Laetitia’s solicitor, sitting quietly beside her, sensed her client was about to say something to jeopardise her position and moved to stop her talking. ‘I think my client has answered all your questions.’
‘No, it’s okay,’ Laetitia said, holding a hand up. ‘I’m happy to answer.’ She batted her eyelashes at Baxter. ‘I’ve been taking acting lessons. My coach advised me to get some experience so that when I went for auditions, I would be more confident. When Ashley asked me to help him out, I sat down and wrote the script.’ She leaned back, hooked one elbow over the back of the chair and clasped her hands together under her breasts. ‘I think I played the part exceedingly well.’
West agreed. She’d been a great actress. He wondered if she’d use her experience in prison to get herself a good role when she came out. It wouldn’t surprise him. Women like her always landed on their feet.
‘She’s something else, isn’t she?’ Andrews had come quietly into the observation room and was standing behind him. ‘I’m heading home. The lads can finish up here, you coming?’
West took a final look through the window at Laetitia Summers before getting to his feet. He stretched wearily and smothered a yawn. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘But productive.’ Andrews led the way from the observation room. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He took a step towards the exit, then turned back. ‘You are going home, aren’t you? You’re not going to go back to your office and try to deal with all the paperwork tonight?’
‘There was a time when I would have done,’ West admitted. ‘No, I’m going to check everyone is okay, then head for the hills. See you in the morning.’
Andrews was obviously happy with that, and with a wave he turned and left.
It was twenty minutes before West felt able to leave. Outside, it was dark and very cold; the snow that had been forecast floated gently around him as he walked to his car. It had been a productive day. From their point of view, the case, apart from the mountain of paperwork, was solved.
A year ago, he’d have stayed until the bulk of the paperwork was done. Now, he was happy to leave it until tomorrow. Strangely, it wasn’t thoughts of Bolger or Bennet that were running through his mind as he drove home but Baxter’s simple and naïve comment to Laetitia Summers. You must love him very much.
Love wasn’t everyone’s driving force. It certainly wasn’t Laetitia’s. West wasn’t sure it was his either.
He pulled up outside his Greystones home, the light in the hallway warmly welcoming. It was almost eleven. Edel was probably in bed asleep.
But when he opened the kitchen door, there she was, her hair bunched up in a ponytail, wearing a pair of unglamorous cotton pyjamas. She was spooning lasagne onto a plate. ‘I heard your car pull up,’ she said, looking up and giving him a warm smile. ‘Sit, I’ll have this dished up in a second.’
West saw the table set, a bottle of Guinness, a pint glass.
He looked back to Edel. Who was he trying to fool? He’d do anything for this woman.
Perhaps it should have been some romantic place, but this seemed so right. He walked over to where she was scraping pasta from the sides of the container and put a hand over hers.
‘Edel, will you marry me?’
* * *
THE END
Acknowledgements
Grateful thanks to all at Bloodhound Books, especially Betsy Reavley, Tara Lyons, Heather Fitt, Clare Law, Ian Skewis, and the wonderful cover design team.
As usual, a big thank you to my brother-in-law, Detective Garda Gerry Doyle(retd) for assisting me with some of the details of the Garda Síochána – as ever, mistakes are mine alone.
Massive thanks to the writer Jenny O’Brien for helping me pull this together and for ongoing support and friendship.
To other writers in the writing community who make this such a fun job – all of my fellow Bloodhound writers, plus the writers Leslie Bratspis, Patricia Gitt, Mary Karpin, Pam Lecky, Catherine Kullmann and Jim Ody.
We writers would be lost without the wonderful support of readers, bloggers and reviewers, thanks to every one of you.
A big thanks to all my friends who help celebrate each new book.
And always left to last because you’re the foundation of everything I do… my amazing, wonderful family – husband, sisters, brothers, in-laws, nieces, nephews, grand-nieces and grand-nephews, and cousins.
A note from the publisher
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Copyright © 2021 Valerie Keogh
The right of Valerie Keogh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Print ISBN 978-1-913942-46-5
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For Gillian… because I promised.
An Garda Síochána: the police service of the Republic of Ireland.
Garda, or gardaí in the plural.
Commonly referred to as the guards or the gardaí.
Direct translation: “The Guardian of the Peace.”
1
Detective Garda Sergeant Mike West was sitting at his desk in Foxrock Garda Station before the day shift officially began. Normally, he used this quiet period to review and assess their active cases and plan for any new ones that had come in overnight. This morning, however, he was faced with a mountain of paperwork pertaining to the case they’d finally closed late the day before.
He switched on his computer, staring into space as he waited for it to power up. The identity of the main perpetrator had come as a shock to them all. But with his solicitor whisking him off to the Central Mental Hospital in Dundrum for an assessment that would probably see him locked up there for many years to come, it was his two accomplices who would serve jail time. It wasn’t the best outcome, but at least the victim had had justice served. Sometimes, West knew, that was all they could hope for.
It had been a busy few weeks for the detective unit with two challenging cases coming one after the other. Graphic images from both had stuck in West’s brain and in the middle of the night, if he woke, they’d be there in full colour. Little Abasiama curled up in that abandoned suitcase… a body hanging from the beams in St Monica’s church. Difficult cases. It had taken perseverance, hard work and a dollop of luck to solve both.
That morning, West was relieved to see there was only one new case logged since the previous evening. They were due a quiet spell. He read the scant details of a hit-and-run which had resulted in the death of an elderly woman.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t have such a catastrophic effect as the last hit-and-run they’d dealt with, one whose far-reaching impact had resulted in further crimes, further heartbreak. Ella Parsons… he wondered
how she was coping. With Milo Bennet in prison and his wife now living in Cork, West hoped that Ella, her husband, and her son could get on with their lives. He’d been shocked the last time he’d seen her, a pale wraith of a woman wracked with guilt for the death of the boy she’d knocked down and killed in a moment of careless stupidity. Sadly, he guessed, there was never going to be peace for her.
West shook his head and focused on this new hit-and-run. It appeared sad but uncomplicated. An elderly woman, Doris Whitaker, was found lying on the side of Torquay Road. Injuries sustained indicated she’d been hit by a vehicle.
They’d follow procedure; do the usual appeal to the driver to come forward or for any witnesses to the incident. Nearby CCTV might have caught a speeding car, or a slow-moving erratic one. Either was dangerous. They might get lucky, but West didn’t think much of their chances.
He closed the report and brought up the paperwork he needed to complete that morning. But instead of starting the process, he sat back with the faint smile that had been there, on and off, since the night before. He’d arrived home, late and weary after closing the case to find Edel Johnson, not in bed asleep as he’d expected, but in the kitchen dishing him up dinner. He’d stared at her… the hair tied back in an untidy ponytail, the well-worn pair of cotton pyjamas, the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she scraped the end of the lasagne onto a plate and before he’d time to think, he’d asked her to marry him.
It was far from romantic; he was surprised she didn’t laugh. But she didn’t… she’d said yes.
He was still daydreaming when Garda Peter Andrews appeared in the doorway. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes,’ West said and a minute later picked up the mug that was placed before him and took a cautious sip.
Andrews slurped noisily from his mug. ‘You need to learn to trust me.’
‘I will when you learn not to mix them up and poison me with your sugary slop.’ West took a mouthful and put the mug down. ‘We did well yesterday.’
‘I’d have preferred to have locked all three away, and that Laetitia lassie too, but what we got is okay.’
Neither man had taken to the petite Laetitia Summers, a woman who viewed the world through a self-obsessed lens. ‘She’s a slippery customer,’ West said, ‘but even she can’t escape what she did. When her case comes up, she’ll do time.’
‘Good, the longer the better.’ Andrews drained his coffee and put the mug down on the floor beside him. ‘Inspector Morrison must be pleased too. Another case solved, plus no more priests running around the station or phone calls from the bishop.’
The recent discovery that the inspector had a dislike of the clergy had not made investigating a death in a church any easier. ‘He’ll be happy for a day or two.’
West and Andrews discussed the case for a few minutes before moving on to the active cases the team was currently investigating. ‘Only one new one to add to our workload,’ West said. ‘You’ve read the report?’
‘The hit-and-run? Yes, I have. Sad. We’ll do an appeal for witnesses?’
‘Yes, and an appeal for the driver to come forward.’ The shock of knocking someone down would last for a few hours, then the brutal reality of what they’d done would kick in. The driver might do the right thing and hand himself in. It happened.
‘I’ll get Allen to start a check on the CCTV. We might get lucky.’ Andrews picked up his mug and got to his feet. ‘Okay, time to get on with it.’
‘Before you go, I have some news for you.’
There must have been something in the way he said it, or maybe it was the reappearance of that smile but Andrews grinned and approached the desk with his hand extended. ‘Well, it’s about time!’
West grabbed his hand and shook it. ‘Yes, tell Joyce she can go shopping for that hat at last.’
‘It’s marvellous news, congratulations.’ Andrews kept hold of the hand for a moment longer then dropped it and sat back in the chair he’d vacated moments before, all thoughts of work forgotten in the face of this more exciting news. ‘I thought you were going to shilly-shally forever. Joyce will be pleased. But as for the hat, she bought one in the sales a few months ago. She was sure it was going to happen.’
‘Your wife is a very smart lady.’
‘She is that, all right. So, when’s the big day?’
West had expected Edel to want a small wedding, but to his surprise she told him she wanted a lavish affair. ‘Next spring. Edel wants a big wedding with all the trimmings. It seems her first marriage was a registry office affair–’
‘Not surprising since her so-called husband was running a scam.’
How could West forget? It was, after all, how he’d met his fiancée. Edel had been the chief suspect in the disappearance of her husband. ‘We’ve come a long way since then,’ he said.
‘A murder attempt, a couple of kidnappings, extortion.’ Andrews counted them off on his finger. ‘Yes, you certainly have come a long way. I know why you want to marry her, she’s both beautiful and smart, but is Edel sure she wants to tie the knot with you?’
Whatever West would have replied was interrupted by Garda Mick Allen peering around the door frame. ‘Sorry to butt in,’ he said. ‘The family of the elderly woman who was the victim of a hit-and-run driver yesterday evening are here and want to talk to the lead investigating officer.’ He shrugged. ‘I told him he could speak to me but he looked me up and down, obviously found me wanting, and asked to speak to a more senior officer.’
‘It looks like we’ll have to continue this conversation another time,’ West said to Andrews. He tapped his keyboard and brought up the report on the hit-and-run. ‘Bring them into whichever interview room is free, Mick, and I’ll be there in a minute.’
West read over the report again. The garda on the scene had briefly questioned the woman who’d found the victim. But Lynda Checkley had been so shocked and horrified to have discovered the dead woman to be a relative that she’d little to say.
‘They’re in the Big One,’ Allen said from the doorway. ‘I know they’re probably in shock but Darragh Checkley strikes me as a difficult customer.’
West had been a solicitor before he joined the Garda Síochána and he’d dealt with more than his share of awkward customers during that period. Truth was, anyone who dealt with the public in any capacity had to learn to deal with sometimes rude and often obnoxious people… it didn’t mean they had to like it though.
The Big One… officially Interview Room One… was identical in all but name to the other interview room which was always referred to as the Other One. For reasons West had never managed to pin down, the Big One was the favourite of the two. He opened the door and automatically assessed the two people who sat at the far side of the table. They were a well-dressed middle-aged couple, the man pale and stern-faced, the woman, lower lip trembling, heavily made-up eyes smudged from crying. She held a balled-up tissue in her hand; as she lifted it to dab away tears diamond rings on three of her fingers glittered in the light from the strip of halogen overhead.
‘I’m Detective Garda Sergeant Mike West,’ he said, coming into the room and extending his hand. It was taken firmly by the man, limply by the woman who swapped the well-used tissue to her other hand to do so.
‘Darragh and Lynda Checkley.’ The man spoke for both of them.
West took the seat opposite and laced his fingers together on the table. ‘My condolences for your loss, Mr and Mrs Checkley. It is terrible to lose someone in such difficult circumstances but please be assured we will do everything we can to catch the perpetrator of this crime.’
‘Great words,’ Checkley said with a sniff. ‘What I’d like is more action. What exactly are you doing to catch the bastard who killed my cousin?’
‘Everything within our power,’ West said quietly. ‘Perhaps, if you feel up to it, Mrs Checkley, you could tell me exactly what occurred yesterday.’ He indicated the monitoring device in the corner of the room. ‘As a routine, we record conversations. Is that okay
with you?’
Lynda Checkley nodded, keeping her eyes on the tissue that was disintegrating in her hand. ‘I was on my way to visit Doris; I go once a week to see that she’s okay and if she needs anything.’
‘Did you ring her to let her know you were going?’ West hoped to be able to pin down the time of the accident but he saw by the shake of her head he wasn’t going to get lucky.
‘No, but I never did. Doris was ninety, her heart wasn’t working so well and she’d get breathless if she went too far. If she ran out of milk or something she might manage as far as the shops in the village or sometimes she went out for a bit of exercise or fresh air. She’d walk up the road a little, then back again. If she wasn’t in, I’d just wait in the car until she came home.’
‘And yesterday?’
Lynda looked up then with tear-washed eyes. ‘I was almost at her house when I spotted something on the side of the road.’ She snuffled softly and rubbed her nose with what was left of the tissue. ‘I thought it was rubbish at first, that someone had dumped stuff, you know the way people do. I was going to pass by when a flash of colour caught my eye. The distinctive shade of green of Doris’s favourite coat. She wore it all the time.’ A tear trickled, she brushed it away. ‘I stopped the car in the middle of the road and ran to her side. She was curled up and I thought at first she’d maybe fainted or something but when I turned her over, I could see the blood and the bruises.’ She began to cry, leaning towards her husband who wrapped an arm around her and looked across the table to West as if her upset was all his doing.
The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 48
