‘I … I can’t remember.’
‘A month ago? Yesterday?’
‘No, not yesterday. Definitely not yesterday.’
Lottie glanced at Kirby. Had O’Keeffe denied it too strongly? ‘If not yesterday, when?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you know Marianne was visiting Tamara last evening?’
‘She never said.’
‘Where were you?’
‘I told you. I went out. We’d had a row. I drove around for hours. I arrived home before her. I didn’t know she’d been with Tamara. She should have told me.’
‘Oh, and if she’d told you, you wouldn’t have kicked fifty shades of shite out of her, is that it?’
‘What are you talking about?’ He glared.
‘Do you not approve of Marianne’s friendship with Tamara?’
‘Look, Marianne is in awe of Tamara because of her youth and beauty. But if it keeps her away from writing stuff that will never see the light of day, it doesn’t bother me.’
‘If you didn’t know Marianne was with Tamara, who did you think she’d been with?’
‘I had my suspicions.’
‘You might as well spit it out.’
‘She’s been trying to sell the house out from under me. I know she wants to get away, but in family law it’s my house too, so I won’t let her do that to me.’
‘What has that to do with your suspicions? Did you think she was having an affair?’
‘I had no proof, but I knew someone had been in the house. I found a business card. Jesus, the fucker must be ten years younger than her.’
‘Who?’
‘That estate agent. Aaron Frost.’
Lottie felt Kirby nudge her elbow. ‘When did you see Aaron Frost?’
‘I never saw him. Never met him. Just had his card. Drove around trying to think what I was going to do about it.’
‘What did you do about it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’ll tell you what you did, Kevin. You beat the crap out of Marianne, then you went and found Aaron Frost.’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘Are you telling me you didn’t beat Marianne, or that you didn’t find Frost? Which is it?’
‘Both.’
‘I saw her, Kevin. I saw the bruises under her make-up. I saw her wince in pain.’
‘You’re talking pure shite.’
‘Am I?’
O’Keeffe bit the inside of his cheek. Lottie could see that he was seething beneath his put-on air of nonchalance. She would do her best to shake the truth from him. ‘When did you last see Gavin Robinson?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘When did you last see Aaron Frost?’
‘I never met him.’
‘Did you kill Gavin Robinson?’
‘What? Oh, fuck off now. You can’t go around accusing me of that lad’s murder. I want my solicitor.’
Lottie ignored him. ‘Did you kill Aaron Frost?’
‘I didn’t even know he was dead.’
‘He is. Do you know Faye Baker?’
‘Who?’
‘You know right well. I’ve spoken to you about her. How you went around to Karen Tierney’s home after she found the body. Tell me, how did you know Faye?’
‘I did not know her.’
‘Why were you asking Karen about her then?’
O’Keeffe stared at the ceiling, weighing up his options, no doubt. Lottie could feel Kirby bristling beside her. They both knew what was coming next.
‘I want my solicitor, and the answer to whatever else you want to ask me is no comment.’
Outside the interview room, Lottie turned to Kirby. ‘We have nothing to charge him with. We’d better see if we can unravel the evidence to tie him to any of the murders.’
‘It’s a long piece of string, though, isn’t it?’ Kirby shoved a folder under his arm.
‘We need to prove it one way or the other. Maybe we could get Marianne to make a complaint against him. At least then we could hold him for a few hours on that charge.’
‘I wish you luck.’ He patted his shirt pocket for the security of his cigar. ‘I’ll see how forensics are getting on.’
‘I’m going home,’ Lottie said. ‘I feel like a cement block is sitting on my head. I need a shower, and I want to swing by the Sheridans’ to see if Jack can tell me anything about Gavin. I’ll call back later on.’
‘Go on, boss. I’ll let you know if we need you for anything.’
‘Don’t you have a home to go to, Kirby?’
‘Actually, I don’t.’
As Ruby slapped butter onto four slices of toast, Sean surveyed the kitchen.
‘You have crumbs everywhere,’ he said.
‘I’ll tidy up.’ She put two slices in front of him, then folded hers into each other and took a large bite.
‘I’m not that hungry,’ Sean said. ‘Here, you have mine.’
Ruby’s eyes widened, staring at something behind Sean. Twisting round in the chair, he saw Mrs O’Keeffe glaring at them. He stood up quickly, knocking his rucksack from the chair beside him. His books slid out over the sparkling floor.
‘Hi, Mrs O’Keeffe. I’m just leaving.’ He began to scoop his belongings back into his bag.
‘Sit down, Sean. I want to ask you a question.’
He sat, leaving his books half in, half out of his bag, under the table.
‘You were here yesterday, and the evening before, weren’t you?’
Sean glanced over at Ruby, questioning her with his eyes. What was the right answer?
Ruby said, ‘Yes, he was here. We always come in after school.’
‘Sometimes you see things in other people’s houses, things you’re not supposed to talk about.’
Sean wondered how quickly he could get his books back in the bag and escape out the door. Before he could pick up another one, Mrs O’Keeffe pulled out a chair and sat beside him. Folding her arms, she stared at him.
‘Do you go home and tell your mother about us?’
‘No, honestly. I hardly get time to see my mother these days. She’s busy with a case.’
‘What are you on about, Mum?’ Ruby said. Sean could see she was close to tears. He recalled their conversation that morning about her father. Should he say something? Mrs O’Keeffe didn’t look injured, but she was acting weird.
Now she put both hands on his chin and turned his face towards hers. He tried not to squirm. Her touch felt oddly inappropriate.
‘You’re a good boy, Sean Parker. But I think you like snooping in other people’s houses and telling your mother what you see and hear.’
‘What?’ He tried to shake his head, but she was holding his face too tightly. ‘I would never do that.’
‘Don’t you ever come into my home unless I’m here,’ she said quietly. ‘And no telling tales. Is that clear?’
‘Sure.’
Sean was totally confused. He hardly spoke in his own home, never mind told tales. He glanced at Ruby, who was over by the counter, picking nervously at the crumbs. He could see that she was mortified. And for that matter, so was he. Then he realised it wasn’t just mortification. Ruby was simmering with rage.
‘Can I go now?’ he asked.
‘Remember what I said. No tittle-tattle.’ With a flurry, Mrs O’Keeffe left the kitchen.
‘Tittle-tattle?’ Sean said.
‘Don’t mind her.’ Ruby helped pick up Sean’s books. ‘She’s drunk.’
But Sean knew drunk. He’d seen enough of it in his own home over the years. Ruby’s mum was stone-cold sober. So, what was her problem?
Fifty-Eight
McKeown sent Garda Brennan to fetch coffees while he viewed the CCTV from the recycling centre that his colleagues had called him in to see.
He stared at the image on the screen, timed at 20.25 the evening before. It was grainy and shadowy, but it was definitely a car backed up against the glass recycling pit. He was looking at it side on. The boo
t was open, masking the person bent over. He couldn’t see what was being taken out or put in, but it was two minutes before the boot was closed. The head remained ducked down, so he had no way of seeing whether it was male or female. The registration number of the car was not visible. He backed up the tape to the gate. The person’s hand had extended out through the car window and keyed in the code. Fuck you, Brandon Carthy, McKeown thought. He must have given out the code to someone. Or had another person working there given it out? Either way, he needed to get hold of Carthy and ask him a few awkward questions.
When Garda Brennan returned with the coffees, McKeown replayed the clip again and they both reached the same conclusion. They were looking at the shadowy image of the person who had dumped the body and who was possibly the boy’s killer.
‘Fancy a ride?’ McKeown said.
Garda Brennan blushed.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. That came out wrong.’ McKeown spluttered into his coffee. He stood and his head scraped the low ceiling. ‘I mean to the recycling centre.’
She threw back her head and laughed. ‘I’d do anything to get out of this cubbyhole.’
‘Anything?’ he said.
‘Don’t push too far now, Detective McKeown.’
His car was filled with the floral scent Garda Brennan was wearing. It wasn’t unpleasant but it did catch in the back of his throat. He was glad to step out into the fresh air.
‘There’s no one here, only SOCOs,’ the garda at the gate informed them.
‘I want to have a word with Brandon Carthy.’
‘No one here, only—’
‘Only SOCOs. Got that. Tell one of them to take prints from the keypad.’ He pointed to the device on the wall beside the gate. They might get one that didn’t belong to the staff.
As he walked back to the car, he said, ‘I have Carthy’s address. We might catch him at home.’
‘He won’t be there,’ the garda said. ‘He and his colleagues mentioned they were heading to Danny’s Bar. Talked about getting whiskeys to dampen their shock.’
‘I’ll dampen their shock.’ McKeown sat into the car and ducked to glance in the mirror as he reversed. ‘Danny’s Bar. Is that on Main Street?’
‘How long have you been stationed in Ragmullin? Don’t worry. I’ll direct you.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
Danny’s Bar was buzzing with the teatime crowd. McKeown dipped his head as he entered the pub after Martina.
‘Can’t see him, can you?’ he said.
‘I’ve no idea what he looks like.’
‘You’re a fat lot of good to me then.’
‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ Martina thumped his elbow in jest.
‘No, no,’ he said.
She smiled. A nice smile, he’d give her that. And in the muted tones of the bar, he noticed how her eyes lit up. Her bulky hi-vis vest shone under the orange glow of the lights. She was equipped with radio and handcuffs if a row broke out. He smiled back at her and pushed through the young people milling around in groups, drinks in hand and bags on the floor.
‘It’s like Christmas Eve in here,’ he said, as he was jostled roughly by a young man who only reached his shoulder.
‘Summer garden party,’ Martina yelled above the din.
As he pushed on, he saw a familiar figure sitting at the bar. Boyd.
‘What are you doing here?’ McKeown said.
‘What does it look like?’
McKeown told Boyd who they were looking for.
‘I don’t know him,’ Boyd said, ‘but about an hour ago, three or four men came in, dressed in hi-vis singlets. They made their way towards the beer garden.’
‘You’ve been here an hour, then?’
‘Are you my mother, McKeown?’ Boyd’s eyes filled.
McKeown said, ‘Sorry about your mother. Tough times for you.’
‘Yeah. Tough’s the word all right. How are you getting on with the new super?’
‘At the beginning she was all low-key; now she’s like a tornado when she sweeps into the office.’
‘Care to tell me more?’ Boyd said. ‘I’ll buy you both a drink.’
‘We’re still on duty,’ McKeown said.
Martina Brennan looked at her watch. ‘I’m not. Officially I finished five minutes ago.’ She took off her cap and eased onto the stool beside Boyd. ‘Captain Morgan’s, seeing as you’re buying.’
‘Two-timing me before my very eyes,’ McKeown said with mock horror. ‘I better find this Brandon Carthy. I’ve a few questions he needs to answer.’
‘Your boss won’t like you interviewing suspects in a pub,’ Boyd said.
‘Carthy is not a suspect in anything. And I’m not interviewing him. We just need to clarify something.’ He tapped Martina on the arm. ‘I’ll be back.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, am I, Sergeant Boyd?’
McKeown shook his head as he ploughed through the bodies. Sweat and perfume mingled. A waiter carried a tray of finger food towards a group in the far corner and McKeown resisted the urge to reach out and swipe a few chicken wings.
The beer garden was even more crowded than inside. A Perspex awning acted as a temporary roof, covered in plastic vines and coloured umbrellas. A screeching band added to the noise. McKeown sensed they were out of tune, but he knew nothing about music so maybe that was the norm.
He spotted Carthy with his crew sitting on a long bench, clutching pint glasses, faces vacant, unspeaking.
‘Brandon? Can I have a word?’ McKeown leaned down towards the younger man.
‘I’ve told you lot all I know; I just want a little peace and quiet.’
McKeown laughed. ‘You’re not in the right place if that’s what you’re after.’ He clamped a hand on Carthy’s shoulder. ‘Come with me for two minutes. Then you can resume your quest to find oblivion.’
‘I’m going nowhere with you.’
‘If that’s the way you want to play it, I can arrest you for impeding an investigation.’
Carthy stood and handed his pint to a colleague. ‘I’ll be back.’
Outside, McKeown blinked in the brightness of the evening sunshine. Pulling a folded A4 page from his pocket, he flattened it out in his large hand and showed it to Carthy. ‘Who is that?’
‘How do I know?’
‘Look again. How did that person have the code to the gate?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who is it, Brandon?’
‘I told you, I don’t know.’
Before he knew what he was doing, McKeown had the man pinned against the stone wall, his arm across his neck, and it was only when he noticed Carthy’s face turning puce that he released his grip.
‘That’s police harassment.’ Carthy coughed and spat on the ground.
‘I want a straight answer.’
Carthy ducked under McKeown’s arm and backed away to the edge of the footpath.
‘I don’t know who it is. I have a few … clients who slip me a few quid now and again in exchange for the code.’
‘So how much do you make on the side?’
‘Not much. Twenty here and there.’
‘I want the names of everyone who bribed you.’
‘It’s not a bribe. For God’s sake, it’s only recycling.’
‘Only recycling? The body of an eleven-year-old boy was dumped there, and you tell me it’s only recycling.’
‘My pay is just above minimum wage, not that you’d know anything about that on the money you get. It was offered, so what was I to do?’
‘Tell them to fuck off and come back during opening hours maybe?’
‘Well I didn’t. I put my hands up. I took money. It was only two or three guys. That’s all. It’s not like they’re going to steal anything, is it?’
McKeown paced around Carthy, stuffing his hands in his pockets to stop himself from thumping the young man. ‘Look at the image again. Tell me who it is.’
‘I don’t know who it is. Can’t you check the registrati
on number?’
‘The CCTV cameras don’t appear to have captured a number plate in any of the footage we’ve searched.’
‘It’s not a high-end system. Can I go back to my drink?’
‘I want the names of the people who bribed you. And I want them now. Think long and hard or you’re going to be out of a job. When you’ve racked your brain, if you have one, I want some answers. Okay?’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll have to check. Give me your number and I’ll send them on to you.’
McKeown stuffed his card into Carthy’s fist and followed him back into the pub. He joined Boyd and Martina. Standing behind them, he ordered a double whiskey on the rocks.
By the time he got back to the office, McKeown’s head was buzzing and his stomach gurgling with the whiskey. He slumped at his desk and glared at Kirby when he smirked.
‘Shut up, Kirby. Did you find out anything from the guy at the estate agent’s office?’
Kirby shrugged. ‘He’s adamant he wants a search warrant before releasing any information. He’s lucky I didn’t land him into the middle of next week.’
‘You? You can’t land yourself on the same bed two nights in a row.’
‘What the—’
‘Sorry. There was no need for that.’ McKeown raised his hand in apology and began sorting the paperwork on his desk. He checked his phone, but still nothing from Carthy. Little shit. He moved a stack of twenty-year-old missing persons folders. There had been nothing in them. These were the ones that hadn’t been transferred onto PULSE. As he lifted the next stack, he noticed the bundle of newspaper clippings. He put the files on the floor and skimmed through the articles again.
‘Oh my God! This is where I recognised the house from.’
‘The derelict house?’ Kirby said, raising his head, his eyes bloodshot and angry.
‘Yeah, look at this. See the photo under the headline.’ McKeown jumped up and over to Kirby’s desk, waving the page. ‘This is the place, isn’t it?’
‘Let me read it.’
‘I have to tell the boss. Where is she?’
‘She went home for a shower. Mentioned she was going to drop in on the Sheridans to talk to Jack about Gavin. But she said to contact her if we had any developments.’
Buried Angels Page 26