by Arlene Hunt
After a shower, she opened her wardrobe, took out her neatly pressed uniform and ran her hands over it. She was one week into a six-month probationary period as a detective sergeant, one of the youngest to ever reach that position.
When she was dressed, she used the fingerprint of her right index finger to unlock the wall safe next to her nightstand, and selected the weapons she would take with her that day. She picked a Trojan smart gun, a T-Prod Taser 900, and a lightweight baton with retractable steel shaft and rubber grip, which she’d privately christened ‘Old Faithful’. To finish, she snapped a pair of electronic hand clips to her belt, tightening it an extra notch to offset the weight of her equipment.
Done.
Breakfast was a banana and a cup of black coffee, which she drank standing at the kitchen sink to save time. She rinsed the cup and reprogrammed the coffee machine to coincide with her flatmate’s eventual rise. Boy worked as a barman in a nightclub called Oasis in the city centre. He kept odd hours, and as a result she rarely saw him. The arrangement suited her fine. Before Boy, she’d rented the guest room to a good-natured, chatty girl from Cork who liked romantic comedies and scented candles.
That had not worked out.
She collected her car from the building’s underground car park. It had come with the promotion and she was still a little unused to it, though she liked how quiet and efficient the electric engine was.
She drove the six miles to South Circular Road. The station had once been home to an old cigarette factory until a compulsory land purchase ceded it to the Department of Justice. These days it was the central hub of the Garda Síochána Nua, the New Guardians of the Peace (the old Garda Síochána had been more or less disbanded before Roxy’s time due to overwhelming corruption from the top down. It had taken two separate elections and some heavy-handed action from the Irish government, but eventually the GSN had emerged as a bright shining beacon of hope).
A loner by nature, Roxy preferred the capital in the pre-dawn hours. The streets were clean and there was hardly any traffic apart from a few cabs travelling in the specialised public-service lanes that spanned the city. Private cars were no longer allowed within the city limits, and most of the one million citizens travelled by the Luas light-rail system, or the newly built STT (sub-terrain transport). It was impossible to fathom how Dublin had ever functioned before the new laws were put into place. She couldn’t imagine travelling on streets so congested even short journeys were next to impossible. As far as Roxy was concerned, this was further evidence, if evidence was required, that the new order was a vast improvement on the old.
She flashed her badge at the armed security detail, drove down the ramp and parked the vehicle neatly in its designated space. At the lift, she waited, tapping her foot impatiently, until her index fingerprint was scanned. When the doors opened, she got in and said, clearly and distinctly:
‘L3.’
The lift rose to the third floor, Homicide Division.
Roxy exited and made her way through a sea of cubicles until she reached her own, tucked away in the corner opposite one of three emergency fire exits.
Her partner, Garda Officer Cora Simmons, was already at her desk. Over her shoulder Roxy noticed Cora was reading a gossip site on her computer and cleared her throat as warning. Cora clicked it off, spun in her chair and offered her a wonderfully innocent smile.
‘Good morning, Sergeant.’
‘Yes,’ Roxy said, and after a moment, ‘Good morning.’
With promotion, all sergeants were assigned a junior officer to partner with. Given a choice, Roxy would have preferred to work alone, but protocol didn’t allow it and so here she was, saddled with a colleague. Cora was twenty-six and married to an electrician called Joe. She had no children or pets. She was five foot six and slightly plump, which was odd since she seemed to be permanently on a diet. Her hair was shoulder length and mid brown with some blonde highlights. She liked dark chocolate and always tried to see the best in people, something Roxy found perplexing given the nature of their occupation.
‘Did you do anything on the weekend?’ Cora cocked her head to one side.
Roxy removed her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair, taking care to avoid wrinkles. She tried not to let her irritation show. Had she done anything on the weekend? It was a loaded question. Of course she had done things and they were none of anyone’s business. On the other hand, Cora could be persistent, so it was better in the long run to toss something out.
‘I went to the gun range.’
‘Oh … that sounds like fun.’
Roxy considered a response to that.
‘I shot very well.’
‘Great, great.’
Roxy adjusted her chair until it was exactly how she liked it and sat down. Reaching for her computer, she realised Cora was still looking at her expectantly.
‘Er … and how about you, did you do … things?’
‘Funny you should ask. I had to be a referee.’
‘For a game of some kind?’
‘No, not that kind.’ Cora laughed. ‘A family referee.’
Roxy was silent. Cora took this to mean further explanation was required.
‘You know my sister Katie, yeah? Well, she told her young fella she had tickets for Funderland and she’d bring him, but then Theresa found out and she said they wanted to go as well and …’
Roxy feigned polite interest as Cora rambled on. In the few days they had been working together, she had learned that Cora came from a large, rambunctious family of seemingly countless siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts and uncles. To Roxy, who did not, it sounded positively exhausting.
When Cora’s story ended, Roxy took her chance and activated her computer. She logged into the interdepartmental system, registered her ID and began to read the day’s assignments. Almost immediately a small yellow hazard sign flashed in the upper corner of the screen.
She clicked on the icon: a Priority 1 link opened, revealing a message from Dispatch.
‘RDS Malloy.’ A computerised head spoke. ‘For the attention of RDS Malloy, badge number 1887. See the Code 6 at Riverside View Apartments, Dundrum. For primary contact, see … Inspector Morrissey, badge number 550.’
It repeated the message once more and vanished off screen with a tiny but audible pop.
Cora was staring at her, brown eyes shining with excitement.
‘Did that thing say what I think it said?’
‘Yes,’ Roxy replied, typing furiously to register their acceptance of the case.
‘Which one is Morrissey again?’
Roxy hesitated.
‘I don’t know exactly.’
‘Doesn’t matter, does it? Sure, we’ll meet him at the scene.’ Cora whipped out her personal mobile phone and held it aloft. ‘Code 6! Our very first homicide. This is so exciting.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking a picture, of course. This is for posterity, so smile!’
Roxy scowled; Cora rolled her eyes and took the photo anyway.
‘Do not put that on social media.’
‘Hashtag homicide!’ Cora said, ignoring her.
Roxy put her jacket on and wondered again how she was going to get through the next six months without strangling Cora.
Chapter Four
By the time Roxy and Cora reached Riverside View, a group of gawkers had already gathered and were swarming around the main entrance of the apartment building, clogging up the footpath, phones at the ready.
‘Ah here, will you look at that pack of vultures,’ Cora said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. ‘It’s eight o’clock on a Monday morning; haven’t they got anything better to be doing?’
‘I don’t see any sign of Inspector Morrissey,’ Roxy said. She’d asked Cora to bring his service record up while they were en route. He was a big man with a ruddy face and had twenty years’ service already under his belt, eight of them in Homicide.
‘He’s probably inside already,’ Cora s
aid. ‘Come on, let’s go. I don’t want to miss anything.’
Roxy parked behind an ambulance and switched the engine off. She was relieved to see that someone with a lick of sense had put a Garda officer on the building door itself so no busybody was going to cha-cha their way inside undetected. The recent craze of online news sites offering ridiculous sums of money to the public for ‘real-life crime’ shots was causing countless problems for the GSN. Despite their best efforts, it was getting harder and harder to keep the public from sticking their unwanted oars into police business.
They got out and crossed the street. Roxy shivered and wished she had worn a heavier coat: the air was frigid and there was snow atop the nearby mountains.
‘Watch your feet,’ she said.
‘Huh?’
‘Vomit.’
Cora looked down and pulled a face.
‘Ew, carrots!’ She stepped over the mess. ‘Why are there always carrots in sick?’
They flashed their IDs at the uniform and entered the building. The foyer was bright, clean and surprisingly large, obviously built during a time when space was not at the premium it was now. Roxy glanced at the mailboxes, counting ten in total, and shook her head, bemused. In her purpose-built apartment building there were 120 units, and you could barely swing a cat in any of them.
They exited the lift on the fifth floor and followed a curving glass brick wall, their shoes clicking on the floor tiles. A second officer stood leaning his bum against the wall outside 10A, holding an EN in his hands. He snapped to attention when he saw them approach.
Roxy identified herself and then Cora. Up close, she could see the officer was thin and jug-eared, with a vicious case of shaving rash on his neck. He didn’t look old enough to be out of the Garda training college down in Templemore, let alone working on the job.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Officer Foyle, Sergeant.’
Sergeant. She blinked. The title was going to take some getting used to.
‘Dispatch reported a Code 6 at this address.’
‘Yes, Sergeant, the deceased is still inside. Female.’
‘Is Inspector Morrissey here?’
Foyle shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘Oh, who is on site?’
He told them, listing off Inspector Adam Johnson from Forensics, his tech team, an ambulance crew and Edwina King, the state pathologist. Cora’s shoulders stiffened at the mention of Edwina’s name and Roxy remembered a rumour she’d heard. Something about how the last time the two women had been in proximity to one another it had ended with Cora sprawled flat on her back in a dead faint.
Cora, apparently, was not good with bodies.
Roxy checked her watch. Inspectors did not have to attend the crime scene, but Morrissey had to know this was her … their first homicide. The bloody man might have at least given them a gentle push instead of flinging them in the deep end.
‘Do we know who’s registered to live here?’ she asked, jerking her thumb towards the door.
Foyle glanced at the EN and tapped the screen. ‘The owner is listed as Andrea Colgan.’
‘Who’s the landlord?’
‘According to the registry, she’s an owner-occupier.’
Roxy raised an eyebrow. That was unusual. Very few people these days could afford an apartment in a well-to-do leafy Southside suburb like Dundrum. Hell, very few people could afford property in the city at all.
‘Who was the first responder?’
‘Technically that would be me and Sergeant Cosgrove. We took the call.’
‘Where’s Cosgrove now?’
‘Downstairs with a witness.’
‘There’s a witness?’
Foyle nodded.
‘Good,’ Roxy said. ‘What time did you get here?’
‘At approximately six ten.’ He swallowed. Roxy heard how dry his mouth was. ‘Sergeant Cosgrove and I entered the apartment and found the … uh …’
Cora rested a sympathetic hand on the young man’s shoulder.
‘Breathe, Foyle, okay?’
He nodded gratefully, took a breath.
‘We found the body of the deceased and then Sergeant Cosgrove called it in and told me to stay here and make sure I recorded everyone coming in and out of the apartment.’
‘You say you entered the apartment.’ Roxy glanced at the door; there was a smear of blood on the frame about chest height. ‘How did you gain entry?’
‘The door wasn’t locked. Sergeant Cosgrove just pushed it and it opened.’
The same door now opened inwards and Edwina King stepped into the hall, looking surprisingly elegant for someone wearing white overalls, a bright-blue plastic cap and matching blue booties.
‘Hello, Roxanne.’ The pathologist’s voice was deep and melodious.
‘Hello, Dr King.’
‘I believe congratulations are in order. Promotion to sergeant, that’s very impressive. Well done.’
‘Probationary,’ Roxy automatically replied, uncomfortable with the attention though vaguely flattered that the pathologist even cared. ‘I won’t make full sergeant for another six months.’
‘Nevertheless, congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’ She motioned to Cora. ‘Have you met Officer Simmons?’
‘We’ve met.’ Edwina nodded curtly to Cora, who managed to stammer a hello.
‘So,’ Roxy said. ‘What have we got?’
‘A nasty one, I’m afraid.’ Edwina removed her cap and shook her head. Every strand of her hair fell precisely into a sleek bob, as if by magic. ‘One body, female, found unresponsive in a bedroom shortly after six this morning.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Yet to be determined.’
‘Time of death?’
‘In my opinion, she’s been dead a number of hours, possibly since before midnight; I’ll try to narrow the window at the lab.’
‘Was it suicide?’ Cora wondered aloud.
Roxy tried not to wince. Her new partner, she had discovered, had a terrible habit of blurting out whatever she was thinking without giving it some weight first. Edwina had already told them she had no information as to the cause of death, and if memory served her, the pathologist did not like to repeat herself.
Proving the point, Edwina said, ‘Suicides don’t generally beat themselves to death, Simmons. There are easier methods by which to leave this mortal coil.’
Two men in white overalls exited the apartment carrying a stretcher containing a shape encased in black plastic, followed immediately by the ambulance crew. Edwina and the detectives stepped aside to allow them room to pass.
‘I will tell you this, Sergeant,’ Edwina said. ‘The victim suffered a brutal assault.’
‘Do we have any identification?’
‘I imagine Inspector Johnson has taken her fingerprints by now; he’ll be sure to have an identity.’
At that exact moment, Johnson stuck his head around the door. He looked disappointed to find Roxy and Cora standing there.
‘Just you two, is it?’
‘How many detectives do you need?’ Edwina asked, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow.
‘Detective Morrissey is on his way,’ Roxy said, hoping it was true. Johnson was a right pain in the rear; it would be easier to work the case with a senior buffer.
‘Morrissey, eh? Well if you want my advice, you’d be better served to call Inspector Eli Quinn.’
‘Quinn?’ Roxy looked at him. ‘Why would we want to do that?’
‘Trust me, he’s going to want this case. Do yourself a favour and get on the blower.’
‘But we—’
He ducked back inside. Roxy and Edwina exchanged a glance and a number of unspoken thoughts.
‘Detectives,’ Edwina said. ‘I expect I’ll speak with you later. I will begin the autopsy after lunch, say around two?’
Roxy watched her go, fuming. How dare Johnson talk to her that way? His arrogance was outrageous and it made her mind up. He could go to
hell and take Eli Quinn with him. She was a sergeant now; she was entitled to make the call.
Cora was watching at her, little lines of worry around her eyes.
‘What do you want to do, Sergeant? Do we wait for Morrissey or—’
‘We do our job, Simmons,’ Roxy said firmly. ‘Inspector Johnson,’ she called. ‘We’d like to access the crime scene when you’re ready.’
Cora and Roxy covered their shoes in plastic, snapped on gloves and waited. From their vantage point they watched Johnson move about the apartment, ordering his team this way and that. After twenty minutes he glanced towards the door and raised a hand to waggle an admonitory finger: he wasn’t ready for them yet. Stay put.
‘That man is a right bell-end,’ Cora muttered. ‘It’s almost like he’s doing this on purpose.’
‘Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you get annoyed,’ Roxy said.
They waited, growing twitchy and bored. Eventually Johnson returned, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. Roxy tried to take heed of her own advice and not let his attitude rankle, but it was hard not to feel affronted, especially when she knew damn well the source of his behaviour. A few months back, Johnson had made a drunken move on her at a colleague’s birthday party, embarrassing her to the point where she felt she’d no choice but to leave and go home early. He’d followed her out into the car park, pawing at her aggressively, pleading his case. Roxy had been polite right up until the moment he pushed her against the wall and tried to force his tongue into her mouth.
The resulting ‘skirmish’ saw Johnson spend the remainder of the night in A&E. The next day he went around telling anyone who’d listen that he’d fallen in the car park and hit his head. He made such a big deal about it that, naturally, no one believed a word he was saying, adding fuel to the smouldering gossip.
