The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Read online

  She was exhausted by it all, and when they exited the restaurant and she saw a taxi parked at the nearby rank, she pointed towards it and held her hand out to him. ‘Thank you for lunch,’ she said, ‘I’m going to catch a taxi home.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do for you,’ he said, holding onto her hand, ‘just email me.’

  Email – not meet. Definitely, she thought, sinking back against the seat. Shopping was forgotten in the relief of being on her way home. It would cost a fortune taking a taxi all the way to Greystones, but she didn’t care.

  * * *

  ‘I was shattered,’ she told West that night when they sat down for dinner.

  He laughed when she told him about the meeting and the subsequent lunch.

  ‘I think he’s a good editor,’ she said, putting her fork down and pushing the empty plate away. ‘But he’s utterly convinced that he’s irresistible and has such an appalling range of chat-up lines that he’s rather amusing.’ She watched as West tried to negotiate the last pea onto his fork before giving up and picking it up with his fingers.

  ‘Amusing?’ West laughed. ‘Does he know that’s what you think?’

  Edel kept the smile firmly pinned in place. She didn’t think it was worth mentioning the hand that seemed to accidentally brush against her breast as Power helped her on with her jacket after lunch, or the suggestion that they meet some evening for dinner. She could deal with it. Far better than she would have done a year ago. ‘With his ego, probably not,’ she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Anyway, I’ll have little to do with him now that the edits are complete and even less when I get an agent on board.’

  ‘You’re going to approach this Owen Grady they mentioned?’

  She shrugged. ‘They recommended him, it would be silly not to, I suppose.’

  Remembering her publisher’s warning that they didn’t want delays, she rang the agent’s number at nine the next morning. She was in luck, not only was Owen Grady happy to represent her; he was available to meet later that morning. So, for the second day in a row, she dressed smartly for an appointment. His office was on Earlsfort Terrace, a twenty-minute walk from the same DART station. The walk would be nice, but definitely not in high heels. Instead, she slipped on a pair of black pumps that weren’t quite so elegant but certainly better for walking.

  Owen Grady proved to be a much easier man to deal with than Aidan Power. His manner, professional with just the correct amount of distance, put her at ease. He took the contract she’d been given and read through it silently as she shuffled in her seat in his bright top-floor office.

  ‘A fairly standard contract,’ he said finally, ‘perfectly acceptable.’

  ‘Great,’ she said, taking it from him. She could sign it and drop it at the FinalEdit office on her way home.

  For another fifteen minutes they discussed what each expected from the other. Translation rights, audio and large-print versions of her work were skimmed over, but in enough detail to leave Edel’s head reeling.

  At the end, Owen sat back, his rather stern face relaxing into a smile. ‘It will be good doing business with you, Edel,’ he said.

  She nodded. He was definitely a man she could work with. ‘You’ll email me the details of our contract.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Give me a day or two. It won’t be complicated, but it will set out financial details.’

  Standing, she held out her hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’

  ‘Actually,’ Grady said, standing to shake her hand, ‘Hugh gave me a buzz yesterday and told me I might get a call, so it wasn’t totally unexpected.’

  Edel blinked. Had she been railroaded into this? But no, he’d said Hugh. She trusted him. Had he said Aidan, she might have hesitated. An instinctive distrust of people was also the residual effect of her marriage to Simon. Perhaps it was no harm.

  Leaving the office, she headed down Exchequer Street. Yesterday, she’d been too exhausted to shop, but not today.

  * * *

  Luckily for her sense of well-being, she didn’t look up at the office she’d just left. If she had, she’d have seen Owen Grady staring down at her, a frown marking his brow.

  ‘Interesting,’ he muttered, watching her walk away as if she hadn’t a care in the world, ‘very interesting indeed.’

  8

  A week later, West and Andrews sat and went through all the information they’d collated regarding the child in the suitcase. ‘It sounds like the title to a bad detective novel,’ Andrews muttered.

  ‘Child in a Suitcase.’ West considered a moment before shaking his head. ‘No, it would be Death in a Suitcase. Much pithier.’

  ‘If it were a novel, there’d be an end to the story,’ Andrews said, sitting back with a groan of frustration. ‘A happy ending too.’

  ‘Well, we’re not giving up just yet.’

  But after several minutes reviewing the information they’d collected, even West had to admit defeat. All their leads had come back negative. Frustrated, he clasped his hands behind his head and rubbed briskly, making his hair stand on end. He smoothed a hand over it and picked up the sheaf of papers on the desk, tapping the edges together before putting them down again neatly. ‘What about facial reconstruction?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Can we do it?’

  ‘A two-year-old child that nobody has reported missing,’ Andrews said, wiping a hand over his face. ‘You really think they’re going to okay the cost of that?’

  West shook his head. They wouldn’t because it probably wouldn’t help. He pushed the papers away and changed the subject. ‘How is the stake-out of Cornelscourt coming along?’

  ‘Pshaw,’ Andrews said, ‘it’s going nowhere. Either the gang has moved outside the city, or they’re laying low for a while. The lads are getting fed up hanging around.’

  ‘That’s when they’ll take their eye off the ball,’ West warned. ‘I think I’ll go and spend some time with them.’ He gave the pile of papers on his desk a nudge. ‘It beats sitting here thinking about this poor kid.’

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a bay in Cornelscourt car park. Getting out, he stood and looked around. It never ceased to amaze him how busy it always was. It was open seven days a week, eight until ten and it never looked any different to now.

  It took him several minutes to spot the surveillance team; they were doing a good job of blending in with the casual shoppers. Baxter’s thick head of ginger hair made him more obvious. He was standing by the boot of his car with an empty shopping trolley, his eyes sweeping the car park as West approached him.

  ‘Nothing happening, Seamus,’ West said, standing on the other side of the car.

  ‘Hi, Sergeant,’ Baxter said, ‘no, it’s been mind-numbingly quiet.’

  ‘Surveillance is ninety-nine per cent boredom and one per cent action. Try to stay focused, boredom can lead to mistakes.’

  ‘We’ve been moving position every twenty minutes for that reason and breaking for coffee every couple of hours. There are two uniforms in civvies giving us a hand. Mackin is with me.’ He nodded across to where the garda stood two cars away. ‘Foley has Gemma Ryan. They’re covering the car park at the back.’

  ‘What about the multi-storey?’ West asked, nodding toward it.

  ‘There are a lot more CCTV cameras inside, plus the exit isn’t great, so we decided they were unlikely to strike there. Rather than spreading ourselves too thinly we thought we’d stay out here, but,’ he hesitated, ‘if you think we should, we could include it in our cycle.’

  West shook his head. He’d parked in the multi-storey before and he knew it could be a nightmare to exit. ‘No, I agree with your plan.’ He looked around the car park. ‘Unless we hear they’ve moved on somewhere else, we’ll keep up the surveillance for another week at least.’ He rested his arms on the roof of the car. ‘I’ll go and have a word with Foley and…’

  ‘Ryan.’ Baxter supplied the missing name. ‘Gemm
a Ryan. I think Sergeant Blunt borrowed her from Dalkey.’

  Sergeant Blunt was renowned for getting staff from other stations when the need arose. ‘They owe me,’ was all he’d say if questioned as to how he managed it. What he did to curry such favour was never mentioned.

  West crossed the car park and had just reached the edge of the building when he heard a shout. He looked around, trying to pinpoint the direction. It came again… a clear, loud help coming from the furthest corner. He saw Baxter and Mackin racing to the scene and started to run to join them.

  A scream from the other side of the car park stopped him in his tracks. He watched the other two slow before Baxter waved Mackin toward the newer call while he continued on to the first. West ran to join him.

  ‘I’ve alerted the others,’ Baxter said without slowing, ‘they’ll join Mackin as fast as they can get here.’

  They were at the scene minutes after they heard the first shout. The victim, a middle-aged woman, was sitting on the ground beside her car, the boot open, shopping scattered. She held a hand to her face.

  ‘Gardaí,’ West said, bending down to her while Baxter scanned the surroundings to look for her assailant. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Keeping one hand to her face, the visibly-shaken woman held out her other to show the torn skin on her ring finger. ‘He punched me, knocked me to the ground, and pulled my rings off,’ she said, ‘then he grabbed my bag and ran.’

  West moved her hand gently from her face. The skin was broken and it was already beginning to swell and discolour. He was no expert, but he guessed the blow had cracked her cheekbone. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘stay here. We’ll call an ambulance.’

  A woman got out of a nearby car. She looked around anxiously and took a step closer, gasping when she saw the injured woman. ‘Can I help?’ she said.

  ‘If you’d stay with her,’ West said gratefully, ‘that would be so kind. She’s probably in shock.’

  The woman nodded and took his place, reaching out instinctively to put a reassuring hand on the injured woman’s arm.

  Baxter, trying to catch sight of the culprits, found his view hampered by the surrounding cars. Without hesitation, he climbed onto a bonnet. ‘There,’ he shouted to West, before jumping down and dashing off in pursuit, darting between vehicles, narrowly missing being hit by a van as it pulled out of a parking space.

  They converged on the spot where the second assault had taken place at the same time as Foley and Ryan who’d run from the rear car park. Mackin was bent over the victim who’d been treated in much the same fashion as the first, a bruise already colouring the side of her jaw. Blood oozed from a damaged finger onto her pale-blue coat. She was crying pitifully.

  ‘They’d gone by the time I got here,’ Mackin said, looking up at them. ‘They’re bloody fast.’

  Gemma Ryan sat on the ground beside the woman and held her uninjured hand, muttering reassurances as the others scanned the car park for a sign of the gang. Baxter, having already discovered the best viewing position, jumped on the nearest car bonnet and scanned the area. ‘There they are.’ He pointed. ‘Two rows down, scurrying between the cars. Two of them,’ he called after them as they moved where he’d directed, ‘wearing dark hoodies and scarves.’

  He stayed on the bonnet, yelling directions to the detectives as the two men tried to evade capture. Mackin dashed to the exit and stopped a car that was leaving, waving his identification at the startled man before directing him to position his Fiesta across the gap. Foley and West split up, trying to hear Baxter’s directions over the sound of traffic from the road.

  Security men from the shopping centre, alerted to a commotion in the car park, ran to the car Baxter was standing on. They recognised him instantly and offered their assistance.

  ‘Stop people leaving the shopping centre,’ Baxter shouted down to them without taking his eyes off the search. ‘And stop any more cars from coming in this direction.’ Nodding, two security men ran back to the doors to wave people back inside, while a third ran to direct traffic away from the immediate area.

  Baxter saw the two men, doubled over and sneaking around the edge of a car. ‘Foley,’ he yelled, ‘to your right.’

  Foley swerved to intercept, West chasing down the other lane to join him. Baxter, seeing they almost had them, jumped down from the car and ran to help. The struggle was brief. Baxter, stocky and strong, caught the shorter of the two men in a headlock. Between them, West and Foley brought the other, taller man down. Within seconds, both men were in handcuffs and the three detectives were on their feet, their eyes looking for the getaway car.

  As if on cue, they heard the rev of an engine nearby and saw a land cruiser shoot from its parking space. The third member of the gang was making his escape.

  The land cruiser increased its speed as it approached the exit and with a look of horror, West saw what Mackin had done, the young garda standing in front of the parked car as if determined to hold his position.

  ‘Get out of the way!’ West shouted before starting to run toward him. ‘Move!’ he yelled again, watching as Mackin realised too late that the car wasn’t going to stop. West saw him try to dive to one side just before the cruiser hit the parked car. The rear end of the Fiesta, no match for it, shot into the road, the front jamming into the concrete pillar that housed the barrier that came down at night.

  Brakes squealed as cars that were already on the road took evasive manoeuvres to avoid hitting the back of the Fiesta, the land cruiser that kept going, and the cars coming towards them in the other lane. Almost every driver blasted his car horn as if that would help, and for a few seconds it sounded like all hell had broken loose. West and Baxter ran towards where Mackin had stood, leaving Foley dragging the two handcuffed men along behind them.

  They expected the worst. There was no way he could have survived the impact. Seeing his body unmoving on the other side of the wrecked Fiesta, West stopped, colour draining from his face. Baxter came up beside him, Foley bringing up the rear. ‘No,’ he heard one of them say.

  9

  Gulping, West took a step forward and stopped. In disbelief, he watched as the body moved and Mackin shakily got to his feet. ‘Did we get them?’ he asked.

  There was a collective sigh of relief as they moved toward him. Ryan, who’d given the job of supporting the second victim to yet another helpful member of the public, came up behind them. Seeing he was okay, she headed out to clear the traffic, waving on cars that had stopped to gawk, directing oncoming traffic around what was now a crime scene. With one hand, she stopped the complaints of the Fiesta owner, who gaped in dismay at his car. ‘I’ll be with you in one moment, sir,’ she said, waving another car on with a firm hand.

  West insisted that Mackin go to hospital to be checked out. ‘You were bloody lucky,’ he said. Sometime in the next few days, he’d make time to have a word with him about the wisdom of standing in front of a desperate criminal intent on making his escape.

  ‘I didn’t want to let him get away,’ he said. ‘I failed.’

  West shook his head. ‘We have his two accomplices. You think they won’t roll over on a mate to escape the charge of attempted murder of a Garda Síochána?’

  ‘So, I did help,’ Mackin said with an irrepressible grin.

  There wasn’t anything to be said to that.

  An ambulance’s siren was heard in the distance. Baxter and Foley helped the two victims walk over to where they could be picked up when it arrived. West ran an eye over the older of the two women who was still crying and holding a hand to her swollen jaw.

  ‘Your jewellery and bags have been recovered,’ he told them. ‘They need to be processed as evidence, but as soon as we can we’ll get them back to you.’

  ‘Can we have our keys?’ the younger of the two asked, looking at him through one eye, the other swollen shut. ‘I doubt I’ll be driving again,’ she said with an attempt at a smile, ‘but I need my house keys.’

  West nodded to Baxter who held both bags in h
is hand. The two men had dumped them as they’d made their attempted getaway and they hadn’t been difficult to find.

  The ambulance crew helped the women inside. Mackin, still insisting he was unhurt, was told he had no choice. ‘Standard operational procedure,’ Baxter said, pushing him inside, causing West’s eyebrow to rise.

  ‘It seemed the easiest way to make him go,’ Baxter explained when the crew closed the door. ‘He’s good, Mike, we could do worse than have him on our team.’

  ‘Well, if ever they allow us more staff, I’ll keep him in mind,’ West said, knowing that day wasn’t likely to occur any time soon. ‘Head off to the hospital when you’re done here. I doubt they’ll keep him long. Make sure he gets home safely.’

  A squad car arrived to take the two handcuffed men away. West would make sure they were charged with accessory to attempted murder along with assault, grievous bodily harm and theft. That should put them behind bars for a while.

  Order was quickly restored to the area. Gemma Ryan, who had continued to direct traffic, was relieved by two uniformed gardaí whose recognisable uniforms were more effective at ensuring compliance. Shoppers, oblivious to what had gone on, were back to driving around searching for parking spaces. The helpful security guards turned their attention to trying to reduce the chaos and made the entrance to the car park into a combined entrance/exit while the gardaí processed the scene of the crash.

  Police photographers were there within twenty minutes. A forensic technical team arrived shortly after and were soon collecting debris from both vehicles.

  West guessed the getaway car would be found abandoned later in the day and had a word with Baxter to liaise with the traffic division to be on the alert for it. They might get DNA from it that would identify the driver, and a comparison with glass or paint scrapings collected here would link it to this site.