If I Never See You Again

by Niamh O'Connor

  ‘You’re having a laugh, right?’ Sexton said, and then realized what was wrong. ‘Are you suggesting I organized that interview with old Mrs Nulty so I could take over from you?’ To his credit, he looked shocked.

  ‘Your pal Ryan Freeman’s byline was on it,’ Jo said. ‘Now, unless you want to end up as a glorified security man on this case, I’ll deal with Freeman from now on.’

  She turned and headed into the Portakabin with Foxy, Sexton dragging his heels behind them. Anto Crawley was lying on the slab, being stitched back together by Hawthorne.

  ‘Couldn’t you have waited?’ she complained.

  ‘I’m on my own today,’ Hawthorne snapped, pointing over to a second unattended cadaver lying on a slab on the far side of the room. ‘The other pathologist has had to go to a murder suicide of a family of five in Donegal, and my technician’s out sick.’

  Jo studied Crawley. It seemed hard to believe the waxy, sunken and musty shell of a man could have wreaked so much havoc on an entire country. His jaw hung slack against his neck, his open mouth was a pit of congealed blood, his wiry dark brown hair was receding, his arms were heavily tattooed and his left shoulder had a list of first names under the letters ‘RIP’.

  Foxy crooked his neck sideways to try and read them, keeping his hand over his nose and mouth like the dead crime lord ‘The General’ Martin Cahill used to when he saw a camera. Jo scanned Crawley’s flesh for any signs of defensive wounds, while Sexton nudged Foxy’s shoulder with his own to tell him to check out the size of Crawley’s member.

  ‘Show me the manner in which a nation cares for its dead,’ Foxy told him, ‘and I will measure with mathematical exactness the tender mercies of its peoples, their respect for the laws of the land, and their loyalty to high ideals and their regard for the laws of the land.’ He was quoting William Gladstone. The same words were inscribed over the door of the city’s Coroner’s Court next to the station.

  Hawthorne threw his eyes up to heaven. Considering they were in a glorified mobile home, even Jo thought Foxy’s words were over the top.

  ‘See here.’ Hawthorne indicated some white specks on Crawley’s nostrils. ‘The blood patterns tell us that the teeth were removed while he was still alive, and these flecks of froth confirm it. You get splashes if a victim has been struck; smears tend to indicate flailing or thrashing limbs; trails lend themselves to a victim who’s been dragged; and, as in this case, spurts indicate the heart was still pumping after the fatal injury.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Jo pressed.

  ‘Meaning,’ Hawthorne repeated impatiently, ‘that the deceased panicked, presumably because someone was wrenching his teeth out, causing his heart to beat faster, making his lungs work harder, resulting in an ingestion of the blood caused by the oral injury. Death was technically due to drowning. The foam you see on his nose is produced by mucus and air. We’ll see it again when we cross-section the bronchea and trachea. There was relatively little blood at the scene. I suspect we’ll find most of it in the lungs, and they’ll be distended when we get them out. They can hold two cubic litres of liquid, you know.’

  Jo pointed to the hallmark wound right of Crawley’s breastbone, the same one they’d seen on Rita’s, which had led to their theory of the Doubting Thomas link. ‘Do you know anything about the significance of this wound for the faithful?’

  Hawthorne coughed irritably.

  ‘It hastened Christ’s death,’ Foxy answered. ‘I read it last night in one of Sal’s books.’ He copped her frown. ‘After I’d had forty winks of course. Christ died after three to six hours on the cross, which took even Pontius Pilate by surprise.’

  ‘Same analgesic . . .’ Hawthorne cut in.

  ‘Any sexual interference?’ Jo asked him.

  Hawthorne shook his head.

  ‘What about a weapon?’ Jo asked him.

  ‘I reckon it must have been a sword, you know, like the ones used by the Roman centurions. The tip could have caused this.’ Hawthorne pointed to the breastbone. ‘Also, I’ve been comparing the injuries during the rending of Rita Nulty’s bones and muscle – all very clean, there’s no ripping motion at all, suggesting your man probably removed the body parts in one sweep.’

  Jo thought back to the notes she’d made in the apartment when she’d revisited the Rita Nulty crime scene, how she’d thought Rita’s assailant had been wearing a long coat. If the killer was carrying a sword, he’d have to have been able to conceal it. ‘I’ll bet you any money our killer was wearing a robe,’ she said.

  37

  Back in the station, Jo lifted the blind to get a better view of the scrum of reporters outside the station. A TV3 van was parked on a double yellow in the lane left of the station, but the girl who’d jumped out in a pair of CAT boots and a puffa jacket was more concerned with setting up a camera tripod than the garda beside tucking a ticket under her windscreen wiper. An RTÉ van pulled up alongside. Jo watched as a guy jumped from the sliding door while the van was still moving and headed for the garda with the ticket book.

  Rubbing the sticky dust from the blind off her finger with her thumb, Jo turned around to face Mac. He was sitting with his legs spread apart and his size-twelve Dr Martens’ soles flat on the ground. Sexton sat in the chair beside the door at Jo’s request, because she hoped a friendly face might help put Mac off guard. The good-cop-bad-cop routine had become clichéd for a reason: it worked.

  She took a seat opposite Mac and opened a folder containing a slim stack of sheets.

  ‘Smoke?’ Mac reached under his fleece into the pocket of his uniform shirt.

  Jo leaned across, took the box from him and dropped them in the waste-paper basket at the side of the table. She was not having him set the pace. ‘This is a no-smoking room,’ she said, lifting the foil ashtray that had started life as a Mr Kipling apple tart off the table and disposing of it too.

  Mac caught Sexton’s eye. ‘Nazi,’ he joked. ‘Reformed smokers are always the worst.’ He gave a short, derisive laugh.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us you’d arrested Rita Nulty and let her off with a caution?’ Jo asked.

  Mac looked surprised. ‘It was irrelevant,’ he said, pulling his fleece up over his head. His shirt lifted and showed his midriff – taut stomach muscles that required a lot of work to achieve, Jo realized.

  He shook his shirt back down. The dark string of a religious scapular jutted up from under his collar. The sight of it made goose pimples break out on Jo’s skin.

  ‘You knew the murder victim of a case you were assigned to personally, but you don’t think that’s relevant?’ she asked.

  No reply.

  ‘So what was she like?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘Let me help you. New Year’s Eve last. 2 a.m. You were returning from your shift when you spotted her soliciting outside the IFSC . . . Come on, you must remember! It’s a bum shift for a party animal like you. It’s just across the road. You live there, don’t you?’

  Mac shook his head. ‘Is this a formal interview? Only I haven’t been cautioned. If it is, I’d like to have my solicitor now, please.’

  Jo referred to her papers. ‘You were driving back to the station with Detective Inspector Healy, now in CAB. He filed the details of the incident on PULSE before signing off.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Healy on the phone, and he remembers it clear as a bell. He says after telling him you knew Rita, you left the squad car and went over to her for a little chat.’

  ‘I want my brief. Is this being taped?’

  ‘Think of it as an off-the-record chat. Did you know her?’

  ‘No.’

  Jo sighed. ‘Look, Mac, if you want to do this the hard way – fine by me. I’ll get Healy’s deposition and it’ll be your word against his. Think about how it will look. He says you knew Rita. You say you didn’t. So why did you let her off with a warning on New Year’s when your only hope of promotion is with a half-decent conviction rate? What’
s your basic at the moment, 25,000? Not much, is it? Though from what I hear, that hasn’t stopped you living the high life. How do you manage it then?’

  Mac shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘So let’s try that last one again, shall we?’ Jo said. ‘Did you know Rita Nulty?’

  ‘Yeah, to see. You couldn’t not know Rita. She got around. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I hadn’t come across her, would I?’

  ‘But you kept it quiet after she was murdered . . . Did you know she was being pimped by the Skids for drugs?’

  Mac was silent.

  ‘What if I said she kept the names of all of her clients written down, would that ring a bell?’

  ‘You’re having a laugh. Rita couldn’t even remember to brush her teeth in the morning . . .’

  ‘Just knew her to see, eh?’ Jo asked, holding his eye. She took a little black contacts book that had been sitting on her lap from under the table and flicked through the pages. ‘Makes for interesting reading . . . When did you say you last saw her?’

  ‘I want my solicitor.’

  Jo reached for the sheets in the file on the desk. ‘I’d like to talk about the boy who died in the cell on your watch now,’ she said.

  ‘What? That’s years ago. What’s he got to do with Rita Nulty?’

  ‘You tell me. Do you even remember his name?’

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Mac stood up and lunged at her. ‘What did I ever do to you, eh?’

  Sexton moved to intercept him, but Jo held her arm out to tell him to sit down. ‘You too,’ she told Mac.

  He slouched back into his seat. Sexton sat down slowly.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ Mac said. ‘It may come as some news for you to learn, Sarge, but I was cleared of any wrongdoing.’ He turned to Sexton. ‘Now, my solicitor’s name is Jasper Flood.’

  ‘It says here that the family of the kid who died on your watch was taking a civil action against you,’ Jo went on. ‘That must have come as a shock. Especially when you thought it was all over and done with. A kid died in a cell, the way they do . . .’

  ‘It was all hot air. They’d never have gone through with it.’

  ‘You sure?’ Jo asked. ‘Only I rang the kid’s father earlier. He says you called to his house after the writs were served and warned him you’d make his life “hell on earth”. He said you told him you’d “friends in low places”, and I quote. What does that mean? Who’ve you been hanging around with, Mac?’

  Mac looked at the floor.

  ‘I also asked Foxy to put together a list of any other cases in which you were involved over the last twelve months. Guess what? He’s only found your name on a warrant relating to some Skid whose charges were dropped because of a mix-up over the dates. I bet if we go further back we’ll find more Skids, won’t we?’ Jo leaned forward, forcing Mac to look at her. ‘You were on their payroll, weren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t you know that, if you ask the same question more than once, the courts consider it an interference with a suspect’s right to silence?’ Mac said finally.

  ‘Of course,’ Jo said. ‘You know all about your right to silence because you know the law . . . You’re on the take, Mac, aren’t you? You don’t need to worry about your status, or your conviction rate, because you’ve found a much more lucrative nixer.’

  Mac’s face was white. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘As a matter of interest . . .’ Jo said, holding up a seven-by-twelve school photo from the file. The image showed a portrait of a kid more boy than teen. ‘What was he like?’

  ‘The truth? He was a little prick. Not PC to say so, but then life isn’t, is it?’

  ‘So you thought you’d put some manners on him?’

  ‘I never touched him.’

  ‘So you said. Just like you said you didn’t know Rita.’ Jo stacked the papers back together and closed the file.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what’s your problem with me, eh?’ Mac shouted suddenly. ‘Not getting any at home? Want to get some of my special attention?’

  Jo swallowed. He was making her nervous. ‘Stuart Ball – did you know him?’

  Mac gave her a look of contempt. ‘Frigid bitch.’

  ‘What about Anto Crawley?’ Jo asked, glad Sexton was there.

  ‘Now I’m your serial killer, is that it?’ Mac asked, looking at Sexton like it was a wind-up.

  Sexton looked away.

  ‘You tell me,’ Jo said.

  ‘You’re pathetic,’ Mac said to her. ‘You swan in here, looking down your nose at everyone, having married the boss to get ahead. You dump him when things don’t go your way then do the bleeding-heart routine to give the impression you’re married to the job. I feel sorry for you. Well, if you think you’re going to stitch me up, you got another think coming. I go down, I’m bringing everyone else with me.’

  ‘And that means?’ Jo asked.

  Mac ran his fingers over his lips like he was zipping them shut.

  ‘If that’s a reference to Sexton’s car crash, he’s told me all about it.’

  Mac didn’t so much as blink.

  ‘You work out a lot, because you’re watching your back, right?’ She walked over to him, pulled the string of the scapular from around his neck and studied the image of the Sacred Heart stitched into the felt. ‘Didn’t have you down as the holy type,’ she said, curling her lip.

  ‘Keeps me safe,’ Mac sneered.

  Suddenly, Jenny Friar rapped and entered, without waiting for the all-clear. ‘We need to talk,’ she told Jo, gesturing towards the street. ‘What the hell is going on out there?’

  Jo stood up. ‘I’m all finished here,’ she said, tossing Sexton back his contacts book. ‘Get him his solicitor, and get me a buccal swab.’ She turned to Mac. ‘I want your DNA.’

  38

  Jo’s watch read 2.30 p.m. when she left Mac and Sexton in the interview room. She rubbed her hands over her face anxiously. It wasn’t stacking up. If Mac was being bribed to help Skids evade charges, why would he start knocking them off? Maybe he’d wanted out because the Skids were blackmailing him but, if so, would he really kill four people? And why go to so much trouble with each killing, when a bullet in the back of their heads would have dispatched them far more effectively?

  ‘We’ve got a situation,’ Jenny Friar said. ‘The place is crawling with press, a journalist from the Sun has just turned up hiding in a cubicle in the john . . .’

  ‘Any missing-person reports yet?’ Jo asked, changing the subject as she branched right towards the stairs.

  Friar had headed straight on towards the incident room, and now looked round. ‘Not that feast day palaver again . . . Where are you going?’

  ‘My photo call,’ Jo replied.

  ‘Are you saying you’re the reason they’re here?’ she shouted as the weighted door slammed shut between them. ‘You are way out of order.’

  ‘I am still technically in charge of this investigation,’ Jo answered, continuing down a flight of stairs.

  ‘You need clearance from the press office!’

  ‘Technically, given my rank, I don’t,’ Jo answered.

  ‘So what are you going to tell them, Jo?’ Friar asked. ‘The killer thinks he’s Doubting Thomas; he hates the Christian code of law so much he mutilates the victims to remind people of the way things used to be done; he drugs them the way Christ was drugged; oh yeah, and he’s never been in trouble with the law before, which he knows inside out. Where’s that supposed to get us? You planning to ask Joe Public if anybody knows anyone matching your description?’

  Jo stopped and looked up. ‘Maybe.’ She turned and, squaring her shoulders, strode out past the front desk in reception, past the oil painting of the city’s rooftops, through the door into daylight and down the curved granite steps.

  Somebody let out a shout as she emerged, and immediately a round of flashes made colour spots burst before her eyes. Squinting, she continued to descend to where a dozen-odd jostling reporters swarmed into an ar
c around her, plunging hand-held tape recorders in front of her face. Two sound muffs appeared over her head, the men holding them trying to angle them at the end of long poles. A couple of photographers stood on stepladders with long lenses, even though they were only six feet away.

  Jo waved her hands for some hush. ‘Apologies for the delay, and the next one of you who pulls a stunt like Piddling Pete from the Sun gets themselves a court date . . .’

  Immediately, there was a burst of indecipherable questions. Jo held up her hand again. ‘I’m not taking questions right now, I’m here to give you a statement.’

  ‘Detective Inspector . . .’

  A blonde with shiny make-up wearing a shiny black PVC stripper’s mac was talking. ‘Three murders in three days, no arrests: have the forces of law and order lost control of the city?’

  Jo tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears.

  Another voice, this time from a young bald man with red flaky skin on his nose. ‘Detective Inspector, these three killings have now hit every strata of society. Are we in the grip of a crime epidemic?’

  Jo looked at her watch. ‘You’ve got precisely two minutes to listen. If you want to waste it, keep going. First of all, my deepest sympathies to the families and friends of the victims now coming to terms with their losses. And for the record, we’re dealing with four, not three, killings, which we believe are linked.’

  The questions started up again, twice as frantic.

  ‘But the main reason I’ve called you here today is to appeal to the public to be extra vigilant,’ Jo continued. ‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t warn people to take all precautions necessary. We will find the killer. But until then, we need people to be on their guard – and especially today.’

  She looked straight into one camera lens. ‘And to the killer, I want to say: find the strength to show what true power is and stop. Don’t hurt anyone else. You can talk to me at any time, and I promise you I will try to rectify the wrong done to you. You can contact me through the station.’

  She gave the incident-room number and took another deep breath. ‘On a happier note, I can tell you that some good is about to come from this. As you all know, the balance of our criminal justice system is heavily weighted against victims. Fortunately, our justice minister is about to realign one aspect of the system in the victims’ favour. I understand he is going to recommend Separate Legal Representation, so that rape victims no longer have to consider themselves ancillary to the judicial process. That’s it, thank you for your time.’