Refusing to waste a rare free Saturday, nothing to do and all day to do it, he showered and dressed in casual jeans and soft cotton shirt. Thanking whatever Gods there were for the wonderful Beth who freed him from the chains of housework, he thought he’d do a bit of tidying in the garden, finally cutting down summer bedding that had long since died and lay in a brown, slimy mess. And probably hiding the multitude of slugs and snails that had wreaked havoc earlier in the year.
He thought about it for a few minutes and then shook his head. It wasn’t going to do it. Mucking around in the garden wasn’t going to keep his mind off Kelly. It needed something more mentally challenging. Visiting his parents might do the trick. His mother was mentally challenging enough, he thought with a smile. But she’d see right through him, would take one look, and know, and then wheedle the details out with a few pointed questions.
Work was his usual hideaway. Romantic entanglements were forgotten about as soon as he went through the station door. Usually. Truth be told, he’d sometimes forget his romantic encounters by the time he’d got home from whichever bed he had spent the night in. He’d forget about them until he was in the mood for company and then he’d call and, if they were free, he’d take them for dinner, spend the night with them and head away in the early hours without another thought. If they weren’t free, there were other numbers, other women.
Casually promiscuous, his sister called it. He didn’t argue, nor did he point out that the women he spent time with were more than happy with the situation the way it was, would have run a mile if had suggested anything more committed. He also didn’t tell his sister that it had been several months since he had been interested enough to ring any of these women. That the only woman he wanted to spend time with was one of the most annoying women he had ever met.
Ok. That was it. He had to get out of the house, think of something besides her. He’d go to the station, go through all the information they had. Prepare himself for Monday. Take advantage of a bit of peace and quiet to go over all the data again. Make sure he wasn’t missing something. Kelly’s attack on him, her certainty that Viveka Larsson couldn’t be involved niggled a bit.
Grabbing a jacket and car keys, he headed out and minutes later was swinging into the car park that surrounded the station. Less administrative staff worked on a Saturday so there were plenty of spaces. He had a designated space but ignored it today, not keen on advertising his presence. Too many people would quickly take advantage of a spare pair of hands to do work allocated to others. And he would be dammed if he’d end up doing any of Sergeant Clark’s mountain of neglected paperwork.
Sergeant Blunt worked Monday to Friday so there was a young garda manning the desk that West didn’t know. More irritatingly, he didn’t know West, who, because he hadn’t really planned to come in, had forgotten to bring his identification. He couldn’t criticise the young officer for adhering to the regulations so he had to hang around while he made a phone call and then had to wait a further ten minutes, until a very surprised Garda Foley arrived to verify he was who he claimed to be.
A further five minutes was spent reassuring the desk officer that he had done the correct thing, that it wouldn’t be held against him. That he would indeed, commend his diligence to Sergeant Blunt when he saw him.
Finally, a grinning Declan Foley beside him, he headed to his office.
‘He’s conscientious, Sarge,’ Foley said of the young desk officer.
West nodded. ‘My fault, I should have had my ID on me. Hadn’t really planned to come in today. How are things in Robbery? Any word on Sergeant Clark’s return?’
Foley snorted, ‘No fear, he’ll be off a few more weeks. We’ve just the usual petty robberies, a couple of break-ins. Nothing we can’t handle.’
‘How’s Mrs Lee doing? You know we’re looking at Offer being responsible for that, don’t you?’
Foley stopped and looked at him grimly. ‘Yes, I heard. Pretty nasty carry on, you ask me. Mrs Lee has moved in with her daughter. She couldn’t cope with staying there after the home-invasion even with a live-in carer. She’ll be pleased to know who it was, but she’ll be shocked to find out it was the very people who were helping her, won’t she? And those people, those volunteers, they’re still coming in. Can’t we stop them?’
‘We’re going to have to try and separate the Offer who is manipulating us all from the genuine volunteers who are only trying to help, Declan. But when the truth gets out, I think the group will die a natural death.’
‘Won’t be soon enough for me,’ Foley said. ‘Well, I’d better get back to work. Inspector Morrison saw the state of Sergeant Clark’s in-tray yesterday. He told me it’s to be sorted by Monday. Some of the stuff has been there since January, Sarge, and it’s pertaining to cases Sergeant Clark dealt with personally. I haven’t a clue what to do with them.’
West heard and ignored the hint of a plea in Foley’s voice but, just as he turned to go into his office, he had a change of heart. After all, if Foley told Morrison he didn’t know what to do with Clark’s cases; he’d be told to pass them on to him. ‘Tell you what, Declan,’ he said. ‘Anything you can’t sort out, put it on the bottom of Sergeant Blunt’s in-tray. On the bottom, mind you. By the time Sergeant Blunt gets through his paperwork and gets to it, Clark should be back. Blunt will just dump it back in his in-tray, regardless.’
He left the younger man with a relieved grin on his face and entering his office, firmly closed the door behind him. He was tempted to turn the lock but decided that was taking privacy a step too far.
As it happened nobody did interrupt him and he spent the greater part of the morning going over every scrap of information, lab reports, time-lines, alibi’s, personal histories of the various characters. He went out to the wall in the general office which was Mary Celeste quiet. Computer screens blank. The coffee percolator silent. Pens tossed higgledy piggledy by the eagerly departing on Friday afternoon.
He could have done with some coffee. The canteen coffee was passable but knew if he went there he’d bump into someone, and that would be the end of his peace and quiet. Instead, he stood and stared at the wall, read more information that had been added since he left on Friday. The brand of the smoke bombs had been identified from what little they’d found. But it was a common variety easily obtained over the internet if you knew what you were looking for. So no help there.
Some of the strings had been tied up. He saw Edwards had taken the photograph of the Offer group to show the staff in the amusement arcade in Bray. It was a no-go. Unsurprising, West thought, but one of those things that had to be ruled out.
He read the data on the area canvass of the route Gerard Roberts may have taken that fateful morning. As they had all guessed, there wasn’t a positive sighting anywhere.
All the hours of time. All the manpower. Yet, they knew, each of them, this was what they had to do. Leads didn’t come out of thin air. They were dug up, slowly, with meticulous care, dusted down, examined and then sometimes tossed for the rubbish they were. Leads rarely came on an intuitive leap. And when they did, sometime they too were discounted as utter tosh. As his yet might be.
But he didn’t think so. He just knew he was right about this. And it fit, when he looked at it all. It bloody well fit.
Back in his office he sat and did a little paperwork, but there wasn’t much. Unlike Sergeant Clark he tried to keep on top of it, loathed it but loathed more sitting in front of a full in-tray. It was empty now and there was no reason to hang around any longer.
Still he sat. Tilting his chair back, he put his hands behind his head and gave in to thoughts he had been avoiding all morning, thoughts he wished he could continue to avoid, but knew he would have to face sooner or later.
Would she still go out with him tomorrow?
A twinge of annoyance shot through him that he had been reduced to thinking and behaving like a school-boy. Would she still go out with him, indeed. What he should be asking himself was, did he still want to
spend time with her. Except that would be a waste of time. He knew the answer to that and it was a resounding yes. Yes and yes again.
His sister would be delighted that for a change he didn’t have the upper hand in a relationship. But then his sister was never going to find out. He had a hard enough time from her without giving her more ammunition.
Damn it. He certainly wasn’t going to spend the next twenty-four hours wondering if she was or wasn’t, he decided, reaching for the phone and dialling her number from memory. As it rang he planned what to say, the tone to take. Justified but apologetic, he decided, thinking it covered the bases without admission of guilt or wrongdoing.
He took a deep breath. But after four rings an answer machine switched on, a computer generated voice inviting him to leave a message. He hung up, muttering a series of oaths under his breath. Like most people he hated leaving messages, only ever did so if absolutely necessary, and then usually a one or two worded message. He wasn’t leaving something as complex as this message to be played and replayed by a probably still angry Kelly.
He’d try again later.
He did. As soon as he got home, he tried again. Still no answer. Damn it. He knew she was going out somewhere that night. Wondered, yet again, where she was going, who she was going with. Cursed himself for being an idiot.
Restless, unable to settle to doing anything, he headed into the garden. There was a bush he had wanted to cut down for months, it took up far too much room in an area of the garden that got the sun all day, an area he had earmarked for maybe a deck and barbeque area. Chopping and tearing things down just suited his mood. It took a frustrating fifteen minutes to find the keys to the small shed at the end of the garden where he kept the few gardening tools he owned. Secateurs in hand he started on the smaller branches, soon had a heap, dragged it all to his green bin and shoved it in, brushing off ear-wigs that ran for cover. Dropping the secateurs, he took the loppers and chopped away larger branches. It was satisfying work, seeing the space free up. He was sorry he hadn’t done it months ago. He dragged the branches to the bin, cut them to fit, went back to work, cut some more, a sweat building up. He felt muscles he hadn't used in a while start to ache with the unaccustomed work but kept at it even when he wanted to stop. Knowing if he stopped, it would just be to ring again.
It was dark by the time he’d finished. He had to resort to a spade in the end to get the roots out, working in the light from the kitchen, determined to get it finished. Even in the darkness, he could see the space he’d made was bigger than expected. It would be nice to have some kind of water feature as well, he thought, plans popping into his head as he cleaned up. Early November wasn’t the time to be starting, but it was a good time to be making plans for next year. It didn’t cross his mind to do the decking himself, he was aware of his limitations, even if time allowed which it never did. No, he’d have somebody come and have a look around, see what they came up with and then, maybe set a date for a spring start.
Tidying up took a few minutes. He locked away the tools he’d used, put the key back where it was supposed to be, where he hoped he’d remember he put it next time he needed it. And then, hot and sticky he headed to the shower and let the water flow, hot and restorative, for a long time.
Throwing on a sweat pants and tee, he headed back to the kitchen, checked Tyler had enough food, ignored pleading eyes that begged for doggy treats he ate far too many of. ‘You’ll get fat and won’t fit through the cat-flap,’ he told the Chihuahua and headed to the fridge to see what human food he had. Hadn’t he shopped recently? How come there was nothing to eat? He rummaged a while, threw out some food that was way past its best-before date and taking out a beer closed the fridge so vigorously the rest of the beer bottles clinked in applause. Beer was something he never seemed to run out of. He supposed he had his priorities right.
He could go out for something to eat, ring someone to keep him company. He could even go home; his mother would be delighted to feed him. None of the options appealed. But he was hungry. Settling for a take-away, it took him a few more minutes to decide which variety, and several more trying to find the menus he knew he had before thinking to check the bookshelf in the living room. And there they were. Beth, with her inimitable logic had slipped them between the only two cookery books he possessed.
A quick phone call to the local, and very good, Indian restaurant, and thirty minutes later he was enjoying a starter of chicken chot poti with a lamb vindaloo keeping warm in the oven.
He’d tried Kelly’s number again while he waited, guessing, this time, there’d be no answer. She’d be out. He caved in and left a brief message asking her to call when she had a moment, kept the handset nearby in case she came back early from wherever. He finished his starter, took out the vindaloo and rice and opened another beer, all the time waiting for the damn phone to do its thing, knowing it wouldn’t, hoping all the same.
His mouth buzzing from the vindaloo, he opened another beer to quench the flames. He finished off with a Jameson. Between the vindaloo and the whiskey, he guessed, there’d be little left of his stomach lining.
Satiated and mellow, he sat back on the sofa, whiskey glass in hand, and switched on the television. Flicking from channel to channel, he settled on a rerun of Frasier. Even as he chuckled at lines he had heard several times before, his mind was elsewhere.
Frasier was doing the usual verbal sparring with his brother when he fell asleep, the empty whiskey glass flopping onto the sofa from his sleep loosened hand. When he woke Frasier was still running but he could tell by the light it was much later. He peered at his watch. One o’clock. He doubted that he’d slept through the phone but rang just to check, hearing the disembodied voice telling him that there were no new messages.
She hadn’t rung. Maybe she hadn’t heard his message. Too busy with whoever it was she was out with. And when she’d returned? Too busy doing the horizontal mambo? The though infuriated him.
He felt, for one dangerous moment, betrayed.
Until he saw how ridiculous he was being. She had every right to do what she wanted. With whom she wanted. She owed him nothing. And if he felt betrayed? Well that was his problem; he’d have to deal with it.
Resisting the temptation to have another Jameson by dint of remembering his hangover of the morning, West took himself to bed where he spent most of the night tossing and turning and trying not to imagine Kelly, naked, in some other man’s arms.
And he still didn’t know the situation about Dun Laoghaire. She’d surely listen to her messages in the morning and contact him. Wouldn’t she?
If she had heard her messages she certainly hadn’t contacted him by ten the next morning. Sunday had started bright and sunny, a perfect November morning, an ideal day to walk the pier. Maybe even sunny and warm enough to stop at Teddy’s for an ice-cream, he thought, refusing to believe she wouldn’t go with him.
He held out until twelve and then rang. No answer. And he didn’t want to leave another blasted message.
Simmering with irritation he got into the car and drove to Wilton Road, pulling up on the road outside. He didn’t hang about this time, went straight to her door and rang the bell, keeping his finger on it for slightly longer than was polite or necessary.
Her car was in the drive but that didn’t necessarily mean she was in. Perhaps she had stayed over with whoever she had been out with the previous night. Maybe she, like he, preferred to indulge in sexual pleasures in someone else’s bed.
Or maybe she’d just gone to the shops.
He sat back into his car and waited, trying not to let his thoughts run wild. Or wilder, anyway. He had a mobile number for her but knew it was an old one, he’d not thought to get her new number. But if she didn’t want to speak to him, it didn’t matter anyway.
Still, it wasn’t like her to be so unreasonable. Stubborn, perhaps, but not unreasonable. He checked his watch. One. He’d wait another few minutes, he thought, switching on the radio.
It was nea
rly two before he called it a day. He tried her door bell again, heard it ring, kept it ringing for a long time, till his finger went numb. Then he tried her phone number, heard the faint sound of it ringing, heard the click as the answer machine took over, and hung up.
Frustrated, angry with himself and with her, West got back into his car and drove away, driving far too fast, coming to a halt with a screech of breaks at the first traffic lights in the village, drawing looks of condemnation from more law-abiding members of the community who stuck to the twenty is plenty speed restriction in the village.
‘Damn her,’ West said, taking off again at a more sedate speed.
At home he rang her number once more, and this time left the message he’d been rehearsing all the way home. ‘Kelly. Hi, it’s Mike. I’ve tried to get you a few times. I know we hadn’t set a time for meeting up today and I hope you’re not waiting for me to come pick you up. As I said I have tried to get you because, unfortunately, I have to cancel. Work, I’m afraid. Something I can’t get out of. Maybe another time. I’ll be in touch. Bye.’ And then he hung up.
Pride was restored.
32
Mike West’s pride was the least of Kelly Johnson’s worries. She woke in pain, head thumping, limbs cramped, neck aching. And opened her eyes to total darkness.
She felt the instant sharp bite of panic.
Fear kept her still, panic kept her quiet. Slowly, she came to grips with both. After all, she thought bitterly, wasn’t she well acquainted with them? Head thumping, she stretched out a cramped leg and hit something solid, reached a hand out and felt the roughness of carpet under her body, stretching out as far as she could, hitting something solid again. And then the other arm stretching out, fingers tentatively searching, finding the same.
Close Ranks: A Garda West Novel (Garda West Crime Novels Book 2) Page 25
