Carrie walked out of the room, along the corridor to the stairs, started down, then stopped. She’d started to dread going home, and dread going to work. This was bullshit. This was not who she was. How long was she going to let this go on before she tackled it? Carrie stood on the stairs and thought about Mel Hackett on holiday in the south of France, about Cormac Reilly walking out of the station at six o’clock, as he had every day this week. She turned on her heel and made for the Superintendent’s office. Murphy wouldn’t usually be in the station this late, preferring to leave the long shifts and antisocial hours to his juniors, but she knew he was there. He’d been at meetings in Dublin all day and had come directly to the station on his return to Galway. She knocked on his door.
‘A moment, sir?’
Brian Murphy was engrossed in whatever was on his computer screen. His mouse hand clicked twice before he looked up. It was after hours; he was probably posting on triathletenow.com again. Not for the first time, Carrie tried to think of a way to drop a hint that Murphy’s posts weren’t as anonymous as he thought. Somehow, someone in vice had found out his user handle, and it was now known across the station. The night that TopCopTriGuy had engaged in a detailed discussion of haemorrhoid problems in older cyclists had resulted in station-wide hilarity, and the placing of cushions on meeting room chairs whenever Murphy was likely to appear. He couldn’t possibly be as oblivious as he seemed, could he?
He gestured to her to take a seat. ‘I’ve read your report on the Henderson case. Where are we with the assessment?’
Within an hour of being taken into custody, Rob Henderson had adopted an escalating pattern of behaviour that indicated either a serious mental illness, or exceptional acting skills. He was currently in the Central Mental Hospital in Dublin, undergoing assessment.
‘Nothing formal yet, that will take a few more days, but I’ve been pushing, and I get the impression that they don’t know what to make of him yet. Personally, I think it’s all bullshit. He’s faking.’
‘And the wife?’
‘Still in denial. I’ve a meeting with her again tomorrow. I’m going to push her harder this time.’
‘Update me afterwards,’ Murphy said. ‘Let me know if you make any progress.’
Carrie nodded. She would have done so without the request. The case was high profile, and Murphy had been all over it from the beginning. He looked at her expectantly, waiting for more. She hesitated, almost let it go.
‘Sir, I’ve got too much on,’ Carrie blurted. ‘Too many cases, I mean.’
Murphy started tapping the desk with his index finger, never a good sign.
‘I’ve six active cases. Seven more going to court within the next few months.’ Meanwhile Mel Hackett had what, two? Three max. And Reilly nothing current at all. ‘It’s not sustainable. If I keep working like this I’ll make mistakes.’
‘It’s not a nine-to-five job, Carrie. I made that clear to you when I offered you the promotion.’
She ignored that, going straight to what she knew would motivate him. ‘I’ve had a look at the stats. Our timeframe to clearance is running long. And we’ve two missing persons not yet traced.’ Stats were a regular and contentious point of discussion at the station. The Commissioner had set a zero target for untraced missing persons that year and hitting that target would be top of Murphy’s priority list.
Murphy leaned back in his chair. ‘Hackett is due back next week,’ he said. ‘We’ll sit down then and do a case review, see what can be redistributed.’
‘Sir, I talked to Mel before she went on holiday. She’s positive she doesn’t have the capacity to take on anything more.’ Which was bollox, but that was beside the point.
Murphy rubbed his jaw, compressed his lips, and said nothing.
‘Cormac Reilly …’ Carrie started.
‘Reilly is fully engaged,’ Murphy said. ‘He’s caught up in a cold case review that takes all of his time.’
Carrie made no attempt to hide her frustration. ‘Christ sir, when do you want me to get it done? In my sleep?’
‘This is the job, Carrie.’
‘Sir, what I’m telling you is that you’ve got three sergeants working for you, and the least experienced of them is doing seventy per cent of the work load.’ Because Hackett was an old hand at managing the system, and Cormac Reilly wasn’t let near anything that looked like a real case. ‘Reilly is a bloody good detective,’ Carrie continued. ‘I’ve heard about some of the cases he’s run and won. We’re lucky to have him. And it’s madness to keep him working pissy little cold cases that aren’t going to go anywhere. You need to put him on active cases, or replace him with someone you can use.’ Carrie stopped, waited for Murphy to show her the door.
‘One of those pissy little cold cases, as you so colourfully call them, has resulted in a major arrest.’
‘That’s one case,’ Carrie said quickly, hiding her relief. ‘And it’s all but put to bed.’
There was a long pause, during which the last few police in the building could be heard talking loudly about pints and weekend plans. It was all so bloody stupid. Did he really think that Reilly would throw in the towel if he was frozen out for long enough? He was a career cop, it was in his DNA. Reilly was going nowhere, unless of course he transferred back to Dublin. He might already have done that if it wasn’t for the girlfriend. Partner. Whatever.
‘It wasn’t his fault, sir. The shooting.’
‘I never suggested it was.’
Carrie hesitated. The part of her that was interested in self-preservation and career advancement wanted her to shut up. The part of her that was desperate for a weekend off, some time with her kids, and at least a chance of saving her marriage, said to press on. The little bit of her that believed Cormac Reilly had been treated unfairly tipped the balance.
‘It’s not going to work,’ Carrie said quietly. ‘He’s not going to go anywhere, and people are talking. It’s been over a year. The uniforms aren’t stupid. They know about his previous success rate. Internal affairs cleared him in the shooting case, on paper he’s back on active duty, but in practice he gets nothing. They’re asking why. They’re saying there’s no smoke without fire. Sooner or later Reilly will have to do something. What if he calls in the union? Or worse, a lawyer?’
‘If you’re suggesting that Cormac Reilly has been treated unfavourably because of what happened last year, O’Halloran, you’re out of line. Reilly gets his cases in rotation like everyone else.’
Carrie said nothing more, waited. Let the lie hang in the air between them. She looked at Murphy, caught his gaze and held it.
He was the first to look away. When he spoke it was very quietly. ‘You’re sure about this, Carrie? There’s no going back.’
She hesitated. ‘I’m sure.’
Without looking at her he turned to his computer screen, moved and clicked his mouse. Read something that Carrie couldn’t see.
‘Give Reilly the Durkan case.’ Another click of the keys. ‘Nesbitt too.’ A pause. ‘And give him Henderson.’
Carrie had been on the point of smiling in relief, but at Murphy’s last word she froze, opened her mouth to protest. ‘Sir, I …’
‘I read the transcript of your last interview with Lucy Henderson. You’re not getting anywhere with her. Let Reilly see where he can take it. She strikes me as the type who’d respond better to a man.’
His tone made it clear that the meeting was at an end.
Shit.
‘Thank you, sir.’ She waited, but he didn’t react. She had reached the door when he spoke again.
‘O’Halloran. I hope this isn’t a mistake.’ His tone was pointed, his expression distant, and the message was clear. Carrie had been granted a favour, and that favour had been noted in his little book of services owed and given. He would call it in too. He always did.
‘Yes sir.’
Cormac was surprised, but not unpleasantly so, to receive a text message from Carrie O’Halloran asking if he was free for a q
uick drink. He was in town anyway, as it happened, having a pint and waiting for Emma. He texted Carrie back, ordering himself another drink and a glass of red for her while he waited.
He liked Carrie. She was a good cop, a good sergeant, and he trusted her. The year before, when an investigation had led Cormac to a violent confrontation with a colleague, Carrie had done what she could to ensure that the powers that be didn’t scapegoat him. Since then they’d had coffee or lunch together a handful of times, but they weren’t on the kind of terms that included Friday night drinks. Something must be up.
She arrived five minutes later, made her way through the bar and found him in his corner booth. He watched her as she approached, noted the signs of tiredness around her eyes. She was still wearing the tailored pants and jacket he’d seen her in earlier that day. She clocked the wine as soon as she sat down.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But I should probably have coffee.’ Still, she reached out and picked up the glass, took a sip. ‘I haven’t been home before ten o’clock any night this week. I worked the last two weekends and worked three last month. I’m overloaded. I’ve spoken to Murphy and he’s told me to transfer some cases to you.’
Cormac nodded slowly. ‘That makes sense,’ he said. He couldn’t quite read her – had she wanted this? ‘Which cases?’
‘Durkan. Nesbitt. And Henderson.’
‘Right.’ The first two he’d heard nothing about, assumed were standard fare. But the Henderson case. He’d heard enough about it to know she’d been working it passionately. It was almost certainly the case that had kept her at the station all hours for the past week.
‘Henderson,’ Cormac said. ‘Are you all right about that?’
‘No,’ she said baldly. She sipped her wine, then turned to him. ‘Murphy wasn’t too pleased with me putting him under pressure. I gave him an earful about you working cold cases. Said he needed to shit or get off the pot. Well, not in so many words.’
‘And Henderson was his way of saying …’
‘His way of saying thank you, yes.’ She put her glass down on the table. ‘It’s an important case to get right,’ she said, and he could tell that she was picking her words carefully. ‘Lucy Henderson is a hard read.’
‘Right,’ Cormac said. He took a drink from his pint, buying time. He wanted the case. If he was honest with himself he knew he was desperate for it, desperate for the challenge. But getting it like this was not ideal – picking up something that already had someone else’s fingerprints all over it, someone else’s method, particularly when that someone resented handing it over.
‘Let’s talk to Murphy on Monday. Decide which cases are at a good stage to unload. You keep Henderson. I’ll take whatever you think you should pass over. If we present Murphy with a fait accompli he’ll have to take it.’
She looked surprised, then considering, then reluctantly shook her head. Took a longer sip from her wine. ‘He’s right, though I hate to admit it. I’ve made no progress with the wife. She might respond better to you. And the hearing will almost certainly clash with one of my other cases. I think you’re going to have to take it.’ She still looked tired but some of the tension had gone from her voice. ‘There’s an interview tomorrow morning, which is why I needed to catch you tonight.’
Cormac sat back. ‘Carrie, I’ve no wish to fall out with you.’
She waved him off. ‘No. Sorry. It’s me. I was a bit pissed off, but that’s just the tiredness speaking. I should go home. Get some sleep.’ She made no move to stand.
A phone vibrated against the table and they both looked down. Cormac picked it up.
‘That’s Emma. It’s too late for dinner but we can order a bite at the bar. Why don’t you hang on? Have something to eat before you drive home.’ Before Carrie could respond, Cormac answered the call. ‘Em? You finished? I’m in Buskers. The back bar.’ The half-smile on Cormac’s face dropped away, and he stood, putting a hand to his ear to block the noise of the bar. He locked eyes with Carrie.
‘Where are you? Emma. Stop. Take a breath.’ Cormac’s face was tense but his tone was very controlled. ‘Tell me where you are.’
And then he was moving.
CHAPTER TWO
Cormac stalked up Kirwan’s Lane. When he reached Cross Street he broke into a run, making for the taxi rank, aware that Carrie was a step behind him. He opened the door of the closest car, pulled out his ID and flashed it at the driver.
‘I want the university. The chapel car park. Take Presentation Road and let’s get there fast, okay?’ He took the passenger seat, and Carrie, asking no questions, sat in the back. The driver, a twenty-something with acne scars on his cheeks, just shrugged.
‘You’re the boss.’ Then he pulled out, and drove carefully, keeping just under the speed limit, down Bridge Street and on to Presentation Road.
‘What is it?’ Carrie asked. ‘Is Emma all right?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Cormac said shortly. ‘She’s upset, but she said she’s okay.’ He glanced at the driver, who was listening with interest to the conversation. ‘I’ll fill you in when we get there,’ he said to Carrie, then turned to the driver. ‘Can you pick up the pace?’
The driver shook his head. ‘It’s a fifty zone here. Worth my licence to go over.’
Cormac was already regretting the taxi. He should have run the extra couple of hundred metres to the station and had a uniform drive them in a marked car with lights and siren.
‘Look, just drive, all right? This is garda business.’
Mr Conscientious didn’t need to be told twice. He grinned and put his foot to the floor, accelerated up to 70, then 80. He took the lights at University Road very late, then ran straight through a pedestrian crossing flashing amber. Cormac said nothing, just gritted his teeth.
They turned off onto Distillery Road. It was a narrow road flanked by 1960s houses that had once been homes, all long bought up by the university for use as offices and tutorial rooms. You could follow Distillery Road down to the river, which was where the private laboratories were located, or you could take a sharp right that would lead you past the university chapel and onward to the entrances to the library, the larger university canteen and coffee shop, and the concourse. Cormac knew the campus well. Over the past year, and in stark contrast to how things had been in Dublin, he’d had more than enough time to drive out and meet Emma regularly for lunch.
‘Slow down,’ Cormac said. ‘I want you to stop at the corner.’ He put his hand on the driver’s shoulder and squeezed, making sure that the message was heard. The driver hit the brakes hard, and Cormac had his door open before the car came to a complete halt. He saw Emma’s car straightaway. It was parked in the middle of the road, hazards flashing, blocking the way. As he approached, the driver’s door opened and Emma stepped out. She walked towards him, hands pushed deep into her cardigan pockets.
‘Are you hurt? What’s happened?’ Cormac reached out for her, ran his hands from her shoulders to her elbows and back. She was shivering. It could be shock. Christ, this was all she needed.
‘I’m fine. I’m fine, Corm. It’s not me.’
Carrie joined them. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
Emma nodded, and took a step back, out of reach. It was late, after eleven o’clock now, and the moon was hidden by heavy, low-hanging cloud. The distant streetlamps cast only an orange-tinged suggestion of light, and Emma’s features were smudged, indistinct in the darkness.
‘I found a body. A girl. Someone’s killed her. I think she was hit by a car.’
Cormac wanted to reach out to Emma again, but with the barest shake of her head she asked him not to. She was just about holding it together, maybe, and anything more from him might send her over the edge. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. She’d been doing so well.
‘Emma, we haven’t met. I’m Carrie O’Halloran. I work with Cormac.’ Carrie’s voice was professional, calm, in control. ‘Can you bring me to this girl? Are you sure that she’s dead?’
‘Yes.’ E
mma gave another hard shiver. ‘Yes. She has to be dead. You’ll understand when you see her.’
‘Okay Em,’ Cormac said. ‘Show us where, all right?’ He glanced at Carrie and opened his mouth to ask her to call an ambulance, but she was ahead of him, already dialling.
Emma led the way down the narrow road. The road was flanked on the left-hand side by trees and on the right by a footpath which bounded the chapel car park, and beyond that the chapel itself. The only streetlamps were on the far side of the car park, away from the road, and the rest of the campus seemed to be in darkness. There should have been a glow of lights from the library. The car park was all but empty – he counted only three cars, which struck him as odd. Wasn’t it exam season? Shouldn’t they all be studying late?
Emma, her arms tightly crossed and her shoulders a little hunched, led them about fifteen metres towards the library, then came to a stop. Cormac could just make out a crumpled heap on the road.
‘She’s there,’ Emma said.
‘Stay here.’ Cormac looked at her to make sure she wasn’t going to argue, waited for her nod. Then he walked carefully onward, conscious that if this was a crime scene he risked contaminating evidence, but aware that he had little choice. He needed to confirm that the woman was dead. The light was so poor that he was nearly on the body before he could distinguish shape from shadow, and could make out the pool of blood, mahogany dark, spread out from a spill of long blond hair. He took his phone from his pocket, shone the light on the scene. A woman, arms thrown back, a tyre print in cherry red painted across a white T-shirt, worn under a cardigan that had fallen open. Cormac took another step closer. The girl’s chest was crushed, her pelvis twisted. And her face. Christ. There was nothing left but an open sore of blood and flesh. A gleam of white in the darkness that could be bone or tooth. Cormac swallowed, took a final careful step closer, and pressed two fingers to her neck. No pulse. Her skin was soft, and held a hint of warmth.
The Scholar Page 2
