Death in Foxrock

by Valerie Keogh

‘As opposed to being a little bit dead,’ West said with a smile. It faded as narrowed eyes took in the laneway where the body lay. ‘It looks like he was killed here, not dumped.’

  ‘A meeting gone bad, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, and walked back to the road. From there the body was barely visible. With a frown, he returned to Andrews’ side. ‘Fearon was no fool, why would he walk so far from the road?’

  The pathologist finished his examination and joined them. ‘Well there’s no difficulty in determining the cause of death,’ Niall Kennedy said, pulling off vinyl gloves and rolling them into a ball. ‘And the guilty party kindly left the murder weapon behind too.’ He patted West on the arm. ‘This’ll be an easy one for you, Mike.’

  ‘Can you give us an estimated time of death?’

  ‘Taking into account the cold night, I’d say somewhere between midnight and two.’ Kennedy yawned. ‘I could have done without the early morning call. Betsy is teething; she had us awake all night.’

  ‘Been there, done that,’ Andrews said sympathetically. ‘We’d a terrible time with Petey, especially with the molars.’

  ‘What about the knife?’ West asked, trying to keep the conversation on the murder.

  Andrews grinned. ‘Sergeant West will know all about it soon enough.’

  Kennedy’s eyes opened wide. ‘Really? I hadn’t heard. Congratulations.’

  ‘Please, can we concentrate on the dead man?’ West pleaded. Then knowing how gossip travelled, he hurried to set the record straight. ‘Don’t mind him; I’m not planning on parenthood any time soon.’ He pointed toward the body. ‘Tell me about the knife, it doesn’t look like the run-of-the-mill kitchen knife.’

  The pathologist gave Andrews a knowing grin before turning with emphasised reluctance to talk about death. ‘No, you’re right there,’ he said. ‘I’d say it’s a hunting knife of some sort. I’ll know more when I remove it.’

  With that he left the two men to their examination of the crime scene. ‘Why here?’ West muttered looking around. The lane was a dead-end; it’s sole purpose to provide access to the rear of a row of shops. One was a bakery; he’d bought some very nice bread there once. He couldn’t remember what service the others provided but guessed Andrews would. ‘Do you know what the shops are?’

  ‘A baker, a hairdresser, a newsagent and a butcher’s,’ Andrews said. ‘They do a good trade; this lane would be busy during the day. Only the newsagent stays open past six and it closes at eight. So from then...’

  ‘What’s on the other side of that,’ West asked, nodding to the high wall on the other side of the lane. There was no entrance from the laneway, and it was too high to be easily climbed but desperation could make athletes of the weakest.

  ‘A school. It’s set back a way, and if I’m right, it’s the sports grounds that abuts the wall.’

  West had no doubt he was right. He’d never met anyone who could store knowledge like Andrews. ‘So we’re back to the why here?’

  ‘Fearon lives about five minutes from here. Maybe he arranged to meet someone and suggested meeting at the shops. It’s the only set of shops on the road so would be easy for someone who didn’t know the area to find.’

  ‘Someone who didn’t know the area, but who knew him. Fearon wouldn’t have wandered down here with someone he didn’t know.’

  Andrews shrugged. ‘Maybe it was someone he didn’t know as well as he thought.’

  West pointed to a number of lights positioned near the top of the wall at irregular intervals. ‘Find out if those lights are on a timer or movement activated,’ he said.

  Andrews nodded and then moved to stand near the body. He bent down and taking gloves from his pocket, he slipped them on and examined the dead man’s hands, peering closely at each. Then he stood, stripped the gloves and said, ‘I’ve had dealings with this man for several years. You’ve seen his sheet, he’s a thug and invariably his victims end up as Mackin did. But his hands are clean and I doubt they’ll find any tissue under his fingernails to indicate he fought back.’

  ‘Not an argument that got out of hand, then?’

  Andrews shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It looks like he was taken completely by surprise.’

  ‘I agree,’ West said and frowned. Contrary to what the pathologist said, this wasn’t going to be an easy case. The problem wasn’t lack of suspects there were hundreds. Ollie Fearon had made a lot of enemies over his lifetime.

  They brought Connor Shields in as being a likely candidate. After all, Fearon had beaten up the third member of the team; maybe Connor was next on the list and decided to be proactive.

  ‘Do you know anything about the death of Oliver Fearon,’ Andrews asked him, wishing he could leave the door of the interview room open. The scent of the great unwashed was already overpowering. Baxter, sitting beside him, was crinkling his nose in disgust.

  Shields sat in his ‘tough man’ pose; legs spread wide, bulky arms folded across his chest, eyes in a fixed stare. He didn’t answer.

  ‘Did you kill Oliver Fearon?’ Andrews rephrased the question.

  It got a reaction, just not the one he expected. Shields reared back, eyes wide. ‘You accusing me of patricide? Are you out of your bleedin’ mind?’

  Andrews and Baxter exchanged startled looks. Connor Shields was Ollie Fearon’s son?

  ‘We seem to be missing some relevant information, Mr Shields. We weren’t aware that Ollie Fearon was your father...’

  ‘What?’ Shields said, and this time he stood and leaned over the table, spade-like hands propping him up. ‘What’s going on here? Ollie wasn’t my father. What’re you trying to pull?’

  Feeling totally confused, Andrews ran a hand over his face. ‘Ok,’ he said firmly, ‘sit down, Mr Shields. Let’s get this knot unravelled.’ He waited until the man sat, ignoring the glaring eyes that were focused on him. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s start again. What is your relationship to Ollie Fearon?’

  ‘I told you, he’s my uncle.’

  ‘Uncle, not father,’ Baxter said, holding his hands up when Shields went to stand again, ‘ok, just trying to make it clear. You did say we were accusing you of patricide.’

  ‘Yea, well you did. And that’s libel, that is.’

  ‘Slander, actually,’ Andrews said. ‘Libel is a written defamatory statement,slander is oral. And, just so as you know for future reference, patricide means killing your father not your uncle.’

  Shields wilted a little under the corrections.

  ‘Now, once more, do you know anything about your uncle’s murder?’

  The response was a shrug of the shoulder and a shake of the head.

  Something occurred to Andrews. They’d been puzzled as to why Fearon had beaten up Mackin. ‘You asked him to take care of Eamonn Mackin for grassing you up, didn’t you?’

  The answer was written on Shields’ face, as clearly as if it had been tattooed across his forehead but he said nothing.

  ‘Would any of Mackin’s friends be looking for their own bit of revenge?’

  Shields gave the question some thought before shrugging again and then, to the detectives’ surprise, he volunteered information. ‘People were scared of Ollie,’ he said, ‘he had a mean streak and an even meaner temper. There’s not anyone I know who’d take him on.’

  There was no reason to hold him; they’d never prove he was instrumental in ordering Mackin’s beating. Andrews just hoped it wouldn’t start a cycle of tit-for-tat assaults.

  Back in the office, he turned to Baxter. ‘Have a word in Mackin’s ear before he’s discharged from hospital, Seamus,’ he said, ‘make him see the wisdom of putting it behind him.’ Then leaving him to do the necessary paperwork, he headed to West’s office.

  ‘It’s pretty clear that it was Shield who asked his uncle to give Mackin that beating,’ he said when he’d finished filling him in.

  West nodded. ‘It makes sense. I’d love to have been there when he came out with the patricide line. I wonder where
he picked that up?’

  ‘Probably Eastenders or some other soap,’ Andrews said, sitting down. ‘Then he accused us of libel.’

  West laughed in genuine amusement. ‘I hope you put him right.’

  Andrews grinned. ‘Of course, and if I’d known the correct word for killing an uncle I’d have added that to the mix and totally confused the lad.’ He looked across the desk. ‘You know it?’

  ‘As every good solicitor would,’ he said, ‘it’s avunculicide.’

  ‘Avunculicide,’ Andrews said, practising the word, ‘I’ll remember that.’

  West knew he would, and that he’d bring it out at the first opportunity.

  12

  Niall Kennedy rang West the following day.

  ‘Hi Mike, I’m doing the post-mortem this afternoon at one o’clock.’

  West looked at the clock. It was just after eleven. They’d arranged for some of Fearon’s associates to come in for a chat. If he went to the post, he’d be spared listening to one thug after the other. ‘I’ll be there, Niall, thanks.’ Hanging up, he went in search of Andrews.

  ‘I can go if you’d prefer,’ Andrews said, putting the clipboard he was holding down on his desk.

  West grinned. ‘And take you away from those delightful guests you’ve invited, that just wouldn’t be fair, now would it?’

  Andrews picked up the clipboard again and read out some of the names. ‘Honestly, Fearon knew every damn shady customer in our patch and beyond. We’re not going to run out of people to interview for a while.’

  West took the list and scanned it. He recognised fewer than half the names. ‘Maybe Dr Kennedy can give us something to narrow the field a bit,’ he said, handing it back.

  ‘Well, I hope so,’ Andrews said, with an exaggerated sorrowful shake of his head, ‘if I have to listen to days of the crap I’m bound to hear today, I’m going to need psychological counselling.’

  Smiling, West picked up his jacket and headed out. It was unlikely to take almost two hours to get to the mortuary but there was a bakery in Blanchardstown that was renowned for its meringues. They were Kelly’s favourite, he planned to stop and buy some to surprise her.

  There was limited parking outside the bakery but West waited, his patience rewarded minutes later when a car pulled out. He parked and headed into the small shop. There was a queue of people in front of him, which gave him time to look around and take in what was on offer. Tempted, he ended up buying a lot more than he’d planned and he left the shop with the meringues, a loaf of bread, a fruitcake and some Danish pastries.

  At the hospital, he parked, took out his mobile and rang the mortuary.

  ‘Can I speak to Dr Kennedy, please?’

  He was connected within minutes. ‘Kennedy.’

  ‘Niall, it’s Mike West, I’m early. I’ve got Danish pastries if you’ve time for coffee before you start.’

  ‘Perfect, Mike,’ the pathologist said, ‘tell reception to direct you to the office.’

  Several minutes later, West was directed down the narrow corridor to the fifth door on the right. The door was glass-panelled; he could see Kennedy inside pouring coffee. Giving a rap on the door he opened it and waved the pastry bag.

  ‘Good timing, I usually allow ten minutes from the car park, you made it in eight,’ Kennedy said with a grin before reaching a hand out for the bag. ‘I have fifty million things to do, you know,’ he said, pouring coffee into a second cup and handing it to him, ‘but for you, or maybe it’s for the pastries, I’ll take ten minutes.’

  Munching, they did the usual chat about weather, holidays and life in general before turning to the specific.

  ‘Thanks for sending me the image of the girl that Dundee did for you, Mike. Any feedback on it yet?’

  West brushed flakes of pastries from his hands and sat back. ‘We sent it to various agencies; the ones that have replied have done so in the negative. We’re still waiting for a couple to get back to us.’ Picking up his coffee, he took a mouthful. ‘Why does everyone have better coffee than we do?’ he complained before returning to the subject. ‘The image is great, Niall, but even Dundee admit they’re not sure how accurate it is. Children of that age, it seems, have ill-defined facial characteristics.’

  ‘You’re doing all you can, it might be that this is one you’re not going to be able to solve.’

  It was what West had been telling himself, hearing it from someone else didn’t make it any easier to accept. He sighed. ‘At the moment, I’m busy trying to find who killed our friend Ollie.’ Deciding the conversation needed lightening, he told the tale of Connor Shields and his accusation that they were accusing him of patricide. ‘It descended into farce, from what I gather,’ he said, as Kennedy chuckled.

  Leaving the pathologist to prepare for the autopsy, he made his way to the viewing area and sat looking down. To his surprise, Fearon’s body was already on the table. His clothes had been removed, but the knife remained, dramatically jutting from his pale, naked body.

  Although he listened intently, most of Kennedy’s commentary during the autopsy was of little concern to him. He had no interest in how tall the man was, or that he was in rudimentary good health. Only when Kennedy grasped the handle of the knife and removed it, with a sucking sound that was loud in the quiet of the room, did he pay attention.

  Putting the knife down on a separate table, he measured it. ‘The knife is,’ he said, holding the measuring tape along its length, ‘three hundred millimetres in length, with a blade measuring.’ He moved the tape, ‘one hundred and eighty millimetres.’ He looked up to where West sat. ‘That’s just over seven inches for those of you still thinking in imperial.’

  West grinned. He was just trying to estimate how long a blade it was. His grin faded. Seven inches. That’s a big blade.

  ‘The blade is three inches wide and curves inward at the tip. It appears to be composed of steel.’ Picking it up, he examined the cutting edges. ‘It has cutting edges on both sides and they appear to be very sharp.’ Turning, he looked around for something to try it on, settling for a piece of connecting tubing. The blade sliced through it with ease. ‘Correction, based on this small demonstration, the blade is very sharp.’

  Examining the handle of the blade under a microscope, he said, ‘There is a maker’s name. Wild Ranger.’ He turned to look up at West. ‘Generally, the knife injuries we get are caused by kitchen knives, sometimes pocket knives. But this is not something you’d buy in your local department store. I’d say it’s some kind of specialist hunting knife. I’ll have it sent to forensics; they’ll be able to tell you more.’

  West waited for the rest of the autopsy, tuning out the irrelevant data about lungs and liver both of which testified to Fearon’s liking for nicotine and alcohol.

  ‘The blade entered the abdomen with lateral force,’ Kennedy said. ‘It sliced through bowel and almost severed the abdominal aorta. He’d have bled out in minutes. From the direction, the assailant would more than likely have been right-handed.’

  West stood catching Kennedy’s eye with the movement. He gave a wave of acknowledgement and left. The rest of the autopsy would be details that wouldn’t be of any interest. He’d flick through it all when he received the pathologist’s formal report, until then he’d go with what he knew.

  Back in the station, he met a bad-tempered Andrews whose mood wasn’t improved with what little he had to tell him.

  ‘That’s just great,’ he said, ‘so we can rule out all the left-handed thugs that we drag in, can we? Bloody helpful that.’

  ‘Come and have some coffee,’ West said, wishing he’d thought to bring some pastries back. He’d better not mention the ones he’d brought to Kennedy. That would definitely not improve the situation.

  Leaving Andrews sitting to cool down in his office, he fetched coffee and headed back.

  ‘Bad?’ he asked, when they were both sitting, mugs in hand.

  Andrews rubbed his face with his free hand and then gave a rueful smile. �
��I should be used to it, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Did you learn anything useful?’

  ‘Huh,’ he grunted. ‘Only in that almost everyone we interviewed could have killed him. Not one said he had been sorry to hear the news about his demise, they were just sorry he hadn’t departed a bit earlier.’

  ‘What about alibis?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the frustrated garda replied, ‘everyone was watching television until the wee hours and then they slept like babies beside their wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, you name it.’

  Silence was broken by Andrews slurping his too-hot coffee.

  ‘You think any of them is a likely candidate?’ West asked. Andrews could read people better than anyone he knew.

  ‘For every burglary, assault and drug-deal that’s taken place in the last few weeks, yes.’ He put his empty mug down on the desk. ‘For murder? No, I don’t think so. All of these idiots would punch your lights out for looking at him sideways. But to a man, they were terrified of Fearon; I don’t think any of them would have taken him on.’

  ‘We might get lucky with the knife. Dr Kennedy thinks it’s some kind of hunting knife.’ He held his hands apart. ‘The blade is about that size, Pete. A vicious weapon. It had Wild Ranger stamped onto the handle; it might give us a lead. Get one of the lads to check out specialised knife shops, see if it’s a common brand.’

  It was a long shot but for the moment it was all they had. ‘Are there many more to interview?’

  ‘Just a couple,’ Andrews said with a yawn, ‘we’re speeding through them because nobody has anything to say.’ He held up his hand. ‘No, that’s not quite true. They all said that Ollie Fearon’s demise was no loss.’

  On that note, he picked up the two empty mugs and left the office leaving West to consider where they should go with the investigation. Despite what Andrews thought, any of the men they’d interviewed could be lying. He picked up the list of the men they’d called in and read a summary of their previous convictions. The only knife crime listed was an assault on a neighbour by a drunken man wielding a dull-bladed kitchen knife.