Death in Foxrock
A Garda West Crime Novel
4
1
The high hedge around the abandoned house dulled the sound of traffic and shielded the group from the curious eyes of the crowd that had already started to gather outside. Soon they’d be joined by news’ cameras and journalists and the questions would start.
But for now, Detective Garda Sergeant West stood quietly, unable to take his eyes off the battered brown suitcase that lay open among the weeds. He couldn’t see the contents from where he stood, but the case was small. If there was a body inside it had to be smaller still. With a deep breath, he moved closer, taking careful steps through the undergrowth with his bootee covered feet until he was close enough to see inside, breathing slowly in and out to calm the sudden painful grip he felt on his belly, moving closer still to be within touching distance. Then he squatted down and let his eyes focus on the small, skeletonised body curled up inside.
‘Female,’ the man already squatting opposite said quietly.
Detective Garda Andrews wasn’t a man given to taking uneducated guesses so West examined the small body more carefully. The child’s hair was long, but he wouldn’t have been able to say, with certainty, which sex it was. Then he saw it. A small hair slide almost lost in the tangle of unkempt hair. ‘That’s probably as much as we’re going to learn from her clothes,’ he said, eyeing the remnants of fabric that partially covered the small bones.
He sat back on his haunches. Had the child died here, curled up and alone? Or was she killed and tossed away like garbage? Either way, it was grim. ‘She’s so small,’ he said. ‘How old d’y’think? Three or four?’
Andrews, picturing his five-year-old son, Petey, shook his head. ‘Maybe not that old.’
West stood and looked around. The front garden was long, the house barely visible behind overgrown shrubs and trees. It looked abandoned. ‘You know anything about this place?’
Andrews pushed to his feet and stood beside him. ‘No, I don’t, maybe one of the uniforms will.’ Turning, he looked back toward the gate where a number of uniformed gardai were unrolling crime scene tape. ‘Garda Hudson,’ he called, raising his hand at the same time to beckon him over. ‘Do you know anything about this place?’ he asked when the young man hurried to his side.
Garda Hudson was young but eager to impress, his sights firmly set on becoming a detective. ‘The owner died a couple of years ago,’ he said promptly. ‘The new owner, a nephew I think, put it on the market almost immediately but then the housing market crashed and he withdrew it from sale. I guess he’s waiting for the market to recover again. There was a problem with squatters about a year ago so he boarded up the downstairs windows. I don’t know the exact date,’ He blushed and added hurriedly, ‘but I can get it for you.
Andrews shook his dead. That kind of information would be easy to find once they were back in the station. ‘Anything else?’
The young man, wishing he had something exciting to add, shook his head regretfully. ‘No, we kept a close eye on it for a while but there were no reports of anything suspicious.’ He waved a hand toward the street behind. ‘It’s a quiet road. The neighbours are quick to pick up a phone if anything fishy is going on.’
Andrews dismissed him with a nod and turned to West. ‘So it’s been pretty much left alone for the last year. I’ll get the dates when we get back.’
West pointed toward the brambles and nettles that had invaded what had once been an orderly hedge. ‘They’re a good deterrent, Peter.’
‘And there’s usually a chain around the gate,’ Andrews told him, ‘the uniforms that answered the call used bolt-cutters to get it off.’
Raised voices made them both swing around, alert, only to relax immediately on seeing Niall Kennedy, the pathologist. He waved toward the two detectives and headed their direction, wearing the biggest Wellington boots either man had ever seen. He lifted his feet with exaggerated effort that made both men smile and shake their heads. Kennedy was a short man, not above five-five, and the boots, designed for a much taller man, made him look ridiculous.
‘We’ve a new supplies officer,’ he explained stopping in front of them, ‘he must think we’re all giants. I’ll have to drop in on him and explain that it’s my personality that’s oversized, not my feet. But never mind that,’ he said, waving it away like an irritating fly. ‘Sorry, I’m late the traffic was stop-go the whole blasted way. A most inconvenient time to find a dead body,’ he joked before his eyes looked past the two men and saw the victim. ‘Ah, God,’ he said, his face falling.
West wanted to snap that God wasn’t very much in evidence at the scene, but he bit his tongue. They all had their own way of dealing with what they faced. If a prayer, to the God that West wasn’t sure he believed in anymore, helped the pathologist, who was he to criticise?
He stepped away from the immediate scene, Andrews following behind, and they waited silently.
They weren’t waiting long. ‘There’s not much to tell you,’ Kennedy said joining them, his face unusually grave. ‘There’s no obvious sign of injury, no broken bones.’ Pulling his gloves off, he rolled them up and shoved them into his pocket. ‘Based on ornamentation, it’s likely to be female but that’s all I can say until I get everything back to the morgue.’
‘Any idea how long she’s been there?’ West asked.
The pathologist shrugged. ‘At a very rough guess, I’d say several months. I’ll have a better idea after the post-mortem.’
‘Wouldn’t being closed up in the case have slowed decomposition down? Could we be looking at a longer time period?’ West asked.
Kennedy shook his head. ‘It would have slowed the initial decomp, certainly, but once those insects got in, the interior of the case would have become wet and warm and the process would have been accelerated.’ He sighed heavily. ‘We’re really busy thanks to that car smash in Bray yesterday but I’ll bump this poor scrap to the head of the queue. It’s not going to take very long.’
And with that, he left, his gait less exaggerated but still enough to raise an automatic smile on everyone he passed.
His departure was a nod to the scene of crimes team to move in. The team leader came over to West. ‘We ok to start?’ he asked, knowing from previous cases that the detective liked to see the scene before it was disturbed.
‘Yes, thanks, we’ve already had a look,’ West said and watched as they moved toward the suitcase. Normally, they were a noisy bunch, shouting directions, commenting on the scene, calling for various pieces of equipment. But this time, their silence was unsettling. Even these veterans of multiple crime scenes were silenced by the tiny body so carelessly abandoned.
The boy who’d found the suitcase was standing quietly near the gate. Already unnaturally pale, his lower lip trembled and his eyes grew larger as the two six-foot tall men approached
‘Maybe you’d better have a word with the uniforms,’ West said, stopping a few feet away, ‘see if they’ve organised a house-to-house yet. If the two of us get any closer to that boy, he’s going to pass out.’
The boy looked relieved when Andrews moved away but his lower lip still trembled.
West gave the boy a reassuring smile. ‘What’s your name,’ he asked.
The boy gulped and looked at him from the corner of his eye. ‘Max Ferguson.’
‘I know you’ve already told the other gardai, Max,’ he said, ‘but can you tell me what happened?’
It was a simple story. The boy was walking to school with friends when one of them, playing a prank, threw his backpack over the hedge into the garden. ‘They ran off and left me,’ he said. ‘I had to climb over the gate to get in. My bag was lying among the nettles.’ He held up his hands to show the dist
inct raised lesions he’d suffered as a result. ‘When I picked it up, it disturbed some of those bigger weeds. That’s when I saw the suitcase.’ He blinked and looked even younger. ‘I didn’t mean any harm; I just wanted to see what was inside.’ His gulp was louder this time. ‘When I saw what it was, I came away and rang the guards.’ The smile he tried was forced, shaky, and didn’t last long. ‘Then I rang my mum,’ he said. ‘She’s coming to take me home.’
Before West could answer, a woman rushed through the gate, hair askew, forehead lined with worry. Relief swept over her face when she saw her son and, without hesitation, she pulled him into her arms and held him close. Her eyes closed for a second. When they opened they were fixed on West. ‘What the hell is going on here?’
West explained briefly. ‘We’ll need Max to sign a statement of what happened. I’ll send someone to your home, if that’s acceptable.’
Mrs Ferguson kept her arms wrapped tightly around her son. ‘He said there was a body in the suitcase.’
West sighed, and then nodded. It would be in the papers soon enough, there was no point in keeping it a secret at this stage. ‘It’s the skeleton of a small child.’
‘A child,’ she said in horror. But her look of horror quickly turned to puzzlement. ‘A child?’
West knew she was thinking exactly what he’d been thinking since he saw the body. There’d been no reports of a missing child. If there had, they’d all know about it. A missing child stayed in the headlines until found, one way or another.
There wasn’t an explanation to offer her so he addressed himself to the boy. ‘You did the right thing, Max. Thank you.’ He nodded at the mother. ‘You can leave now, Mrs Ferguson. We’ll be in touch.’ Turning, he saw a crowd had gathered outside the gate. ‘I’ll have one of the guards walk you to your car,’ he said. ‘Where are you parked?’
‘On the roadway,’ she said, and then with an attempt at humour, added, ‘I hope I didn’t get a ticket.’
West gave a quick smile. Gallows’ humour. He was used to it.
A raised hand brought Hudson running to his side. ‘Walk Mrs Ferguson and Max to their car, please,’ he said, before looking around for Andrews. The garden was empty apart from the scene of crimes team working methodically. Already, to one side, a pile of sample containers was building up. Maybe they’d get lucky.
He took a last look around at the sad resting place of the child and walked slowly toward the gate where he pulled the overshoes off and dumped them into the rubbish sack that one of the uniforms had set up.
Andrews was busy directing the uniformed gardai. The house-to-house was unlikely to turn up anything useful but you never could tell and anyway it was standard operational procedure. If they didn’t tick every damn box someone would complain. And for the moment, West was determined to tick every box.
Ken Blundell’s face swam into his head as it had done repeatedly during the two months since his death. A death that was a direct result of a foolish decision he’d made. He’d been lucky. His career could have ended but Inspector Morrison had come through for him, had lied for him in fact, telling the powers-that-be that the decision to send Denise Blundell on an anger management course rather than prosecute her for assault had been his. As a result, it had quickly blown over. It wasn’t something West was going to forget in a hurry. He also couldn’t forget that if he’d followed the rule of the law and prosecuted Denise Blundell, her husband would still be alive.
So he’d be a model, law-abiding officer from now on.
He looked up and down the road. Beech Park Road. You couldn’t get a quieter suburban street he thought before wondering bleakly what other horrors were hidden away behind the closed doors. On that maudlin thought he walked briskly to where Andrews was giving final instructions to the enthusiastic gardai that stood around him with all the eagerness of red setters desperately wanting to get off the leash.
It brought a grin to West’s face. Andrews wouldn’t let them go until every eye was dotted and t crossed. He wasn’t a man who believed in improvisation.
‘Let’s get out of here before the reporters show up,’ he said as the last officer headed away.
Andrews took a final look around and nodded. ‘Not much more we can do here.’
They were in luck. As they climbed into their car they saw a van with RTE blazoned along its side pull up. An eager news reporter climbed out followed by a camera-wielding companion. They’d be looking for someone to question. Without waiting, West put the car into reverse, and took off. ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘A respite, Peter.’
They both knew it would be brief. Nothing got the press baying for blood more than the death of a child. He negotiated the heavy commuter traffic, switching from lane to lane. ‘I’ve been searching my memory,’ he said eventually, moving the gear stick into neutral as the traffic stalled, ‘we haven’t had an unsolved missing child case in Dublin, have we?’
‘There was one reported in Cork about a year ago,’ Andrews said. ‘A mother and a toddler went missing. The mother’s body was found in the River Lee a month later but the child’s was never found. It’s assumed she drowned. There haven’t been any others that I’ve heard about.’
West shot him a glance. He guessed any police officer with a small child made a point of being aware of what went on. The traffic started moving. He moved into gear and minutes later pulled into his parking space outside Foxrock Garda station.
The desk sergeant, Tom Blunt, looked up as they came through the door. ‘A bad one,’ he said simply before returning to his computer.
Neither man commented. What was there to say?
2
In his office, West sat behind the desk and picked up the phone. The sooner Inspector Morrison knew, the better prepared he’d be when the phones started ringing, demanding information.
He gave him the little they knew. ‘The body was obviously there for several months, Inspector,’ he said. ‘We’ve been promised autopsy results later today; until we have more to go on we’re just following SOP.’
Inspector Morrison closed his eyes. A child. Already he could hear the press demanding answers. ‘We’ve no outstanding missing child reports, I assume?’
‘None,’ West said. ‘It’s going to be a difficult one.’
Morrison didn’t need to be told. ‘Keep me informed,’ he said and hung up.
West replaced the phone in its stand and looked up with a half-smile as Andrews came in with a mug of coffee in each hand. He took it without comment and sipped the coffee before putting it down. ‘Morrison is up to date,’ he said.
Andrews sat and drank half his coffee before taking a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket and passing it across the desk. ‘The date of the report on the squatter. Exactly fourteen months ago.’
‘Too far out of the time frame if Kennedy’s rough estimate is anywhere near correct,’ West said, picking up the piece of paper and looking at it as if he’d learn something more than the basic date before tossing it onto the desk and sitting back. ‘We’re going to need to liaise with our friends across the border and in the UK,’ he said, ‘check if they’ve any unsolved cases.’ He picked up his mug and looked across the rim, ‘I don’t need to tell you that we’ll have to pull out all the stops for this, Peter.’
Andrews shook his head. He didn’t need to be told. There was a look of weariness on his face, that hadn’t been there earlier. Cupping his mug in his hands, he stood, ‘I’ll contact Interpol too; they’ll no doubt have a list of missing children. It might save us some time later.’
‘Give that to Baxter to do,’ West said, correctly interpreting the look on his partner’s face. Reading the details of missing children was going to be harrowing. Baxter didn’t have children; it would be easier on him.
Andrews smiled but shook his head. ‘I’ll do it. Baxter is still investigating that suspected arson attack. He’s pretty sure it’s an insurance scam, he’s out with the fire-officer having a look around the site.’
West chec
ked his watch. ‘What about Allen?’
‘He’s on leave, back tomorrow, and Jarvis is, once again, helping Foley close one of Sergeant Clarke’s cases.’
West closed his eyes. Clarke was an incompetent, lazy fool but nobody had died because of his incompetence. When he opened his eyes he saw the glint of sympathy in Andrews’ face and bit his lip, saying, more sharply than was necessary, ‘What about Edwards?’
‘Investigating muggings in Cornelscourt car park,’ Andrews shrugged. ‘It’s the second this week. Edwards thought the first one might have been linked to a spate of muggings in Stillorgan Shopping centre a few weeks ago. He was going to talk to you about it today before we got called out but then there was another series of muggings this morning.’
‘A series of muggings? Why does that sound like something from a Harry Potter book?’
‘You’re thinking of Muggles,’ Andrews said with a grin.
West held his hands up. ‘Muggings, Muggles.’
‘Well there was definitely no magic involved here,’ Andrews said. ‘Three lads arrive in a stolen car, park, wait until they identify suitable candidates, then they strike at the same time, take what they can and scarper. They hit five times in Stillorgan before they stopped. Two weeks later, we had the first in Cornelscourt.
West frowned. ‘Sounds like a high risk for minimal reward.’
Andrews perched on the side of the desk. ‘In the five episodes, they had twelve victims. Altogether they’re estimating their take at over six grand.’
‘Six grand?’
‘They took their wedding and engagement rings, one of the women had a Rolex, many were carrying designer handbags and most had over a hundred euro in cash. They chose their targets carefully.’
‘And now they’ve moved into our neck of the woods.’
‘It’s certainly starting to look that way. Edwards is definitely convinced they have.’ He grinned. ‘But he’s been complaining of it being a bit boring around here recently, so it could be a case of wishful thinking.’
Death in Foxrock Page 1
