Marked Off

by Don Cameron

  He spotted Tony Lewis beside the lake watching the swans and ducks paddle about in the late sunshine. He had put on a few pounds since they had last met and his hunched shoulders seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on them. He looked older than his years, and O’Neill was happy he wasn’t chasing Burke’s killer. He smiled when they shook hands. It was firm like he remembered and he held it a little longer than normal. ‘Good to see you, Tony,’ he said and nodded gently.

  ‘And you too, Danny. You’re still looking pretty good. What are you taking? – nothing illegal I hope,’ he joked.

  O’Neill grinned. ‘No, I go running on Sandymount Strand every morning, or at least as often as I can. You know that old phrase about “a healthy mind in a healthy body”? well I’m starting to believe it.’

  ‘And no doubt Shelly Tobin approves, eh?’

  ‘Jesus, is there nothing secret any more?’ he said, his voice cracking before the pair of them laughed.

  ‘So it’s true then,’ said Lewis. ‘Good man.’

  O’Neill put his hands up. ‘Okay, enough of this. I didn’t come here to be questioned about my sex life, and certainly not by you of all people.’ He turned to the café. ‘Come on, let’s go and get some coffee. I’m treating you.’

  ‘Still the big spender,’ Lewis teased.

  After they got their drinks and sandwiches they walked around the lake and sat on a seat well away from any eavesdroppers. Sunbeams danced on the water and all around them there was a quiet stillness. Off to the side two students dressed in cut-offs and T-shirts expertly threw a Frisbee. It was a perfect summer evening for getting up a sweat and, of course, talking murder.

  They talked about old times in the university and the crazy things they had done. It all seemed so innocent and long ago, especially after all the crime they had each seen and experienced in their professional lives. Some gulls swept down looking for crumbs and O’Neill tossed the last piece of his sandwich into the air. It was snapped up immediately.

  Lewis wiped his mouth with a napkin ‘So, Danny, what’s on your mind?’

  He had thought about this and wanted to make sure that he wasn’t going to sound like an idiot. ‘It’s like this, Tony: I think it’s strange that neither of us has made any progress. None at all. That strikes me as odd, very odd indeed.’

  Lewis lit a cigarette, let out a long stream of smoke but said nothing. He nodded for Danny to continue.

  ‘I know that your case is very high profile, a politician has been murdered after all, and I have two women dead, but we are no wiser now than we were days ago. We know absolutely nothing.’ He turned and looked at his old college friend and noticed the tiredness around his eyes and the grey hairs above his ear. ‘In all the years that I’ve been investigating murder cases I’ve never seen anything like it, Tony. Never.’ He hunched forward and watched the swans fight over scraps that a student was throwing to them.

  Lewis took a long pull and then crushed the cigarette under his foot. ‘I agree, Danny, it’s hard to believe. My team has been going over this with a fine tooth comb, no expense spared, and we’ve got nothing. Sweet fuck all.’ He leaned forward and put his elbows on his thighs. ‘I hate to admit it, but right now, we’re stuck.’

  O’Neill turned his head.

  ‘I’m getting grief from the government, from his family and his constituents, but we’ve not found anything to point a finger at anyone.’

  ‘I thought that you were looking at some of his business partners?’ said O’Neill.

  Lewis sat up and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yeah, we did too, but it’s a dead end. We’ve done all the financial checking and there’s nothing missing or smelly.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘And we’ve put the squeeze on the drug dealers that Burke was going to target when he got into government. They’re not involved and it wouldn’t be good for their business if you know what I mean? That would just bring down so much shit on their heads. And believe me, those boys aren’t that stupid.’

  O’Neill nodded. ‘I see. So what are you going to do now?’

  Lewis held out his hands. ‘Don’t know … just don’t know.’

  They sat in silence for a while and watched as more gulls splashed down and joined the fight for the crumbs that were on offer.

  O’Neill sat up and sighed. ‘I know this is going to sound stupid, but...’

  Lewis looked at him and raised an eyebrow ‘But ...?’

  ‘But I’m wondering if there is any connection between the two investigations. I know it sounds crazy … but that’s what I’m thinking. And the craziest thing is, I don’t know why.’

  Lewis let the words sink in, crossed his legs and stretched his arms onto the back of the seat. ‘I agree it’s crazy, but what’s really nagging you? And remember that Burke was slashed to death with a long knife and that’s not what happened to your women, is it?’

  It wasn’t what O’Neill wanted to hear, but he knew his old friend was right.

  ‘I know, I know … but the attacks were so clinical and carried out within a few days of each other. It could be some sort of escalation ...’.

  ‘Or you could be talking shite, Danny. That sounds very

  CSI to me.’

  O’Neill shrugged. ‘Agreed, but it’s just that the two women who were murdered had nothing in common except that they lived near to each other. In fact, not more than half a mile from here. And no matter how hard we try to establish a connection we still can’t find it. It’s a real mystery.’

  ‘And you think what?’

  ‘I don’t know, Tony. I just don’t know. But I’m desperate and open to all suggestions. And I was hoping that if I knew something of Burke’s background and movement then ... well you never know.’

  ‘It’s good that you are thinking outside the box, because I think that’s all that’s left now.’ Over the next twenty minutes, Lewis gave a résumé of the investigation and of what they had established about Burke and his business links. Also, he explained about the affairs Burke had, but that no leads had been developed.

  ‘And what about his campaign manager?’ asked O’Neill who was listening intently.

  ‘Maurice Kavanagh. He’s a former high flyer in PR and worked closely with Burke for the last eighteen months or so.’

  ‘He ought to know where any skeletons are buried, Tony.’

  ‘I’ve been down that track, Danny, but we got nowhere.’

  O’Neill took off his sunglasses and rubbed his nose. ‘I know that Burke didn’t live near these women, but I’m wondering if their paths ever crossed. Just looking for a connection.’

  Lewis nodded and grinned. ‘I know you are and you’re bloody right. I don’t know any more, but I’ll have another word with Kavanagh and see if he’s more helpful this time.’

  O’Neill clapped his hands. ‘Good stuff … and make sure to find out Burke’s movements around the election. It may well be that some nutter doesn’t like politicians.’

  Lewis laughed and slapped O’Neill on the back. ‘And God knows, that’s most of us.’

  The two men shook hands and headed off with nothing new added to their investigations, only O’Neill’s crazy idea that Tony Lewis would follow-up. He felt he already knew the answer – and it was negative.

  O’Neill went home, changed into a T-shirt, shorts and running shoes and had a long hard run on the strand. It had been quite a day in a series of many big days. He felt that the wheels were moving and a few more rolls might get things really moving to an end. It would be a bloody end, as the Penman, Clipboard Man, or whoever the bastard was had spilled enough blood already, but his own would be the final drop. It didn’t bother O’Neill what the killer thought as long as he was caught, dead or alive. ‘It’s your choice mate,’ he said to the tumbling waves. ‘I don’t give a fuck.’


  34

  The room stank, the smell of stale cigarettes and empty takeaway cartons strong and sharp. He paid it no attention as he listened to the radio, a cup of coffee on his chest. He was thinking about the attack in Booterstown and how the arrival of the car had messed things up. It was a slip, he knew that, and how close he had come to being spotted. He didn’t have everything under control, and that made him think hard.

  The radio announcer broke for the news.

  It was the fourth item that pricked his ears. ‘Police today have said that the young woman who was attacked two nights ago at Booterstown station is off life-support. She was seriously injured and hospital staff are continuing to monitor her progress.’

  ‘Lucky bitch,’ he said. ‘If that car hadn’t come along you’d be dead like the other two. The next one won’t be so lucky.’ There was nothing about Liam Burke or the other women’s investigations. The police had no ideas, and he grinned with deep satisfaction.

  He sat up and looked at the pictures on the wall. There were plenty to choose from and he wondered who was going to be next. After the Booterstown affair he knew that he would have to prepare even better than before, and as he slowly touched each picture a tingle of excitement danced up his spine. He loved this moment the most – his choice. He was in total control and his girls were waiting for him to call them forward. ‘Choose me,’ they said to him, but he let them wait. A little teasing, they all liked that! He closed his eyes and the tingling intensified.

  His breathing quickened when he picked up the long knife that he had used to kill Liam Burke. He touched the blade, drawing a drop of blood from his finger. He licked it clean and looked closely at the small wound. What a deep one a pencil must make, he mused, and again sucked his finger.

  He scanned the pictures again – ‘Eeny-meeny-mine-mo,’ he whispered, and suddenly plunged the knife into one of them, the blade quivering for an age before coming to a stop. He touched the handle with his palm and slowly moved back and forward, feeling the pressure and loving the resistance. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Ahhh! I guess we have a date, darling, just you and me.’ He stepped back, lit another cigarette and squinted through the spiralling smoke at the next lucky girl.

  He ran his tongue along his lips, the edges of his mouth twisting into an evil grin. ‘Soon, darling, real soon.’

  35

  The traffic was light when O’Neill drove along Strand Road, the sea blue and calm beyond. Early morning windsurfers, their colourful sails rippling joyously, were making the most of the rising breeze. They cut swathes in the water and leapt high off breaking waves.

  To his right, two men, one on a ladder, the other holding it still, were putting up posters for the forthcoming Dun Laoghaire regatta. A pile of posters lay on the ground and an idea came and went in an instant. He scrunched his eyes trying to get a hold of it but it was gone. What was it? he wondered, hitting the steering wheel in frustration.

  Christine Connolly was talking to Pat Brady when O’Neill came into the office. They stopped when they saw him and he knew that he had been right about the pair of them getting chummy. They seemed almost embarrassed, and Brady slunk off and sat at his own desk, pretending to be busy.

  ‘Any news?’ O’Neill said, taking off his jacket.

  ‘No, nothing,’ said Brady.

  ‘I have a few follow-up house-to-house calls to make near the Dolan home,’ said Connolly, ‘after I finish these notes. But that’s it, sir.’

  ‘Good, just keep at it.’ There was nothing more to say, so he went to see Doyle.

  ‘Morning, Danny, alright?’

  The boss was, as usual, deep into a mountain of files.

  ‘I’m good, but this case is really proving to be a pain. We have what we believe is useful information but it’s not enough. At every turn the killer is a step ahead of us, and it’s hard to see any way of catching him.’

  Doyle sat back in his chair. ‘I understand. So do the big boys in The Park. This sort of thing is never easy and that’s why it’s on your desk. You’re the best I have and you’re doing a fine job. These things take time. We are always responding to events, always behind. It’s what happens, Danny, you know that better than anyone.’

  The two looked at each other for a few moments but said nothing. There was nothing to say and O’Neill didn’t want to broach the idea of a single killer with him yet. There was a huge team working on the Burke case and they would surely crack it soon. There was no advantage in suggesting his ‘crazy’ idea now, so he kept it to himself. They discussed re-examining all the evidence and then O’Neill went back to his desk.

  ‘Where’s Dave?’ he asked after a few minutes.

  ‘Oh, some man called and wanted to speak to a detective so he’s gone to see him, sir,’ explained Connolly.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘A theft of some sort. Didn’t sound very serious.’

  *

  Dave Conroy decided to cycle to Blackrock and enjoy the fresh air along Seapoint Avenue. The view out to sea was spectacular. A handful of small white clouds, delicate and unthreatening, broke up the endless blue and reminded him of school holidays in the country. Life was so easy then, playing football with his cousins, swimming in the lake near his aunt’s house in Roscommon and collecting the hay under a hot sun. They were the best of times and he told himself that he should visit soon. His Aunt Rita, his favourite aunt, was now in her late seventies and he knew she would enjoy the surprise. Yes, he would do that as soon as things got sorted out here. But the way things were going, that could be a while.

  He passed the long alley at Seapoint station where Margaret Power had been attacked and wondered about her attacker. the Penman was elusive, and why he did what he did was anybody’s guess. Who knew what was going on in anybody’s mind? Nobody, that’s who. It was all speculation and theory, at least until he was caught and the shrinks could get to work on him. Most importantly, the public wouldn’t care what made him do what he did as long as he was locked away for a very long time.

  He swung right onto Main Street and freewheeled down to the library where he chained his bicycle to one of the new metal parking racks.

  The place was busy and he spotted the shop between a newsagent and the old chemist shop that had been there for years. Above it the windows were white and looked as though they had been recently painted. Probably set in flats, he thought, and waited for the pedestrian lights to change.

  The door was heavy when he pushed it in and he realised that he had never been in a pawnbroker’s shop before. His father had said that only people on their uppers went to them. It was a short step from moneylenders, he had warned.

  He looked up and noted the red light of a security camera. And then another one. The place was secure and the owner was taking all the right precautions, especially with all the high-quality goods around: televisions, DVD players, cabinets full of cameras and silverware. All would be of interest to any thief. These items were like instant cash and there was always someone who was willing to take a chance. In these difficult economic times that type of crime was on the increase. ‘The Celtic Rat’ effect, as one commentator so cleverly put it.

  A voice from behind surprised him.

  ‘Can I help?’ it asked.

  Conroy turned and saw a silver-haired man behind a desk at the end of the shop, looking over the top of his spectacles. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt and silk tie, and a handkerchief in the top pocket. Very smart, thought Conroy, reaching for his ID.

  ‘Detective Conroy. I took a call earlier. Was it from you?’

  The man smiled and the creases around his eyes stood up a little. The skin was tight and Conroy knew that it had been exposed to a lot of sunshine. Months of it, thought Conroy, offering his hand.

  They shook hands. ‘David Jackson, I’m the owner. And, yes, I did cal
l you.’ He opened the drop-down counter and waved Conroy in. ‘It’s quieter inside,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to be disturbed.’ He bent down and flicked a switch under the counter and the front door clicked. Red beams of light criss-crossed the shop and Conroy knew that they would not be disturbed.

  Jackson led Conroy down a long corridor that was crammed high with expensive white goods, from computers to stereos. Everything had a price and Jackson knew that better than most people.

  Jackson sat at his desk and beckoned to Conroy to sit opposite him. Against a wall was the biggest television that Conroy had ever seen, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  Jackson noticed. ‘Yes, it’s all of seventy inches. Something else, eh?’

  Conroy laughed. ‘It wouldn’t fit into my flat; it’s like a cinema screen. Need a big house for that.’

  Jackson considered the massive screen. ‘Yes, the man who brought it in had some, how should I put it … bad luck on the business front. Cleaned out, I believe, is the phrase he used.’

  ‘Wow, you couldn’t miss that monster in any room.’

  ‘Sure wouldn’t, Detective. It’s impressive.’

  Jackson opened a drawer and took out a folded red cloth. He pulled back the corners and revealed a silver necklace.

  Conroy leaned forward and put his hands on the edge of the desk. ‘Is this why you called, Mr Jackson?’ he asked and looked up at the man. He must have been in his late fifties or early sixties, but he was in good shape. No double chins and his skin was pink and healthy.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I bought it from a man yesterday, a man I have to say, that I have done plenty of business with.’ He lifted a small letter opener and slid it under the necklace and flipped it over. He pointed. ‘There, can you see the letters?’

  Conroy stretched over and saw the two letters on a disc that hung from the centre of the necklace. ‘C. D.’ he said softly.

  ‘Yes, Detective, C.D. And then I remembered Caroline Dolan. The woman attacked a few days ago.’ Jackson took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.