‘You’re at Freddie’s suppliers?’ Lorna’s voice was eager; she could almost hear her playing on the golf-ball pendant she wore around her neck, a gift from her father on the day he died.
‘Well now, I’m not customs, am I?’ Mentally, she shrugged, hoped the effect was heard over the phone. ‘Anyway, this is just a friendly gesture, no need for thanks, like I say, if you’re doing something more important…’ She heard the phones going off in the background. Lorna was pulling a late, the only company were probably cranks, or lonely people like Iris who had nothing else to do and no one else to ring. The thought didn’t exactly comfort.
Either way, Iris reckoned if she sat for an hour tops, she’d have a fair idea what Boran had going on. She turned the radio to Today FM, Friday night eighties’ easy music. Sade, An Emotional Fish and the Eurythmics – not exactly favourites, but familiar, still hardly challenging.
Ten minutes later, she must have dozed off and she wasn’t sure what woke her, perhaps the grace of God? But there was Slattery, bold as brass, walking up St Abbati’s Terrace, walking right up, towards Boran’s house. Iris rubbed her eyes, thought for a moment she must be dreaming, she’d wake up, back in her own nice familiar bed and all would be well. Except she wasn’t, was she? She was sitting in her car, on St Abbati’s Terrace, watching bloody Slattery walk towards a house that could be raided at any moment.
‘You fuck, Slattery, you fuck.’ Iris was suddenly propelled on a trajectory, as opposed to actually having taken any action. Somehow, she’d bounded from the car, aware that at any moment, Lorna and her team could be careering into the street looking to pick up the smuggler who was supplying the Mercury and God knows how many more minor criminals around this city.
‘You stupid…’ Iris could barely keep the spittle from her voice. ‘You stupid fucking fuck…’ she finally managed as she dragged him into the car, hoping against all hope that no one had seen them, that no one would ever imagine they were police. At that moment, two cars blasted into the street. One was unmarked; the other was all sirens and warning lights.
‘Jesus,’ Slattery said under his breath.
‘No, Customs and Excise, Slattery, but if they caught you in there, they might as well be the holy trinity, because Cullen would have had your arse for sure.’
Slattery smiled at her, a wrinkly, devil-may-care grin. ‘I’ll have to give these fags up someday soon, they’ll be the death of me…’
Across the road, Boran was being led out by a plain-clothes officer; the two uniforms still probably sorting out the stock inside. When Lorna came out, she gave a small wave across to Iris. It was a good night’s work for one division at least.
‘I didn’t know we were watching him…’ Slattery looked a little stunned now that the initial bravery was wearing off. ‘How come you’re in on it?’ He looked towards Iris now.
‘Do you even know the guy’s name?’
‘Sure, he’s Nixer Da Vinci, a fella down the pub told me I’d get a better price at St Abbati’s Terrace. So I just thought I’d see for myself. Apparently, he’s been flogging cheap fags for the last few weeks all round Limerick. You know the way it is, everything always tastes better without VAT.’
‘It’s Boran – our Boran, that’s who’s been supplying your cheap fags, Slattery.’
‘Holy hell,’ was all Slattery could manage and he threw his half smoked cigarette out onto the road in horror.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It seemed like the only place to go; after the night’s events Iris found herself sitting, disgruntled and irritably at the counter in the Ship Inn with Slattery. They’d hardly said two words to each other and it wasn’t that there wasn’t plenty to say, but they both knew that there wasn’t much point. Instead, they’d sat at the bar, like an old married couple, wordlessly passing the time while she nursed her drink and he devoured his, listening to other people’s conversations.
By midnight, Iris had had enough of pub talk. She’d parked her car a few hundred yards away from the Ship Inn, felt like she could do with a walk, but it wasn’t the kind of place she’d go walking alone. She was almost on the old docks, an otherwise abandoned spot, the clinking of chains and see-saw of ropes buoyed by the tide the only sounds beyond the whispering wind and occasional lap of water from the Shannon. The developers hadn’t managed to make it this far down river. Just as well. They’d taken enough of the country over, with faux stone and ruinous greed. She sat into the Audi. It wasn’t a new car, six years on the clock and a guzzler on diesel, but it was flash enough for her and it gave her the balls nature had forgotten; a reminder to her colleagues that she could drive as fast as any of them and kick their backsides if she wanted to. She still needed to unwind and when she started up the engine, she knew exactly where she was headed. It was as if she hardly had a choice really, Anna Crowe was drawing her towards Kilgee from the first day she’d come on the case, now seemed as good a time as any to head out there.
The woods around the Crowe cottage were in complete darkness, her headlights a violent assault on the nocturnal activities of bats and badgers. She pulled the car in at the end of the drive, hadn’t really planned on walking up to the cottage, but now she was here, well…
She pulled off her high heels, reached back for a pair of heavy boots she’d thrown into the rear seat. When she got out, she was struck immediately by the smell of autumn decay. It had rained heavily for the evening in Kilgee and now the mulch beneath her feet squelched noisily through the damp. In the distance, the waft of wet and rotting wood beckoned to her. The place didn’t feel as if anything tragic had happened here in the last few days. She supposed that it must have felt a happy place to Anna too, even after the tragedy that had taken place in her youth. Otherwise, why would she have chosen to live here? No, the cottage felt like a safe place, a cocoon detached from the busy world beyond. It felt like home and maybe that’s why Anna Crowe had come back here. Absurdly, Iris began to feel a well of emotion overtake her, as though something deep within her was ready to mourn. Not just Anna Crowe, the two children, that missing baby from years earlier, but maybe something closer to home, like the lost possibility of something that could never be – perhaps her place on the Murder Team.
What had she expected, coming here? She wasn’t sure; possibly the feeling that the spirit of Anna Crowe somehow lingered on here. Iris knew that was just madness. Anna Crowe had died tragically and violently, but she had died and it was down to Iris to find out why.
She made her way along the narrow path, picking it out against the grassy verge to either side. It was rough and uneven beneath her feet, and the crunch of stones echoed far into the distance, making her feel as if she was somehow intruding on the stillness of graves. She had a torch in her pocket, that and her standard-issue firearm. She hadn’t come here to see anything, not really. Just to think, to get a sense of the place, of the person. The Ship Inn had made her feel as if she was stuck, as though somehow the information she had, the work she’d done, was stagnant. Maybe that was what had hit Coleman Grady. They were no further along than they had been two days ago.
She was at the cottage now. It stood in front of her, a looming black spot shading out the moonlight, hiding secrets she couldn’t guess at in its darkness. She stood for… she couldn’t say how long, found herself whispering a prayer for the Crowes – all of them, even the missing baby, whisked away too soon and never seen again. A chill wind creeping down her spine broke her reverie. She caught her breath; déjà vu suddenly, she’d been here, in this moment, before. But of course she hadn’t, this was what murder did to you, too close and the lines got blurred. She backed a little way from the cottage, wondering at the unspoken link that had been forged on one afternoon in a coffee shop. She felt very close to Anna Crowe, maybe closer than it was good for either of them to be now. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, or if in fact she’d been touched by a ghostly finger, but she turned to see if anything was behind her and in that moment hardly managed to stifle
the scream that rose from somewhere deep in her gut. She was not alone.
He’d heard her car drive to the end of the road, opened his eyes as the lights died down, but not before they shone brightly into the trees, waking the sleeping birds, penetrating the darkness of night. He’d been up here for hours. He’d been coming here for years, since they were kids, just watching the house. Watching her. Occasionally a chink of light would struggle through the pulled curtains, but usually, it was just the knowledge that she was close that kept him here.
But this, tonight, this was more than he could have dreamed of. He moved slowly in the undergrowth towards her. Careful to keep his distance, but at the same time, drawn to her like a helpless pin to a magnet. Anna had had the same effect on him. Of course, he knew that this was not Anna. This woman was taller, more in command of herself and everything around her. Even here, in the dark of night, she walked with purpose, as though she had a right to be here; her shoulders straight, her back arched when she stood for a moment.
What had brought her out here at this hour of the night? There was nothing to see here. Nothing she couldn’t see in daylight. And then it struck him. Did she know what had happened? Did she realise? Did she know what he knew? If she did, she’d have had a raft of big burly guards round his door, demanding that he come down to the local station, wouldn’t she? Or would she? If he’d ever questioned the right or wrong of his actions, he knew now that this was meant to be. She’d come back for him, he was sure of that now, and when he revealed himself, she would come to him. Run into his arms and he would hold her, hold her so she could never leave him as Anna had done.
He moved forward in the brush, his foot finding a small twig on the damp ground. It snapped gently, but the sound seemed to echo through him. She tensed before him and when she turned around, the expression on her face was one of sheer terror. He knew then that their meeting may not go quite as he had planned.
She had her revolver: that was the only thought that whirred its way around her head now. It was heavy and cold in her pocket, loaded and ready.
‘You came back to me, my lovely.’ His words were hoarse, the accent was Limerick, but she hadn’t come across the voice so far in the investigation. If this was their man, it was certainly not Adrian Crowe.
She stood in silence, cursing the clouds that played across the face of the cold moon, allowing it to pick out her frame malevolently, and maliciously, perhaps. She couldn’t see his face, but the guy was big, even in the shadows, she’d give him six-two and a bruiser with it. Hard to tell if he was muscle or not, but he moved with the languor of a loafer. Still, if he got too close, he’d be hard to throw off. She reckoned the one thing she might have going for her is that she’d outrun him. That, and her hand gun.
‘I wasn’t sure if it was you or not – I came back after, but I was too late.’ His voice was plaintive. Perhaps he was just an innocent nut job, she thought.
‘Which way did you come?’ she asked, still unsure how to play it.
‘Through the woods, of course.’ He laughed then, as though she’d forgotten. A rustle in the undergrowth told her he was moving closer, but she still could not make him out. When the moon tripped through the leaves again, he was gone and she felt panic rise through her; he could be anywhere, cutting off her escape route. She daren’t turn round, hadn’t heard him move behind her yet; surely he would hit a twig. Automatically she took a step backwards, her breath held tight, afraid to breathe. Could he see her now, could he make her out from his shadowy shelter? She had to get a location on him.
‘Did you love her very much?’ she asked, her voice soft but clear. There was no sound anywhere, not even a breath. ‘Did she love you too… perhaps you had plans? Plans to be together, just the two of you…’ She wondered, then, if maybe he was gone. But something, something small and cold told her he was very close, moving closer as she spoke.
She felt the cold draw in around her, a lonesome sensation. She pulled her coat around her, knowing it was futile; the kind of cold she felt out here was the cold Anna Crowe had felt before she died. She turned then, sensing the danger now far outweighed any lead she might hope to get. Whether this guy was smart or not didn’t matter, he knew the terrain, he had the advantage. The path was uneven back to the car. She’d move as quietly as she could. The sky had clouded over; it would take at least two to three minutes to make it to the safety of the car in near blackness.
‘Where are you going?’ He was so close she could feel his breath on her neck, warm and sticky with a hint of booze, something pungent like lager or cider. ‘You can’t leave yet…’ She felt him reach towards her, the sound of a jacket, moving in too close.
She didn’t wait for any more; she ran faster than ever before, and cursed her heavy boots as though they were somehow going to slow her down. The road was more uneven than she thought. It heaved in troughs and bumps, small stones at angles with her shoes as she sprinted across them; she would have cursed aloud, but now she had to get away. Iris felt with certainty that the man a couple of feet behind would surely finish her off, right here, on the deathbed of Anna Crowe. The thought spurned her faster, but he was managing to keep close to her. She could hear his breaths, hard and heavy, too close.
And then he grabbed her. A long loose arm was on her back, pulling her down. She fought hard to stay upright, but he was on her now, pounding his weight down on top of her, and still she saw no more than his outline.
‘I’ve loved her forever. What is it you want here now? Don’t you see? It’s too late.’ She could hear tears behind his words. ‘We’re meant to be together, you must know that…’ He was pushing heavily down on her, his weight immobile, fixed to her, no matter which way she turned. The various techniques she’d learned in training college at Templemore, all of them racing through her brain, but he’d caught one arm behind her, the heavy coat anchoring her further in his grip.
Then he started to cry, turned his face away from her. The movement was so slight, she hardly felt it, but it was enough to gain some kind of balance of her own. She stayed a moment, taking his full weight, tilting herself to one side, freeing up her left hand, gaining access to her pocket. Deep within it, she’d dropped the torch. He weighed heavily on the side of her gun; there was no chance of getting to it. In a single movement she had the torch out, blinded him before he had a chance to think. He screamed, more with fright she reckoned than the knowledge that she was going to be in her car before he had time to know what had happened.
High above, the moon was still hidden but the torch picked out her way. She pulled open the car door, threw her body into the driver’s seat. Her fingers shook so much; it seemed to take an age to get the keys into the ignition. As the headlights came on, she searched out the drive before her. He was gone, and that only made her more uneasy. Was he behind the car already, waiting to crash something into the windscreen, yank her out like a rag doll and kill her too with his sick love? She threw the gear stick into first, was half a mile down the road before she managed to take the handbrake off. She stopped the car then, got out and threw up into the nearby ditch. She couldn’t remember ever being so sick. She knew it was fear, a close shave with something darker than she’d ever come near before and worse, she felt that somehow, a connection had been made and he would not rest until he possessed her or killed her. She got back into the Audi, hardly able to think beyond the automatic movements of her body, bringing her home to some sense of refuge. His face lingered before her eyes, lit up bright and manic in the flashlight glare. It was no good – even if she had a million years to get over this night, she couldn’t identify him no matter how much she tried. His face was a contorted nightmare. She’d probably see it every time she closed her eyes and never truly recognise him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Iris greeted the grey light tipping through her bedroom window with a sense of relief. Outside, far below on the street, she listened as Limerick slowly rumbled back to life. She had not slept, but then, she hadn
’t really expected to. At her bedside, a fat tumbler still two fingers full of brandy sat accusingly on top of some notes she’d made about the case. If it was anyone else, she’d tell them to talk to someone. She knew, as well as any, that bottling up that violent attack would do her no good, but she knew, too, that she hadn’t any words to put on it yet.
She knew one thing, though, and this had occurred to her somewhere between the third and fourth bells of St Mary’s Cathedral – whoever was out there in Kilgee last night, it wasn’t anyone she’d interviewed so far as part of the investigation. Her attacker had been big, strong, athletic. It wasn’t Boran, who was currently being questioned thanks to her tip-off to Lorna. Even if he’d managed to wiggle his way out, Boran was a string bean of a man – still wearing his adolescent rib cage as a badge of honour. He was a slippery reed of a man and her attacker was not. Well, it almost didn’t matter anyway, he’d have enough on his plate when Lorna had finished with him.
Iris dragged herself from her bed and headed for her third shower in the last six hours. This one was long and hot and she hoped that combined with strong coffee it might cleanse her back to some kind of normalcy. The silence within her was echoing and when she turned on the news, it was as much to drown out the starkness as it was to keep up with what was happening in the world. She let the national headlines wash over her; it was the usual – politics, finance, murders and rapes. No mention of Anna Crowe and Iris wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing. No, she was pretty sure, it wasn’t good.
‘Short straw, I’m afraid,’ June said to her when she arrived into the station. She was late, first time since she joined the Murder Team, but it had obviously been noticed and for today, it would cost her a full eight hours tied to a desk. ‘You get the crazy detail…’ June smiled as she shuffled into her coat.
Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 17