Dead Girls Dancing

by Graham Masterton

  ‘You’ve sent the DNA tests to Bill Phinner?’

  ‘Of course, yes. I brought them up here to the station with me and handed them over to him before I came up to see you.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Asphyxia, by hanging with a ligature. It’s up to the coroner to say if it was suicide or not, but I will simply remark that many suicides pad the ligature they hang themselves with so that it doesn’t hurt so much.’ She paused, and looked sad, and then she said, ‘Maybe she wanted it to be painful. I’ve known that, too.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  Dr Kelley handed over a pink plastic folder. ‘There’s my full report in there, as well as a DVD with all my photographs on it. Apart from all the bruises, she had no distinguishing marks on her body other than a small tattoo on her left shoulder.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And what was that of?’

  ‘A little bird. A nightingale it looked like.’

  Katie found herself blushing as she took the envelope.

  I have a songbird, sweetheart tattooed on my arm…

  *

  She showered and changed into a dark green tweed suit, and Moirin brought her some fresh coffee and an egg sandwich.

  She was still eating it when Frank Magorian came in to her office without knocking. He was wearing a black suit and a black tie, as if he had just come back from a funeral.

  ‘Well, you made a real hames of that, I’d say,’ he told her, walking right up to her desk and standing in front of her with his arms folded.

  ‘Oh, good morning, sir,’ said Katie, patting crumbs from her lips with her fingertips.

  ‘I’ve had a stiff complaint this morning from Harcourt Street,’ said Frank Magorian. ‘They were more than slightly vexed by the way you handled that siege situation up at Fair Hill, overriding their team leader. And as for that firework display down by the river... what in the name of Saint Joan was that all about? My phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning.’

  Katie took a steadying breath. ‘Sir – I made a calculated decision to withdraw from the Keenan property because one ERU detective had already been shot and wounded and I didn’t want to see any more casualties. There was a high risk to the other occupants of the house, and to the neighbours. There was so much gunfire that it would have been dangerous even to try to evacuate them.’

  ‘And so you decided on a high-speed car chase down to the centre of the city, and one almighty fireball, from what I’ve been told about it? That was your less risky alternative, was it?’

  Katie looked him directly in the eyes. ‘It was very early in the morning and there were no pedestrians about. The fireball was caused by the highly explosive materials that the suspects were carrying in their own vehicle. The suspects themselves were the only fatalities. Considering they were firing at the NSU team with sub-machine guns, I would say that they rather brought it on themselves, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t care for spectaculars,’ said Frank Magorian. ‘This is Cork, Katie, not the Wild West.’

  Katie was about to retort that it was being upstaged by a woman that really annoyed him, but she said nothing. Detective Inspector Mulliken’s request to the ERU to follow the three suspects would have gone through the Assistant Commissioner’s office as a matter of protocol, and if the siege at Knockpogue Avenue had been successful Frank Magorian could have taken the credit for it.

  Katie said, ‘I’m holding a briefing about two-ish so that we can assess what further action we should be taking against Davy Dorgan and the rest of his gang. I’ll notify you when I’ve fixed a time for it and you’re more than welcome to come along.’

  ‘I’ll have to see. I’ll be attending a lunch at the Maritime College with Commodore Tully and the Lord Mayor and the British defence secretary.’

  ‘I do hope it’s enjoyable, sir.’ She was tempted to add, ‘but don’t come cribbing to me if you get a salmon bone stuck in your throat’, but again she said nothing and simply smiled.

  When she had finished her sandwich she went down to see Superintendent Pearse so that he could give her an update on the policing arrangements for that evening’s step-dancing feis at the Opera House.

  ‘We’re expecting a capacity crowd, so that’s a thousand,’ said Superintendent Pearse. ‘We’ll have fifty officers stationed around Emmett Place and Lavitt’s Quay, and another twenty inside the Opera House itself, and of course this Ian Bowthorpe will have his five close protection officers.’

  ‘It would ease my mind so much if we could track down Davy Dorgan before this evening,’ said Katie. ‘Still – all your officers have his picture, don’t they, and pictures of his closest gang members?’

  ‘They do, of course, and we conducted a thorough search of the building this morning, from the basement all the way up to the fly tower. We’ll be searching it again immediately before the doors open, just to make sure nobody’s left any suspicious packages lying around. There’s also going to be a total ban on anybody going backstage apart from the dancers themselves and their managers.’

  ‘That’s grand, Michael, thank you.’

  When she returned to her office she found that Kyna was there, sitting by the window. She was wearing a boxy grey jacket and a grey knee-length skirt and black high-shine lipstick. She stood up when Katie came in, but she didn’t come across and kiss her because Moirin’s door was open.

  ‘What’s the plan for this evening, ma’am?’ she asked her.

  ‘For you, Kyna, I think the most effective thing you could do would be to mingle with the audience at the feis,’ said Katie. ‘You’ve seen most of Dorgan’s crew up at the Templegate, haven’t you? If you reck any of them there, don’t hesitate. Arrest them first and make excuses afterwards.’

  Kyna nodded. She was silent for a moment, and then, without looking at Katie, she said, ‘We need to talk, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes. Probably. But not now. Not today, in fact. Not till we’ve lifted Dorgan and I’ve found out what’s become of little Cissy. I need you right now, Kyna. You know that collection of scummers better than any of us.’

  She had started to tell her about the results of Dr Kelley’s post-mortem on Maggie Dennehy when Bill Phinner appeared, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag as if it were a goldfish he had won at the fair. Katie could see that it contained the black Glock automatic pistol that gardaí had recovered from the shooting outside the Dorgan house.

  ‘Can we stall it for a moment, Kyna?’ she said. Then, ‘Bill, what’s the story? I hope you have some results for me there!’

  ‘With any luck, ma’am,’ he told her in his usual weary tone.

  ‘I’ve just been telling DS Ni Nuallán here about the samples that Dr Kelley took from Mrs Dennehy. Gang-rape, no doubt about it.’

  ‘We’re testing those now,’ said Bill Phinner. ‘There’s a fair old tangle of sperm there – a right whinge – but the DNA will tell us one from another.’

  He laid the Glock down on Katie’s desk. ‘It’s this gun that’s interesting. It’s a third-generation Glock 17C, manufactured in 1998. We’ve test-fired it and there’s no question about it at all, it’s the same weapon that was used to shoot Ronan Barrett in the dance studio attic and probably Saoirse MacAuliffe, too – and it’s the same weapon that was used to shoot Niall Gleeson in his car. Apart from blowing the mouth off Bernie Dennehy, of course.’

  ‘It was used to shoot all of them? So, have you been able to identify whose gun it is?’

  ‘You can see how rough the chequering is on the frame grip, so it’s almost impossible to lift a clear fingerprint off of it even with the Livescan. However, there are three very distinct fingerprints on the right-hand side and a thumbprint on the left. There’s another fingerprint on the trigger and even though it’s partially smudged it corresponds with one of the prints on the side.’

  ‘And have you managed to make a match?’

  ‘We have, yes. Davy Dorgan handled it, as he admitted that he did. The print on the trigger is his. But the other
prints are Bernie Dennehy’s. If the gun had belonged to Davy Dorgan, how did Bernie Dennehy’s prints get on to it at all?’

  ‘How many rounds are in the magazine?’

  ‘Three, out of a possible eight. But here’s another question that needs to be answered. The fingerprints on the rounds in the magazine match the fingerprints on the two spent casings we retrieved from the Dorgans’ front garden, but none of them match Dorgan’s or Dennehy’s. Whoever loaded that gun, it wasn’t either of them.’

  ‘But whoever it was, don’t we have their prints on Pulse?’

  Bill Phinner shook his head.

  ‘This is a right head-wreck,’ said Katie. ‘Somebody loaded that gun and somebody used it to shoot those two dancers. DI Mulliken was leaning towards Dorgan being the shooter because he would have been able to get hold of the chemicals that started that fire. On the other hand, Dennehy had a possible motive for shooting Gleeson because of the arrangement he had made for Gleeson to sleep with his wife. But if it was his gun, what possible motive could he have had for shooting the dancers? And what was the real reason he wanted to shoot Dorgan? And who loaded it?’

  ‘And who gang-raped Maggie Dennehy?’ asked Kyna.

  Katie looked down at the gun on her desk. ‘I think when we find that out, everything else may begin to slot into place. I hope so, anyway. DI Mulliken said that it was all coming together like a jigsaw, but if you ask me somebody just dropped the jigsaw on the floor and scattered all the pieces.’

  ‘If we have the DNA records of any of the rapists, then I should be able to tell you later today who they were,’ said Bill Phinner.

  ‘Finding Dorgan and Cissy would be a good start, too,’ said Katie. ‘I’m praying that no harm has come to that little girl. If it meant saving his own skin, I wouldn’t put it past Dorgan to sacrifice his own sister.’

  36

  When Katie and Kyna arrived outside the shining glass frontage of the Opera House, Emmett Place was already crowded, although lines of people were beginning to file in slowly through the revolving door. Under their raincoats both of them wore evening dress. Katie was wearing the new maroon Roland Mouret dress she had bought in the sale last month at Brown Thomas, and Kyna a navy pencil dress that she had found in Cork Vintage Quarter.

  Uniformed gardaí were positioned at each end of Emmett Place and all along the quay. At least half a dozen more were gathered in the foyer, ushering the guests into a walk-through metal detector and quickly frisking all those who made it beep. A black Labrador from the Dog Support Unit was sitting nearby, sniffing at everyone who passed by. In spite of the high level of security, the foyer was noisy with chatter and laughter, and the ‘Banshee Reel’ was playing from loudspeakers, which lifted the mood even more.

  ‘I have to go up to the bar and make my presence known to the VIPs,’ Katie told Kyna, as they left their coats in the cloakroom. She almost had to shout so that she could be heard over the hubbub.

  ‘That’s all right, ma’am,’ said Kyna. ‘I’ll be after mingling now to see who I can see.’

  She gave Katie’s hand a quick, light squeeze and disappeared into the crowd.

  Katie went upstairs to the Blue Angel bar, which was already packed with dignitaries in evening dress. Outside the high glass walls there was a sparkling view of the river. She could see that traffic was moving again along Camden Quay, although there were orange flashing lights and barriers still around the corner of Griffith Bridge where the Volvo had crashed through the railings.

  Ian Bowthorpe was standing at the far end of the bar, chatting to the Lord Mayor and two of the Cork TDs. Frank Magorian was there, too, looking large-headed and handsome and smooth, but Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin was wearing a dinner jacket that was far too tight for him, as if he hadn’t worn it since he celebrated the millennium, and he looked hot and ill at ease.

  Five well-built men were standing around Ian Bowthorpe, all in black tie, none of them smiling or talking. Their eyes were constantly scanning the guests in the bar, although Katie thought there was little danger of his being attacked by white-haired old Eibhlin O’Reilly from An Coimisiún Le Rinci Gaelacha, one of the Cork judges for the Commission of Irish Dance, who must have been at least eighty, or by the smart house manager, Feena McGrath, or any other of the specially invited guests.

  Ian Bowthorpe himself was tall, almost as tall as Frank Magorian, but apart from a pot belly he was very slender, with a hooked nose and rounded shoulders, like a flamingo. His cheeks were two cherry-red spots and he had protuberant front teeth. Katie could pick out his distinctive English drawl from the opposite end of the bar.

  When she had managed to struggle her way through the guests, Katie came up to him and Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin introduced her.

  ‘I’d like you to meet Detective Superintendent Kathleen Maguire, one of our leading lights here in Cork,’ he told him.

  Ian Bowthorpe held out his hand. ‘It’s a great pleasure, Detective Superintendent. I’ve been very gratified to notice that women have been gradually taking more and more control of the Irish police force. They’re so much more sensible, don’t you think, women, and they don’t let anybody get away with anything. At least, my wife doesn’t!’

  ‘Grand to meet you, too, sir,’ said Katie.

  ‘Perhaps you can answer one question that’s always fascinated me.’ Ian Bowthorpe smiled down at her. ‘If you tell somebody here in Ireland that they’re under arrest but they can only understand Irish, does it still count?’

  Katie knew that he was being lighthearted, but she kept a serious expression on her face. ‘Oh, yes, sir. I always say to every suspect, An dtuigeann tú go mbeidh tú bheith i do chónaí ar aon rud ach arán agus uisce as seo amach? That always makes it quite clear that they’ve been scooped.’

  ‘I see,’ said Ian Bowthorpe. ‘That’s answered that question, then.’

  ‘I hope you enjoy the dancing, sir,’ said Katie before he had a chance to ask her to translate what she had said. ‘I think you’ll find that we’ve some of the best step-dancers in the country here in Cork, even the very young ones.’

  ‘Well, I’m really looking forward to it,’ he told her. ‘But what does—?’

  Katie was already backing away and he lifted one hand as if to stop her leaving, but Feena McGrath pushed her way in between them and said, ‘We really need to be taking our seats now, Mr Bowthorpe. The dancing will be after starting in a few minutes.’

  As the Opera House managers and his close protection officers led him away, Ian Bowthorpe turned to Katie and gave her a hopeless shrug.

  ‘Email me!’ he called back.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve made a new friend of him, Kathleen?’ asked Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin. ‘That must be the quickest pick-up in history!’

  Frank Magorian, on the other hand, gave her a testy look, as if he were disgusted at her for teasing a VIP guest.

  Now it was time for everybody to be making their way into the high, semicircular auditorium. A twelve-piece band called the Quarry Yard Martyrs were already screeching and twanging and tootling as they tuned up fiddles and banjos and penny whistles and Uilleann pipes and bodhrans. Katie had chosen to sit in the dress circle on the left-hand side, which would give her a clear view of almost the entire Opera House. She had brought a compact pair of binoculars in her purse so that she could focus on individual members of the audience.

  Detectives O’Donovan and Markey were there, too, on opposite sides of the stalls. She could see them in their seats already.

  At last the house lights dimmed and the director of the feis, Kevin Moloney, came out on to the stage in a spangly green suit, his bald head shining.

  ‘Folks – this is a very special feis we’re holding here today. It’s a qualifying oireachtas between fifteen different dance troupes, with the winners taking away the McGoldrick Trophy for the best step-dancers in the southern region. But it’s also our way of entertaining Mr Ian Bowthorpe from the British government, who h
as come to Ireland, and Cork in particular, to show us that our two countries still have strong mutual interests after Brexit. Britain and Ireland have not always been the closest of friends, as we all know, especially down here in the Rebel County. But in music and dance this evening, we’re celebrating what we share together, not what separates us.’

  There was more applause, and whistling, and the band struck up with ‘Garden of Daisies’. The curtains rose and on to the stage sprang the sixteen young girls from the Kilpatrick School of Dancing, their curly wigs bouncing, their tiaras and short red dresses glittering, their hard shoes hammering on the stage.

  The stage lights were dazzling but the dancers had applied fake tan to their faces and knees so as not to look pallid.

  Almost as soon as they had started dancing, Katie’s iPhone vibrated. She saw that she had a call from Jenny Tierney, her next-door neighbour. She didn’t answer it, but stood up and made her way along the line of seats to the entrance, apologizing to everybody who had to stand up to let her past.

  When she came out on to the landing, she rang Jenny back. A garda who was standing by the railings couldn’t take his eyes off her. He clearly knew who she was, but he had never seen her in evening dress before, with dangling crystal earrings.

  Jenny Tierney was in tears. ‘I couldn’t think who to call first, Katie – yourself or the local guards. In the end I decided that you would know what to do for the best.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Jenny? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I was taking Barney out for his evening walk and we were down by Dock Cottages when this van pulled up alongside of us. Four fellows jumped out. One of them wrapped his arms around me so that there was nothing I could do to stop them. The others grabbed hold of Barney and shoved him in the back of the van. He was barking and struggling but they had a tight grip on his collar and couldn’t pull himself free. Then it was slam! and the van doors were shut and they were away. It all happened so quick.’