by Casey Hill
“I dunno, I still think the brother’s all talk,” Kennedy said, insistent - for reasons unknown to everyone but himself, Reilly thought - that Graham’s older sibling was completely innocent.
Yet to Chris, perhaps even more since the discovery of the bloodied hurley, and recent revelations about the brothers’ sporting and romantic history, Simon Hackett remained the most likely suspect.
“The best fit for this dark silhouette is pretty obvious,” he insisted again. “Simon Hackett got into an argument with his brother the night of the murder. He had both motive and opportunity; easy access to the room, and reason to be upset about the fact that Graham was making moves on a girl who had just dumped him. And Simon’s own sports prowess indicates not only an easy familiarity with the murder weapon, but also represents an interesting choice for same. Graham taunts his brother about being a failed hurler, so perhaps Simon feels inclined to remind his little brother about his proficiency?”
It all sounded incriminating for Simon but Reilly wasn't quite persuaded. “Problem is we don’t have any forensic evidence suggesting Simon,” she said. “His prints weren't on the murder weapon, and there’s nothing putting him in the bedroom that night either.”
Chris threw his hands up in frustration. “Well, what the hell do we have then?”
Reilly bit her lip. Unfortunately, still not a whole lot.
27
The next morning, Lucy leaned over her computer, trying desperately to identify another piece of organic trace they had discovered on the victim’s body - this one with petroleum components. Once they were able to figure out what it actually was, it might well lead them a step closer to finding the person that killed Graham Hackett.
She glanced up for a moment at Gary, who was working just as diligently, running comparisons for the substance they had found with that strawberry scented astringent. Although they had hoped the chemical make-up would match up nicely to some kind of soap, or shampoo, they’d been disappointed when they couldn’t immediately identify a corresponding soap or shower gel from the Hackett house, and now Gary was doubly determined to find out what the substance could be.
“Stare much?” Gary asked, when he glanced up to find Lucy gazing at him, a thoughtful look on her face.
Though they had been officially going out for a couple of months, she still blushed when he caught her staring at him, which made him smile and briefly tear himself away from his work.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, walking over to her work station and leaning on the counter.
She glanced back at the microscope, trying to decide if it was okay to tell him what - besides lab work - was on her mind. In truth, she couldn’t get Reilly’s emotional state from the other day out of her mind. Though Lucy was certain the turmoil her boss was experiencing were not affecting her job performance, it didn’t stop her worrying for her.
Reilly had relentlessly pursued the dormant case of Lucy’s missing sister, and eventually figured out what had happened to Grace. Lucy would never be able to thank her enough for that, and since then she had considered the older woman a friend.
Lucy looked into Gary’s concerned face and had to smile softly at him, for he had worked tirelessly to help Reilly with that too. “It’s nothing,” she finally said, deciding to protect her boss’s privacy rather than appease her own worries. She grinned. “I just like looking at your ugly mug.”
“Would you two stop goofing off?” Reilly said then, startling the two of them as she walked through the lab, her flats making no noise on the linoleum floor. Gary whirled around to look at her, his eyes skipping, as they always seemed to lately, down to her protruding middle before settling on her face.
“Gary,” she said, gaze narrowing, “do we have an update on any more of the Hackett trace, yet? Anything useful from the murder weapon?”
He shook his head sheepishly and glanced back at Lucy, giving her his own discrete wink. “No, ma’am,” he intoned in his best American twang, “but you can bet your bottom dollar that we’re working on it as hard as we can.”
“We’re still going over the chemical makeup of that astringent-like substance,” Lucy piped up. “It doesn’t match any of the soaps or shampoos we took from the house yesterday. Nothing jumps out, but we have managed to discern that the substance is scented with synthetic strawberry.”
“Okay,” Reilly said, pondering what this could possibly mean - particularly if it related to Graham Hackett's attacker. Strawberry scented trace seemed overtly … feminine.
They’d already established that Holly Glynn, or indeed any of the girls at the party could surely be ruled out – none of them possessed anywhere near the minimum height and strength projected by both iSPI and the autopsy findings, to have beaten him to death like that.
Curiouser and curiouser…
“Julius,” she asked, moving across to the older lab tech’s desk, “how’s it going with the prints? Have you worked up any comparisons?”
He looked up from his computer, “I have and fat lot of good it did me. None of those prints on the weapon or the house were in the system, but as the majority of the latter belong to the Hackett family - with the exception of a couple of partials, there’s really no reason for them to be.”
Another dead end…
Next, she checked in with Rory.
“I’ve continued digging back through the various social media streams, which paint a pretty decent picture of what Hackett and his mates got up to in the run up to that night,” he told her. “We already know that Graham Hackett and his closest mates are these big superstars of the school Gaelic hurling team. Which means they’ve almost always got girls throwing themselves at them. But looks like Graham isn’t the only one on the team juicing. His mates do it too, as well as a handful of others who seem to be on the fringes. Holly Glynn’s brother shows up in a couple of interactions in the team WhatsApp, but from what I can tell, Hackett and his mates don’t think much of him.”
Reilly leaned over his shoulder and read through some of the interactions he’d highlighted. “Any idea why?”
Rory shrugged and spun around in his chair to face her, leaning back and taking a long drink of his favorite poison. “Probably because Conor Glynn is far and away the star of the team, despite the fact that he doesn’t seem to use. Or maybe it’s just that the whole team partakes in this PED crap thanks to Dean Cooper, but Glynn doesn’t. That sets him apart, paints him to be this snowflake type - exactly as Hackett and Cooper described him in their interaction - like he thinks he’s better than them or something? Judging from his own social media I don’t think that’s too far from the truth. He seems a bit of self-righteous dick. Not to mention the fact that he’s got a scholarship for Aussie rules, worth hating for that alone. Lucky bastard.”
“OK.” Reilly figured most of her lab colleagues could really use a holiday. The Irish seemed unhealthily obsessed with sunshine, though hardly surprising when they got so little of it.
“Anyway, I’m still working on trying to find Cooper …and I think I might have cracked it. This is very old - back as far as Cooper’s playing days.” Rory clicked around on his computer a bit, bringing up another set of interactions on SnapChat, this time between someone whose screen name was ‘D-Man’ and a girl using her own name and who Reilly recognized as being one of Holly Glynn’s friends.
She leaned forward to read the feed, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the screen.
D-Man: Hey
Sarah: Hey
D-Man: What are you up to?
Sarah: Just watching TV - what are you doing?
D-Man: Just back from training. Thought of you in the shower ;)
Sarah: Of course you did. So how was training? Do you think ye’ll win at the weekend?
D-Man: I don’t know, maybe we will if you suck my…
Reilly’s eyes widened, reminding herself that these kids were what…barely seventeen? Possibly even sixteen if this particular discussion was from some time ago.<
br />
“So I’m thinking D-Man could well be an alias for Dean. I’m going to keep digging, see if I can get a full name and contact details. Or at least a work address or something.”
“Good work. Sarah’s a friend of Holly Glynn’s isn't she?” Reilly asked. “Anything like this between Holly and the boys?”
She hoped not. The girl she’d met at the hospital seemed so innocent - a million miles from this sordid interaction. And she really hoped crap like this wasn't seen as a carte-blanche invitation from the guy’s point of view. Never in a million years would Reilly suggest that a girl’s own actions triggered a sexual attack, but surely this kind of stuff was playing with fire?
Rory shook his head. “Not that I’ve found anyway. Holly seems to pretty much keep to herself, except for a bit of harmless flirting here and there. Nothing too hair-raising.”
Reilly hoped not. But still she worried what this kind of blatantly sexual interaction was doing to teenagers who couldn't possibly have the maturity to handle them, let alone the consequences.
Those were hard to enough to handle for fully grown adults.
28
Chris drove around the perimeter of the Guinness Brewery on the city quays, a distinctive aroma of roasted barley wafting through the air vent of the car; the mere scent of Dublin’s most famous export no doubt triggering Kennedy’s taste buds.
For once the obligatory media public appeal had paid off.
The day before, a taxi driver had called the Garda hotline about a fare he’d dropped off in the very area Holly Glynn had said she was attacked. The driver had noticed a girl walking by, but didn't think anything of it. Now he did, and the detectives were wasting no time in going to talk to him.
Chris manoeuvred around the parked open top tourist buses lined up outside Kilmainham Jail.
Further down the road he glanced at the piece of paper upon which he’d taken down the address, and slowed to check the name of the group of townhouses on the left hand side. Confirming he had the right place, he indicated and pulled in to the nearest available space.
“Must be where all the taxi drivers live,’ Kennedy quipped, as he unfastened his seat belt and opened the passenger door simultaneously. Parked in the residents’ area were no less than three taxi cabs.
Chris scanned the house numbers on the brick clad homes which seemed to be uneven numbers on the bottom and even on top, all accessed by granite paved steps. They walked up the steps and pressed the doorbell of number twenty.
After a few seconds they saw through the frosted glass panel a shadow moving towards the door.
“Howyiz,” a slightly balding middle-aged man greeted them.
“Andy Cummins?” Chris asked.
“Yep, that’s me.”
“I’m Detective Delaney this is my partner Detective Kennedy - we spoke on the phone earlier….” Chris trailed off, allowing time for man to join the dots.
“Ah sorry pal, I was in a world of me own there - come on in,” Andy said pulling the door open fully.
“Cheers, we won’t take up much of your time,” Kennedy told him as they walked down the hallway in the direction the taxi driver ushered them.
“Ah, no worries, I’m not heading out till this evening. I was at the airport rank early this morning, and am not long home for some kip and a bitta grub. Here have a seat, do ye want a cuppa?” Andy asked, as he picked up the kettle and started to fill it at the sink in front of a window which looked out across industrial units alongside a network of railway tracks and idle train carriages.
“Tea would be great thanks,” Chris said as he looked out across the yard through the sliding door beside a small table. The door opened out onto a tiny patio area railed off with a grimy glass-panelled balustrade. The patio/balcony seemed primarily used for drying clothes and storing bins as opposed to the alfresco enjoyment the architect had intended.
But this was Dublin, not Paris.
“What’s all that over there?” Kennedy asked, following Chris’s gaze.
“The old rail works,” Andy told them, placing the kettle back in its dock and pressing the on switch. “Used to be the big employer around here, had hundreds of workers back in the day. Me old man worked there. Pretty dead down there now though. Some people think its ugly, but I like it. It reminds me of being a kid; I got to go down the country with the ‘oul fella when he was sent out on maintenance trips.”
“You from around here then Andy?”
“Yep, born and bred. Place has totally changed over the years though, you’d hardly recognize it now,” he said in a wistful tone, as he continued his tea-making ritual.
“You been in the taxi game long?” Kennedy asked, continuing the small talk until Andy was finished.
“Yeah, pretty much all me life. Took over me uncle’s plate before they deregulated the taxi game. Cost me a fortune. Had to take out a mortgage for the plate, then eight years later any Tom, Dick or Harry could roll up with a banger and get one for nothing,” Andy said with some bitterness. “Ah well sure, them’s the breaks. I’m still able to make a crust, and that’s the main thing.” He placed the cups on the table before fetching the milk and sugar. “There’s another driver who lives a few doors down, they have two young kids; don’t know how they manage with the rents around here.”
“Yeah, I noticed there was a few cabs parked up,” Kennedy remarked as he stirred his cup. “So I believe you had a lift out to Churchtown on the 18th?” he said, getting down to business.
“Yep, I remember seeing the news the next day and thinking I’d just been out there. I recognized the road straight away.”
“You mentioned to the tipline operator that you let a fare out on Taney Road?” Chris continued, reading from his notes and trying to direct Andy - who they’d already established had a tendency to ramble - to the information that interested them most.
“Yeah, it was a really busy night. Lots of kids out after the exams finished, and plenty of tourists around too. I got back into town at around twoish from a drop off in Bray and joined the ranks on Dame Street. Young lad comes up heading for Churchtown.”
“Do you remember the specific address he wanted?” Kennedy asked.
“He just said Taney Road. I asked him where abouts exactly, because it’s a long road and it’s often the ones who give you a non-specific address that end up doing a runner,” Andy said nursing the tea cup in both hands on the table. “Though yer man didn't look like a runner to be fair. He was a well spoken young fella, and didn't seem too drunk either.”
“So you dropped him to Taney Road and …?” Chris prompted.
“Well, that’s the thing that bothered me,” Andy said shifting in his chair. “We passed a young one near the Luas bridge walking a bit wobbly. I remember her because it was quiet enough around at that stage - the pubs were all closed. I hate seeing girls out alone like that, especially with a few scoops on them,” the older man said and Chris was pleased with this level of recollection. Dublin taxi drivers missed nothing, that was for sure.
“Anyway, my fare had been quiet enough all the way out, but as soon as we passed the girl, he pipes up and says he’d get out on the side of the road. I look in the mirror and see his head swivelling looking back down the way and I just assumed he knew the young one,” Andy said looking pained. “It was only the weekend when I heard the appeal about the beating over the road and an attack on a girl that I got a sick feeling in my stomach.” He looked horrified by the notion that his actions in dropping off his fare might have played a role in the incident.
But Chris was heartened by this information. If that girl was Holly, it meant that she’d been telling the truth all along that her attacker had come out of nowhere. And more importantly, it suggested that the incident was thus likely unrelated to what had occurred at Graham Hackett’s house.
“Can you give us a description of the guy you let out?” Kennedy inquired.
“He was young, late teens if not early twenties I’d say. Big bloke and tall - I�
��d say over six foot but lean with it. He had no jacket with him even though it was cold enough out. Hard to say what color his hair was at that time of night, but I’d guess it was dark brown, black even. But the weird thing that struck me at the time was the strong smell of perfume off him.” Andy made a face.
Chris looked at him. “Perfume or aftershave?”
“No, I’d definitely say perfume because it was really sweet, sickly almost. Bit odd, but of course you get all sorts these days, though in my time young fellas would get the crap kicked out of them for going around smelling of poncey stuff. But not anymore.”
Weird, especially when Holly had mentioned her attacker smelling of cigarettes - a decidedly different kind of perfume…
“What about the girl, can you describe her?” Kennedy asked.
“I can actually go one better than that,” Andy said, looking smug. He reached for a laptop nearby. “I can show you.”
He opened the computer and the screen illuminated to show a paused image of a streetlight-lined suburban road, taken from the inside of a car.
“Dash cam. Can’t be without one in my game. Sure you’ve foreigners and all sorts of dodgy scum rear-ending you and throwing themselves on the bonnet and then trying to claim insurance,” Andy muttered with some disgust, as he rotated the screen to face the detectives and pressed play.
You beauty…Chris thought, marveling at how modern technology could make their jobs so much easier sometimes. He sat forward eagerly.
The dash-cam footage - taken from the vantage point of the windscreen - complete with timestamp, showed the car driving down a road both detectives quickly recognized as Taney Road. A little way on, the headlights of Andy’s taxi illuminated a young blonde women in a short black dress walking unsteadily on the footpath in the same direction the car was traveling, her head pointing towards the ground.
