Tyler had chosen the older sofa to curl up on. Half buried under a cushion, his only response to West’s entry, was the cock of a small velvet ear.
West dropped his keys on a side-table and looked at him. ‘Is that the only greeting I’m getting?’ he asked amused. ‘What have I done this time, bought the wrong brand of food again?’
West had experimented in buying different brands of dog food a number of times, mainly for convenience, but the damn dog made up for its small stature by being incredibly fussy and insisting on eating a very epicurean diet. West had finally settled on buying three different brands of dry foods but was stuck with having to buy an unusual, expensive and more annoying, a hard-to-get brand of tinned-food. The only shop that sold it was a small shop in a little lane off Grafton Street so when he went to get it he bought it in bulk. There was no parking outside the shop, of course, so he had to lug the heavy weight, arms aching, to the nearest car park, cursing his stupidity with every step. One of these days he’d search on-line and find someone who could deliver it. One of these days when he had several hours to spare.
‘You’re not even my damn dog,’ West muttered again, as he did and had done frequently over the last eighteen months since his friend Brendan had gone on an extended search for himself. ‘One of these days, your owner will stop mucking about, get his ass home and take you off my hands,’ he threatened with a final glance at the little dog who glared at him with prominent eyes. Tyler, West thought with a shake of his head, let you know quite clearly when you have been remiss.
It didn’t take long to sort out the cause of Tyler’s umbrage. Brendan had brought a collection of automatic feeding machines; each machine, and there were three in use at the moment, released a certain amount of dry food at specific times. West had forgotten to fill up one of the machines, unfortunately Tyler’s favourite one, so he was having a sulk. West opened the wooden box where he stored the dog food and quickly filled up the machine. Then pulled the tab on a tin of his dog-food and used a spoon to scoop half the tin into the waiting bowl.
He sat back on his heels and called the dog. Tyler, who had heard the soft creak of the hinge on the dog-food box, was ahead of him and had his nose in the food before West had finished saying his name.
West laughed and got up. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, and investigated the human food machine, his fridge. When it came to his own meals, he was much less organised and there wasn’t much in it, as usual. But there was beer and there was a piece of lasagne he’d bought recently. He peered at the label but couldn’t make out the date. When had he bought it? He couldn’t remember. A quick sniff...it smelt ok. He shrugged. It would be fine, a long shot of microwaves to heat it and blast any bugs, and it would be fine. A cold Guinness from the fridge and his notes for the day would be his dinner companions.
He could sit at the table, he supposed, looking around the room with pleasure. When he bought the house the kitchen was small with a small window and door into the garden. He had it extended; tripling its size. He’d gone for classic cream for the kitchen cabinets and a granite worktop called Silk which lived up to its name. There was a double oven, integrated microwave, dishwasher etc. Everything you could possibly need. And none of which, apart from the microwave, he had ever used.
The small door to the garden was replaced by two sets of bifolding doors that could open back against the wall on a sunny day allowing access to a decked area he’d had made at the same time. He’d never sat on it, had only opened the doors the day they were installed. Hadn’t had the need to do so since.
A huge walnut table dominated the dining area, the rich colour a nice contrast to the cream kitchen cabinets. Rather than buying matching chairs which were incredibly uncomfortable to sit on he had opted for six Phillip Starck’s Ghost chairs. The contrast between the solidness of the table and the ethereal appearance of the chairs appealed to him. They added a touch of modern glamour but, more importantly, they were extremely comfortable.
He had envisaged frequent dinner parties, old friends, family, new friends. Convivial conversation, good food, excellent wine.
But he had yet to have one.
With its view over the pretty garden, the table would have been a nice place for a solitary meal. But to sit surrounded by five Ghost chairs seemed a bit too ironic.
So he never ate there.
What a sad creature he was to be sure, he said to himself with mock seriousness and then looking around the room again with pleasure, he smiled. He’d use it all someday. If a snapshot of Kelly Johnson popped into his mind he ignored it returning to the fridge instead and removing both the lasagne and the Guinness.
He stood drinking the pint until the microwave pinged and then brought the lot to the living room where he switched on the television and sat into the comfortable sofa with a sigh of contentment.
The news of the day muttered on as he picked at the lasagne before realising he wasn’t very hungry and that maybe the sell-by date had passed more than a day or two ago. He put the plate on the sofa beside him. Tyler, having finished his meal had curled up in the corner of the sofa, he uncurled and approached the plate. Fussy as he was, he sometimes deigned to eat human food, if it took his fancy. He took a sniff of the lasagne and backed away, raising big brown eyes to West as if to say, you eat this? Before returning to his corner and curling up again.
West laughed. ‘I should let you sniff all my food before I eat it, make sure it’s ok.’ He picked up his pint-glass from the floor. The pint, at least, was good and he drank that as he half listened to the news, half thought about the day. Yawning, he laid his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes.
He didn’t like what he saw there. Not going there. Not thinking about her.
His eyes flicked open and he stayed like that a moment, staring at the ceiling before lifting his head with a sigh and taking another mouthful of the cold beer. Beer in one hand, he picked up his notes and started to read the information gathered during the course of the day. Words, notes, sentences, all bringing the day back.
Why would anyone want to murder Gerard Roberts, he puzzled? True, they didn’t know much about him yet, and God alone knew what they would discover when they turned over a few stones. The most normal-looking of people, the most respectable of families could have all kinds of aberrations and sinister goings-on when you looked behind the carefully constructed facade that society insisted we all show one another.
Families like the one in Glasnevin. And with that one word came the memories of Brendan Keogh’s laughter seconds before a shotgun blasted him to death, the terrible smell of blood and death and the memory of those three small, dead bodies in that upstairs room. A tough time. He’d come through it with help from his family, and a counsellor he had seen on and off for about two months. He’d learned to deal with the survivor’s guilt, with the what if’s that kept him in a destructive loop for a while.
Going back to work in the Glasnevin station didn’t work and he had requested and been granted a transfer to Foxrock. That had been a good move. It worked for him. He wondered how Kelly had managed to survive what she had been through; finding the dead body in the graveyard behind her house, discovering her husband was a con-artist who had stolen money from a drugs-dealer. He wondered what coping mechanism she had used.
Dammit he thought, draining the pint, does every thought have to lead back to her? Resolutely putting her out of his overfull mind, he considered his empty glass and weighed up the pros and cons of getting another Guinness. Another might help, he decided. He dumped the lasagne into the bin and grabbing another can, sat back into the sofa, picked up his notes and gave them his full attention.
He told Andrews that it had to be the woman Roberts was seen speaking to outside the vegetable shop. Cherchez la femme! The oldest motive in the book. A woman scorned. Maybe, but it was a very odd way to murder somebody. And would Roberts have accepted the manioc esculenta from her, in any shape or form, if they had been in a relationship that h
ad ended acrimoniously?
If it wasn’t sex, was it money? They’d have to look long and hard at Roberts’ finances and his business partner’s too. It would be nice if they had a secretary who fit the blond woman’s description, he mused, knowing it was never so easy. Not in any case he had ever worked on, anyway.
Restless, he closed the file in front of him and leaned back, linking his hands behind his head and gazed unseeingly across the room.
And there she was again.
He had refused to think of her all day but now...well, now she just kept popping into his head. Why did he have to be such a pompous jerk? Couldn’t he have been sophisticated, cool, suave? Now, not only would she always associate him with dead bodies, but she’d remember him as a pompous, obnoxious boor as well. He stood up and walked to the window where the night sky reflected him back.
Idiot, West addressed his mirror image, putting his hand out to touch the face reflected there, feeling the glass cold under his fingers. He stood a long time, feeling the room cool around him, waiting for the self-directed anger to abate. It did, eventually, but its distant cousin, regret, replaced it and, it was with its bitter taste in his mouth that West eventually headed to bed.
7
Morning brought Sergeant West’s focus firmly back to the case. He was at his desk at seven, quickly followed by Garda Andrews, and they sat and organised the day, focusing on finding answers to questions outstanding and pinning down timelines, alibis and the myriad information that would lead them to the who and the why Gerard Roberts died.
Seven forty five and they had the day planned to their satisfaction. Andrews was leaving West’s office to make the first of many phone calls when the phone rang, stopping him in his tracks. Answering the phone, West listened a moment, a frown appearing between his eyes.
‘Shouldn’t you be talking to Sergeant Clark,’ he asked, annoyance obvious in his voice, but he continued to listen while the explanation was given. ‘Yes, all right, I understand. Yes, I’ll be there. Give me fifteen minutes, ok?’ He put the phone down on a groan of annoyance. ‘That was Garda Foley. He’s at a house burglary and is worried about it. He wants me to go out there.’
Andrews looked resigned. ‘Don’t tell me, they can’t contact Sergeant Clark again.’
‘Clark’s a liability. We all know that. But if Foley is worried it’ll be for a good reason. You know him, Pete, level headed, he doesn’t panic unnecessarily.’ West stood, stretched then slipped his arms into the suit-jacket he’d hung on the back of his chair, ‘You carry on here as planned, I won’t be long. If the inspector asks where I am, tell him I’m doing Clark’s work for him.’
The address Foley had given West was only a ten minutes drive from the station but vagaries of traffic meant it was fifteen minutes later when West pulled up behind Foley’s Fiesta. Getting out he ran his eyes over the small semi-detached two up, two down without seeing any overt cause for the young detective’s concern. The front door opened and Foley stepped out and came toward him, a worried look on his young face.
‘Well, what’s the problem?’ West asked as he approached.
‘Thank you for coming, sir. I did try to get Sergeant Clark but...’ he shrugged.
‘Never mind. Tell me what’s worrying you?’
Garda Foley, looking slightly embarrassed, proceeded to explain. ‘Maybe I’m imagining it, sir,’ he finished. ‘But it does look so staged.’
‘Staged? An insurance scam? Could it be the owner?’
‘No, sir, I really don’t think so. Mrs Lee, the owner, was hysterical when I arrived, still is in fact. She’s an elderly lady, lives alone. I wanted to call an ambulance, have her taken to hospital. But she refused. Wanted to stay where she was. I called in for assistance but you know the way staffing is now, there’s never anyone free. But luckily, there was someone from Offer in the station who came and sat with her.’
West frowned. ‘From Offer? A woman?’
Thrown by the question Foley stammered a reply, ‘Yes, sir. She has calmed the poor old lady down a bit. They’re up in her bedroom.’
The fates were conspiring against him, West thought, as he headed into the house to see if he agreed with the younger detective’s take on the situation. A few minutes, however, were sufficient to make him agree with Foley. A broken window, in the kitchen-door at the back of the house, showed the point of entry, glass scattered across the tiled floor. Cupboards and drawers had been opened and some of the contents had been pulled out. No, West reconsidered thoughtfully, not pulled out. Taken out. A couple of items had been taken from the drawers and dropped on the floor, but only a couple. The drawers hadn’t been pulled out and upturned. Odd, West thought, it all looked a bit odd. Just as Foley said, it looked staged.
‘Is this the only room disturbed?’ he asked him.
‘No, Sergeant, there’s more.’ He led the way back down the hall to the door of the front room where he stood a moment distracted by the sound of crying and soft murmurs of reassurance that drifted down the stairs, West listened but couldn’t decide if it were Kelly’s voice he heard and resolutely brought his attention back to Foley who put with his hand on the handle and pushed the door open.
‘This is what upset her the most, Sergeant,’ he said.
It was an old lady’s room. Old fashioned three piece suite, mahogany furniture filling every space, photographs on every surface. The only picture on the wall was a very poor Constable reproduction that made him shudder. Over the fireplace hung a mirror. It was far too large for the room and gave anyone entering the room a startling view of their own reflection. Not today though, today the reflection was shattered by the message written there, in what looked very much like blood.
West stepped closer, noticing at the same time the same ordered chaos that was apparent in the kitchen. The message on the mirror was clear. Succinct.
DIE.
No ambiguity there, West thought. Closer, he wasn’t sure it was blood, but he would leave it to the experts to decide. Turning around, he had the same feeling he had in the kitchen it was all too staged, almost too perfectly done. He met the eye of the young detective standing in the doorway and nodded.
‘Your instincts haven’t let you down, Garda Foley; there is something very strange about this. Have you called in the scene of crimes team?’
‘I haven’t. I didn’t want to...’
‘Make a fool of yourself? Trust your judgement, it’s good. Give them a call now; we need to find out what that message is written with.’ He looked around the cluttered room. ‘Is anything actually missing?’
‘The lady has been too hysterical to answer any questions.’
‘Let’s see if she has calmed down any.’ They headed up the stairs together, West trying to compose his thoughts, and his face, at the thought of facing Kelly Johnson, at yet another crime scene.
Opening the bedroom door, expecting to see her face, he was relieved and disappointed in equal parts to see, not her strikingly attractive face, but an older, more worn one, the volunteer hunkered down on the floor beside the chair where Mrs Lee sat.
Leaving Foley standing by the door, he approached, quietly introduced himself and sat on the side of the bed facing both women.
‘Is there anybody we can call for you, Mrs Lee, family or friends?’ he asked, hoping there was someone who cared enough to come to her, relieved to see her nod. She was one of the lucky ones.
‘My daughter is on her way,’ she said, her voice trembling, ‘this lady rang her for me.’ She gave a grateful glance to the volunteer, who continued to hold her hand and then looked back at West. ‘She’s probably stuck in traffic, at this hour, but she’ll be here.’
West continued carefully, ‘Is there anything missing, money or other valuables?’
Mrs Lee shook her head emphatically. ‘I don’t keep anything valuable in the house. Well, nothing valuable to anyone but me, my photographs and things. But no money, Geraldine, my daughter, is very strict about that. She collects my pensio
n for me, you know, and puts it safely away. The most I would ever have in the house is ten pounds and that’s in my purse over there.’ She pointed to a lovely oak dresser in the corner of the room.
‘Have you had any trouble with neighbours, anyone in the village?’
Tears fell and she hiccupped. ‘No, nothing. I’ve lived here for years, never had a day’s trouble. There are young people living both sides and they are so good. They do shopping for me if I run out. Bring me in home-made cakes and invite me to parties and celebrations. Nothing bad happens here. Not usually.’
West gave her a moment and then asked, ‘Have you noticed anyone hanging around? Someone you haven’t seen before?’
The old lady shook her head slowly. ‘It’s quiet here; you don’t see many people walking around.’ She looked at him apologetically, ‘I’m not being much of a help am I? But I really don’t remember seeing anybody out of the ordinary.’
There was nothing to be gained by pointing out that criminals were frequently masters of appearing ordinary; that, contrary to the current vogue for the supernatural, bad guys didn’t have a predilection for becoming vampires or werewolves once the sun went down.
A panicked call of Mum heralded the arrival of an anxious daughter and West yielded his place in the small room to the woman who burst through the door, arms out-stretched to enfold the older woman, to offer comfort and to be comforted in return. West caught the eye of the victim support volunteer and with a tilt of his head indicated that she follow him from the room.
Downstairs, Foley headed out front to await the scene of crimes team while West turned to the quiet lady at his side and introduced himself.
She introduced herself in turn with a smile. ‘My name is Heather, Heather Goodbody I’m a volunteer with Offer.’
West nodded acknowledgment. ‘You just happened to be in the station this morning when the call came through from Garda Foley?’ he asked curiously. Foley had called the station for help with the old lady when he had arrived at seven fifteen. That was early for a volunteer to be about.
Close Ranks: A Garda West Novel (Garda West Crime Novels Book 2) Page 7
