‘Ollie knew her years ago, thought she was a bit, how do you say it… stuck up? I don’t think she had much time for many of the locals, and they didn’t bother with her.’ She looked up at a kitchen clock on the wall behind her back. ‘You can ask him yourself if you stay here long enough.’ Her body language belied the offer. She wanted him gone and that was fine with Slattery.
‘I’ll be gone soon enough. Veronique, you were her nearest neighbour; it’s not all that long ago since you were on your own. Surely, there’s something you can tell me about the woman. You must have noticed something.’
‘Sergeant Slattery, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the kind of woman who befriends other women. You might say that is half my problem. Even if I’d met the woman, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with her.’
Slattery knew she was telling the truth; she just wasn’t a woman’s woman. Most women would see her as a threat, and they’d be right. Women like Veronique took what they wanted regardless of the cost to others. He sat back in his seat, as though settling in for the day. The movement had the desired effect; it unnerved, or at least irritated Veronique.
Veronique sighed. ‘There is a… a tramp… he lives near the village, I think. He has a house, or a bit of a house, close to the church, but he spends a lot of time around her cottage. Ollie says they would all have been at school together, but this man… Pat Deaver? He was a bit… how do you call it? Slow, maybe? She always had a soft spot for him. Ollie says… we should have nothing to do with him.’ She looked down at her shaking white hands, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘He burns things.’
Chapter Five
Her reaction had taken her by surprise. The woman in the photographs looked different to the one she remembered. Iris wasn’t sure if she even knew the woman who stared down from the whiteboard across the incident room at her. But, there was no mistaking Anna Crowe in the later shot. She’d had her hair cut into a pixie style, must have been just before Iris met her, she decided. The tip ends were dyed a golden blonde; but the roots held a tarnished brown. Anything to cover the grey. It was unlikely that their meeting that day was connected to her death. It was just one of those random encounters and Iris played it back in her mind now, as she stood before the case board. She could hear Anna Crowe’s voice as if she stood beside her.
‘Oh no,’ came the disappointed groan. Her accent had been Limerick, but not the city, it was much softer than that.
‘You too?’ Iris said, looking across at the woman opposite who’d obviously returned to damage on her car also. ‘Welcome to Limerick,’ Iris smiled.
‘Ah, no, why on earth would anyone…’ She was almost in tears and Iris knew she couldn’t just get in her car and drive off, so she walked to the far side of her own Audi and around the little Mini that had been perfectly parked within its allocated box. They’d been scuffed either side, some yob in a car too big for its space, or maybe just a careless driver who made off without realising the damage he’d caused.
‘That’s rough,’ Iris said, taking in the long gash, she traced along it with her hand.
‘Oh dear God…’ The woman looked to where her hand ran along the damage and then slowly back to Iris’s face again. ‘Oh dear, I feel…’ Iris stepped forward to grab her before she almost collapsed against the car. It was then she took in the pale colouring and the glassy look about the woman’s eyes, as though all the blood had flooded from her face, emptying her out of any kind of fibre that might keep her together.
‘Come on, you need a decent cup of tea,’ Iris had said, half carrying her and pulling her along to the car park exit and into the little coffee shop that was tucked at the very last corner of the shopping arcade. She ordered a pot of tea for two and shoved the woman onto a low sofa before either of them had time to introduce themselves.
‘Thank you,’ Anna Crowe said once she had sipped her hot sweet tea.
‘Don’t mention it, you looked like death warmed up back there,’ Iris said, watching the woman now, she was beginning to come back to herself. ‘Are you all right? I mean, apart from the car?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m just… oh, probably doing too much.’
‘Well, it looks to me like you’d have been better off plumping for a good rest instead of gadding about the place, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ They smiled at each other now. Iris thought of the six months she’d spent in Domestic Violence when she’d been made into a detective. She’d met countless ordinary women who would have died rather than go home and tell a violent husband that they’d scraped the car – of course, not one of them would admit as much to some stranger in a car park.
‘You’re very familiar,’ Anna Crowe said. ‘What did you say your name was again?’
‘Iris Locke.’ Iris stuck her hand out to introduce herself for the second time, she had a feeling the name had floated right over Anna’s head before.
‘Well, it’s very nice to…’ This time, Anna fainted right back into the sofa and Iris bounded across to her to pull her up, make her comfortable and put into practice as much first aid as she could think of.
‘No, no, I’m okay, I’m really.’ She looked down at her hands, then reached across and took Iris’s in hers. ‘I’m really glad to meet you.’ She held her hand for a long moment, and Iris thought that perhaps she was going to faint again.
It was almost an hour later when they emerged into the car park and some of the cars had emptied out. ‘Shall I drive you home and you can pick up the car later?’ Iris asked. She really wasn’t sure how well Anna could have rallied with just a cup of tea.
‘No, no. I feel much better now.’ She looked at the damage to the car, then laughed lightly. ‘I don’t know what came over me; in the greater scheme of things, it’s only a car,’ she said shaking her head and Iris decided that she really liked this woman.
‘Perhaps we’ll meet for coffee again?’ Anna said, holding her hand now.
‘I’d like that,’ Iris said, ‘coffee would be good.’ They exchanged numbers, even if Iris had a feeling it would be one of those things she’d never get around to doing. Still, she followed the little Mini out of the car park and watched as Anna Crowe drove off towards her middle-class suburban life which was, Iris had no doubt, a million miles away from the world Iris knew.
And that was it – just one small interlude, quite by accident in a car park in Limerick. It didn’t actually connect her to the victim, although as she looked up at the images on the board before her, she could admit to herself, it made this case more personal. Iris knew she should probably say something, but the resistance she felt from Slattery was enough to let her know her place on the Murder Team was far from secure. She had it all to prove. So, she’d keep her mouth shut and she’d work her backside off; she’d make a difference if it killed her, for Anna Crowe more than anyone else. Then, she’d do her damnedest to get into the Murder Team in Dublin Castle.
She checked her reflection quickly in the bathroom mirror. None of the other women wore any make-up; the uniform of the day seemed to be slacks, jackets and flat shoes, the uglier the better. There was no doubt she probably stuck out a bit from the rest. Her hair was copper, long tendrils of curls falling gently around her face. If she could just manage to lose a couple of pounds, she’d be happy. The other female detectives she’d seen were all well into their thirties and above, their shapes already falling like opened potato sacks and their faces tired and grey from too many worries, probably at home as well as at work. She threw her shoulders back before she stepped out into the hallway; the action gave her more confidence than she actually felt.
Corbally station was the oldest in Limerick. Iris thought she could hear the voices of ghosts bouncing off its high ceilings and bare walls as she walked through its halls. It was an overwhelming sensation; perhaps it was her father, part of him still lingering here, while the greater part of him lived a far more leisurely existence on the golf course. In some ways it felt as if his life as a superintendent was a dream she�
�d had long ago. But here, surrounded by the same fabric he’d spent his working life in, he loomed up large and intimidating before her. She couldn’t stay here forever, she knew that; he was just too significant, too influential. He still filled up this place even though he’d left it to retire a decade earlier. ‘Better to build your own ship,’ he’d told her. He understood that she was proud to be his daughter, but maybe she was just a little too like him. She wanted her own success and for as long she was in Corbally, she’d always be his daughter. It was why she loved Dublin; not because of the streets, not the city, not even the people, if she was honest. What she loved was the fact that she was just Iris; there was no legacy, no history, and no great expectations.
She made her way quickly to the incident room, where she spotted Grady leaning across June Quinn’s desk. Their conversation was hushed, their bodies close to each other. Maybe they were a couple? She’d never have put them together. He was an attractive man for his age, tall and muscular, with the brooding dark looks of a Mr Darcy, while June was well on her way towards being the classic Mrs Bennett shape. It was more likely, she figured, that they’d just worked together for a long time, had developed a shorthand conversation where sometimes you didn’t need to say anything at all, just a nod, a wave of the hand. She’d seen it often enough in undercover. Detectives who worked together for years developed relationships that sat somewhere between reluctant friendship and a sibling bond, that survived more aggravation and irritation than any mismatched marriage. Sitting in a car, together night after night with nothing but the Tetra radio to keep you entertained, forged relationships better than boot camp, better than any marriage ceremony.
Iris strode over to Grady with far more assurance than she felt she had any right to.
‘Okay,’ she said and then peered at the desk they were both crouched over. Four pages lay in a line in front of them. The initial techie report had arrived. More would come later, pages and pages of analysis data, matching fluids and prints, but this report was detailing the most obvious and disturbing finds the forensic team had made so far. June Quinn, or maybe Grady, had already highlighted a couple of paragraphs and Iris’s eyes were drawn to these first. After a moment she spotted it, said, ‘No sign of a struggle.’ She looked up into Grady’s face. ‘So she knew her killer?’
‘Looks that way, or maybe she was killed in her sleep.’ Grady turned to get his coat and Iris watched as he walked away.
June Quinn invited her for a drink with them when they were winding down for the night. Iris couldn’t face it, said she might be there later. When they’d left, taking their friendly banter with them, she felt like crying. The most ridiculous thing occurred to her; she didn’t know why she was crying. Perhaps it was this whole sorry case, nothing got to her like kids for some crazy reason. Perhaps it was the thought of Anna Crowe, dead on a mortuary slab – she hadn’t known her well, but she’d known her. They’d shared a pot of tea, exchanged phone numbers. They might have been friends, given half a chance. There was a connection, and somehow that connection meant something. It made this case, her death, more personal. Maybe she just missed being part of a team. She’d been isolated in undercover – twelve months is a long time to spend pretending to be someone that you’re not. In the end, you’re out there on your own; even the unit you’re working with feels remote – they’re there for back-up, not for friendship. Iris suspected that it might be a mixture of all of that and something far shallower. Part of her knew she didn’t want to face that, didn’t want to front up to the fact that she wanted to be top girl – not in an ambitious way, but because she wanted to be the best. Corbally had made her feel she had to prove herself. God, there was so much about that thought that she didn’t want to consider any more.
Iris was glad to have the place to herself. It gave her a chance to think; she rubbed her eyes and pulled her long copper hair back from her face, settling down before one of the PCs on a nearby desk. So far, they had nothing, not really. She knew it was probably her own morbid curiosity, but she wondered about what had happened all those years ago. There’d be no connection. It was just a horrible coincidence, one sister taken, another murdered – but still, Iris found herself typing in the name Fairley. The majority of the older files had been transferred to the F-drive now. It meant that, depending on rank, you had varying degrees of access to most cases on file.
When Iris typed in her PAC, her personal access code, the system rejected her request. She tried several times, assuming it was some kind of broadband failure. She accessed a case she’d worked a few years earlier. No problems there, access granted immediately. She tried the Fairley case a few more times. There was nothing. She looked at her watch. Note to self, check file archive first chance you’ve got. There’d be no one on duty now down there. Admin and anyone who wasn’t front line would have gone home not long after five. She drummed her fingers on the desk, decided to try it one last time. Same response, access denied to the Fairley case files. She sat for a moment looking at the screen. The only information it was giving her this evening were two names and one of them was close enough to home to put a smile on her face. The officer in charge had been Superintendent Jack Locke.
The following morning, Iris was one of the first to arrive. She set down coffee, hot and strong, on the desk she had bagged up front on her first morning on the Murder Team. She hadn’t slept, but when she looked around at her colleagues, she knew neither had anyone else probably. Slattery looked even worse for wear today than he had the previous day. She set up her notebook and connected to the station broadband. It took only minutes to get her F-drive up and running and then she had access to all the Gardai databases she was entitled to use by virtue of her rank. A shadow falling across her desk brought her attention back to the incident room. McGonagle, when he circled her desk, looked as hungry as she was; she could see it in his eyes.
‘How did you get on yesterday?’ she asked. He was new; a reserve waiting for the recruitment ban to get lifted.
‘I was on door to door, y’know, just seeing what the neighbours had to say.’ His eyes were bright and she remembered her first investigations where just wearing the uniform and being taken into people’s confidence was enough to make her feel like a real guard. ‘It sounds like Slattery might have a lead, though.’ He jerked his thumb to where some of the hard-core detectives were gathered around a desk at the back of the incident room. She looked towards them, glancing long enough to take in their number, but not so long as to seem interested in what they had to say. Slattery was leaning on the side of a desk, holding court with a couple of hard men – loud guffaws meant that whatever they were discussing was probably inappropriate.
‘Some old tramp… she was looking out for him… sounds a bit dodge…’ McGonagle’s eyes were bright; this was probably the highlight of his career to date.
‘Good for him, maybe he’s managed to crack it single-handed,’ she said lightly, but she caught McGonagle’s eye and perhaps they both knew it wouldn’t be that easy. Iris tossed her head, shading her face with her long copper hair; he was dismissed. She listened to the banter at the back of the room, the usual joking that passed between old men who wanted to avoid getting down to business for as long as possible.
‘So, who’s this guy?’ Westmont finally asked.
‘Me to know and you to find out, Sherlock,’ Slattery said.
‘Come on, is he known to us or not?’
‘Ah, well, he might be known to the guards out in Kilgee, but he’s small fry – Pat Deaver,’ Slattery said self-importantly. ‘He’s never come up on my radar,’ as if that meant he didn’t figure.
‘Oh, well,’ Iris said with heavy sarcasm, ‘I suppose we can all go home for the rest of the day now.’ She’d got what she’d needed. All the same Iris wondered how he’d managed to catch this lead. She opened the F-drive, typed in Pat Deaver, Kilgee. Bingo. It looked like Slattery wasn’t going to be the lone star of the show after all.
Grady stood in front of t
he team. They were an unfamiliar bunch with only three or four faces that truly belonged here. Right up front, like an over-eager school girl, Iris sat and waited. June was at her usual desk surrounded by tissues, family photos and customised mugs. Slattery reclined in a chair at the back, a self-satisfied grin on his red face. Grady cleared his throat, too loudly, and the room fell into an expectant silence. He nodded across at June, she set down her coffee cup and drew her glasses further up her nose before beginning.
‘Okay, I’ve spent my time here. You asked me to look for anyone recently released from prison or spotted in the area that might have form… nothing strange reported to us, at least. Everything out in Kilgee seems to be as usual. But… then I started to take a look at the release database. Six months ago, a guy called Darach Boran was released from Arbour Hill Prison. He’s spent two years inside for attempted murder.’ June searched through the pages before her again.
‘Is there a link with Kilgee?’ Iris asked, without raising her attention from the small laptop in front of her.
‘Not exactly, but, there may be a connection with our victim. I have a little more digging to do before I’ll know for certain.’ June looked up from her notes. ‘This guy sounds like a sleaze bag; he’s spent most of his career lecturing in various art colleges around the country, where he had a habit of developing inappropriate relationships with his students. There’s been more than one complaint made against him over the years for harassment. A couple of years ago, he was employed in a private art college in Dublin and apparently seeing one of his students. When she’d tried to break off the relationship he’d gone to her flat, drugged her and threatened to set the place on fire. The girl was lucky enough to have her brother staying with her and when he returned home after work, he knocked six shades of shit out of Boran before calling the guards.’
‘So, the link?’ Slattery asked, tipping his chair forward, suddenly interested. Grady knew Boran sounded like the kind of suspect Slattery could relate to – well, if beating six shades of shit out him was relating. Slattery believed in getting confessions the old-fashioned way and Grady warned him through narrowed eyes, there was to be no funny business with any suspects on this case.
Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 5