The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 3

  ‘Detective Garda Sergeant West,’ he said, feeling foolish, as he always did when speaking to an inanimate object. ‘I’m here for a post-mortem.’

  He was buzzed through. Inside, they’d done their best to modernise the area, and two reception staff sat in front of large computer screens. One looked up as he entered and held out a hand. ‘Identification?’

  West took out his card, which was taken and scrutinised with closer intent than he thought was warranted. Did they have a glut of people faking identification in order to see post-mortems?

  The receptionist nodded, handed his card back and picked up a phone. The conversation was short. He hung up and gave West an apologetic smile. ‘It seems he’s a bit behind and is still on another post. You can wait in the canteen, if you want, the coffee is fairly decent.’

  He was directed toward a small cluttered room opposite the reception. Aware that he drank far too much coffee, he poured himself one anyway, and sat in a chair near a window overlooking a small courtyard. There were several large pots planted with small trees; acers he guessed, and in the summer, it probably made the view more appealing. Now, however, their bare jagged branches looked as if they would snap easily – like a small child’s bones. The thought made him shiver, he put the untouched coffee down and moved away.

  By three forty-five, he’d read a four-day old newspaper and every notice on the large, untidy noticeboard. He was checking his watch for the umpteenth time when a smartly-dressed woman put her head round the door. ‘He’s ready now,’ she said and vanished.

  ‘Great,’ West muttered when he followed her into a narrow corridor extending in both directions. There was no sign of her and he wasn’t sure which way to go. He’d been once before but Andrews had been with him and he’d followed him without thought. A door further up the corridor opened and the same woman popped her head out. It was like some stupid computer game, he thought, beginning to get annoyed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I assumed you’d know where to go.’ She pointed to the door opposite. ‘It’s just in there.’

  She’d disappeared again by the time West reached the door. With a shake of his head, he opened it and found himself in a small anteroom furnished with standard office chairs. On the far side, a door stood ajar. He crossed to it, went through to a viewing platform overlooking the post-mortem room below, and sat.

  There was only one person to be seen. Niall Kennedy, barely recognisable in a pale-blue scrub suit and white wellington boots, ones that fit him properly West noticed with a grin. He was sat at a desk tapping on a computer keyboard.

  West rubbed tired eyes, wondering how much longer he’d be waiting. Since the Blundell incident, he hadn’t slept well. The Blundell incident. When had it become that in his head? Sounded like a good name for a movie. He’d have to tell Edel, it would make her smile.

  Pushing his hand restlessly through his hair, he wondered if the post-mortem was ever going to start. As if he’d given him a nudge, Niall Kennedy’s voice came loud and clear through a speaker set behind him in the wall. Deciding he could do without more voices in his head, he shuffled slightly further up the bench.

  ‘Sorry for the delay, Mike,’ the pathologist said, looking up to where he sat and giving a wave of acknowledgement. ‘It’s been one of those days.’

  A gurney was pushed through the double doors into the post-mortem room, the brown suitcase looking lost and abandoned on top of it. He recognised the woman who pushed it as the one who’d half-heartedly shown him where to go. She was dressed now in a scrub suit with her hair caught up in an unflattering disposable mob cap.

  As he watched, they lifted the suitcase from the gurney onto the examination table. A man holding a high-spec camera came in and took several photos of it, taking more as they opened the case and reached in to lift the body, slowly and carefully, from the case.

  ‘We’ll send the case and what clothes there are to the forensic lab,’ Kennedy said for West’s benefit before stepping back to examine the small body that lay on the stainless steel. Nobody moved for what seemed like a long time. West was suddenly very glad that Andrews hadn’t come. There was something deeply disturbing about the sight of that small child’s body, pathetically curved around itself in a desperate final search for comfort.

  ‘The connective tissue has mostly decomposed,’ Kennedy said, slowly… almost delicately… stretching the bones out on the table. ‘There is some tissue remaining on the right side, where it was in closest contact with the bottom of the suitcase.’ He removed some with forceps as he spoke and dropped it into a specimen bottle held out by his assistant. ‘We might get something from that,’ he said before removing the remnants of cloth from the bones. He shook his head as it disintegrated on contact. ‘Most of the fabric has rotted away, I’m afraid.’ He peered closer. ‘The labels are fairly intact, probably made from different material; they might be able to make out the manufacturer and get an indication as to where she’s from.’

  The photographer shot the pathologist’s every step, the shutter sound loud in the quiet of the room where the only other sound was Kennedy’s running commentary on what he saw and did.

  How could anyone do this to a child? West pressed his lips together, feeling his gut twist as Kennedy lifted the jawbone between two fingers. It was so very tiny.

  ‘I can give you a close approximate of her age, Mike,’ he said, putting the bone down. Her lower molars are just beginning to erupt, but there’s no sign yet of upper molars. That puts her age at between twenty-three and thirty-three months.’

  Andrews wouldn’t be pleased to be right.

  Kennedy spoke again. ‘I’ve taken samples for toxicology and DNA. It’s impossible, yet, to ascertain a cause of death. There are no bone injuries to suggest she met with violence.’ A loud sigh came through the speaker before he continued. ‘I’d estimate time of death to be no more than eight months ago.’

  West gave him a thumbs up and then, realising that sound was probably two-way, he said, ‘Thanks, Niall. Narrowing her age down might help us to identify her. How soon will the suitcase and personal items get to forensics?’

  ‘I know how important this case is,’ Kennedy said. ‘I took the liberty of asking someone from forensics to come and collect it all. They should be able to start first thing tomorrow, if you can persuade them to skip their usually very long queue.’

  With a wave of thanks, West stood and left, making his way back to reception with the images of the small body on his mind.

  ‘Is there someone here from forensics to collect items from the post that Dr Kennedy is doing?’ he asked at reception. He’d have a word with them and see if he could persuade them to process the items as soon as possible. If he had to use the small child card, he’d do it.

  Before either receptionist had time to reply, he was hailed by a friendly voice. ‘Detective Sergeant West. Fancy meeting you here.’

  For a second, West couldn’t place the petite, attractive woman who approached him, his brain quickly flicking through a Rolodex of faces. Clare Island. Of course. He gave the receptionist a wave of thanks and turned to greet the smiling woman. ‘Hello, Fiona,’ he said, taking the offered hand, ‘it’s a long way from Mayo.’

  She tinkled a laugh. ‘Yes, it’s city cases only for me these days, thank goodness. No more rushing up and down the country.’

  ‘You’re here to pick up the evidence from the Foxrock case?’ he asked, unable to believe his luck. Personal connections counted for so much when you needed something done in a hurry.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Her smile vanished. ‘I hear it’s a child.’

  West nodded. ‘Dr Kennedy estimates between two and three years old.’

  She shook her head. ‘How awful. Any idea who it is?’

  ‘Afraid not. We’ve no outstanding missing persons of that age. So far it’s a mystery.’ He gave her a slight smile. ‘The press will be baying for information…’

  ‘And you’d like the evidence processed sooner rathe
r than later,’ she interrupted him, with a knowing slant to her chin.

  He gave a quick laugh. ‘Just what I was going to ask you.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, ‘but I can’t make promises.’

  ‘Ms Wilson,’ one of the receptionists called, ‘they’re ready for you.’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ she said to him before turning back to West with a hand extended. ‘It was good to see you again. Maybe we could have a drink sometime?’

  He held her hand in his for a moment. ‘I’d like that,’ he said, and raised his eyebrows as his phone buzzed. ‘I’d better get this. Whatever you can get us on the child would be much appreciated.’ A friendly smile and a nod, and he was outside heading towards his car, answering the call as he walked.

  It was Inspector Morrison. ‘I expected to have heard from you by now, Sergeant.’

  West took a deep breath. ‘I’ve just left the post-mortem, sir, it was delayed. Dr Kennedy was unable to establish a cause of death, but he did give us an approximate age, which should narrow our enquiries. She’s between two and three years old. They’ll do toxicology and DNA, but we won’t have the results for a couple of days.’ He waited a moment. When Morrison made no comment, he continued. ‘I’ve asked the forensic department to expedite their processing of the evidence. They may be able to give us more.’

  ‘Right.’ The one word was stretched out to convey the inspector’s disappointment. ‘Well, keep me posted,’ he said, and cut the connection.

  4

  West climbed into his car and tossed the mobile onto the passenger seat in annoyance before retrieving it to ring Andrews. With a few words, he filled him in on the child’s age and the meeting with Fiona Wilson. ‘She’s promised to do her best to have the evidence processed as soon as possible. We’ll just have to hope she has sufficient clout there to do so.’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘I’m heading back now, but I’m hitting rush hour traffic. It’s going to take a while.’

  It was almost an hour later before he took exit fourteen off the motorway to join the almost static queue of traffic that snaked through suburban roads toward the station, and another twenty minutes of frustration before he pulled into the car park.

  When he entered the main office, Andrews was huddled over his desk, a pencil in one hand, ruler in the other. West shook his head but there was no point in saying, yet again, that using the computer would be so much easier. Andrews was stuck in his ways. He was aware his nickname was Detective Plod, choosing to see it as a compliment rather than a criticism of his methods. West agreed with his thinking. Andrews may plod his way through, but he couldn’t think of a better detective. If there was something there, he’d find it.

  The rumble of his stomach reminded him that one chicken sandwich didn’t make up for missing breakfast. Opening a packet of biscuits, he palmed several before pouring two mugs of coffee, adding sugar liberally to one and milk to both. He placed the sugared drink in front of Andrews who automatically dropped the ruler and picked it up.

  ‘Well,’ West said, taking a mouthful and following it up with one of the biscuits. He waved one of the others at Andrews who shook his head.

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said, putting his mug down to riffle through the pages on the desk. Picking up two, he scanned them before handing them to West. ‘It’s the underlined two,’ he said, ‘both from the UK. They’re the only children reported missing who haven’t been accounted for. One is twenty-six months old, one thirty months.’

  He sat back, stretched his arms out, and clasped his hands together behind his head. ‘Both are domestic cases, one London-based, the other Cardiff. In each, the mother abducted the child, and neither has been seen since.’ He wagged his head side to side. ‘I suppose they could have come across on the ferry, hidden the child in the suitcase to prevent being spotted and just blended in. It wouldn’t have been difficult, not if they had a bit of money to tide them over.’

  ‘Just the two?’ West asked, nodding to the pile of papers.

  Andrews dropped his hands and picked up the final sheet. ‘I’m just on the last page now. Most of the missing children are older.’ He looked up, his eyes bleak. ‘So many young teenagers are missing.’

  West wasn’t in the mood for a protracted conversation about missing children. ‘I’ve got a few things to do,’ he said, moving away. Immediately, he felt guilty, and stopped to look back. ‘Finish that, Peter, and I’ll buy you a pint when you’re done.’

  He should go home, but he wasn’t in the mood for the small talk that seemed to be what passed for conversation at home these days. Picking up the phone he rang Edel. ‘I’m tied up here,’ he explained, ‘don’t cook for me, I’ll grab something in the canteen.’ He hung up with a sense of relief that worried him.

  Forty-five minutes later, Andrews appeared at the door. ‘Nothing in that last lot,’ he said, ‘so we’ve just the two potentials from the UK. Interpol are dragging their feet a bit, but I should have something by tomorrow.’

  West shut down the programme he was using and turned the computer off. He stretched and yawned. ‘I thought we could go to the Lep Inn,’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ Andrews warned him.

  West smiled. He knew his partner’s domestic routine well. ‘I know, I know, Joyce has your dinner waiting, but have a quick pint with me first.’

  ‘Why don’t you come home with me?’ Andrews said, ‘Joyce is always asking you to, and Petey would love to see you.’

  West stood and slipped on his jacket. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not really good company these days.’ He saw a concerned look flit across his partner’s face and looked away. He wanted a pint and some food, not a sermon.

  The Lep Inn was busy, as usual, and the noise level was high. West never understood how he managed it but within a few seconds, Andrews had found a quiet, unoccupied table and they sat with combined sighs of relief.

  ‘You going to try a Guinness again?’ West said, raising a hand for a passing server.

  ‘No, I’ll have a Heineken,’ Andrews said.

  ‘A pint of Guinness and a pint of gnat’s piss,’ West said to the young woman who smiled and raised an eyebrow that told him she’d heard it all before. ‘Okay, Heineken,’ he clarified.

  The two men chatted about the case as they waited. ‘Someone must be missing her,’ Andrews said, his face grim. ‘It’s not a newborn, with no history. This child was at least two. Someone would have looked after her, fed her, dressed her.’

  West tapped a finger on the table. ‘Let’s hope forensics turn up something. Dr Kennedy said the clothing labels were intact, they might give us an idea where she was living.’

  Andrews shook his head. ‘They also might send us on a wild goose chase. Most of Petey’s clothes are made in Portugal or Bangladesh or somewhere.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see.’ Their pints arrived; West took a long drink of Guinness and started to relax. But he should have guessed his partner wouldn’t let whatever was on his mind go.

  ‘You need to put it behind you, Mike,’ Andrews said, taking a sip of his pint.

  West didn’t insult him by asking what he meant. Instead, he took another mouthful and sat back. ‘I don’t mind Morrison watching my every move for a few months, while I prove myself to be a co-operative subordinate. Honestly,’ he said, as Andrews raised an eyebrow in disbelief. ‘No, Pete, what annoys me, what damn well rankles and makes me want to hit my head on the nearest hard surface, is that I was wrong. I made the decision to allow Denise Blundell off that assault charge and allowed her to go off on that, obviously useless, anger management course. Would I have made the same decision if she hadn’t been a leading paediatrician? No, I don’t think I would have done, and that bloody well rankles too. And there’s the gut-rotting guilt, that a decent man is dead because I had the arrogance to play God.’

  Andrews frowned. ‘If you’d gone to Morrison with it at the time, he’d have agreed,’ he said. ‘That’s why he–’<
br />
  West, his mouth twisting bitterly, interrupted him. ‘Covered it up.’ He finished his pint and waved the empty glass at one of the waiting staff who was passing, spotting the worried look Andrews gave him. ‘Relax,’ he said, ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I was going to say, that’s why Morrison was eager to ensure you weren’t held responsible,’ Andrews said calmly. ‘You made the right choice based on what you knew at the time. Denise Blundell admitted that the stress of her job made her lose her temper. Anger management should have helped. We’ve seen countless cases where it does.’ He put a hand briefly on West’s arm. ‘You did the right thing. You need to stop beating yourself up about it.’

  The new pint of Guinness arrived at the same time as a plate of beer-battered cod and fries with a side order of onion rings, mixed vegetables and garlic potatoes. ‘That might put a smile on your face,’ Andrews said, shaking his head at the amount of food.

  ‘I forgot how big the helpings are,’ West admitted. ‘Have a few chips, Pete. I won’t tell Joyce.’

  Andrews took a few, dipping them one at a time into the tomato ketchup that West poured onto the side of his plate. ‘You’ll think about what I said?’

  West shrugged. ‘It’s nothing Edel hasn’t said to me a hundred times.’

  ‘How are things with Edel? I haven’t seen her since Clare Island.’

  ‘Our glorious romantic getaway, you mean?’ West said, sprinkling sarcasm on each word.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Andrews replied, his mouth full of chips. He swallowed, took a gulp of his beer to wash them down, and tried again. ‘You were just unlucky.’

  West sniffed. ‘Seems to be my middle name these days. I take my girlfriend on a romantic weekend away, and nearly get her killed; then a bad decision I made backfires and a man dies.’

  ‘Poor Mikey.’

  West choked on a piece of battered fish. When he recovered, coughing and wheezing, he looked at Andrews with a glint of laughter in his eyes. ‘Thank you very much! So, you think I’m acting like a five-year-old, do you?’