The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘Always good to arrive before the state pathologist. I’ll send the photographer in before he descends upon us.’ Maddison left to organise his team. Within minutes, the two vans were backed up to the church door for convenience, a photographer was at work and other technicians had begun a survey of the outside of the church and the surrounding car park.

  Reluctantly, West returned to where the parish priest and Andrews were standing, silently observing the scene. ‘The technical team are starting on the outside while they’re waiting for the state pathologist to arrive,’ West explained.

  Father Jeffreys inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘So Garda Andrews said. But he wouldn’t give me any details of what has happened. As the senior officer, perhaps you would tell me what is going on.’ He held a hand up. ‘Before you give me any runaround, let me remind you that like you I have superiors to answer to. I need to know the facts.’

  West searched for words to explain. Whoever had done this awful deed was sending a message to someone. Maybe to the parish priest himself, or to one of the other priests. West had no idea what that message was… maybe Father Jeffreys would know… or maybe interpret in some way for them. It was worth a shot. ‘It is difficult to explain, easier to show. But prepare yourself: it’s shocking.’

  Father Jeffreys raised an eyebrow but inclined his head in acceptance and followed West and Andrews without a word. They stopped in front of the inner door. Once more, West slipped on a glove and grasped the handle before taking a deep breath and pulling the door open.

  The priest’s gasp was loud and prolonged, his fingers reaching to touch forehead, breast and each shoulder in the sign of the cross. A talisman to ward off evil spirits. West almost smiled.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ West replied. ‘The state pathologist will be here soon. When he arrives, the Garda technical team will lower the body. Then we’ll start the process of identification.’

  The priest narrowed his eyes. ‘He’s not crucified, is he?’

  ‘No, he’s attached by ropes. We think he was killed elsewhere. We’re not yet sure how.’

  ‘And hung up there, like that.’ The priest dragged his eyes from the body and looked at West. ‘Why? Some type of anti-religious protest?’

  ‘Possibly. It’s one of the avenues we’ll explore over the coming days. Anti-religious, anti-priest, anti-man, anti-human. We’ll keep our minds open until we find the reason.’ West gave a slight smile. ‘But don’t be surprised if there isn’t one.’ He waited a beat and the smile faded. ‘There’s also a chance that the perpetrator is sending a message.’

  Jeffreys looked at him and raised an eyebrow again. ‘And you thought I might know what that message is, did you?’

  ‘Do you?’

  A heavy sigh followed the question. Jeffreys, reluctantly, looked back to the man suspended in front of him. ‘Someone took a lot of care to position the body like that,’ he said. He pointed to the crucifix on the wall behind the altar. ‘Jesus died for our sins. At a guess, I’d say your perpetrator is telling us that this poor man, whoever he is, was killed for his.’

  West looked back to the body. Killed for his sins? A revenge killing, perhaps? Revenge was a good motive. Identifying the body might give them a direction to follow and help point a finger at one perpetrator. With luck they might solve this quickly.

  West tightened his lips. He knew he was kidding himself. The complicated pulley system, the iconoclastic staging of the body. Somebody had spent time on the planning and execution of this. More than one person.

  Something told West this was only the start of the nightmare.

  3

  ‘Man’s inhumanity to man.’ Father Jeffreys sighed. ‘I’ll go and inform the bishop. He’s not going to like it.’ On that understatement, the priest turned to leave the church. ‘Keep me informed,’ he said and pushed open the door before they could stop him.

  West shook his head. ‘Tell Maddison he’ll need to do elimination fingerprints for the door, Peter.’

  ‘Will do.’ Andrews headed off to speak to the manager.

  Left alone in the silence of the church, West took a deep breath. This was going to be a tough one. He didn’t mind the work, and normally enjoyed unravelling the puzzle of a crime, but he took in the juxtaposition of the dead man and the crucifix and a shiver ran through him at the unholy nature of it. Father Jeffreys would tell the bishop, the bishop would tell the archbishop who would, no doubt, be in touch with the chief superintendent. By the time the weight of all that filtered down to Inspector Morrison it would have grown ten heads, all with wide mouths, and loud voices. And West was next in line.

  He heard the door open behind him and turned to see the familiar figure of the state pathologist coming through. He could usually depend on Dr Niall Kennedy to lighten even the most sombre mood with a quip, but this time even he was reduced to silence by what he saw.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Kennedy muttered as he approached, his eyes fixed on the suspended victim. His boyishly handsome face was unusually serious. ‘You have the rottenest luck, Mike. Only a month ago, you had a tiny body in a suitcase.’ He waved a hand toward the body. ‘Now this.’

  The child in the suitcase. Abasiama. It had been a tough case, but they’d given the child back her name, and with a lot of hard work and some unbelievably good luck, they’d solved the mystery of her death. West hoped they’d be as lucky this time.

  As Kennedy headed out to consult with Maddison, Andrews returned from doing the same.

  ‘Maddison made some comment about getting our sticky paws on his crime scene but apart from that he was okay,’ he said. ‘They’re getting on with it. Maddison says there is definitely no evidence of a break-in. No damage to any of the windows or doors.’

  ‘Just as we concluded.’

  ‘Yes, it looks like they must have been inside when the church was locked up for the night. Hiding somewhere.’

  West looked around the church. Plenty of places to hide if you wanted to do so. The sacristan wouldn’t have searched every pew or each confession box before he locked up. ‘I could imagine the perpetrator wanting to hide, but the victim? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Maybe he was already dead.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  They stood to one side when two technicians came through with a roll of plastic they laid along the central aisle to protect any evidence that might be there. Once that was done, Dr Kennedy and Maddison entered with several of the technical team trailing behind and for several minutes they discussed the best way to proceed.

  They didn’t need help or advice from the detectives who stood back to await their next move. West watched silently, but Andrews gave a running commentary under his breath on how he would proceed. Since, invariably, this was the most logical way it was exactly what the team did. Andrews never refrained from muttering an I told you so.

  West let the words drift around him as he watched the men untie the rope and lower the body slowly to the ground. His eyes narrowed as he watched. It took four men. Granted, they were under instructions from both Maddison and Kennedy not to damage the pulley system as they worked or the body as it reached the ground. But still, wasn’t it proof that it had needed more than one to execute the plan?

  He moved restlessly, pushing one hand through his hair. Recognising it as a gesture of impatience, he shoved both hands into his jacket pockets.

  Finally, he saw Kennedy look towards them and raise a hand. ‘Right, come and see what we’ve got.’

  The victim lay on plastic sheeting at the base of the altar steps. Despite the removal of the wooden beam and ropes, his arms were still outstretched and his chin pressed to his chest.

  ‘He’s in full rigor mortis,’ Kennedy said. ‘I know you’ll be hoping for a time of death but best I can give you at this stage, taking into account the ambient temperature, is that he met his maker between twelve and fourteen hours ago.’

  West checked his watch and did a quick calcula
tion. Between 7.30 and 9.30 the night before. It was the first piece of information they needed.

  ‘Thanks, that’ll help,’ he said. He crouched down to peer closer. With the victim’s features contorted as they were, it was impossible to identify him. But he guessed he was younger than he’d previously thought, maybe mid-twenties.

  ‘I’m not sure about the wound,’ Kennedy commented, pointing to the round hole in the man’s upper abdomen. He turned to look at the crucifix on the wall. ‘I’d almost say you’re looking at a bizarre form of copycat killing, although I seriously doubt that the perpetrator used a spear.’ Turning back to the body, he lifted his hands in a your guess is probably as good as mine gesture. ‘I’ll be able to get the shape and length of it from the post-mortem. That should give us somewhere to go. At this moment, I can’t even give you cause of death. Even if the puncture wound hadn’t been the cause of death, it would have bled copiously and, as you can see, there is no blood underneath the body, nor is there any other of the bodily fluids we’d expect to find.’

  It was a conclusion he and Andrews had already come to but West acknowledged the information. ‘He didn’t die here.’

  4

  Kennedy inclined his head. ‘That’s it exactly.’

  ‘The sacristan locked up at ten,’ Andrews said, checking his watch. ‘Eleven and a half hours ago.’

  The pathologist shrugged. ‘I can fix the time more precisely when I get him back but I’d say he was dead before that.’ He turned away to organise the transport of the body. With the arms outstretched as they were it took several minutes of manoeuvring and many muttered imprecations before it was loaded onto a gurney to his satisfaction.

  Outside, there was a minimum of fuss as the body was loaded into the waiting ambulance and within minutes it was heading toward the mortuary in Connolly Hospital where the post-mortem would take place.

  ‘As soon as I can,’ Kennedy said, holding up a hand. ‘I can’t promise today; it might be the morning.’

  ‘The parish priest has gone to contact the bishop and probably the archbishop.’

  Kennedy raised an eyebrow. ‘Should I be trembling in my boots?’

  ‘You don’t have to deal with them,’ West said with a grimace.

  The first smile of the day appeared on the pathologist’s lips. ‘No, thank the Lord, I don’t. Okay, listen, I’ll do the best I can. I might–’ he held both hands up ‘–only might – be able to squeeze it in this afternoon. I’ll check when I get back and let you know. Can I assume you’ll want to attend?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ West said. It wasn’t obligatory and he wouldn’t learn anything he didn’t read later in the report, but he found post-mortems fascinating and sat to watch them with a feeling of anticipation. Sometimes, as with Abasiama, he felt he owed it to the deceased to be there.

  Waving the pathologist off, West turned to Andrews. ‘If he’s right with that time frame, it means our victim was dead before the church was shut for the night.’

  ‘Killed inside or elsewhere and brought here afterwards.’

  West shook his head. ‘He was a well-built guy and we know how heavy dead bodies are. How would someone have managed to get the body inside and hidden away without anyone noticing? Wouldn’t there have been someone in the church?’

  ‘There’s mass at six on a Sunday evening,’ Andrews said. ‘Generally, that would finish around seven, then you’ll get some folk who want to stay to say the Stations of the Cross or a novena or something.’

  ‘I can’t imagine even the most devout would be able to ignore a dead body being dragged in.’

  ‘Or carried in, if we’re thinking about more than one perpetrator.’

  ‘You saw them taking him down, Pete: it took four of them. I can’t imagine one person would have managed to get him up.’

  They turned together as Maddison came down the church steps with an animated expression they both recognised. He’d found something interesting. ‘You’ll want to see this.’ With a jerk of his head towards the church, Maddison retraced his steps, leaving them to follow.

  Inside, two of the technical team were standing outside one of the two confession boxes, the three doors of which stood open. West and Andrews had checked behind all of them earlier. But they’d been looking for a killer, nothing else.

  ‘Have a look inside,’ Maddison said. ‘But don’t take a deep breath.’

  ‘I said there was a strange smell, remember,’ Andrews said as they moved closer.

  The central door, behind which the priest sat to hear the confessions of his parishioners was small, the space filled with a wide wooden chair, the only nod towards comfort being the red cushion on the seat. A fine mesh grill, with an ornate design of a cross in the centre, covered a two-foot by two-foot aperture in the wall between the priest’s box and that of the penitent’s box on each side. A red curtain covered the grill on one side. On the other it had been pulled back.

  As a child, West had attended confession regularly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone, but he could still remember the irrational fear of being shut in that dark box waiting for the rattle of the curtain being pulled back to expose the pixelated head of the priest. Even now, all these years later, the words he’d have said by rote were ready on his tongue; Bless me father for I have sinned.

  He looked away from the box to where Maddison was standing behind him. ‘There’s an odd smell.’

  ‘It’s mostly dissipated, but it looks as if some form of aerosol sedative spray might have been used.’ He pointed to the mesh on the right-hand side of the priest’s box, where the curtain had been pulled back. ‘If you look closely here, see there’s a shiny film. It’s my guess that whoever sat here, waited until the victim knelt in the penitent’s box and sprayed him full in the face.’ He pointed to the penitent’s box. ‘Some of the odd smell is the remnant of the aerosol spray but most of it is from in there.’

  Their earlier search of the confessional in the search for an intruder hadn’t exposed the bloody mess on the floor.

  ‘The lights weren’t on in the side aisles when we did our original sweep,’ Andrews said, embarrassed at missing it.

  ‘We were looking for a perpetrator, not a crime scene,’ West said. He peered into the box. Blood and bodily fluids were soaked into the carpet of the small space. ‘The victim was making his confession?’ West leaned forward and looked through the mesh into the priest’s space.

  ‘They don’t have confessions on a Sunday night,’ Andrews said.

  West stepped back. ‘Yes, but did our victim know that?’

  ‘I’ll leave the why and wherefore to you,’ Maddison said. ‘At least we’ve found your murder site.’

  ‘Yea, that’s the case almost solved,’ Andrews said.

  Maddison raised an eyebrow but ignored the sarcasm. ‘We’ve taken swabs from the mesh and forensics should be able to identify what was used. Unfortunately,’ he added, ‘there were no fingerprints to be found either in the priest’s box or on the door handles. Everyone’s an expert these days.’

  ‘You might be lucky elsewhere,’ West said philosophically. ‘We’ll leave you to get on with it.’

  Back outside, the grey day had decided to add to their misery and a gentle rain was falling. West stood in the vestibule looking out before turning to stare at Andrews. ‘Sergeant Maddison was simply trying to be helpful, Mr Sarcastic.’

  ‘I swear he thinks he solves the case and we sit in the office drinking coffee.’

  Andrews, West knew, was still annoyed and embarrassed that he hadn’t spotted the blood and gore earlier. There was no point reassuring him that securing the area had been their priority at the time. West headed out into the rain, smothering a groan when he saw Father Jeffreys getting out of his car and hurrying towards them. West wasn’t sure what the parish priest expected at this stage but he was damned if he was going to get wet while he had a conversation that was destined to go around in circles. He stepped back inside the vestibule and waited f
or the priest to join him.

  ‘Well?’ Father Jeffreys said before he’d finished ascending the five steps to the front door, the one word laded with impatience and tinged with hope.

  It was tempting to say well what but West resisted the temptation to copy Andrews’ sarcasm. ‘As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the body has been removed. Dr Kennedy will perform the post-mortem and give us whatever information he can. Meanwhile, we’ll see if his fingerprints are on our database–’

  ‘How soon can we reopen the church?’ Father Jeffreys asked.

  ‘It’s up to the Garda Technical Bureau,’ West explained. ‘Have a word with the manager, Detective Sergeant Maddison. He’ll have an idea. They have,’ he added, ‘found where he was killed. It was in one of the confession boxes.’

  The priest, already pale, turned a sickly shade of grey. ‘In a confessional? How?’

  West hesitated. At this stage in an investigation, everyone was under suspicion. That included the parish priest.

  ‘Tell me,’ Father Jeffreys insisted, his expression tightening.

  West’s lips narrowed in response. The power of the Catholic Church had waned over the years but it was still a force to be reckoned with. He had no doubt that the parish priest would get whatever information he wanted by getting the bishop or archbishop to make a phone call. He was going to have to deal with this man until the case was solved. There was no point in making life difficult for himself or the team.

  ‘They think someone sat in the priest’s box and sprayed a sedative through the mesh, rendering the victim unconscious. There is sufficient blood in the penitent’s box to indicate he was subsequently killed there. As yet, we don’t know the cause of death.’

  On a morning of shocks this was another. Father Jeffreys clutched his chest before reaching into his pocket for a small bottle and handing it to West who took one look, unscrewed the bottle and tilted one tablet into his hand. He slipped it into the priest’s mouth, led the man to his car and made him sit in the passenger seat.