Kate’s lips set in a hard line and she reached into her handbag. It might be foolish, and a waste of money, but if there was the slightest chance of saving this girl she didn’t mind making a fool of herself. She wrote a cheque for two thousand euros and handed it to her, saying, ‘Here. It isn’t a fortune but it’s enough to make a fresh start with. You can get a decent flat somewhere else, where no one knows you, and it’ll keep you going until you get help from the Social Welfare. Somewhere safely away from Dublin, or even in London if you’re dead set on going there. And this is the phone number of my friend who lives in Oxford; he can help you get into a detox program. He can help your baby, too.’
She paused for a moment before continuing in the same even tone, ‘Or you can spend the money on drugs and kill yourself and your baby. Or end up on the game anyway. It’s up to you. In the end, it always is.’
The girl didn’t thank her for the money, didn’t say anything at all. She just started crying again, harder than before, a little sympathy and help affecting her more deeply than privation and fear had.
Kate patted her shoulder sympathetically before standing up. ‘Think about it. You can get help if you want it. For your baby’s sake if not your own.’
A chastened Kate left the flat, saddened by the girl’s plight, and by her prospects for the future. To say nothing of those of her unfortunate, unborn baby. She was not hopeful of the girl seeking help; she had seen pregnant junkies before, and even the most powerful emotion on earth, a mother’s love, hadn’t been enough to make them change their lives. But there was always a chance. As she had told Madelyn; in the end it was up to her. Kate could do no more, and in any case had her own problems to worry about. Like having a maniac on her trail who would pay to have an unpublished, unfinished, book stolen in case there was something in it that incriminated him. And who would kill the person who withheld it from him.
Chapter Fifteen
It took Kate forty minutes or so to get home, time she spent endlessly replaying her meeting with Madelyn over and over in her head. But rack her brains though she might all roads led back to George Meagher; who else would pay for the contents of her briefcase? When she reached her flat she deliberately put the whole matter to one side, clearing her mind by getting to work preparing her lectures for the following week. Hunger alone eventually stopped her, and she was rummaging fruitlessly in her almost bare kitchen for something to eat when her problem was solved by Michael Riordan ringing yet again to invite her to dinner. Kate thought very hard, albeit quickly, before accepting. But accept she did. The reaction –even revulsion- she had felt against him after sleeping with him that first night had faded, and she had come to the conclusion that it was foolish to avoid a man she was attracted to, even if said attraction was intermittent. And if she wasn’t certain how much she liked him, she was certain that she wanted to find out, one way or another. So it was that by eight o’clock that evening they were sitting together in an Indian restaurant midway between their respective apartments, eating poppadoms in a silence that was not quite companionable but which was not totally awkward either.
After they ordered Michael tried to lighten her mood by regaling her with a scandalous, not to mention slanderous, tale about one of his fellow T.D.’s, a public toilet in Government House, and an adventurous young lady from Carlow. But after he delivered the punch line to a blank silence he sighed and said, ‘All right, Kate, what’s the matter?’
She forced a quick smile, ‘Sorry. I guess I’m just not in the mood for small talk.’
His pale blue eyes held hers, a thoughtful expression knitting his brows, ‘How about some big talk, then? You’re clearly distracted, and my ego demands it be something important that’s making you ignore my witty banter. So come on, tell me what’s wrong.’
It was her turn to sigh, ‘It’s a very long story.’
‘Well, the service here is very slow!’ he retorted humorously, ‘A long story might be just the thing to turn our minds away from thoughts of possible starvation.’ Then, more seriously, ‘I want to know, really. I might even be able to help.’
Kate massaged her forehead with her hand, her elbow on the table and her gaze on the snowy tablecloth. ‘I think I know why I was burgled.’
Michael sat back, his eyes searching her face intently. And at length he said, ‘Interesting choice of words. Most people would say, I think I know who burgled me.’
Kate looked at him a little blankly, ‘Oh, I know who burgled me all right. It was your old pal Jimmy Shiels. How’s that for a coincidence? But it wasn’t an ordinary burglary. Someone paid him to break into my flat and steal my stuff. Or at least, they offered him two thousand quid for his haul. Except I think the only thing they actually wanted was my briefcase.’
After an open-mouthed silence he smiled incredulously and said, ‘That’s a very valuable briefcase. I do hope it’s insured?’
Kate sighed again, ‘I mean the contents of my briefcase, obviously. I know it sounds ridiculous but please don’t laugh. Anyway, Shiels didn’t hand over the case to his mysterious employer; instead he kept it and tried a little blackmail. And that’s why he was killed.’
‘Killed?’ Michael spluttered, almost choking on a mouthful of wine, ‘Kate, what are you talking about? This guy was killed?’
‘Sorry, didn’t I say? Yeah, he was found floating in the Grand Canal, stabbed to death. I spoke to his girlfriend and she said he had been paid to burgle me, but had later refused to hand his haul over to the guy who hired him. Instead he tried to up his fee, whereupon this guy murdered him.’
Michael laughed outright, ‘Oh, come on, Kate! Do you know how silly this all sounds? It’s like something straight out of Hollywood! And maybe if we were in America I could believe it, but this is Dublin! And sorry, but things like that just don’t happen in Ireland.’
Kate waved her hand impatiently, ‘Stop it, Michael, you sound like a Bord Failte travel brochure or something. We both know that far worse -and far stranger- things happen in Ireland every day so just listen; I know Shiels was hired to rob me. The real question is why. I can’t be sure but I think the person who hired Jimmy Shiels was a man called George Meagher.’
Michael blinked in surprise, ‘Never heard of him. Should I have?’
‘No, but you met a friend of his. Remember the night we went out for dinner? The loony outside the restaurant? That was a guy called Martin Wilson.’
‘Oh yes. He was shouting about his friend being innocent and you slandering him.’
‘Right,’ agreed Kate, ‘His precious friend George Meagher.’ She took a deep breath and said, ‘It all began about twelve years ago, when I was a student. One of my course assignments was an essay on denial. Actually, it was on carried to the point of self-delusion. I picked a man called Eddie Fearney as my subject. He was accused of the rape and murder of three young girls in Kildare and Wicklow, and convicted of one of the killings. He always denied having anything to do with any of the deaths, and even demanded a lie detector test to prove it, though of course they’re not permissible in Ireland. Anyway, about six months into his sentence in Arbour Hill he committed suicide. The interesting thing for me was that, in his suicide note, he still denied killing those girls, and said he was taking his own life because he couldn’t face spending the rest of his life in prison for something he hadn’t done. Especially in a place like Arbour Hill, which was full of perverts and child-killers and the like. He couldn’t bear being thought of as one of those, especially by his own kids.’
Michael shook his head impatiently, ‘His sensibility does him justice but it’s a long way from an ancient murder in Wicklow to a burglary in Monkstown!’
‘Be quiet and listen!’ said Kate in a mock-severe tone, ‘The point of my paper was to show how a person can deny responsibility for something to the point where they start to believe it themselves, and stick to their story even in spite of overwhelming evidence against them. I did a little research into the case for background material and
guess what? The evidence, far from being overwhelming, was so flimsy he should never even have been tried, much less convicted! The more I dug the more convinced I became that he was telling the truth, that he really was innocent.’
Michael was still frowning but now in concentration as he strained to remember. ‘You know, I think I actually remember that case,’ he said slowly, ‘The trial made a big splash in the papers at the time. But it was more like twenty years ago, wasn’t it?’
Kate shook her head, ‘The actual murders were eighteen years ago now. And the trial was already long over before I started looking into the matter. Anyway, I found that the evidence that convicted him was purely circumstantial. He had a record as a sex offender but that had been years before, when he was just a kid. Actually, it was what we would now call a date rape, and a hotly disputed one at that; he claimed it was consensual sex that the lady, who was married, later regretted and so claimed was rape. One way or another it put him on the police list of sex offenders, and he was one of hundreds they interviewed after those girls were killed. He had type 0-negative blood and so did the killer, but of course so do thousands of others. Anyway, the killer left traces of blood at one of the crime scenes and Fearney had a fresh cut on his right hand, so the police investigated him further. Unfortunately DNA testing was still in its infancy in Ireland in those days, and the sample taken from the crime scene got tainted in some way, or Eddie Fearney might never have been convicted. Anyway, the Gardai had a witness who had seen one of the murdered girls getting into a car with a man, and this witness positively identified Fearney as the man. And, to be honest, that was pretty much all the evidence they had. But the jury convicted him nonetheless, more or less totally on the strength of the eyewitness’s testimony. But that testimony was total rubbish.’
Michael was no longer sneering, but rather was listening intently, ‘Go on, then; why?’
‘Because the case was closed I was able to get a look at the police file, and I read the key witness’s initial statement. In it he said that he hadn’t gotten a clear look at the man and probably wouldn’t know him again. Yet he later made a positive identification, and testified to it in court. Also, at first he said he thought the car she got into was yellow, while Fearney’s car was actually white.’
‘So why did he identify Fearney in court?’
Kate shook her head in frustration, ‘That’s one of the imponderables of the case, I’m afraid, and a blow to my theory. But memory is a very subjective thing. Studies have shown that two people can watch the same event and later give two substantially different reports about it. Even contradictory reports. And a hundred people might give a hundred different accounts, yet none of them would be deliberately lying. This guy first identified Fearney from a photo of registered sex offenders, and the pressure on him from the interviewing Gardai might have been intense. You know the sort of thing, Could this be the man? Are you sure? Take another look. A surprising number of people will say yes, even if they aren’t sure. People like to help, they don’t like to disappoint, and the police will push witnesses if they believe they have the right man. I saw that for myself firsthand, in England.’
She shrugged and took a drink of ice water before continuing, ‘It’s possible that the occasion got to him, too. Being important, the star witness and focus of the whole case. The media attention would have helped turn his head too. He might even have convinced himself that it was Fearney he saw. People can convince themselves of pretty much anything, if they try hard enough.’ She smiled suddenly, though without much humor, ‘That, after all, was the basis of my essay.’
‘So what did you do about it all?’
Kate shrugged, ‘I went to the police and told them what I thought and they more or less laughed in my face. He was dead, after all, the case was closed, and they thought the idea of reopening an investigation to clear a corpse’s name was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. A corpse they considered guilty. Same reaction from the DPP. There was nothing I could do so in the end I was forced to drop it.’
Michael shook his head dubiously, ‘This is all interesting enough in its way, but what has any of it got to do with your burglary?’
Kate leaned forward eagerly, ‘There was another suspect in the case; George Meagher. He also had a history of sexual violence against women, and he too had O-negative blood. Even better, he had a yellow car. Unfortunately, he also had an alibi. He was actually drinking in a pub only a couple of miles from where the third girl was killed, but the man he was with swore they were together all evening. The girl was believed to have been picked up at about half-past eleven pm, and the alibi, Martin Wilson, stated that Meagher didn’t drop him home until after one in the morning. But I went to the pub and asked the owner a few questions, and he said that although he couldn’t swear to what time they left he hadn’t noticed them after eleven or so, and had told the police so. He also said that Wilson was so drunk he could hardly stand, and that Meagher was practically holding him up at the bar at one stage. The police interviewed Wilson again but he stuck to his story and anyway, Fearney had turned up as a suspect by then. But if the two of them actually left the pub at eleven or so Meagher had plenty of time to drop Wilson home and still pick up the girl by half-past. In fact the timing is perfect, because Wilson only lived ten minutes from the pub and Meagher would probably have passed the girl on the road on his way home.’
Michael frowned in confusion, ‘Okay, it sort of makes sense, and maybe everything you said is true, but what has all this got to do with anything? Why would this Meagher guy pay to have you burgled, much less kill your burglar?’
Kate sighed, ‘A few months ago I started digging into the case again, to use in my book on sex offenders. Apart from anything else I thought the people of Ireland should know if there’s a serial killer running around on the loose. I had spoken to Wilson a couple of weeks before about the whole affair, trying to unearth new information. I even tried to speak to Meagher but I couldn’t locate him. He moved and left no forwarding address. But Wilson would have told him I was writing a book, so he might have hired Shiels to steal my briefcase, to see what I’ve learned. To see if the case was going to be reopened or if he was still safe.’
‘Mmm,’ said Michael doubtfully, ‘I suppose it’s all just about possible, but it’s a bit unlikely. The case is closed, so why would Meagher care what you wrote about him? You can’t try two people for the same murder, not after one of them has already been convicted of it.’
‘Fearney was only convicted of one of the three murders,’ insisted Kate, who had had hours to think all this out, ‘If new evidence turned up the other cases could be reopened, and Meagher could be tried for the other killings. And since Wilson’s reaction was so extreme when I approached him it occurred to me that they might even have committed the killings together. Which would explain why Wilson is so worked up about a stupid book that might never get published.’
She sighed and relaxed back into her chair, allowing the waiter to serve their food. When he was gone she said, in a dispirited tone, ‘Listen, I know how thin all this sounds, how incredible, but it’s the only explanation I can think of for anyone paying Jimmy Shiels to steal my case. All that was in it was Grainne’s file and the notes for my book.’
Michael nodded and said briskly, ‘If he really was hired to burgle you then it all makes sense. But with Shiels dead it doesn’t really matter if it’s true or not, does it? Anything he knew died with him. The real point is that you might be in danger if Meagher still wants to see the draft of your book.’
Kate nodded, ‘I saw Wilson the other day and told him I was dropping the whole idea, that the book would never be written. I told him to pass the word on to Meagher.’
Michael’s face cleared, ‘Then you’re in the clear! Meagher won’t bother you again!’
Kate looked at him in disbelief, ‘That isn’t the point! This guy is a murderer! You think I want him to get away with it?’
‘Of course not!’ he repl
ied impatiently, sounding annoyed, ‘Obviously you have to tell the Garda all this, and hopefully they can do something with it. I’m just glad that it sounds like you’re out of danger.’
He was anything but convincing, and Kate concentrated on her food for the next few minutes, sensing that in spite of his words he just didn’t care, and so not adding that Fearney had had kids; what would it be worth to them to have their father’s name cleared? St. Kate, she thought without amusement, going forth on her white horse to right the wrongs of the world. I don’t think.
After a pause Michael began chatting again, turning the conversation to more general channels and leading Kate to wonder just how self-centered he really was; did he care about no one but himself? And if so, why was she there? But that was not a question she wanted to pursue, and in fairness there was nothing they could do about it that night anyway. And as the meal progressed she found herself relaxing and starting to enjoy his company again, and it occurred to her that perhaps what she needed most in her life just then was some uncomplicated, unthinking fun. And Riordan was nothing if not simple and shallow.
When they had finished eating he said, ‘Would you like to go somewhere else with me afterwards? For a drink or something? If you like, I have a bottle of seventy-year-old brandy back at the apartment that we could sample together. My brother-in-law isn’t home tonight so we’ll have some privacy, but he’s back from Cork tomorrow night so it could be our last chance for some time.’
Kate was silent for a moment. There it was, the offer she had been half expecting. And perhaps hoping for? She wasn’t sure. The sex last time hadn’t exactly been earth shattering but it certainly hadn’t been unpleasant either. And sex was something that, with a new partner, tends to get better after the first nervous, tentative encounters. To buy some time she said guilelessly, ‘Cork?’
‘Yes, Josh is an architect and he’s working on a big project down there. Luckily. Between you and me I couldn’t have stayed this long if he’d been living there with me full time. I like my privacy. But he generally only comes up at weekends so it works pretty well. I should be able to move back into my own house in a couple of months, and although it might sound ungrateful I’ll be glad to be back home. Anyway, what about it? Is it back to my place?’
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