The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘And there was no problem getting him sorted with tax?’

  Tedford frowned. ‘Why would there be? What are you getting at?’

  Unsure of how much to tell him, Baxter waited a moment. ‘Okay, it’s going to come out eventually but we’d appreciate if you’d keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself for the moment.’

  ‘I can keep my mouth shut when it’s necessary.’

  ‘Ian Moore isn’t who he said he was.’

  Tedford gave a short laugh, then shook his head in disbelief. ‘What’re you saying?’

  ‘The real Ian Moore, the man who owns the PPS number your mechanic was using, lives in Dubai.’

  ‘That’s impossible!’ Tedford glared at him. ‘I remember distinctly because I was surprised it was his first job. Most of the youngsters we get applying for apprentices have worked summer or weekend jobs over the years.’

  ‘But you didn’t question it.’

  ‘What was to question? He gave me all the paperwork I required to set up his taxes.’

  ‘The real Ian Moore lived in Dun Laoghaire; what address did your lad give?’ Edwards asked.

  Tedford pulled the screen around and his sausage-like fingers sped across the keys. ‘When Ian started, our personnel files were paper but I had them all computerised a couple of years ago.’ He pursed his lips as he worked, then let his breath out in a puff. ‘Okay, yes, he gave Patrick Street in Dun Laoghaire as his parents’ address but he was living in an apartment in Booterstown. He was there the whole time he worked for me, got the DART here every morning.’

  ‘He didn’t have a car?’

  ‘No, never did. If he needed to go anywhere, he’d borrow one from here.’

  ‘What about references?’

  Tedford peered at the computer but Baxter saw it as the ploy it was and wasn’t surprised when the man shook his head. ‘Looks like they forgot to update the files with that info,’ he said. ‘Probably didn’t think it was worth worrying about after all this time.’

  ‘Are you sure you got any?’

  ‘Maybe not, I can’t remember. He was coming to do an apprenticeship. What did I need references for? I’m a good judge of character: that’s a good enough reference as far as I’m concerned.’

  They spent a few more minutes talking but there was nothing else to learn from the garage owner so Baxter and Edwards asked to speak to the other mechanics.

  ‘No problem,’ Tedford said. ‘You can speak to them in the staffroom behind the service office.’

  An hour later, Baxter and Edwards were done and headed back to their car. They’d spoken to the three other full-time mechanics and knew nothing more about their victim than they had at the start of the day.

  ‘I’m surprised our vic never moved nearer to here,’ Edwards commented.

  ‘Probably afraid to chance his arm with more paperwork. Not everyone is as trusting as our kindly garage owner.’

  Edwards turned to look at him. ‘You think there’s something fishy about him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Second-hand car dealerships aren’t renowned for their trustworthiness, are they, and yet Tedford took our vic on without as much as checking a reference.’

  ‘Seemed fond of the lad.’

  Baxter started the engine. ‘Yes, but why? Because he was a genuinely nice guy? And in that case why was he arrested, charged and prosecuted for rape? Or because he was an obliging lad and always did what he was told?’

  ‘You’re thinking something dodgy like car clocking?’

  Changing the odometers on second-hand cars was one of the more common illegal practices in second-hand car dealerships. ‘Something like that.’ Baxter pulled into traffic and headed down Philipsburgh Avenue to Fairview Strand. Instead of indicating right, he indicated to change to the left lane and turned onto Fairview Strand, heading for Marino.

  ‘Where we going?’

  ‘Something I want to check,’ Baxter said. A minute later, he waved a hand towards the building on the left. ‘That’s Marino Library where Laetitia Summers works – or worked at the time of her rape anyway.’

  ‘Yes.’ Edwards looked towards the building and back to Baxter with a frown. ‘So?’

  ‘She lives on the Marino end of Griffith Avenue, doesn’t she? So why would she walk past the garage to get home? That’s well out of her way when she could either go straight ahead and join the end of Griffith Avenue further up or – and this would be much faster – go via Marino Park Avenue.’

  ‘You thinking she went past the garage deliberately?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it seems a bit odd. And I don’t like odd.’

  ‘Might be worthwhile talking to the investigating officer,’ Edwards said.

  ‘My thoughts exactly. Clontarf Garda Station isn’t far. Let’s go and see what we can find out.’

  16

  Two minutes later Baxter indicated to turn into Strandville Avenue, then into the car park in front of the attractive building that housed their Clontarf counterparts and squeezed into a space between two squad cars.

  ‘Beats Foxrock station,’ Edwards said, getting out and staring across to the sea. ‘You’re from around here: you never thought about coming back to the northside?’

  Baxter shook his head. ‘I moved from here when my parents died. Too many memories.’ He shook them off and waved towards the front door. ‘Let’s see if we can find the investigating officer.’

  They had to hang around for almost an hour waiting. They filled their time chatting to other detectives, comparing notes, crimes, exchanging gossip.

  ‘There’s your man,’ one said, as a door opened behind them and both Edwards and Baxter turned at the same time to greet the detective who came through, his eyes searching the busy office, stopping when he saw them and nodding.

  ‘Don Mitchell,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘I heard you were looking for me.’

  ‘We’re investigating a murder and it’s crossing with a case you handled. We were hoping you could give us some information.’

  ‘Sure, if I can, glad to help.’ Mitchell checked his watch. ‘We can use one of the interview rooms unless they’re needed.’

  The room he led them to was small and muggy. They sat on standard-issue chairs and leaned on the scarred and scratched table.

  ‘Okay,’ Mitchell said. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘We’ve been chatting to Ronan Tedford of Tedford Motors,’ Baxter said. ‘One of his mechanics, a lad who went by the name Ian Moore, was found dead early Monday morning.’

  ‘The body in the church?’ Mitchell frowned. ‘I know him, of course. He’s not out of prison that long. You said went by the name of?’

  ‘He wasn’t who he said he was. The real Ian Moore is working in Dubai. We’ve no idea who our victim is. Not yet anyway.’ Baxter took out his mobile and brought up a photo of the crime scene. ‘This is the murder scene. Someone was making a point, but we’re not sure what it is.’

  Mitchell stared at the photo, making it bigger and peering closer. ‘Pretty gruesome.’

  ‘Ronan Tedford seemed quite fond of the lad. He was convinced he was innocent of that rape charge, seemed to think it was all Laetitia Summers’ doing.’

  ‘Tedford gave Moore a good character reference at his trial.’

  Baxter heard something in the man’s voice, a tinge of regret perhaps. ‘Did you think Moore was guilty?’

  ‘Ours isn’t to ascertain guilt or innocence, ours is to collect the evidence and present it in a professional manner to allow the director of public prosecution to do their job,’ Mitchell said in a dull monotone. He sat back in his chair and looked at Baxter. ‘False accusations of rape are rare and I’ve never come across one in all my years as a guard. In this case, whereas Moore was adamant that sex had been consensual; she was equally adamant it hadn’t. In the courtroom, his size and build made him look guilty, in the same way as her tiny physique made her look innocent.’ He sighed loudly. ‘To answer your question… I don’t honestly know.’

&n
bsp; ‘Did she say why she walked along Philipsburgh Avenue to get home when it would have been much quicker to go another way?’

  ‘For the exercise,’ Mitchell said. ‘She said she liked to walk at least twenty minutes after work.’ He held a hand up. ‘Before you ask, no, I didn’t believe her. I think she went that way to ogle the mechanics in Tedford Motors. You may not know this but a little over a year ago, four of the mechanics, Moore included, did a charity calendar. It brought them some attention for a while. Too much, I think: they never did another.’

  ‘Did you ask her about it?’

  Mitchell sniffed. ‘She looked at me with her big eyes and spoke in that irritating girly voice and said she’d never seen it, that it wasn’t the kind of thing she’d have looked at. Almost as if I’d been suggesting she watched porn.’ He lifted his hands and let them drop to the table with a clunk. ‘She stuck to her story, never wavered even a little so maybe she was telling the truth.’

  ‘Or she was a very good liar?’

  ‘What did Moore say about it?’ Edwards asked.

  ‘It was all very odd, you know,’ Mitchell said. ‘According to Moore, he woke up in his flat the next morning and couldn’t remember getting home. He insists he wasn’t drinking. We tracked down the taxi he’d taken and the driver remembers him being so drunk that he didn’t want to let him into the cab but it seems Moore climbed in and wouldn’t get out so he decided to give in.’

  ‘Tedford says he didn’t drink. Did someone slip him something?’

  ‘His defence argued that someone did, and even pointed a finger of blame at Laetitia but–’ he shook his head ‘–it sounded like they were trying to come up with any reason to get Moore off and you could tell the jury didn’t believe a word.’

  ‘What motive would anyone, even Laetitia, have for slipping him something?’ Baxter tapped his finger on the table. ‘Unless it has something to do with who he really is?’

  There was silence as all three men thought of this possibility.

  ‘Someone set him up?’ Mitchell frowned. ‘Then she’d have to be in on it, wouldn’t she?’

  And if she were, maybe she knew who Moore really was. ‘It looks as though we’re going to have to look into Laetitia Summers a bit more,’ Baxter said.

  ‘Anything I can do to help, let me know,’ Mitchell said, pushing back from the table. ‘Let me know how it turns out: it’s an interesting and challenging case.’

  Back outside, Baxter stood leaning on the car looking out to sea. ‘We need to speak to the Summers girl again, but I think we should go back to the station first and lay this out for West. It’s getting a bit complicated and might get a bit sticky.’

  Edwards agreed. Neither of the men minded complicated, but sticky involved the inspector and both were happy to let West deal with Mother Morrison.

  17

  Detective Garda Mick Allen was already in the station car park when Detective Garda Sam Jarvis pulled up at 8.45am. The two men had wildly different backgrounds, Allen growing up on his parents’ farm in Tipperary, Jarvis the Blackrock College-educated son of a doctor who’d hoped he’d follow in his footsteps and who tried, without much success, not to look at his son as an oddity. But different as they were, Allen and Jarvis had quickly become friends and Jarvis was pleased to be working with him this morning rather than the intimidating Baxter or the too-smart-for-his-own-good Edwards.

  ‘You want to drive?’ Jarvis greeted Allen as he parked alongside.

  ‘Don’t mind either way.’

  ‘Climb in then, no point in me getting out.’

  Ian Moore’s previous address was in Sallynoggin, only a few kilometres from Foxrock but traffic was heavy and it was twenty minutes later when they pulled up outside Casa Mia, an Italian restaurant above which Moore was supposed to have lived. The address of the referee was the restaurant itself.

  To their surprise, Casa Mia was open. A chalk board sitting at a precarious angle outside proclaimed that they sold the best coffee and croissants in the city.

  ‘Might be easier to ask questions over a coffee,’ Allen said, lifting his chin and sniffing the air.

  The aroma of coffee was tantalising. Maybe it would be easier to ask about Moore with a coffee in hand.

  Inside, the restaurant was like every Italian restaurant Jarvis had ever been in. Red-and-white-gingham tablecloths, Chianti bottles decorated with melted wax from the half-used candles sitting at drunken angles.

  A door at the back of the restaurant opened and a small, dark-haired man hurried out, hands extended. ‘Buongiorno, signore,’ he said. ‘You want coffee, something to eat?’

  Jarvis looked at Allen’s hopeful expression and smiled. ‘Coffee and croissants for both of us, please.’

  ‘Cappuccino, Americano, latte?’

  ‘Cappuccino for me,’ Allen said quickly.

  ‘And for me.’

  ‘Perfetto, take a seat. It will be ready in a moment.’

  It was, in fact, several minutes before he returned with two of the biggest croissants Jarvis had ever seen.

  ‘Fresh from the oven,’ the man said, putting a plate in front of each of them. He hurried away and returned with small pots of jam and butter. ‘And now the coffee,’ he said, and disappeared once more.

  ‘Wow,’ was all Allen said, pulling off a piece of his croissant and spreading jam on top before popping it into his mouth. ‘Wow, these are amazing.’

  Jarvis shook his head at the groans of pleasure coming from Allen and broke a piece off his own croissant. He had to admit, it was very good. As was the coffee when it arrived moments later.

  By unspoken agreement, the men ate their croissants and drank their coffees before embarking on the reason they’d come.

  ‘More coffee?’

  Jarvis shook his head. ‘No, thank you, although it’s particularly good coffee. Actually,’ he said, reaching for his identification and handing it over. ‘We’re here as part of an investigation into a man’s death. I’m Detective Garda Jarvis and that’s Detective Garda Allen.’

  There was no change in the man’s jovial expression, in fact his smile grew wider. ‘I thought as much.’ He went away and came back with two more coffees. ‘On the house,’ he said, pulling a chair from a nearby table and sitting down. ‘I’m Luca Esposito.’ He waved a hand around the room. ‘I own this wonderful place. There’s little that gets by me. I took you for policemen as soon as you come through the door.’

  Jarvis smiled at the man’s disarmingly friendly manner. They weren’t always greeted that way. ‘The man who died went by the name Ian Moore. We’re trying to find out more about him, where he came from, whether he had family, anything really. Before he moved to Booterstown eight years ago, he lived in the apartment above this restaurant. He gave a man by the name of Giovanni Ricci as a reference.’

  The name worked like a switch. Esposito’s expression turned stern and closed. ‘Him!’

  Jarvis’s eyes flicked to Allen. Maybe they were onto something here. He waited.

  The restaurant owner shook his head sadly. ‘Giovanni is my wife’s nephew. Trouble from the day he arrived on a business class flight from Roma.’

  Sensing that the man intended on releasing a catalogue of woes about the nephew, Jarvis guided him back to the information they needed. ‘Why didn’t Moore ask you for a reference?’

  ‘Because he never lived in the apartment upstairs. Me and my wife, Mia, we’ve lived there since we bought this place nearly fifteen years ago.’ He shrugged. ‘Now and then we talk about moving but we both love the restaurant and it is good to be close.’

  So Moore had lied.

  ‘Does the name Ian Moore ring a bell?’

  Esposito laughed. ‘Names, pah, they go in one ear, shoot out the other.’ He must have noticed Jarvis’ crestfallen expression. ‘But Giovanni, he is here, maybe he can tell you about this man and why he lied for him.’

  Jarvis exchanged glances with Allen. Maybe they weren’t going to go home empty-handed after all
.

  Giovanni Ricci answered his uncle’s yell after a second louder one made the glasses on the shelf behind the counter rattle. He pushed through a door behind, a sullen tilt to his mouth, a hard look in his eyes.

  ‘These men want to ask you some questions,’ Esposito said, standing and kicking the leg of the chair so that it slid across the floor towards the approaching man. ‘Sit and answer whatever Garda Jarvis and Garda Allen ask.’

  Ricci’s eyes sharpened and flicked from Jarvis to Allen, assessing.

  Esposito smirked. ‘Maybe you’re going to get your comeuppance at last, eh?’

  The animosity between the two men was palpable and it wasn’t helping their cause. ‘Perhaps we could speak to your nephew alone,’ Jarvis said politely.

  ‘Better that I don’t have to listen to his lies.’ Esposito disappeared through the door, taking some of the tension with him.

  ‘He has never liked me.’ Ricci was clearly the type of person who blamed everyone else for his failings and a sneer curled his lips as he looked the detectives up and down. ‘It doesn’t help when the police come calling.’

  ‘We’re sorry to add to your woes,’ Jarvis said. ‘Unfortunately, a man has been murdered and your name has come up in the course of our investigation.’

  This was enough to demolish Ricci’s aggressive manner; he wilted, his shoulders drooping. ‘I don’t know anything.’

  About anything. Jarvis and Allen knew the sort; Ricci wasn’t going to be helpful if he could avoid it.

  ‘Ian Moore,’ Jarvis said bluntly. ‘Remember him?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘You gave his landlord a reference. Eight years ago. You said he rented the apartment above this shop and was a model tenant, paid his rent on time, kept the apartment in good order. Do you remember now?’

  The question resulted in the rapid blinking of unusually-long eyelashes, but Ricci’s lips stayed firmly shut.