Her purse and keys in hand, she set the alarm and got into her car. There were shops in Greystones, of course, but she didn’t know them and didn’t want to waste time trawling through shops that didn’t stock the kind of clothes she wanted to buy. So she headed down the coastal road to the small village of Monkstown. There were two boutiques there that she’d shopped in before, each time coming away with just what she wanted.
The village was packed with small artisan shops, boutiques and cafes. Parking was always a nightmare, and today was no different. She tried a few of the side roads before giving up with a grunt of frustration and driving back to Dun Laoghaire where she parked in the public car park. It was a twenty-minute walk back to Monkstown but it was a lovely day she wasn’t in a hurry, and her boots were definitely made for walking.
In the first shop, she picked out several dresses to try on, discarding them, one after the other, disappointed when none suited.
‘We’ve a new range of tunics in,’ the assistant said, ‘they’d go lovely with those leggings.’ She took two items off the rack and handed them into the changing room. ‘Try these on,’ she urged.
They did look nice, Kelly decided a few minutes later, trying on one and then the other. ‘I think I’ll take both,’ she said, unable to decide whether she preferred the blue or sage green.
Carrying the large carrier bag with the shop’s name blazoned across it, she headed two doors down the street to the second clothes shop. Here, she had more luck and found just the dress she’d been searching for.
‘This is perfect,’ she told the assistant, twisting back and forward to see her reflection in the mirrors. It was made of silk chiffon and floated and draped beautifully. It was also ridiculously expensive. She baulked at paying seven hundred euro for a dress but, just as she decided she wouldn’t, she imagined West’s face when he saw her in it.
‘I’ll take it,’ she told the hovering assistant. Taking the dress off, careful not to snag it with her bracelets, she dressed and handed over her credit card before she changed her mind.
Out in the street, a carrier bag in each hand, she blew a guilty breath. Seven hundred euro. For a dress! She’d walked a few steps before she realised she was walking in the wrong direction, toward Blackrock instead of Dun Laoghaire. Shaking her head at her stupidity, she turned to head in the right direction catching sight of her reflection in the window of the restaurant she was passing and lifting a hand to smooth her hair. Then she stopped and stared before quickly moving on.
Mike. Mike and a woman. Laughing together, he more animated, more alive than she’d seen in weeks.
She didn’t remember the walk back to her car or the drive back to Greystones. All she could remember was the way he’d looked at the woman, the way he’d laughed.
It didn’t take long to pack; she’d got rid of so much when she left Wilton Road, and quite a lot of her stuff was still in Blackrock. She filled her suitcase and some black bags and piled them into her car. Lastly, she unplugged her laptop and put it on the passenger seat.
She sat in, took a last look at the house, and started the engine.
10
West enjoyed his lunch. Fiona Wilson was a remarkably attractive female and made no effort to hide the fact that she fancied the socks off him. She’d used those exact words, which made him laugh out loud.
When he’d stopped laughing, he looked across the table at her. ‘That’s very flattering...’
She held up her hand. ‘Don’t say it,’ she said, with a grin, ‘I know you’re crazy about that woman I saw you with on Clare Island. Kelly, isn’t it?’
He nodded. Crazy. It was as good a word as any.
‘And much as I find you attractive,’ she continued. ‘I, too, am crazy about the new man in my life. But he’s an academic. A history professor, would you believe?’ She smiled. ‘Sometimes, it’s nice to be able to talk about work with someone who understands.’
West smiled. ‘I’m lucky, then. Kelly understands my work only too well.’
Fiona raised a hand to a passing waiter, and asked for the bill. ‘Now that we know where we stand,’ she said, returning her attention to him, ‘perhaps we could do this again sometime?’
‘I’d like that.’
Outside, West pointed to his car, parked only a few steps away. ‘I was lucky,’ he said, ‘someone was pulling out as I drove up. Where are you parked?’
‘I wasn’t so lucky,’ she shrugged, waving down the street. ‘But it gives me a chance to walk off lunch.’
His offer to drive her to where she was parked was turned down so he headed off, passing her by with a wave, and was back in the office by four.
In his absence, he saw that Andrews had printed out the image of the child and had pinned it the centre of the main notice board. Blown up to A4 size, it had a haunting quality to it. He knew exactly why Andrews had positioned it so centrally; it would serve as a reminder to them all not to forget her. He stood and stared at it for several minutes before returning to his office.
Paperwork and phone calls filled the rest of his day. Morrison was impressed with the image they’d received from Dundee but West guessed he was even more impressed that they hadn’t had to pay for the service.
‘What about giving the image to the newspapers?’ he asked him.
Morrison hesitated before answering. West pictured him swivelling on his chair weighing up the pros and cons before coming to the same conclusion that he had. It wasn’t worth it. ‘If she hasn’t been reported missing, it’s unlikely anyone is going to recognise the image, even if it is accurate. We’ll be inundated with crank calls, all of which will need to be followed up. We just don’t have the resources for that.’
It was much what he’d thought. ‘We’ve sent it to every agency possible. So far, we’ve heard nothing.’
‘Give it a few more days,’ Morrison said, ‘and then, we’ll have to move on.’
He hung up and sat back. The inspector was right; he couldn’t waste any more time. But it didn’t mean he had to like it.
At five thirty, he called it a day and was putting on his jacket when Andrews walked in.
‘The judge threw out the attempted murder charge against Fearon,’ he said, leaning against the doorframe. ‘They’re out on bail.’
It wasn’t a total surprise. West shrugged a shoulder.
‘Eamonn Mackin is kicking up a fuss, claiming he was set-up, that we knew the charge would never have stuck.’
West’s eyebrows rose. ‘Seriously?’
Andrews smiled and nodded. ‘Seriously. I heard that solicitor giving him some words of wisdom.’
‘I can imagine,’ West said, straightening his shirt cuffs. ‘What do you know about him?’
‘Mackin?’
A shake of a head. ‘Careless. I’ve not come across him before.’
‘No, you wouldn’t have,’ Andrews said, perching on the side of the desk and crossing his arms. ‘I was curious about him myself so I asked Tom.’
Their desk sergeant Tom Blunt was a man of few words but always seemed to know exactly what was going on.
West knew he shouldn’t encourage gossip but he was curious. ‘Tell me,’ he said, sitting back into his chair.
‘He worked for a legal team in Cork for several years. When his wife died, a few months ago, he sold his house there and bought an apartment in Mount Merrion.’ He watched him digest this piece of news before adding. ‘His wife committed suicide.’
‘Suicide,’ West said, startled.
‘He found her,’ Andrews said, ‘she’d hung herself.’
That explained the bleak look West had noticed in the man’s eyes. ‘I thought there was something,’ he said slowly. Standing, he moved around his desk, put a hand on Andrews’ arm and pushed him out the door. ‘Let’s get home,’ he said.
They walked together to the car park each of them lost in thought.
‘See you tomorrow,’ West said, reaching his car first.
Andrews gave a wave and w
alked on.
The traffic to Greystones was slow moving, giving West time to consider what he’d heard about Enda Careless. Curiosity had made him ask Andrews about him. He’d been a solicitor for several years before he joined the Garda Siochana and thought he knew the name of most of those who worked in Dublin, but he’d never come across the man before. He smiled at his own arrogance; there were places outside Dublin, after all.
He put the man out of his head as he turned the corner onto the tree-lined road where he lived. Perhaps, if Kelly weren’t too tied up with her work, they could go out for a meal. With that happy thought in his head, he parked his car and got out.
Lost in thought, he was half way up the path before he realised Kelly was sitting on the doorstep. He was brought back to a night months before when he’d returned to find her there, a balm for his pain and grief. Now, here she was again, sitting on the doorstep, surrounded by bags and suitcases, looking wan.
‘Hey,’ he said, reaching her in a few long strides. He bent down, saw her tear-streaked face and his heart did a somersault. What could have happened to her? ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, keeping his voice gentle. Whatever it was, they’d get over it. After all, they’d had plenty of experience.
She stood and snuggled up to him, taking his arms and pulling them around her as if to wrap herself in him. ‘Hold me tight,’ she said.
He did as he was bid. It seemed the only option. ‘You’re cold,’ he said, feeling her nose on his cheek.
‘It’s the end of November.’
West took a deep breath. ‘This may be a silly question but just why are you sitting on the doorstep?’
It was her turn to take a deep breath. She let it out slowly and then pulled away from him a little. ‘I was going to leave you,’ she said.
‘Leave me?’ West moved back from her, frowning. He knew he’d been a little pre-occupied since the Blundell tragedy, but he thought she’d understood.
She nodded. ‘I saw you.’
Ok, now he was...what was that word his mother loved so much...ah, yes, flummoxed. He closed his eyes for a second. What had he done that merited this? Whatever it was, it totally escaped him. Opening his eyes, he met her blue ones full on. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Today,’ she said, her eyes fixed on his. ‘In a restaurant. In Monkstown. With a beautiful woman.’ She looked at him accusingly, and then added the final straw. ‘You were laughing with her.’
Fiona Wilson. Of course. What was it she’d said? Ah yes, I fancy the socks off you. He remembered he hadn’t laughed so hard in a while. There definitely wasn’t a reason to laugh now, he thought, looking at the face of this woman he loved. ‘That was Fiona,’ he said, smiling, ‘you’ve met her. Remember? On Clare Island. The forensic scientist who came to collect the evidence?
‘She’s been helping us recently with the child we found, it was through her we got that link in Dundee. It came through today, a very clear image of what the child might have looked like. When she rang, neither of us had eaten lunch so...’ If it wasn’t precisely the truth, it was near enough.
‘Oh,’ she said. It sounded plausible. ‘She made you laugh.’
He shrugged. Laughing wasn’t a crime. He didn’t think telling her the reason was a good idea. He looked down at her bags. ‘You changed your mind?’
‘I always seem to be running away, Mike,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps it was time I stopped.’
His frown deepened. ‘Why didn’t you go back inside?’
She shook her head and gave a rueful smile. ‘I was going to go. I’d started the damn engine before I realised running away was a stupid thing to do. But,’ she said, throwing her hands up, ‘I’d put the keys through your letterbox.’
He started to laugh and within seconds it was a full, deep belly laugh that had her smiling and then laughing along. ‘You...’ he said, before pulling her back into his arms, ‘you’re an idiot but I do love you.’
‘What?’ She pulled away again and looked at him. There was a moment’s silence. ‘You do know that’s the first time you’ve said that, don’t you?’
He blinked. Surely not? ‘I’ve loved you almost since the first time we met. I told you I did on Clare Island,’ he said quietly. And then he frowned. ‘Didn’t I?
She shook her head. ‘I told you I loved you outside the Lighthouse Hotel,’ she said, putting her hand up to his face. ‘When you didn’t say it back, I thought I’d crossed a line.’
He thumped his forehead with the palm of his hand, the smacking sound loud in the quiet of the night. ‘What an idiot,’ he muttered. ‘I wanted to say it but was afraid you’d think I was saying it just because you did. And then, later, things got in the way.’
‘Things,’ she smiled, ‘we nearly died, Mike.’
He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, ‘what a mess I’ve made of it.’
She started to laugh again, and then they both were. ‘We’d better go inside,’ he said, ‘before the neighbours think we’ve lost the plot.’
He helped her bring her belongings back in, plugging in her computer, carrying up her cases. While she unpacked, he ordered a take-away from the local Indian restaurant and opened a bottle of red wine. He shook his head several times at the complexities of relationships. How much easier it was to understand the workings of a crime case.
Well, apart from the child in the suitcase, he admitted, opening a beer and pouring it into a pint glass. He drank it slowly while he set and lit the fire in the living room. Tyler was impressed and immediately curled up on the rug in front of the flames. ‘Yes, I lit it especially for you,’ West said, giving the little dog a gentle rub.
The wine was set on the low coffee table, wine glasses nearby. West sat back on the sofa and sighed. As usual, when his mind started to wander, he found himself thinking about work. What other avenue could he explore to identify that child? He hated the idea of giving up.
Without any leads, he knew they’d at least have to put it on the back burner. They didn’t have the time or resources to continue to follow up every case. Andrews wouldn’t be happy but he too would understand. Unfortunately, it was the nature of their job that they just couldn’t solve them all.
He put thoughts of work aside when the doorbell rang to announce the arrival of the take-away.
Kelly came down the stairs as he was paying. She poured herself a glass of wine and curled up on the rug beside Tyler, watching as he returned and unpacked the containers on the coffee table and took off the lids. He was so neat and tidy, she thought, as he dropped all the lids into one of the bags and tidied everything away before handing her a plate.
He saw her smile and raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’
Shaking her head, she picked up one of the serving spoons. He’d ordered everything she liked. ‘We’ll never eat all this,’ she said, filling her plate.
But they did, and between mouthfuls they talked, and, by the end, the food was mostly gone and their relationship was solid.
11
Over the next few weeks, it seemed that Enda Careless was in the station every other day. He nodded at West in passing but that was as far as their communication went. His recent clients, all of them charged with robbery, were under the remit of Sergeant Clarke.
Oliver Fearon also paid another visit to the station. This time the charge was assault.
West sat in the Big One and looked across at the men opposite. He knew the solicitor, Alan Mitchell, from his law days. They’d been friends of a sort, attending the same law dinners, going to the same parties, mixing with the same small group of people. A group he was happy to leave behind when he joined the gardai.
He gave him a friendly nod before turning to his client. ‘Mr Fearon,’ he said, ‘you were arrested last night following an altercation with Eamonn Mackin. Mr Mackin is in hospital with a broken arm, broken jaw, several broken ribs and concussion.’
Fearon shrugged. ‘He fell.’
West stared at him. ‘H
e fell?’
‘That’s right,’ the man said, returning the stare. ‘Is he saying otherwise?’
‘The garda who made the arrest saw you bending over him, Mr Fearon.’
‘I was trying to help him to his feet.’ He crossed beefy, tattooed arms. ‘Is he saying otherwise?’ he repeated.
‘My client has a valid question, Sergeant West,’ the solicitor said. ‘Is the victim saying that my client is responsible?’
Eamonn Mackin wasn’t saying much of anything. And when he woke, he probably wouldn’t press charges. They could try to force him to testify against Fearon but odds were it would be thrown out of court. Morrison, he knew, would consider proceeding as a waste of resources.
‘No,’ he said now, gathering his papers together. ‘If you would just make a statement to that effect, we can let you go.’
An hour later, Andrews appeared in his office doorway. ‘I hear Ollie Fearon was back in. What happened?’
West threw his pen on the desk and sat back. ‘Fetch some coffee, Pete and I’ll tell you.’
Coffee in hand, he gave Andrews a rundown of earlier events. ‘I could understand Connor Shields beating Mackin up, I suppose. He did give him up to us, after all. But Fearon?’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, I had to let him go. There was no point in wasting our time.’
‘He’ll be back,’ Andrews said, ‘he always is.’
‘He should go down for a while for the car park muggings, that’s a given.’
Andrews finished his coffee. ‘He’s done time before, he’ll do it again. A career criminal, that lad.’
But Andrews, for a change, was wrong.
Two days later, Fearon’s career was unexpectedly cut short when he was found with a large knife protruding from his stomach. He was, as Andrews said to West, ‘Very dead.’
Death in Foxrock (A Garda West Crime novel Book 4) Page 8
