by Don Cameron
Over the next hour he answered all their questions as quickly and honestly as possible. Whatever happened to that woman, he sure as hell wasn’t going to take the rap for it. He’d never carried a knife, ever. It was the truth. They had to believe him.
‘So, Nobby, where were you last Monday?’ asked Connolly, her eyes fixed on him.
Last Monday, shit. How the fuck do I know where I was? he thought, his brain scrambling for an answer. A little voice kept saying Booterstown. Think, you stupid fuck, just think or else….He was thinking hard; so hard that he was beginning to feel dizzy. A click. ‘Yeah, I was in Galway delivering stuff,’ he said .
O’Neill raised an eyebrow. ‘Stuff?’
‘Yeah, stuff. You know stuff: televisions, beds, fridges and that kinda stuff. I do it regularly; it pays well.’
‘That’s nice to know, Nobby, and I suppose you declare your earnings to the taxman, eh?’ O’Neill took a big sip and emptied his cup.
No answer.
‘Just another pack of lies, eh, Nobby? How many more laws have you broken, or do you care? You don’t even know how to give a fuck.’ O’Neill stood up again, the chair legs scraping angrily, and Nobby visibly tensed.
‘It’s the truth, honestly!’ he cried, expecting a thump.
‘Nobby, Nobby, Nobby, you wouldn’t recognise the truth if it bit you on the arse. You’re a liar, a genetically programmed one at that, and I’d have difficulty believing The Lord’s Prayer coming from your lips.’ O’Neill shrugged. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ He walked to the wall and leaned against it. ‘I know, Nobby, I know exactly what I’ll do.’
Connolly saw fear in Clarke’s eyes, and waited.
‘Shall I tell you what that is?’ He stepped forward. ‘I’m going upstairs now to call my reporter friend in The Local and tell him that the police have just captured Dublin’s most wanted man. He will be charged tomorrow morning and then the world can feast their eyes on you and abuse him from a great height. Should be a day to remember.’
Nobby began to wet himself and he couldn’t stop it. ‘I was working with Des Hennessey. He has a business delivering stuff around the country and I help him when he needs another pair of hands.’
‘That’s better, Nobby, much better. And where do I find this Des Hennessey?’
Nobby coughed and a bead of sweat dropped onto the table. ‘He’s got a warehouse off Sallynoggin Park, in the old industrial estate. Know it?’
‘Know it?’ O’Neill laughed. ‘The place is full of scumbags, of course I know it. I’ve made plenty of social calls in there, not always welcomed though. It’s a shithole, if ever there was one.’
Connolly left the room and went upstairs to start checking on Des Hennessey and his business.
‘Between you and me, I’ve had it up to here,’ O’Neill placed his hand to his nose, ‘and I’m not in a good mood. That’s as honest as I can be. So here’s the deal. I’ll check out this Des Hennessey tomorrow and find out what he has to say. I hope that he’s not gone away delivering stuff; that would be very unfortunate.’ He tapped the table with a finger, the sound short and sharp in the stuffy room. ‘And if he tells the truth then you’ll be fine, Nobby. If he doesn’t …’.
O’Neill called out for the officers to take the suspect away. ‘I hope that Des is as good a friend as you think he is. Honour among thieves and all that. Take him.’
Upstairs the lights were on and O’Neill realised how late it was. Interviewing scumbags, what a way to spend a summer’s evening.
‘I’ve got a Des Hennessey where Nobby said he would be. I’m checking how his business stands with the Revenue, any outstanding taxes or whatever.’ Christine Connolly was sitting in front of her computer carefully studying the onscreen information. ‘Looks like Des has forgotten to pay his VAT since last year. That’s definitely a reason to make a social call, sir. But ...’.
O’Neill was looking at her, waiting.
‘Des Hennessy, otherwise know as “Tats” because of his many tattoos, has previous convictions.’
‘Great stuff, for what?’ he asked, suddenly feeling a little less tired.
She leaned closer to the computer screen. ‘Well, he’s been inside twice: for burglary, and for receiving stolen property.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘Last year he was let out of jail early because of prisoner overcrowding. So he’s …’.
‘... so he’s supposed to keep out of trouble.’ O’Neill grinned. ‘Tut, tut, Tats, but some guys just never learn, do they?’
Connolly smiled. ‘Thankfully, no.’ She hit the print button and collected the reports.
‘Good stuff, but right now I’m going home. Get a swab from Clarke and send it to O’Connell. That will rule him in or out. Update the board, will you? I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll take a couple of officers with us as backup. That neck of the woods is dangerous, and I want Des to get the right signal. I’m tired of wasting time while that crazy fuck is out there.’ He picked up his jacket and left. The air outside was fresh and clear, but his mind was agitated with doubts that wouldn’t go away.
37
O’Neill wasn’t enjoying his breakfast as caller after caller vented their spleen about the lack of progress on the Penman and Burke cases. The radio host was stoking the fires of anger and interested only in the vitriol pouring in. It was populist stuff and he egged each caller on. ‘Are you as disappointed as Valerie was? Call me now, and have your say. God knows we need to hear from you, people are scared. Call me on …’.
He turned the mouthy radio jock off, wondering what made these radio guys tick. For them, everything had to be in chaos, and they had a willing audience who just wanted to vent their frustration. If the presenter had nothing to bitch and rant about then he didn’t have a show. While O’Neill was trying to catch the callous bastard, a radio presenter, paid by the same taxpayer that paid his wages, was stirring up the mob. And making his job even harder. Would they be as mouthy if their own daughter had been a victim? Stupid question.
Brady and Connolly were talking when O’Neill came in. They were getting on and it was good to see the positive influence she seemed to be having on his team.
He rang down to the cells. ‘How were our guests?’
‘Good as gold, sir,’ said the gaoler with undisguised contempt. ‘There wasn’t a word out of either of them. Big girls when that metal door is closed. They’re all the same.’
‘Thanks, I’ll be down later.’
He walked over to Brady’s desk. ‘Anything I should know about?’
Brady shrugged. ‘No, nothing new overnight, apart from more irate callers shouting down the phone.’
‘They’ll soon run out of steam, it’s always the same. The cranks will always be with us, always wasting our time. And God knows we’ve wasted enough of it already.’ He turned to Connolly. ‘Did you send Nobby’s swab to O’Connell?’
‘Yes, sir. I did it as soon as I got off the phone last night. O’Connell said he’ll have a result with us by the afternoon.’
‘Good, and in the meantime, why don’t we go and have a word with Des Hennessey? Pat, get another officer – that should send the right signal. Dave, you mind the fort.’
O’Neill looked at the board with all the names and dates they had gathered so far. There were photos stuck with tape, red lines showing timelines, pictures pinned up, but nothing made sense. All the help from the public and the contribution of the profiler hadn’t pushed the investigation along any further. The information was like scattered pieces from a jigsaw waiting for the big central piece to fall into place.
They left to interview the man who delivered stuff and O’Neill wondered what answers he would give. Could he deliver an alibi for his friend, Nobby Clarke? He would soon know.
The car climbed Lower Glenageary Road and O’Neill watched the bay disappear in the
rear-view mirror. The roundabout at the top of the road was blocked so he and another officer got out, and went to have a look. A white van and a bus had collided and there was a lot of shouting and finger pointing.
‘So who’s at fault? And please don’t waste my time.’ O’Neill said, stepping between the shouting men. The van had lost a rear light and received a small dent, but there was very little damage. The officer went between the two vehicles and took some photographs on his mobile phone. He then phoned the traffic control unit and requested a review of the videotape for the roundabout. Two minutes later the drivers shook hands and went about their business with a salutary warning from O’Neill ringing in their ears.
The industrial estate was even dirtier than he remembered. A burnt-out shell of a car and broken glass welcomed him. He turned to Brady. ‘I want you and the officer to stay back. I don’t want to scare this guy, but if I need to intimidate him then Christine Connolly will call. Keep a close eye on things.’
O’Neill and Connolly walked around the wrecked car. ‘I see what you mean about it being a shithole, sir.’ She smiled.
‘It’s a shithole alright; even a blind man could see that. Know what I mean?’
‘I know exactly what you mean. In fact I can even smell the place – not on any Michelin guide I bet.’
O’Neill stopped. ‘You stay behind, but close. And keep your radio on.’
Connolly knew that she had acquitted herself with Jack Kelly, but O’Neill didn’t want to put her in the line of fire again. She was a guest on the team, and a valuable one at that. ‘I’ll be fine, sir. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried about you, Christine; I’m more worried about what you might do to one of these scumbags.’ He winked, then turned and headed for a line of three dodgy warehouses where broken windows seemed to be the norm.
A scruffy sign, hand-painted and worn, declaring ‘Hennessey Transport,’ made O’Neill grin. It was on a wall above a metal door that was seven or eight feet from a folding garage-door. Both doors were covered in colourful graffiti.
A man was wiping the windscreen of a well-travelled van in front of the garage door. He stopped when he saw O’Neill and rubbed his hands in the dirty rag.
‘I’m looking for Des Hennessey. Is that yourself?’ asked O’Neill, stopping about six feet from him.
The man was wearing a T-shirt with ‘Led Zeppelin’ written across the top. It was old, the letters faded and O’Neill also noticed a tear on the right shoulder. Both arms bore tattoos; a long sword on the right arm and a curling green snake on the left. He even had tats on individual fingers – the letters ‘L O V E’ loud and proud on his rag-holding hand. His hair was short and his eyes darted between O’Neill and Connolly, trying to gauge what was coming.
‘And who’s looking for him?’
O’Neill smiled. He’d played this game many times, but not today. ‘Like I said first time, I am.’
A creaking movement to the right drew O’Neill’s eyes away. The rusty door was pushed open and a man stepped out. He was tall, dressed from head to toe in black, and his most distinguishing feature was a unibrow. He might have been the missing link but O’Neill didn’t have time for a discussion on anthropology. The guy was holding a baseball bat that was chipped and marked. He looked like he had used it before. O’Neill had seen enough.
He pointed to the Neanderthal and took out his ID. ‘If you make one move you will regret it for a long time. That much I promise you. I am having a really bad day and the last thing I need is someone like you getting in my way. Do I make myself clear?’
The man with the rag swallowed hard. ‘Leave it, Horse, go back inside,’ said Hennessey evenly.
Horse grunted and did what he was told. At least he was a trained horse, thought O’Neill, and turned to the Rag Man.
‘I’m Des Hennessey … what do you want?’
Connolly came over and checked him out from head to toe as she walked. He felt as if he had been stripped naked, and in a way he had. He’d just become another entry in her profile book, but not one that would stand out. In fact, he barely registered.
‘Tell me about Nobby Clarke.’ O’Neill put up an index finger. ‘And please, don’t insult my intelligence by saying that you don’t know him. Okay?’
‘Yeah, I know Nobby. Why, is he in trouble?’
‘I ask the questions.’
Des Hennessey was nervous. Connolly could see sweat on his brow and his tightly knit fingers.
‘What does he do for you?’ O’Neill asked and looked about at the other units. It must have been four or five years since he’d been here and that operation had gone well. His boss, Joe Dixon, had been tipped off that one of the units was a chop shop for stolen cars and they had raided it. There was a lot of shouting and fighting before the boss decided that it had been a good day’s work. It had been a ‘result’.
‘He’s a strong boy and I use him when I need extra help. Especially when I have to deliver in the country. Dodgy roads, sometimes no roads … know what I mean?’ Hennessey was trying to sound helpful.
‘And where were you on last Monday?’
O’Neill and Connolly stood shoulder to shoulder, like one big pain in the arse.
‘I think ...’.
‘You think?’ snapped O’Neill. ‘You can do better than that, Des.’
Hennessey was beginning to redden and his voice thickened. ‘I think … we were in Galway. Stayed overnight and came home the next day.’
Connolly spoke. ‘Can anybody vouch for you?’
‘We stayed in a guesthouse near Salthill. It’s called The Valparaiso. Ask for Deirdre Salmon, she’s the owner. It’s where I always stay when I’m in Galway.’ Hennessey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and didn’t realise how dirty it was. He spat on the ground and immediately apologised. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, and looked at Connolly, who was already dialling a number on her mobile.
O’Neill came closer. ‘I hope for your and Nobby’s sake that you are not telling me lies.’
He shook his head.
‘Because, Mr Hennessey, if I have to come back we will not be having a friendly conversation like we are having now. I know that you were let out of jail because of overcrowding and that means that you are technically still “locked up”. So, if what you’ve told me is wrong, then …’. He didn’t need to say any more and walked away.
In a moment, the fight was gone from Hennessey, and he cut a sad figure with the dirty rag hanging in his hand. He felt useless and shakily lit a cigarette, watching O’Neill’s back get smaller as he moved away. He was going to clean up his act most definitely, and that was a promise. Because he knew, as sure as night follows day, that the cop with the tired eyes would enjoy calling on him again. ‘Bastard,’ he spat, but low enough so that the cops wouldn’t hear it.
*
Dave Conroy was still handling the barrage of calls from the cranky and nervous public. Worst of all was Councillor Whitehead, who was known to have a rather high opinion of himself. What an arsehole, he thought, as the councillor ranted on and on. Conroy didn’t know anybody who had a good word for him.
‘Get off your fat arses and find this mad man!’ he shouted, and Conroy held the phone away from his ear. What an arsehole, he said to Grant.
‘Don’t be unkind to arseholes, Dave, they’re good things to have – but he’s not one of them,’ Grant said walking back to his desk.
Back at the station, Conroy told O’Neill about Whitehead’s call and that he intended to inform Doyle. ‘He’s already spoken to him, as far as I know, Dave. Don’t worry about him.
‘He’s a greedy bastard,’ added Conroy.
‘I know, Dave. Money first, as always.’
Connolly put her phone down. ‘I spoke with the woman in Galway, sir, and she said that Hennessey and Clarke were ther
e at the time of the Booterstown attack. Sorry.’
‘Damn,’ said O’Neill, making a fist. Another dead end, but he had felt it all along.
‘What about Clarke’s DNA? That may put him in the frame?’ said Brady.
O’Neill leaned back in his chair and stretched his hands behind his head. ‘I don’t think it’s Clarke. He’s not the type.’
‘Not the type. What do you mean?’ asked Brady. He suddenly realised how wrong he had been about David Ryan and regretted what he had said. Too impulsive, he thought, and bit his lip.
‘This killer is organised and you certainly can’t say that about Clarke. He’s a waster dealing a little dope here and there, scratching about for a few quid, and sharing a house with a thug like Jack Kelly. I can’t imagine him being able to keep a secret, let alone plan and carry out murders without leaving a trace behind.’
It was clear that they had the wrong man and the DNA would confirm it. There was nothing else to do.
‘We’ll wait for O’Connell and then we’ll let him go. For now, him and his greasy mate can rest up,’ said O’Neill in a tired voice.
Connolly updated the board and stepped back. There was so much information – but still nothing. She started at the top and worked her way along the names, places and lines but couldn’t see a thing. She stopped and her eyes went to the bottom of the board. She saw a name and wondered why she hadn’t heard from him. Dano, the guy from DropIt Deliveries had not got back to her and she wrote down the phone number.
She phoned the delivery company and remembered Kathy when she heard the young voice. No, Dano was not in but she would pass on the message.
There really was nothing more to do.
38
Gary O’Connell phoned and his report ruled Nobby Clarke out of the investigation. Whatever he was guilty of, attacking Caroline Dolan was not it. His DNA was not a match to the sample retrieved from either Booterstown station or the Ryan house. He was in the clear, except for his assault on the police officers during his arrest. He could still be in trouble but Doyle agreed with O’Neill that there was no point in proceeding down that line.