‘It’ll take a lot more than a few words from a suspect and a sob story from you to make me fuck up my career just to put a couple of bones in a box beside Anna Crowe.’ Cullen shook her head as though expunging some niggling notion that was being planted by a rival. ‘We wouldn’t find her anyway. The place was well searched at the time; if anything had been buried there, they’d have spotted it then.’
‘Can’t we just bring Kerr in and question him, ask him about what happened all those years ago?’
‘Iris—’ Even the way she said her name made her feel like she was back at school, humble, stupid, awkward. ‘This is a murder inquiry; we don’t just drag people in for questioning like it’s a game of last one out.’ She took up a chocolate biscuit and crunched it noisily. Iris knew that this conversation was over. Well, over for now at least, she thought.
Cullen picked up some of the notes that she’d left on the settee beside her. An arm full of crisp white sheets, reviewing most of what the team had put together. The ‘book’ was the bible of every case, essentially a log of every question asked and answered, not far off every coffee drunk. ‘How are you finding the team?’ Cullen raised her eyes over the smart glasses she wore for reading. ‘They seem to be a grand bunch.’
‘They’re sound, well-knitted together, but very focussed on getting the case solved.’ Locke smiled.
‘Yes, Grady is a good man, you can see it in the unit. The only thing I’d worry about is that they’re so well glued together at this point, it might be hard for an outside…’ She let her words peter off.
‘No problems there, I’m used to being out on a limb, but honestly, I haven’t felt that here.’
‘Slattery and Grady go back a long way, I do wonder if perhaps that’s a good thing.’
‘I don’t know, they’re very different, aren’t they? Perhaps they balance each other out?’
‘No danger of Slattery teaching Grady his naughty ways?’ Cullen smiled indulgently.
‘Old dog and new tricks? No, I think Grady is a straight down the line sort of fella, regardless of what he might see other people doing.’ Locke picked up the photograph of Anna Crowe and Sylvie, aware that they were treading on thin ground; the last thing she wanted to be was the one who told tales to the boss. Not that there were any tales to tell were there? Well, apart from that empty bottle of whiskey in Slattery’s desk, of course.
‘Have you seen something?’ Cullen’s voice was low and even, just across the table as if she could read Iris’s mind. Something in her manner had changed; now she sat like a large feline, waiting to pounce on her prey. ‘Something of Slattery, something I should know about?’
‘God, I don’t know, you know Slattery probably as well as I do – I suspect most likely the same things you do, but what do I know? As any good detective will say, you can’t base judgements on feelings, right?’
‘Right.’ But Cullen sounded unconvinced. ‘Iris, you know that I would take it very badly if I learned at some point that you knew something that might compromise any of the officers on my team. I can’t work with people I don’t trust.’ She didn’t trust Slattery, it had been written all over her face since the day she’d arrived.
The threat was implicit, as invisible as it was tangible. If Iris wanted in, she had to spill, even if she had nothing to spill. What did she owe Slattery anyway; he was hardly likely to go out on a limb for her, right? Only problem was, and she knew this beyond any doubt, if she did spill, or if for any reason, Grady or June or even Westmont thought that it came from her, she could be on the team and forever remain an outsider. ‘You’re putting me in an awkward position here…’
‘There’s no need for awkwardness, believe me, I would never drop you in it. No one would know that it came from you.’ And there it was. Cullen, for all her years, was honourable. Her rectitude was old school, so outdated that it was almost impossible to recognise it for what it was, but Locke knew enough to know she could trust her. And she knew, too, that she’d rather have Cullen as a friend than as an enemy.
‘Okay, okay, I don’t really know anything, but I suspect that there was a time when he might have been drinking in the station…’ Locke exhaled, she knew from the way Cullen’s eyes opened wide that this was exactly what she’d been hoping for. ‘But that was once and I have no reason to think it’s happening now.’
Then Cullen’s phone rang with a singsong quality to it that reminded Locke of the circus, she had the showmanship of a practised ringmaster. Iris exhaled, saved for now by the interruption. By the time Cullen hung up on the call she was pulling herself off the sofa. ‘Are you up for a spot of driving?’ She threw the Mercedes keys at Locke, grabbing her coat and slipping on the shoes she’d discarded only a short while earlier. ‘You should be happy; it looks like it’s coming closer to home.’
‘How’s that?’
‘We have another one – Ollie Kerr’s partner.’
The place was cold and dark and bleak and Slattery knew before he went into the cottage that this was different. Maybe it was the fact that the place hadn’t been torched, but he had a feeling it was something more, catching on the air before him, like a threat, drifting just beyond his reach. Cullen and Locke arrived before him, the Mercedes’ taillights beaconing his way up the narrow road to the cottage. Typical, he harrumphed, but at the same time, it was odd, perhaps he expected more of Locke than to fall in with the likes of Cullen.
‘The forensic boys are out in good time,’ Slattery said, as two of the crime scene officers slipped into paper suits, at the side of a Gardai van.
‘Get someone on the end of the road,’ Cullen hissed at Slattery. Iris eyed him disdainfully. She was still livid over the fags and Boran; it had been far too close for comfort. How could he be so stupid? Slattery knew the answer already, he was out of control, spinning fast towards royally screwing up and he had a feeling, when it happened, that there was little anyone could do to save his ass from Cullen.
The cottage was a 1960s’ council build. Small and mean. Someone had painted it cream twenty years ago; it looked as if they still hadn’t finished the job. The windowsills had never seen a lick of colour and Slattery figured the current owner had long lost interest in its upkeep. A high Mohican fringe of grass had brushed noisily against the underside of the Ford on the driveway and scattered around the house, an array of obsolete electrical goods and a long-dead Volkswagen beetle rested idly. It seemed they were going nowhere any time soon.
‘Get down there yourself until a uniform arrives.’ Cullen barked the order at Slattery; it was a long time since anyone had been so pissed off with him, but he was damned if it was going to lessen his swagger. He made his way back down past the parked cars to take up position, stout and obstinate. The last thing they needed was the press making their way up the narrow driveway. No doubt, they’d be here soon, all too often they were at the scene before the Murder Team, pushing their way as close to the crime as they could. That it bothered him, standing on sentry while the others were in the middle of the crime scene, could not be read on Slattery’s face. All the same, the next uniform to arrive was left to take over and Slattery was relieved to make his way back towards the cottage.
The cottage inside was as dank as the outside led you to believe. Slattery remembered his visit here, only days ago. It had been a depressing place then, too, but tonight it was something else, a crime scene and that made it reek of something altogether more ominous. Veronique Majewski had not struggled with her killer. Her body lay hunched over the kitchen table. Beside her blood-matted hair, a glass that contained a large shot of vodka remained; her red-glossed lips had left their trace along its rim. She would have been beautiful, had it not been for the drink and drugs and general grimness of her personality that had wracked their own particular ugliness on her delicate features.
‘Who found her?’ he asked Grady.
‘The boyfriend, partner, whatever you want to call him; he’s outside now, we’ve left him with one of the uniforms, we�
�ll get to him next.’ Grady spoke with the firmness of the officer in charge, and it reassured Slattery; at least the DI would have his back.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Cullen ignored the forensic team who were moving slowly, quietly around them, widening their circle of investigation in movement waves away from the victim.
‘No sign of Ahmed?’ Grady asked, looking towards a guy called Fitzgerald. A nod told him he was on his way.
‘Iris, you want to go first?’
‘Sure. I’d say she knew her attacker; it doesn’t look like a burglary, the place has been turned over, probably after she died. There’s nothing in her posture to suggest a struggle. The place is untidy – but it looks like that’s the way they lived, there’s no obvious sign of a break-in.’ She looked towards Cullen, checking that the other woman was in agreement with her so far. ‘I’d say this was personal, just as personal as the Crowe murders.’
‘So why didn’t our guy set the place on fire?’ Cullen asked Iris and Grady.
‘Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe something spooked him.’ Iris looked at Grady.
Slattery walked towards an old-fashioned dresser. Checked out its contents quickly with his gloved hands. Narrow shelves were crammed with the mismatched crockery of someone Slattery knew was long since dead. He picked up a photo of Veronique. She had a smiling full mouth below troubled eyes that watched the camera with an empty stare that was at once unsettling and entrancing. She had long fair hair, with the sallow skin of Eastern Europe and delicate features. The photo had obviously been taken at a local fair or festival, probably just a few months earlier; she was on the cusp of a new life, perhaps there was hope of something better then. Slattery handed the photo to Grady, who passed it along to Cullen.
‘Jesus.’ Cullen said the word almost under her breath, holding the picture before lowering it to look at what remained of Veronique. ‘What kind of sicko does this?’ She looked at Grady; his turn. Sometimes, the first impressions on a crime scene are tellingly accurate. Grady and Slattery had run through this routine thousands of times; it had been a long time, though, since either had found himself trying to impress his senior.
‘The murderer knew what he was doing. There were two glasses here.’ He pointed to a wet circle where a second glass matching the remaining one had stood wet and soaking into the week-old newspaper that covered half the table. ‘My bet is our man took his glass with him. My bet is he wore gloves too. He’s smart, there’s no sign of any attack or fight back. It’s not the boyfriend either.’ He looked at Locke’s puzzled expression. ‘Why would he take away the glass; he could just wash it and put back in the cupboard. He does live here, after all.’
Cullen bent down to take a closer look at the victim’s hands. Veronique’s fingernails were long and synthetic; her rings were high and pointed. If she’d made any contact with her killer at all, there was lots of potential for picking up DNA.
‘You don’t think it’s the same guy?’ she asked Grady.
‘I’m not sure what I think. It could be…’
‘But?’ Iris asked.
‘Well, there’s the obvious fact that the place hasn’t been torched,’ Grady began.
‘But each of the victims has essentially been dispatched in the same way. One gunshot wound to the head, surely that has to be more than just coincidence, when you look at the proximity of the victims and the time frame?’ Iris was chewing on her lower lip, suddenly looking much younger than her usual confident self.
Slattery, quietly on the periphery, had to remind himself once more that this was her first real murder investigation. ‘Ballistics’ll answer that sharpish,’ he grunted.
‘Well, yes, I certainly wouldn’t rule out that it’s the same person responsible for all these deaths, I just…’ Grady looked around him. Slattery knew what he was thinking: how did you say that there was something not quite right about it.
‘Something about the whole place just looks staged,’ Slattery put in, even though his opinion had not been asked for. Grady looked at him now, the familiar sliver of a smile about his lips. ‘Whereas, the Crowe house – being there, even now, would give you shivers down your spine.’
And that was it; it was as if the place had only recently been visited by a darkness that Slattery had not seen in a very long time. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but perhaps it was the difference between murder, which is a terrible thing, and the murder of innocence, which is just unthinkable. Whatever it was, it wasn’t something he was about to say out loud now. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m just saying, I think at this stage, we should keep an open mind, that’s all.’ Slattery stopped, a commotion outside, the echo of shouting and general racing about drifted through the open door on the cold night air.
‘Sir.’ One of the junior officers appeared at the door, red-faced and out of breath, looking from Grady to Cullen, probably not sure which of them to report to. ‘It’s Ollie Kerr. He’s just scarpered.’
‘Well, isn’t that just bloody perfect,’ Cullen said and she stomped off out to give whoever had been keeping an eye on him the mother of all goings over.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Iris shivered as she gulped down the last drop of wine. She’d searched the cupboards in vain for something stronger, something that would warm her and take the edge off her fear. It was almost four in the morning. She knew it was being out there, near where Anna Crowe had lived, near where they had all died, near where she could have died herself. It had triggered this unstoppable shaking that was sending tremors through her, so even her bones seemed to rattle in her body. Delayed shock. That’s what they’d call it. She knew the best thing for it was a warm drink. Keep warm. Stay calm. They hadn’t left Kilgee until three and when she’d arrived back at the apartment it had suddenly hit her. She’d gone through the motions, she knew them well enough, had dealt with enough victims over the years. She was no victim, was she? She could have been, though. So easily, that night out in Kilgee, she should have said something, to someone – she knew then what she had to do.
She’d rung Grady first, wouldn’t have known where to find him otherwise. His home wasn’t what she’d have expected. A two-up, two-down in a nice old brick terrace that would once have been working class, but now its location made it a bit yuppie, a bit bohemian – this was Limerick, not enough ground to be one or the other. But then what did she expect, some kind of lad’s pad – he was too old for that. He’d led her into the kitchen, a tasteful stainless steel and ash combination, unused, cold. His eyes were as tired as her own. She could see this was the last thing he’d expected.
‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ she said simply.
The house was quiet, but it seemed to absorb her as if somehow making her feel safe. In the hall a Swiss clock rang out the half hour; it was a familiar sound. They had had a similar clock in their own hall when she was a child.
‘Can I get you something?’ He was taking down two tumblers from a shelf. It looked like it was the most used shelf in the house with all the daily provisions stored there. He poured a generous measure of Bushmills for each of them. ‘I was going to have one anyway.’
He smiled at her and she realised it was the first time she’d seen him smile, a real smile that went all the way up to his eyes, crinkling the skin so he looked softer, older, gentler. He’d been morose since she’d first met him, if not scowling, then certainly sullen, but it suited him, she decided. He was dark and big and old enough to know himself. Maybe that’s what marked him out as much as his looks; he was what he was and he was at peace with that. If he was haunted by anything it was ghosts from the past, there was nothing in the present or the future that would faze him.
They sat for a while, in his small ‘front room’, just sipping their whiskies. She began to feel the warmth envelop her and soon she felt as if she just might fall asleep. It was safe here, and beyond expectation, she actually felt comfortable, as though the place insulated her from the fear she’d felt earlier on. But the
terror would come back; she knew that even as she felt it float away.
‘I went out there… a couple of nights ago, to Kilgee.’ She said the words softly. ‘I’m not sure why, I’d left the Ship Inn, everyone seemed to be… going somewhere… I suppose I had nowhere else to go.’ She smiled at him; she’d never imagined herself being so honest with anyone. ‘I drove up to the Crowe cottage, had a look about. It was very dark, darker than it was out there tonight.’ She gulped down some of her drink and shivered slightly. Grady looked around the room. Had it been a woman’s house there might have been a throw, but the sitting room was bare of cushions or blankets. A grey suite of furniture, a bookcase, a couple of table lamps and a cast iron fireplace managed to fill it up.
‘You’re freezing.’ He got up and walked to a switch beneath the stairs. He flicked it on, the heating she assumed, but she wasn’t really cold, she didn’t bother to say so, though.
‘There was someone there.’ She didn’t want to go into all the details, but she had to tell someone. Perhaps, and this was one of the worst things that had struck her tonight – perhaps if she’d told him sooner, Veronique Majewski would still be alive.
‘Did you see him?’ Grady asked, leaning forward now in his chair.
‘No, but I felt him, he was big, tall and sturdy, maybe slightly overweight. But he was strong and fairly fit.’ She didn’t have to say another word, the description fitted perfectly with Ollie Kerr.
‘What happened?’ Grady closed his eyes and she figured part of him didn’t want to hear this any more than she wanted to tell it. ‘What happened to you?’
‘It was fine.’ She did her best to make light of it – she’d never planned on being the quarry. ‘He grabbed me, came up from behind, we struggled, and then I managed to give him a dig. I was on my way back to the car before he managed to get upright again.’
‘Would he have seen you, your face, could he identify you?’ Grady’s voice was even, but behind his eyes she could see he knew it had been close.
Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 19