by Alan Gorevan
“What’s going on?” Wall said. “What are you doing?”
“We’re interrogating Aidan Donnelly.”
“So what have you got out of him?”
“Mr. Wall, I appreciate your concern, but I’ll let you know if I have anything. I’m doing all I can.”
“I think you’re sitting there with your thumb up your arse,” Wall said. “You don’t care about my wife.”
Through gritted teeth, Joe said, “Goodbye, Mr. Wall.”
Wall was still talking when Joe ended the call.
He sat back in his chair and pictured Valentina, bleeding from ten stumps on her hands, tied up somewhere in the dark, alone, terrified. Waiting for Aidan Donnelly to return and kill her. Maybe she was running out of time. She’d probably lost a lot of blood.
Joe thought of the hit-and-run that had killed his parents one night, when they’d gone for an evening walk. His mother had been killed at once, but his father had bled to death, slowly, at the side of the road. He could have been saved if he’d been found earlier.
Joe was determined not to let Valentina die.
He went to the holding cell where Cunningham had put Donnelly. Donnelly shifted when Joe unlocked the door. He was lying on the rubber mattress in the alcove at the back of the room.
There was a squat toilet in the corner on his right.
Aside from that the room was empty.
No DVD here. No one watching.
“Cut the UFO bullshit,” Joe said. “Where is she?”
Donnelly sat up. “I couldn’t tell you, pal. Honestly.”
Joe could feel himself boiling with emotions that had no place here, but he didn’t care. Donnelly was guilty. He was sure of it. He couldn’t let Valentina die, the way his parents had. Waiting for help that would never come.
He walked over and grabbed Donnelly. The painter was wispy thin beneath his grip.
“Where is Valentina López Vázquez?”
Donnelly raised his eyes to the ceiling. “The ones above—”
Joe grabbed Donnelly’s head and smashed his face into the wall.
And then he really lost control.
Part Two
Six Months Later
Chapter 15
The air in the courtroom was stifling on Thursday afternoon, and Barry Wall was starting to feel dizzy. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, the movement making his muscles strain against the seams of his suit.
A gleaming modern structure housed the Criminal Courts of Justice, located near the entrance to the Phoenix Park. The circular building was world-class, according to the Courts Service website, but Wall felt there was nothing world-class about the heating, unless you wanted to be toasted like a marshmallow.
The maintenance staff seemed to be overcompensating for the freezing temperatures Dublin had experienced in the last few days.
Or maybe the heat had nothing to do with the courtroom at all.
Maybe it was him. He certainly felt feverish.
Barry Wall’s brother, Ken, seated next to him in the courtroom’s public area, looked composed. He’d been the only thing that kept Wall going through the hellish months since Valentina went missing.
If Ken hadn’t forced home-made meals down Wall’s throat, he might not have eaten anything for months. Wall had quickly got sick of eating Ken’s chilli, but Ken was stubborn, and he insisted on feeding his younger brother, even watching to make sure he ate every bite.
Valentina’s parents sat silently in the row behind, next to the family liaison officer and their translator. Her father held a metal crucifix tight in his hand. His knuckles were white.
In the witness box, Detective Sergeant Joe Byrne looked pink and sweaty. Perhaps he was feverish too. Martin Costello, the barrister for the defence, had been hammering him for half an hour. At this point, many people would have felt sorry for Byrne. Wall didn’t.
Costello, a Senior Counsel who liked the sound of his own voice, said, “After the assault which we have discussed, you proceeded to coerce the accused into signing a confession. Is that not so?”
“I encouraged him to admit the crime,” Byrne said.
“In the vernacular, you beat him black and blue,” Costello said. “Did you not?”
“As I have already said, my eagerness to save a woman’s life got the better of me. It was a lapse of judgement.”
“In any case, my question related to your actions immediately following the assault, said offence having already been admitted. Accordingly, I am certain you would concur that the confession is inadmissible. Is that not correct, Detective Sergeant Byrne?”
Through gritted teeth, Joe Byrne said, “Yes.”
“No further questions.”
Judge Roberts nodded sagely and paused to consult his notes, while Byrne left the witness box so fast, it looked like he had used an ejector seat.
Costello sat down on the bench in front of Wall, who leaned forward, until he was on the edge of his seat and he could smell the barrister’s cologne, a cloying sandalwood that wormed its way up Wall’s nostrils.
“Asshole,” Wall whispered.
Costello tilted his head to the side, as if assessing Wall in his peripheral vision. Then he turned his attention back to Judge Roberts, who was peering at the accused over his glasses.
If Wall had been within reach, he would have grabbed the judge and squeezed his windpipe shut.
But Wall was powerless.
Judge Roberts spoke in his high, reedy voice.
“In view of the evidence we have heard thus far, I must direct the jury to acquit the accused, Mr. Aidan Donnelly, whose rights have clearly been violated in a most grievous manner. The Director of Public Prosecutions had doubts about the soundness of this case, and I am satisfied that these concerns were well-founded. I am aware that Detective Sergeant Byrne has already been disciplined for his behaviour, and I trust that every possible action has been taken to ensure that no recurrence of these abuses is possible.”
Journalists were already slipping out of the press area, eager to be first to report the verdict. As far as they were concerned, it was over.
Donnelly was free and Wall was left with nothing. Absolutely nothing. Donnelly had signed a worthless confession, saying he had attacked Valentina. He had given no details of what was done to her or where she had been taken. And as soon as Donnelly met his solicitor, the confession had been withdrawn. In the last six months, no progress had been made on finding out what had happened to Valentina.
Now Judge Roberts was saying that Aidan Donnelly was the victim here.
Never mind that Wall’s wife was gone, that his plans for a new life in Spain were dead. And, of course, his fitness studio had not reopened after that awful day in June.
Wall locked his gaze on Donnelly. Sitting on the right side of the court, next to a prison officer, the young man seemed unemotional as the case against him was dismissed.
Wall got to his feet. He was aware that several detectives were nearby, and that they were watching him. There were uniformed officers too, standing at the side of the courtroom.
“This isn’t right,” Wall said.
Judge Roberts squinted at him, brow furrowed.
“Mr. Wall, please sit down.”
It was all over, and nothing was going to happen. The little creep was going to return to his normal life. Wall had an empty home and a ruined life. Without a body, he wasn’t even been able to give Valentina a proper funeral.
“Where is she?” Wall shouted. “Where’s my wife, you bastard?”
Aidan Donnelly looked at Wall, his face as blank as an insect’s.
“Look at him,” Wall shouted. “You can tell he did it.”
On the left side of the room, the members of the jury stared at Wall. One or two looked sympathetic.
“Mr. Wall,” Judge Roberts said. “I appreciate that this is difficult for you. You have my deepest sympathies for your loss. However, I must ask yo
u to remain silent until these proceedings are concluded.”
Ignoring him, Wall rushed forward, past the barristers and solicitors.
“Stop!” the court clerk shouted. “Stop him.”
Wall made it halfway to Aidan Donnelly before the prison officer next to him got to her feet. She was about a hundred pounds, average height and build. Wall was double her weight. Double her size. Moving fast. Her trying to stop him was like a tissue trying to stop a bullet.
Not going to happen.
He was three quarters of the way there now.
Guards were rushing over, but they wouldn’t reach him quick enough. Panic flashed in Donnelly’s eyes.
Time seemed to slow down.
Wall braced himself, ready to smash straight through the prison officer and tear Donnelly’s head from his shoulders. He’d make the creep admit what he’d done with Valentina. He’d find the truth. Wall wasn’t expecting her to be alive – he’d given up on that hope – but he had to find her body and give her the burial she deserved.
As Wall came within a metre of the prison officer protecting Donnelly, a blur appeared from the side and smashed into Wall.
Joe Byrne.
The bastard who’d messed up the investigation, who’d made it inevitable that Donnelly would get away with murder, wanted to mess this up too. Byrne tackled Wall hard, choosing his angle well. With his head lowered like a bull he charged into Wall’s side. Under the arms. Byrne smashed Wall into the side of the courtroom.
They both went down.
Byrne recovered first, grabbing Wall by the collar of his shirt.
As Wall scrambled to his feet, he lashed out with his elbows, catching Byrne in the face with his right arm. Byrne fell backwards.
Immediately another officer threw himself on Wall. Wall punched him in the stomach. Then Wall’s right arm was wrenched behind his back. His suit split apart at the seam. Joe Byrne pressed him down, shoving his face into the carpet.
“Take it easy,” Byrne said.
Wall let out a howl of animalistic pain.
“This is your fault.”
“Take it easy, Mr. Wall.”
A dozen officers formed a tight circle around him. They pulled him to his feet. Straining in vain to tear himself free, he watched as the Judicial Assistant, next to the accused, looked around the room.
“All rise,” she called out over the noise, as Judge Roberts stood up and strode out of the courtroom.
The jury were next to go. Then Wall saw Donnelly being led away. They were going to let him go.
Wall caught a glimpse of Valentina’s parents. The family liaison officer and translator were talking to them. Explaining what had happened – and apologising. More empty words.
The injustice of it all was enough to make Wall crazy.
Byrne put a hand on his shoulder.
“Take it easy, Mr. Wall.”
“You’re dead,” Wall shouted. “You’re all so dead.”
Chapter 16
The Criminal Court of Justice complex had a large central atrium, which was probably only appreciated by the building’s staff. If you squinted, the interior looked a little like the Guggenheim Museum in New York, with its white balconies stretching around in a full circle.
Joe felt embarrassed and stupid as he walked into the atrium. His day at court couldn’t have gone worse.
He was about to loosen his tie when he saw the journalists standing outside the main entrance. Dozens of them were clustered under the glass canopy, sheltering from hailstones, while they waited for comments and photo opportunities. The complex housed twenty-two courtrooms. There were always plenty of cases going on, but Joe had no doubt that, right now, the journalists only cared about the Donnelly trial.
He walked past security and headed outside. The journalists hit him before the cold did. An explosion of noise and camera flashes.
Joe ignored their questions and made for his Honda. He’d only taken a few steps when a lady stepped in his path and hit him in the chin with a microphone.
“Detective Sergeant Byrne, do you accept responsibility for the collapse of Aidan Donnelly’s trial?”
“Get out of my way.”
Keeping pace with him, she went straight onto the next question. “What do you have to say about the theory that a serial killer is at work here?”
Joe ignored her and pushed through the journalists. As quickly as they’d descended on him, they disappeared with a murmur of fresh excitement. Joe turned to see what had caught their attention.
Wearing a dirty tracksuit, Aidan Donnelly was scrambling into a taxi as the journalists chased him. Joe saw an older woman sitting next to him in the back of the cab. Donnelly slammed the door, and the taxi disappeared down the road.
Joe got behind the wheel of his Honda.
He didn’t start the engine immediately. He wasn’t ready. A few minutes to gather his thoughts was what he needed.
The serial killer idea that the journalist had mentioned had been floated in a number of the more irresponsible newspapers. The logic went like this: five young women had vanished from their Dublin homes over the previous four years; maybe the disappearances were connected to each other and to whatever had happened to Valentina López Vázquez.
Joe didn’t buy it. There was nothing to say that any of those women were dead, let alone that they were the victim of the same person.
But what if he was wrong?
He was still sure that Aidan Donnelly was to blame for whatever had happened to Barry Wall’s wife. If the other disappearances really were connected, and those women had all been killed, that meant that Donnelly was a serial killer. And Joe was responsible for him being released.
Chapter 17
In the back of the taxi, Aidan Donnelly struggled to breathe. The air was thick with apple-scented air freshener and the driver was listening to a pounding Bollywood disco track. Aidan felt like his air passage was shrinking to nothing. But at least his aunt Maureen was beside him, and that made him feel a little better.
“Aidan,” Maureen said, hugging him to her with one arm. He turned in his seat and hugged her back. Maureen had always been there for him. She was more of a mother than his real one.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“Don’t be daft.”
The driver turned in his seat.
“Where to, sir?”
“Could you turn down the music?” Aidan said.
“Certainly, sir.”
Maureen gave the driver her address. Aidan stared out the window, needing a moment to catch his breath.
“How are you keeping?” Maureen said. “Did they feed you?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Maureen gave him a worried look but said nothing.
Aidan looked at the people and buildings as they passed by. Trying to be quiet, he breathed in and out slowly. Finally, his breath began to even out.
Aidan hadn’t been interested in speaking to the prison psychologist while in custody, awaiting trial. But one day she approached him. Asked him about his breathing fits. She was a lovely woman with a soothing voice, and if she thought Aidan was a killer, she never showed it.
She said they were called panic attacks, the things Aidan got sometimes, when he felt like he was about to die.
“How did you know about them?”
“I’ve been watching you,” she said.
She told him about breathing exercises. Stupid, really. Aidan already knew how to breathe. But he was desperate, so he gave them a try. And they helped a bit. He’d been having the attacks more and more often.
Fingers closed around Aidan’s arm, above the elbow. It snapped him back to reality. The taxi. Maureen.
“You are alright, love, aren’t you?”
He covered Maureen’s hand with his own. Her skin was dry and warm.
“Yeah, I am.”
She’d visited him often. Not like the rest of his family.
Maureen said, “God bless her, your mother is off on
one of her benders. Drunk out of her mind, she is. Will you stay with me for the night?”
“That sounds great, Auntie.”
“Good. I’ve lots of food for you. You must be sick of that prison slop.”
“It wasn’t so bad.”
The taxi pulled up in front of her bungalow. She opened the door of the car.
Aidan said, “I’m just going to nip home and pick up some clothes. I’ll be right back. Okay?”
Maureen looked concerned. She said, “That’s fine, love, but I think I have an old T-shirt of yours and some tracksuit bottoms and—”
“No bother. I’ll be back soon.”
Maureen stepped out of the cab. Her little house stood behind her and Aidan felt so happy to see it. This place was like a beacon of light in his life. While in custody, he’d often dreamt of coming here, of coming to stay with Maureen. Now he finally could. He felt filthy, though. Stained by everything that had happened. He wanted to get cleaned up before he went inside her home.
He closed the door, rolled down the window, and said, “I’ll just have a wash and get some clothes, alright? I’ll be back in an hour.”
Maureen smiled. “I’ll have a pot of tea waiting for you.” She pressed two twenty-euro notes into his hand.
“No need, Auntie.”
“It’s grand, Aidan. Take it. And don’t worry. Now you’ve been proved innocent, people will stop being so nasty to you.”
“Yeah,” he said.
He waved goodbye and gave the driver his address. By the time the taxi pulled up in front of the block of flats where he lived with his mother, Aidan was again struggling to breathe.
There was a big difference between having your trial collapse and being proven innocent.
Chapter 18
Some days, Joe found Donnybrook Garda Station depressing, and this was one of them. The old cemetery next door was more inviting. He ditched his Honda in the car park and entered the station from the back. The corridor stank of disinfectant, a clear sign the holding cells had just been cleaned.
Joe strode down the corridor to the public office at the front, avoiding colleagues on the way. A handful of people stood at the counter, waiting to speak to the desk sergeant, who was familiar with Joe’s habit of heading next door. He dug the keys out from under the desk and threw them over the counter.