Last Goodbye_An absolutely gripping murder mystery thriller

by Arlene Hunt

  ‘So no forced entry and blood found in the living room.’ Miranda turned back to Quinn. ‘What’s our thinking here? Are we thinking this is someone she knew, someone she invited in? What’s the deal with the ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘I put out a person-of-interest on him,’ Roxy said. ‘And there’s an officer watching his sister’s house in case he returns there. He’s been living with her since the breakup.’

  ‘Good.’ Quinn clapped his hands. ‘So, let’s recap. Andrea Colgan was young, pretty and blonde. She was killed in her home, found atop her bed wearing lingerie. Discovered at the scene was a bottle of champagne and a bunch of yellow roses.’ He looked around at his team and opened his arms. ‘All right, so until we know otherwise, we’re going to assume she’s one of ours.’ He frowned. ‘It’s going to be an all-out circus – the media are already breathing down our necks as it is – so bearing that in mind, if anyone feels like they might want to sit this one out, I need to know now.’

  He looked around at the faces: nobody gave any indication that they were daunted by the task ahead.

  ‘Okay, same rules apply. You will report to me or Sergeant Lynn; it doesn’t matter how odd or banal the information you discover, I want to know about it. I expect discretion and commitment. I don’t want to read anything, and I mean anything, about this case in the media, social or otherwise. If you can’t agree to these terms, there’s the door.’

  He waited; nobody moved. Roxy felt a surge of excitement despite herself.

  ‘We need to move fast on this. Half of you are going to go back over the Dell and Kilbride case. The rest of you, we need Colgan’s communications history, her personal history, family, friends, work and clients. Fletcher, you and Malloy organise a canvass of the apartment building. It’s a residential building with a number of owner-occupiers, so someone is bound to have noticed something. If there are security cameras, I want them viewed.’

  Roxy furrowed her brow. ‘Officer Simmons already canvassed the building.’

  Quinn looked at Cora. ‘Is that right? You have statements for me?’

  ‘Not really,’ Cora said meekly, looking embarrassed.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s … people were reluctant to talk, apart from this one lady, but she hadn’t actually seen anything.’ Cora looked down. ‘I think she was just lonely really.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ Quinn said. ‘Right. Malloy, you’re with Fletcher.’

  ‘I was hoping to speak to Dominic Travers again and see if—’

  ‘In my squad,’ Quinn snapped, ‘there’s a chain of command.’ He tapped his chest with his thumb. ‘Me chief, Malloy.’

  Roxy scowled. ‘It’s Sergeant Malloy, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant, you wanted in, you’re in. You can’t abide by the rules, you know what to do.’

  She stared at him, feeling the heat rise to her face. You wanted this, a tiny voice reminded her.

  ‘All right,’ she managed to grind out.

  ‘Splendid. Officer Simmons?’

  Cora jerked bolt upright. ‘Sir!’

  ‘Check out local CCTV, that sort of thing. See if there’s security on the apartment building or any of the surrounding buildings.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘This neighbour you spoke to – what’s his name, Falstaff,’ Miranda said, reading through Roxy’s notes. ‘You have an asterisk next to his name. What’s that about?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe nothing, but something about him rubbed me the wrong way.’ Roxy unconsciously wiped the palm of her hand against the leg of her trousers. ‘I mean he called it in, but…’ She shrugged.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with following your instincts. Have you run a background check on him?’

  ‘Honestly, I haven’t had time.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll do one while you and Fletcher canvass.’

  ‘I would appreciate that.’

  ‘What about Travers?’ Fletcher wanted to know. ‘I knew I recognised the name. That man has plenty of enemies. You know a lot of people lost their homes when the apartment complex he owned was condemned by the city council.’

  ‘For now we consider him off limits,’ Quinn replied.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because I say so. Now listen, the press office will release a short statement after five, and that’s going to turn the heat up. This murder was different: I want to know why, I want to know what happened, I want to know what changed.’

  Roxy looked around her. All eyes were on Quinn, even Miranda’s. He was the general and they were his willing army.

  When they filed out, Cora caught Roxy by the arm.

  ‘Isn’t this so exciting?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I thought for sure we’d be shafted; now we’re part of the A-Team.’

  Roxy snorted. ‘The A-Team?’

  ‘That’s what the press call them, didn’t you know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh come on, aren’t you the least bit excited? Our first homicide, and now this.’

  ‘Excited?’ Roxy raised an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t you hear the chief? This is his gig. We’re along for the ride.’

  Cora grinned. ‘Then buckle up, Sergeant, I have a feeling this will be our big break.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Dressed head to toe in black, the wolf waited in the shadows across the street from the bar. It was cold, but that did not bother him unduly. The wolf in winter must accept the conditions of the hunt.

  When Estelle and the man– he could no longer bear to use Bannon’s given name – stepped out onto the street, he could see straight away that they were drunk. It was obvious from the way Estelle swayed a little, leaning into the man’s body for support.

  Good, he thought, it would be easier that way.

  He waited for them to walk to the corner and began to follow.

  It never ceased to amaze him how people took such little notice of their surroundings. Maybe it was because they’d grown up accepting they were part of the status quo. He doubted the man ever had to plan routes to avoid his so-called peers; he doubted it had ever crossed his mind that he was in danger simply by existing in a hostile world.

  Sometimes he wondered what it must be like, moving through the world unencumbered by animosity and hatred. He couldn’t imagine it.

  They were going to the man’s house. The wolf was glad about that. Estelle lived in shared accommodation with three other women. For a while he’d fantasised about breaking in, making them watch as he dispatched each of them one by one. That had sustained him for a while, but ultimately he was forced to accept that it was too dangerous. He could control two, possibly three, but more than that and the risk far outweighed the execution.

  Look at them, he thought, watching them pause for a kiss. Estelle rose onto her tiptoes, tilted her head back and allowed the man to cup her face with his hands.

  The wolf raised his hand and fondled his own face, he ran his tongue over his own lips, imagining the sensation, feeling a mix of desire and burning hatred.

  Potent.

  He felt potent.

  Do not rush this, he warned himself. Let them get inside, let them shed their clothes; let them think there’s nobody else in the world except them.

  The wolf shivered, not from cold but from certainty.

  This was going to be exquisite.

  They began to walk again, and turned into the gateway of the man’s house, talking softly. Without increasing his stride, the wolf strolled on past; heard her laugh, like the sound of a tinkling bell. He carried on walking, turned the corner and immediately picked up the pace.

  On the next street over, he counted down until he reached the house backing directly onto the man’s home. There was no dog – he had made sure of it – and no sign of the owner’s car in the drive. Earlier that evening he’d taken the security light out with a well-aimed rock, and now, under cover of darkness, he entered the garden, boosted himself over the wall of the m
an’s property and hurried up his garden to the house.

  The lights were on downstairs, and if he strained his ears, he could hear the faint sound of music. It was a narrow house, single-fronted, with a flat-roofed extension on the back.

  The windows of the house were good, double-glazed and solid. Fortunately, the back door was secured by a single Chubb lock: a doddle to someone like him.

  He was inside in seconds, standing in the hall, next to the kitchen.

  He could hear the music clearly now, a woman singing in a husky voice about ordinary love. Though he had no clue who the singer was, he thought the choice was perfectly apt.

  Working quickly, he slid the gym bag from his back and removed from it the tools of his trade. Champagne, mask, flowers, syringe.

  Next he opened his coat and withdrew his sword from its scabbard, feeling a ripple of something almost sexual at the sound it made.

  He crept down the hall and used the tip of the sword to push open the living room door. If it creaked, so be it.

  But it did not.

  They were on the sofa, him on top of her. His jacket was on the floor, hers thrown over an armchair. A fake gas fire threw flickering light into the room, one lamp lit in the corner.

  She saw him first. Her eyes grew huge and she made a sound, tried to move, but the stupid disgusting man clearly thought this meant something else entirely. He groaned, moved his hands to the back of her head, forcing her mouth closer to his.

  The wolf waited until she broke free.

  It seemed only polite.

  Finally she had enough air to scream.

  The man looked up, eyes glazed by beer and lust. There was a bulge in his trousers, straining to be free of the material.

  ‘Huh?’ he said.

  The wolf brought the sword down in a well-practised move, right to left. Earlier that day, using the whetstone in his father’s workshop, he had sharpened the blade to a scalpel’s edge. But not even he could have predicted what happened next.

  Estelle Roberts stared at the rolling head in stunned silence. While her brain scrambled to make sense of what her eyes were telling her, the wolf took the syringe from his coat pocket and jabbed it into the side of her neck. Then he clamped his hand over her mouth and pushed her backwards, pinning her down with his weight. The drug would need time to do its work.

  ‘Celine,’ he said, as her struggles weakened and her eyes began to roll up into her head. ‘Celine, it’s me. Don’t be afraid, you’re having a bad dream. Here, let me help, you, Celine … Listen to my voice.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Roxy drained the last dregs of the industrial-strength coffee and rolled her neck from one side to the other, trying to ease the cramp between her shoulders. She felt someone breathing on her; when she turned round, she found Quinn leaning over her, reading her notes.

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘What?’ He looked at her, surprised.

  ‘That.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were so jumpy.’ He nodded to the screen. ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘It’s an antidepressant. I found a bottle of it in Andrea Colgan’s bathroom. I was cross-referencing it to see if there was any mention of it in the Dell/Kilbride case.’

  ‘And was there?’

  ‘Not that I could find.’

  ‘Andrea Colgan was depressed, was she? I wonder what about?’

  ‘A lot of people take some kind of anti-anxiety medication; it’s the world we live in.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any word on Noel Furlong?’

  ‘No, not yet, but we’ve got a trace on his phone. If he uses it, we’ve got him.’

  ‘He’d hardly be that stupid.’

  ‘People can surprise you.’

  Quinn glanced at his watch. ‘Want to go for a ride?’

  She hesitated. He noticed.

  ‘It’s a ride, Sergeant Malloy. I’m not asking you to go paragliding in the nip.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I want to talk to Furlong’s sister.’

  She pushed her chair back and reached for her jacket.

  * * *

  Caroline Furlong lived in a cottage on a quiet residential street in Inchicore, less than half a mile from the bank of the Grand Canal. Roxy guessed she was in her early forties, but she looked older. It was her styling. Her clothes were old-fashioned and kind of prim: grey skirt, cream blouse, grey cardigan. She wore no make-up and her hair was short, cut in a no-nonsense style. A silver crucifix glinted on a chain around her neck; no wedding band that Roxy could see.

  She looked scared when she opened the door to Quinn’s knock.

  ‘I’m going to tell you what I told Dominic Travers,’ she said, physically placing her body between them and the hall as she pulled the door behind her. ‘Noel is not here and I don’t know where he is, so unless you have a warrant—’

  ‘Dominic Travers came to see you?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘That’s right.’ Her voice thrummed with anger. ‘I suppose you’re going to threaten me too, is that how this works?’

  ‘Miss Furlong, if someone has threatened you, you are within your rights to make a formal complaint.’

  ‘What good would that do?’ she fired back. ‘You lot can’t be here twenty-four/seven, can you?’

  ‘Come on now,’ Quinn said. ‘Miss Furlong – or Caroline, can I call you Caroline?’

  ‘If you like,’ she said, though it was clear she would prefer he did not.

  ‘Caroline, we’re not here to upset you or threaten you, I promise. We understand how difficult this must be for you.’

  ‘Noel didn’t kill that girl,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly. ‘The daft eejit loved her, even after she threw him out.’

  ‘Course he did. Look.’ Quinn’s voice was as soft as warm butter. ‘Why don’t we go inside and sit down. Then you can tell us what’s going on. I want to hear your side of the story.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘I want to hear Noel’s side of the story too.’

  That was the key, and it worked her lock perfectly. Moments later, they were following her down a hallway and into a small kitchen at the back of the house. It was decked out in pine; a lot of pine. Roxy looked around: pine panelling, pine furniture, pine benches. The blinds were down and she was surprised to see they weren’t pine too.

  She immediately felt claustrophobic.

  ‘Great room,’ Quinn said, looking around as if he was staring up at the Sistine Chapel ceiling itself. ‘You don’t see craftsmanship like this any more.’

  ‘My father built this extension himself, with his own hands.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Quinn nodded, impressed.

  Caroline had been eating before they arrived: a bowl of watery-looking soup sat on the table, a single plate containing a thin slice of brown bread beside it. There was a cocker spaniel dozing in a basket by the cooker. It offered a half-hearted woof, but didn’t bother getting up to investigate them any further.

  ‘That’s Teddy.’ Caroline carried the remains of her meagre dinner to the sink. ‘He won’t bother you; he’s stone deaf.’ She turned around, clutching her upper arm. Roxy noticed her wince and wondered if she was in pain. ‘Do you have any pets?’

  Roxy shook her head.

  ‘I have a cat,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Oh, probably more suited to your line of work. Dogs need a routine, exercise. Cats are a lot less trouble.’

  ‘Not mine. He’s a holy terror, likes to bring in all kinds of things. Woke up the other day and he’d dragged a bloody great crow in through the bathroom window. Had a hell of a job trying to catch it. Should have seen the mess it left behind too.’

  ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘Threw a towel over it in the end. Brought it outside and let it go.’

  ‘Was it hurt?’

  Quinn shrugged. ‘Dunno, it seemed okay to me. It flew off.’

  ‘Cat bites can be toxic, you see.’

&nb
sp; ‘Yeah? I didn’t know that. I’ll have to remember for the future.’

  With the ice broken, Caroline remembered her manners and offered them tea. Roxy, following Quinn’s example, accepted it to be polite, though she didn’t really want any. Caroline made it in a teapot, using leaves, not bags, and when she was finished, she put it in the middle of the table with a cosy over it.

  ‘It’s best to give it a few minutes to draw,’ she said, putting out cups and saucers. Again her arm seemed to be troubling her.

  ‘Love a good cup of tea, me.’ Quinn rubbed his hands together. ‘Nothing beats it on a cold day. This is a nice house, real cosy. Great location.’

  ‘It used to belong to my parents.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘I was working in England when Mammy died. Daddy lived here by himself for a while. He was always very independent, but then he fell and broke his hip.’ She shrugged. ‘You know, he needed minding.’

  ‘So you came back home to look after him.’

  She nodded and began to pour the tea.

  ‘Was Noel not around?’

  ‘He was … living elsewhere at the time.’

  So were you, Roxy thought, yet you came home.

  ‘Noel’s younger than you, is he?’ Quinn asked, even though Roxy knew exactly how old he was.

  ‘He’ll be thirty in March. He was a surprise baby.’ When she smiled, her features softened and the years fell from her face. ‘Though not an unwelcome one, I should add. My parents adored him.’

  ‘A late lamb.’

  ‘What a lovely expression.’

  ‘You must be close.’

  ‘We were; not so much lately.’

  She made a big fuss of putting milk in her tea. Then she removed a handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan, blew her nose and put it back.

  ‘How long did Noel live with Andrea Colgan?’ Quinn asked, taking a long slurp of his tea and sighing with satisfaction.

  ‘A little over a year.’

  ‘Was it a good relationship?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Noel.’ Caroline’s fingernails were short and blunt, and she tapped them very gently on the rim of her saucer. ‘You never met her, of course. Andrea.’