacks are different from the first one. When he set out to attack Caroline Dolan he was probably wearing a baseball cap or beanie. He knew that there was a CCTV camera in the ticket office but couldn’t put it out of commission, hence the head cover. We’ll see the lab boys do their stuff.’

  ‘I see where you’re coming from, Christine, I sure hope that you aren’t right.’

  ‘So do I,’ she said, but with little conviction.

  *

  Over dinner, O’Neill brought Shelly up to speed on the case.

  ‘With a bit of luck you will get something from the video and maybe even the mobile phone,’ she said, and swirled wine in her glass.

  He was doing the same but there were no answers at the bottom of his glass. He looked up. ‘We’ve done so much work but got no further since day one. I think we’ll have to get lucky. I see no other way forward.’

  Shelly took a sip. ‘And I hear from John Boyd that there’s no progress in the Burke case either. Strange, eh?’

  He put his glass down. ‘Are you suggesting there’s a connection with Burke and the other attacks? A bit unlikely don’t you think?’

  ‘I agree it’s unlikely, but crazy things happen. If we are looking for only one guy then this really complicates a very complicated story.’

  O’Neill leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Why do you think the cases might be connected? I mean we have no evidence to suggest that they might be. In fact, we have no useful evidence at all.’

  ‘I know, and that’s what makes it possible. The killer has left no trace,’ she stressed, ‘so that’s consistent. If you really wanted to kill Burke, why not shoot him? It would be much cleaner and more definitive. But no, the killer slashes him with a knife. Once! And that, believe me, takes some doing.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, topping up their glasses.

  ‘If you were hired to kill Burke, surely you wouldn’t just bring along a knife. No professional killer would be so casual, if that’s the right word. I just … just feel there’s something there.’ She took a long sip. ‘That’s all.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m impressed, Miss Marple. Maybe you should join the police force. It could do with someone like you!’

  She raised her brow, teasing. ‘And what can you, Inspector, do with me?’

  O’Neill came around to the other side of the table, leaned down and kissed her. ‘Why don’t I interview you now and we’ll see what …’.

  Shelly placed a finger on his lips. ‘You might be surprised at what I know, Inspector,’ she said softly and they kissed again.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ he said, pleased at how his investigation had taken such an unexpected and pleasantly demanding turn.

  33

  Pat Brady took the call from Niall Bailey. ‘I have something for you, Detective. Do you want to come in and I can go through it with you?’

  Brady agreed and said that he would be in Trinity College within the hour. ‘Good, I’ll have the coffee ready. Bring some doughnuts,’ he said and put down the phone.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked O’Neill.

  ‘My man with the video, says he has something for us.’

  ‘Good stuff, Pat. Get back as soon as you can. I know Doyle is anxious to see it. He wants to let the chiefs in The Park know if it’s useful or not.’

  ‘Will do,’ Brady said as he picked up his jacket and left.

  O’Neill noted that he was wearing another new tie, one with abstract colourful images that certainly made a statement. Pat was definitely putting his best foot, or tie, forward, and he reminded himself to watch for Christine Connolly’s reaction.

  After a meeting with Doyle he went to the restaurant for coffee. Outside, beyond the heavy glass windows, the silent world went about its business. Traffic passed by and people walked in the sunshine.

  A bank of white cloud hung high above Howth looking down on Dublin Bay. It was an image that an artist would like to capture, but sadly O’Neill never painted anything other than doors and garden gates. He appreciated the skill involved and he also appreciated what Shelly had said last night. And how Christine Connolly had hinted at the lack of progress in both cases. Was she thinking what Shelly had said? Coincidence! He hadn’t passed it on to Doyle yet, but there might come a time. This case was weird from the beginning, so there was no point in trying to anticipate where it was going next. It was a waste of time and energy that he couldn’t afford. Especially after last night, he thought, his lips curling in a mischievous smile.

  Back at his desk he flicked through the latest edition of The Local and noted its restrained coverage of the recent attacks. That’s more like it lads, he thought, as his mobile began ringing.

  It was Gary O’Connell. ‘Morning, Danny, and have you had your coffee and cake yet?’ He knew the routine.

  ‘Hey, are you spying on me or what?’

 
O’Connell laughed. ‘You are just so predictable.’

  ‘I must remember you the next time I need a psychological assessment. I didn’t know that you dabbled in that dark science as well. You’re full of surprises, Gary!’

  O’Connell laughed again. ‘And I have another one for you.’

  O’Neill was suddenly listening very carefully. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve got two in fact.’

  O’Neill sat down and reached for a pen. ‘Okay, shoot.’

  O’Connell coughed, readying himself. ‘Firstly, we found DNA that does not belong to Caroline Dolan, and we are trying to match it with the unidentified blood sample from the Ryan attack, and the spit from the second attack. I’ll have an answer after lunch.’

  ‘Excellent. And two.’

  ‘Well, we were able to retrieve some of the recording of the attack from her mobile phone.’ He paused and his voice dropped. ‘It doesn’t make for easy listening, Danny, but it’s there alright.’

  O’Neill was surprised. ‘Wow, Gary, that’s … great news. When can I have a copy of it?’

  ‘I have to go to Greystones after this call, so I’ll drop it in to you.’

  ‘Excellent, see you then. And I might even buy you a coffee.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ O’Connell said and hung up.

  With the phone still in his hand O’Neill called Tony Lewis, and after a minute or so of small talk they agreed to meet away from any prying eyes in a place they both knew well.

  *

  The sun was beating down and Garda McEvoy was sweating. He could feel his shirt sticking to him and his hankie was damp from wiping his brow. He stepped under the canopy of a pharmacy to take a breather.

  ‘Looks like you’re melting.’

  McEvoy turned and saw a postman pushing his bicycle along the pavement.

  ‘You’re not joking, it’s murder out there.’

  The older man nodded and continued on his way.

  McEvoy suddenly called out to the man. ‘Can you tell me what your route is?’

  People moved around the two men as they stood in the middle of the pavement.

  ‘I deliver to Trimelston Avenue, Trimelston Park and Woodbine. And the hotel, but there’s not much for that place now that it’s closing down.’

  McEvoy’s eyes narrowed. ‘You must have delivered post to Barbara Ryan’s house?’

  He nodded his head and looked down at the ground. ‘Of course; have done for years. She was a nice woman, always had a smile. A good person, you know.’

  McEvoy nodded. ‘I know what you mean. I wonder if you can remember seeing anything strange around the house.’

  The postman was confused. ‘Strange?’

  ‘You know, out of the ordinary, around the time that she was killed. Anything at all. It doesn’t matter how small it might seem to you, it might be useful.’

  The postman wiped his face with a bare elbow. He moved to the kerb and left his bicycle against a lamppost. McEvoy was again mopping his brow and wondered if this had been such a good idea.

  ‘I remember seeing a bloke on a bicycle acting funny near her house. That was a few days ago, before she was killed.’

  ‘Funny, how?’

  The postman thought for a moment. ‘I remember coming around the corner and this cyclist suddenly turned, in the middle of the road, and headed off in the opposite direction. It was like he was startled. Know what I mean?’

  McEvoy nodded.

  ‘He leaned forward, keeping his face hidden. I thought that was a bit odd.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was an uncomfortable position to cycle in, that’s all.’

  ‘And what did he look like, can you remember?’

  The postman scratched his head and grimaced. ‘I think he had dark hair. And it was long.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Like a student’s – long!’ He tapped his shoulder to indicate length.

  McEvoy had heard enough and had forgotten about the sun. ‘I think that my boss would like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind.’

  The postman picked up his bicycle. ‘That’s fine by me. Anything to get out of this heat.’

  McEvoy grinned. ‘I couldn’t have put it better,’ he said, and they headed through the pedestrians to the cool comfort of the police station.

  Patrick Stopman had worked in the neighbourhood for nearly twenty years and knew it like the back of his gnarled hand. He told his story to O’Neill who listened without once interrupting.

  ‘That’s very useful, very useful indeed. Thank you for your time.’ He paused. ‘One last thing.’

  ‘Yes?’ said the postman, leaning forward in his chair.

  ‘I would like you to talk to our sketch artist so that you might give us a description of the man you saw. Every little bit helps,’ O’Neill said calmly. The information that this man had just given could be very useful and he didn’t want to make him any more nervous than he was. Sitting in a police station on a hot summer’s day wasn’t anybody’s idea of fun.

  The postman made a face. ‘Sure, I can give it a go.’ He licked his lips. ‘Any chance of a drink? I’m parched.’

  O’Neill sat up quickly. ‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Stopman. How careless of me. Garda McEvoy can take you to the restaurant and get you whatever you want, and then you can meet the sketch artist.’

  O’Neill was updating the murder board when Gary O’Connell knocked on the door. ‘You look like a teacher,’ he said. ‘What’s new?’

  O’Neill told him about the postman’s story and the videocassette that Pat Brady was collecting.

  ‘Seems like there’s a lot happening all of a sudden. That’s good. Maybe the tide is turning,’ added O’Connell as he fished in his briefcase and took out Caroline Dolan’s mobile phone and a disc. ‘These are for you,’ he said and closed his briefcase. ‘We’ve transferred the call onto the disc so you can listen to it. It’s not good, Danny.’

  O’Neill looked at the table and felt a cold shiver run up his spine. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘No problem. I just hope it’s useful, that’s all.’ He swung his briefcase off the table. ‘I’m under pressure, so I’ll pass on the offer of coffee. I’ll get you again.’

  O’Neill looked down at the mobile phone and saw his reflection in the small screen. ‘What did you see and hear?’ he said quietly, tracing a finger over the keypad. The inanimate object, a silent witness at the attack on Caroline Dolan, sat on the table but offered nothing. But Gary got you to talk didn’t he, he thought. He went to see Doyle.

  By mid-afternoon Brady had returned from Trinity College with an enhanced copy of the videocassette. The images were clearer now but it still wasn’t possible to identify the attacker. He was wearing a beanie, as Christine Connolly had suggested, and Bailey had reckoned that he was about five feet eight inches tall.

  ‘How did he work that out?’ asked Doyle.

  ‘I don’t know, but I wouldn’t argue with him. He’s a very clever guy, and God only knows what equipment he has access to.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Doyle. ‘So where does all this leave us, Danny?’

  O’Neill stood in front of the murder board with the grainy image of the killer and the work by the sketch artist. They seemed to show the same guy but nobody conclusive. And certainly nothing a defence barrister would worry about.

  It was just more frustration.

  ‘But we did hear him shouting “… you’re all the same” on the audio clip, just like Margaret Power’s attacker did. So, it must be the same guy, but who is he?’ He drew a line from Caroline Dolan’s picture to Margaret Power and added the ‘all the same’ comment. ‘Okay, first of all, this news stays in this room.’

  The team agreed.

  ‘We could be close to our guy, but as you ca
n see … or not, he’s still invisible to us. Next, how to use this information? I don’t want to scare this guy into another frenzied attack, especially if he thinks we are getting close to him. We continue as we are but with his image in our minds.’

  Paul Grant spoke. ‘If we have this information why not just get it out there, sir? Someone might recognise him from the audio clip or the CCTV image.’

  Doyle stood. ‘Your concerns are noted, and I appreciate them. But right now we are withholding this information. For the time being at least. Our masters agree that the killer’s details are not clear enough to release to the public, and that we would not be helped by getting a flood of erroneous prank calls.’

  Everyone knew about that.

  ‘That would waste time and resources and we all know that they are very limited commodities right now,’ O’Neill added. ‘Rather than leaving this information to gather dust, I will be having a word with our friends in The Local.’

  Connolly sniffed.

  ‘They will say how the investigation is moving forward, that the police are happy with the progress in the case, and that the public should know that they are doing everything they can. All avenues are being investigated and …’.

  ‘... because you are putting such a positive spin on things, our guy may start looking over his shoulder,’ said Christine Connolly, ‘and make a mistake.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said O’Neill. ‘Our guy feels … knows, he’s invisible. Invincible, even. So with this statement maybe he’ll feel a little less so. He knows that we are not going to reveal our hand and we need to keep him guessing.’

  *

  The meeting ended and, after assigning work for the next day, O’Neill left and headed off to meet Tony Lewis. He drove to the campus at Belfield, parked his car, and took off his jacket and tie, leaving them on the back seat. He rolled up his sleeves and put on a pair of sunglasses and headed past the Science Block to the coffee shop by the lake. The late afternoon sun sparkled as it bounced off the glass and steel of the modern buildings, making him smile. Nobody paid him any attention and that was exactly how he wanted it.