Last Goodbye_An absolutely gripping murder mystery thriller

by Arlene Hunt

  He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander. Memories, never too far from the surface, flooded in.

  Celine.

  He had opened the door and there she was, standing on the top step, a canvas bag by her feet.

  ‘I’m Celine,’ she said, and held out her hand.

  The wolf could not believe it. He stared at her, eyes on stalks. Surely this was some kind of mistake.

  ‘Don’t leave me hanging,’ she said, and he put his hand in hers, felt the strength and warmth of her fingers as they closed around his. She was the first woman, apart from his mother, to ever touch him.

  It was electrifying.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘You going to ask me in?’

  Dumbstruck, he stepped aside. She picked up her bag and moved past him into the hall. He caught the trace of her perfume; it reminded him of an orchard in October.

  ‘What a beautiful house you have!’ She gave a low whistle, and turned in a full circle.

  Watching her, he held his breath. Any moment now, she would see that she was in the wrong place, had come to the wrong address. She would leave and never come back, this woman with her beautiful hair and warm fingers.

  ‘Oh yeah, where are my manners?’ She opened her bag and removed a purse from inside: it was blue with a gold clasp.

  ‘Here.’ She handed him a laminated card. He took it and read it.

  It said her name was Celine Dwyer and she was a qualified physiotherapist. There were letters after her name, a phone number.

  He handed the card back.

  ‘So,’ she said, and smiled. ‘You don’t talk much, do you?’

  He could see his reflection in the hall mirror, hers too, at least her back. If he squinted, their bodies seemed to merge into one.

  Gradually he became aware of the silence.

  She was looking at him. Was it his turn to speak? What did she want to hear?

  Panicked, he felt his cheeks begin to flame as they always did.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. She reached out and touched his arm. ‘You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I’m here to see your dad. Richard, right? Had an accident?’

  ‘My dad.’

  God, he wanted to punch himself in the face. His first words to a woman and he said that?

  She smiled again. He stared at her lips, mesmerised. She had small teeth, very white.

  ‘Tell you what, you show me where he is and we’ll take it from there.’

  It had been that simple. He brought her upstairs and lurked about in the hall, listening to the murmurs of conversation from his father’s bedroom. The scent of her apple perfume lingered on the air, vying with the dust motes.

  When she left that afternoon, he felt her loss as keenly as if he had known her his entire life. That night he tried to watch his usual fare, but nothing worked. He was no longer interested in cartoon figures, or the moaning cries of smooth fake-breasted women. It wasn’t real, none of it was.

  Celine was real.

  Celine had spoken to him.

  Celine had held his hand in hers.

  Celine had touched his arm.

  Celine smelled of apples.

  Celine.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cora was at her desk when Roxy returned to the cubicle, writing something in a blue notebook Roxy had never seen her use before. She closed it and put it away when she heard Roxy coming.

  ‘Inspector Morrissey told me we were no longer on the case.’

  ‘I know, he told me.’ Roxy sat down. ‘Look, about earlier …’

  ‘My apologies, Sergeant.’ Cora was downright icy. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘I get it, you have empathy for the victim. I understand that, Officer Simmons, but as hard as it can be, we must remain professional at all times. We must follow protocol.’

  Cora was silent for so long, Roxy thought she was ignoring her, then she realised her shoulders were shaking.

  She was crying.

  ‘Officer Simmons … Cora, oh now, now stop that.’

  ‘We’ve been trying, you know? For a baby.’ Cora’s voice was tight with pain. ‘Twice I thought I was … then it didn’t stick. They say what’s for you won’t pass you by, but people say really stupid things, you know? They don’t realise how hard it is.’

  Alarm bells rang in Roxy’s head. She was on very thin ice here. One false move and she was in danger of messing this up.

  ‘Mm,’ she said. ‘That must be very upsetting.’

  Cora leaned her head on her arms and sobbed as though her heart would break. In blind panic, Roxy pulled open her drawer looking for tissues, paper, anything, but all she had was a packet of mints and a stapler.

  Gradually, however Cora pulled herself together and produced a hanky from somewhere. She blew her nose, then turned and looked at Roxy. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red.

  ‘Does anything ever get to you?’

  Roxy furrowed her brow. ‘Of course things get to me.’

  Cora looked disbelieving. ‘Really? Because you never seem upset, you never seem to get emotional at all.’

  Roxy leaned forwards, resting her forearms on her knees.

  ‘Listen to me, Officer Simmons. I know life can throw stuff at you when you least expect it. And I’m sorry you’ve been going through the mill with … with your …’

  ‘Fertility.’

  ‘Right, that.’

  Without thinking she reached out and patted Cora on the thigh. It was an awkward gesture, but it was the best she had.

  ‘Things will get better.’

  ‘How?’ Cora sniffed.

  ‘Trust me,’ Roxy said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Quinn’s cubicle was empty when she got there, but his coat was draped across the back of his chair and there was a packet of cigarettes by the keyboard, so she figured he hadn’t gone too far.

  ‘Where is Inspector Quinn?’ he asked the man in the cubicle next to his.

  ‘How should I know? He’s probably gone for a piss.’

  Roxy headed straight for the locker rooms.

  ‘Hey, you’re not supposed to be in here,’ cried a naked man with a towel draped over his shoulder as she skirted the aisles.

  ‘Sorry.’

  In the toilets, she checked the stall doors until she came to one that was locked. From behind the door she could hear the sound of a video game being played.

  She knocked. ‘Inspector Quinn?’

  The music stopped abruptly.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s Sergeant Malloy, sir.’

  ‘Get the hell out of here, Malloy. I’m busy.’

  ‘I’ve been to see the superintendent, sir, and—’

  ‘Not interested, Malloy. Inspector Morrissey has already signed off. I’m taking the case.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking, why are you interested in Andrea Colgan’s murder?’

  She heard him sigh.

  ‘Look, can we talk about this later?’

  Roxy put her hands on her hips and stared at a crack in the floor tiles. Quinn had an ego the size of a rhino; that had to be a way in.

  ‘I want to work this case with you.’

  ‘I already have a squad.’

  ‘This was my first homicide as a sergeant, sir. I want to learn, I want to do things the right way. The super suggested I talk to you; he told me I’d learn a lot from you.’

  ‘Gussy said that?’

  Someone came in behind her, muttered a startled ‘excuse me’ and hurried out again.

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Fine, incident room four in twenty minutes.’

  The music started up again.

  ‘I’d like it if Officer Simmons could come too. She’s keen, and she works hard.’ She grimaced, hoping she hadn’t pushed her luck too far. ‘You’d get two birds with one stone.’

  Seconds ticked by. Roxy held her breath. She heard him swear softly.

  ‘All right, if I take the two of you, will you get
the hell out of here? Please?’

  She made a fist and silently punched the air.

  ‘Thank you, sir, you won’t regret it.’

  ‘I’d better not.’

  She bolted. Retreat in victory was never a bad idea.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Roxy told a delighted Cora the news, then made her way to the incident room, hoping to be seated and as unobtrusive as possible before the others arrived. She was surprised when she opened the door to find it was already fairly packed.

  All eyes turned her way.

  She muttered a soft ‘hi’ and took a seat at the back, uncomfortably aware of the traded looks.

  In truth, though she had been at the station for three years, Roxy had not bothered to befriend many of her colleagues. Maybe Gussy was right; maybe she did need to learn how to play with others. Still, she thought, looking around, at least she recognised a few faces.

  Sitting beside the radiator, wearing a biker jacket, black jeans and boots, was Quinn’s second in command, Sergeant Miranda Lynn. Roxy had worked with her on a case before and liked her. She was blunt and uncompromising, a straight talker.

  On the opposite side of the room was Sergeant Eoin Fletcher. He was a transfer from Galway and the subject of much chatter at the station, certainly amongst the women. He was above average height, and strongly built. His hair was so blonde it was hardly a colour at all, and he wore it military style, shorn at the back and sides, a little longer on top, but not by much. His clothes were well made, and they fitted him perfectly. Roxy supposed he was handsome, in that he ticked all the right boxes, but there was a vagueness to his eyes that she found perplexing, and whenever she had occasion to speak to him, she sometimes felt the lights were on but it was hard to judge if anyone was home or not.

  She looked around for Cora: where was she?

  Miranda leaned her chair back on two legs to talk to her.

  ‘You cutting in on our dance?’

  ‘Yes, the superintendent thought it would be beneficial.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Whose idea was that, yours or his?’

  ‘His.’

  ‘Then don’t look so nervous. Despite what you might have heard, we don’t bite.’

  Roxy tried a smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Want some advice?’

  Roxy sighed. What was it about her face that made people so willing to offer her advice?

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Don’t think Quinn’s like Morrissey; he’s not. He’s a decent man, but he’s a two-striker.’

  Before she could ask what that was supposed to mean, a door at the top of the room opened and Eli Quinn walked in; or rather, Roxy thought crankily, he waltzed in like he owned the place. He looked around, came straight to Roxy and dropped a thick file on the desk in front of her with a thump.

  ‘You want in, you need to familiarise yourself with this. We don’t have any room for hitch-hikers.’

  She stared at the mound of cardboard in surprise.

  ‘Why not send the files to my EN?’

  ‘You’ll absorb them better this way.’

  He took his position behind the podium, moving like a man comfortable in his own skin. Roxy watched him. Six foot one, lean-built, with a handsome face and thick, slightly shaggy dark-blonde hair; no wonder the media couldn’t get enough of him.

  ‘Hola, amigos,’ he said.

  ‘Hola, jefe!’ the squad called back. Miranda blew a pink bubble until it burst and put her phone away.

  ‘I trust you bade welcome to our new colleague?’ Quinn waved a hand towards Roxy, then looked around. ‘I thought I was getting two birds for the price of one stone?’

  Just as he said that, the door burst open and Cora practically spilled into the room, looking a little breathless and flustered.

  ‘Glad you could join us,’ Quinn said. ‘In this squad I expect you to be punctual, and I’m not interested in excuses.’

  He said this with a smile on his face, but there was no mistaking the fact that he was also deadly serious. Cora straightened up and blushed clear to the tips of her ears.

  ‘I’m so sorry, it won’t happen again.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  Mortified, she slid into the first chair she found and spent what felt to Roxy like an age fumbling with her EN.

  ‘Right,’ Quinn said. ‘Fletch, hit the lights, would you?’

  Fletcher got up and dimmed the overheads. Quinn opened his own EN and tapped it a number of times until a large screen hanging on the wall behind him came to life.

  Miranda raised a hand.

  ‘For the record, I want it made clear that I have some reservations.’

  Roxy looked at her, surprised.

  ‘Noted,’ Quinn said curtly. ‘Let’s begin.’

  Behind him, Andrea Colgan’s official ID photo appeared on screen. Roxy stared at her face, trying not to compare it with what she had seen at the morgue.

  ‘This is Andrea Colgan, twenty-six years old. She was found unresponsive at 6.05 this morning. Cause of death is cerebral hypoxia, which for the benefit of the less scientifically minded means a lack of oxygen to the brain.’

  ‘So she was strangled?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Yes, but there are no ligature marks.’ He cleared his throat and glanced around the room. ‘At the time of her death, Andrea Colgan was also eleven to twelve weeks pregnant.’

  That changed things. The mood, already sombre, darkened further.

  ‘All right,’ Quinn said. ‘I know you’re all working long hours and probably wondering why I’m breaking your backs by adding another case.’ He glanced at Miranda as he spoke. ‘So here’s why: found at the crime scene was a large bouquet of yellow roses,’ they appeared on screen behind him, ‘and this.’

  The screen revealed the bottle of champagne Roxy had noticed in the kitchen of Andrea’s apartment.

  Fletcher leaned forward and whistled between his teeth. ‘Those are his calling cards all right: it’s the Sweetheart Killer.’

  ‘Fletcher, don’t let me hear you use that name in my presence again,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Sorry, but that’s what the papers are calling him.’

  ‘Exactly, tabloid muck,’ Quinn said. ‘Leave that shit at the door.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Sergeant Lynn has reservations, and there is merit to them. First, there was no card found at the scene; second, there is only one victim.’ Quinn looked Roxy. ‘You’ve had this longer than me; is there anything else to add?’

  ‘Um …’ Roxy consulted her EN. ‘She had recently broken up with her boyfriend and a neighbour put him at the scene this morning. I can send you the witness’s statement.’

  ‘Do so. Continue.’

  ‘Andrea worked for a company called Albas Entertainment as a PR consultant.’

  ‘How long had she been there?’ Miranda asked.

  ‘Two years.’

  Quinn typed the name into his EN; seconds later a photo of the company’s logo appeared on screen.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. I met her parents. Her mother’s name is Lillian Colgan, and her father is in the system.’

  ‘He’s got a record?’

  ‘A pretty extensive one, actually.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Dominic Travers.’

  Quinn’s expression didn’t change, but Miranda’s sure did. She looked at her boss as if she expected his head to spin three hundred and sixty degrees.

  ‘Dominic Travers?’ he said eventually. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I met him at the morgue.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘About six foot five, big, dark hair. He had unusual eyes, very pale grey—’

  ‘Okay, that will do.’

  Quinn looked at his notes again for a few minutes. Roxy could tell he was shaken; so could everyone else.

  ‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘Word of warning, the next set of photos is pretty graphic in nature.’

  ‘That’s
all right,’ someone said. ‘We’re all big boys here, aren’t we, Miranda?’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard about you,’ Miranda replied without missing a beat. And everybody laughed a little too long and a little too loud.

  ‘All right, settle down.’ Quinn brought up the photos from the crime scene and some from the autopsy. Roxy glanced at Cora and hoped she would keep it together.

  ‘Andrea Colgan was struck hard enough to fracture the right orbital bone. It’s hard to tell from the damage, but this section here,’ he pointed to the right side of her jaw, ‘was also broken, as were several bones in her neck.’

  ‘Overkill,’ Fletcher muttered. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Was she raped?’ Miranda wanted to know. ‘Lorraine Dell was raped. We collected DNA from the scene.’

  ‘According to Pathology, there was no sign of forced sexual activity, though obviously we’re waiting on Forensics to—’

  ‘She’s wearing a garter on her leg,’ someone said.

  ‘Relevance?’

  ‘Women don’t go around wearing garters unless there’s a man in the picture willing to take it off with his teeth.’

  ‘We don’t know that she put it on,’ Quinn said. ‘Remember, in our other case the victim was dressed and her body staged after death. As I said, I’m waiting on Forensics; perhaps there is evidence outside the body to indicate—’

  ‘Maybe he tossed a load freestyle.’ It was the same man again.

  Roxy glanced at him, annoyed. Was he deliberately being as crass as possible? A young woman was dead; where was his respect?

  Quinn carried on as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Three of Colgan’s ribs were broken on the right side of her body. If you observe closely, you can see a faint imprint on her skin.’

  ‘What is that?’ Fletcher asked, squinting. ‘Looks like … looks like an E or a W, maybe?’

  ‘I think it’s a buckle mark or something similar. I think she fell when she was struck and was then kicked in the side.’

  ‘Could have happened if she was crawling away,’ Miranda said.

  Roxy spoke up. ‘There were blood spots on the floor leading towards the hall that support that theory.’

  ‘Which floor? The living room?’ Miranda looked over her shoulder.

  ‘Yes.’