by LJ Ross
“I’m glad you feel that way,” he said. “Because I need to tell you that I was partly responsible for you and Connor being dropped from the investigation. As the offender is a local person, and so are you, the situation opened itself up to allegations of bias that are best avoided. You have a reputation for being a man of integrity, as does your brother, and I acted in the way I felt would best ensure your reputation remains intact.”
Niall fingered the paperclip he kept in his trouser pocket while he considered whether to punch Gregory in his interfering face.
“You think you know best, eh?” he said. “You think you can go over my head and take away my chance to make the collar, is that it?”
“No—”
“You didn’t think you should talk to me first?” he continued, taking a step forward. “Or Connor?”
Gregory raised an eyebrow and held his ground.
“I did talk to you,” he reminded him. “Several times, where I asked you to tell me your whereabouts on Friday nights, and when you promised to supply me with formal statements to that effect. They never arrived. If you have personal matters to see to, it’s only right that you stand aside.”
“Niall, listen to what the man has to say,” Maggie urged, when he would have erupted.
“I don’t think so, Ma. I reckon I was right all along. Our Doctor Gregory’s nothin’ but a fame-seeker, out to make a name for himself off the backs of people like me.”
With that, he turned and began to walk away, only to pause at the sound of a commotion beside the hut. One of the forensic team who’d been excavating a shallow, recently dug-out hole, set aside their shovel and pulled a black plastic bag from the ground.
“Jesus,” Niall whispered. “It can’t be.”
When they held up a woman’s dress, stained a dark, brownish-red, Maggie began to weep softly.
* * *
The nearest Garda station with holding cells and an interview suite was Divisional Headquarters at Castlebar. While Niall accompanied Connor and arranged for a solicitor, Alex and Maggie followed shortly afterwards and made the forty-minute journey to the larger town, north of the lough.
“Storm’s coming in,” Maggie said. “It’ll be with us before nightfall.”
Ominous grey clouds loomed overhead, and the wind blew a steady gale, buffeting the edges of the car as they followed the narrow road around the water. The Weather Office had issued a ‘yellow’ warning advising people to avoid travel wherever possible, but there was no question of Maggie staying at home while her son languished in a cell.
There was a distant rumble, followed by the clap of lightning as they rounded the headland.
“Four or five miles away,” she estimated, and gripped the wheel a little tighter. “We’ll want to get back on the road by four or five at the latest, if we want to miss the worst of it. The lower sections of this road are prone to flooding.”
Gregory was happy to let her prattle on about the weather—it helped her to come to terms with the shock of Connor’s arrest, while he thought about the killer profile. On many levels, there was a solid match in Connor Byrne. However, there remained a niggling doubt in his mind that rested upon one important detail integral to the killer’s motivation: his desire for a mother figure. Claire Kelly and Aideen McArdle’s killer coveted and punished at the same time. They used proxies to enact their fairy tale fantasy, while building up to removing the real, living person they felt had fallen so far short of the mark, or who may never have existed at all.
As far as he could tell, Connor and Niall Byrne had no need to look elsewhere for the fairy tale, because they had it already—and her name was Maggie. However, it was also true that perception came down to the individual. It was not so much a question of how the rest of the world perceived Maggie Byrne; it was how Connor and Niall perceived her that counted.
Gregory stole a glance at the woman driving the car, at the lines of worry pinching her skin, and considered how her children might think of her.
Authoritarian, maybe, but not domineering.
Loving, but not cloying or suffocating in her affection.
Supportive, but not dictatorial.
If Connor had ever felt lacking in a mother’s affection, or if he had ever harboured a desire to punish, those dark emotions would more likely have been directed towards the nuns of St. Hilda’s Orphanage and not at the woman who raced up hill and down dale through a gathering storm to help him.
But, if that was true, the question became: how had a bag full of bloodied women’s clothing come to be found buried at the side of his hut?
Gregory meant to find out.
CHAPTER 35
Gregory barely noticed the streets and houses of Castlebar, so intent was he on trying to make sense of the most recent turn of events. He had a general impression of a town several times larger than Ballyfinny, with rail links to Dublin and other major towns across the country, and he spotted a couple of college campuses as they passed. However, as they met with traffic crossing one of the town’s bridges on their way to the Garda station, he glanced outside and found his attention captivated immediately by the sight of a misty-blue mountain rising up in the far distance.
“That’s Croagh Patrick,” Maggie told him, and he heard the tiredness in her voice. “Folk around here call it ‘the Reek’. A load of pilgrims climb it every year, on Reek Sunday, which is the last Sunday in July.”
“Croagh Patrick,” Gregory repeated. “Is that to do with Saint Patrick?”
Maggie nodded, and edged the car forward.
“Legend has it, Saint Patrick fasted and prayed on the summit of the Reek for forty days. There’s a tiny chapel at the top and Patrick’s Causeway, too, where folk can walk from Ballintubber Abbey to the Reek, if they’ve a mind to.”
Gregory was reminded again of his detective friend in the North of England, whose beat included the island of Lindisfarne, which was a regular route for pilgrims who crossed the sandy causeway of that tidal island. He’d never felt any particular urge to go on a pilgrimage, but when he looked up at the purple-blue mountain with its arrow-headed tip, he felt strangely drawn to the idea.
Perhaps he would, one of these days.
The traffic moved on, and soon they were pulling into the visitor’s car park at the Castlebar Garda Station, which served as the divisional headquarters for the Garda in that county. Its design was much more in line with what Gregory was accustomed to, consisting of a squat, pebble-dashed structure built sometime in the nineties during what appeared to have been a severe lull in architectural history.
Maggie caught his arm before they stepped inside.
“Alex, what if the unthinkable is true?” she asked, very softly. “What if everything I believed is wrong and Connor did these dreadful things? What do I do then? How do I face him, or the families—”
Gregory sensed a note of rising panic, and slipped a gentle arm around her shoulders.
“Nothing is certain, yet,” he said. “Hear what Connor has to say, before coming to any conclusions.”
She sniffed a little, holding back tears through strength of personality alone.
“You’re right,” she said, but her eyes were bleak. “But I keep thinking of the dog we had. That little dog…”
He held her close and they walked into the Garda station together.
* * *
As soon as they entered, Niall collected his mother and took her off to speak to their family solicitor and, afterwards, to see Connor. Meanwhile, Gregory went in search of Superintendent Donoghue and was told to wait in a small meeting room on the ground floor which smelled strongly of pot-pourri and stale sweat.
After twenty minutes, Donoghue entered the room with two cups of milky tea, laced liberally with sugar.
“I wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I made it the same as mine.”
“Thanks,” he said, and took a polite sip of liquid glucose. “And thank you for agreeing to see me. I realise you must be very busy.”
&nb
sp; Carole smiled broadly, clearly very pleased at the turn of events.
“All we needed was a break,” she said. “And I must thank you, Doctor. It was good instinct, and good sense on your part to suggest taking Connor and Niall off the case. Neither have full alibis and, as you rightly say, we need to consider all the residents of the town, not just those who don’t happen to wear uniform.”
She paused.
“As for Connor, even though he’s a perfect fit for the profile, it’s come as a shock to all of us here. We might investigate our own because we’re professionals, but we still expect them to uphold the law. It’s very disappointing. When I think of all the dinners and Christmas parties we went to…Anyway, I hope he’ll do the right thing, when the time comes.”
Gregory took another gulp of tea, and worried that he might be getting a taste for it.
“I think I need to clarify a couple of things, superintendent,” he said. “When I said that everyone should be treated fairly and equally, including members of the Garda, that includes considering all material and circumstantial evidence—the profile I provided is not intended to act as a substitute for good police work.”
Carole’s face fell.
“Before we start talking unequivocally, let’s remember that Connor Byrne is innocent until proven guilty. If material evidence pertaining to the murders has been found, I presume it’s going to be fully analysed for DNA and compared with Connor’s, as well as any of the other samples found at either of the crime scenes?”
“I—of course, yes,” she muttered. “I thought you’d be happy that we’ve brought someone in. The NBCI are ecstatic…”
“I’ll be happy if it’s the right person,” he shot back. “As it is, I can’t be anywhere near sure that Connor is the person you’re looking for, and I disagree that he’s a perfect fit for the profile.”
“Why?” she asked, and felt her buoyant mood begin to fade.
“For one thing, the act of keeping or burying a murder victim’s clothes is not in keeping with the personality and behavioural traits of this kind of killer,” he said. “Remember, they don’t like ultra-violence. They’re organised, not disorganised, and have a clear methodology that hasn’t varied so far. That’s because their purpose is to use their intended victim as a substitute, a kind of doll, that they can pose in whatever position they like. The theatrical staging is what gives the most insight: they’re reimagining classic, childhood experiences. Once the experience is over, it’s probably over, and they’re seeking the next rush, the next opportunity to live out a fantasy they might not have experienced in their real childhood.”
“Connor Byrne had a terrible start in life,” she argued. “All of that is still consistent with a man who would have liked those ‘normal’ childhood tropes.”
“But he had them, when Maggie came along,” Gregory pointed out. “There’s no need of a proxy, if you have somebody there filling in all those gaps, every day, for the rest of your life.”
Donoghue acknowledged that was equally true.
“But coming back to the clothes you found today,” Gregory leaned forward to reinforce the point. “In my experience, these kinds of killer don’t tend to keep trophies. It’s messy, it’s dangerous, and it’s unlikely that they’re gleaning sexual gratification from any of this. It’s a different kind of high they’re looking for. The only reason they might have taken the clothing is most likely to destroy it elsewhere, or because it was contaminated with their DNA. Don’t forget, they cleaned both crime scenes very thoroughly and, as far as I’m aware, you didn’t find any cleaning rags, either. They’re careful, and burying a bag of soiled clothing in a shallow grave beside your own fishing hut where any Labrador could dig it up isn’t careful, it’s downright sloppy.”
Donoghue let out a long, pent-up breath of frustration.
“I have to follow the chain of evidence,” she said, after a moment. “I have to follow up the tip-off we received, and not just because it’s a new lead. It came via the press, and my commanding officer likes to keep them on side. I can’t just ignore it.”
Gregory said nothing at first, then he set his cup back on the table and made one final point for her to consider.
“I know you have to follow through,” he acknowledged. “And I want you to, because that’s the proper process. All I’m asking you to do is keep an open mind, and not write Connor off, just yet. There’s a chance those clothes were planted by somebody else, particularly somebody who’s aware of his background. The tip-off to the press was anonymous, wasn’t it?”
She nodded.
“We haven’t traced the source,” she said.
“Right. And I’ll bet you only found one set of clothes in that bag—Claire Kelly’s, but not Aideen’s?”
Donoghue was surprised.
“How did you know that?”
“I know, because experience has taught me that killers, especially organised ones, learn from their mistakes. With Claire Kelly, they weren’t prepared for so much blood. It sounds silly, considering they planned to kill her, but the first time is always a shock. They probably made a mess with the dress, whereas in Aideen’s case, they already knew what to expect. They made her undress first, killed her in the downstairs shower room, then simply put the old dress back on her, afterwards. Am I right?”
Carole smiled appreciatively.
“You’re absolutely right,” she said. “But all that doesn’t remove the possibility that it might have been Connor who was taken by surprise, and Connor who was forced to take Claire Kelly’s clothing away with him.”
He had to admit, that was true.
It was a stalemate.
CHAPTER 36
Leaving Maggie in the capable hands of her son, Gregory went off in search of a taxi. However, every rank from the station to the shopping centre was empty, and he realised he’d forgotten something the mayor had told him the very first time he’d landed at Knock Airport. The young people of the county liked to travel to Galway on weekends to enjoy its bright lights, and they booked out most of the county’s fleet in advance. Even without that complication, they were hardly overrun by taxi firms willing to travel long distances over dangerous roads. With the forecast looking increasingly bleak outside and the air temperature dropping swiftly, Alex decided there was little else to do but put a call through to the Ballyfinny Castle Hotel, where Seamus took pity on him and instructed Padraig to collect him in one of the hotel cars.
He expected to wait at least forty minutes in the foyer of the Castlebar Garda Station, but Padraig pulled up a mere twenty-five minutes later, leaving him to question how the man had managed to shave off a full fifteen minutes of a winding cross-country drive without happening to own a car that could fly.
“Thanks for coming all this way,” he said, buckling himself in. “Guess you know all these roads like the back of your hand.”
“Y’ could say that.”
“Weather forecast isn’t looking good.”
“Can’t say I bother looking, anymore.”
“Been busy, up at the hotel?” Alex asked, moving on to the second chapter of Small Talk for Awkward Social Occasions.
“Fair,” the other man replied.
For reasons unknown, that made Gregory laugh. Perhaps it was the man’s irreverence, or his flagrant disregard for social conventions. Either way, Padraig was one of a kind.
“I’m liable to go deaf, if you keep talkin’ my ear off like that.”
Padraig rubbed the side of his nose, to hide a smile.
“Them who’re the quietest have the loudest minds, so they say,” Padraig replied, and flung them both to the left as he flew over a roundabout.
“Must be a proper Riverdance concert going on in your head.”
They fell into a contented silence, each man feeling satisfied he’d held up his own end. They didn’t speak again until Padraig was halfway around the lough road that would lead them back to the hotel.
“Came as a surprise, Connor being arres
ted.”
Once Gregory had overcome his own surprise at the conversation starter, he agreed.
“It’s a blow to Maggie.”
Padraig made a rumbling sound in his throat which might have signified discontent, or perhaps heartburn.
“I planned to go down to the station today,” he said, as rain began to fall against the windshield. Lightly at first, then in great, fat drops that fell like pebbles against the glass. “Niall said, if I was to think of anything else, I should mention it.”
Gregory turned to him, all business now.
“What have you remembered, Padraig?”
“Probably not important,” the other man said. “But I was varnishing one of the dinghies the morning Claire Kelly died. It’s an outdoor job—smelly one, too. Anyway, I was down at the shoreline, by the boathouse, and I saw that feller from the school.”
“Tom Reilly?” Gregory asked, with a frown.
“Aye, the headmaster. He was out for a jog. I could see him, up on the lough trail. Always wears those tight shorts and headphones that look like bloody earmuffs. Remember thinkin’ he belongs in Dublin, decked out like that. Anyway, I told Niall that nobody could give me an alibi for that morning—but I thought it might be worth asking Reilly whether he remembers seeing me, varnishing the boat, like.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“As I said, probably not important now they’ve got Connor in their sights. You think I should still mention it to that new superintendent?”
Gregory nodded.
“They need every detail, no matter how small.”
As they continued on to the hotel, he was left with the overpowering impression that he’d just been gifted an important piece of the jigsaw puzzle, if only he could figure out where it went.
* * *
It was just before six when Alex returned to his room in the hotel and ate a solitary, room-service dinner. The wind continued to pick up, howling through the chimney piece and rattling the old windows as the storm finally took hold of Ballyfinny. When he looked outside, he saw the skies had changed from the watercolour pinks and mauves of earlier, and were now a deepening grey-blue, as night fell behind the clouds.
