It could hardly have been simpler. Name and address and the standard revocation of all previous wills. Then the first clause:
I appoint Daniel Connolly of The Hill House Ramelton Co Donegal ROI to be the executor of this my will and is hereinafter called ‘my executor’.
I request that my body be cremated and my ashes scattered in the Manchester Ship Canal and the expenses thereof to be borne by my executor.
I give all my property whatsoever and wheresoever to my executor to retain or dispose of as he sees fit and to act as he sees fit in respect of any and all of my artworks that remain in my possession at the time of my death.
And that was that. Not even one of those, ‘If my executor does not survive me by at least twenty-eight days’ clauses.
So who was Daniel Connolly? Was he the mysterious client of Francis Flaxner Geary? If her theory was right and the two men were still alive, was Daniel Connolly the conduit between them and the money? She googled ‘Daniel Connolly’ and ‘Ramelton’ and got not a single hit that included all three. That was weird in itself. She tried the address on Google Maps and it appeared at once. The satellite view showed a good-sized property standing on its own at the end of a few hundred metres of driveway on the outskirts of the town. So the address existed. She zoomed out and checked the route from Ramelton to Dublin, which gave her food for thought. The rudiments of a plan were starting to form in her head.
Between Daniel Connolly and Francis Flaxner Geary, it looked as if all roads led to Ireland. The Dog Biscuit wouldn’t like that one little bit. On the other hand, the Dog Biscuit didn’t need to know the details till it was all done and dusted. Karen wondered about ferry times from Stranraer to Larne. If she was going to be chasing round the countryside, she wanted her own wheels with her.
She’d barely clicked on the ferry website when her phone rang. ‘Daisy,’ she said. ‘You were next on my list.’
‘Oh, OK. Why?’
‘You called me, remember? Let’s do that first.’
‘Mmm, that makes sense. Well, you know the crowbar that one of the uniforms found on the rocks? The lab’s managed to get a second DNA trace on it. How amazing is that?’
Karen rolled her eyes. ‘Only moderately, unless there’s a hit on the database.’
‘Oh, I suppose.’ Daisy sounded deflated.
‘And is there?’
‘No.’
‘Never mind.’ Karen’s mind was racing. ‘There are other possible avenues. Here’s what I want you to do. The UK Missing Persons Unit has a DNA database. Where they’ve got the confirmed DNA of a misper, they place that on the database. But if that’s not available or they can’t be a hundred per cent sure, they take samples from close relatives for potential familial matches. I want you to check with Mary Auld and see whether they ever uploaded material to that database, and if they did, we need to run it.’
‘You think Iain Auld killed his brother?’ Daisy was horrified.
‘I’m not convinced. But it happens. So check that out.’
‘OK. Oh, one other thing? The ARR thing you asked me to check out? The royalties go to a man called—’
‘Daniel Connolly. Of Hill House, Ramelton, County Donegal.’
‘How did you—? You beat me to it.’ She sounded upset.
‘That happens too. He’s the executor and beneficiary of the will. When you’ve checked in with Mary Auld about the DNA, I want you to pack a bag for a couple of nights away and meet me in Edinburgh. Bring your passport and walking clothes.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Don’t tell Charlie, but we’re going to Ireland.’
‘Are we going to talk to Francis Flaxner Geary?’
Clearly she was going to have to work on the concept of discretion with Daisy. ‘Among other things. I promise nobody will push you down a flight of stairs.’
46
In her wing mirror, Karen could see Daisy returning to the ferry queue with a mutton pie and a fully leaded Irn-Bru. She couldn’t work out how the lassie packed away so much crap and still stayed slim. Some folk had all the luck. She quickly got out of the car and wagged a finger at Daisy. ‘Not in my motor,’ she said.
‘But boss, it’s freezing,’ she whined.
‘You should have thought about that. You’re forgetting, I’ve seen the crumbs you leave when you eat in a car.’
‘That was flaky pastry,’ Daisy protested.
‘I don’t care. You can eat all the pies you like when it’s your own wheels, but I have standards. They might not be very high, but I do have some.’ Karen grinned and got back behind the wheel in the warm fug of the car.
Daisy ate her pie in record speed, ostentatiously brushed the invisible crumbs from her coat and got back in the car. ‘See when you rang? I was so busy sorting out in my head the implications of checking the misper DNA, and then actually talking to Mary Auld about it and then submitting it after she said yes, she’d given them Iain’s DNA from his electric razor, that I forgot all about you saying there was another possibility. What did you mean?’
‘When did they say they’d get back to you?’
‘Tomorrow. But what did you mean, boss?’
‘To be honest, I’d be surprised if it is Iain Auld’s DNA on the crowbar. Apart from anything else, our lab would have had big loud bells ringing as soon as they looked at it next to the victim’s. His brother, remember?’
‘Oh yeah, of course. So why did you ask me to do all that with the mispers?’
‘I wasn’t wasting your time, Daisy. You always have to bear in mind that the people we think are our parents are sometimes lying to us. Mostly it’s mothers lying about who the real father is. But from time to time, every bastard is throwing sand in our eyes. I like to be certain.’
The tail lights of the car in front lit up and the exhaust exhaled a ghostly drift into the cold afternoon gloom. Karen started the engine in time to inch forward as the queue began to move.
‘So what is this other possibility?’
‘If Greig and Iain Auld are still alive, they’re the only two people with anything like a motive for killing James. Now, do you remember me telling you how David Greig authenticated his paintings?’
Daisy lit up. ‘Of course! The nail clippings glued to the backs of the canvas.’
‘It’s the ultimate fall-back if a buyer doesn’t trust the paper provenance. I’m guessing there’s a certified copy of his DNA lodged with a lawyer somewhere. I bet Geary knows exactly where. So we can compare the DNA on the crowbar to the certified copy and see where that gets us.’ Karen drove on to the lip of the ferry ramp and followed the line of cars below decks.
‘That’s genius,’ Daisy said. She was still buzzing from the news that she was assigned to the HCU for now. It was clear to Karen that the young sergeant thought she’d make herself so indispensable that she’d be kept on even after Jason’s return. That would be a result, Karen thought. Which probably meant the Dog Biscuit would see it never happened.
They were halfway across the narrow strait between Scotland and Northern Ireland, the granite bulk of Ailsa Crag a darker blot in the starlit dark, when Karen’s phone rang. Nora’s cheery voice crossed the distance between them, a lift of the spirits in the gloom. ‘Where are you?’ Nora asked. ‘What’s that rumbling?’
‘In the middle of the Irish Sea. Luckily it’s pretty calm.’
‘Ooh, interesting. Heading for Mr Geary, by any chance?’ Her voice was a tease.
‘You know I can’t tell you that. And speaking of him … ?’
‘Ah yes, Mr Geary. Well, I asked around, very discreetly, among people who have their fingers very much on the pulse. I hinted we were hoping to acquire something from Geary whose provenance I’d been looking into.’
‘Nicely done.’
‘I thought so myself. Both said much the same thing. They warned me to be very careful that the papers stood up to scrutiny. Geary, it turns out, has a reputation for sailing close to the wind. He’s never been charged w
ith anything, not even accused of questionable antics. But there’s a feeling that he’s not entirely transparent. One of them said he’d heard – and this is the whisper of a rumour, nothing more – that it’s been said he will supply private collectors off the books. Cash for paintings whose provenance is, to say the least, dubious.’ Nora concluded her report with an air of satisfied finality. Karen could picture her folding her arms across her bosom with an expression of gratification on her face.
‘You mean, stolen paintings?’
‘Not in so many words, but yes, that’s what was being hinted at. There’s a significant market in stolen art. Organised crime sees it as a way to launder money.’
‘I’d heard that, but I’ve never understood it. I get that you buy the painting with cash, but how do you sell it on? How do you actually launder the money?’
‘The art sits in a Freeport facility and it’s eventually sold on to other collectors. If it’s a big name, there will always be private obsessives who are happy to acquire something to add lustre to a collection that will always stay behind closed doors. And that’s before we even get on to forgeries. That’s what’s so clever about what David Greig did – authenticating your work with DNA makes forgery almost impossible.’
‘Shame the Old Masters didn’t think of that.’
Nora chuckled. ‘And of course, before everything was available at the touch of a keyboard, if you waited long enough, nobody recognised a stolen painting most of the time. It’s a lot harder to get away with it these days, though. Now, is all that of any help to you?’
‘It is, Nora. One thing more – presumably all these transactions take place in cash? There’s no financial paper trail?’
‘Naturally. Otherwise you’d miss the whole point of money-laundering, wouldn’t you? I can’t imagine Mr Geary would survive unscathed a serious audit by the financial authorities, though.’
Leverage. Just what Karen needed. ‘You’ve been a huge help, Nora. I owe you.’
‘After that brunch in Aleppo? I don’t think so. That’s defo what they call paying forward.’
They spent the rest of the crossing studying a detailed map of the area around Ramelton that Karen had bought in the bookshop across the street from her office while she’d been waiting for Daisy. She’d also brought up the satellite imagery on her tablet. ‘This is the house,’ she said, outlining it on the map with a black Sharpie. ‘It’s far enough away from the road that we’re not going to see much from there. But look …’ She pointed to the tablet. ‘There’s a footpath that passes quite close to the back of the house. And what looks like woodland or shrubbery between the path and this gravel area where the two vehicles are parked.’
‘You think it might give us enough cover to stake the place out?’
‘I hope so. Because neither of us looks like Jehovah’s Witnesses or Gas Board inspectors.’ Karen gestured at the jeans and sweater she’d changed into before they’d left. ‘Even in civvies, I still look like a polis. I don’t know how, but I just do.’
‘It’s that suspicious look you’ve got, boss. Like you don’t believe a word anybody says.’
Karen raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Do I?’
Daisy waggled her hand. ‘Kind of. Mostly. I think it’s how you get people to talk. You make them uneasy when they tell lies or exaggerate.’
‘I never knew that. I’ll have to practise looking more trusting. Anyway. We’ll get up at the crack of sparrowfart and see what’s possible. At least it doesn’t get light till later this time of year, that gives us more options. We’ll stay in Derry tonight – it’s less than twenty miles away so it’s handy. We can get checked in to a hotel, grab some dinner and have an early night.’ Even as she spoke, Karen knew the early night was probably wishful thinking. Not because they’d stay up drinking, as their male colleagues tended to do whenever they perceived themselves as being off the leash. But because sleep was still elusive.
And so it proved. They were back at their hotel by ten, full of buttery rare steak and chips, but Karen didn’t even bother undressing. Her mind was racing, the morning’s options chasing themselves round her head in a parade of possibilities. She knew she had to walk, and the leaflet in the hotel room provided the perfect option.
The sturdy walls that had circled the city for the best part of four hundred years were the obvious place to start a night walk. Karen found the nearest access point a few streets away and set off on the mile-long patrol of the ramparts. It was a cold night, crisp now with frost, thin gusts of icy air coming off the nearby river. Sometimes in winter, the wind was sharp as a sushi knife, cutting straight through streets and alleys. Other times, like tonight, it swirled around and changed direction, doubling back on itself like a burglar casing the streets, looking for an easy target. The few people on the streets below were hurrying, eager to be somewhere the cold was not. Walking the walls wasn’t high on the list of anyone except Karen and she passed nobody on her circuit. Her eyes were on the city, but little of what she was looking at made any impression. Her gaze tonight was inward, working through the permutations of the information she’d gathered, wrestling with the problems she could see ahead if what she believed to be true turned out to be the case. The time slipped by quickly, marked only by the steady beat of her walking shoes on stone, and before she knew it, she was back at her starting point.
Her body was tired but she wasn’t drowsy yet. So she walked down towards the river and stood for a while, transfixed by the elegant curve of the Peace Bridge that crossed the River Foyle. It stood as a promise of an end to centuries of the spill of blood and anger across the streets of a city so divided it couldn’t even make its mind up what to call itself. She’d watched Derry Girls and laughed at its cheek, but she understood that sometimes laughter was the only way to survive wounds that went bone deep.
However things turned out tomorrow, there would be wounds that would cost at least that much damage. No peace bridge could provide an escape route from that.
47
Thursday, 27 February 2020
By half past six, they were on the outskirts of Ramelton. It was hard to form much sense of the town in the dark. The petrol station on the main road was still closed, to Daisy’s disappointment. ‘I’m starving,’ she complained. ‘You’d have thought they’d have somewhere I could get a bacon roll.’
Karen scoffed. ‘You’re a bottomless pit. If there’s anywhere open, I promise we’ll stop and stock up.’ They passed a hospital and a Catholic church, rows of white houses opposite like a gap-toothed mouth. Then the bare branches of trees arching over the road, a huddle of houses and a T-junction with the narrow finger of the river a black void beyond it. The house fronts on the main road were painted in assorted pastel colours but in the dim glow of the street lights, they looked sickly. They passed a Spar franchise, shuttered and dark.
‘Follow the road round across the bridge,’ Daisy instructed her. ‘Then turn right and take the first left fork. It’s a wee road.’
Karen did what she was told and almost immediately they’d left behind the streetlights of the small town. She drove slowly along a narrow road that glittered with frost, past a substantial cemetery, the graves ghostly with rime. They’d climbed far enough for her to be able to see across the rooftops of the town below.
‘We’re nearly here,’ Daisy said. ‘Those trees up ahead – I think that’s their place. We can pick up the footpath just past their property boundary, I think.’
They were beyond the limits of the town now, and across the fields they could see the distant glint of a bend in the river. Karen kept going past the belt of trees and they were rewarded with a pair of stone gateposts surmounted by carved pineapples. A simple five-barred wooden gate was closed across the paved driveway. Not a single light indicated the house against the dark mass of the shrubbery. She drove on, slowing as she spotted the point where the trees gave way to scrubby hedgerow. All at once they saw a makeshift gravelled layby with barely enough room for two car
s. Karen swerved into it and jammed on the brakes. ‘Not exactly well signposted, is it?’ she muttered.
‘There’s a wee sign there, you can hardly see it in the dark.’ Daisy pointed ahead.
Karen peered out but saw nothing. ‘Time I got my eyes tested. Right then, let’s do it.’ She reached behind the seat and snagged her small backpack. She unzipped a side pocket and took out a small suedette bag. Out of it came what looked like a miniature telescope and a clip.
‘What’s that?’ Daisy asked.
‘It’s a telephoto lens for an iPhone.’ Karen fiddled with the lens and the clip and managed to attach it to her phone. ‘It’s an optical zoom, not a digital one.’ She chuckled. ‘See how I said that, like I know the difference? All I know is that it works. Perfect for a stake-out. And now it’s time to take a look at our so-called Daniel Connolly.’
They left the warmth of the car behind and stepped out into a stiff breeze coming across the fields from the sea lough beyond the estuary. Daisy gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Fuck, it’s cold. Let’s get moving.’ She headed towards the fingerpost that read ‘Ramelton’. It pointed the way through a narrow gap in the hedge.
The path itself was a considerable improvement on its signage and access. About a metre wide, it had been surfaced with asphalt. Even in the dark, the way was clear. It cut along the side of a field of coarse grass, following the edge of a low stone wall that separated it from the tree plantation that surrounded Hill House. The path curved round a corner and they continued for about forty metres. Karen stopped and eyed the wall. ‘I think it’s time we made a move,’ she said.
Still Life - Karen Pirie Series 06 (2020) Page 31
