by Alan Gorevan
He reached the station’s back door at the same time as a woman in a dark suit. Shoulder-length brown hair, hastily applied makeup. She paused in the doorway, cradling a bunch of manilla folders under one arm, and squinted at Joe. Her eyes had the probing gaze of a new plainclothes officer. Late twenties and stressed-looking – Joe figured her for a detective garda, which put her one rank below him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Where can I find the Inspector?”
“You must be our new sergeant.”
Joe gave her a grudging nod. He didn’t bother telling her that he wasn’t going to stay.
“Detective Garda Anne-Marie Cunningham. Pleased to meet you, sir.”
They shook hands.
“The Inspector?” he prompted.
“If you’ll follow me.”
Cunningham led Joe into a long corridor that reeked of lemon disinfectant. The walls were covered in pale yellow paint.
He followed Cunningham up a flight of stairs. At the top, she keyed in a code to get through a locked door. She led him down another identical corridor and stopped in front of a door at the building’s back corner. She said, “This is Detective Inspector O’Carroll’s office.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
She turned and set off back down the steps. Joe rapped on the door with his knuckles.
“Come in.”
Detective Inspector David O’Carroll sat at his desk drinking a cup of tea. It was a few years since they’d seen each other, but O’Carroll hadn’t changed. A few touches of grey appeared in his carrot-coloured hair, but the forty-something-year-old still had the wiry fitness of a man who cycled ten miles a day. He jumped up from his chair and came around the desk.
Joe said, “Sir.”
“Don’t call me that, for god’s sake.”
They shook hands. Joe smiled, feeling a little of his tension dissipate. The two men had been stationed together for several years. O’Carroll had always been a good friend to Joe.
It looked like he still suffered from OCD. His room was tidy to the point of being sterile. The desk was bare except for a computer and his beverage.
“Good to see you, David.”
“You too, Joe.” He took a step back and looked Joe over. “I have to say, I was expecting worse.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I heard about the hospital. They said you went pure mad and nearly killed yourself.”
Joe flushed.
“Who the fuck said that?”
O’Carroll’s expression hardened. Informality was one thing, insubordination another. He pointed to a swivel chair, and said, “Sit down, Joe.”
Chapter 3
Wall to Wall Fitness was located on a corner just off Abbey Street, in Dublin’s north inner city. It was a small studio with two rooms, plus a kitchen. The building’s ground floor, below it, was occupied by an Indian restaurant, where Barry Wall often grabbed lunch.
Wall was working in the studio’s front room, training a young actress named Holly Martini. She was fine-featured and petite, and Wall felt like a giant when near her. He stood six foot two and weighed 230 lbs, all of it muscle.
Right now, they were sitting on the floor, facing each other, their legs stretched out in front of them. Holly was finishing her cool-down, a series of light stretches to end the session.
The room had a persistent smell of curry from the restaurant below, but there wasn’t much Wall could do about that. The weather was so hot that he needed to leave the windows open.
Wall’s only employee was training Holly’s co-star in the other room. The Americans were in town to film a new TV show. Luckily for Wall, their hotel was a short distance away, so they were training with him.
“Good,” he said when Holly completed the last stretch. She struggled to her feet.
“That was the toughest workout of my life,” Holly said in her L.A. drawl. “I don’t think I could do another squat if you’d paid me.”
Wall walked her to the door, where she grabbed her light hoodie, and slipped it on over her Lululemon outfit. She moved with her usual grace, even when exhausted. Perhaps that came from being on camera all the time, having every movement scrutinised.
“That’s what I’m here for,” he said. “See you again on Wednesday.”
Holly hesitated.
“I was thinking,” she said. “Would you like to get a drink some time? I mean, I’d love to pick your brain about my diet, because I’m having a hard time believing my nutritionist’s advice right now.”
Wall smiled. She was a very attractive woman. Most men would have jumped at the chance to have a drink with her.
“I’m not wearing it this minute,” he said, holding up his hand, “but I have a ring that belongs on this finger.”
Holly blushed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Of course you have a wife. I’m dumb.”
“Don’t worry about it. Wednesday at eleven, okay?”
“Sure thing. Bye.”
Wall shook his head as he watched her walk briskly out of the room. If he was single, he would have said yes in an instant – but Valentina was everything he’d ever wanted. He decided to check his phone before the next client arrived.
He ducked into the kitchen and grabbed his phone. There was a missed a call from Valentina. Some text messages too. He looked at the first one.
I don’t like being alone with this guy.
Wall always said his wife was a drama queen. All the same, his eyes narrowed as he read the second message.
Call me ASAP. I’m scared.
Probably nothing, Wall thought.
He phoned her back. The call went straight to voicemail.
It was eleven o’clock. Valentina was meant to be working today. She had given up her job at the bank once they decided to move to Spain. To occupy her time until the move, she volunteered three times a week at Oxfam. Wall phoned the shop and spoke to the woman who ran the place.
“Is Valentina there?”
“No. She didn’t turn up today. I wondered what happened. Is everything—”
Wall ended the call.
No, he thought, with a sinking feeling. Everything is not alright.
Valentina never turned her phone off, never let the battery run down. Never turned up late for anything. This just wasn’t like her.
Wall scrambled downstairs and out onto the street. He sprinted to the car park where he left his Hyundai.
Got behind the wheel. Got moving.
Called Valentina again.
Still no answer.
He drove across the city and out to the suburbs. By the time he reached the lane where he and Valentina lived, his heart was pounding so loud it scared him.
From the lane, all you could see was a stone wall with a row of high wooden gates. Few people realised what nice little houses hid behind them. Unlike most of the neighbours, Wall and Valentina usually left their gate open, as it was now. Aidan Donnelly’s van was gone, as Wall would have expected.
He parked, hurried to the door and let himself in. He called out Valentina’s name.
Nothing.
No reply.
His voice echoed around the house. As he stood in the hall, he got an uneasy feeling. He wasn’t sure why until he noticed that their wedding photo on the wall was upside-down. Wall stared at it. Why would Valentina do such a thing?
Unless it wasn’t Valentina who’d done it.
Entering the kitchen, he saw the bowl of fruit on the island in the middle of the kitchen was upside-down. He corrected it, put the apples and bananas back inside.
He walked around the ground floor, wondering what else was wrong. In the sitting room, the clock on the mantelpiece was upside-down.
In the dining room, the decorative Spanish plates on the wall had been hung upside down.
Wall was about to head upstairs when he happened to look out the window to the back garden.
A cluster of little pink
-white objects stuck up out of the grass like mushrooms. Wall slid open the patio door and stepped outside. At the edge of the grass, he hunkered down so he could get a closer look.
Fingers.
They can’t be real, he thought.
Then he noticed Valentina’s wedding ring on one of those fingers.
Chapter 4
“Sit down,” Detective Inspector O’Carroll repeated.
Joe threw himself on a wobbly swivel chair in front of the desk. It creaked under him. O’Carroll sat down too, wiping an imaginary grain of dust off the desk with the back of his hand.
Sunlight streamed into the office through a window looking out onto the car park.
Joe hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but he hated it when people talked about his private life.
O’Carroll said, “People are concerned about you, Joe. Whether you’re fit to work.”
“No one’s concerned. I don’t know where you got that from.”
“I hear you live in the pubs down in Kilkenny.”
Joe winced. He had overdone it before his trip to hospital, but a brutal case of pancreatitis had stopped him drinking.
“Not anymore,” Joe said.
“Now that you’re here — part of my team — I want to know you’re in decent shape.”
“I’m fine—”
“Good.”
“But I’m not working here.”
O’Carroll knew why. Joe had made the mistake of confiding in him years ago, when they’d been posted together. Back then, they’d shared their struggles with each other. O’Carroll had told Joe of his doubts about being a gay officer in such a conservative institution. Joe had told O’Carroll about the woman who had ruined his life. O’Carroll knew all about Lisa O’Malley, knew she lived in Donnybrook.
And he’d still summoned Joe here.
Joe couldn’t help suspecting that O’Carroll had done it deliberately. Was it some misplaced attempt to help him?
O’Carroll said, “Let’s be clear. You’re here to do a job.”
“Let me be clear. You can let me stay in Kilkenny or you can fire me.”
“You’re stubborn enough to throw away your career?”
“I guess I am,” Joe said. “Anyway, I heard you have a detective sergeant here. As far as I know, Donnybrook has only ever needed one.”
O’Carroll leaned forward.
“You’re right about that, but the thing is, our sergeant, Kevin Boyle, is in poor health.”
Joe thought of the loudmouth in the car park. He said, “The guy on crutches? What’s wrong with him?”
O’Carroll shook his head. “Kevin has had a litany of health problems this year, from pneumonia to a broken foot. I suspect there’s some underlying condition, but it hasn’t been diagnosed yet. He’s missed a lot of time, and I need someone to pick up the slack. Forget about that quitting stuff. Wait till something happens, and you get sucked into a case. I remember that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“When you’re trying to solve a crime.”
“Do you even have crimes around here?”
Donnybrook was an affluent area. Joe imagined it was one of the easier postings you could get.
“We have enough.” O’Carroll got to his feet. “Let me show you the station. I know, I know. You’re not going to work here. I’ll give you a tour anyway. We can have tea and a biscuit afterwards.”
“Okay, but I’m not changing my mind.”
O’Carroll kept the tour brief. Joe followed him upstairs and saw the incident room. They returned to O’Carroll’s floor where there were a hundred tiny offices, then went downstairs again to the communications room, the public office at the front, the long corridor from the public office to the other side of the building. Everywhere they went, O’Carroll introduced Joe to his colleagues.
Joe saw the interview rooms, and the holding cells. All of them were empty. They were the source of the disinfectant smell Joe had detected when he arrived.
They passed the door that led out to the car park. And in the corner of the building, beside the exit, was the District Detective Unit. If Joe accepted the transfer to Donnybrook, this would become his new base.
It was a tight series of three rooms, connected by open doorways. Every inch of the place was stuffed with files and folders.
As he had elsewhere in the station, O’Carroll made the introductions. But here, there were familiar faces. First, Anne-Marie Cunningham, the detective garda who’d shown Joe the way to O’Carroll’s office.
Then there was Detective Sergeant Kevin Boyle, the sick man. He managed to look smug despite his health issues, whatever they were. Joe shook hands with him for O’Carroll’s sake.
“Home sweet home,” O’Carroll said, looking around the room.
Boyle put on his suit jacket. Cunningham did the same.
O’Carroll said, “Where are you two going?”
Joe had forgotten how curious David O’Carroll was. He was one of those people who wanted to know everything that was going on.
“We’re due in court,” Cunningham said.
O’Carroll nodded. “Of course. Go ahead.”
After the two of them left, O’Carroll took Joe back to his office. They spent a while catching up, having not really spoken since O’Carroll’s wedding. Joe hadn’t attended, since he didn’t think he could stand the sight of two people getting married. That would only make him feel more alone.
Joe was about to push O’Carroll for his decision – fire Joe or let him continue in Kilkenny – when a call came through from the station sergeant. Two uniforms had responded to a call-out to a nearby house. A young woman was missing from her home and there were signs of violence.
O’Carroll turned to Joe. “I have no one else to handle it,” he said.
Joe was eager to get back to Kilkenny, but he couldn’t ignore a missing person report.
“I’ll deal with this,” he said. “And then I’m leaving.”
O’Carroll made no comment. Joe wrote down the address of the crime scene and headed for the car park.
Chapter 5
Barry Wall stood in his sitting room while he waited for the emergency services. A squad car was the first to arrive. Two officers who looked like children presented themselves on the doorstep. One of them was chewing gum. Wall pointed them to the garden. They went and looked. Then the guy stopped chewing gum and got on his radio.
An ambulance arrived soon after, followed by a second squad car. This time, no one was chewing gum.
Wall stood in the middle of his sitting room while half a dozen men and women stomped around his home. More arrived every few minutes, but no one seemed to be looking for Valentina. He rubbed his bare arms. Goosebumps had broken out on his pale skin. The clock on the mantelpiece was still upside down. Wall stared at it and wondered what the hell had happened in his home.
The third officer to arrive, who looked even younger than his colleagues, kept asking the same inane questions. Wall finally interrupted.
“Just find my wife, will you?”
“I understand you’re upset, Mr. Wall. We’re doing everything we can.”
“No, you’re wasting time talking to me. I’ve told you everything I know.”
“I understand it might not seem important, but I’d really like to go through a few more questions with you.”
Ignoring him, Wall walked over to the front window as a white van pulled up. Technical Bureau was written on the side. Forensics.
At once, the Technical Bureau officers started setting up a cordon, blocking off most of the driveway and forcing everyone to walk on the strip of grass next to the driveway to get to the house.
A Honda pulled up on the street outside. The driver parked behind the Technical Bureau van and made his way up the driveway. Blue shirt, red tie. Mid-thirties, same as Wall. Scruffy-looking. Unshaven. Wall didn’t like the look of him. He hoped he wouldn’t have to rely on this man to find Valentina.
The man exchanged a f
ew words with an officer at the front door, then made his way up to Wall.
“Detective Sergeant Joe Byrne,” he said. They shook hands.
“Are you going to ask me the same stupid questions as the last guy?”
“No, I’m going to find your wife.” His eyes were pale blue, very clear. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Wall went through it again. Valentina’s texts. The missed call. Arriving home to find her missing, except for—
He couldn’t say the word, so instead he pointed towards the garden.
“May I?” Byrne said.
Wall nodded and followed the detective through the dining room and out the back door. A photographer was already there, snapping away on a Nikon. Byrne hunkered down, examining Valentina’s severed fingers, each of them planted in the grass like a lollipop.
Wall’s stomach heaved, and saliva flooded his mouth. He turned away and got sick into a pot of lavender.
“Come on,” Byrne said, and led him indoors, as if Wall might not be able to find his own way. The detective got a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap.
“It’s my house,” Wall said. “I’m able to get a glass of water.”
“I know,” Byrne said.
Wall rinsed his mouth out and set the glass down on the counter. He caught Byrne looking around the kitchen, his eyes passing lingering on every surface.
“Are they definitely your wife’s fingers?”
“Yes,” Wall growled. “Now can you find Aidan Donnelly?”
“The painter. How much do you know about him?”
“Not enough, clearly. I didn’t think he was dangerous.”
“Where did you find him?”
“My brother works in real estate. He knows a lot of decorators, so I told him I needed someone.”
“Any idea why Aiden Donnelly would want to hurt your wife?”
“I don’t know. He’s a man.”
“You’re a man. I’m a man.”
Wall glared at the detective. “Some men…”
He couldn’t finish.
“Anyway,” Byrne said, “we’re trying to locate his vehicle.”
“I should never have left her alone with a stranger.”