Dead Girls Dancing

by Graham Masterton

  ‘What about Cleary?’

  ‘He was in Manchester when the fire was started, but then again he could have arranged for somebody else to start it for him. It looked as if his fiancée might have been having a fling with one of the dancers, Ronan Barrett, so that would have given him a motive. To be honest with you, I don’t think it’s very likely that he was responsible, but so far we have absolutely no idea at all who the arsonist was, so I’m not leaving anybody out.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Detective O’Donovan. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Bill Phinner told me that the chemical that started the fire is sometimes used by the military. It’s like a substitute for napalm, you know? Except that it’s self-combusting – as soon as the air gets at it, whoomph, up it goes. So it’s worth checking if any of the suspects on Robert’s list had some connection to one of the defence forces.’

  ‘Sure, I can do that all right,’ said Detective O’Donovan. ‘I have a great contact up at the barracks – Barry Brady his name is, Dara-Leifteanant Barry Brady. We used to live in the same street and play long slogs together. He’s in the First Ordnance Group so if there was any of that stuff gone missing he’ll be your man to know about it.’

  ‘Well, that’s a stroke of luck. But Bill also said they use the same chemical for making semiconductors and plastics. There’s a couple of companies in Cork who produce those, one in Bishopstown and another on Little Island. You’ll find their names in Robert’s notes.’

  ‘Hard to believe he’s gone,’ said Detective O’Donovan. ‘We were going to watch the hurling together on Saturday, Fermoy versus Kilworth.’

  Katie didn’t respond to that. Just at the moment, the last thing she wanted to do was start thinking again about sadness and bereavement.

  ‘There’s one other avenue you might explore,’ she said. ‘Danny Coffey was fierce upset about the dance instructor Nicholas O’Grady losing his life. I mean, more upset than you would expect your average straight man to be, even about a fellow he’d known for years. I may have totally misread his reaction, do you know what I mean, but maybe you could have a word with O’Grady’s husband, and some of his friends, too, and see if there wasn’t more to Coffey’s relationship with him than met the eye.’

  ‘I reckon I’ll get Scanlan on to that one,’ said Detective O’Donovan. ‘She’s fantastic when it comes to cigires. They’ll tell her anything.’

  *

  Katie went into her toilet to fix her make-up and brush her hair. She wasn’t happy with the last cut that her hairdresser, Marty, had given her. He had stepped up her bob too high at the back of her neck and his layering had been choppy and uneven. Maybe she would try Kyna’s hairdresser, D’Arcy’s on Paul Street.

  After she had applied her lipstick and mascara she stared at herself in the mirror over the washbasin to see if she could tell how she was really feeling. She found it unsettling that her face gave away so much about her state of mind. She had seen photographs of herself in the Examiner and the Echo, and recordings of her television interviews on RTÉ news. She always tried to give the impression to the media that she was feeling confident and assertive, and at the time she almost believed her own assurances. But when she studied the pictures afterwards, she was able to see from the lack of focus in her eyes that she was far from sure of her ability to solve whichever crime she was talking about. She had seen that same look in photographs of herself and John, especially near the end of their relationship, when she hadn’t been able to decide if she should stay with him or not.

  She gave her hair a quick burst of hairspray and as she did so her iPhone pinged. It was a text message from Conor.

  Heard from my vet contact. The big McManus birthday dog-fight is definitely on. Next Thurs 1500 approx in a clearing in woods off Cappamurra Bridge btw Goolds Cross and Dundrum. I should be back by 9. Been missing you KM.

  Katie quickly answered: Ring me l8er. Missed you too dog detective.

  She told Moirin to hold any calls for her and then went along the corridor to Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin’s office.

  Assistant Commissioner Frank Magorian was already there, sitting by the window. It was now ten past nine and he looked at his watch as Katie came in, but said nothing. Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin was sitting behind his desk with a cup of tea and a half-eaten slice of barmbrack in front of him, looking even glummer than usual.

  Detective Inspector Mulliken was there, too, on the opposite end of the couch from Frank Magorian, hunched forward and prodding at his mobile phone.

  Standing by the bookcase was a short stocky man with prickly grey hair. He was wearing a navy-blue double-breasted suit and had his arms tightly folded, as if he rarely made any concessions to anybody. His chin was receding, but his lower lip was sticking out pugnaciously, which made Katie think that he was in a thick mood about something.

  ‘This is Superintendent Griffin from Special Branch,’ said Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin. ‘Terence, this is Detective Superintendent Kathleen Maguire.’

  Superintendent Griffin came forward and held out his hand. ‘We’ve met before, briefly, DS Maguire, about two years ago at Phoenix Park. That’s if you remember me. You were taking part in a panel discussion on women in senior positions in the Garda.’

  ‘I remember you, of course,’ Katie told him. ‘How could I forget? You made some comment about women being psychologically unsuitable for senior rank because they tended to be too forgiving towards violent men.’

  ‘In your case, I withdraw that remark,’ said Superintendent Griffin, without smiling. ‘I’ve seen your record and it seems like you’ve been as hard as nails with every man you’ve ever had to deal with – your fellow officers as well as offenders.’

  ‘I just try to be efficient,’ said Katie, trying to give the impression from her tone of voice that she didn’t want to talk about this any more.

  ‘We’ve been discussing the visit next week by Ian Bowthorpe, the UK’s defence secretary,’ put in Detective Inspector Mulliken, sensing Katie’s impatience. ‘We’ve been gathering intelligence from several of our sources in the various IRA splinter groups. So far, though, we’ve no indication that any of them have plans to do him any mischief. In fact, some of them seem to regard Brexit as giving them a good opportunity to unite Ireland without the shedding of any more blood.’

  ‘We’ll be providing Mr Bowthorpe with five close protection officers,’ said Superintendent Griffin. ‘I’ve brought his itinerary with me. He’ll be received by the mayor at City Hall first of all and then he’ll be driven out to Haulbowline to inspect the naval fleet there. Then he’ll be brought back to the city and he’ll attend the step-dancing feis in the evening at the Opera House. I believe it’s a way of trying to show that the Brits are interested in Irish culture.’

  ‘Three and a half hours of watching pubescent girls jumping up and down with their arms pinned to their sides – of course the Brits are interested,’ said Frank Magorian. ‘Why do you think they had Operation Yewtree?’

  Superintendent Griffin gave him a quick, hard look, as if he wasn’t amused at being interrupted, especially with so flippant a remark. ‘Within the next two days we’ll be supplying you with a detailed itinerary so that you can give Mr Bowthorpe all the added security that he’s going to require during his time in Cork.’

  ‘I’ve already sketched out a provisional plan,’ said Detective Inspector Mulliken. ‘Apart from close protection, all the vantage points along his route will be sealed off – the tops of the buildings all along Patrick’s Street, for example. That’s in case of snipers.’

  ‘What about the Opera House?’ asked Katie.

  ‘That’s not going to be easy, because of course there’ll be a capacity crowd. But we’ll have armed officers posted at strategic points outside and inside the theatre, and everybody who enters will have to show their ticket and submit to a search.’

  Superintendent Griffin said, ‘I can’t emphasize strongly enough how important it is that Mr Bowtho
rpe’s visit is entirely without any breaches of security whatsoever. It’s politically important and it’s also important to the reputation of the SDU.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Katie. ‘As soon as we receive your itinerary we’ll work out the finer details for you, and in the meantime of course we’ll be keeping our ears to the ground.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Superintendent Griffin. He shook them all by the hand, Katie last of all. He said nothing, but the look he gave her made her feel that he was challenging her to show him that she was up to the job. She was tempted to say that she wouldn’t let him down, but then she thought, Why should I? I don’t have to prove myself to him or anybody else.

  Once he had left, Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin brushed the barmbrack crumbs from his trousers and said, ‘That’s that sorted. Care for a cup of tea in your hand?’

  Katie shook her head. ‘Just had a coffee, thank you, sir. And I’m fierce pressed for time.’

  ‘Well, this needn’t take long,’ said Frank Magorian. ‘What I mainly wanted to discuss with you both is how we’re going to present our investigation into the Toirneach Damhsa fire to the media, and Detective Dooley’s sad demise in particular.’

  ‘We can only say that we’re continuing to make enquiries and that Dooley’s death was a tragedy,’ said Katie. ‘It’s always a tragedy when an officer dies in the course of duty, especially a young and promising officer like he was.’

  ‘Sit yourself down for a moment,’ Frank Magorian told her, pointing to the other end of the couch that he was sitting on. Katie hesitated and then sat, crossing her legs and tugging down the hem of her grey tweed skirt.

  ‘I’ve been going through the latest figures supplied by the Garda Inspectorate for detection rates in Cork,’ said Frank Magorian, holding up a PDF printout. ‘In the last year detection rates were down to sixty-three per cent, and in reality they may be a whole lot worse than that because it seems like a rake of low-level crimes have gone unrecorded.’

  ‘Well, sir, yes, I admit we could be doing better,’ said Katie.

  ‘With thirty-seven per cent of crimes going undetected? You’re not codding, are you?’

  ‘We’re desperately short of money,’ Katie told him. ‘Most of the time I don’t have the finance to pay for my team to work overtime, or to pay my office staff. I could easily take on five more detective gardaí if I had the budget, but I don’t.’

  ‘Maybe you could run your existing team more efficiently,’ said Frank Magorian. ‘Like not sending them out to question people who are obviously not capable of committing the crimes that you’re investigating.’

  ‘You mean Detective Dooley going to interview Dara Coughlan?’

  ‘That would be a prime example, yes. That fire was started by somebody with a high level of technical expertise, as well you know, not by some overweight drugged-up psycho.’

  ‘Maybe it was, but we have to check out everybody who might have had some involvement in that fire, no matter how remotely. My team are all painstaking and dedicated, and considering their workload I think their achievements are fantastic.’

  ‘The statistics don’t agree with you, Katie, do they? Sixty-three per cent.’

  ‘We’re already stretched to breaking point,’ Katie retorted. ‘One of our biggest problems is that our equipment is so out of date – again, because we can’t afford the new crime-solving technology like Throwbots and drones and DNA phenology, which really would have been a boon with the Toirneach Damhsa fire. We have an urgent need for up-to-date computers and software, and there are still too many places around Cork where our radios don’t get a decent signal. The service in Kilworth and Araglin is patchy to say the least, and Doneraile has no signal at all.’

  ‘There was a robbery last year up in Ballyvolane,’ put in Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin, with his mouth full of barmbrack. ‘Tens of thousands of euros’ worth of farm equipment taken. Kathleen was the first detective to point out that in the Republic we don’t have a national database for tool marks or shoe prints.’

  ‘That’s all well and good,’ said Frank Magorian. ‘But what I’m seeing here in Anglesea Street is inefficient investigative processes and poor supervision. It doesn’t matter how advanced your computers are if your management is out of date.’

  ‘Again, I’ll admit that some of our procedures are time-wasting,’ said Katie. ‘Most of all, we could improve our working relationship with the courts. But it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other: the courts could equally improve their responses to what we need.’

  ‘But what about all the crimes that don’t get recorded?’ Frank Magorian retorted. ‘Are you quietly forgetting to report them because you can’t be bothered to solve them, or because you don’t believe you could solve them, even if you tried? Or are you simply massaging your statistics to make yourself look cuter and more competent than you really are?’

  Katie was growing impatient now. She knew that Frank Magorian was deliberately needling her, but she wasn’t going to rise to the bait and behave like a premenstrual prima donna.

  ‘Sir – I’ve introduced a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to minor crimes. I expect every misdemeanour to be reported, even if it’s only a vandal keying a car or a drunk making threatening remarks in a pub. We’re using laptops now instead of notebooks, so that makes it much easier and less time-consuming.’

  Frank Magorian pressed his fingertips to his forehead as if he could feel a headache coming on. ‘What I’m trying to say to you, Katie, is that unlike most detective superintendents you involve yourself personally in your investigations. What you should be doing is sitting here in the station making sure that the whole investigative process runs smoothly. Instead of that, you still behave as if you’re a front-line officer. You’re a loose cannon, Katie. That doesn’t make for crime-solving that’s either efficient or effective.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I couldn’t disagree with you more,’ said Katie. She was trying hard to keep her voice as steady as she could. ‘I know that I involve myself more actively in some investigations than other superintendents. But in doing that I can see for myself first-hand how we need to improve and modernize the way we catch criminals.’

  ‘So how close are you now to finding out who burned down the Toirneach Damhsa studio and killed eighteen innocent dancers?’

  ‘We’re following a considerable number of possible leads, as you must be aware.’

  ‘But are you any nearer to finding out who might have done it?’

  ‘We may be.’

  ‘You may be, but even if you are, you don’t know it? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  Katie stood up and turned to Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin. ‘If that’s all, sir, I have a whole heap of work to catch up with.’

  Frank Magorian said, ‘This afternoon when I’m briefing the media I’m going to put a very positive spin on this investigation, Katie. I just hope for your sake that you can match the positive spin with positive police work. That’s all I’m telling you.’

  Katie had been wondering if she ought to bring up the subject of Guzz Eye McManus’s fiftieth birthday dog-fight, to see if she could get Frank Magorian’s approval for a full-scale Garda operation. But after the way in which he had been demeaning her performance she decided not to, at least not for now. She knew what he would say: that she should leave dog-fighting to the ISPCA and concentrate instead on catching people who killed human beings.

  He raised one provocative eyebrow, challenging her to answer him back, but she wouldn’t be drawn and said nothing. She turned again to Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin, to see how he had reacted to what Frank Magorian had said, but he was too busy brushing more barmbrack crumbs off his trousers.

  20

  Davy Dorgan was sitting in the Templegate Tavern with Murtagh and Billy when three hard-looking men came in, still breathing out smoke from the cigarettes they had tossed away outside. There were only seven other customers in the pub, four middle-aged men and
three women, but when these three appeared they suddenly stopped talking.

  Kyna was behind the bar, taking pint glasses out of the dishwasher and polishing them with a tea towel. Without looking at the three men, she said to Patrick, out of the corner of her mouth, ‘Gluc the gilmosh them shams, Pat.’

  ‘Be wide of them, Roisin, I tell you,’ said Patrick. ‘They’re serious wackers, them three.’

  ‘They were here last night, weren’t they? I reck the feller with the squashed-flat bake. And that dartboard feller, too.’

  One of the men pulled over an extra chair and then the three of them sat down at the table with Davy. The biggest of them was bald, with a face like a pug dog and a studded black leather jacket and tattoos all over his hands. One of the others was wearing a shiny grey suit and a thin red tie and looked like a disreputable accountant. The third was short, but bulky, with a thick neck and close-shaven ginger hair and freckles all over his face, which was why Kyna had compared him to a dartboard. He was wearing a tight lime-green sweater and navy tracksuit trousers and had heavy silver rings on all of his fingers.

  Billy came up to the bar and asked for three pints of Murphy’s and a double Paddy’s whiskey for a chaser.

  ‘I’ll fetch them over for you,’ said Kyna.

  Billy leaned over the bar and grinned at her with gappy teeth. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing, girl. If this pub totally ran dry of drink, not a drop of nothing in the whole place, I’d still come in here, just to lamp you.’

  Kyna gave him an exaggerated pout and blew him a kiss. Today she was wearing a clinging beige woollen dress that was almost indecently short and her heels were so high that she tottered when she walked. She had brushed up her blonde hair and wore a cheap sparkly tiara made of Swarovski crystals. As she carried over the drinks on a tray, the men broke off in mid-conversation to stare at her – all except for Davy Dorgan.