‘Told you,’ Hamilton said following, ‘I’m goin’ to slice you a buck fifty. Didn’t I tell you that, homie? Here, número dos, bitch.’
Hamilton was bent over, holding one hand to the side of his face, whimpering.
‘Pleeease, pleeease. No Billy. Ah, Billy. Pleeease…’
‘You grovel like a bitch,’ Hamilton said, running the blade down into his arm now, where there was a tattoo, of a mermaid, with long flaming red hair, voluptuous upper body, delicate green scales at the end of her tail. The knife ran through it, like ripping the canvas of a painting, but in this painting real blood poured, the mermaid’s stomach torn apart.
Roche slumped to the ground.
This was it.
There was no use.
A buck fifty. His epitaph. The sum total of his life. A buck fucking fifty.
‘Oh please God, make it quick,’ nothing but a mutter now.
Hamilton laughed, and raised the knife again. And as he brought it down, a recklessness to the movement, because a person’s back offered greater scope, greater freedom after all, angling the blade as a vague notion entered his head, to write his initials onto that wide sheet of flesh. But before the point of impact, just as the blade was about to puncture and slice through the skin, a sudden jolt, and the movement came to an abrupt, involuntary, halt. He saw that a hand had wrapped itself around his arm, just above his wrist. It was a hairy arm; further along he could see the folded back sleeve of a brown shirt.
He looked back over his shoulder, behind him. He recognised that face. The tall policeman. The one they called Beck.
‘Drop the knife, Billy, there’s a good man,’ Beck said calmly.
Billy pulled on his arm, one powerful sudden jerk, designed to surprise, certain he could free it, but the grip became only stronger. He spun round now, lowering his head. He had a reputation for using that head. It was infamous as his close combat weapon of choice, when he had nothing else. He shifted on his feet, attempting to manoeuvre into a position to use it as a battering ram. But then he felt his knees suddenly give way as he was kicked from behind. He fell onto those knees to the floor, wincing with the pain. Claire Somers was behind him. She snapped the first ring of the handcuff onto one wrist, and Beck placed the other wrist into the second she held out for him. Claire snapped it shut. Hamilton stopped resisting. He lay still, his breathing heavy. He’d given up.
Beck stepped back and reached for his phone to ring it in, and as he did so he heard a sound from the direction of the garage, crunch, crunch, crunch… He glanced at Roche, who was writhing about on the floor, a widening pool of blood on the tiles beneath him. Claire went into a room looking for something to stem the flow of blood.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Beck looked in the direction of that sound. The kitchen, and beyond this to the garage. He’d felt sure when he first came here that Roche was hiding something. Now, he considered, he was about to find out exactly what.
Forty-Four
The ambulance carrying Edward Roche sped off for the University Hospital in Galway. He had lost a lot of blood, and was stretchered to the ambulance unconscious by the paramedics. Beck had no doubt Hamilton had wanted to kill him. Once the ambulance left, the patrol car with Hamilton handcuffed in the back pulled away from the roadside, but in the opposite direction, heading for Cross Beg Garda Station.
Beck finally had an opportunity. He walked down the hallway into the kitchen. The door to the garage was closed. He crossed the kitchen and turned the handle, pushed. The door opened. Crunch, crunch, crunch, drowning out every other sound.
‘Let’s see what we’ve got in here,’ to Claire standing behind him, but his words were lost, crunch, crunch, crunch.
He stepped into the garage. The air was stifling hot, heavy with the smell of fresh ink. The noise was so loud he stuffed a finger into each ear. The old black Heidelberg, clean and cold to the touch on the day he had visited, clanking away now. At one end, a slim metal plate slid out, crunch, while above a metal grill swung on an arm and down onto it, depositing a sheet of paper, crunch. The metal grill then rose again and the metal plate withdrew into the machine, crunch. A moment later, at the other end, a similar metal plate emerged, crunch, dropping a sheet of paper onto the ground where already there was a haphazard pile. But everything happened so quickly the noise was like a staccato, crunch crunch crunch. Beck noticed a junction box on the wall. He walked over and pressed its big red switch. The Heidelberg was immediately silenced.
‘Beck.’
Claire was standing in a corner of the garage, next to a heavy-duty trolley that had thick black wheels, something in her hand, a package.
‘I believe the term is a bric,’ she said.
She came over to Beck and handed it to him. The item was wrapped in clear plastic. He could see a face through it. Bearded. He knew that face. Ulysses S. Grant, the eighteenth president of the United Stated. In each corner two numbers, five and zero.
‘Fifty-dollar notes,’ Claire said.
‘No,’ Beck said. ‘To be specific. These are not fifty-dollar notes. These are counterfeit fifty-dollar notes. Worthless, in the truest sense. Unless you can convince someone to believe that they are real. Trust it’s called. The basis of the entire paper monetary system anyway. In that scenario, they are worth a lot of money. Real money.’
‘And they’re good, they’re very good. You have to admit.’
Beck had to admit, they were.
Superintendent Wilde rang on the way back to the station and told Beck a wood chisel with an inch-wide blade had been found in a dredge of the River Óg. In good condition. Not there very long.
‘Boss.’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything on Inspector O’Reilly?’
‘Jesus no. Too early to tell. The GSCO guy is crawling all over the place. I don’t need any of this right now. Two victims. Throats slit. Is there a knife-wielding slasher convention in town that I don’t know about? Christ. Oh, and the search for the baby’s body has been called off.’
The line went dead. Superintendent Wilde had hung up.
Beck looked at the phone in his hands.
‘The search is called off,’ he told Claire.
She said nothing, and they remained silent for the rest of the journey.
Forty-Five
‘That’s not him, mate? I already met him. I want the head chef.’
Beck stopped midway across the foyer. Mikey Power was pointing at him. The young guard behind the public counter shrugged.
‘What’s up?’ Beck asked no one in particular.
Mikey Power stood up. ‘I haven’t got all bloody day, mate. You’ll do. Got a minute?’
Beck nodded, then to Claire, ‘Go through, I’ll catch you in a minute.’
They sat on the bench running along the wall beneath the window opposite the public counter.
‘You any closer to catching the bastard did this to my sister?’
Beck wondered how long Mikey Power had spent in Australia, because he spoke like a native.
‘What, mate, why you looking at me like that?’
‘The investigation is progressing,’ Beck said, ignoring the question.
Mikey angled his head and peered at Beck.
‘Aye, mate, that the best you can do? You got to do better than that, eh?’
Beck folded his arms.
‘Mr Power. I understand. This is a very difficult time. What else can I say? The investigation is progressing.’
‘The blonde dude. Was taken in just before you arrived. That Billy Hamilton?’
Beck said nothing.
‘It is, isn’t it? So that’s the bugger?’
‘How is your mother, Mikey?’
Mikey’s eyes narrowed, stared at Beck. ‘Do you care? No mate, I don’t think so either. Billy Hamilton, eh? You think it’s him maybe?’
Beck shifted, again said nothing.
‘Can’t you tell me any bleedin’ thing? For Christ’s sake.’
‘I asked how your mother is. You’re wrong, I would like to know.’
‘And that’s a stupid bloody question, mate. How’d ya think she is? There you go then. That’s your answer. And where’s my niece? Where’s Róisín? That little baby is out there somewhere?’
‘Would you like to talk to someone? We have people. Victim support.’
Mikey turned, the light catching his face. He looked older now.
‘No mate, I just want to know who did this.’
‘Leave us to find that out. Go to your mother, Mikey. She needs you right now.’
Mikey pushed air through his nose like air brakes on a truck. When he spoke, his voice was low, without any trace of its Aussie accent now.
‘Don’t tell me what she needs. You cops are all the same. I know what you’re like. You’re the bloody reason I left this town in the first place. You never forget, see, you never let a person move on. Always on the books, see, aren’t they, people like me? I went off to Australia, just about far enough away from here that I could get.’
‘Okay, Mikey. I understand. You’re angry.’
‘Damn right I’m angry. About a lot of things.’
‘You returning home at this time?’ Beck said. ‘I understand you haven’t been in touch for years.’
Mikey stood, took a couple of paces towards the door and stopped, turned around. ‘So? Got to come back sometime. Mum’s getting on now. Never know what’ll happen. But I never expected this.’
‘No one expected this,’ Beck said.
‘If it wasn’t for family, I’d never have come back to a crummy town like this. It never leaves you, see, it’s always right on your back.’
Beck said nothing, and Mikey crossed the final few feet to the door, where he paused, and without looking back, his Australian accent fully restored, added, ‘You and I will talk again, mate. Catch ya later.’ And walked out of the station.
Forty-Six
Hamilton lounged back in his chair in interview room number two. It was obvious he was high, the pupils of his eyes dilated like saucers. But Beck acted like he hadn’t noticed. As too must have the custody sergeant. Otherwise the interview would have had to be postponed to the following morning, allowing Hamilton time to sober up. No one wanted that.
Hamilton’s arms were draped across his chest, hands joined together, thumbs twiddling. Like he was patiently waiting for a movie to begin, or his flight to be announced. His head hung back resting on the top of the chair, staring at the ceiling.
Tough guy.
‘How about straightening up there, horse?’ Beck said. ‘There’s a good man.’
‘Horse!’ Hamilton said, laughing, pressing his head further back into the chair. ‘That’s a good one. Me auld lad used to say that.’
‘What about it?’ Beck said. ‘Horse.’
Hamilton giggled, staring at the ceiling.
‘Horse. That’s a good one. Naa, don’t feel like it, bro. I likes it just the way it is. Here, can’t you tell I’m shitfaced? Some cops ye are. I ain’t supposed to be no interviewed while I’m trippin’, man.’ Hamilton giggled again. ‘Show me to my cell, James. Here. Horse. That’s a good one that is.’
Beck turned to Claire. Billy was too spaced to be of any use for anything. Then Beck got an idea.
‘Would you get me a glass of water? Please, Claire. Here, Billy, you want some water?’
‘Billy! Everyone’s so friendly. Billy, you want some water? No, I don’t want no friggin water.’
When Claire was gone, Beck stood and moved around the table. Hamilton was still looking at the ceiling and didn’t notice. He walked behind him and placed two fingers into his nose and pulled back his head, clamping the palm of his free hand across his open mouth. Billy could not move his upper body, if he did, he’d tear his nose clean off his face. And nor could he breath. He trashed his legs about, hitting them on the legs of the metal table that was bolted to the floor.
Ouch!
Billy stopped, had to, sat motionless, his wide eyes staring up at Beck.
‘Did that get your attention, Billy?’ Beck relaxed the hand covering Hamilton’s mouth, felt the air through his fingers as Billy sucked in. ‘Sorry horse, but that seems the only way to do it. Now, horse, concentrate, okay.’ He gave a sharp tug on Billy’s nose, reapplied the pressure onto Billy’s mouth. Billy’s eyes widened, fear in them now. ‘Sobering up there a little, are you Billy? Never fails to do the trick.’
Billy blinked.
Tap tap…
Beck released his grip. A sound like a groaning hippopotamus as Hamilton sucked air into his lungs.
Tap tap…
‘Beck, can you open the ruddy door, please?’
‘Be right there.’
Hamilton was no longer slouching back into his seat. He sat up and leaned forward onto the table. Beck could see a premature bald spot on the crown of his head. He couldn’t help but smile.
‘What happened here?’ Claire asked, putting the water down onto the table, looking at Hamilton.
‘Asthma attack, looks like,’ Beck said, taking up one of the plastic cups and sipping. ‘I didn’t know he had a medical condition.’
Billy coughed. ‘I don’t…’ pointing at Beck, then falling silent. He looked like a kid who’d tried to pick a fight but was now left on his own in the playground.
Claire eyed Beck, said nothing.
‘Right, let’s get on with it,’ Beck said, returning to his chair and sitting down. ‘Interview with Billy Hamilton, arrested for section three assault, namely the use of a box cutter.’ Beck glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Interview commencing now, 17.05 hours.’ He pressed record.
‘Have you anything to say to that, Billy?’ Beck asked.
‘No comment.’
‘No comment, really?’
‘Billy, did you think that Edward Roche might have had something to do with the abduction of your daughter?’ it was Claire.
Hamilton looked at her. The craziness in his eyes had gone. His expression was almost tender.
‘Abduction,’ he repeated. ‘No one ever used that word before.’
‘The search is being called off, Billy,’ Claire said. ‘We believe someone took her. It’s the only explanation. She hasn’t been found.’
Hamilton stared, and his eyes glistened. He rubbed his hands quickly across them and took a deep breath.
‘I just wanted to find my girl,’ he said. ‘That’s all. I just wanted to find her.’
‘And you thought Edward Roche might have had something to do with it?’ Claire asked.
‘Maybe.’ He looked at them. ‘It’s just as well you came when you did. I was out of it. I could have killed him.’
‘You would have, Billy,’ Beck said. ‘Now, where were you between four and six on Tuesday evening last?’
Hamilton lowered his head. He stayed like that for a moment then raised it again. He was crying.
‘I didn’t kill Samantha. I was a bastard to her. I admit it. But I didn’t kill her.’ He gave a long, anguished cry. ‘If only I could go back, make it better between us. But I can’t.’ He looked at Beck, then to Claire. ‘Please, find my baby. Promise me. You won’t stop looking.’
Is this the real Hamilton, Beck wondered? He decided it probably was. And stripped of the paraphernalia, there wasn’t much to Billy Hamilton, he was just a frightened kid with not much going in his life. His tough guy image gave him an identity, his only identity, but an identity nonetheless.
‘Tuesday evening, Billy, between four and six,’ Beck asked again. ‘Where were you?’
Billy was thinking.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I fucking can’t remember.’
Normal service resumed.
‘Okay,’ Beck said. ‘I have another question for you.’
‘Do you now,’ an edge creeping back into his voice.
‘Earlier today the body of Inspector Gerald O’Reilly was found in his home. Dead. Throat slit. Just like Sam’s was.’ Beck paused.<
br />
Hamilton ran his tongue across his dry lips, staring at him.
‘You like knives,’ Beck said. ‘Don’t you Billy?’
‘You can fuck off with that for a start. I didn’t kill anyone. You’re not pinning that on me so you’re not.’
‘We don’t know when exactly he was killed,’ Beck added. ‘Not yet anyway. But it was probably in the last twenty-four hours, something like that. You can account for your movements during that time, can’t you, Billy? I mean, you’d hardly forget twenty-four hours, would you?’
Hamilton stabbed a finger through the air towards Beck.
‘I want a solicitor. Okay, horse.’
Forty-Seven
Superintendent Wilde adjusted his tie and placed his cap neatly onto his head, then stepped through the door out of the station. The waiting press converged on him, smart phones and dictaphones held so close to his mouth that he was forced to brush them away. The glare of TV camera lights dazzled him, showing up every crevice on his face and the dark rings beneath his eyes.
An explosion of voices, an indecipherable mumbo jumbo, reporters shouting all at the one time, all saying something different: ‘Do you have a message for the person who abducted baby Róisín, Superintendent?’… ‘Can you tell us anything about the body found today? Has it been identified yet?’… ‘Has the murder weapon that killed Samantha Power been located, Superintendent?’… ‘Do you think baby Róisín is dead, sir?’… ‘Has the result of the technical examination of the baby’s T-shirt come back? Does it belong to baby Róisín, sir?’… ‘Are there any suspects? It’s been almost two days now?’
‘Please,’ Superintendent Wilde said, raising his hands. ‘One at a time. Please. One at a time.’
The TV was turned to mute. Vicky lifted the floor tile and carried it to the fireplace, stood it on its side on the ground, leaning it against the stove. She looked across the room at the wall-mounted TV in the kitchen area. ‘At this stage there is no indication the baby is dead. We must assume she is still alive,’ Superintendent Wilde said, looking out from it, his expression grave.
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