No Memory Lost Page 9

  Well, apart from the child in the suitcase, he admitted. What other avenue could they explore to identify that child? He hated the idea of giving up, but without any leads he knew they’d at least have to put it on the back burner. They didn’t have the time or resources to continue to follow up every case. Andrews wouldn’t be happy, but he too would understand. Unfortunately, it was the nature of their job that they just couldn’t solve them all.

  He put thoughts of work aside when the doorbell rang to announce the arrival of the takeaway.

  Edel came down the stairs as he was paying. She’d poured herself a glass of wine and was curled up on the rug beside Tyler when he returned. He unpacked the bags, putting the containers on the table and taking off the lids.

  He saw her smile and raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re so neat and tidy,’ she said.

  He dropped all the lids into one of the bags and tidied everything away before handing her a plate. ‘Is that a criticism?’

  Shaking her head, she picked up one of the serving spoons. ‘You’ve ordered all my favourites,’ she said, looking at the dishes. ‘We’ll never eat it all.’

  But they did, and between mouthfuls they talked, and by the end the food was mostly gone and their relationship was solid.

  13

  Over the next few weeks, it seemed that Enda Careless was in the station every other day. He nodded at West in passing, but that was as far as their communication went.

  Oliver Fearon also paid another visit to the station. This time the charge was assault.

  West sat in the Big One and looked across at the men opposite. He knew the solicitor, Alan Mitchell, from his law days. They’d been friends of a sort, attending the same law dinners, going to the same parties, mixing with the same small group of people. A group he was happy to leave behind when he joined the gardaí.

  He gave him a friendly nod before turning to the large, dour-faced man at his side. ‘Mr Fearon,’ he said, ‘you were arrested last night following an altercation with Ciaran Maguire. Mr Maguire is in hospital with a broken arm, broken jaw, several broken ribs and concussion.’

  Fearon shrugged. ‘He fell.’

  West stared at him. ‘He fell?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the man said, small beady eyes returning the stare. ‘Is he saying otherwise?’

  ‘The garda who made the arrest saw you bending over him, Mr Fearon.’

  ‘I was trying to help him to his feet.’ He crossed beefy, tattooed arms. ‘Is he saying otherwise?’ he repeated.

  ‘My client has a valid question, Sergeant West,’ the solicitor said. ‘Is the victim saying that my client is responsible?’

  Ciaran Maguire wasn’t saying much of anything. And when he woke, he probably wouldn’t press charges. They could try to force him to testify against Fearon, but odds were it would be thrown out of court. Morrison, he knew, would consider proceeding as a waste of resources.

  ‘No,’ he said now, gathering his papers together. ‘If you would just make a statement to that effect, we can let you go.’

  An hour later, Andrews appeared in his office doorway. ‘I hear Ollie Fearon was back in. What happened?’

  West threw his pen on the desk, sat back and gave Andrews a rundown of earlier events. ‘I could understand Connor Shields beating Maguire up, I suppose. He did give him up to us, after all. But Fearon?’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, I had to let him go. There was no point in wasting our time.’

  ‘He’ll be back,’ Andrews said, ‘he always is.’

  ‘He should go down for a while for the car park muggings, that’s a given.’

  Andrews rubbed a hand over his head. ‘He’s done time before; he’ll do it again. A career criminal, that lad.’

  But Andrews, for a change, was wrong.

  Two days later, Fearon’s career was unexpectedly cut short when he was found with a large knife protruding from his stomach. West and Andrews, called to the scene, parked on the road and entered the laneway where the man’s body lay sprawled.

  ‘He’s very dead,’ Andrews commented, crouching down to peer at the knife.

  ‘As opposed to being a little bit dead,’ West said with a smile that faded as he took in the pool of blood. ‘It looks like he was killed here, not dumped.’

  ‘A meeting gone bad, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, and walked back to the road. From there, the body was barely visible. Frowning, he returned to Andrews’ side. ‘Fearon was no fool, why would he meet someone down a quiet laneway?’

  The pathologist finished his examination and joined them. ‘Well there’s no difficulty in determining the cause of death,’ Niall Kennedy said, pulling off vinyl gloves and rolling them into a ball. ‘And the guilty party kindly left the murder weapon behind too.’ He patted West on the arm. ‘This’ll be an easy one for you, Mike.’

  ‘Can you give us an estimated time of death?’

  ‘Taking into account the cold night, I’d say somewhere between midnight and two.’ Kennedy yawned. ‘I could have done without the early morning call. Betsy is teething; she had us awake all night.’

  ‘Been there, done that,’ Andrews said sympathetically. ‘We’d a terrible time with Petey, especially with the molars.’

  ‘What about the knife?’ West asked, trying to keep the conversation on the murder.

  Andrews grinned. ‘Sergeant West will know all about it soon enough.’

  Kennedy’s eyes opened wide. ‘Really? I hadn’t heard. Congratulations.’

  ‘Please, can we concentrate on the dead man?’ West pleaded. Then knowing how gossip travelled, he hurried to set the record straight. ‘Don’t mind him; I’m not planning on parenthood any time soon.’ He pointed towards the body. ‘Tell me about the knife, it doesn’t look like a run-of-the-mill kitchen knife.’

  The pathologist gave Andrews a knowing grin before turning with emphasised reluctance to talk about death. ‘No, you’re right there,’ he said. ‘I’d bet it’s a hunting knife of some sort. I’ll know more when I remove it.’

  With that, he left the two men to their examination of the crime scene. ‘Why here?’ West said, looking around. The lane was a dead-end; its sole purpose to provide access to the rear entrances of a row of shops. He didn’t know what service they provided but guessed Andrews would. ‘Do you know what the shops are?’

  ‘A baker, a hairdresser, a newsagent and a butcher’s,’ Andrews said. ‘They do a good trade; this lane would be busy during the day. Only the newsagent stays open late, and it closes at eight.’

  ‘What’s on the other side of that?’ West asked, nodding to the high wall on the other side of the lane. It was solid, with no gates giving access and too high to be easily climbed, but desperation could make athletes of the weakest.

  ‘A school. It’s set back a way, and if I’m right, it’s the sports grounds that abut the wall.’

  West had no doubt he was right. He’d never met anyone who could store knowledge like Andrews. ‘So, we’re back to the why here?’

  ‘Fearon lives about five minutes’ walk away. Maybe he arranged to meet someone and suggested meeting here. It’s the only set of shops on the road so it would be easy for someone who didn’t know the area to find.’

  ‘Someone who didn’t know the area, but who knew him. Fearon wouldn’t have wandered down here with someone he didn’t know.’

  Andrews shrugged. ‘Maybe it was someone he didn’t know as well as he thought.’

  There were several lights positioned near the top of the wall at irregular intervals. Although the morning was dull, and the lane gloomy, they weren’t lit. West waved his arms in front of one. ‘Not motion activated, find out if they’re on a timer,’ he said to Andrews.

  Andrews nodded, then moved to stand near the body. He took gloves from his pocket and slipped them on before bending down to pick up the dead man’s hands, one at a time. Then he stood, peeling off the gloves. ‘I’ve had dealings with this man for several years. You’ve seen hi
s sheet, he’s a thug and invariably his victims end up as Maguire did. But his hands are clean, and I doubt they’ll find any tissue under his fingernails to indicate he fought back.’

  ‘Not an argument that got out of hand, then?’

  Andrews shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It looks to me like he was taken completely by surprise.’

  ‘I agree,’ West said, and frowned. Contrary to what the pathologist said, this wasn’t going to be an easy case. The problem wasn’t lack of suspects, there were hundreds. Ollie Fearon had made a lot of enemies over his lifetime.

  * * *

  They brought Connor Shields in as being a likely candidate. After all, Fearon had beaten up the third member of the team; maybe Connor was next on the list and decided to be proactive.

  ‘Do you know anything about the death of Oliver Fearon?’ Andrews asked Shields, wishing he could leave the door of the interview room open. The scent of the great unwashed was already overpowering. Baxter, sitting beside him, was crinkling his nose in disgust.

  Shields sat in his tough man pose; legs spread wide, bulky arms folded across his chest, eyes in a fixed stare. He didn’t answer.

  Andrews rephrased the question. ‘Did you kill Oliver Fearon?’

  It got a reaction, just not the one he expected. Shields reared back, eyes wide. ‘You accusing me of patricide? Are you out of your bleedin’ mind?’

  Andrews and Baxter exchanged startled looks. Connor Shields was Ollie Fearon’s son?

  ‘We seem to be missing some relevant information, Mr Shields. We weren’t aware that Ollie Fearon was your father–’

  ‘What?’ Shields said, and this time he stood and leaned over the table, spade-like hands propping him up. ‘What’s going on here? Ollie wasn’t my father. What’re you trying to pull?’

  Feeling totally confused, Andrews ran a hand over his face. ‘Okay,’ he said firmly, ‘sit down, Mr Shields. Let’s get this knot unravelled.’ He waited until the man sat, ignoring the glaring eyes that were focused on him. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s start again. What is your relationship to Ollie Fearon?’

  ‘I told you, he’s my uncle.’

  ‘Uncle, not father,’ Baxter said, holding his hands up when Shields went to stand again, ‘okay, just trying to make it clear. You did say we were accusing you of patricide.’

  ‘Yeah, well you did. And that’s libel, that is.’

  ‘Slander, actually,’ Andrews said. ‘Libel is a written defamatory statement, slander is oral. And, just so as you know for future reference, patricide means killing your father, not your uncle.’

  Shields wilted a little under the corrections.

  ‘Now, once more, do you know anything about your uncle’s murder?’

  The response was a shrug of the shoulder and a shake of the head.

  Something occurred to Andrews. They’d been puzzled as to why Fearon had beaten up Maguire. ‘You asked him to take care of Ciaran Maguire for grassing you up, didn’t you?’

  The answer was written on Shields’ face, as clearly as if it had been tattooed across his forehead, but he said nothing.

  ‘Would any of Maguire’s friends be looking for their own bit of revenge?’

  Shields gave the question some thought before shrugging again, then to the detectives’ surprise he volunteered information. ‘People were scared of Ollie,’ he said, ‘he had a mean streak and an even meaner temper. There’s not anyone I know who’d take him on.’

  There was no reason to hold him; they’d never prove he was instrumental in ordering Maguire’s beating. Andrews just hoped it wouldn’t start a cycle of tit-for-tat assaults.

  Back in the office, he turned to Baxter. ‘Have a word in Maguire’s ear before he’s discharged from hospital, Seamus,’ he said, ‘make him see the wisdom of putting it behind him.’ Then leaving him to do the necessary paperwork, he headed to West’s office.

  ‘It’s pretty clear that it was Shields who asked his uncle to give Maguire that beating,’ Andrews said when he’d finished filling him in.

  West nodded. ‘It makes sense. I’d love to have been there when he came out with the patricide line. I wonder where he picked that up?’

  ‘Probably EastEnders or some other soap,’ Andrews said, sitting down. ‘Then he accused us of libel.’

  West laughed in genuine amusement. ‘I hope you put him right.’

  Andrews grinned. ‘Of course, and if I’d known the correct word for killing an uncle, I’d have added that to the mix and totally confused the lad.’ He looked across the desk. ‘You know it?’

  ‘As every good solicitor would,’ he said, ‘it’s avunculicide.’

  ‘Avunculicide,’ Andrews said, practising the word, ‘I’ll remember that.’

  West knew he would, and that he’d use it at the first opportunity.

  14

  Niall Kennedy rang West the following day.

  ‘Hi Mike, I’m doing the post-mortem this afternoon at one o’clock.’

  West looked at the clock. It was just after eleven. They’d arranged for some of Fearon’s associates to come in for a chat. If he went to the post, he’d be spared listening to one thug after the other. ‘I’ll be there, Niall, thanks.’ Hanging up, he went in search of Andrews.

  ‘I can go if you’d prefer,’ Andrews said, putting the clipboard he was holding down on his desk.

  West grinned. ‘And take you away from those delightful guests you’ve invited, that just wouldn’t be fair, now would it?’

  Andrews picked up the clipboard again and read out some of the names. ‘Honestly, Fearon knew every damn shady customer on our patch and beyond. We’re not going to run out of people to interview for a while.’

  West took the list and scanned it. He recognised fewer than half the names. ‘Maybe Dr Kennedy can give us something to narrow the field a bit,’ he said, handing it back.

  ‘Well, I hope so,’ Andrews said, with an exaggerated sorrowful shake of his head. ‘If I have to listen to days of the crap I’m bound to hear today, I’m going to need counselling.’

  Smiling, West picked up his jacket and headed out. It was unlikely to take almost two hours to get to the mortuary, but there was a bakery in Blanchardstown that was renowned for its meringues. They were Edel’s favourite, he planned to stop and buy some to surprise her.

  There was limited parking outside the bakery. He waited; his patience rewarded minutes later when a car pulled out. Inside the small shop, there was a queue of people, giving him time to look around and take in what was on offer. Tempted, he ended up buying a lot more than he’d planned, leaving the shop with the meringues, a loaf of bread, a fruitcake and some Danish pastries.

  At the hospital, he parked, took out his mobile and rang the mortuary.

  ‘Can I speak to Dr Kennedy, please?’

  He was connected within minutes. ‘Kennedy.’

  ‘Niall, it’s Mike West, I’m early. I’ve got Danish pastries if you’ve time for a break before you start.’

  ‘Perfect, Mike,’ the pathologist said, ‘tell reception to direct you to the office.’

  Several minutes later, West was directed down the narrow corridor to the fifth door on the right. The door was glass-panelled; he could see Kennedy inside pouring coffee. Giving a rap on the door, he opened it and waved the pastry bag.

  ‘Good timing, I usually allow ten minutes from the car park, you made it in eight,’ Kennedy said with a grin before reaching a hand out for the bag. ‘I have fifty million things to do, you know,’ he said, filling a second cup and handing it to him. ‘For you, however, or maybe it’s for the pastries, I’ll take ten minutes.’

  Munching, they did the usual chat about weather, holidays and life in general before turning to the specific.

  ‘Thanks for sending me the image of the girl that Dundee did for you, Mike. Any feedback on it yet?’

  West brushed flakes of pastry from his hands and sat back. ‘We sent it to various agencies; the ones that have replied have done so in the negative
. We’re still waiting for a couple to get back to us.’ Picking up his mug, he took a mouthful. ‘Why does everyone have better coffee than we do?’ he complained before returning to the subject. ‘The image is great, Niall, but even Dundee admit they’re not sure how accurate it is. Children of that age, it seems, have ill-defined facial characteristics.’

  ‘You’re doing all you can, it might be that this is one you’re not going to be able to solve.’

  It was what West had been telling himself, hearing it from someone else didn’t make it any easier to accept. ‘At the moment, I’m busy trying to find who killed our friend Ollie.’ Deciding the conversation needed lightening, he told the tale of Connor Shields and his claim that they were accusing him of patricide. ‘It descended into farce, from what I gather,’ he said, as Kennedy chuckled.

  Leaving the pathologist to prepare for the post-mortem, he made his way to the viewing area and sat looking down. To his surprise, Fearon’s body was already on the table. His clothes had been removed, but the knife remained, dramatically jutting from his pale, naked body.

  Although he listened intently, most of Kennedy’s commentary during the autopsy was of little concern to him. He had no interest in how tall the man was, or that he was in rudimentary good health. Only when Kennedy grasped the handle of the knife and removed it, with a sucking sound that was loud in the quiet of the room, did he pay attention.

  Putting the knife down on a separate table, the pathologist held a measuring tape along its length. ‘The knife is, 300 millimetres in length, with a blade itself measuring’ – he moved the tape – ‘180 millimetres.’ He looked up to where West sat. ‘That’s just over seven inches for those of you still thinking in imperial.’