Death in Foxrock (A Garda West Crime novel Book 4) Page 4

  He came up to say goodbye a few minutes later, peering around the door, his face breaking into a smile when he saw her eyes open. ‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ he said, coming over to sit on the bed beside her, bending down to press a kiss on her mouth. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  She lay unmoving for a few minutes after he left before throwing back the duvet and having a quick shower. Dressed in a t-shirt, jumper and jeans, she headed downstairs for tea and toast sharing the crusts with Tyler who had a fine line in polite begging.

  The secret to working from home, she knew, was a disciplined approach. So she made herself start at nine, sitting in the office and switching on the computer. She’d get on with her next novel while she waited for the editor to get back to her.

  She didn’t need to wait long. Late morning, she checked her emails and saw one from Aidan Power.

  She opened it, and read the short email. He’d attached the manuscript with suggested changes and corrections.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the attachment. At first glance, everything seemed to be highlighted in yellow. She was stunned. It would be easier to delete the whole thing and start again from the beginning. But when she looked closely, it wasn’t as bad as she’d first thought.

  She dashed off an email to the editor and told him she’d work through them as soon as possible. And then she got down to it.

  To her surprise, it was easier than she’d first expected. Some of the corrections were the usual typos that slip through despite checking and rechecking. Some were suggestions she took, nodding her head in satisfaction when a sentence read better for it, some suggestions she ignored. After all, it was her novel.

  When West rang late afternoon to say he’d be late again and wouldn’t need dinner, she breathed a sigh of relief for the extra time allowed for editing. She’d grab a snack instead of cooking. Even with hard work, it was going to take a few days to get it done, maybe longer. But she’d get there.

  At least one part of her life was on track.

  5

  West was pleased to see that the initial flurry of demands for results in the investigation died down within twenty-four hours. There was no grieving family, so no newsworthy sound bites for reporters to latch onto. He’d been right about the plethora of experts who were brought forward to give their opinion but even they were quickly reduced to sidebars. Within a few days, other news caught the public’s attention and, unless something turned up soon, the child would soon be forgotten.

  Two days following the post-mortem, West’s phone rang.

  ‘It’s Fiona Wilson,’ the voice said.

  ‘Hello,’ West said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Good to hear from you. I hope you have some news for me.’

  ‘I managed to get your case expedited,’ she said, ‘it’s surprising how willing people are when they know there is a child involved. I’m heading to your side of the city later this morning and thought I’d drop the results over myself. There are a couple of things I need to explain and it would be far simpler to do so face to face.’

  ‘Ok,’ West said, checking the time. ‘What time do you expect to get here?’

  ‘Eleven-thirty,’ she said promptly. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  She hung up before West had a chance to respond. He looked at the phone, slightly bemused, and then hung up with a shrug before heading out in search of Andrews.

  Baxter was at his desk, fingers flying over the computer keyboard, a lock of ginger hair falling over his eyes. ‘Seamus,’ he asked, getting the man’s attention, ‘have you seen Andrews?’

  Baxter shook his head, his fingers continuing to pound the keys without the slightest reduction in speed.

  ‘How is the mugging investigation going,’ West asked.

  Finally, as if giving in, his fingers slowed and then stopped. He ran one hand through his hair, pushing the untidy lock back where it belonged. ‘We’ve spent a total of twelve hours in the car park over the last two days,’ he said, ‘and there’s been no sign of them. We’re planning to spend the whole day today. Foley is already there with Hudson, I’ve just come back to do some paperwork and I’m heading to join them.’

  West nodded. It was going to be a long, tiring stakeout. ‘Ok, keep me informed, and,’ he added, as the other man’s eyes flicked back to his computer, ‘be careful.’

  Baxter grinned and resumed his typing. Minutes later, West, pouring some coffee, saw him stand and leave.

  Andrews came through the door at the same time, and West waved him over. ‘Fiona Wilson came through for us, Pete. She’ll be here at eleven thirty. She said she wanted to go through some of the information with us so it looks like we might have something to go on.’

  ‘Good, because we’ve nothing else,’ Andrews said bluntly, sitting at his desk. ‘I spoke to a contact at Interpol. There are, he said, thousands of misplaced children from any number of conflicts in any number of countries. She could be one of them, smuggled into the country for any number of reasons.’

  West frowned. ‘That’s taking us in a very different direction, Pete. I’m not ruling out that she’s an Irish citizen who met a violent end and the family have chosen to cover it up.’

  ‘Or her situation was one that needed to be hidden.’

  They continued to discuss the various possibilities until interrupted by a cheerful voice raised in greeting.

  ‘So this is where it all happens?’

  The two men turned together. Fiona Wilson stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe, her head tilted to one side. She waited there a moment before making her way slowly across the room and extending her hand first to Andrews and then to West.

  Andrews, who’d thought she was a pretty woman when they’d met on Clare Island, realised the work clothes she’d worn at the time hadn’t done her any favours. Now with her hair loose around her shoulders, dressed to impress in a smart dress, and wearing what his wife Joyce would call killer heels, he thought she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

  He glanced at West from the corner of his eyes. If she was having the same effect on him, he wasn’t showing it.

  ‘Come into my office,’ West said, gesturing toward the door. ‘Would you like some coffee? I have to warn you, it’s not very good.’

  ‘I passed a cafe on the way,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘perhaps when we’re done here we could go for a cup?’ She took the chair he indicated, sitting and crossing one elegant leg over the other.

  West sitting behind his desk, smiled. ‘Depending on what you have for us, I might even run to lunch.’

  She returned the smile. ‘I think with what we’ve got you might have to run to dinner.’ Opening her briefcase, she took out a sheaf of papers. ‘We’ve sent this to you by email too,’ she said, handing the first sheet across to him.

  Andrews, moved to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder and squinting to read what was written on the page.

  ‘As you can see,’ she explained, ‘there were no identifying marks on the suitcase. It’s a cheap generic type and could have been purchased anywhere.’ She handed over the next report. ‘The labels on the clothes, unfortunately, had deteriorated too far and we were unable to get any information from them.’

  The two men scanned the reports and then, as one, looked over to where she sat puzzled looks on both their faces.

  Fiona smiled reassuringly. ‘This is where it gets interesting,’ she said, placing the next report on the desk and tapping it with her index finger. ‘Whoever this child was, she had Sickle Cell Disease. Sickle Cell Anaemia to be exact.’

  Her smile grew broader as she sat back. ‘Based on this information, there is a strong possibility that she was of African, Middle Eastern or Asian descent, with a higher likelihood that she was of sub-Saharan African descent. About eighty percent of all Sickle Cell diseases come from there.’

  West tried to remember anything he knew about the disease. It was congenital. ‘So her parents would have had it, wouldn’t they?’ he
asked. ‘Aren’t congenital diseases registered somewhere.’

  She nodded. ‘There are a number of registers. There’s Binocar, for one, that’s the British and Irish Network of Congenital Anomaly Researchers, and there’s a European register, Eurocat. It only needs one parent to actually have the disease; the other parent may have it, or may only be a carrier.’

  ‘It gives us a place to start,’ Andrews said.

  ‘There’s something else, she said,’ Wilson said, closing her briefcase and sitting back in her chair. ‘Sickle Cell Anaemia may also be what killed her.’

  Andrews, who’d moved to sit in the other vacant chair, clenched his hand. This was even better. ‘What do you mean?’

  She held up her hands. ‘It’s speculative, I’m afraid. But, given the lack of any other evidence as to cause of death, we consider it a distinct possibility. One of the symptoms of Sickle Cell Anaemia is breathlessness,’ she explained. ‘The child’s positioning in the suitcase may have restricted expansion of her ribcage and made taking a deep breath more difficult. Theoretically, she may have asphyxiated.’

  ‘She was alive when she was put inside?’ West’s eyes opened wide.

  She held up a cautious hand. ‘It’s a theory,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, there was too much tissue deterioration to allow for a definitive conclusion. But the fact is, this child had Sickle Cell Anaemia and it is one of the side effects.’

  ‘It wasn’t something we’d considered,’ West said, a frown creasing his forehead. Perhaps they should have done. ‘If she was put into the suitcase alive, that changes the direction of our enquiry. When nobody came forward to identify her,’ he explained, seeing her puzzled look, ‘we considered she may have been smuggled into the country somehow and, as a result, when she died, her relatives were too afraid to come forward. Now it seems she may have died while being brought in.’

  Andrews frowned. ‘She could be the victim of a people trafficking ring.’

  ‘I know someone in the HTICU,’ West said, looking at him.

  Fiona held one hand up. ‘Ok, what does an intensive care unit have to do with it?’

  Both men looked puzzled before West gave a short laugh. ‘No, sorry, it doesn’t stand for intensive care unit. It’s the Human Trafficking Investigation and Coordination Unit, a unit of the Garda National Protection Bureau.’ He looked back to Andrews. ‘Jake Cotter, I’ll have a word with him, see if he can offer some advice.’ He tapped a finger on the desk. ‘Pete, contact someone in the National Immigration Bureau. Tell them our situation and see if they can offer any assistance.’

  Fiona Wilson picked up her briefcase and stood. ‘I can see it’s not a good time to be dragging you...either of you,’ she amended quickly, ‘for coffee.’ The comment may have been for both, but the smile she gave was directed solely at West.

  His smile was perfunctory, his mind focusing on the best use of his limited resources. ‘Another time,’ he said, standing and holding out his hand, ‘you’ve been a great help, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that, Sergeant West,’ she said and with a nod to Andrews and another smile to West she left.

  ‘You’ve got an admirer there,’ Andrews said, watching her go with a flicker of admiration.

  ‘She’s just being friendly, Peter,’ West said, dismissing the woman immediately from his mind to concentrate on the news she’d brought him.

  Andrews shook his head. It was an aspect of West’s nature that never ceased to amaze him. The man just didn’t see the effect he had on women. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last they’d see of Fiona Wilson. Thinking of Kelly, he sighed. Perhaps he’d better tell Joyce not to buy the hat for the wedding yet. ‘I’ll go make that call,’ he said, and headed back to his desk.

  Sergeant Jake Cotter wasn’t available when West rang his office. Leaving a message asking him to return his call as soon as possible, he hung up and drummed his fingers on the desk for a few minutes before switching on his computer. It would have been better to speak to Jake first, but there was no point in hanging about. A quick search found contact details for Binocar, Eurocat, and the National Congenital Anomaly and Rare Diseases Register. With the phone wedged under one ear, and a pen and pad in front of him, he started into the phone calls and explanations.

  Two hours later, he put the phone down and stretched his arms over his head to ease the knots that had built up in his shoulders. He headed out to the main office where he spied Andrews, his phone in one hand, scribbling madly with the other. He poured two mugs of coffee, returned and placed one beside him.

  He stayed on his feet and sipped the coffee, mentally considering their next step. At least the reporters had lost interest. It took the pressure off.

  ‘Well, that was interesting.’ Andrews said, putting phone and pen down and picking up the coffee.

  West looked at him. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I spoke to a very helpful woman, by the name of Helga Fischer. It appears there are between twenty to twenty-six thousand illegal immigrants living in Ireland at any given time.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Oh, and by the way, the politically correct term, as she told me, is undocumented migrants, not illegal immigrants.’

  West whistled. ‘That’s a much higher figure than I’d have thought. Do they know how many of these undocumented migrants are children?’

  Andrews shook his head. ‘They’re understaffed, and over-whelmed.’

  West knew the score. It was the same everywhere. He perched on the edge of the desk, cupping his mug in his hands. ‘The three registers I contacted were quite helpful. They wouldn’t give me a list of names but when I told them about our suitcase child they promised to contact the social worker who looks after every child with Sickle Cell Anaemia within a year of our child’s age to ensure they are still hale and hearty.’

  ‘That’ll take a while,’ Andrews said, raising an eyebrow. ‘And it’s very unlikely to be one of them. A child on a register won’t just disappear.’

  West nodded. ‘True. But someone may have panicked. Anyway, we need to dot every i and cross every t, Pete. You know that.’ When his phone rang, he motioned Andrews to follow him back to his office. ‘It might be Jake,’ he said, picking up the phone. ‘West here,’

  He listened for a moment before saying, ‘I have my partner, Garda Peter Andrews here with me, Jake, I’ll put you on speaker.’ He pushed the button and immediately Jake Cotter’s voice filled the room. West reached for the volume and turned it down slightly. ‘Good to talk to you again, Jake,’ he said, sitting behind the desk. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to help us with a case we have here in Foxrock.’ It didn’t take long to fill him in. There wasn’t much to tell.

  ‘We had some results back today. The child had Sickle Cell Anaemia so was, more than likely, of sub-Saharan descent. They weren’t able to give us a cause of death but have proposed a theory that she might have suffocated.’

  ‘People with Sickle Cell Anaemia can suffer from breathlessness,’ Cotter said, confirming what Fiona Wilson had told them, ‘so I suppose it’s reasonable that someone doubled over in a small suitcase might have difficulties.’

  ‘Exactly,’ West said, pleased to see the theory gaining more credence. ‘It’s not something we’ve come across before, Jake. We have more homegrown crimes on our patch. Have you seen children trafficked this way before?’

  ‘I’ve seen a baby hidden inside a large stuffed toy, Mike,’ Cotter said. ‘Why not in a suitcase? A two to three year old, probably malnourished, she’d be small and light. It would be easy. A case that size wouldn’t have drawn attention. They probably wouldn’t have risked flying, airport security is too tight now and there’s always a risk someone asks for the case to be opened. There are far less security checks on ferries.

  ‘Most children we’ve seen trafficked have been drugged to keep them quiet and compliant,’ he said slowly. ‘Depending on what they gave her, that also may have had a detrimental effect on her breathing. But, if it is trafficking, it’s a bit of a p
uzzle.’

  West caught his partner’s eye. Just the kind of thing they liked. A good puzzle. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  Cotter cleared his throat and then noisily took a drink, the sound of his gulps coming clearly over the speaker. ‘Human traffickers,’ he continued, ‘are in it for the money. Bringing in one small child in a suitcase wouldn’t be lucrative, not for the risk involved. It sounds more personal. Maybe someone smuggling in a relation.’

  ‘Ok,’ West nodded, ‘that makes sense, I suppose. Or maybe it was someone willing to pay a lot of money?’

  A short laugh was heard down the line. ‘I hope they didn’t pay upfront then, it sounds like they got a bum deal.’

  Andrews closed his eyes at the callous remark, opening them when he heard West ending the call.

  ‘He doesn’t mean to sound like a jerk,’ West said, seeing his face. ‘It’s an occupational hazard, I think. I’ve heard the story of the baby in the stuffed toy before. What he didn’t mention was that the baby was dead when he found it.’

  6

  Over the next few days Kelly worked hard on her edits. She had a few friendly emails from Aidan Power asking her how it was coming along and if she had any questions. By the fourth day, she was finished.

  ‘It’s done,’ she wrote in an email to both the editor and publisher, attaching the completed edited manuscript. She was delighted to get a reply within a few minutes asking her to come to a meeting the following day.

  Next morning, wanting to look the part, she took extra pains with her clothes and make-up. After a final glance in the full-length mirror, she headed downstairs.

  West, sipping his morning coffee, stopped to give a soft wolf-whistle when she came into the kitchen. ‘You look amazing,’ he said, eyeing her appreciatively.

  She twirled around. ‘You’re sure it’s ok? I was going for arty but professional.’

  West put his mug down and leaned back against the counter top. He let his gaze wander over her, taking in the fitted black skirt, just short enough to show her knees, the pale-pink, silk shirt and the tailored black jacket with subtle grey detail.