Very different from the rather expensive looking knife that was pulled out of Fearon.
He considered previous knife crimes he’d investigated. Simon Johnson and Ken Blundell were both killed with kitchen knives, the first pre-planned, the second spur-of-the-moment. This murder had to have been pre-planned, nobody walked around a suburban street with a hunting knife tucked into their belt.
If that was the best he could come up with, he’d better not ring Morrison just yet. Forensics, he knew, wouldn’t get back to him for a day or two. He supposed it would do no harm to give them a buzz and let them know they’d be expecting the knife in.
He was put through to Stephen Doyle. ‘Hi Mike, what can I do for you but before you tell me, let me just say the answer is no.’
West laughed. ‘I suppose the only reason I ring you is to ask you to hurry something along.’
‘Absolutely the only reason,’ Doyle said without rancour, ‘and the answer is still no. We’re inundated at the moment. The only thing I can promise you is that I’ll get to it as soon as possible. Give me a clue as to what to look out for.’
‘It’s the murder of Oliver Fearon, a hunting knife. There’s marking on it, Wild Ranger. It would be a help if you could tell us anything more.’
A deep sigh came down the line. ‘I’ll keep a look out for it. But I’m not making any promises.’
West had to settle for that and hung up.
In fact, it was two days before he heard back. By then Andrews had followed up the interviews by checking alibis. It was a fool’s game; they both knew it and their frustration mounted.
When Doyle rang with information about the knife, West breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I hope you have something for me, Stephen.’
‘You’ll get the formal report, of course, but I thought I’d give you a buzz. First of all, the only blood on the knife was from your deceased, Oliver Fearon.’
‘Could it have been cleaned really well?’
‘I’d go with a no on that,’ he answered, ‘we took the handle apart, tested the screws and the joins. Nothing. Either it was bought specifically to use here, or your killer has had it a while and never used it. The good news is that there was a clear fingerprint on the handle, the bad news is that we found no match in the data base.’
Match or no match, a fingerprint was good news. Now they just needed to find someone to match it to. ‘That’s something,’ West said, doodling on the notepad in front of him. ‘Anything else?’
Doyle’s sigh was loud. ‘People always want more.’ He gave a quick laugh. ‘Actually, I have more. The only place in Ireland that sells this particular brand, Wild Ranger, is a shop just outside Kilkenny city called Outdoor Sport.’
At last, something concrete to go on. ‘Thanks, that’s a great help,’ West said. ‘We’d hit a wall here, it was getting us all down.’
Armed with this new piece of information, he headed out to find someone to share it with. Unusually, there was nobody around. He poured some coffee and sipped it, perched on the side of a desk. He was just about to give up and go back to his office when Andrews, Baxter and Allen walked in together.
‘We’d gone for some lunch,’ Andrews said, ‘were you looking for us?’
‘I had some news from forensics.’ West said, ‘the knife that was used on Fearon is only sold in one place in Ireland, Outdoor Sport, in Kilkenny.’
None of the three looked impressed.
He gave a half-smile. ‘Ok, it’s not much, but it’s something and it might lead somewhere.’
Baxter sat at his desk and frowned up at him. ‘What about the internet? He could have bought it online, couldn’t he?’
‘Could he?’ West snapped at him. ‘Find out where? See how easy it would be.’
Without another word he headed back to his office.
He was sitting behind his desk when Andrews appeared minutes later, and leaned against the doorframe. ‘Tempers are getting a bit frayed,’ he said.
‘Is that a criticism of me,’ West said sharply, and then held his hands up. ‘Don’t answer that, Peter, and please don’t stoop to if the cap fits wear it.’
Andrews, who had opened his mouth to say just that, grinned.’
West saw it and, relaxing, returned the grin. ‘You were, damn you!’
‘You took Baxter’s head off, and he was probably right. He spends enough time on the Google to know.’
West dropped his face into his hands. The child in the suitcase, and now Oliver Fearon. Neither case looked like they were going to be solved anytime soon. Maybe his run of luck had run out. He rubbed his face and straightened. The clock on his wall said four. He’d be damned if he was driving to Kilkenny now.
‘Let’s go to Kilkenny first thing,’ he said, ‘you and I. We’ll get lunch somewhere on the way back, get out of here for a while.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ the other man said, pushing away from the doorframe. ‘I’ll go and put a plaster on Baxter’s head.’
The rest of the day went without drama. The autopsy report told West nothing he didn’t already know and the full forensic report just confirmed what he’d been told over the phone.
Maybe they’d get a lead in Kilkenny. Chewing on his lower lip, he sat back. Fearon was a minor petty thug. A bully who was quick with his fists, he didn’t have the discipline or intelligence to be more than that. His long and varied crime sheet didn’t indicate any involvement with organised crime.
So who did he get mixed up with?
Someone smart enough to have left no trace. Except for the knife.
Kilkenny, he hoped, would throw some light on the case. He made a quick courtesy call to the local station. As he expected, they offered assistance, which he, as was also expected, turned down. Formalities over, he hung up, grateful, not for the first time, that the Garda Siochana was an all-Ireland police force and not divided up into regional areas as in the UK.
At least there was something to be thankful for.
13
West admired the curve of Kelly’s legs as she stood looking out the window. She was sipping her coffee, lost in thought.
‘Are you ok?’ he asked, moving behind her and slipping his arms around her waist.
She leaned back against him briefly before turning and smiling at him. ‘Yes,’ she said, reaching to give him a peck on the cheek, ‘I was just thinking about this meeting.’
‘With your publisher?’ West asked.
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. ‘With my agent, Owen. Remember, I told you about it last night? He wanted to meet with me to discuss overseas rights.’
West nodded quickly. ‘Sorry, yes, of course, your agent, not your publisher.’
She moved away from him, refilled her mug from the cafetiere and sat at the table with a sigh. ‘We haven’t spent much time together since we got back, have we?’
Guilt flickered. He’d cancelled their dinner plans at the weekend because he’d been exhausted, wanting just to flake out in front of the television and chill. It wasn’t fair on her.
He sat down and reached across the table for her hand. ‘How about we go away for a couple of nights? Not immediately,’ he added hurriedly, seeing her expression lighten, ‘when this murder investigation is done.’
Kelly let her breath out in a puff. ‘Ok,’ she said, returning the pressure of his fingers. She watched his smile appear, echoed it with one of her own. ‘And do you know what I’m going to do,’ she said, standing and taking her mug to the dishwasher.
‘What?’
‘I’m going to have A4 pictures of my publisher, editor and agent made up with their names underneath, and pin them to the wall. Maybe if they remind you of criminals you might remember their names.’
West was still laughing as she left the room, his eyes following her, admiring the curve of her bottom in a skirt he was sure he’d not seen before. His eyes narrowed slightly. He hoped she’d follow through with her promise of the photographs. It would be interesting to see what this agent a
nd editor looked like. Smiling as he recognised the green monster lurking in that thought, he brushed it aside. He’d no reason to be jealous. After all, they’d cleared the air; they knew where they stood with each other.
Wishing her a successful meeting, he headed to the station. Andrews was already waiting in the car park, his radio blaring out an old Johnny Cash song that immediately made West decide to drive. His car, his choice of music, and Johnny wasn’t on his playlist.
Luckily, Andrews was more tolerant of musical choices and apart from raising his eyebrow slightly when West asked, Is Ella Fitzgerald ok, he said nothing.
Taking the quickest route, the M7 and then the M9, they arrived at Outdoor Sport an hour and ten minutes later. The car park to the front of the shop was empty apart from a couple of cars occupying spaces marked, with more emphasis than was surely necessary, Staff only!!!!’
‘Maybe they’re very busy at the weekend,’ West muttered, shaking his head at the four exclamation marks. He was a member of the Garda Siochana, not the punctuation police, but still...
Andrews, opening the car door and getting out, looked around the otherwise empty car park and said sarcastically, ‘Too early for the hunter-gatherer type, is it?’ He stretched and looked at the shop. It was an uninspiring set up. A square, flat-roofed building of no architectural merit.
‘They take security seriously,’ West commented, noting the see-through security shutters on each of the large front windows.
‘And I’ve counted three CCTV cameras,’ Andrews said. ‘We might just get lucky.’
The solid entrance door didn’t encourage the casual shopper. Neither did the signs stating, one after the other, Restricted Access; Strictly Over Eighteen and Entrance at the discretion of the Owner. At the bottom, in plain font, a smaller sign read, Welcome.
‘I hope they let us in,’ Andrews muttered, pressing the doorbell.
The door was opened almost immediately leading both men to believe that the CCTV cameras were actively monitored, a fact the middle-aged man who showed them in was happy to confirm.
‘We’re hot on security,’ he said smiling, before holding out his hand to each of the men in turn. ‘I’m, Terry Whelan, the manager.’ He folded his arms across his chest and eyed the two men. ‘So to what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from the Garda Siochana?’
Neither man was surprised to be identified so quickly, it was something they’d become used to.
West took out his identification and held it out for inspection. ‘I’m Detective Garda Sergeant West, and this is Detective Garda Andrews. We’re with Foxrock station, in Dublin. We’re investigating a homicide where the murder weapon, a hunting knife, has been identified as a Wild Ranger. Our forensic team has informed us that you are the only stockist of this range in Ireland.’
Whelan nodded. ‘Come into my office,’ he said, ‘my brain is sharper with a mug of coffee in hand.’ In his surprisingly spacious and luxurious, if windowless, office, he waved them to a seat and offered them coffee. When they were all sitting, he rested his mug neatly in the middle of a coaster and linked his fingers on the desk in front of him. He looked at them, a smile on his lips that didn’t make it to his eyes. ‘Wild Ranger, eh?’
Because it was expected of them, both men said yes simultaneously.
‘It’s a good knife, but not very popular because of its price. The Outdoor Ranger is similar but it costs a lot less.’
‘So why would someone pay more for the Wild Ranger,’ West asked.
‘Most hunting knives have one cutting edge,’ Whelan explained, ‘but the ranger has two. Mostly, hunting knives are used for skinning and butchering animals, a double blade isn’t necessary.’
West and Andrews exchanged glances. They guessed why the man had chosen the double-sided blade. Doubly effective.
‘I suppose you want a list of our customers,’ the manager continued. ‘I should ask for a court order and cite all kinds of confidentiality issues.’
West smiled. ‘But you’re not going to,’ he guessed.
Whelan shook his head. ‘Hunting gets enough bad press, Garda West, without some idiot using one of our knives for the wrong reason.
West blinked at the wrong reason but let the man talk on. He was agreeing to be of help, he’d settle for that.
The manager pulled his laptop over and opened it. His forehead creased as he squinted at the screen and tapped the keyboard with one hand. ‘Here we go,’ he muttered. ‘So,’ he said, looking at the two men, ‘how far back do you want me to go?’
Andrews and West exchanged looks. How far? West, frowning, remembered that Doyle had indicated that the knife was new, never used. So if it was bought specifically to kill Fearon, why wait? He took a deep breath. Better to err on the side of caution. ‘Go back a year.’
It only took a few minutes, the man sipping coffee with one hand, tapping his keyboard with the other. ‘Ok,’ he said, sitting back. ‘Six people in the last year purchased a Wild Ranger. Four in person and two on the internet.’
‘On the internet?’
‘You’re surprised? We’d be very foolish not to offer an internet service; many of our customers do all their shopping on-line.’
‘Aren’t there restrictions on buying knives on-line?’
‘Same as there are here,’ the man shrugged, ‘you have to prove you’re over eighteen.’ He hesitated before continuing, ‘I’m careful, too careful you might say, but I refuse to provide weapons of any sort to the wrong type, so...’ He stopped for a moment as if weighing up whether to continue or not and then, with a shrug, went on, ‘I have a friend who’s a garda. I give him the name and he runs it for me. If it checks out, the sale goes ahead, if it doesn’t, I tell the person the item he requested is out of stock. Then I blacklist him.’
It was all totally illegal and if it were found out, the garda providing the information would be suspended, and possibly prosecuted. West could have him stopped; it wouldn’t be difficult to find out who he was.
Then Whelan would have to supply knives to anyone who wanted to purchase them, as was their right. Personal rights, moral rights, they were an on-going dilemma. And once again, Ken Blundell came to mind. He frowned; perhaps he’d leave things here just as they were.
‘I have the dates and times,’ Whelan continued, unaware of the issues he’d raised. ‘I’ve got all the details on the internet customers, of course, and they’ll have been cleared by my friend. Of the four who paid in person, three used credit cards so I’ll be able to get those details for you too.’ He smiled, nodded and rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ll have them all printed out, don’t you worry.
‘The other customer paid in cash. I don’t know anything about him but he’ll be on the CCTV. I’ll copy the footage of all four customers for you, if you want. It’ll take a while, an hour or two; they’re spread over several months. You’re welcome to wait here, there’s newspapers and coffee.’
‘Yes to the CCTV footage, but no thanks, to the coffee,’ West said, checking the time. It was only eleven thirty. A very early lunch? ‘We’ll be back around one thirty.’
‘Perfect,’ Whelan said, ‘I’ll have it all ready for you when you get back. I’ll make sure of that.’
Thanking the man, the two detectives left. Outside, West moved straight to the car and climbed in, barely waiting for Andrews to close the door before starting the engine and pulling away. ‘I just don’t like the feeling that he’s watching us,’ he said, when he caught Andrews’ look of surprise.’
‘Not sure I blame you,’ he said. He waited a moment before turning to him, ‘Are you going to look into it?’
West didn’t insult his intelligence by misunderstanding him. He shook his head. ‘I should, I suppose, but do we really want him selling weapons to n’er do wells.’
‘N’er do wells,’ Andrews repeated with a chuckle. ‘No I suppose we don’t. I wonder if that’s the only thing our over-friendly garda does for him though.’
West looked at him sharp
ly. ‘You think I should inform on him?’
‘I don’t think Whelan is to be trusted. In my experience, when members of the public set themselves up to be holier than thou, it is generally for their own benefit.’
‘I must admit, his over-helpful manner grated on me.’
Andrews nodded. ‘He was so incredibly helpful; we won’t need to get a court order to check out anything, will we?’
West’s hands gripped the steering wheel. He’d missed it. A quick glance at Andrews’ face told him that he hadn’t. He never did. ‘He’s playing us?’
‘For some reason,’ Andrews agreed. ‘I doubt if it’s anything to do with our friend Ollie though. Something else entirely.’
The silence lasted until West drew up outside a pub. ‘An early lunch?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Andrews said. He looked out the window with a dubious expression. ‘Not sure you’ll get that here, though.’
He was right. It didn’t open until one.
West pulled out his phone and did an internet search. ‘There’s a hotel about five minutes away,’ he said, ‘we can get something there.’
The hotel restaurant was closed but the lounge staff were happy to provide them with sandwiches. Andrews, who wasn’t driving, had a pint of Heineken that West eyed with disfavour. ‘I don’t know how you drink that stuff,’ he muttered.
‘You say that every time,’ Andrews said, taking a large mouthful with pleasure.
West sipped his mineral water. ‘I’ll talk to Morrison,’ he said eventually. ‘We can’t do anything else. Going to Kilkenny station and asking to speak to someone, isn’t an option, we could end up speaking to Whelan’s pet garda.’
‘Don’t do anything until we get our CCTV footage anyway,’ Andrews said, eyeing the plates that had been put before them. ‘Nice,’ he decided, picking up a chicken sandwich.
They ate silently, working steadily through the sandwiches, salad and crisps until both plates were empty.
Death in Foxrock (A Garda West Crime novel Book 4) Page 10
