by Don Cameron
Conroy was stunned, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the small disc. ‘In that case, Mr Jackson, then I’d like to know who sold it to you. It could be very important.’
Jackson picked up a remote control and zapped the massive television into life. There was a deep buzzing sound and then the screen lit up in glorious Technicolor.
‘Wow,’ said Conroy. ‘What a picture! It’s crystal clear.’
‘I love it,’ Jackson said. ‘It’s so over the top. Listen.’ He held the volume button down and the sound in the small office was deafening, and pitch-perfect.
On screen a surfer was riding a tumbling wave and Conroy felt that he was right there with him. The colours and sounds were incredible – better than anything he had ever witnessed. ‘Must have cost a fortune.’
‘With a suitable surround sound system connected to it you’d have little change from, say, fifteen, maybe even twenty thousand.’
‘Phew, you’re not joking. I’ll have to win the Lottery to get one of those.’ He waved the dream away. ‘Later.’
Jackson scrolled through menus and clicked on ‘DVD player’. The screen went dark and Conroy recognised the shop interior. Jackson fast-forwarded and the time indicator in the top corner became a speeding blur. He stopped the player and looked at Conroy. ‘This is the man I bought the necklace from. As you can see the image is pretty good.’
Conroy took in the shop and the silverware that glinted in the glass cabinets. There was nobody else in the shop and he could see pedestrians walking by the shop window.
‘His name is Clarke and he …’.
Conroy held up a hand. ‘Sorry, Mr Jackson, have you got a first name?’
‘It’s Nobby, and he lives at 13, Patrician Gardens …’.
‘Stillorgan,’ said Conroy, finishing the sentence.
‘You know the place then, Detective?’
Conroy looked at the desk and felt bile gurgle in his stomach. The memory was still raw and without thinking he touched his head. ‘Sure do, Mr Jackson. The last time I was there I ended up in hospital when a guy hit me with an iron bar while I was trying to stop a thief from escaping. It’s a long story.’
Jackson was sitting forward with elbows on the desk. ‘And did you stop him?’
He was gently rubbing his head while recalling the incident. The robbery of an off-licence in the Stillorgan Shopping Centre had gone wrong and he and another officer were the first to respond. His partner managed to tackle one of the criminals with a flying rugby-style tackle and pull him down. Suddenly, a youth with a bag of money jumped him and knocked him out. He fled in a small hatchback sports car, but only yards away the car mounted a kerb and crashed headlong into a wall. The fight was over. So, yes, he knew Patrician Gardens very well.
Jackson shifted in his chair. ‘That was very brave of you, Detective. Well done.’
Conroy nodded and turned to the screen where Nobby Clarke was held in electronic aspic. ‘Can I have a copy of this? We’ll need to see it at the station. It will be quite safe, Mr Jackson, I can assure that.’
Jackson hit a few buttons and in moments Conroy could see that a copy of the DVD was being saved to a computer that sat below the massive screen. When it was finished the tray opened and he handed the copy to Conroy who put it in his pocket.
Jackson stood up and straightened his tie. ‘Detective Conroy, let me make myself perfectly clear.’
‘Fine, Mr Jackson.’
‘I have been in business here for seventeen years. I have seen good times and bad times. In the good times, business is not so good for me, and in the bad times, business is good for me. Understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘I have dealt with all sorts and all their predicaments, but I have never been in trouble. Not with the law, at least.’ He raised his voice. ‘I am not going to start now.’ He folded the red cloth, put it into a metal box, and pushed it across the table.
Conroy picked it up and snapped the clasp.
‘If this man had anything to do with the attack on that young woman, well I hope that he gets what he deserves.’ He stepped from behind the desk. ‘I have two daughters and I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to them. Now take the necklace and do something good with it, Detective.’
‘I’ll do my best, Mr Jackson, you can be sure of that.’
They went to the front door and shook hands. ‘I’m sure that your best will be good enough, Detective,’ he said, and quietly closed the door.
*
Half an hour later Conroy was putting the DVD into the machine and looking at Nobby Clarke. He had dark hair to his collar and he was wearing white trainers. The scientists in Trinity College had calculated that the man on the Booterstown CCTV was approximately five-eight. Nobby Clarke, sadly for him, seemed a good match. Now all they had to do was catch the bastard.
O’Neill took over. ‘Okay, this might be our lucky break, so let’s all pay attention. Dave, you can confirm the address and who lives there. Check council registers and whatever else you can get your hands on. Paul, I want you to check with the electricity and water companies and find out who’s paying the bills there. And see if you can get any details of mobile phones.
‘Christine, see what you can find on Nobby Clarke; any previous arrests and what he might do to earn a few quid. He may even have a proper job and a Social Security number.’
That got a laugh. It was needed.
‘Pat and I will check the local maps and get a plan together for Mr Nobby Clarke.’
The glum mood that had been hanging about the room was gone like an early morning mist, and O’Neill wanted to make the most of it. This might well be the chance that he was looking for, but he was too much of a cynic to totally believe it. He’d seen officers blindly follow one ‘obvious’ path and then regret it. It sapped the team and, without saying anything directly, their credibility was questioned, with negative consequences for everyone.
He was determined not to go down that route. He was as keen as any of his team to catch the killer but he couldn’t jump too soon. A mistake at this critical time could be disastrous and he couldn’t let this bastard slip away.
36
In less than an hour they had confirmed the address and that a Norbert (Nobby) Clarke lived there. The house was rented and another man’s name popped up: Jack Kelly, who Brady knew by reputation, bad reputation. It looked like they had come upon a den of thieves and O’Neill wanted a watertight plan.
‘I want the first two cars, that’s Dave and Pat, to go straight on; myself and the last car will follow the road around left. That should be able to cut off any escape.’ He looked at the anxious faces. ‘Can you imagine the press if this guy gets away? It’s not going to happen, is that clear?’
‘Crystal clear,’ said Doyle from the doorway.
All the heads turned.
‘Carry on, Danny, and keep me informed.’
‘Right, let’s get ready – we’ll be off in twenty minutes. No sirens or screeching brakes. This is not a TV show. These guys will have their antennae up, so be prepared.’
Brady put up his hand. ‘I know Jack Kelly from a few years back. He was involved with a biker gang that ran drugs in South Dublin. He wasn’t a big player, but he was the muscle. So this guy will definitely not come easy.’
‘Twenty minutes, everyone,’ said O’Neill over the sound of shuffling feet.
The four unmarked cars set off without drawing attention and headed towards Stillorgan. Nobody talked, all keeping their thoughts to themselves. They were completely focused and wanted the action to be quick and decisive.
All four cars headed along the coast, past Seapoint, Blackrock and Monkstown before turning inland at Newtownpark Avenue. A few hundred yards later they turned right and were on Stillorgan Park Road. The plan was for O’Ne
ill and Connolly to walk by the house and see how things looked before he ordered any assault. Even the word seemed heavy: assault. That’s what soldiers did, not police in South Dublin on a quiet summer’s evening.
Brady radioed that they were in place and ready. The uniformed officers in the last car had removed their jackets and ties, rolled their sleeves up and could have passed for boys heading home after work.
‘I’m going to have a look,’ said O’Neill into the radio. ‘Nobody do anything without my say so. Leaving the car now.’
Connolly got out the other side and they walked like any couple out for a summer stroll, glancing at houses as they went along. Some houses were in need of attention, with cracked windows and uncut front lawns. No. 13 was much like they had expected, with a wheel-less car up on blocks in the garden and two motorbikes beside it. An old sheet, torn and stained with oily blotches, lay on the ground, covered with tools and a roll of toilet paper. O’Neill reckoned that repairs were being carried out on the big Kawasaki.
At least someone was at home.
Brady and his team were already making their way towards the house when O’Neill spoke into the walkie-talkie: ‘Someone’s inside, so I guess we’ll just have to knock on the door.’
Brady grinned.
‘Remember that Kelly is an animal and he’ll do anything to get away. Be careful,’ he said, and he waited for Conroy to call. Two minutes later he called; he had the back entrance covered.
‘Good work, Dave,’ said O’Neill. ‘I’m moving now.’
A few casual strollers gave them a second glance but kept going. Close looks were not encouraged.
The two casually dressed officers followed a few yards behind, sharing a laugh and a cigarette.
O’Neill and Connolly walked to the front door like local councillors soliciting votes. His finger was almost on the buzzer, when Jack Kelly swung the door open. His long hair was lank and greasy, and his moustache was out of control. A missing upper front tooth and a spider’s web tattoo on his neck completed the hard man image. He didn’t have to try very hard to look mean, for Jack Kelly it was a genetic trait.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ he spat, and leered at Christine Connolly. That leer said what he would do to her and he stuck his chest out.
O’Neill stepped closer. ‘Nobby, is he in?’
Kelly stared at O’Neill and didn’t hide his suspicion. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ It took a few seconds for him to realise what was going on and he shouted. ‘Nobby it’s the filth, get the fuck outta here!’ He swung a punch at O’Neill but hit only fresh air. He staggered, his target gone, and lashed a kick at Connolly. It missed her knee by an inch. ‘Fuck!’ he screamed and swung a punch at her head. To his astonishment the pretty woman landed a perfectly placed foot between his legs. The pain was gut wrenching, and he shot the contents of his stomach on to his boots. He swayed and fell to his knees, another withering surge of pain shooting through his body, and collapsed, head on the ground, his damaged, precious jewels throbbing like never before.
‘Back door, back door!’ shouted O’Neill when he heard the kitchen door fly open. Connolly and the two officers ran around the corner where Nobby Clarke was fighting. One officer had a bloody nose and another was on the ground holding his stomach. In a few steps Brady hit Clarke in the kidneys and he went down screaming.
‘Bastards!’ he shouted and swung another punch. ‘Bastards! You’re all fucking bastards!’
‘Got some mouth on him,’ said Brady, getting his breath back, ‘and he can certainly hand it out.’
O’Neill saw the dark hair, white trainers and nasty look on Clarke’s face. ‘Get this piece of shit to the station, and that big fuck in the front garden. He’s going to the station as well.’
‘That bastard has had everything at the public’s expense,’ said Brady through gritted teeth. ‘He’s a fucking leech – take, take, and more fucking take. We’re better off without his sort. Fucking pond-life.’
‘Calm down, Pat, we’ve got him. Let’s get O’Connell over here and then we can go back and have a word with Nobby.’ He grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Isn’t that right, Nobby? I’ve been really looking forward to this … honestly.’
‘You’re breaking my fucking arm, you bastard. It’s me fucking arm.’ Clarke twisted on his knees; sweat ran down his face, dropping off his chin.
O’Neill leaned into Clarke’s ear. He whispered but the words were clear: ‘Believe me, Nobby, if I want to break your precious fucking arm then you will know about pain. So don’t fuck with me.’
He and Connolly got into the car and headed back to the police station. ‘That was interesting,’ she said and sat back as the world passed by.
*
The sky was darkening by the time Nobby Clarke was brought into the interview room. Two uniformed officers stood over him and hoped that he would do or say something offensive. After breaking one of their colleague’s noses and hospitalising another they were itching to hit him. His head was stooped and his shoulders hunched as he cowered beneath the mountain of shit that was waiting to drop on him. Telling stories in the pub about hitting coppers was one thing, but sitting here in front of them in a darkened room was something else. What had he done? he wondered, and kept his head down. Sell a little dope, but that was hardly a reason to send squad cars and senior coppers. What the fuck was this all about? he asked himself silently.
O’Neill had cleaned up before the interview. They both looked smart. They were good and he was bad; it was part of the psychological game that Connolly suggested they play.
Nobby Clarke had a few scratches on his face, his eyes were tired and nervous. His hair hung below his collar and his height was what O’Neill was expecting. Nobby was looking like the suspect in both the Booterstown station and the pawnshop clips, but O’Neill was beginning to have a bad feeling. He looked at the man across the table; a quiver of doubt came into his mind. It was unexpected, but when he looked closer at Nobby Clarke, his gut instinct demanded attention.
It was just another hurdle, another blip in a case that had been weird from the start. Doubt itself was no bad thing, as it forced you to make absolutely certain of the facts – that really was the point of it all. No doubts, no regrets, no problems.
‘Do you know why you’re here, Nobby?’ O’Neill asked, taking a sip of coffee.
An ankle chain kept Nobby locked to his chair, but his hands rested on his lap. ‘Can I get some coffee?’
O’Neill turned to Connolly and they both looked at the suspect. ‘No, you fucking can’t have coffee,’ snapped O’Neill. ‘You answer the questions in here. You must at least understand that bit?’
‘And what’s going on?’ Nobby asked carefully.
O’Neill grinned, but it was a nasty grin, full of suppressed anger. ‘You’re a slow learner, Nobby, real fucking slow. Maybe that’s why you’re in here.’
Nobby kept quiet, he didn’t like the way the copper spoke.
O’Neill drank some more. ‘For the second and last time, I’ll ask the same question: Do you know why you’re here, Nobby?’
Nobby’s scared eyes flicked between O’Neill and Connolly but saw no comfort. The bitch, he certainly wouldn’t mind shagging her, looked like she might be even more deadly than the guy asking the questions. ‘I don’t know, I’ve no idea!’
Connolly spoke. ‘You pawned a woman’s necklace in Blackrock, remember?’
The necklace, shit. He knew it was too good to be true. There was no point in denying it, as he knew he was probably on the shop’s security camera. ‘Yeah.’
‘That necklace belonged to Caroline Dolan, the woman who was attacked in Booterstown station, and who is now in St Vincent’s Hospital fighting for her life. Does that mean anything to you, Nobby?’
His head dropped and he sighed. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? I
never hurt anybody, never.’
O’Neill stood, walked to the door and then slowly turned around. ‘You really are stupid, Nobby. Really fucking stupid.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve had some real beauties in here over the years but, fuck me, you’re something else. What did I say a few minutes ago, Nobby?’
No answer.
‘Right. For those in the “hard of hearing gang”, it goes like this: I ask the questions and you answer them. I can’t make it any simpler, Nobby. Understand?’
Nobby nodded his head and stared at his lap.
‘Answer the question.’
‘I don’t know nothing about no attack in Booterstown or wherever. I don’t do that shit.’ He was still looking at his hands. They were shaking now.
‘What shit do you do, Nobby?’ O’Neill asked.
Clarke scrunched his nose and breathed deeply. ‘I sell a bit of dope, grass or hash, nothing heavy. I don’t attack people. I couldn’t do it. Jesus!’
‘So where did you get the necklace?’ Connolly crossed out a question in her notebook.
‘I found it.’
O’Neill laughed. ‘Jaysus, Nobby, you can do better than that. That’s the sort of a thing a child would say. “I found it on the street”. Try again.’
He lifted his arms and awkwardly wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I was drinking in The Punchbowl and it was on the ground beside my car when I was going home. It was in the car park.’
‘So you drink and drive, you sell drugs and you hit police officers, that’s quite a list, Nobby, and we’ve only been here a few minutes. What are we going to find out over the next two or three hours? This should be interesting.’ O’Neill turned to Connolly.
‘Yeah, this should be something else. I can’t wait,’ she said, and opened her eyes a little more – in mock anticipation.
Nobby Clarke’s tough image slipped quickly. The fact that he was in the frame for an attack on a woman who might just die was a long way from dealing some soft drugs. They’ve got something badly wrong here, but how the fuck do I convince them?