Ian was lost in thought when a familiar face peered in the side window at him, pulling a comical expression. Tim Bryson was the same vintage as Ian and they had attended some elements of the police graduate programme together. Tim had studied science and Ian and he had hit if off in those early days. Ian was inclined to be overly cautious and Tim’s inclination to play the clown had helped him relax and they had remained friends even after their career paths had become quite separate. He got out of the car and greeted his friend warmly. Tim’s assistant was a trainee and she stood shyly by as the boisterous reunion played out.
Minutes later when they were all suited up, Ian led the way towards the house. “Let’s go inside first and if the car keys are obvious maybe you would have a look at it afterwards.”
As Ian opened the front door with the key provided by Breen’s mother, a local patrol car drove slowly by.
Once inside, his first impressions were of a tasteful yet lifeless scene from an interior design magazine. He was involved in creating his own first home at the moment and Sally and he chose everything together. They had spent several weeks recently selecting a fitted carpet for the hallway and living room and he knew what a lot of time and cost was invested in these decisions. He reckoned that Breen’s home was a study in careful style choices alongside the expenditure of a lot of money.
The entrance hall was light and uncluttered. Where you might expect some outdoor clothes abandoned inside the front door there was only a full-length mahogany mirror and a semicircular glass table that held one small, but probably very pricey figurine. He noted that Helen Breen’s home was furnished with high quality pieces of furniture, discreet electronic devices and several expensive-looking artworks around the walls. Nevertheless, to Ian’s mind, it lacked any sense of being a home where day-to-day life happened.
The forensic duo was waiting for his guidance so he pulled himself back into the moment and looked carefully around. There was no sign of any disturbance and Ian didn’t think that there was any direct link here to the actual murder. He looked around for the kitchen and any more sign of life than had been evident to date.
At the rear of the house, a covered glass walkway of about fifty metres connected the main house to a reclaimed two-storey outbuilding. Downstairs had been converted into a large kitchen, dining room and casual seating area. There was a wood-burning stove and a manicured log pile that filled a custom-built alcove. The whole space was open, reaching from the floor to the exposed rafters. Here at least there was some sense of a life having been lived whereas the main house suggested only a life concealed.
In the kitchen area there was an unwashed cup in the sink and a handwritten note on the table. McVeigh was immediately alert. “The note is from ‘Lx’, which we can assume is Liam Doyle. ‘The guy collected the laptop. I Waited for a while but guess you have been delayed. Talk later.’ It’s dated Friday 20th December so the day after the killing. I’m interested to know if there is evidence of Doyle anywhere else. We’ll check out here and the bedrooms and bathroom in the main house too.”
Off the kitchen to the rear of the building there was a sizeable utility room. A large freezer was stocked with pre-prepared meals and a collection of fine wines filled a large wine rack. Helen Breen liked to eat and drink well for minimum personal effort.
Tim Bryson and his trainee set to work while McVeigh studied the lay of the land. Since their arrival the trainee had been taking photographs throughout the house. He would make sure to have them uploaded onto the shared drive and these would be useful for sharing with his colleagues later. “Bag and dust in here too, please, Tim, and I’ll have a look upstairs. I’m looking for any devices – PC, laptop, mobile phone or maybe even some written evidence from a study, a filing cabinet or anything like that.”
He ran up the open-tread staircase that led to a mezzanine area. A big skylight dominated the area and otherwise there were no windows. One wall was lined with books and files except for a large rectangular space into which an oak desk was set. There were three desk drawers on each side and a high-backed cream leather chair sat in between. An outsized bed was centred on the second wall. It had an impressive black iron headboard in the shape of a spider’s web. The bedclothes were plum-coloured silk or satin. On the third wall a large screen television was angled towards the bed. A half-wall overlooked the lower part of the building where Tim and his colleague could be heard going about their task of gathering evidence.
To the left of the bed a door led to a walk-in wardrobe and dressing room. Here, all was impeccably ordered with military precision. To the right of the bed, a door led to a bathroom which had a large bathtub and a separate walk-in shower. These two rooms had an interconnecting door. Up here, Ian thought, there was the first real sign that Helen Breen was not a total automaton but what the space said about its owner was not entirely clear. She had gone to enormous lengths to hide her real life behind the façade that the front of the house presented to the public. He had noted the implication of what the sergeant had said earlier about her covert pastimes but was slow to jump to conclusions without evidence.
He pulled his latex gloves more securely over his hands and moved towards the desk. The top was bare except for the wires that had once attached to a laptop. A double socket also held a mobile-phone charger but there was no device present. The top righthand drawer held some college stationery and a handbook for a MacBookPro. Ian searched methodically through the remaining desk drawers and in the final one found a diary and an address book, both of which contained handwritten data and some printed business cards. He bagged these for scrutiny later. Then he turned to the shelves and the box files in particular.
After a couple of hours more spent in Breen’s house, McVeigh transferred his findings to an empty evidence chest and carried it to the car. The forensic team had their own case of carefully labelled samples already stored on the back seat of their vehicle.
“We will get reports to you as soon as we can, Ian, and Myrtle will load the images as soon as we get back. Nice to catch up with you, mate.” Tim pulled one of his classic faces and winked exaggeratedly. “We must do this again soon, sir,” he said in his best lord-of-the-manor voice, jumped into the passenger seat and gave a regal wave as he was driven off.
McVeigh turned his car towards the M1 and headed back towards the station where he had plenty to occupy himself with until the planned review that evening. He had uncovered a considerable amount of evidence to add to the victim profile and potentially point to motives for her murder that had nothing to do with the workplace. He felt pleased with his morning’s work.
28
That same morning, at exactly eight fifteen, DS Bill Burrows sat down in the comfortably upholstered chair at the end of Mairéad Walsh’s large office desk. It was here that she entertained Ralph Wilson when he came to call. It was also where overwrought staff and students experienced her soothing powers. Burrows had brought a coffee with him and Mairéad lost no time in proffering a selection of rice cakes as a possible accompaniment. He politely declined and hoped that Caroline Paton never discovered them – he greatly preferred Paton’s idea of a snack. Mairéad had asked that they speak in her office so that if she were needed she would be on hand. She had explained that her colleague who occupied the inner office was working off campus for the day so they probably wouldn’t be disturbed.
“This is a shocking business, Detective Sergeant,” Mairéad began imperiously.
It was as if the peasant class had behaved even more outrageously than might be expected and Burrows was inwardly amused by her manner.
“Mrs Walsh, I realise you are in a very privileged position in DePRec in that you see and hear a wide range of opinions and accounts of events. Have you formed any view of who might have a motive for harming Dr Helen Breen?”
“I would be extremely surprised, Detective, if this event were related to the workplace at all. I have worked here for decades and I have seen all types of rivalries and conflicts,” here s
he took a long meaningful breath, “but it has never resulted in this, or any other type of violence.” She paused and then added, “Once a long time ago a young female lecturer slapped the face of a senior male colleague at an end-of-term drinks ‘do’. She was disciplined on her return to work but otherwise we have remained as peaceful as our title would suggest.” She took another thoughtful moment, this time accompanied by an eye roll, and then she took off again with renewed vigour. “You see, Detective Sergeant, academics are all about words and talk. They love nothing better than to hear themselves pour forth at great length on any subject whatsoever. It might be the weather, the restaurant menu, the state of the college lavatories. I have had all the lectures and more, delivered as if there were an Oscar pending for the performance. But I would say that the idea of moving far enough outside themselves to become active, never mind violently so … well, that just does not match with my experience.”
“How well did you know Dr Breen? What opinion had you formed of her?” Burrows launched his questions and waited.
Mairéad Walsh considered her answer and examined her fingers at some length before responding. “DS Burrows, my role here means I see and hear much that I am never expected to divulge. My opinion of my colleagues is not a relevant part of my role in managing the smooth administration of the DePRec’s day-to-day business. I know many things, all of which are confidential. I attend all DePRec staff meetings and I write letters and minutes and private documents for Professor Bell and others. I have full audio and written records of all meetings going back over a number of years. Whatever opinion I formed of Dr Helen Breen is neither here nor there.”
The woman’s bluster was convincing but Burrows was experienced at being played and had his own strategies.
“But, Mairéad,” he coaxed, “I just want to know if you liked her.”
“I did not,” she responded without hesitation. “I treated her with the respect due to a colleague and another human being but I did not like anything about her.”
Burrows remained silent and Mairéad continued.
“I felt she was a heartless woman entirely motivated by her own self-promotion. I don’t think I ever saw her show a genuine emotion about anything.” She took a breath and looked at him over her glasses. “She put me in mind of a wicked puppeteer … always scheming and manipulating so as to raise herself up higher in her own estimation. I don’t think she really cared about anyone or anything.”
“That’s a very definite position to have taken, Mairéad. I wonder if Helen Breen was close to any of her colleagues? You might have been in a position to hear chat about such friendships. Would people have visited her home for example? Did she invite people for meals or did she ever have a party?”
“No. I never heard about such an event ever taking place. She kept very much to herself. She was here but outside in a way. You would feel she was always watching and calculating. She would have gone for a coffee or lunch very occasionally with Professor Bell and she emailed him very frequently but more to keep herself at the forefront of his mind than out of any sincere closeness, in my opinion. Part of my role is to monitor Professor Bell’s work emails and I can assure you that she was forever bolstering the idea that she was DePRec’s most devoted supporter. And for some reason that very clever man fell for it all – hook, line and sinker.”
Burrows changed tack a little and asked about the forthcoming contest for the new professorial post.
“DS Burrows,” she said as if speaking to someone who has missed an obvious item of information, “it is no secret in DePRec that I am a close personal friend of Dr Ralph Wilson, who would have been Helen Breen’s only competitor in the professorial appointment process. Much of Breen’s time was spent discrediting Ralph and spinning opinion against him. In fact, she was very effective in doing that and she would more than likely have been DePRec’s next professor.” Mairéad stopped as if suddenly aware that she was creating a clear motive for Ralph to wish his opposition out of the way.
Burrows nodded and probed a little further.
“How did she go about that? Have you an example?”
Mairéad restrained herself from launching into a rant about the machinations of Helen Breen. She calmly recounted the episode of Breen’s lunch invitation to the new faculty head, Professor Janet Hartnett.
“They knew each other at school apparently and Breen was not going to miss the chance to swing influential opinion in her direction. It was stomach-turning to watch her operate with such brazenness right outside my office door. It was quite the performance, I can tell you.” She paused to purse her lips and lower her eyelids in disdain. “And it was even worse to witness how effective she was … and at the same time others further down the food chain she would treat like dirt.” She had said more than she intended and wasn’t too happy with the impression she had communicated of her own clear bias. “Look, I am not really sure why Helen Breen aggravated people so much but a big part of it was her obvious unshakeable confidence in her own worth.” She smiled at some internal image. “I had an old aunt in Dublin who had a phrase she used when people got above themselves. She’d roll her eyes and say ‘delusions of adequacy!’. I think it’s a concept that suited Helen Breen very well.”
Time was getting on towards nine o’clock and Burrows gathered his papers and thanked Mairéad for her time. He said he would come back to her if he had any further questions and left to go to the boardroom where he had an appointment to talk to Jackson Bell at the top of the hour. He liked Mairéad Walsh and her direct approach to giving her views. At the same time she had unintentionally added detail to the case against Ralph Wilson and he felt that they were right to have a second, more insistent chat with him later that day.
29
On Friday morning at precisely nine fifty, DI Caroline Paton was shown into the Detective Superintendent’s Office in PSNI Headquarters. As the head of the Murder Squad, Paton commanded considerable respect but she did not take any of that for granted. She knew the tide could just as easily turn against her and was mindful of that, without allowing herself to be fawning or sycophantic toward her superiors. She worked as hard as she could and then some, and preferred to steer a small efficient ship than the showy self-aggrandising alternative. Detective Superintendent Graham McCluskey was a canny Scot who appreciated this approach to policing. Caroline had observed that he was as careful of his immaculately groomed appearance as he was of his untarnished reputation for good policing. She delivered the kind of results for which he was happy to accept overall responsibility and in exchange he did not meddle in her case management. She had sent him the necessary briefing papers the previous evening and knew he would rely on her this morning to field the press enquiries and provide judiciously framed responses.
He stood as she came in and extended his well-manicured hand. “Good morning, DI Paton. Any significant overnight developments that I need to be aware of?”
Caroline noted his ability to politely cut straight to the chase.
“We have made some progress since I wrote your briefing, sir. Nothing which I would like to make public at this point but enough to be able to honestly say we are making progress in our enquiries even at this early stage.” She hesitated and then decided it was best to be completely candid with her concerns. “I feel there is a distinct possibility that the press may have got hold of the details of the location of the remains. There were too many maintenance and security staff involved to be able to control that information and it’s the kind of thing they’ll go for. However, I would like to try to shut that line down for the moment in the hope that we can still use some of the detail to catch someone out in our questioning. There are some important staff interviews still to be completed today. I have a number of responses prepared that will support that position. We can give them a little more detail once we have the weekend behind us.”
At one minute to ten the office door opened and a young uniformed constable announced that it was “time to raise the curt
ain”. The two senior officers proceeded to their prepared places at the front of the Press Room like performers secure in their grasp of the current script. As they sat down calmly on the podium, their audience gave them their unfaltering attention.
30
In the home of Helen Breen’s mother, PC Sandra Woods sat in the warm kitchen and helped Lisa as she prepared a tray to bring in to the elderly woman. She had reportedly slept soundly the previous night.
“She is not very much an emotional person,” Lisa said by way of explanation. “I think she has got used to being by herself and she has stopped expecting to feel things for her son and daughter. They don’t give her any reason to feel anything … and so she doesn’t any longer have the habit.”
The presence of Sandra Woods was perhaps a relief from the solitary nature of Lisa’s task and she continued to voice her long-observed opinions of her employer’s disposition.
“She is very different with her son in Australia and his children. Usually when they call her on Skype there is laughing and chatting and then she is a little sad afterwards when the call is finished.” Lisa smiled to herself. “I have even heard Mrs Breen singing to the smallest child.”
Sandra revised her view of Mrs Breen upwards.
The kettle boiled and Lisa made the coffee in a cafetière and set it aside to brew. Sandra asked if there had been a Skype call with Mrs Breen’s son Frank and his family since she had left yesterday afternoon but then realised that with the ten-and-a-half-hour time difference that was unlikely.
“Michael was going to email them and Mrs Breen will call them this morning. I will put the Skype call through for her once I have served the coffee. You will see that Frank is the most friendly of all the Breens.”
Murder In The Academy : A chilling murder mystery set in Belfast (Alice Fox Murder Mysteries Book 1) Page 14
