No Easy Answer Read online

  No Easy Answer

  Valerie Keogh

  Copyright © 2021 Valerie Keogh

  The right of Valerie Keogh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-913942-46-5

  Contents

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

  Also by Valerie Keogh

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  Also by Valerie Keogh

  The Dublin Murder Mysteries

  No Simple Death

  No Obvious Cause

  No Past Forgiven

  No Memory Lost

  No Crime Forgotten

  Psychological thrillers

  The Three Women

  The Perfect Life

  The Deadly Truth

  The Little Lies

  For Gillian… because I promised.

  An Garda Síochána: the police service of the Republic of Ireland.

  Garda, or gardaí in the plural.

  Commonly referred to as the guards or the gardaí.

  Direct translation: “The Guardian of the Peace.”

  1

  Detective Garda Sergeant Mike West was sitting at his desk in Foxrock Garda Station before the day shift officially began. Normally, he used this quiet period to review and assess their active cases and plan for any new ones that had come in overnight. This morning, however, he was faced with a mountain of paperwork pertaining to the case they’d finally closed late the day before.

  He switched on his computer, staring into space as he waited for it to power up. The identity of the main perpetrator had come as a shock to them all. But with his solicitor whisking him off to the Central Mental Hospital in Dundrum for an assessment that would probably see him locked up there for many years to come, it was his two accomplices who would serve jail time. It wasn’t the best outcome, but at least the victim had had justice served. Sometimes, West knew, that was all they could hope for.

  It had been a busy few weeks for the detective unit with two challenging cases coming one after the other. Graphic images from both had stuck in West’s brain and in the middle of the night, if he woke, they’d be there in full colour. Little Abasiama curled up in that abandoned suitcase… a body hanging from the beams in St Monica’s church. Difficult cases. It had taken perseverance, hard work and a dollop of luck to solve both.

  That morning, West was relieved to see there was only one new case logged since the previous evening. They were due a quiet spell. He read the scant details of a hit-and-run which had resulted in the death of an elderly woman.

  Hopefully, it wouldn’t have such a catastrophic effect as the last hit-and-run they’d dealt with, one whose far-reaching impact had resulted in further crimes, further heartbreak. Ella Parsons… he wondered how she was coping. With Milo Bennet in prison and his wife now living in Cork, West hoped that Ella, her husband, and her son could get on with their lives. He’d been shocked the last time he’d seen her, a pale wraith of a woman wracked with guilt for the death of the boy she’d knocked down and killed in a moment of careless stupidity. Sadly, he guessed, there was never going to be peace for her.

  West shook his head and focused on this new hit-and-run. It appeared sad but uncomplicated. An elderly woman, Doris Whitaker, was found lying on the side of Torquay Road. Injuries sustained indicated she’d been hit by a vehicle.

  They’d follow procedure; do the usual appeal to the driver to come forward or for any witnesses to the incident. Nearby CCTV might have caught a speeding car, or a slow-moving erratic one. Either was dangerous. They might get lucky, but West didn’t think much of their chances.

  He closed the report and brought up the paperwork he needed to complete that morning. But instead of starting the process, he sat back with the faint smile that had been there, on and off, since the night before. He’d arrived home, late and weary after closing the case to find Edel Johnson, not in bed asleep as he’d expected, but in the kitchen dishing him up dinner. He’d stared at her… the hair tied back in an untidy ponytail, the well-worn pair of cotton pyjamas, the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she scraped the end of the lasagne onto a plate and before he’d time to think, he’d asked her to marry him.

  It was far from romantic; he was surprised she didn’t laugh. But she didn’t… she’d said yes.

  He was still daydreaming when Garda Peter Andrews appeared in the doorway. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes,’ West said and a minute later picked up the mug that was placed before him and took a cautious sip.

  Andrews slurped noisily from his mug. ‘You need to learn to trust me.’

  ‘I will when you learn not to mix them up and poison me with your sugary slop.’ West took a mouthful and put the mug down. ‘We did well yesterday.’

  ‘I’d have preferred to have locked all three away, and that Laetitia lassie too, but what we got is okay.’

  Neither man had taken to the petite Laetitia Summers, a woman who viewed the world through a self-obsessed lens. ‘She’s a slippery customer,’ West said, ‘but even she can’t escape what she did. When her case comes up, she’ll do time.’

  ‘Good, the longer the better.’ Andrews drained his coffee and put the mug down on the floor beside him. ‘Inspector Morrison must be pleased too. Another case solved, plus no more priests running around the station or phone calls from the bishop.’

  The recent discovery that the inspector had a dislike of the clergy had not made investigating a death in a church any easier. ‘
He’ll be happy for a day or two.’

  West and Andrews discussed the case for a few minutes before moving on to the active cases the team was currently investigating. ‘Only one new one to add to our workload,’ West said. ‘You’ve read the report?’

  ‘The hit-and-run? Yes, I have. Sad. We’ll do an appeal for witnesses?’

  ‘Yes, and an appeal for the driver to come forward.’ The shock of knocking someone down would last for a few hours, then the brutal reality of what they’d done would kick in. The driver might do the right thing and hand himself in. It happened.

  ‘I’ll get Allen to start a check on the CCTV. We might get lucky.’ Andrews picked up his mug and got to his feet. ‘Okay, time to get on with it.’

  ‘Before you go, I have some news for you.’

  There must have been something in the way he said it, or maybe it was the reappearance of that smile but Andrews grinned and approached the desk with his hand extended. ‘Well, it’s about time!’

  West grabbed his hand and shook it. ‘Yes, tell Joyce she can go shopping for that hat at last.’

  ‘It’s marvellous news, congratulations.’ Andrews kept hold of the hand for a moment longer then dropped it and sat back in the chair he’d vacated moments before, all thoughts of work forgotten in the face of this more exciting news. ‘I thought you were going to shilly-shally forever. Joyce will be pleased. But as for the hat, she bought one in the sales a few months ago. She was sure it was going to happen.’

  ‘Your wife is a very smart lady.’

  ‘She is that, all right. So, when’s the big day?’

  West had expected Edel to want a small wedding, but to his surprise she told him she wanted a lavish affair. ‘Next spring. Edel wants a big wedding with all the trimmings. It seems her first marriage was a registry office affair–’

  ‘Not surprising since her so-called husband was running a scam.’

  How could West forget? It was, after all, how he’d met his fiancée. Edel had been the chief suspect in the disappearance of her husband. ‘We’ve come a long way since then,’ he said.

  ‘A murder attempt, a couple of kidnappings, extortion.’ Andrews counted them off on his finger. ‘Yes, you certainly have come a long way. I know why you want to marry her, she’s both beautiful and smart, but is Edel sure she wants to tie the knot with you?’

  Whatever West would have replied was interrupted by Garda Mick Allen peering around the door frame. ‘Sorry to butt in,’ he said. ‘The family of the elderly woman who was the victim of a hit-and-run driver yesterday evening are here and want to talk to the lead investigating officer.’ He shrugged. ‘I told him he could speak to me but he looked me up and down, obviously found me wanting, and asked to speak to a more senior officer.’

  ‘It looks like we’ll have to continue this conversation another time,’ West said to Andrews. He tapped his keyboard and brought up the report on the hit-and-run. ‘Bring them into whichever interview room is free, Mick, and I’ll be there in a minute.’

  West read over the report again. The garda on the scene had briefly questioned the woman who’d found the victim. But Lynda Checkley had been so shocked and horrified to have discovered the dead woman to be a relative that she’d little to say.

  ‘They’re in the Big One,’ Allen said from the doorway. ‘I know they’re probably in shock but Darragh Checkley strikes me as a difficult customer.’

  West had been a solicitor before he joined the Garda Síochána and he’d dealt with more than his share of awkward customers during that period. Truth was, anyone who dealt with the public in any capacity had to learn to deal with sometimes rude and often obnoxious people… it didn’t mean they had to like it though.

  The Big One… officially Interview Room One… was identical in all but name to the other interview room which was always referred to as the Other One. For reasons West had never managed to pin down, the Big One was the favourite of the two. He opened the door and automatically assessed the two people who sat at the far side of the table. They were a well-dressed middle-aged couple, the man pale and stern-faced, the woman, lower lip trembling, heavily made-up eyes smudged from crying. She held a balled-up tissue in her hand; as she lifted it to dab away tears diamond rings on three of her fingers glittered in the light from the strip of halogen overhead.

  ‘I’m Detective Garda Sergeant Mike West,’ he said, coming into the room and extending his hand. It was taken firmly by the man, limply by the woman who swapped the well-used tissue to her other hand to do so.

  ‘Darragh and Lynda Checkley.’ The man spoke for both of them.

  West took the seat opposite and laced his fingers together on the table. ‘My condolences for your loss, Mr and Mrs Checkley. It is terrible to lose someone in such difficult circumstances but please be assured we will do everything we can to catch the perpetrator of this crime.’

  ‘Great words,’ Checkley said with a sniff. ‘What I’d like is more action. What exactly are you doing to catch the bastard who killed my cousin?’

  ‘Everything within our power,’ West said quietly. ‘Perhaps, if you feel up to it, Mrs Checkley, you could tell me exactly what occurred yesterday.’ He indicated the monitoring device in the corner of the room. ‘As a routine, we record conversations. Is that okay with you?’

  Lynda Checkley nodded, keeping her eyes on the tissue that was disintegrating in her hand. ‘I was on my way to visit Doris; I go once a week to see that she’s okay and if she needs anything.’

  ‘Did you ring her to let her know you were going?’ West hoped to be able to pin down the time of the accident but he saw by the shake of her head he wasn’t going to get lucky.

  ‘No, but I never did. Doris was ninety, her heart wasn’t working so well and she’d get breathless if she went too far. If she ran out of milk or something she might manage as far as the shops in the village or sometimes she went out for a bit of exercise or fresh air. She’d walk up the road a little, then back again. If she wasn’t in, I’d just wait in the car until she came home.’

  ‘And yesterday?’

  Lynda looked up then with tear-washed eyes. ‘I was almost at her house when I spotted something on the side of the road.’ She snuffled softly and rubbed her nose with what was left of the tissue. ‘I thought it was rubbish at first, that someone had dumped stuff, you know the way people do. I was going to pass by when a flash of colour caught my eye. The distinctive shade of green of Doris’s favourite coat. She wore it all the time.’ A tear trickled, she brushed it away. ‘I stopped the car in the middle of the road and ran to her side. She was curled up and I thought at first she’d maybe fainted or something but when I turned her over, I could see the blood and the bruises.’ She began to cry, leaning towards her husband who wrapped an arm around her and looked across the table to West as if her upset was all his doing.

  ‘I think my wife has been through enough, don’t you?’ Checkley patted her on the back gingerly. ‘Stop crying, Lynda, you’ll make yourself ill.’

  She didn’t stop, instead she pulled away and hid her face in her hands.

  Checkley looked as if he were going to remonstrate with her again, but perhaps he knew he’d be wasting his breath. He focused on West instead, stabbing the air between them with a stubby finger. ‘I’ll be in contact daily, Sergeant West, until we get this bastard put away. Is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ West reached into his jacket pocket and took out a card. ‘You can ring me on this number at any time.’

  The card was taken without a word of thanks and shoved into a pocket. Checkley reached down to put an arm around his wife. ‘Let’s go, darling.’ Without another word or glance in West’s direction, they left the interview room.

  West got to his feet. He’d make allowances for grief but he had a feeling that even under normal circumstances Darragh Checkley wouldn’t be the most pleasant of characters to deal with. Remembering what had sounded very much like a threat of daily contact, West hoped they’d find the hit-and-run driv
er quickly.

  Back in the main office, he spied Allen on his computer and headed over to have a word. ‘I agree with your take on our friend.’

  ‘A bit of a prick, isn’t he?’ Allen’s hands were still flying over his keyboard. ‘I’ve spoken to my contacts in the traffic corps. They had a mobile safety camera in operation on Stillorgan dual carriageway from 5pm till midnight. Nothing of any interest to us, unfortunately, but it was a bit of a stretch anyway. I’ve contacted the shop owners in Foxrock village… the ones we know that have working CCTV cameras outside, and they’ll let us view the footage for the couple of hours in question.’ He stopped tapping then and looked at West. ‘I’m going back an hour from the time she was found.’

  West knew Allen was assuming someone would have walked or driven past and seen the woman within an hour of her being knocked down. But Torquay Road was a quiet street, lined with large, detached homes. Unless you were going to walk to the shops in Foxrock village, there was no reason to be walking along it. And cars may have driven past thinking the poor woman’s body was rubbish as had been Lynda’s first assumption. ‘I don’t think the footfall is huge there. I’d expand the time frame by an hour… maybe even two.’