by Sam Blake
‘Bloody hell. You’ll get a gold star for that.’
‘The lads picked Xavier up at his apartment in town late this afternoon. He’s denying everything . . .’
‘Obviously.’
‘Almost. He’s admitted the drugs in Lauren’s room were his all right, but he says he never met her. He thought a prostitute his brother had engaged had stolen them from their apartment. He reckons his brother’s set him up. They can’t stand each other, apparently.’
‘That sounds like an understatement.’ She shifted in the hard steel chair, her hip beginning to ache. ‘Can he explain how his print got onto that bracelet, the one the French victim was wearing?’
‘Well, that’s where things get interesting. Apparently Olivier had an exchange student staying with him at the time of the murder. A lad called Karim Malik from London. Malik bought the bracelet for his sister as a souvenir. Xavier said he looked at it, must have touched the disc . . .’
‘And somehow it ended up with the girl’s body in the park. And Olivier and Karim Malik form a lifetime allegiance.’ Cathy shook her head.
‘It turns out Olivier was in Long Island on another exchange programme when the girl there was killed. We have to check, but Xavier claims he was at home in Paris. Olivier was questioned along with everyone else as part of the investigation, didn’t even have a concrete alibi, but the investigating team found images on the girl’s computer and assumed she was meeting someone who had viewed them.’
‘He’s certainly been busy, and it sounds like he’s been trying to frame Xavier for murder at every opportunity. Nice.’
‘If we hadn’t just seen Olivier in action, I’d say Xavier was being creative with the truth, but the evidence is mounting. Olivier used his car that night and if Tom had told him about Karen Delaney, like lads do, he’d have known exactly where Tom was going.’
‘That’s what Orla said – that he was the only person Tom might have told about his relationship with Karen. And Olivier would have known that the charity event was live streamed, which gave him a window of opportunity. Before she . . .’ Cathy hesitated, clearing her throat. ‘Orla said Karen came to tell her about Tom. Karen mentioned what Tom had said about Lauren and the video. Orla was a very clever lady, she put it together with what Tom had already told her about the websites. I think they were very close.’ She sighed. ‘But Olivier Ayari couldn’t risk Tom exposing his involvement with the videos because they linked him to the killings. He knew he’d lose everything and be facing about a century in jail.’
‘Which would be a fairly strong motive for murder. I’ll be talking to Karen Delaney tomorrow – we’ll see what she has to say.’ He paused. ‘Maybe Olivier recognised Conor Quinn in one of the videos of Lauren and was holding that over Tom too. We may never know. What we do know is that Olivier sending that video to Lauren kicked all this off.’ O’Rourke paused. ‘I think Olivier was planning to go after Lauren, but Mira Mandić got involved.’
Cathy cut in. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. I reckon Olivier sent Lauren that sign-up email to Discovery Quay to frighten her – the one that arrived while we were in her room. He didn’t know she was dead at that stage. He must have been wondering why he hadn’t heard from her, got twitchy.’
‘I bet he was twitchy. Rob Power is going over Xavier’s laptop as well to see how he’s linked to Merchant’s Quay and Discovery Quay. Xavier claims his brother is the tech nerd, that he built the sites, that it was all him. Apparently he’d been hacking since he was a kid.’
Cathy watched as another white-suited tech arrived, but from the way everyone was standing back, she guessed it was the pathologist.
She paused for a moment, then said, ‘Orla didn’t seem to think Olivier was bright enough to set up such a big business. She thought Xavier was the mastermind behind the sites, that he got Olivier to build them. And at some stage Olivier must have realised that he could use Discovery Quay as a vehicle to attack women.’
‘I think you’re right. If Olivier had been successful and Xavier had been arrested for any one of these murders, he would have taken over running both sites and benefited to the tune of millions.’
‘Which all fits.’ Cathy took another sip of her coffee. ‘Oh, you know Olivier’s alibi about being in the library the night Tom was killed?’ She sat forward in the seat. ‘I’ve just realised that their system scans users’ cards on the way in, but not on the way out. I’d say Olivier went in that night, changed his hoodie or something and came out again, hiding his face. Then he took his brother’s car and waited for Tom.’ Cathy paused. ‘You would wonder why either of them needed to make that sort of money when they come from a family who are rolling in it.’
‘I’m not so sure they are. Between them Rob and Pierre Beaussoleil have finally tracked down their parents. Xavier and Olivier’s father is a technician with what was France Telecom, it’s called Orange SA now. He’s been working in some province in China. Their mother’s French, but their parents have been divorced for years, she uses her maiden name, which was why they couldn’t find her to start with. She’s got MS, doesn’t travel. She thought both boys were working through their degrees while they were here in Ireland. They went home regularly, and obviously spun her a tale about what they were doing here. She didn’t know anything about the science block being built.’ He paused, ‘So it looks like the websites have been providing their income – Silk Road was worth $48 million when it was closed down by the FBI and it had only been trading for two years. We’ll find out shortly what Merchant’s Quay is worth now Rob and Operation Honey Bee are on it. It could be more. From what Pierre’s team have found out so far, Olivier’s definitely the black sheep, he didn’t get on with his father at all.’
‘You do surprise me.’ Cathy paused, remembering Fanning explaining the value of Bitcoins on their way back from searching Lauren’s room. The amount of money that could be made with these sites was mind-blowing. She sighed, exhaustion washing over her. ‘I’ve been trying to work out why Xavier would draw attention to himself by funding that building in Trinity.’
O’Rourke snorted. Or at least it sounded like a snort. ‘Arrogance? Maybe he wanted to leave some sort of tribute to his technical wizardry in one of the oldest universities in the world.’ She could almost hear him shaking his head at the irony as he continued. ‘I reckon it was a bit more practical than that, though – he had a stack of money he needed to get rid of. Sums as big as the ones he must have been bringing in start attracting attention. And there are only so many ways you can get rid of twenty or thirty million without it actually making you more money back. We should know more soon. Trinity’s accountants checked out the company it came from. It appeared to be legit, or as legit as any company registered in the Cayman’s is. It’s an investment company, part of a group apparently. As far as they were concerned it was bona fide. Xavier doesn’t pay tax in this state so the revenue wasn’t interested.’
Cathy could see how that made sense. ‘So what’s the story with the marina? It wasn’t Xavier breaking into the boats, was it?’
‘Nope.’ O’Rourke chuckled. ‘Turns out it was your friend Nifty Quinn. He’d persuaded the marina staff that he was working on a boat and bypassed all their systems. Just kept on coming back. While the lads were down there getting Xavier Ayari’s records, doesn’t he walk right into the office with a bag of tools.’
Cathy smiled, shaking her head. Nifty Quinn was a housebreaker with some strange predilections who had been her and Thirsty’s nemesis since the day she’d arrived in Dun Laoghaire. Suddenly feeling weary, she took another sip of her coffee. It was so good to hear O’Rourke’s voice.
‘So how’s Anna Lockharte doing?’ Cathy could hear the concern in O’Rourke’s tone.
‘She’s supposed to be giving a lecture on political extremism and cybercrime at New Scotland Yard tomorrow morning.’ The irony wasn’t lost on either of them. ‘But she texted to say she’s safe at the US Embassy. Rob Power had her collected
as soon as she got out of here. She doesn’t know about Orla yet. I’ll tell her as soon as I get away. She’s arranged for them to put me up for the night.’ Cathy took another sip of her coffee. ‘She was sure Olivier chose St Pancras to work from because he’s been following her and watching her online. He could have gone anywhere in the world to orchestrate this and watch his campaign in action. I think she was in very real danger, was most likely next on his list.’
O’Rourke sounded like he was thinking. ‘Sounds like he thought he’d double job while he was in London.’
‘That was his mistake. These cyber geeks think they are untouchable. It’s always human emotion that fecks things up for gurriers like him.’
‘I’m not sure about emotion. I think he’s some sort of sociopath. Mike Wesley, the inspector in New Scotland Yard we were meeting, wants to see you before you go. I was just on the phone to him. In both the London cases, the girls were victims of cybercrime, received emails threatening that video from their webcams would be broadcast on Discovery Quay. But they have DNA that should give us a match now we have a suspect.’
‘So we’ll know for sure which of the brothers was involved in the killings.’
‘Indeed. Now the cases have been linked, the evidence is building. It’ll be complicated to construct a solid case that crosses jurisdictions like this, and the rail network hacking takes precedence, but we have the Ayari brothers in custody now and with time we’ll get there.’
Time was the one thing they didn’t have. It was as if they both realised it at the same moment.
‘Are you coming over here now?’ Her voice was tentative, but she already knew the answer.
‘I can’t, I have to interview Xavier Ayari and find out when we can interview Olivier. And I have to get down to Limerick. One of our lads has been abducted.’
Cathy winced. The criminal families in Limerick were worse than the Mafia – Jesus only knew what they were doing to him.
‘Who?’ Her voice was small; everyone knew everyone else in this job.
‘I can’t say. He was undercover. It’s a big fucking mess.’ O’Rourke paused. ‘But can you come down as soon as you get back? You’re supposed to be resting today, you’ll be owed leave by the time you’re done over there.’
She smiled. As if he’d be able to get any time off to spend with her. But the will was there. ‘I will. I’ll see you in Limerick.’
There were about five hundred million more romantic places in the world that they could have met, including St Pancras station, which, despite everything, she still adored, but she knew he wouldn’t be able to get away until this new case was resolved.
O’Rourke’s voice was soft when he replied. ‘Good, I’d like that, I’d like that a lot.’
Cathy felt herself smiling. ‘I would too.’
Acknowledgements
This book is, I hope, testimony to the fact that if you work hard enough and follow your dreams you can do anything you want in this world. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.’
All writers work alone to get a manuscript written, but it’s a team that makes it into a book. Huge thanks have to go first to my (brave) readers, Jane Alger and Claire McKenna, but biggest thanks to my incredible and talented friend Niamh O’Connor who had the skill and wisdom to point out the mega problems in that first draft (ahem). Thank God you did.
Colm Dooley and Joe Griffin were invaluable in helping me get Garda procedure correct (or Cat would have been sacked about a thousand times over), huge thanks too, to Assistant Commissioner Fintan Fanning. Graham Penrose was an essential adviser on weaponry and terrorism. Thanks too, to Sophie Fox O’Loughlin and Alex Caan who put me right on the tech stuff. Kyle O’Connell gave huge advice on search and rescue proced-ures (it’s just as well he’s well trained – he also runs Irish Film and Television Services and whenever we work together, mad things happen). Any mistakes are entirely my own.
Thanks also to my extremely patient editor, Katherine Armstrong – this story ‘developed’ quite a lot between drafts, and her support was unwavering and enthusiastic at every turn. I owe an incredible debt to Steve O’Gorman who gave this book its final editorial polish and for whose sound advice I will be forever indebted.
This is the third in the Cat Connolly series, and I want to say a massive thank you to you, the reader, for sticking with Cat. She’s just about to start on another exciting episode in her life and I’ve loved every minute of sharing her journey with you thus far. If you’ve only just met her, I hope you will check out Cat’s earlier escapades in Little Bones and In Deep Water. Without my superstar agent Simon Trewin’s faith in that first story, originally titled The Dressmaker, and in my writing, I may never have had the pleasure of sharing her story with anyone, so biggest thanks of all go to you, Simon, for making dreams come true.
This book is dedicated to all those who so tragically lost their lives in the Grenfell fire disaster on 14 June 2017, and to a wonderful lady named Nicole Dressen who was immensely generous in supporting the subsequent Authors for Grenfell auction.
I was immersed in writing in the middle of June, and will never forget the images on the TV, the utter tragedy of lives lost and the heroism of those who helped and supported. In the days that followed I read many reports but I was particularly struck by the incredible leadership of David Benson, the headmaster of Kensington Aldridge Academy, who stood watching the tower burn at 3.30 a.m. and who lost four pupils and one recently graduated pupil. His school was in the shadow of the tower, and the fact that fifty-six out of sixty of his students turned in for their exams that day stands testimony to his staff’s dedication and commitment. David Benson ensured that his school reopened forty-eight hours later in a nearby temporary location, offering continuity and counselling to those involved. I doubt he slept in those forty-eight hours. I hope that this dedication, in a very small way, will help us remember those who were lost, and that their stories will live on.
About the Author
Also by Sam Blake
Little Bones
In Deep Water
Sam Blake is a pseudonym for Vanessa Fox O’Loughlin, the founder of The Inkwell Group publishing consultancy and the hugely popular national writing resources website Writing.ie. She is Ireland’s leading literary scout who has assisted many award-winning and bestselling authors to publication. Vanessa has been writing fiction since her husband set sail across the Atlantic for eight weeks and she had an idea for a book.
Follow Vanessa on Twitter @inkwellhq, @samblakebooks or @writing_ie.
If you enjoyed No Turning Back, read on for an extract from Sam Blake’s first novel,
Available now
PART ONE
Coming Apart at the Seams
In clothing: where two pieces of material come apart and the garment can no longer be worn. Often caused by a weakness or break in the thread.
1
The door to the back bedroom hung open.
Pausing at the top of the narrow wooden stairs, Garda Cathy Connolly could just see inside, could see what looked like the entire contents of the wardrobe flung over the polished floorboards, underwear scattered across the room like litter. The sun, winter weak, played through a window opposite the door, its light falling on something cream, illuminating it bright against the dark denim and jewel colours of the tumbled clothes on the floor.
Cathy’s stomach turned again and she closed her eyes, willing the sickness to pass. There was a riot of smells up here, beeswax, ghostly layers of stale perfume, something musty. She put her gloved hand to her mouth and the smell of the latex, like nails on a blackboard, set her teeth on edge.
Until thirty-six hours ago Cathy had been persuading herself that her incredibly heightened sense of smell and queasiness were the start of a bug. Some bug. But right now her problems were something she didn’t have the headspace to deal with. She had a job to do. Later, when she was on her own in the gym, when it was just her and a
punchbag, that was when she’d be able to think. And boy did she have a lot to think about.
Pulling her hand away from her mouth, Cathy impatiently pushed a dark corkscrew curl that had escaped from her ponytail back behind her ear. Too thick to dry quickly, her hair was still damp from her early-morning training session in the pool, but that was the least of her worries. She folded her arms tightly across her chest and breathed deeply, slowly fighting her nausea. Inside her head, images of the bedroom whirled, slightly out of focus, blurred at the edges.
When the neighbour had called the station this morning, this had presented as a straightforward forced entry. That was until the lads had entered the address into the system and PULSE had thrown up a report from the same property made only the previous night. The householder, Zoë Grant, had seen a man lurking in the garden. Watching her. Cathy would put money on him doing a bit more than just watching. One of the Dún Laoghaire patrol cars had been close by, had arrived in minutes, blue strobes illuminating the lane. But the man had vanished. More than likely up the footpath that ran through the woods from the dead end of the cul-de-sac to the top of Killiney Hill.
And now someone had broken in.
It was just as well Zoë Grant hadn’t been at home.
Cathy thrust her hands into the pockets of her combats and fought to focus. Christ, she was so sick of feeling sick. The one thing that Niall McIntyre, her coach – ‘The Boss’ – drilled into her at every single training session was that winning was about staying in control. Staying in control of her training; her fitness; her diet.
Staying in control of her breakfast.
And she’d got to be the Women’s National Full-Contact Kickboxing champion three times in a row by following his advice.
