The Dead (The Saxon & Fitzgerald Mysteries Book 1)

by Ingrid Black

  Tsilevich was hardly a name connected to the investigation either, and there was no buried reference in where or how she died to Fagan’s killing of Liana Cassidy. He’d stopped pretending now. His self was coming through, as Tillman had said it would. And he was growing bolder, more assured. He had even stayed a while afterwards to take a shower. It made sense; Lynch said he’d have been splashed with blood. There was something callous about that too. First you kill a woman, then clean yourself up in her own shower. He wasn’t taking precautions against leaving traces of his hair in the plughole, that was for sure. Because he didn’t expect ever to be caught – or because he didn’t care if he was caught?

  I’d have liked to ask Tillman about that, for all I hadn’t been impressed with his profile; but Tillman had been curt with me when I phoned earlier to tell him about the latest killing. No, he didn’t want to come down to the scene. No, he didn’t want to look at photographs. And no, he didn’t want the opportunity to review the evidence with a view perhaps to fine-tuning his initial findings. He’d agreed to provide a preliminary profile, that was all; his work was over. Now he was working on his lecture, so would I kindly leave him alone?

  That Nikolaevna had been killed indoors wouldn’t hurt the investigation, at any rate. No need to worry what the weather had done to the physical evidence, no worrying who had trampled through the scene or what was here that had nothing to do with the victim or the killer. This was her apartment. What was here was only what should have been here. Everything was evidence. Inch by inch the technical bureau would find it.

  ‘What did the neighbours hear?’ I said, shutting the wardrobe door and turning round, avoiding the sight of the bed, the blood on the walls.

  ‘Dalton and Lawlor are still doing the door-to-doors,’ Fitzgerald explained. ‘There are about twenty other residents in this block, only half of whom claim to have been in last night when the killing happened. So far, most swear they saw and heard nothing. Goes without saying.’

  ‘You said most.’

  ‘Lawlor got something interesting a couple of doors down. I’ll tell you about it later.’

  ‘Fair enough. Anyone else in the vicinity last night?’

  ‘There’s no doorman, you can see it’s not that kind of place, but the caretaker is Joe Keogh,’ she confirmed. ‘He’s told us what he knows, which isn’t much. He seems on the level. He ran up when the cleaner started screaming. Same old story. He didn’t see anyone he didn’t expect to see. Though who knows, maybe it was someone who lives here or who comes here often, someone familiar who wouldn’t be noticed.’

  I followed her out of the bedroom, glad to leave it, into a small sitting room where the fingerprint team were still dusting for prints along all the surfaces: windows, doors, handles, tables, chairs, cups.

  Nothing would be overlooked.

  ‘You were missed yesterday,’ she said to me as we stood together in the silence, watching them work.

  ‘In the mountains?’ I said carefully.

  This morning was the first time I’d seen her since sending the message about Fagan, and I still felt awkward.

  ‘The mountains, the office.’ She caught my eye. Held it. ‘You know, if this is all too much for you—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘If it brings back too many memories.’

  What was she trying to say?

  ‘It’s not that,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s just . . . I needed to get away yesterday,’ I explained. ‘It was all getting too much. I’m back now.’ I tried out a smile, though it didn’t seem convincing even to me. ‘Besides, who was there to miss me? Dalton? Draker?’

  ‘There was me,’ she said. ‘I missed you.’

  As if I didn’t feel bad enough already.

  ‘At least we know now it isn’t Fagan we’re looking for,’ she went on before I could think of what to say to cover my discomfort. ‘That’s something, though Draker, can you believe it, is still refusing to make it official until we have a definite ID on the body.’

  ‘He would,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t like admitting that he’s wrong.’ Fitzgerald shrugged.

  ‘Maybe he’s right to be cautious. The simplest way to clear it up would be for Mullen to offer a DNA sample so that we can make a match to the father, but he’s refusing. He’s even got himself a lawyer to hide behind. You’ll never guess who.’

  ‘Not Conor Buckley?’

  ‘The very same.’

  Just what we needed. More ghosts.

  ‘Why does Mullen need a lawyer? He’s not officially a suspect.’

  ‘He says he doesn’t trust the police. He says they stitched his father up and he’s not going to let them stitch him up too.’

  ‘Has something to hide, more like.’

  ‘Everyone has something to hide,’ said Fitzgerald.

  And there was my paranoia hammering again.

  Change the subject.

  ‘So what next?’

  ‘What’s next is we get back to work,’ she said. ‘We’ve got more than enough to be getting on with. I heard what Fisher brought over with him. If Mullen’s picture is recognised by any of the women who were attacked in London, we’re going to have to put his alibi for Mary Lynch’s murder under the microscope again. If Mullen is involved, that would certainly explain how the killer got hold of a knife belonging to Fagan.’

  ‘It definitely wasn’t the same one used to kill Tara Cox then?’

  She shook her head. ‘I sent Healy down to check out the old evidence stores, like you suggested. It didn’t come from there. He’s making enquiries now to see what happened to all Fagan’s belongings after they were auctioned off; but it’s a lifetime’s work. Still, it was good thinking, Saxon. Good thinking too last night about the other scenes.’

  ‘Thank Fisher for that, not me. Has anything turned up there yet?’

  ‘Nothing so far, but searches, as we often like to say to fob off the press, are continuing. Till then, Nikolaevna is what matters. Whatever the killer is playing at, this apartment is what matters.’

  ‘How did he get in?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘there was no sign of a break-in.’

  ‘So she knew him, let him in.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ she said. ‘There were two glasses of wine on the kitchen table, half drunk. Two glasses suggests company.’

  ‘How did she find her clients?’

  ‘How did they find her, you mean. Ads mainly. Here.’

  She passed me a copy of a glossy magazine inside an evidence bag. Dublin Today. A listings magazine. I’d seen it sitting around on the shop shelves, even remembered some controversy in the papers about the ads it carried at the back. Ads for what, in that euphemistic way the vice trade had, were always termed massage parlours and escort agencies.

  Women for rent.

  Nikolaevna’s – Sadie’s – ad was near the back. Russian Lolita Wants To Play, with a cellphone number to call. There was a picture but it wasn’t her. I recognised a teenage actress from one of the daytime American soaps that were shown over here on cable. Prostitutes often did that. Men saw the ad and called up, expecting one thing, then when the girl appeared, she looked nothing like the shot. What were they going to do – complain to the trading standards office?

  ‘Is that her personal number?’ I said.

  ‘Apparently. Her services were advertised under the same number in some of the local adult magazines too. Boland’s going through each call to see what comes up, but the killer won’t be stupid enough to get caught through his home phone records when he could pick up a cellphone any day of the week and never be traced.’

  ‘You never know,’ I said. ‘You might get lucky.’

  ‘Other people get lucky. Me, I just get a headache. Excuse me.’ Her cellphone was ringing. ‘Boland, what it is?’

  Her expression didn’t change as she listened to him.

  ‘Bring him in. I’ll be right there.’

  ‘Developments?’ I said as she hung up.

 
‘I had Boland go through Nikolavaena’s phone records,’ she replied. ‘The same number appears more than a hundred times in the past two months. Some days as many as six calls. Want to guess who it is?’

  ‘Someone I know?’

  ‘You know him alright.’

  Though perhaps not half so well as I’d once thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It got better. Within the hour, a witness had come forward who could put Nick Elliott at the scene of the crime last night and he was brought in for questioning. I watched him through the glass of the interrogation room, slumped in a chair, weary and unshaven, hands on the table, curling and uncurling his fingers repeatedly as if his body couldn’t settle whilst his mind was making such panicked leaps. There was a cigarette smouldering in the ashtray next to his hands. Fitzgerald sat opposite him, turning the pages of her notes slowly, taking her time, like Elliott wasn’t there, like he hadn’t even entered her thoughts.

  A uniformed officer stood watch by the door. A clock ticked loudly on the wall. That and the rustling of Fitzgerald’s notes were the only sounds coming over the speaker connecting the two rooms.

  I sat on the wrong side of the glass with Boland and Sean Healy, waiting for her to begin, as impatient as Elliott. She was making him sweat, but she was making me sweat too.

  ‘Where’s his lawyer?’ I said when another minute had ticked by.

  ‘He hasn’t asked for one,’ said Boland. ‘He was told it was his right, but he passed.’

  ‘That surprises me,’ I said. ‘I’d have thought Elliott was the sort to go hide behind his rights at the first sign of trouble.’

  ‘Probably thinks he can talk his way out of it,’ said Healy.

  He took a bite out of a sandwich, and it was only his sandwich which made me realise it was nearly lunchtime already. My stomach didn’t even feel like it could cope with coffee.

  ‘Or,’ Healy went on, his mouth full, ‘he thinks that not asking for a lawyer makes him look more innocent. I’ve seen that happen before.’

  Elliott didn’t look like he had any kind of a plan at that moment, unless obsessively tapping his cigarette to shake off the dead ash could be called a plan, and it was a relief when Fitzgerald finally put down her notes and fixed him with a friendly smile.

  ‘So help me out, Elliott,’ were her first words. ‘More to the point, help yourself out. What was your relationship with Nikolaevna?’

  ‘I didn’t have a relationship with her,’ Elliott said. ‘I told you already. I . . . went to her a couple of times.’

  ‘For sex.’

  ‘Of course for sex. She was a prostitute, what do you think I paid her for – doing my gardening?’

  Scared or not, Elliott obviously hadn’t lost his talent for being bloody-minded.

  ‘Did you pay for her services often?’ she said.

  ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘Elliott.’ She sighed. ‘You know why we’ve brought you in here. Because your number came up on Nikolaevna’s phone records more than a hundred times in the past two months.’

  ‘OK. I was seeing her’ – he considered – ‘a couple of times a week. Mondays and Fridays mostly.’

  ‘Always at her flat?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She never came round to your place?’ said Fitzgerald.

  Elliott shook his head.

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. You think I’d forget?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘I don’t know how many prostitutes you have sex with. Maybe you stop remembering the details after a while.’

  ‘There weren’t any others,’ said Elliott.

  ‘Just Nikolaevna.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘This is just so you know we’ll be checking out your house,’ she said. ‘Lifting prints. If she was there, we’ll find out about it soon enough.’ She paused a moment, giving him a chance to rescue himself if he wanted to, but Elliott stayed silent. ‘Maybe find out about any others too.’

  He gave an alarmed look.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Fitzgerald said soothingly. ‘Like you say, you never had any other prostitutes round, so what do you have to worry about?’ Her eyes slid to her notes for a second. ‘You never had sex with Monica Lee, for example. Or Mary Lynch.’

  ‘What have they got to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing, according to you. That’s fine. Forget about them. Forget I mentioned them. You never slept with them.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Never paid them for their professional services.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are we still talking about them?’ said Fitzgerald, and she gave him a look like she almost pitied his stupidity. ‘Back to Nikolaevna then. How did you first meet her?’

  ‘I got her number through a friend,’ said Elliott. ‘He’d been to her before. He recommended her.’

  ‘Are you going to give us his name?’

  Elliott hesitated.

  ‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s in trouble, Elliott. I wouldn’t waste any energy worrying about anyone else right now.’

  He hesitated again, but it was obvious it was coming.

  ‘Brendan Harte.’

  ‘Sorry, Elliott, I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘Brendan Harte,’ he said, louder. ‘He recommended her.’

  ‘The theatre critic?’ said Fitzgerald. ‘Gave you a good review, did he? Of Nikolaevna’s performance?’

  ‘He knew my situation. He was just being friendly.’

  ‘Is that what they call it nowadays?’ Fitzgerald leaned back in her chair. ‘Just for the record, what exactly was your situation?’

  ‘My wife and I . . . it hadn’t been going well. We’d split up.’

  ‘This would be the wife you only married four months ago?’

  ‘Am I being interrogated about my marriage problems or about Sadie’s murder?’

  ‘I’m interested, that’s all,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘Interested in why your wife would’ve left you only a couple of months after you married. Just wondering if it’s relevant.’

  ‘You think I was violent towards her?’

  ‘Who mentioned violence?’

  ‘I know what you’re doing,’ said Elliott. ‘You’re putting two and two together and getting five. You’ll have me down as a wife-beater first and say that’s why she left me, and then you’ll say I was some creep who went to prostitutes, and before you know it I’m a killer.’

  ‘But you’ve got nothing to worry about because it didn’t happen like that, right?’ said Fitzgerald. ‘So that’s fine. Except,’ she added, ‘that you were paying Nikolaevna Tsilevich to have sex with you. That part of the scenario’s right.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Elliott.

  ‘It never is,’ she said wryly, but he didn’t take the bait. ‘How long did you say you’d been going to her? Two months, was it?’

  ‘Two, maybe three.’

  ‘It’s three now? That would be before your wife left you,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘Was that why she left you?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ he said.

  ‘We will. When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘My wife or Sadie?’

  ‘Whichever one you prefer to tell us about.’

  ‘My wife, two weeks ago. We had stuff to arrange. Financial stuff. We had lunch.’

  ‘No chance of a reconciliation then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it. What about Nikolaevna?’

  Hesitation again. He hadn’t been told yet about the witness. Fitzgerald was saving up that little surprise.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ he said.

  ‘Two weeks, one week, three days?’

  ‘I told you, I—’

  ‘Don’t remember. Yeah, you said.’ She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Yo
u don’t make this easy, you know that, Elliott? Every detail dragged out under duress. Doesn’t look good.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. I didn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘Think the jury’ll agree?’

  ‘Don’t start that shit on me!’ said Elliott, slamming his knuckles on the desk. It was the first time he’d really raised his voice, though now he’d raised it he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. ‘Don’t you even think of – fuck. A jury, Christ! You’re not charging me with this. I didn’t kill Sadie. You’ve got nothing says I did. I cared about her.’

  ‘You cared about her?’ echoed Fitzgerald incredulously. ‘This isn’t exactly Romeo and Juliet, you know.’

  ‘You can go to hell, Fitzgerald. I did care about her, she was good to me. I would never have done anything to hurt her.’

  Boland snorted next to me, but it wouldn’t have been so unusual if Elliott had fallen for Nikolaevna. Men often fall for the prostitutes they visit. They convince themselves that what goes on between them is a sign of real affection rather than a mockery of it. They blind themselves to the mesmeric power of the money they bring with them to the room.

  I said nothing, though, because it would’ve taken too long to explain and Fitzgerald was speaking again.

  ‘If you cared about Nikolaevna so much,’ she was asking Elliott, ‘why didn’t you make it more than twice a week?’

  Elliott breathed out hard with irritation.

  ‘Twice a week was all I could afford,’ he said.

  ‘She was expensive?’

  ‘She wasn’t some common street whore, if that’s what you mean,’ he said.

  ‘Have you got something against common street whores?’

  ‘I don’t have anything against anyone. I’m just saying there’s a difference. Sadie was classy. I loved her.’

  ‘First you cared for her, now you loved her.’ Fitzgerald scratched her head with her pen and looked sceptical. ‘How did it make you feel then, that she slept with other men for money?’

  Elliott shifted uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t like it,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘I asked her to come live with me. I asked her to give it up.’