The Scholar

by Dervla McTiernan

  ‘Right.’ He didn’t like the sound of the arrangement, but there wasn’t a lot he could do, and he needed to get moving on the hit-and-run case. ‘We won’t call her in for another formal interview. We’ll go to the house first thing Monday instead. Take her by surprise. Get her just after she’s dropped the older kids at school. Come with coffee in hand – we’re just here for a chat. Thought we’d save you the bother of the drive. Sit in the living room with the baby playing on the floor. Get her on her own ground and she might be a bit more relaxed. I take it the gas has been disconnected?’

  Moira nodded. ‘An engineer went out with forensics and took the whole thing apart so it couldn’t be used. Henderson had been working on it for weeks. Jesus, can you imagine what was going on in his mind? Sick bastard. His own kids.’ She curled her lip.

  ‘What does Lucy have to say about it? What did she think he was doing?’ Cormac knew the answer the file would give him, but he wanted to hear it from Moira Hanley.

  ‘He told her he was putting in a gas connection for a new fireplace. Showed her the model he supposedly ordered on the internet and everything. She says she was surprised, he wasn’t usually handy. But she claims to have believed him.’

  ‘What about the boy?’

  ‘His name’s Fearghal. We haven’t been able to interview him yet. He’s had a Guardian ad Litem appointed by the court, and the guardian says he’s too distressed to be interviewed. But she also told me, off the record, that Fearghal figured out what his father was planning, saw the canisters and Googled the label, realised what was in them. Now he feels guilty that his father might spend the rest of his life in prison because of him.’

  ‘Christ. Poor kid. We’ll need to get him in though.’

  Moira shrugged, as if the issue were out of her hands. It irritated Cormac, that passivity.

  ‘I’d like to keep you on the case, Hanley. I know you work closely with DS O’Halloran as a general rule, and I don’t want to take you from that work, but I need someone who’s been on this case from the beginning.’

  She nodded, a little warily. ‘Yes sir. I’d like to see it through.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll talk to Carrie, make sure there’s no problem there. You working anything else right now?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing that needs ongoing attention.’

  ‘Right. I’ve a fresh case, a deliberate hit-and-run. I’m putting a small team around it and I’d like you on that too, if you want it.’

  She nodded again, a bit dubiously, and he thought about the clock-watching, but he wanted to know if she was any good, and the best way to find that out with anyone was to pile on a bit of pressure and see how they responded.

  ‘Right, case conference as soon as possible so. Fisher is my second on it, talk to him and get up to speed.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The case room was on the third floor of the building. The four windows along the western wall gave a less than spectacular view of grey skies and sodden car park. The floor was faded blue industrial carpet. There was an old-fashioned whiteboard, and several noticeboards were nailed to the walls, the boards scarred from a thousand pins. Despite the general shabbiness there was a sense of privilege in the room, the excitement that was common to every major case room Cormac had ever run. This was what it was all about. Every cop in the building, whether they’d admit it or not, wanted to work the big cases, the ones that mattered.

  The meeting had been called for noon and the last of the uniforms arrived as Cormac took his place at the top of the room.

  ‘Right,’ said Cormac. ‘We don’t have a lot of time so let’s get going. We’ll do a brief run-through of what we have. We won’t have time to explain anything twice so pay attention and take notes.’ He paused. ‘That being said, if you do miss something or don’t understand it, don’t for God’s sake leave this room without talking to Fisher first.’

  Fisher muttered something that caused a ripple of humour through the room. Cormac ignored it. He pointed David McCarthy towards a stack of photographs sitting on one of the desks.

  ‘Dave – let’s get those up while we talk.’ McCarthy took the photographs and handed them off to a much younger uniform, who stood immediately and started pinning them up. All eyes turned to watch as first one, then a second, then multiple crime scene photographs were separated from the bundle and pinned. Seeing the photographs in this context, pinned to a noticeboard in a case room, took some of the horror from them. It was easier to focus on what they were there to do, rather than the brutality of what had been done to the victim. Nevertheless, the mood in the room settled down as the photographs went up.

  Cormac nodded to Fisher who stood and spoke. ‘Victim is unidentified. The autopsy will be carried out on Monday by Dr Connolly. In the meantime, we know that she was aged between eighteen and twenty-five. That hair is dyed, by the way. Natural colour is brown. Cause of death is not yet confirmed, and we’ll keep an open mind until it is, but it’s almost certainly the case that she was killed due to the impact of the vehicle that ran her over. Time of death is estimated to be between 9 and 10 p.m.’

  Cormac stepped forward and pinned up a large diagram showing Distillery Road. ‘This is where the body was found,’ he said, indicating a point on the sheet. ‘Scene of Crime have confirmed that the vehicle entered Distillery Road, took the corner, then accelerated on its approach to the victim. It hit her hard, causing multiple injuries and throwing her into the air. Based on the markings on the ground the thinking is that the car continued on before turning and coming back to hit her again. You can see the extent of her injuries.’

  ‘There were no witnesses to the incident itself, that we know of,’ continued Cormac. Then, to Peter Fisher, ‘What’s the latest on the door to door?’

  ‘Not much. All of the buildings bordering Distillery Road are university owned now. Some of them look like homes, but they’re all converted inside, and used as offices or tutorial spaces. We tried the houses on Newcastle Road, but it was too far away. No one heard or saw anything of interest.’

  ‘What about CCTV?’ Cormac asked.

  ‘No good. The only cameras in the vicinity are one outside the Centra shop, and one outside the AIB cash machine. I know from a previous case that the Centra camera only picks up activity directly outside the store – it doesn’t capture any of the road – and all the cash machine cameras are the same. Straight down views only.’

  ‘I want those followed up on anyway – let’s get the footage and review everything.’

  ‘Already requested. Centra will have everything on USB for us to collect this afternoon. The bank won’t release the footage without a warrant, but we’re working on that.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Cormac. ‘Moving on then. The body was found by Dr Emma Sweeney at ten-forty p.m. The university was closed last night for reasons yet unknown and the place was much quieter than usual. But Dr Sweeney was going to work at one of the private labs hosted by the university – they have their own security arrangements.’ Cormac was conscious of the shift of mood in the room when he mentioned Emma’s name. He allowed his eyes to rest briefly on the face of every man and woman in the room as he continued.

  ‘As you’re no doubt aware, Dr Sweeney is my girlfriend. There is no suspicion that she is involved in any way, but Fisher will take her statement later today, and Dr Sweeney will be treated as we would treat any other witness. Is that understood?’

  Cormac’s question provoked a mumbled agreement and another round of exchanged glances. He moved on. ‘We’ll need to interview everyone who had access to the private labs, to see if the girl had planned to meet someone there.’

  ‘She was carrying an ID,’ Fisher volunteered. ‘But it wasn’t hers.’ He handed Cormac a photograph of the white plastic card. ‘The original is with scene of crime for testing.’

  Cormac took the photograph, examined it. The photograph showed a plain white card, with no date of birth, just a name and a smudged photograph of Carline Darcy on one sid
e. ‘This isn’t a college ID,’ Cormac said. He was aware of sudden tension in his shoulders. ‘This is a swipe card, an access card,’ he continued. ‘Probably for the private lab.’ It was exactly the same as Emma’s, down to the shitty quality photograph.

  ‘Her bag was gone, her phone, assuming she had one. That was tucked deep into her back pocket. It could have been missed.

  ‘If she had a handbag with her, or a backpack, that’s an easy grab and run. Harder to turn a body and search the pockets. It might not have occurred to him. Or he might have been worried about picking up trace,’ Cormac said absently, his mind still snagged on the thought that this girl, whoever she had been, had a connection to the place where Emma spent most of each day. Cormac shook his head, forced himself to focus on the task at hand. ‘This ID belonged to Carline Darcy. I’ve interviewed Darcy and she claims to have lost an ID at the beginning of the academic year. She got a replacement and thought no more about it. She also claims to have no knowledge of who the victim might be. Identifying the victim is our first order of business. McCarthy and Hanley, I want you on the missing persons registers. Fisher and the rest of you get working on body shops, just in case the driver is stupid enough to bring the car in for repair.’ He paused, glanced around the room. ‘Any questions? Anything to add?’

  A tentative hand went up at the back of the room. A young garda Cormac didn’t recognise, hair cut very tight, the sleeves of his uniform shirt a little too short for his arms.

  ‘I heard there was some kind of asbestos scare at the college. That’s why it was closed.’

  ‘Right.’ Cormac nodded. The kid looked young enough to be in college himself; he probably had friends who were. ‘Your name?’

  A flush. ‘Rory. Rory Mulcair.’

  That brought the meeting to a close, and Cormac gave Fisher a nod to follow before walking out of the case room, down three flights of stairs – the lift in the building was old and painfully slow – and out into the car park.

  ‘Emma said she should be free sometime this afternoon. You’ll get her on her mobile if you try her now. She’s expecting your call.’ He tried to read Fisher’s face, wanted to take his temperature.

  ‘Yes sir.’ Fisher avoided his gaze. ‘Happy for me to go to the house?’

  ‘I think that’s best,’ said Cormac. ‘But see what she says. She might be happy to come in, or might ask you to go to the lab.’

  ‘No bother either way,’ said Fisher. And Cormac told himself that this sort of consideration would be extended to any witness. Fisher was still standing there, waiting for further instruction. Was he expecting Cormac to send him down a particular path?

  ‘Look, Fisher, Emma’s had a rough couple of years, and this thing might be affecting her more than it should. I’m not suggesting you give her special treatment – I want to you deal with Emma as you would any other witness, all right?’ Christ, it was becoming a catch phrase already. Like any other witness. Which of course she wasn’t. No amount of saying the right thing would change that. ‘No special treatment in the interview, ask whatever questions you feel it necessary to ask. But just, let me know if you think she struggles at all, if she gets upset. I’ll want to get home and keep an eye on her.’

  ‘No bother, sir,’ Fisher said, easy-breezy. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

  Christ.

  * * *

  Moira Hanley pounced as soon as Fisher got back to the case room. She had been sitting at one of the desks but she swivelled the chair around and sat looking up at him, heavy eyebrows drawn together.

  ‘What’s all this stuff doing on the case file?’ she asked. She held out a thin bundle of paper and Fisher took them from her automatically, glanced at the top page.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said.

  ‘What’s it doing on the case file then?’ she asked again, and despite himself Fisher felt his irritation rise.

  ‘It’s just background on Carline Darcy. I sent it to the printer from my phone from the scene, before we found out she was still alive.’ That was sort of bullshit. He hadn’t sent it from the scene, had looked it up afterwards. The bit he’d learnt about her from Reilly had made him curious, that was all. He wasn’t going to explain that to Moira Hanley. She was a pain in the arse. Always spoke to him as if he was an idiot. Her problem was that they were the same rank, even though she had twenty years’ experience on him. As for that, she only had herself to blame, didn’t she?

  Hanley gave a minute shake of her head, as if she wasn’t fully convinced by the explanation. ‘Right, well, you can shred it now, can’t you?’

  Fisher looked down at the papers in his hand, then turned back to his desk. He’d have to hold on to them now, whether he wanted to or not. It wouldn’t do to let Hanley think she could order him about. He’d only gone a few steps when she spoke again.

  ‘What did he say to you?’ she asked. ‘Reilly, I mean. When he spoke to you outside just now.’

  Fisher didn’t turn around. ‘If he’d wanted to say it to the squad room, he’d have said it to the squad room.’ He kept going, returned to his desk, and logged into his screen. He quickly flicked through the forensics evidence that had come through, then found Emma Sweeney’s number, and dialled. She sounded happy enough to meet him, but wasn’t available until after 5 p.m., so he made arrangements to see her at her home. Only after he’d hung up did it occur to him that there was a solid chance Reilly would walk in the front door before he’d finished the interview. Shite. That would be bloody awkward. The sooner the whole Emma Sweeney thing was put to bed the better. In the meantime he’d better get on with the job. Being Reilly’s second meant he had more responsibility, did a bit of extra running, but he didn’t get to offload any of the routine stuff. Like every other garda on the team, Fisher had been assigned a list of body shops and garages to work his way through. He made a few calls, got nowhere, and wasn’t surprised. The car that hit the girl would be found abandoned and burnt out within the next twenty-four hours, he was ninety per cent sure. Chances were all these phone calls were a waste of time, but then that was the nature of police work. The devil was in all those boring little details. If he’d learned anything from Cormac Reilly, he’d learned that you dot those i’s and cross those t’s and follow every open lead to see where it might bring you.

  Whether due to his feeling that it was all a waste of time, or his tension over the upcoming interview, Fisher was distracted. His attention kept wandering back to the papers he’d taken from Moira Hanley. His research on Carline Darcy. There was always something morbidly fascinating about the superrich. It was like sniffing at a piece of meat that had been hung a bit too long, that had a taint of rot about it. The Darcy family had billions. It was unnatural, that money like that should be held by just a handful of people when there were people starving, or sleeping on the streets. And Fisher could tell that Reilly didn’t think that ID had been a coincidence. If he’d had to bet on it, Fisher would have said that the Darcy girl knew exactly who the victim was, and knew exactly what she was doing at the college last night. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that Carline Darcy was the murderer, at least not yet, but he wouldn’t rule it out either. Reilly might not have said it out loud, but he had to be thinking the same thing. Peter Fisher put aside his list of body shop phone numbers, pulled his Carline Darcy research closer, and started to read.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Cormac called the university from the car. He expected to have some difficulty tracking down the president – it was Saturday after all – but instead had the distinct impression that his call was expected. He was told the university president would be happy to meet with him within the hour.

  The university campus was a hodgepodge of architectural styles, from the beautiful limestone quadrangle that had opened its doors in 1849 and still featured in college brochures, to the extraordinarily ugly concourse (built in the 1970s and inexplicably backing onto the beautiful River Corrib rather than facing it), to the modern installations. Cormac parked his car in
a reserved spot and placed a police sign conspicuously on the dashboard. He took a moment to look around. The campus was going through major renovation, but the area around the quadrangle was peaceful and undisturbed.

  Nathan Egan’s outer office contained a desk, probably usually occupied by a secretary. When he arrived it was vacant, and the door to his office was ajar. Cormac knocked briefly, and entered. Egan was sitting at his desk, mouse under hand. Two over-sized flatscreen monitors held his attention but he looked up on Cormac’s entry.

  ‘Detective Reilly?’ he said.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me this afternoon, Professor Egan. I’m sorry to drag you in on a Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Nathan, please. And you’ve given me the excuse I needed, I’m afraid.’ He smiled with practised charm. ‘I need to work today, and weekend disappearances are never very popular at home.’

  The man was younger than Cormac had expected, channelling not so much the grizzled academic as the Silicon Valley up-and-comer. He wore a grey blazer over a black button-down shirt and dark jeans.

  ‘I have just a few questions for you, and then I’ll let you get on with your day.’

  Egan spread his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘I’m happy to help, detective. Your superintendent happens to be a friend. He gave me a call and asked me to do what I could to help with what is obviously a priority investigation. Not that I wouldn’t have helped without the call, of course.’

  Cormac nodded as if he’d known that Murphy had made the call, as if it was par for the course, rather than out of left field. It was rapidly becoming clear that Murphy wouldn’t take his eye off this case for a minute.