The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Read online

  There was enough work to keep him busy. A minor domestic, a few assaults, some dodgy merchandise being sold, and the rumour of yet another new drug on the street, which thankfully, proved to be just that. The routine day-to-day stuff.

  It was almost a week before he heard back from Professor McLeod.

  ‘This is a very interesting case, Garda West,’ he said, ‘we’ve learned a lot from it. I’ve sent you the reconstruction by email. As you will see, we went with your sub-Saharan origin. In a child this young, how they wear their hair can make a difference, so we added a variety of different hairstyles.’

  West held the phone tightly to his ear. ‘Hang on while I pull it up,’ he said, tapping the keys.

  He opened the email and stared in amazement. ‘Wow,’ he said, ‘this is better than I expected.’ He enlarged the image. The child was beautiful; rounded cheeks, luminous eyes, her hair a cloud of curls around her head. There were others with the hair styled differently, but it was this one that generated a frisson of excitement in West. ‘How accurate is it?’

  ‘We’ve had some very good results based on adult skulls, but this is our first child. Bone structure doesn’t lie, but as I already mentioned, children’s features are poorly defined. We’ll only know how close it is, if you manage to identify the child.’

  ‘Well, with this, we might have a shot,’ West said.

  ‘Keep in touch, let us know the outcome. The best of luck with it.’

  West thanked him and hung up.

  He spent several minutes looking at the images before clicking forward and sending them to everyone who might be able to identify the child, including the South African Centre for Missing and Exploited Children. He also sent it to the National Centre for Missing and Exploited Children in several countries, to the Salvation Army, and to his colleagues in the National Crime Agency in the UK because, although the child might be of African origin, she could have been born anywhere. All the agencies, he knew, would add the images to their database of missing persons.

  He heard Andrews’ voice through the open door of his office and yelled out to him to come in.

  ‘Something new?’

  West swivelled the computer screen toward him. ‘Prof McLeod came through for us,’ he said, watching as Andrews’ eyes widened. ‘There are a few variations,’ he added, clicking the key to change the image, ‘but this is the one I’m printing out.’ He clicked to the one with the curls and saw Andrews smile in agreement.

  ‘If I were her parent,’ he said, ‘it’s the way I’d have left her hair, she’s a little beauty.’

  ‘I’ve forwarded it to every missing person agency I can think of,’ West said. ‘We might get lucky.’

  ‘Are you going to give it to the press?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s wise. She’s a pretty child, but there’s nothing distinctive about her. We could be inundated with calls and end up running around like headless chickens.’

  ‘True,’ Andrews agreed. ‘Probably best to wait and see if we have any feedback from the agencies.’

  * * *

  The very faint hope that someone would have recognised the child died swiftly when there were no replies for a day or two. All of the agencies eventually replied with promises to keep the photograph on their various websites and to circulate it to other groups and charities but, as one wrote bluntly, I wouldn’t get your hopes up.

  West had a long, and very informative, email from the South African Centre. Despite its name, it was involved with missing children over the whole continent of Africa and, more surprisingly, was based in Virginia, USA. It made for a harrowing read. The number of children of all ages missing or displaced due to conflict, famine, and disease was staggering. And, the email emphasised, the numbers they were giving him were conservative estimates. How many of these children ended up being sold was an absolute unknown.

  He brought back up the image of their child and shook his head. They might never find out who she was. The phone rang. ‘West,’ he said, closing the email, wishing he could switch off what he’d read just as easily.

  ‘Hello, it’s Fiona. I was wondering if you were free for lunch.’

  He stretched and ran a hand through his hair. The company of a charming and attractive woman was just what he needed. ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘I am.’

  ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Do you know a place called Nutmeg in Monkstown?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard it’s very good.’

  ‘It is. I’ll meet you there. Say one o’clock?’

  ‘One o’clock it is.’

  Hanging up, he checked the time. Eleven. The thought of lunch and pleasant company spurred him on. He finished the audit he’d been struggling with and sent it off to Morrison, hoping it would keep him happy for a while.

  At twelve, he switched his computer off, grabbed his jacket and headed out. He met Andrews on the way, his forehead creased, lips a tight line.

  ‘Something wrong?’ West asked, hoping the answer wouldn’t require him to stay.

  ‘Not really,’ Andrews said, shaking his head. ‘I bumped into Clark; he was complaining he’d been left high and dry because we took Foley. He had to work for a change so he’s not happy.’

  ‘Ignore him, Peter, he’s never happy. Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’m out for a couple of hours. I should be back around four.’ He saw Andrews’ expectant look as he waited to be told where he was going. Damn it, he wasn’t answerable to him. He shuffled off the twinge of guilt and ignored the inner voice that asked the question, why was he being so defensive? He was just going to lunch with a colleague, nothing fishy about it.

  Nothing fishy at all, but still, he gave Andrews a wave, ignored his surprised look and headed from the station.

  11

  Edel’s determination to get her next novel started gave her little time to think about anything else. Her writing style was disciplined; she outlined the plot, chapter by chapter, and then wrote a biography for each of the characters she intended to introduce. It made for an easier time when she eventually started to write the novel.

  Life in the Greystones house had settled into a routine. She wrote from nine until lunchtime when she stopped for something to eat. Afterwards, she went for a short walk to stretch her legs and wrote from two until late.

  She became an expert at cooking large meals and freezing portions so she didn’t need to cook every day. Their evening meal was never at a set time, West would ring late afternoon and let her know when he’d be home. Occasionally, he’d tell her he was busy and would eat at work. On those nights, she’d write until she was exhausted and have a snack when done.

  The worry that their relationship was in trouble never left the back of her mind. West had never said those important words, I love you and was still a little distant. She knew Ken Blundell’s death preyed on his mind and she tried to be supportive, but every now and then she’d think about her Blackrock apartment with longing. It was peaceful there and the view over the sea would be very conducive to writing. But she just couldn’t bring herself to go back. If she did, she knew that would be it.

  The bottom line was, she loved him. For the moment, she’d make that be enough.

  When she had the plot written out, and her cast of characters ready to go, she started writing the new novel, delighted when it came together easily. Two weeks later she looked down at the word count on the screen and smiled. ‘Fifty thousand words. Not bad going.’

  It was late morning, the sun was shining. She stretched, reached out to press save and switched off the computer. She needed a break.

  They were going to a new restaurant in Foxrock village on Saturday. Idly, she considered what to wear. Maybe she should make an extra effort. Clothes shopping, she thought with a grin. Just what she needed.

  She’d thrown on her usual slouchy pants and sweatshirt that morning. Her writing clothes, as she called them, definitely weren’t suitable for the smart, stylish shops she intended to visit. Pulling them off, she threw them into the
laundry basket and opened the wardrobe door. It didn’t take long to choose, and minutes later she stood in front of the full-length mirror wearing a baggy grey sweater, thick black leggings and knee-high black boots. The addition of dangling silver and grey earrings and a few silver bracelets brought a satisfied smile to her face. Perfect. Finally, she slipped on a short grey and black jacket and headed down the stairs.

  Her purse and keys in hand, she set the alarm and headed off. There were shops in Greystones, of course, but she didn’t know them and didn’t want to waste time trawling through shops that didn’t stock the kind of clothes she wanted to buy. Instead, she drove down the coastal road to the small village of Monkstown where there were two boutiques she’d shopped in before.

  The village was a haven for small artisan shops, boutiques and cafes. Parking was always a nightmare, and today was no different. She tried a few of the side roads before giving up with a grunt of frustration and driving back to Dun Laoghaire where she parked in the public car park. It was a twenty-minute walk back to Monkstown, but it was a lovely day, she wasn’t in a hurry, and her boots were definitely made for walking.

  In the first shop, she picked out several dresses to try on, discarding them, one after the other, disappointed when none suited.

  ‘We’ve a new range of tunics in,’ the assistant said, ‘they’d go lovely with those leggings.’ She took two items off the rack and handed them into the changing room. ‘Try these on,’ she urged.

  They did look nice Edel decided a few minutes later, trying on one and then the other. ‘I think I’ll take both,’ she said, unable to decide whether she preferred the blue or sage green.

  Carrying the large carrier bag with the shop’s name blazoned across it, she headed two doors down the street to the other boutique. Here, she had more luck and found just the dress she’d been searching for.

  ‘This is perfect,’ she told the assistant, twisting back and forward to see her reflection in the mirrors. Made of silk chiffon, it fitted perfectly and draped beautifully. It was also ridiculously expensive. She baulked at paying 700 euro for a dress, but just as she decided she couldn’t possibly be so extravagant, she imagined West’s face when he saw her in it.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she told the hovering assistant. Slipping off the dress, careful not to snag it with her bracelets, she dressed and handed over her credit card before she changed her mind.

  Out in the street, a carrier bag in each hand, she blew a guilty breath; 700 euro. For a dress! She’d walked a few steps before she realised, she was heading in the wrong direction, towards Blackrock instead of Dun Laoghaire. Shaking her head at her stupidity, she turned, catching sight of her reflection in the window of the restaurant she was passing and lifting a hand to smooth her hair. She stopped and stared before quickly moving on.

  Mike. Mike and a woman. He laughing and looking more animated, more alive than she’d seen him in weeks.

  Her heart felt like lead, the weight of it crushing in her chest. Biting her lip to prevent tears falling, she moved as quickly as she could, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. She didn’t remember the walk, or if she’d passed anyone on the way; she didn’t remember the drive back to Greystones or whether or not she’d stopped at traffic lights. Her mind was stuck on that one freeze-frame; the way he’d looked at the woman, his lips parted in laughter, head thrown back, so absolutely relaxed. And the way the attractive, glamorous woman had looked at him, her red lips curved in a smile. They looked so absolutely perfect together.

  It didn’t take her long to pack; she’d got rid of so much when she left Wilton Road, and quite a lot of her stuff was still in Blackrock. She filled her suitcase and some black bags and piled them into her car. Lastly, she unplugged her laptop and put it on the passenger seat.

  She sat in, took a last look at the house, and started the engine.

  12

  West enjoyed his lunch. Fiona Wilson was a remarkably attractive female and made no effort to hide the fact that she fancied the socks off him. She’d used those exact words, which made him laugh out loud.

  When he’d stopped laughing, he looked at her across the table. ‘That’s very flattering but–’

  She held up her hand. ‘Don’t say it,’ she said, with a grin. ‘I know you’re crazy about that woman I saw you with on Clare Island. Edel, isn’t it?’

  He nodded. Crazy. It was as good a word as any.

  ‘And much as I find you attractive,’ she continued, ‘I too am crazy about the new man in my life. But he’s an academic. A history professor, would you believe?’ She smiled. ‘Sometimes, it’s nice to be able to talk about work with someone who understands.’

  West smiled. ‘I’m lucky, then. Edel understands my work only too well.’

  Fiona raised a hand to a passing waiter and asked for the bill. ‘Now that we know where we stand,’ she said, returning her attention to him, ‘perhaps we could do this again sometime?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Outside, West pointed to his car, parked only a few steps away. ‘I was lucky,’ he said, ‘someone was pulling out as I drove up. Where are you parked?’

  ‘I wasn’t so lucky.’ She shrugged, waving down the street. ‘But it gives me a chance to walk off lunch.’

  His offer to drive her to where she was parked was turned down. A moment later, he tooted his car horn as he passed her by. He was back at the station by four. In his absence, he saw that Andrews had printed out the image of the child and pinned it to the centre of the main noticeboard outside the interview rooms. Blown up to A4 size, it had a strikingly haunting quality to it. He knew exactly why Andrews had positioned it so centrally; it would serve as a reminder to them all not to forget her.

  Paperwork and phone calls filled what was left of the day.

  Inspector Morrison rang to voice his opinion on the image they’d received from Dundee. ‘They did a remarkable job,’ he said.

  West guessed he was even more impressed that they hadn’t had to pay for the service. ‘What about giving the image to the newspapers?’ he asked him, holding the phone in place with his shoulder while he finished filling out some forms. There was a lengthy pause before Morrison answered. West pictured him swivelling on his chair, weighing up the pros and cons before coming to the same conclusion that he had.

  ‘It’s not worth it. If she hasn’t been reported missing, it’s unlikely anyone is going to recognise the image, even if it is accurate. We’d be inundated with crank calls, all of which will need to be followed up. We just don’t have the resources for that.’

  ‘We’ve sent it to every agency possible. So far, we’ve heard nothing.’

  ‘Give it a few more days,’ Morrison said, ‘then we’ll have to move on.’

  West hung up and sat back. The inspector was right; they’d move on. He thought of the A4 photo pinned to the noticeboard. But it didn’t mean he had to like it, and they certainly wouldn’t forget about her.

  At five thirty, he called it a day and was putting on his jacket when Andrews walked in.

  ‘The judge threw out the attempted murder charge against Fearon,’ he said, leaning against the door frame. ‘They’re out on bail.’

  It wasn’t a total surprise. West shrugged a shoulder.

  ‘Ciaran Maguire is kicking up a fuss, claiming he was set-up, that we knew the charge would never have stuck.’

  West’s eyebrows rose. ‘Seriously?’

  Andrews smiled and nodded. ‘Seriously. I heard that solicitor giving him some words of wisdom.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ West said, straightening his shirt cuffs. ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘Maguire?’

  A shake of the head. ‘Careless. I’ve not come across him before.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have,’ Andrews said, perching on the side of the desk and crossing his arms. ‘I was curious about him myself, so I asked Tom.’

  Their desk sergeant, Tom Blunt was a man of few words, but always seemed to know
exactly what was going on.

  West knew he shouldn’t encourage gossip, but he was curious. ‘Tell me,’ he said, sitting back into his chair.

  ‘Careless worked for a legal team in Cork for several years. When his wife died, a few months ago, he sold his house there and bought an apartment in Mount Merrion.’ Andrews hesitated before adding, ‘His wife committed suicide.’

  ‘Suicide,’ West said, startled.

  ‘He found her,’ Andrews said, ‘she’d hung herself.’

  That explained the bleak look West had noticed in the man’s eyes. ‘I thought there was something,’ he said slowly. Standing, he moved around his desk, put a hand on Andrews’ arm and pushed him out the door. ‘Let’s get home,’ he said.

  They walked together to the car park, each of them lost in thought.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ West said, reaching his car first.

  Andrews gave a wave and walked on.

  The traffic to Greystones was slow-moving, giving West time to consider what he’d heard about Enda Careless. Curiosity had made him ask Andrews about him. He’d been a solicitor for several years before he joined the Garda Síochána, and had thought he knew the names of most of those who worked in Dublin but he’d never come across the man before. He smiled at his own arrogance; there were places outside Dublin after all.

  He put the man out of his head as he turned the corner onto the tree-lined road where he lived. Perhaps, if Edel weren’t too tied up with her work, they could go out for a meal. With that happy thought in his head, he parked his car and got out.

  Lost in thought, he was halfway up the path before he realised Edel was sitting on the doorstep. He was brought back to a night, months before, when he’d returned to find her there, a balm for his pain and grief. Now, here she was again, sitting on the doorstep, surrounded by black bags and a suitcase, looking wan.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, reaching her in a few long strides. He bent down, saw her tear-streaked face and his heart did a somersault. What could have happened to her? ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, keeping his voice gentle. Whatever it was, they’d get over it. After all, they’d had plenty of experience.