Marked Off

by Don Cameron

  Brady looked at Grant and Connolly and put his phone down. ‘The election?’ he said, a look of bemusement on his face.

  O’Neill instructed Conroy to phone the Election Office. Conroy enquired to confirm Dano’s claim that Wilson left for a job in the election office; to find out when Wilson worked there; and whether the victims would have had any contact with him. Conroy did as told.

  The tension in the room was palpable.

  ‘Well?’ said O’Neill from the far end of the office.

  Conroy looked at his note. ‘You’re right, sir, Ned Wilson worked as a Polling Clerk at the elections.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He was based at the National School on Booterstown

  Avenue.’

  ‘Which is only around the corner from where the victims lived,’ added Connolly, thinking aloud.

  ‘And I bet that our victims all voted at his table.’

  Conroy had to grin. ‘Yes, sir, and all the victims voted at table eleven.’

  O’Neill rubbed his face in his hands, and looked at Connolly. ‘Think about it. You go to the Polling Office and what do you do?’ It wasn’t a question.

  Connolly answered. ‘You hand in your voting card with your name and address on it. Christ,’ she said, suddenly realising the importance of her own words.

  O’Neill clapped his hands. ‘Exactly. You actually give your most private information to the Polling Clerk. It’s checked against the register and you’re marked off.’

  ‘Marked off for murder,’ added Paul Grant, his fingers paused over the keyboard.

  ‘So simple, so bloody simple,’ said O’Neill. ‘Who would ever have thought of it?’ These women were doing what they were entitled to do, and they ended up dead.

  Conroy spoke again. ‘And before working in Booterstown, Wilson worked at the Polling Office in Seapoint. And, no doubt, that’s where he met Margaret Power.’ He looked up. ‘Coincidence, eh?’

  ‘No coincidence, Dave, no way,’ said O’Neill, staring at the murder board.

  Brady stood up, holding a sheet of paper. ‘This is the list of the Polling Stations that Burke and Kavanagh visited on the day of the election and, surprise, surprise they were in Booterstown in the morning.’

  ‘So Wilson must have seen him there,’ said O’Neill, his hands over the back of his head, thinking. ‘And, of course, the new ballot papers have the candidate’s photo and address on them. He probably stalked him and … we know the rest.’ Connolly tapped a finger against her lip. ‘And you can see why Barbara Ryan might let him in. She knew him, at least knew his face. And he may well have been friendly when she came to vote. No point in scaring the prey.’

  How cold it sounded. How calculating and devious, but then who knew what was going on inside Ned Wilson’s head? It was simplicity itself. Innocent women, without realising it, had all but invited him into their lives. It was sick, but an opportunity too good to miss for someone with a deadly scheme in mind. ‘Marked off for murder’, how very well put.

  40

  O’Neill called Doyle and told him what he had and what he planned to do. It was agreed that O’Neill should check out where Wilson lived and approach it with two teams from both ends of the road. This would stop any escape attempt and protect the neighbours if things got messy.

  ‘He’s a crazy man, Danny, so watch yourself. Best of luck,’ said Doyle.

  Pat Brady updated the board and the confusion that had plagued the investigation was almost gone. They finally had a lead. Wilson was the thread connecting all the women. He was probably the cyclist seen by the postman near Barbara Ryan’s house, and he fitted the description of the man from the Booterstown attack. This was no coincidence – they now knew who the Penman was.

  ‘I know that place,’ Brady said. ‘A school friend of mine used to live on that road. His father was a bit of an inventor and he had a shed at the back of the garden. There was a door that led onto a lane behind so we should make sure that’s covered. It backs onto the DART line.’

  They looked at the map. ‘Good, that limits his options. Pat and Dave, take two officers with you and gain entrance to the lane through one of these first houses, and make your way down to the back of No. 26.’

  Brady and Conroy nodded.

  ‘Christine and I will come from the other end.’ He turned to Christine. ‘Are you ready for some more action?’ He couldn’t help but grin.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ she said. ‘This is going to be exciting.’

  ‘And dangerous,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any heroes, do you all hear me?’

  They heard him.

  ‘Are we using walkie-talkies?’ asked Brady.

  ‘Yes, and you let me know when you’re in place. Everybody clear?’

  Everybody was very clear and itching to go.

  Less than ten minutes later the cars pulled out of the police car park and began the short trip to Summerhill Parade. They drove along Windsor Terrace where people were enjoying the view of Dublin Bay, the fresh air and an impromptu jazz band that had set up on the wide grass space. A boy was throwing a frisbee to a girl whose long blonde hair danced in the sunshine. Nobody paid them any attention, thought O’Neill, as they turned into Islington Ave, and stopped.

  They had one last team talk and headed up the road and right again onto Summerhill Parade. Brady, Conroy and two officers went to the first house, knocked, and within a few moments were inside.

  ‘We’ll give them a minute or so to work their way down to No. 26,’ said O’Neill, a swarm of butterflies fluttering madly in the pit of his stomach.

  Connolly and O’Neill walked casually down the road where the smells of cooking drifted from open windows. He could hear a radio playing but couldn’t recognise the song. In another garden a man was washing his car, but paid them no attention as they passed by, talking.

  ‘We’re in place,’ said Brady.

  ‘This is it, then. Ready?’

  The fire in Christine’s eyes told him she was. ‘You bet,’ she said, gripping a can of pepper spray.

  The ordinariness of the place, the plain houses with neat tiny gardens and hedges were at odds with the mayhem brought by the Penman. Hide in plain sight so as not to get noticed, isn’t that what the experts said? If that was the case here then Ned Wilson had learned well.

  Number 24, 25 … 26.

  A tall hedge blocked the house from view and the gate was unpainted unlike all the others. The place was scruffy and uninviting. The grass needed cutting and a bin was bulging with refuse. Beside it he saw a red-coloured racing bike chained to the fence. It was a good sign.

  ‘It’s got to be him,’ said Connolly quietly.

  O’Neill nodded and took a deep breath. ‘I’m going in,’ he said into the walkie-talkie and pushed the gate. It creaked and he winced.

  He took two steps into the garden and saw the curtain move. It was followed by a loud crash as something hit the floor inside. ‘The bastard’s at home!’ he shouted.

  The front door was unpainted and had a cracked window that was held together with strips of black tape. The porch was unswept with a stack of old newspapers yellowing with age. He knew that nobody ever came to this house and that was just how the Penman wanted it.

  He lifted the knocker and hit the door, hard. ‘This is the police, open up!’ he shouted.

  There was no response and he stepped back and hit the door with his shoe. It didn’t give, but a second, more determined lunge saw splinters fly as the lock exploded and the door swung open. It swung back violently, and Connolly followed O’Neill, pepper spray at the ready.

  Out back, Brady the others were shouting and clambering over the wall.

  O’Neill ran into the back room as a black cat dashed between his legs and out onto the street. He stepped in a pool of spilt milk and lost
his balance for a moment before reaching for a chair and staying upright. ‘Fuck!’ he shouted and looked around at the empty, untidy room where an unmade bed dominated. Above it a poster for the film Hannibal hung, with a bottom corner rising like a sneering grin.

  Wilson wasn’t here but he’d have to come back, thought O’Neill, as Connolly called to him. ‘Better see this, sir,’ she said from the front room.

  Brady was now in the kitchen and the other officers were guarding the front door. ‘What happened?’ he shouted.

  ‘The bloody cat jumped down from the window and disturbed the curtain,’ said O’Neill. ‘I though the bastard was making a run for it.’

  ‘Fuck, so he’s not here,’ said Brady letting out a loud sigh.

  ‘Look at these,’ said Connolly again, pointing to the photographs above the fireplace.

  O’Neill’s eyes followed.

  ‘That’s Barbara Ryan …’ she said.

  ‘… and that’s Angie Murphy,’ said Brady, stepping closer. ‘Fucking murder gallery, can you believe it?’

  He turned slowly and saw a crazy look in O’Neill’s eyes. He looked at the photographs again and saw one with a long knife stuck in it. There was something familiar about it, but that couldn’t possibly be her. How could it be her? He squinted and told himself to concentrate. And then he knew.

  O’Neill took a step closer. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, it can’t be!’ he cried out and turned for the door. ‘It’s Shelly, he’s going to kill her next. He’s been stalking her from the start. Fuck!’

  The photograph of Danny and Shelly outside Barbara Ryan’s house was beside one of her leaving the Coroner’s office, and it had a black drawn on it.

  It meant only one thing. O’Neill’s heart was in his mouth.

  ‘She’s at my house!’ he shouted. ‘I have to get to her.’ He paused, his brain trying to work out what to do. ‘Pat, you and the lads stay here in case the bastard comes back. Dave and Christine come with me.’

  They ran from No. 26 and sprinted to O’Neill’s car as neighbours came out to see what all the commotion was about.

  Conroy stuck the red flashing light on the roof before the car screeched away with its siren blaring. O’Neill threw his mobile to Connolly and told her to call Shelly.

  She dialled the number as the car raced through traffic lights, almost clipping a bus. Pedestrians stood transfixed as the Audi flew past them on the wrong side of the road. It was a matter of life and death – and O’Neill had to get to Shelly. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let her down. Not another victim who would lose her life because of him. It had all came down to this – it really was that simple.

  ‘Get the fuck outta the way!’ he screamed. The car swung across the road before he managed to regain control again.

  ‘There’s no answer!’ Connolly shouted and started dialling again.

  ‘Keep at it!’ he shouted and zoomed past a line of cars.

  41

  Wilson parked his motorbike around the corner from O’Neill’s house and took off his helmet. It was quiet and there was nobody on the street. Perfect, he thought, and ran his hands through his hair.

  Killing the coroner, he liked the sound of that, it was going to be fun, and necessary. It would halt O’Neill in his tracks, and give himself time to consider what he was going to do next. This would be his biggest achievement and make everyone realise how good he was. But more than that, the coroner was almost the image of his mother. She had to die. He closed his eyes for a few moments and knew that this was the one. He was going to enjoy this more than any of the other attacks. He knew it, felt it. He started walking to O’Neill’s house.

  *

  The traffic on the Rock Road moved over as O’Neill sped past Booterstown station. He was doing almost 120 kilometres an hour, and in the back seat Christine Connolly was still trying to contact Shelly. ‘There’s no answer, sir.’

  ‘Just keep trying, I know she’s there,’ O’Neill shouted and braked hard for the turn on to Strand Road.

  ‘Get outta the way,’ screamed Conroy as the Audi rounded a slow-moving van; its driver’s eyes wide open in surprise.

  *

  Shelly opened a bottle of wine and poured some into the mince, stirring continuously. She poured a little more and smiled. ‘That’s better,’ she said and hummed along to the song on the radio. She was enjoying herself and looking forward to a pleasant evening. A very pleasant one, she thought, and smiled again.

  She looked up when she heard a knock at the front door. She wiped her hands and cursed the interruption. ‘Damn, that’s all I need.’

  She ran a hand over her hair and opened the door.

  The man pushed the door back and knocked her against the wall before she knew what was happening. He swung a fist and hit her above the ear. She screamed with pain and surprise and stumbled along the hall.

  *

  ‘Come on, come on,’ O’Neill shouted and pressed his hand to the horn. People walking on the beach looked up and saw the police car with the flashing light speed past and then swerve into St John’s Road. The sound of screeching tyres got more attention as O’Neill just missed a parked car before straightening up and slamming his foot to the floor.

  *

  ‘It’s your turn, bitch!’ Wilson cried and wrapped an arm around her neck and forced her into the kitchen, her feet barely touching the floor.

  Shelly struggled and flailed, her arms trying to hit her attacker, but he was too strong. Her hands clawed at his face, making him only angrier.

  ‘You’re mine, bitch. All mine,’ he spat in her ear and tightened his grip. He bit her shoulder, and she could only manage a muffled cry. She was gasping and her chest was on fire. White dots were floating in front of her eyes - she could feel herself slipping away....

  ‘We’re going have some fun, bitch,’ he hissed in her ear, his tongue licking her as he twisted her neck harder. ‘Bitches like you need to be taught a lesson.’ He squeezed her breast roughly. ‘You’re all the fucking same,’ he said quietly and pushed her down on the kitchen table.

  She could feel the life running out of her as her eyes began to bulge. The pain was excruciating. She had to do something. She tried vainly to reach for the bottle of wine.

  He saw it and yanked her up straight so that she was on her toes. ‘No fucking way, bitch, no fucking way.’

  She gasped, the room spinning in front of her. He eased his grip a little, trying to get a better hold and she knew it was her last chance. She lifted her foot and brought the heel of her shoe crashing and scraping down on his ankle. She could feel it tear into his leg and he screamed and let her go.

  She slipped sideways and then made for the front door.

  ‘You cunt, you’re dead! Fucking dead!’ he roared. He hobbled, holding his ankle, cursing her with each breath. He picked a knife up off the counter and chased her into the hall.

  Shelly staggered through the front door as O’Neill rushed past her. He had a metal torch in his hand and swung at Wilson when he came into the hall. He hit him a glancing blow and Wilson banged into the staircase. O’Neill swung the torch again but Wilson was quick and cut O’Neill across his face, drawing a spurt of blood. O’Neill stumbled with blood in his eye and Wilson went in for the kill. ‘Fuck you, copper, you’ve ruined everything!’ he shouted and thrust the knife at O’Neill’s chest.

  Dave Conroy screamed wildly and dived at Wilson, his hands reaching for the knife. He crashed into the killer who was knocked sideways and collided headfirst with the doorjamb. It made a dull sound, like an exploding melon, and he was down. And out.

  O’Neill gasped, his chest still heaving as the blood from the cut flowed onto his shirt. ‘Jesus, Dave, you were like Superman. I didn’t know that you could fly. That was some move. Thanks.’

  Conroy lay on top of the pile of bodies, breat
hing heavily. ‘Phew,’ he said, blowing hard. He checked that Wilson was unconscious and offered O’Neill a hand.

  Outside, Christine Connolly had an arm around Shelly, comforting her. Minutes later the first ambulance arrived, and soon the house was surrounded with police cars and onlookers as Wilson was taken way.

  O’Neill hugged Shelly tightly. ‘This was never meant to happen, I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.’

  She put a finger on his lips and shook her head. ‘It’s not your fault, Danny.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘And thanks for saving me.’ They kissed briefly before getting into the ambulance and heading off to hospital.

  42

  The next few days passed in a blur as the media went into overdrive with their coverage of the Penman’s arrest. There were stories from people who knew him, or at least claimed to, and the usual pieces by psychologists about the killer’s upbringing and motive. O’Neill watched it all, detached, but pleased that it was finally over.

  Gary O’Connell’s team had carried out a rigorous search of Wilson’s house and found notebooks and diaries detailing his activities. They described the abuse and hatred of his mother that sparked everything. It was a sad tale.

  It was ironic that Caroline Dolan was released from the same hospital that Wilson was brought into, where he was now under armed guard. He wasn’t talking much, but O’Neill, Doyle and the top brass in The Park weren’t too concerned. A vicious killer was off the streets and that was the main thing.

  And Dave Conroy picked up the phone and kept a promise. He called Margaret Power and told her about Wilson’s capture. She thanked him, then hung up. There was nothing more to say.

  Doyle held another press conference and cleared up a few points for the hungry journalists. The biggest surprise of all was that the Burke murder was now also solved. It was known that Burke had visited the Booterstown Polling Station and that Wilson had killed him to divert police and resources from the Penman cases. The chiefs in The Park sent their congratulations to the team on a job well done.