by Don Cameron
‘You’re free to go,’ O’Neill said and told the officers to remove Clarke’s handcuffs.
Clarke looked warily at O’Neill as he lit his first cigarette of the day and sucked in a bellyful of smoke. ‘You spoke with Des?’
‘Yeah, we spoke. You should do something better than hanging around with him or Jack Kelly. They’re trouble, and you know it. You can do better.’
Clarke nodded. ‘What about the coppers I hit? Are you going to prosecute me for that?’
‘No, we’re not.’ He paused. ‘But let’s put it this way. It’s on ice, and if you are in trouble again it might resurface and …’.
Clarke knew what he was saying. ‘Thanks, nice one.’
‘Go on, get out of here, and stay out of trouble.’
Clarke left quickly, giving O’Neill a thumbs up.
It was just another dead end in the investigative life of Inspector Danny O’Neill. If that arsehole, the Penman, was writing about him, what would he say? O’Neill hated this sort of dark, negative thinking but it wouldn’t go away. He thought of all the nasty jibes and names that people use against one another to score points. ‘waste of space’, ‘useless’, ‘rubbish’. They were too numerous to go through, but the one that stuck didn’t sound bad, didn’t seem to hold the spite of others, but it’s meaning was clear – for as far as the the Penman, was concerned, runner-up said it all. After all the effort by him and the team, he had to face the painful truth: that he, Inspector Danny O’Neill, was a runner-up. A fucking loser!
He got a coffee in the restaurant, took it outside and went for a walk on the harbour. All around him carefree people were casually walking in the sunshine. Children ran up and down the granite slabs, chasing each other as seagulls cawed noisily at them. Boats drifted in the clear water of the marina where a giant ferry was preparing for another swift trip to Holyhead.
He felt alone and a cold shiver rippled across his body. On a warm summer day, in broad daylight on the pier, he was alone. He knew that it was wrong but the feeling of failure was biting deep. He hated letting Barbara Ryan, Angie Murphy, Caroline Dolan and, of course, Helen Murray, down, but he was stuck. Stuck in a maze of dead-ends with no sign of a fresh clue. He would have a word later with Doyle. The investigation needed a new perspective and he sadly wasn’t the man to provide it. He made up his mind to talk with Doyle tomorrow.
He noticed a missed call and dialled Shelly.
‘You sound down in the dumps, Danny,’ she said, concern obvious in her voice.
He told her about what had been happening and how the investigation had stalled.
‘That’s terrible. I’m very sorry to hear that, Danny, I really am.’
‘Thanks, but I’m sorry to be laying this shit on you. It’s got nothing to do with you, Shelly.’
Shelly sniffed. ‘Well, I identified the murder weapon. And I carried out the post mortems, so I am involved. Maybe we can talk later?’
‘Yeah, that’d be nice, really nice. Would you like to come over for dinner tonight? You have a key, haven’t you?’ He closed his eyes, hoping fervently.
‘Hmm, sounds good to me. And yes, I have a key, thanks. See you at seven, and make sure that you’re hungry, as I’m cooking, okay?’ She rang off before he could say a word. He stood up and walked back to the station, thinking about how Doyle was going to act. He felt sick.
*
Tony Lewis angrily crushed his cigarette into the ashtray and let out a long low sigh, the smoke streaming across his desk. Another meeting had turned up nothing and the Minister for Justice was getting more rattled. His job was on the line and he had let Lewis know it. It was a fight for survival and he was determined to do whatever he could to preserve his position, and if that meant replacing Lewis, then so be it. He would be seen to have taken action – it was about deflection, and he was good at deflecting shit away.
Lewis picked up the phone and called O’Neill, who answered on the second ring.
‘Morning, Danny, how are you?’
‘Okay … probably better than you, I suspect.’
‘Too bloody right,’ said Lewis. ‘You must be a mind reader.’ He sniffed and tapped his fingers on the desk.
O’Neill could feel the desperation in his friend’s voice and said nothing.
‘Anyway, I’ve had a word with Maurice Kavanagh, you remember Liam Burke’s PR agent, and he’s willing to talk with you. Hush-hush and all that.’
‘What do you mean, Tony?’
‘He’ll meet you in an hour as he’s going away later. Somewhere neutral would be nice and won’t draw any attention. I told him what you were thinking about and he’s happy to follow any line of enquiry that might lead to catching Burke’s killer.’ He gave O’Neill the telephone number.
‘Thanks, Tony.’
‘And do let me know if you find anything.’
‘Of course, consider it done.’
Forty minutes later O’Neill and Brady drove into town along the coast road, which for once was relatively quiet. ‘So how are you getting on with Christine?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Brady replied quickly.
‘From what I see you two seem to be getting on pretty well. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that, in fact, it’s very good.’
Brady blushed and tried to look straight ahead.
‘She’s a very attractive woman and as sharp as a tack, you know that.’
‘Yes, I know that, and so does everybody else.’ He wasn’t sure what to say and wondered what O’Neill was really on about.
‘It’s just that I’ve seen a change in you over the last few weeks and I must say that I’m …’.
Brady closed his eyes, waiting.
‘... I’m impressed, really impressed.’
Brady turned. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I like her and there’s no harm in putting myself in the frame, is there?’
O’Neill shook his head. ‘None at all, none whatsoever. It’s all you can do … and the best of luck with it.’
Brady realised, and not for the first time, that O’Neill missed nothing, even with all the pressure of running a high-profile investigation. He was never to be underestimated and Brady felt deep down that if anyone was going to catch the Penman, then O’Neill was the one. ‘Dan the Man’ was considered the station’s top officer and he realised, if somewhat begrudgingly, that it was indeed true. He would not challenge him so quickly in future – he had been so wrong about David Ryan. Just because he was older didn’t mean he was better, and watching O’Neill this closely certainly brought that home.
They parked on Upper Mount Street near Kavanagh’s office but didn’t go in. O’Neill phoned Maurice Kavanagh and they arranged to meet across the road in Merrion Square. ‘Near the Joker’s Chair,’ he said, and hung up.
O’Neill and Brady strolled into the park where beds of flowers were in magnificent bloom, their scent drifting and teasing. Sun worshippers were stretched out on the grass, while two young mothers with young children sat and chatted on a large striped blanket.
The two policemen walked past the Joker’s Chair and sat at the nearest bench. Above the tall trees rose the flat redbrick Georgian terrace of Merrion Square; its windows glinting in the sunlight.
‘So what is Kavanagh going to tell us?’ asked Brady, sitting back on the warm bench.
O’Neill drew a hand across his mouth. ‘I don’t know, Pat, it’s just a shot in the dark.’
‘But sometimes you might hit something.’
O’Neill grinned. ‘That’s exactly how I see it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’
Two minutes later, Maurice Kavanagh walked around the hedge and spotted them. He was tall, over six foot, and his fair hair was immaculately cut. His black trousers were pressed and he had a mobile ph
one in his hand. He walked with confidence and O’Neill saw one of the young mothers eyeing him closely.
O’Neill nodded a hello and Kavanagh sat down casually between the two policemen. ‘So, how can I help?’ he asked, and slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket.
‘I don’t exactly know yet,’ said O’Neill, ‘but maybe you can tell me about Liam Burke. You were close to him, obviously, and anything you can tell us may help.’
Kavanagh nodded. ‘Okay, but I only got to know him in the last year or so when he decided to get into politics. He had made enough money from his property deals and was keen to do something new.’
‘And why politics?’ asked O’Neill.
Kavanagh shrugged. ‘Why not politics? It’s high profile, important and pays well. It’s got the lot.’
‘And which was more important to Burke? The high-profile part I assume?’ asked O’Neill.
Kavanagh smiled. ‘Tony Lewis said you were sharp, and I can see why. And, if the truth be told, I reckon it was the high-profile aspect that appealed to him. He fancied himself, and after making his millions he wanted, no, he needed, to be seen as a success. It was his nature. Too much testosterone ... you know the type.’
‘Cock of the walk,’ said Brady.
Kavanagh turned and sniggered. ‘Spot on.’
O’Neill said nothing for a few moments. ‘And have you any idea as to the reason why he was killed? Any resentment in the party about him being put on the ticket so quickly? Are there any skeletons in the closet that we should know about? Angry business partners, for instance? Anything at all?’
Kavanagh leaned back on the bench and twirled his phone in his hand. ‘Nothing that I know of. I asked him this at the start of our relationship, and he swore that there was nothing in his past that I should be worried about. His death is a complete mystery to me.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m dumbfounded, I’ve no idea.’
The three men sat in silence until the sound of someone playing music made them turn their heads. Across from the flowerbeds a young guy was sitting in a lotus position, oblivious to the world, playing the clarinet while his girlfriend sipped a cold drink.
Brady spoke. ‘So far as the politics were concerned he needed to get himself elected, so what did that take?’
Kavanagh again turned to Brady and took in his clear blue eyes and their intensity. ‘It meant going to meetings and more bloody meetings, and then on the day of the elections visiting polling stations. You know, to put his face in the shop window.’
‘Why polling stations? Surely at that point in the game voters will have already made up their minds?’
‘Not necessarily,’ replied Kavanagh. ‘Some people may see him and decide to vote for him. It happens. He was a sharp looking man, you know.’
‘And what polling stations did you go to on the big day? Can you remember?’
Kavanagh shrugged. ‘Not off the top of my head, but I can fax a copy of the day’s itinerary to you.’
There was nothing more to be said and Maurice Kavanagh headed back to his office with his mobile firmly placed against his ear.
‘A shot in the dark,’ said Brady as they walked to the car.
‘Yeah,’ said O’Neill, but his mind was elsewhere, trying to focus on an idea that teased him before again slipping away in the sunshine.
39
By the time they arrived back at the police station, Maurice Kavanagh’s fax had arrived. It listed all the polling stations that he and Burke had visited on the morning of the election and the times of arrival. There were nineteen addresses on it and O’Neill gave it to Brady. ‘Here, Pat, have a look at this and see what you can make out of it. I’m going to see the boss.’
The bell in St Michael’s Church was ringing for five o’clock when Christine Connolly’s phone rang.
‘Detective Connolly, can I help?’
‘Of course you can help, and you sound so good and official,’ the voice said.
‘Hey, who is this?’ she snapped and heads turned.
‘You sound even better when you’re annoyed. How cool!’
‘Do you have a name or are you just wasting police time?’ Her voice dropped. ‘One of my techies is running a trace, so you’d better be quick. You sound like a guy who’s quick.’ It was cutting and meant to provoke a reaction.
It did – from the others in the room.
‘Hey, it’s me, Dano, and what’s with the hostility? Cool it, it’s not good for you,’ he said evenly.
Dano was one cool customer and she grinned when she realised it was him. ‘So what have you got for me, Dano?’
He laughed. ‘Are you always like this? Straight into it, no dancing around a little? Sizing things up. Getting to know …’.
Christine butted in. ‘I don’t have the time, Dano, and I could do you for wasting precious police time. So, if you have something to say, then say it.’
She wasn’t playing any games, and he knew it.
‘Well, I played football the other night with some guys who used to work at DropIt.’
‘And?’
‘One of them remembered that we did a survey about eighteen months ago, and that one of the lads left shortly afterwards. He was a good worker, too.’
Connolly waited for a name and could feel her pulse rate increase.
‘Why did he leave, if he was that good?’ she asked.
‘He got some government or local government job, paid well. Much better than here.’
‘Government job? Can you be any clearer, please?’
‘One of the lads, Bertie, who knew him best, thought it was something to do with elections. That’s as much as I know, sorry.’ He paused a moment. ‘He was working for me one day and then he collected his money at the end of the week, and that was it. I was hoping that he’d show up again, but ...’.
‘And tell me, Dano, did he fit the picture. You know – dark hair, about five-eight?’
‘That’s him alright; that’s Ned Wilson.’
‘Ned Wilson,’ Connolly said and wrote the name on a yellow Post-It note.
‘We called him Ned the Head because he likes his music a lot ... and is never off his bike. And he has a motorbike as well, always dressed in black. Real Goth-like.’
Christine sat down and started writing. ‘Dano, what sort of bicycle did he have?’ O’Neill and the others had all gathered around her desk.
‘One of those fancy racing bikes, spent all his money on it. Thought he was Stephen Roche.’ Dano laughed at the memory.
‘That’s great, Dano. And do you know where he lived?’
‘I think in Dun Laoghaire or … maybe Glasthule. I can’t be sure as nobody ever gives their real address. They don’t want to be traced by the authorities. People who work in my line of business tend to move around, know what I mean?’
Connolly grinned. ‘I understand ... and thanks a lot.’
‘Anything for the nice lady.’ He laughed and hung up.
Connolly’s eyes were bright and excited as she told O’Neill what Dano had just said.
‘Right, check this bastard’s name through every computer you can. Now,’ he said firmly.
He went to the toilet, relieved himself and washed his face. ‘Was this another false lead?’ he asked the mirror, but didn’t wait for an answer.
Paul Grant was in front of his computer with the phone to his ear. ‘Say again,’ he said and tapped his keyboard. The screen changed and a list of names appeared in alphabetical order. He leaned closer and ran the tip of his pen against a name. ‘I have a Ned Wilson in No. 26, Summerhill Parade, Glasthule,’ he said, and O’Neill ran over to have a look.
‘Where is this coming from, Paul?’ he asked, nervous tension tingling the back of his head.
‘This is from the Revenue. It has all the data tied
to Social Security numbers and the last known residence available. It was updated over a year ago.’ He looked out the window, thinking. ‘So where has he been working since then?’ he said.
‘Doing odd jobs, I bet. All off the record, exactly like your man Dano just said,’ offered Conroy.
‘And has he ever been arrested? I want to know,’ said O’Neill.
Connolly was tapping her keyboard before he was finished his sentence.
O’Neill walked around the office, oblivious to the noise and chatter around him. He was looking yet again at the board, pleading for it to share its secret. It was tantalising to be so close and not to be able to see it. He walked over to the window and looked down at the normal world as it carried on its business.
One of the officers who Nobby had hit was standing on the other side of the road talking to a young man who set a ladder against a lamppost and climbed up. The officer held it while a woman handed the young man a pair of scissors. He snipped a plastic cable and passed down another old poster. It was from the recent election with the dull slogan ‘You Deserve A Job’. The woman put it into the back of a white van, and the young man then slid the ladder in on top it.
Something began nagging at O’Neill. It was like a familiar itch, but he couldn’t quite get to it. He looked around the office, his eyes not seeing anything, until they spotted the poster leaning against the wall. It was still there, the politician still grinning. O’Neill closed his eyes as the idea slowly began to make itself clear. It had slipped away before, but now he felt he could grab it.
Suddenly he felt as if he was having an out-of-body experience as images, names and lines began to merge and make sense. He saw it, saw how it happened … saw how Ned Wilson met his victims.
‘Someone contact the Election Office, now!’ he shouted.
‘What is it?’ cried Connolly.
All the others in the room were looking at O’Neill, waiting.
‘It’s where Wilson meets his victims – at the elections.’ He clicked his fingers excitedly and began pacing up and down the office.