The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  She smiled. ‘Happy to oblige,’ she said and proceeded to chat about her upcoming holiday to Miami, telling him about the hotel, the friends she was going to meet there. She drifted from there to places she’d been in the past, her favourite cities, favourite restaurants.

  As she chatted, he could feel himself relaxing. ‘I’ve enjoyed this,’ he said, checking the time. ‘Unfortunately, I need to get back. Maybe we can meet up again soon; you’re as good as a tonic.’

  She walked out with him, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her leather jacket. ‘Thanks for coming, Mike,’ she said when they got to her car. ‘I always enjoy chatting with you.’ With a smile, she leaned into him and pressed a kiss on his cheek. ‘See you soon.’

  He watched as her car pulled out and gave a wave before heading to his. He felt better; his head was clearer, now maybe things would make more sense.

  The look on Andrews’ face when he returned told him that his partner knew exactly where he’d been and he wasn’t happy about it. He ignored him and returned to his office. Resisting the temptation to shut the door, he sat behind his desk and reached to switch on his computer, stopping when the desk phone rang. He picked it up. ‘West.’

  ‘It’s Dominic, I need to see you.’

  There was no disguising the urgency in the man’s voice. West gripped the phone tightly. ‘You’ve news about the woman?’

  ‘I can’t talk here,’ he said, his voice a barely audible whisper. ‘Meet me somewhere, preferably today.’

  ‘How about the lobby of Randolph’s,’ West said. The boutique hotel near the courts was one he’d often used for meetings in the past.

  ‘Perfect. I’ll see you there in an hour.’ Dominic Farrell hung up before West could argue that an hour was cutting it fine to get from Foxrock to the city centre and find parking to boot. It might just be one of those days, when he did what Andrews always wanted him to do, and park illegally.

  Thinking of Andrews, he looked up and saw the man hunched over his computer. It was probably a good idea to take him along. He knew he was giving him the perfect opportunity to complain about his meeting with Fiona, but that would come regardless of how long it took. Andrews was never one to forget when he felt he was in the right.

  It was essential to have someone with him if Dominic had something important to tell him. He wasn’t going to be pulled into any old boys’ network. He was a member of the Garda Síochána; anything the man had to tell him was going to be official.

  Andrews nodded when he filled him in. ‘So, you want me to come with you to this meeting?’

  To West’s surprise, that was as much as he said about his meeting with Fiona. Maybe he’d decided it was as innocent as he’d said. More likely, he thought, Andrews had discussed it with his wife, Joyce, and she told him he was being stupid.

  Whatever the reason, he was happier to have a peaceful drive through the usual mayhem of Dublin city traffic.

  As he’d guessed, despite checking numerous side streets and nearby car parks, there was no parking available. Seeing the clock tick past the hour, he gritted his teeth, parked illegally and put his Garda Síochána Official Business sign on the windscreen.

  Ignoring the slight cackle that came from the passenger’s seat and the grin on Andrews’ face, he locked the car and stepped smartly toward the hotel.

  32

  The conversion of three old Victorian buildings into the Randolph Hotel had been done both sympathetically and expensively. Not far from the law courts, it attracted a mixed clientele who could afford its exorbitant room tariff. In its Michelin-starred restaurant, wealthy criminal types, with and without their legal teams, dined shoulder to shoulder with judges and solicitors.

  If the price of eating or drinking within its walls didn’t deter the unwelcome, the doorman, who looked down on the undesirables with a supercilious air, certainly did.

  West and Andrews ignored him as they ran up the steps to the entrance. He gave them a quick once-over and stood back.

  Despite illegally parking, they were five minutes late and Dominic Farrell was anxiously checking his watch as they walked in. He looked up in relief when he saw West approaching, the expression changing to annoyance when he saw he hadn’t come alone. He wasn’t a fool, however, and acknowledged the presence of Andrews with a considered nod. ‘Official it is,’ he said. ‘Shall we go into the lounge? I could do with a coffee and it will be easier there.’

  They found a corner seat, sheltered from others by the convenient placement of large leafy plants. Farrell raised his hand and attracted the attention of a waiter. ‘Coffee?’ he asked, looking at them.

  Both men nodded, Andrews wondering vaguely if he’d have to take out a loan to pay for it.

  By unspoken agreement, they didn’t discuss what Farrell wanted to tell them until their drinks came. While they waited, solicitor and ex-solicitor discussed mutual acquaintances. Andrews, sitting back, looked on and listened to this insight into the life West lived before he joined the gardaí.

  ‘You’ve no regrets?’ Farrell asked, when the conversation had run its course.

  West smiled and shook his head. He might have said more, but their order arrived with great ceremony; a whole palaver of cups and saucers, tiny spoons, sugar lumps with tongs, two pots, one with coffee, one with hot milk and, just in case, a jug of cold milk. The waiter, with great and unnecessary ceremony, poured a cup for each of them, asking each whether they wanted milk and sugar and whether they wanted hot or cold milk, one lump or two. West caught his partner’s eye and gave a barely discernible shake of his head.

  Andrews winked at him. ‘Hot milk, two lumps,’ he said, before he was asked his preference.

  Finally, the waiter left them to it.

  ‘Was it always like this?’ West asked, looking around.

  Farrell’s brow creased. ‘Like what?’

  West put his cup down. It wasn’t particularly good coffee. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. It was he who had changed, not the Randolph. He couldn’t believe, now, that he’d ever liked the place. ‘Tell me what you discovered.’

  Farrell finished his coffee and sat back with a sigh. He shot a resentful glance at Andrews, before reaching into his pocket to withdraw a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it slowly, he looked around before putting it on the table. It was the email they’d sent him, with the photo attached.

  ‘I didn’t have to ask anyone who she was,’ he said slowly, ‘I recognised her immediately.’

  West and Andrews exchanged glances. This was better news than they’d expected.

  ‘Her name is Lesere Osoba. She is, or at least,’ he amended with a shake of his head, ‘she was Nigerian.’

  ‘Was? She’s dead?’

  ‘It was tragic,’ Farrell said. ‘She hung herself, just a few months ago.’

  West frowned. Where had he heard something similar? Recently. He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Bloody hell,’ he swore.

  It was such a rare occurrence to hear him swear that Andrews looked at him in surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘Enda Careless’s wife.’ He looked across the table at Farrell. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Farrell nodded. ‘I met her a couple of times at official functions. He absolutely adored her and was devastated when she died. It was worse, of course, because he was the one who found her.’ He met West’s gaze. ‘You didn’t say why you were looking for her.’

  They hadn’t, but they owed him an explanation. West gave him a brief summary, watching as the frown on Farrell’s face deepened.

  ‘You think Lesere might have hired this Fearon person to smuggle a child into Ireland?’

  ‘It’s our running theory, Dom,’ West said. ‘Do you know anything about her, where she was from, whether she had children, younger siblings?’

  Farrell shook his head. ‘I don’t, I’m afraid. They weren’t married that long, you know. Only a year, maybe less. They met at a conference almost two years ago in Abuja, and I think, although I’m not sure, that
’s where she was from.’

  ‘Thank you, that is helpful,’ West said.

  ‘You’ll need to speak to Enda.’ Farrell’s eyes narrowed at the expression that crossed West’s face. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’

  West smiled slightly. ‘It’s an active investigation, Dom, there’s only so much I’m at liberty to discuss.’

  ‘Ah,’ Farrell said, his face pinching in annoyance. ‘I suppose you’d prefer if I said nothing either?’

  ‘If you please,’ West said, with a nod.

  Checking his watch, Farrell muttered under his breath, and stood. ‘I have to go. I can’t say it was good to see you again, Mike, but it was certainly interesting.’

  With a wave he was gone.

  ‘You know he’s left us the bill, don’t you?’ Andrews said, taking a quick look around to see if the coast was clear before lifting the pot and filling their cups. ‘Hot or cold milk,’ he asked in a feigned posh voice before pouring hot into both. He sat back with the cup and saucer in his hand. ‘What do you think?’

  West sighed. ‘That we’d better step carefully for one. I’ll contact the Nigerian embassy when we get back and see if they can fill in some details.’

  ‘There are a lot of gaps,’ Andrews said. ‘If the child is a relation of hers, why didn’t she bring her with her when she came over here and married Careless?’

  ‘Maybe it’s not her child, maybe it’s a younger sibling, or a friend’s child. We may be left with no choice but to ask him. I’d prefer to have as many of those gaps filled in as possible first.’

  The waiter came to see if they wanted anything else. West shook his head and asked for the bill. When it came, even he was taken aback. He met Andrews’ eyes. ‘I’ll put it down as expenses,’ he said, ‘don’t worry.’

  Morrison, who checked all their expense claims with a magnifying glass, would go ballistic at paying almost forty euro for three cups of coffee. West hoped they’d solve the case successfully before the end of the month.

  Back in the station, Andrews got on the phone to the Naturalisation and Immigration Service while West attempted to contact someone in the Nigerian embassy who might have the information they wanted.

  It took time and patience but eventually he was given a contact name in Abuja who, he was assured, would be more than willing to be of assistance. West hoped so. Investigating by phone was soul-destroying. He looked out to where he could see Andrews with his hand gripped in his hair. It didn’t look as though he was faring much better.

  He’d no idea what the time difference was between Ireland and Nigeria and spent a few minutes on the internet finding out. People were much more likely to be forthcoming if they weren’t contacted at difficult times. To his surprise there was only an hour’s time difference between Abuja and Dublin.

  ‘It certainly makes things easier,’ he muttered, as he dialled the number he’d been given and asked, hoping his pronunciation was acceptable, for Ginikanwa Obayomi.

  ‘Just hold while I transfer you.’

  He waited, tapping the fingers of his other hand on the desk. Enda Careless’s face came to him. He’d seen the sadness there. Had it eaten away at him and made him do the unforgivable?

  ‘Hello,’ the voice came loud in his ear.

  ‘Hello, my name is Mike West; I’m a police officer here in Dublin, Ireland. I’m trying to find some details on a Nigerian subject, and your efficient staff in the embassy here said you were the person to ask for.’

  ‘Mike West,’ the man said, his voice deep and melodic. ‘I’m going to ring you back in five minutes, if I may?’

  Surprised, West hurriedly agreed, and hung up.

  Exactly five minutes later, the phone rang.

  ‘It’s Ginikanwa here,’ the voice said, ‘sorry about that. I just needed to check you were who you said you were.’

  Amused, West asked, ‘So who did you check with?’

  ‘Our embassy in Dublin to begin with. They confirmed what you’d said. And the Garda Síochána head office were happy to fill me in on your qualifications. Now what can I do for you?’

  West told him the details of the case. ‘This Nigerian woman, Lesere Osoba, took her own life. There is no doubt with the finding. What we are trying to ascertain, is if she had any connection to a small child who died several months ago, and whose body was discovered recently.’

  ‘A child, you say?’

  ‘Yes, less than three years old. Our theory is that she was the victim of a people trafficker who transported her into Ireland in a large suitcase. She had sickle-cell anaemia and possibly suffocated.’

  The Nigerian’s tut tut was loud. ‘Shocking,’ he said. ‘And the child was not reported missing?’

  ‘No, we did a comprehensive search through various agencies. With so many children displaced because of war and unrest, it is a difficult task and so far, we’ve had no luck.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, let me see if I can help you put a name to the child.’

  ‘The University of Dundee did a reconstruction of the child’s face for us; it may not be accurate but may be of some help so I’ll send you the image. And I can send you a photograph of Lesere Osoba, if that would be of assistance?’

  ‘It would all help, certainly. You can fax it to me.’ Ginikanwa read out the fax number, said he’d contact him later if there was anything to report, and hung up.

  It was back to the waiting game that was often such a large part of West’s working day. He usually managed to fill the wait with something useful. That blasted audit, for instance, he could get finished with that. He stared at the computer screen with little enthusiasm before standing and heading to the general office. Perhaps it was time to check up on the progress of other minor cases the team were dealing with.

  There was nothing of any importance; certainly nothing they needed his help with. Andrews was on the phone, West perched on the side of his desk and waited for him to finish.

  By the sound of his end of the conversation, he’d learnt something more useful than he had. Andrews, sensing his scrutiny, looked up, nodded and held his thumb up.

  West gave an exaggerated sigh of relief that brought a smile to his face. After a few minutes of listening to the repeated uh-huh and a-ha that was Andrews’ side of the call, he headed back to his office and sat waiting for his phone to ring.

  It would be good to get these two cases closed. He could spend some time with Edel, get away to that spa hotel in Aughrim he’d heard such good things about. Perhaps he should ring and see if they had a vacancy for the following weekend. Or was that tempting fate a bit too much? He could wait.

  Resting his elbows on the desk, he linked his fingers and tapped his chin, a position he was still in several minutes later when Andrews appeared in the doorway. ‘A penny for them,’ he said, ‘but from the expression on your face, I guess it’s Edel and those damn photographs.’

  West smiled. He was sure he’d not always been such an open book, or maybe Andrews just knew him too well.

  ‘You found something interesting,’ he said, getting the conversation back to the crime in hand.

  ‘I found lots interesting,’ Andrews said, plopping into a chair. ‘I have a sore ear from the phone. We should have those earpieces that those call-centre people have.’

  ‘Well, hopefully what you found out will make up for it,’ West responded, resisting the temptation to say get on with it.

  Andrews opened the A4 pad he was holding. ‘Lesere Osoba. Born in Abuja in 1990. She was a lecturer in politics in the University of Abuja. Two years ago, she met Careless at a conference. He made several visits to Abuja over the following months until, eight months ago, they married and she came to Ireland. There isn’t much known about her since she came here. She didn’t work. She socialised with him but didn’t appear to have any friends of her own. Three months ago, he arrived home to find her hanging from a tree in the garden. There was a typed suicide note, which read, I’m sorry.’ He stopped and looked
at West. ‘A sad suicide note. What was she sorry for?’

  West frowned thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry for marrying you. I’m sorry I came to Ireland.’

  Andrews shook his head. ‘How about, I’m sorry, I can’t live without my daughter?’

  33

  ‘Her daughter,’ West repeated, stunned.

  ‘Yes, and we have a name. Abasiama. The very knowledgeable Sandra, who I was speaking to in the immigration office, told me it means blessed by God. They have a fairly large file on Lesere Osoba.’ He flicked through the pages he was holding. ‘Since she moved to Ireland, eight months ago, she’s made several visits to them. According to Sandra, she was trying to have her daughter brought into the country under family reunification guidelines.’

  ‘There wouldn’t have been any issue,’ West said with a frown. ‘But I’m puzzled, why didn’t she bring the child with her in the first place? They’d have had to organise residency for her, so why not include her child?’

  Andrews threw the A4 pad on the desk and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Because they couldn’t find her. Lesere wasn’t married to the child’s father, a Nigerian called Utibe Omotoso. Just over two years ago, when the child was only a few months old, he went to South Africa to work. He liked it there, and asked Lesere to follow. She refused. He came back to Abuja to beg her to go, when she continued to refuse, he went back without her. She didn’t realise until too late that he’d taken the child with him.’

  ‘Ah, now I understand.’

  Andrews nodded. ‘He left no forwarding address. She tried to contact him, but he hadn’t applied for any permit to work there so there was no way she could trace him. She spoke to rental agencies to see if he’d rented somewhere to live. Again, with no luck. Officials she spoke to told her he could be living in any one of a number of townships.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you know that some of those townships can have up to a million inhabitants, many of them immigrants with no status?’