Death in Foxrock

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘I’d settle for boring for a while,’ West said, frowning. ‘Ask Sergeant Blunt to have the uniforms patrol more regularly for a while. It might make them think twice.’

  ‘Or, if Edwards is right, they’ll just move on and hit another shopping centre car park instead.’

  West’s frown deepened. He knew where Andrews was coming from. This gang should be stopped, not forced to move on. ‘Ok,’ he said, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘Let’s catch these guys.’ He picked up a pen and tapped it on the table. ‘I’ll ask Morrison if we can borrow Garda Foley for a while.’ He frowned. It was a continuing source of annoyance to him that the Robbery Unit, under Sergeant Clarke, didn’t handle anything outside of straightforward robberies. Any hint of violence and he declared it West’s domain

  ‘If I can get him, he and Jarvis can take some uniformed personnel and stake out the car park,’ he said, nodding at Andrews, who raised a hand in acknowledgement and left the office.

  West picked up the phone to talk to Morrison and minutes later had the permission he needed. Redialling the extension for the Robbery unit, he hung up before it was answered. It was easier to deal with Clarke face to face.

  The detective unit in Foxrock was divided into two sections. Robbery, and everything else. The robbery unit office was on the other side of the station, the office smaller than that of West’s unit and generally staffed by Clarke and Foley. Assistance was given from West’s team as needed – which was often.

  Unlike West, Clarke didn’t have his own office. Instead, he had a desk in a corner of the room. It was angled to give plenty of space behind it to accommodate Clarke’s girth. When West walked in, he was sitting at his desk behind a mountain of paperwork that he was ignoring while he concentrated on the morning paper’s crossword puzzle. ‘What’s an eight letter word for badge of office?’ he asked without looking up.

  West glanced across to where Jarvis and Foley were tapping away on keyboards. He looked back to Clarke, noticing the stained tie, the worn cuffs and took a deep breath. ‘Insignia,’ he said.

  Clarke scribbled the word down. ‘Perfect. Ok, what’s an eleven letter word for someone unqualified for a task?’

  ‘Incompetent,’ West said with more force than was necessary. He knew Clarke wouldn’t take offense. He, as everyone knew, didn’t give a toss.

  ‘Inspector Morrison has given me permission to borrow Garda Foley for a few days,’ he said without elaborating further.

  Clarke normally didn’t care what went on as long as it didn’t affect his workday, but losing Foley, even for a few days, definitely would. He lifted his eyes from the crossword and glared at West. ‘And what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Finish your crossword puzzle,’ West said and, turning on his heels, walked over to where the two detectives were trying to appear that they weren’t listening. ‘Are you nearly finished wrapping up that case,’ he asked.

  Foley nodded. ‘Just need to get this form complete and then we’re done.’

  ‘Good, Inspector Morrison has given me permission to borrow you for a couple of days,’ he explained. ‘So when you’re finished there come to my office. Both of you,’ he added, nodding at Jarvis.

  West went back to his office, ignoring glares from Clarke as he passed his desk. Back in their main office, Edwards had returned and was helping himself to coffee. ‘I hear you have something interesting happening in Cornelscourt,’ he said by way of greeting.

  Brown was the adjective that best described Paul Edwards. His hair was brown, skin sallow, eyes brown and slightly prominent. He favoured tweed jackets, bought, he told everyone with a complete lack of embarrassment, for a few quid in charity shops. Unfortunately, they too tended to be brown.

  ‘Andrews said he filled you in,’ he said, excitement making his eyes sparkle. ‘It’s definitely the same gang. There were two victims this morning. They attempted a third but were scared off by a dog in the woman’s car.’

  ‘Foley and Jarvis will be here in a few minutes,’ he said. ‘You can fill them in and then we’re going to stake out the shopping centre and catch these guys.’

  Ten minutes later, they crowded into West’s office. Edwards took one of the empty chairs, Jarvis the other. Foley dragged a chair through from the main office and squeezed it in beside them.

  ‘Ok,’ he said, looking at their eager, intent faces then nodded to Edwards. ‘Ok, Paul, fill them in on what’s been happening.’

  ‘It started in Stillorgan in October,’ he said. ‘Every few days, three men arrived, parked, targeted women to attack and robbed them of anything of value. I have the dates and times on a handout for you.’ He flicked through the bundle of papers he held and withdrew a sheet for each of them. He waited until they’d scanned the page before continuing. ‘As you’ll have noticed, the last one in Stillorgan was two weeks ago. And then four days ago, they hit Cornelscourt. But look at the dates and times, there’s no pattern, just a random time on a random day. From the witnesses’ statements in Stillorgan and from our witnesses here, we know there are three of them. But all the victims can tell us is that they’re white males of indeterminate age, well camouflaged with hoodies and scarves. They use different cars every time, all of them stolen for the purpose and all abandoned shortly afterward. And before anyone asks, they are wiped clean. They’re quick, efficient and smart. It doesn’t take a genius to see it’s the same gang. The security people in both centres have checked CCTV but they haven’t been able to come up with anything.’

  ‘So they hit five times in Stillorgan and, so far, twice here,’ Foley said, a finger running over the lines of print on the page he held.

  Edwards nodded. ‘That’s right. And in Stillorgan there were fourteen victims, and, so far, five in Cornelscourt.

  West tapped the sheet with the back of his hand. ‘Nineteen traumatised victims. We’ve got to stop these guys.’

  ‘Why the same car park? Foley asked, his brow creasing. ‘Wouldn’t it have been more sensible to hit a different car park each time?’

  Edwards shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s easier to organise. Hit one place for a few weeks and then move on to the next.’

  ‘Why didn’t they organise a stake-out in Stillorgan?’ Jarvis asked, frowning as he read the page he held, searching for a pattern that wasn’t there.

  ‘It was considered,’ Edwards shrugged, ‘but Stillorgan car park has multiple entrances and exits. They were looking to borrow manpower from here and Blackrock but, you know how it is, everywhere is running with a reduced force now and it was proving impossible to organise. Especially,’ he added, ‘since it would need to have run for several days to be effective.’

  West put his two hands flat on the table. ‘Well, we’re going to get it done here. Cornelscourt is easier from a logistical point of view. There’s one entrance, one exit. I’m leaving it to you three to organise this. Edwards,’ he nodded at him, ‘you take the lead. Ask Sergeant Blunt to organise a couple of uniformed gardai to take with you.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Ask him to make Garda Hudson one of them, he shows promise.’

  When the three stood, he held up his hand. ‘Just one last thing,’ he said, ‘so far these guys have not hurt any of their victims, but stay alert, that may change. We don’t want another murder to investigate.’

  All three nodded in unison.

  ‘And keep me informed,’ West said, and waved them away.

  3

  When they’d gone, West rang the State Pathologist’s office to get a rough estimate of the time of the post-mortem. A polite administrator told him it was going to be at three o’clock in Connolly Hospital.

  He checked the wall clock. He’d time to do the necessary paper work before leaving.

  Shortly before one, Andrews appeared in the doorway, a sheaf of paper under his arm, two sandwiches in his hands. ‘Chicken or ham and cheese?’

  West smiled. ‘Either, thanks.’

  The chicken sandwich was passed over. The ham and cheese one and the sheaf of papers wer
e dropped onto the seat of the empty chair and Andrews left the office, returning, minutes later, with two mugs of coffee. ‘I thought I’d fill you in while we had something to eat.’

  ‘Thanks,’ West said, biting into the sandwich. ‘You didn’t get these in our canteen,’ he said appreciatively.

  ‘I sent Jarvis out to the new deli, I told them they needed sustenance if they were going to start a stake-out. They’re out there putting a plan together.’ He laughed. ‘They don’t realise yet how boring a stake-out can be.’

  ‘They work well together,’ West said, finishing the first half of the sandwich and reaching for the other. ‘What’ve you found out?’

  Andrews wiped his hand on the leg of his trousers and picked up the sheaf of papers. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, when he saw West’s eyes widen, ‘they emailed the details of all the missing persons, not just the one to five age group that I asked for.’

  ‘One to five?’

  Andrews sighed. ‘It’s hard to guess an age from bones, Mike. I thought I’d err on the side of caution.’ He waved the papers. ‘This is what I get for my troubles.’

  ‘Let Baxter have a look when he gets back,’ he said, ‘he’ll be able to narrow it down.’

  Andrews shook his head.

  ‘You’re stubborn, you know that?’

  Andrews shrugged. ‘I prefer to call it old-fashioned.’

  Ignoring him, West looked at the clock. ‘We’ll need to leave soon. The post-mortem starts at three.’

  ‘I could stay here and go through this,’ he said, waving the sheaf of paper like a fan.

  Surprised, West looked at him and then quickly away. He was normally more intuitive. Andrews didn’t want to see the post-mortem. ‘Good idea,’ he said, picking up his coffee. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours. You might be able to put a name to the child by then.’

  Connolly Hospital, formerly known as James Connolly Memorial Hospital, and generally referred to by most as Blanchardstown Hospital because of its location, was on the other side of the city. West took the M50 and made good time to Junction 6, and thirty minutes after leaving Foxrock he was pulling into the car park in front of the hospital.

  He’d been to post-mortems there before so knew that the mortuary, with its dedicated post-mortem room, was to the back of the rambling hospital campus. He skirted around the newer buildings to the grim, forbidding building and rang the doorbell. He was immediately asked to state his business.

  ‘Detective Garda Sergeant West,’ he said, feeling foolish, as he always did when speaking to an inanimate object ‘I’m here for a post-mortem.’

  He was buzzed through. Inside, they’d done their best to modernise the area and two reception staff sat in front of large computer screens. One looked up as he entered, and held out a hand. ‘Identification?’

  West held out his card, which was taken and scrutinised with closer intent than he thought was warranted. Did they have a glut of people faking identification in order to see post-mortems?

  The receptionist nodded, handed his card back and picked up a phone. The conversation was short. He hung up and gave West an apologetic smile. ‘It seems he’s a bit behind and is still on another post. You can wait in the canteen, if you want, the coffee is fairly decent.’

  He was directed toward a small cluttered room opposite the reception. Aware that he drank far too much coffee, he poured himself a cup anyway and sat in a chair near a window overlooking a brick wall. The coffee was fairly decent, certainly far superior to what they had at the station, so he sat and enjoyed it instead of watching the minute hand of the large clock that hung over the door.

  It wasn’t until three forty five that a smartly dressed woman put her head around the door. ‘He’s ready now,’ she said and vanished.

  ‘Great,’ West muttered when he followed her into a narrow corridor extending in both directions. She’d vanished and he wasn’t sure which way to go. He tried to remember which way he’d gone on his only other visit but couldn’t. He was just about to head in one direction when a door further up the corridor opened and the same woman popped her head out again. It was like some stupid computer game, he thought beginning to get annoyed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I assumed you’d know where to go.’ She pointed to the door opposite. ‘It’s just in there.’

  She’d disappeared again by the time West reached the door. With a shake of his head, he opened it and found himself in a small anteroom furnished with standard office chairs. The door opposite led onto a circular viewing platform overlooking the post-mortem room below. He sat and watched as Niall Kennedy, barely recognisable in a pale blue scrub suit and white wellington boots, ones that fit him properly he noticed with a grin, tapped away on a small computer.

  He rubbed tired eyes wondering how much longer he’d be waiting. Since the Blundell incident, he hadn’t slept well. The Blundell incident, when had it become that in his head? Sounded like a good name for a movie. He’d have to tell Kelly, it would make her smile.

  Pushing his hand restlessly through his hair, he wondered if the post-mortem was ever going to start. As if he’d given him a nudge, Niall Kennedy’s voice came loud and clear through a speaker set behind him in the wall. Deciding he could do without more voices in his head, he shuffled slightly further up the bench.

  ‘Sorry for the delay, Mike,’ the pathologist said, looking up to where he sat and giving a wave of acknowledgement. ‘It’s been one of those days.’

  A gurney was pushed through the double doors into the post-mortem room, the brown suitcase looking lost and abandoned on top of it. The woman who pushed it, he recognised as the one who’d half-heartedly shown him where to go. She was dressed now in a scrub suit with her hair caught up in an unflattering disposable mop-cap.

  As he watched, they lifted the suitcase from the gurney onto the examination table. A man holding a high spec camera came in and took several photos before, slowly and carefully, they opened it and lifted the body from the case.

  ‘We’ll send the case and what clothes there are to the forensic lab,’ Kennedy said for West’s benefit. With the suitcase out of the way, he concentrated on the body. Slowly, he began to straighten the body from its foetal position. ‘The connective tissue has mostly decomposed,’ he said, stretching the bones out on the table. ‘There is some tissue remaining on the right side, where it was in closest contact with the bottom of the suitcase.’ He removed some with forceps, as he spoke and dropped it into the specimen bottle held out by his assistant. ‘We might get something from that,’ he said before removing the remnants of cloth from the bones. He shook his head as it disintegrated on contact. ‘Most of the fabric has rotted away, I’m afraid.’ He peered closer. ‘The labels are fairly intact, probably made from different material; they might be able to make out the manufacturer and get an indication as to where she’s from.’

  The photographer shot the pathologist’s every step, the shutter sound loud in the quiet of the room where the only other sound was Kennedy’s running commentary on what he saw and did.

  How could anyone do this to a child? West pressed his lips together and watched as the tiny chest cavity was opened. He was glad that Andrews wasn’t there to see it. Petey’s smiling face came to mind. He concentrated on the memory while what remained of the child’s organs were removed.

  When the child’s teeth were being examined, he forced his attention back to the scene below. After a few minutes, Kennedy looked up to him. ‘I can give you a close approximate of her age, Mike. Her lower molars are just beginning to erupt but there’s no sign yet of her upper molars. That puts her age at between twenty-three and thirty-three months.’

  Andrews wouldn’t be pleased to be right.

  Kennedy spoke again. ‘Her organs are badly decomposed, Mike. I’ve taken samples for toxicology and DNA. It’s impossible, yet, to ascertain a cause of death. There are no bone injuries to suggest she met with violence.’ A loud sigh came through the speaker before he continued, ‘I’d es
timate time of death to be no more than eight months ago.’

  West gave him a thumbs-up and then, realising that sound was probably two-way, he said, ‘Thanks, Niall. Narrowing her age down might help us to identify her. How soon will the suitcase and personal items get to forensics?’

  ‘I know how important this case is,’ Kennedy said. ‘I took the liberty of asking someone from forensics to come and collect it all. So they should be able to start first thing tomorrow if you can persuade them to skip their usually very long queue.’

  With a wave of thanks, West stood and left, making his way back to reception with the images of the small body on his mind.

  ‘Is there someone here from forensics to collect items from the post that Dr Kennedy is doing?’ he asked at reception. He’d have a word with them and see if he could persuade them to process the items as soon as possible. If he had to use the small child card, he’d do it.

  Before either receptionist had time to reply, he was hailed by a friendly voice. ‘Detective Sergeant West. Fancy meeting you here.’

  For a second, West couldn’t place the petite, attractive woman who approached him, his brain quickly flicking through a rolodex of faces. Clare Island. Of course. He gave the receptionist a wave of thanks and turned to greet the smiling woman. ‘Hello, Fiona,’ he said, taking the offered hand, ‘it’s a long way from Mayo.’

  She tinkled a laugh. ‘Yes, it’s city cases only for me these days, thank goodness. No more rushing up and down the country.’

  ‘You’re here to pick up the evidence from the Foxrock case?’ he asked unable to believe his luck. Personal connections counted for so much when you needed something done in a hurry.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Her smile vanished. ‘I hear it’s a child.’

  West nodded. ‘Dr Kennedy estimates between two and three years old.’

  She shook her head. ‘How awful. Any idea who it is?’

  ‘Afraid not. We’ve no outstanding missing persons of that age. So far it’s a mystery.’ He gave her a slight smile. ‘The press will be baying for information...’