Slattery drained his mug of tea. He knew she was right, they both knew it. ‘I’ve only ever been a detective, Maureen, you know that, there’s nothing else for me.’ He was telling the truth, he didn’t know why he’d said it, wasn’t even sure that she knew what that meant, he was damned if he knew.
‘Oh.’ She inspected her cup, as if from somewhere she might find some answers. After a few moments silence she nodded gently, that told more of how well she knew him than any words. ‘Maybe, Ben, maybe you need those prayers more than I thought you did.’
He didn’t say it then, but he had a feeling they’d both need them.
Chapter Twenty-One
Iris never thought it would be this hard. In all the time she’d wanted to get into Murder, she’d always assumed she’d know what she was doing when she got here. Now, here they were, with a list of suspects and the truth was, she knew, she couldn’t tell her way out of the mountain of paperwork they’d built up since the beginning. Slattery had turned up like a bad house guest, there when you didn’t want him and nowhere to be seen earlier when the whole team had an opportunity to throw in their opinions. He looked terrible and Iris assumed he’d been visiting his wife – she was afraid to enquire how things were since he’d barked at anyone who’d dared so far. He settled at his desk, staring blankly towards the deserted street below, a mug of tea cooling slowly under the weight of his contempt.
‘We have nothing concrete, that’s the problem.’ Iris felt as if her eyes were ready to fall out of her head with weariness. Her ears felt even worse after the hours spent chasing up dead ends on the phone. At the back of the room, two fresh-faced uniforms had taken over from detectives who had finally given up chasing on the police computer system after Grady sent them home for a rest.
‘It is,’ Slattery grunted. ‘If we can’t crack Crowe now, after tearing up his house, well, then maybe there’s nothing there to crack. Do any of us really think he’s our man?’
‘Well, there’s definitely something off about him,’ Iris said, but she knew, he didn’t strike her as a murderer.
‘Yeah, well we can’t all be perfect,’ he said under his breath but caught her eye and changed tack before she had a chance to snap back at him, ‘perhaps he was having an affair, we know people don’t break up for no reason – for all we know he might have been skiving off to his own house that night to meet up with his mistress, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.’
‘It’s not about being perfect, no matter how alien that might be to you. There’s the psychological report.’ Slattery annoyed her, but no one wanted to let Crowe go without knowing for sure. It was just that he was the type that could. Of course, she wouldn’t say this, because she knew Slattery would make some comment about watching too many cops on TV. Crowe’s file had arrived from the Department for Defence. His record was clean. Almost too clean. He was a model soldier, just like he was a model employee and he wanted them to believe he was a model husband too. ‘Something isn’t right with him.’
‘Maybe, but it’s not enough to arrest him for murder, not what we currently have.’ Slattery exhaled loudly. ‘If we even had some kind of motive.’ It was the one thing they truly lacked so far. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ Slattery didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Why would anyone want to kill Anna Crowe? There was nothing remarkable about her in any way.’
‘No,’ Iris said softly, ‘apart from her past…’ She caught Slattery’s eye, for just a moment, that earlier case still lingered in both of their thoughts.
‘Fine, maybe we should see if he can give us a motive for someone else,’ Slattery said lumbering from his desk and heading off in search of Coleman Grady.
A couple of their burliest uniforms brought Crowe in. He’d come voluntarily. What Crowe didn’t know was that, if they had to arrest him, then the clock started to tick and the pressure was on the team to pull everything together as quickly as possible. From the investigation’s perspective, having Crowe ‘help with enquiries’ was a winning ticket. The psychological impact of helping with enquiries was almost as stressful as actually being arrested. Okay, so there may not have been as much panic on the part of the suspect, but there was a slowly building tension that escalated the longer the person was left to consider his situation. Iris knew this; she knew that the longer it took for Crowe’s solicitor to arrive, the better for all of them.
Crowe looked as rattled as they had hoped. The presence of Slattery wouldn’t do a lot to ease his nerves. If Ben Slattery was good at anything it was making others feel ill at ease. It was the small things he’d built up over a long career as a detective – his glares, his aggressive body language, it all added up to a big fat guilty feeling – nothing Crowe could do about it.
Slattery read out the caution, peering at it as he held it at arm’s length, occasionally glancing up at Crowe, a disdainful expression on his face, as if he was holding down something sour between his wisdom teeth.
‘Am I under arrest?’ Crowe asked at the end of it.
Slattery shifted in his seat, eyeballed Crowe. ‘Well, better safe than sorry, wouldn’t you say?’ He nodded to the recording device; the tape was already rolling. ‘We’re recording this voluntary interview under caution, present are myself – Sergeant Ben Slattery – Sergeant Iris Locke, Mr Adrian Crowe and his solicitor Mrs Barbara Morrissey.’ He didn’t add that just beyond the mirror, Coleman Grady and Anita Cullen were listening to every word.
Iris nodded across the desk, firmly establishing herself as the good cop. It was standard; everyone needed a friend to spill to when the going got tough. She wanted Adrian Crowe to feel she was there for him. Barbara Morrissey rolled her eyes; she was a big woman to Crowe’s small neatness. Not much less than five feet ten, she was wide-set with burnt frizzy hair and lewdly mismatched clothes – a riot of orange, red, yellow and pink. She was good, though; maybe it was the fact that she worked alone, depended on her reputation for her week’s wages – she was nobody’s fool.
‘So,’ she spoke with a clarity that wasn’t Limerick, maybe wasn’t even Irish, ‘what is it you think my client can help you with?’
‘First,’ Iris cleared her throat, ‘we want to confirm Mr Crowe’s whereabouts on the night his wife and children died.’
‘And you have reason to believe my client has been less than forthcoming with you already on this matter?’ she asked.
Slattery just smiled at her, a knowing, superior smile that left Morrissey in no doubt that hers was the weaker corner. She turned to Crowe. ‘I must advise you that it is in your best interests to co-operate with the investigation as far as possible.’
Crowe looked belligerently at the floor. Iris watched him; his body remained completely still, his eyes fixed on some spot that had managed to grab their attention. Here in this meagre room, wearing a white shirt that seemed to drain all colour from him, he looked vulnerable, younger than his years and scared.
‘Mr Crowe – Adrian – we know you left work that night. We know you were out of ABA for at least two hours.’ Iris kept her voice low, gentle as if she was giving him a fighting chance.
Still Crowe kept his eyes down – there wasn’t, Iris noted, so much as a flicker of recognition or an attempt to process the information so he could come up with a plausible explanation. The tape in the background provided the only noise in the room above Slattery’s lumbering breath. Beyond the door, life was going on as normal. In the hallway, Iris could hear the usual comings and goings. Familiar voices rang out evening farewells, final instructions before the day was at an end; busy feet scurried along, a final report to be written, perhaps a child to be collected from crèche. They sat in silence for almost five minutes, until Slattery could take no more.
‘Look, Crowe, it’s like this – we know you were out of there. Better you tell us now – things are already bad enough for you.’ He raised his hand towards the door. ‘We’ve seen what was done to your wife, to your kiddies, better to come clean with the whole thing, better for you now.’
Adrian Crowe slowly raised his head and looked across at Slattery. He held Slattery’s gaze for a long while, and then he began to laugh. Loud shrieks of mad laughter, hysterical sounds coming from a man who looked like he could hardly speak beforehand. Morrissey nodded towards the tape. ‘I want to consult with my client.’ She said the words flatly; they would hardly have been heard, but for the surrealism of Crowe. It seemed to Iris that everything in the room had intensified and she nodded towards Slattery who flicked the tape. As they got up to leave, the shrieking from Crowe stopped abruptly.
‘How stupid can you people be?’ The words were filled with disgust. ‘I loved her, loved them all.’
‘You don’t have to speak now, we’ll take a minute, clear your head, this has all been a terrible shock for you.’ Morrissey laid a hand across his skinny arm.
‘No,’ the word was emphatic, ‘no, I have nothing to hide. We may as well get this over with, and then they can do what they want with me. It makes no difference now. What have I got worth living for anyway?’
Once the tape was rolling again, Iris ordered tea to be sent in. No one wanted tea. They all just wanted to go home, or in Slattery’s case to the nearest thing to his home. When Crowe spoke again, his words were measured. He rubbed his eyes; Iris saw tears. They were filled with regret. ‘I loved her so much, but she thought I never really knew her. I never really understood. I don’t see how I ever could have. You don’t, do you? No one can, not really, not unless they’ve been through it.’
‘Anna’s sister? The missing baby?’ Iris said, just loud enough for the tape, but apart from a slight nod of the head from Crowe, it was as if they’d never been uttered.
‘She was taken before I even came to the village. I fell in love with Anna long before I ever heard about any of that. But then, once we got married… when you’re living with someone,’ he looked across to see if either of them understood, ‘well, that’s when you really get to know them. That baby was a huge part of Anna’s life. Right up until the day she died.’
‘Is it why she went back there?’
‘Probably. I suppose it was why she did everything she did. It was always about the sister that had been stolen from her.’ He sank his face into his hands at the uselessness of it all. ‘I thought I was the one with a screw missing – you know, mild Asperger’s – showed up as if I was almost psychopathic in some of the tests they ran in the army when I applied for cadetship. It’s why I work nights, when I could just as easily work days – I like the seclusion, not having the stress of colleagues popping in and out, I’m supposed to be the odd one, I suppose. Then you see Anna, she seems so well adapted, so well able, and behind it all, she was haunted by what happened that day.’
‘Do you think that her death might be linked to what happened all those years ago?’
‘I don’t know what to think. She was convinced the child was dead, buried somewhere in the copse between the cottage and Kerr’s place. She was convinced that Ollie Kerr had something to do with the baby’s disappearance. He still watched the cottage after that; she thought he was taunting her. That’s why she took care of Pat Deaver; he looked out for her. Maybe she thought he’d look out for Martin and Sylvie too. Poor fucker couldn’t look after a fly. Of course you couldn’t tell Anna that.’
‘Could Kerr have taken the child?’ Slattery’s voice was hard. He wanted a straight answer.
‘He wasn’t much older than Anna at the time. The way Anna told it, sure from the outside, either of them could have done it. The question is, more like, why would anyone do it?’
‘Well, that’s one we’re not going to solve tonight, I think.’ Barbara Morrissey moved uncomfortably in the chair that was too small for her.
‘No,’ Crowe agreed coldly and again Iris could see that vacant expression in him that made him look as if he was capable of unthinkable things. He reached up his sleeve, took out a perfectly pressed cotton hanky and blew his nose. He looked at Iris first, then across at Slattery. His words were emphatic, but Iris knew only too well it didn’t mean they were honest. ‘I went out to the cottage a lot of nights. It was one way of being close to them. I missed them so much when they left, but then, once Anna takes a notion… well, by the time she had her bags packed it was already too late.’ He looked to the floor again, passing a small white hand through his fine hair. He sat back in his seat for a moment, as if allowing what he’d said to settle in for all of them.
‘And that night? That last night, can you tell us what happened then?’
‘I’d gone in to work as usual, forgotten to bring a sandwich – I usually have a cup of tea at about four in the morning. I told no one, but I decided I’d nip back to the house and pick it up. It took only a few minutes, so I thought I might as well take a spin out to Kilgee. I drove out, parked at the end of the driveway and sat on an upturned log outside the house for almost an hour. The place was in blackness, apart from a small light Anna had left on in the kitchen – she always had a light on, somewhere in the house. I sat there, I thought about our lives and where we’d ended up…’ Regret, no wonder Iris had spotted it – she had seen enough of it in her parents’ eyes.
‘Did you see anyone else when you were leaving the cottage, any cars parked, anything unusual?’ Slattery asked, his tone filled with sarcasm.
‘No, I wouldn’t have left there if I thought there was anyone hanging about the place, now, would I?’ Crowe’s face was open, his eyes steady – Iris had to admit she wanted to believe him.
It wasn’t Crowe. Maybe that only confirmed what Iris and everyone else had felt all along, and maybe that wasn’t smart policing, but sometimes you just know. She’d had enough for one day. She wasn’t sure what made her indicate to turn right at Idle Corner. Perhaps it was the river, snaking black through Limerick’s forgotten belly, perhaps it was the bells ringing across the city from St Mary’s Cathedral on Bridge Street or St John the Baptist’s calling from beyond the rooftops. Either way, she was headed down St Abbati’s Terrace knowing that she would stop there for a while.
Boran was their only other official suspect now. His house, as before, looked as if it was home to a down-and-out squatter, not an artist whose work was probably hanging in the commissioner’s living room. Iris pulled in just opposite, three to four houses back. She could have parked nearer, but why let Boran know she was keeping an eye on him, when it would probably come to nothing. Boran made her feel uneasy; something about him wasn’t right. Maybe he hadn’t killed Anna Crowe and her two kiddies, but he was a rotten egg and Iris knew it. She switched on the radio, looking for something, she wasn’t sure what; restless and tired, a bad combination. She chose Radio 1, the old people’s station; she was listening to it more and more these days. She sank back in her seat, rolled down the window slightly, taking in the smells of other people’s dinners, other people’s lives.
Then she spotted someone. It was Freddie the Mercury – not Freddie Mercury, obviously. No, this Freddie was born Frederick Murray. He’d started out as Freddie Varta, such was his liking for speed, but when he’d finally managed to kick the hard drugs, some wise arse had re-christened him and it had stuck. Most Limerick people knew Freddie the Mercury. Every other day he sang his lungs out down at the entrance to the Milk Market. ‘Free range eggs; get your free range eggs here.’ Of course what he really meant was: ‘Da Players a hundred for forty, who’s for da Players?’ Illegal fags, that was as far as it went with Freddie, so far as Iris knew, at least. Perhaps there was more, but since their paths had never crossed, Iris assumed he’d never treaded the fine line into anything worse than anti-social behaviour with a constant sideline in illegally imported fags. The fact that he was left alone could only mean he was somebody’s canary. But what was he doing outside Boran’s house? Like it took a genius to figure that one out. Iris punched in a speed dial for an old colleague.
‘Lorna?’
‘Well, if it isn’t Miss Celebrity – haven’t heard from you in a while.’ Lorna’s voice wa
s as Limerick as the mouth of the Shannon. They had trained together; Lorna had joined for a comfortable pensionable job. She’d never been in it for the action, so she was happy to park herself at a desk. In the meantime, she’d managed to get herself promoted and now she was married with twin boys and her once-size-six jeans probably wouldn’t pass her ankle forever more.
‘Hey.’ Iris let her voice glide into their past acquaintance. They’d spent eighteen months sharing a dorm in Templemore, but it seemed like so long ago now. ‘Are you on duty this evening?’ She slipped back into sergeant mode – or at least informer of sorts. ‘It’s just, if you weren’t doing anything interesting…’
‘Go on…’ Lorna had dropped her voice and she wondered now if they were both on the same track. ‘I assume we’re talking, but not talking?’
‘You assume right.’ Iris lowered her voice, conscious once more of her surroundings. St Abbati’s Terrace wasn’t exactly Soho. It was the kind of place, Iris figured, where the neighbours knew if you flushed twice within the hour and they would be counting. ‘I’ve just been watching a guy called Boran and guess who’s come to call?’ Iris stopped for a moment and then continued drily, knowing that Lorna Williams would be watching a hundred and fifty Freddies every other day of the week, with not enough time or resources to really watch any of them. ‘Freddie the Mercury,’ she stalled for a moment, considered her position. If there was something there, it made no odds to her if the guy was shopped today or tomorrow, they could still cut a deal. Murder over smuggling; there was no comparison. ‘I’d say that now is the time to get your guys down here, he’s just after picking up his supplies, but you didn’t get that from me…’
Bingo. Iris watched as Mercury left the house with a bulging bag full of what she presumed were excise-free fags.
Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 16