Killer Score (The Irish Garda Files Book 2)

by Melinda Colt

  “There it is!”

  Chelsea had already seen it and was out of the car before it came to a full stop. The black vehicle they had been searching for was parked in front of a cherry-red duplex. It made an impression because the parking space was designed for one car, and the Tesla was closely blocking a compact red two-seater. Helen’s parents’ car perhaps?

  Chelsea felt Evan come up behind her and grab her arm.

  “Get back into the car while I deal with this,” he said.

  “Don’t even think about it. If this guy has it in for me, I want to hear it from him,” she said through her teeth. “I want to know why he killed those women, and whether or not he planned to kill me.”

  “I doubt you’ll hear that now,” Evan muttered. “I don’t see this guy confessing just like that. First, let’s get him to the station and see what he has to say. Let me do the talking, okay?”

  They approached the door, and Chelsea remained a step behind out of respect for Evan. She didn’t want to undermine his authority in front of Jack Dunhill.

  Evan rang the doorbell and waited. When a full minute had passed, he rang again. Lights went on inside the house, and hushed voices carried through behind the closed door.

  “Who is it?” a male voice asked from inside.

  “It’s Detective Inspector Evan Gallagher from An Garda Síochána. I have business with Mister Jack Dunhill. Is he here?”

  After a short pause, the door opened a crack. Evan held his badge up to the slice of light coming from inside. A middle aged man opened the door wider, staring cautiously at the two intruders. His face was pinched, his gaze disapproving, and although he was about Chelsea’s height, he had an air of dignified authority about him.

  “Good evening, Detective. I’m Arthur Colman, Helen’s father. I confess I’m impressed. You’ve already found out who stole Jack’s car?”

  Chelsea was stunned. As she stared at Evan, she saw he had the same reaction. He recovered quicker.

  “Mister Colman, what are you talking about? Isn’t this Jack Dunhill’s car?” Evan pointed to the black vehicle.

  “Aye, of course it is.”

  “Then why do you say someone stole it? It’s right here.”

  “Why don’t you let me explain, Arthur?” Quiet as a panther, Jack Dunhill stepped forward from behind the old man and moved into the light. Chelsea swallowed, keeping to the shadows. She wanted a chance to study him before he saw her.

  Next to her, Evan straightened his shoulders. Chelsea knew how much he’d wanted to meet Dunhill in person, and she guessed Evan had recognized the other man from his photos. Finally, he was face to face with his suspect.

  “Mister Jack Dunhill?” Evan asked.

  Dunhill nodded, taking a step forward. “Yes, it’s me. I’ll take it from here, Arthur. Go to bed,” he murmured to the old man, who reluctantly turned and walked away.

  Dunhill returned to Evan, but before he could speak, he spotted Chelsea. His eyes widened, his eyebrows shot up. “Doctor Campbell? What are you doing here?” he asked, puzzled.

  Chelsea moistened her lips and took a step forward, closer to Evan.

  “I work with the Garda part time,” she said. “I volunteer as a profiler.”

  Dunhill’s eyebrows arched further. “Wow. I never imagined the police would hire a profiler to track down whoever borrowed my car.”

  “What do you mean someone borrowed your car?” Evan asked.

  Chelsea sensed he was at the end of his patience. Frankly, so was she. To say the least, this was an unexpected twist.

  “Well, officer—” Jack Dunhill said.

  “Detective Gallagher,” Evan corrected.

  Dunhill inclined his head, as though indulging Evan. “Detective. I thought that was why you were here. Someone stole my car last night. It was simply gone from the driveway. I reported it to the police, they said they would look into it, and this morning it was back here, without a scratch on it.”

  “Are you frigging kidding me?” Evan snapped, cocking his head to one side.

  Dunhill looked taken aback. “I’m sorry, what? Why the hell would I joke about something like this?”

  Evan pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. Chelsea sensed his struggle for control. Jack Dunhill was either playing an elaborate game, or else he was telling the truth.

  “Mister Dunhill, does my name not ring a bell?” Evan asked through his teeth. “I have been trying to track you down for days and left at least half a dozen messages on your cell phone. Didn’t you get any of them?”

  Dunhill lifted his shoulders, glancing at Chelsea, then back at Evan. “No. I forgot my charger in Dublin, and my phone is long out of juice. What happened? Why were you trying to track me down?”

  He looked genuinely surprised, but that didn’t mean anything. A lot of people were excellent actors and had tremendous self-control, up to the point where they could fool a lie detector. Chelsea stared at Dunhill, fighting to keep her expression unreadable.

  Evan stepped in. “First of all, you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence. I want to question you regarding the murder of Shannon Brody, on October 25th.”

  Dunhill dropped his cocky pose, and his jaw dropped. Once more, he looked at Chelsea, his eyes incredulous.

  “Murder? What are ye talking about? Who’s Shannon Brody?”

  “Oh, come on, Jack. You really think it’s wise to waste even more of my time?” Evan said.

  “I’m not! I have no idea who and what you’re talking about.”

  As Dunhill lifted his voice, another light came alive in the house, and the silhouette of a woman hovered in the hallway.

  “What is it, Jack?” she asked, her voice young and slightly impatient. “Did the police find out what happened to your car?”

  “No… I don’t know yet,” he said over his shoulder. “Just give me a minute, honey. I’ll be right there.” Under a false layer of assurance, he was shaken. Turning back to Evan, he took another step outside on the porch and closed the door behind him. “Okay, what the bloody hell are you talking about? Is this some Halloween stunt?”

  “It’s no stunt,” Evan said, cop mode full on. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he accessed Shannon’s photo and showed it to Dunhill. “Shannon Brody. You connected with her via a dating website in August this year. She was killed a week ago. I’ve been trying to contact you since then.”

  Jack Dunhill rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers trembled as he stared at the photo.

  “Christ, now I remember her. We went out on a date, but we didn’t hit it off. She was murdered, you said? Poor woman… How did it happen? Do you know who did it?”

  Evan didn’t answer. Instead, he called off Jenny’s photo and showed it to Dunhill.

  “What about this woman? Do you recognize her?”

  Dunhill looked closely at the screen, then shook his head firmly. “No. I don’t know her. Who is she?”

  “She was a thirty-year-old woman who loved art and dancing. She was killed last night—right after climbing out of your car.”

  Each of Evan’s words was a hard, swift slap. He was in interview mode, ready to break this suspect to pieces.

  Dunhill looked ready to burst into tears. All bravado gone, he glanced at Chelsea with the helplessness of a child searching for rescue. But she remained implacable. She had seen people dissimulate and this could be just a case of convincing acting. He’d had plenty of time to perfect his reaction.

  “That’s impossible! D-do you think I killed this woman?” Dunhill stammered, turning back to Evan. “You can’t be serious! I don’t even know her. Bloody bollocks, my car wasn’t even here last night! Ask Helen, she’ll tell you. She was with me at the police station, where I reported it stolen.”

  “Was she with you all night? Where were you exactly and who were you with last night between ten p.m. and midnight?” Evan asked
.

  Dunhill slumped against the door jam, rubbing his hands down his face. “I… We were supposed to go out to dinner—Helen, me, and her parents, Arthur and Caragh. Around seven we set off to leave, and then I realized my car was no longer in the driveway. It was gone, just like that.”

  Evan and Chelsea remained skeptically quiet. Dunhill went on with his story.

  “Arthur and Caragh stayed home, and Helen and I went to the police station. By the time we gave them all the details and answered all of their questions it was close to nine, I think. We got back home, ate some sandwiches Caragh made, and went to bed.”

  “What time did you go to bed?” Evan asked.

  “Around ten, I think. None of us was in the mood for anything else after the unpleasant surprise we’d had.”

  “Did you and Helen sleep in the same room?”

  Dunhill glanced sideways and shook his head. “Of course not. This is her parents’ house. I’m sure they know we’re sleeping together, but I sure as hell wouldn’t do that under their roof. I slept in the guest bedroom, and Helen slept in her old bedroom.”

  Evan glanced at Chelsea and she knew they were thinking the same thing. Between 10:00 and 11:47, when the murder had occurred, Dunhill had had plenty of time to make the thirty minute drive to Dublin, pick up Jenny, and kill her. He could have staged the entire story about his car being stolen. He could have moved it himself when no one was paying attention, paid someone to move it, or even programmed it to drive itself someplace where he could pick it up later. Chelsea knew this was a modern Tesla model and had autonomous driving technology. Dunhill could have set the automatic pilot to drive it to a designated place at a designated time. All in all, Jack Dunhill didn’t have a solid alibi.

  Evan’s tone echoed the same cold hardness as he continued his questions.

  “So no one saw you or spoke to you between 10:00 and midnight?”

  Dunhill shook his head. “No. I was long asleep by then. When I woke up, my car was back in the driveway. I called the police and told them. The guards got pissed off; they thought I had played a prank on them, but I didn’t.” He raked his fingers through his hair, his composure hanging by a thread. “Look, detective, I don’t know what’s going on, but I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t do anything wrong. Hell, I still can’t believe Shannon was murdered. What the fuck is going on? I feel like someone is setting me up for the mother of all slaggings!”

  Evan looked at Chelsea, confused.

  “He thinks you’re making fun of him,” Chelsea clarified the Irish expression.

  “Does this look like a joke to you?” Evan snapped, swiping at the screen of his phone until he found a photo of Jenny’s body. He shoved it toward Dunhill. “Or this?” He searched for another photo of Shannon, taken at the crime scene.

  As he stared at the images, Jack Dunhill gaped in horror. Chelsea was stunned to see tears form in his green eyes. Was he faking this, too? Were those tears of frustration because he was guilty, and he realized the gig was up?

  Evan took charge. “Mister Dunhill, I’m detaining you and escorting you to the police station. You will be questioned in regard to the murders of Shannon Brody and Jenny Williams. You are entitled to contact a solicitor and have one present during the interview.”

  As Evan informed him of his rights, Jack Dunhill stood motionless. He looked as though he hoped this was a bad dream, some outlandish nightmare that he would wake up from at any moment.

  “Do you understand your rights?”

  Evan had to repeat the question before Dunhill nodded dumbly, still looking dazed. Finally, he moistened his dry lips.

  “Am I being arrested?”

  “At this time you’re brought in for questioning.”

  “Can I… Can I tell Helen?”

  “Of course. In fact, I would like to talk to her, too. We can do it here or at the station.”

  “I’ll… I’ll go get her.”

  Dunhill turned around and bumped into the closed door. Clumsily, he fumbled with the knob, opened it, and went into the house. All of his motions and gestures reflected the confusion of an old man with severe memory loss.

  When he was gone, Evan turned to Chelsea. “What do you think?”

  She shrugged, then shook her head. “I’m too tired to think straight. I don’t trust myself to give an educated opinion yet, but I want to observe the interview.”

  “I can hold him for a maximum of twenty-four hours, but only with the Chief Superintendent’s approval. I have to interview him right away. Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you home first?”

  She shook her head again. “Absolutely not. I just need some coffee and I’ll be fine.”

  Evan’s phone rang. As he answered, he mouthed to Chelsea that it was John.

  He was calling to tell Evan he had the warrant to access the data from Jack Dunhill’s phone. Evan told him about the new development. Chelsea could imagine John cursing in disbelief at the other end.

  “John’s coming to observe the interview, too,” he told Chelsea once he’d finished his conversation.

  “Good. We’ll make a night of it. Again,” Chelsea said dryly. “This is the effing Twilight Zone.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was two a.m. when Evan and Chelsea escorted Jack Dunhill and his solicitor into an interview room at the Garda station. After having a cup of strong coffee, Chelsea felt wide awake. They had spoken with Helen Colman at her house, and she had confirmed everything Dunhill had told them. Evan could have insisted she come in to the station tonight for formal questioning, but there was no point to it yet. Their focus was Jack Dunhill, and no matter what Helen said, she couldn’t prove he hadn’t left the house between ten and midnight. It was up to Evan to get the truth out of Dunhill.

  Chelsea observed the four men through the double-sided glass wall. Evan had fueled himself on coffee, and despite the dark shadows, his eyes looked sharp and alert. Next to him, John was there to play the good cop and would remain quiet for the duration of the interview. Across the table sat Jack Dunhill and his solicitor, a hatchet-faced man in his fifties, freshly-shaven even at this hour. One could slice a banana on the crease of his tailored suit’s slacks.

  Jack Dunhill sat in the chair next to him, shoulders slumped, face shadowed. Chelsea didn’t know if it was by fatigue, fear, sorrow, remorse, or something else. Throughout the interview he hadn’t changed his story, and all the details he’d added fit in without changing or contradicting anything he’d said so far.

  “So you maintain your claim that you didn’t murder Jenny Williams,” Evan said.

  “It’s not a claim, it’s the truth,” Jack Dunhill replied wearily. “I didn’t even know the woman. I told you. I’ve never seen her in my life,” he said, indicating the photos of Jenny and Shannon Evan had spread on the table.

  “But you knew Shannon,” Evan said.

  “Again, yes. We had one date. We didn’t get the feeling we were compatible, and that was that.”

  “Who reached that conclusion? You or Shannon?”

  Dunhill shrugged. “I guess we both did. Neither of us contacted the other again, so it was a mutual agreement.”

  “Are you sure? Didn’t you feel rejected when Shannon didn’t suggest a second date?” Evan asked.

  “No, because I wasn’t interested in seeing her again either. She was a pretty woman, but we had nothing in common.”

  Evan continued to stare at him skeptically. “Where were you on the night of October 25th between 7:00 and 11:00 p.m.?”

  Jack Dunhill stared toward the ceiling, his forehead creased in his effort to remember.

  “Let’s see… For the past couple of weeks Helen and I have gone out together nearly every night, before spending the night either at her place or at mine. I’d have to check my phone messages to say for sure, but I’m almost certain I was with her.” He licked his lips and glanced at Shannon’s photo. “Is that when she… was murdered?”

  Chelsea thought she saw a trace of sorro
w in his eyes, but it could have been sorrow for himself and the situation he was in. She wouldn’t make the mistake of letting compassion cloud her judgment again.

  Apparently, Evan was just as ruthless. He didn’t answer, just continued his questioning.

  “I tried to reach you several times this past week, but your phone was always off. Why is that?”

  “I usually keep it off when I’m at work,” Dunhill said. “I try to set a good example for the employees.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I own a computer software company. We develop apps and games for phones and tablets.”

  Chelsea could almost picture Evan’s ears prick. Hers certainly did. So Jack Dunhill knew about computers and had the know-how to access data he wasn’t supposed to, like hacking a dating website or spoof phones. This piece of information was one more nail in his coffin.

  Dunhill seemed oblivious to the fact he’d just offered incriminating evidence. He continued answering Evan’s question.

  “I also keep my phone off when I’m with Helen. She can be…” He shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. “She doesn’t like it when other women call me.”

  “Do other women call ye often?” John stepped in, his voice inspiring confidence.

  “Detectives, what relevance does this have at three in the morning?” the solicitor asked impatiently, his face tight, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “It has the utmost relevance,” Evan said without sparing him a glance. “Mister Dunhill, how many women did you connect with via the dating website where you met Shannon?”

  Dunhill chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know… A few. That’s where I met Helen, so it worked out for me.”

  “Do you use the nickname Black Dawn?” Evan asked.

  Dunhill looked up, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Black Dawn? No. I always use the same nickname, Jack DH. What’s Black Dawn supposed to mean?”

  “We’ll get back to that. Now tell me about your feelings toward Doctor Campbell.”