Death in Foxrock (A Garda West Crime novel Book 4)

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘That was really good,’ West said, picking up his water.

  ‘I bet they do a good pudding here, too,’ Andrews said, draining his pint.

  When one of the staff came to clear the plates, he asked and was brought a menu. Several minutes later, they were both tucking into apple pie and cream. ‘Told you they would be good,’ Andrews said, more than pleased to be right.

  West finished with a coffee, drinking it slowly, his brain ticking over. He could tell Morrison, but what could he do. They’d no proof of any wrongdoing. ‘We could get some,’ he said, startling Andrews who was busy texting his wife.

  ‘Get some what?’

  ‘Proof,’ he said, and as an idea came to him his eyes lit up.

  Andrews seeing his expression dropped his phone back into his jacket pocket and slapped a hand on his forehead. ‘Oh no, what maggot has got into you now?’

  West laughed. ‘You’ll like it, Peter. Listen, Whelan’s not giving us the year’s CCTV footage, is he? Only the footage that shows the men that came in. What if I speak to a judge, explain that we think our murder weapon was bought there and that we asked for the footage but when we were given it we noticed it had been edited. I bet we could get a warrant for the rest and any other helpful information.’

  Andrews’ eyes narrowed. ‘That’s very sneaky.’

  West grinned. ‘Very.’

  14

  When they returned to the shop, there was one disc and an envelope waiting for them.

  ‘Terry asked me to give this to you when you came back,’ a young man with acne pitted skin said, holding them in limp fingers as if he didn’t want to be contaminated by helping the gardai.

  West took both disc and envelope and put them into his jacket pocket without a word. ‘Tell Mr Whelan we’ll be in touch.’

  Resentful eyes followed the two men as they exited into the dull winter sun.

  ‘Pleasant helpful lad,’ Andrews commented.

  West didn’t reply, his mind thinking ahead to which judge to approach and how to present his argument to achieve the outcome he wanted. Sometimes having a legal qualification acted in his favour. Judge Mahoney always came down hard on knife crimes. He’d try to contact him.

  ‘I’ll leave you to sit and go through the disc while I sort out the warrant,’ he said.

  Andrews, who was beginning to regret having the beer with his lunch, had his eyes closed. Murmuring in agreement, he allowed himself to drift off. It would be at least an hour before they were back. One hours sleep should prove beneficial.

  West gave him a glance and smiled. Beer or no beer, he invariably fell asleep. It suited him today; he had things to think about.

  It wasn’t until he pulled into his parking space in Foxrock, that Andrews opened his eyes. ‘We here already?’

  ‘You slept all the way,’ West said, turning off the engine. ‘You’ll be refreshed now and be able to watch this,’ he handed him the disc. ‘I’ll join you when I’ve spoken to Judge Mahoney.’

  ‘Ok, I’ll watch it in the Big One, I’ll get more peace.’ He walked back to the main office with West, grabbed his laptop and headed back to the vacant interview room.

  West sat at his desk and considered his options. He needed to speak to the judge. Looking up a number, he dialled, tapping his fingers on the desk as it rang several times. He was just about to give up when it was answered.

  ‘Clerk of court,’ a familiar voice said.

  ‘You’re still keeping the judges in order, then?’

  The hesitation was short. ‘As I live and breathe, Detective Garda Sergeant West, to what do I owe this pleasure...no, I don’t need to ask, you want something.’ A loud sigh was followed by, ‘Some things never change.’

  ‘And you were always helpful, Dobby,’ West said, remembering how William Dobson had taken him under his wing during those first days attending court.

  ‘So what’s the great need today then?’

  ‘I need to speak to Judge Mahoney. Can you help?’

  The sound of voices passing by drowned out his reply.

  ‘Dobby, I missed that.’

  ‘I said you’re in luck,’ the clerk said. ‘If you’re quick that is, he has about five minutes before his next case.’

  ‘Five minutes is all I need,’ West said, hoping he’d manage to get his proposal out in that time.

  The phone went dead for a moment as the call was transferred to the judge’s chambers. ‘You have two minutes before I’m due in court,’ Mahoney said, more than halving the five minutes Dobby had mentioned.

  ‘It’s Detective Garda Sergeant West, your honour,’ he said, ‘we’ve had a brutal knife crime here in Foxrock resulting in a man’s death. We think the knife was supplied from a shop in Kilkenny called Outdoor Sport. They said they’d provide us with CCTV footage of the time in question but they’ve carefully edited it and we think they’re hiding something. We want to go back with a warrant and get the lot. Knife crimes,’ he added, putting as much conviction into his voice as possible, ‘have to be stopped.’

  The silence that followed made him wonder if he’d pushed his luck.

  ‘Indeed,’ the judge said finally, ‘we appear to be on the same wavelength, Sergeant West. Give the details to Dobby and I’ll have it drawn up when I finish this sitting.’

  Five minutes later, he hung up. Dobby had the information he needed; he’d make sure the warrant was done.

  Taking two mugs of coffee with him, he made his way to the Big One, awkwardly holding the two mugs in one hand as he negotiated the door handle, finally resorting to kicking the bottom of the door.

  Andrews frown told him he wasn’t happy at being interrupted, but his face resumed its usual pleasant look when he saw who it was. ‘I thought it was that idiot Clarke again,’ he said, taking one of the mugs. ‘He wanted to interview a suspect. I told him to bugger off to the Other One, and leave me alone. He wasn’t too happy and went off grumbling about making a complaint.’

  The interview rooms, despite their names, were virtually identical. West never cared which one he used but he knew Clarke did. He would complain to Morrison, his complaint would be dismissed but he would bear a grudge, he always did.

  Brushing thoughts of Clarke and his moans out of his head, he took a chair beside Andrews and concentrated on the screen.

  ‘I’ve seen two of the customers,’ Andrews said, slurping his coffee and pressing resume to restart the footage. ‘Two more to go. Did you manage to get the warrant?

  ‘Did you doubt me for a moment?’

  Andrews grinned. ‘Judge Mahoney?’

  West nodded, and then reached to freeze the picture on the screen and peer closer. He shook his head. ‘I thought I recognised that guy.’ He sat back. ‘The judge was very happy to give us a full warrant to ensure that Oliver Fearon’s death isn’t the first in a spate of gang-related knife crimes.’

  Andrews looked at him sideways. ‘Gang-related knife crimes? That was gilding the lily a bit, wasn’t it?’

  West shrugged. ‘I had a couple of minutes to make my pitch; it had to be a good one. Anyway, he ok’d it, so we’re good to go for tomorrow.’

  They watched the remainder of the disc in silence. It didn’t take long.

  The last customer was the one they knew nothing about, the cash buyer. Both men instinctively moved slightly closer to the screen. But they were wasting their time. ‘Bloody hell,’ Andrews said, sitting back with a frown. ‘So much for not selling to dodgy-looking types.’

  The cash buyer, with a beanie hat pulled down to cover his hair and dark glasses almost completely obscuring his face, could have been anyone. All they were going to get was an approximate size and body shape.

  ‘But there is one interesting thing,’ West said, rewinding to watch again. ‘Watch, Pete. See, he must have asked for it by name. The assistant immediately goes and gets the Wild Ranger and hands it to him. He’s the only one who doesn’t look at any other knives.’

  They rewound the disc and watched
it again. ‘You’re right,’ Andrews said, ‘the other three looked at one or two others before deciding.’

  ‘I wonder if the original recording has sound. His voice might give us an indication as to where he’s from.’

  ‘We’ll be able to find out tomorrow. That assistant,’ Andrews nodded toward the screen, ‘that’s the young lad that showed us out. We’re not going to get much help from him, I’d say.’

  ‘I doubt if we’re going to be popular with anyone when we go back tomorrow. It will be interesting to see if we can wipe that helpful smile from Whelan’s face.’

  Andrews removed the disc and switched off the computer. Tucking it under his arm, he picked up his jacket. ‘I think we can safely say that we’re going to make Outdoor Sport’s day,’ he said, opening the door with a grin.

  14

  The first thing that hit West when he opened his front door was the smell of cooking. If his nose was right, and he hoped it was, Kelly had made lasagne, one of his favourites. He hung his jacket on the newel of the banisters, threw his tie on top and undid the top button of his shirt. The buttons of his cuffs were next. With his sleeves rolled up, he was definitely in relaxation mode. Smiling, he reached for the kitchen doorknob before stopping with a whispered, ‘Damn.’

  What was the name of the agent? Hardy? No...Grady. Owen Grady. With a sigh of relief, he opened the door.

  ‘I hope that’s lasagne I smell,’ he said, crossing the room.

  ‘It certainly is,’ she said, wrapping tinfoil around garlic bread and putting it in the oven. ‘Lasagne, garlic bread and a delicious bottle of Chianti to wash it all down.’

  He kissed her on the lips, then put his hands on her face and kissed her again. ‘Does this mean the meeting with Owen went well,’ he asked, stepping back and picking up the corkscrew to open the wine.

  ‘Sit,’ she said, ‘it’ll be ready in ten minutes. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.’

  He took the wine and two glasses to the table. Taking the far chair allowed him to watch Kelly as she bustled about the kitchen. She was a tidy cook, cleaning up after herself as she went along. She looked so different to the day he first met her. They’d come a long way.

  His mother was nagging him to meet her, as was his sister. He’d been reluctant up to now, afraid to rock the boat. But it was different now. They knew where they stood with each other. He frowned. That was the second time he’d had that thought today. Was he trying to convince himself?

  He shook his head and caught her eye.

  ‘Everything ok?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine, I was just thinking about work,’ he lied.

  She placed a plate in front of him, curls of steam rising from the lasagne. ‘Well, start thinking about this instead,’ she said, putting the basket holding the garlic bread in the space between them.

  Over dinner, Kelly told him about her meeting. If the name Owen Grady was mentioned more times than he liked, he tried not to let his feeling show. He was just her agent, and he was new, so of course she was going to talk about him. It didn’t mean anything.

  ‘That sounds like a good deal,’ he said when she mentioned the royalty payments from overseas sales.

  ‘He certainly knows his stuff,’ she said, taking another piece of garlic bread and scooping some of the lasagne onto it before popping it into her mouth. ‘It’s good that we get on so well.’

  ‘Definitely,’ West agreed, knowing it was the correct response.

  ‘How did Kilkenny go?’

  ‘We went looking for information on one crime and came back investigating another.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’

  He pushed his plate away and lifted his glass. ‘Seriously,’ he said, smiling at her wide eyes.

  A few minutes later, she was shaking her head. ‘Honestly, you and Peter are incredible. Most people would have just been grateful for that Whelan man’s help but not you two.’

  He held his hands up. ‘I have to admit I missed it, at first. It was Peter who pointed out that his helpfulness was just too...’ He searched for the correct word.

  ‘Helpful?’ she suggested.

  Smiling, he nodded and picked up his glass again. ‘Once Peter had said it, of course, I knew he was right. There was something a bit odd about it.’

  Kelly, seeing the prospect of a few nights away together moving into the distant future, frowned. ‘You’ve got the unsolved case with the child in the suitcase, and the murder of Ollie Fearon to deal with. And just to make sure you never have a moment, you go looking for more crimes to solve?’

  ‘Like an ambulance chaser, you mean?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She swirled the wine around in her glass before lifting it to her mouth and taking a sip. ‘It looks like our couple of nights away together won’t happen any time soon, doesn’t it?’

  There was that guilt again, washing through him. He reached across for her hand and rubbed it gently with his thumb. ‘I promise, as soon as things calm down a bit, we’ll go somewhere.’

  ‘And there’ll be no dead bodies.’

  He smiled and then screwed up his face. ‘An ambulance chaser and the angel of death,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you want to live with me?’

  Her hesitation wasn’t planned, but it was there and they both heard it even as she tried to cover it up with her rushed, ‘Of course I do, I love you Mike.’

  But the mood was spoilt.

  ‘There’s a programme on that I want to watch,’ he said, taking his plate and putting it in the dishwasher. ‘I’ll see you inside.’ He poured more wine into his glass and took it with him.

  ‘Damn,’ she said, pushing a hand through her hair. She finished tidying up, switched of the light and went into the hallway where she stood and listened to the rumble of the television. He’d be sitting on the sofa, one hand petting Tyler who no doubt would be curled up beside him.

  Suddenly, she felt like an interloper.

  15

  West didn’t know if she was asleep or pretending to be when he went up to bed after midnight. The programme he’d wanted to watch ended hours before but he didn’t want to face into one of those we have to talk talks.

  He was being unfair. She’d never actually ever said that. But the hesitation, that was real. So it wasn’t all as settled as he had being trying to convince himself.

  He lay quietly bedside her, listening to her breathe, and wondered what had gone wrong. It wasn’t something he could solve, a bit like his current caseload. So he did what he could, he fell asleep.

  Morning brought chilly weather outside and a chilly atmosphere inside. He made a pot of coffee and drank a cup standing at the kitchen window. The rain was heavy, more rivers than rivulets running down the glass. It wasn’t a good morning for a long drive.

  He turned when Kelly came in. ‘Hello, did you sleep ok?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, taking a mug from the cupboard and pouring some coffee.

  It was a four-letter word he dreaded. A female weapon guaranteed to bring a man to his knees. He knew, whatever he asked that morning, the response would be the same. He was damned if he was playing into it.

  ‘I’d better get going,’ he nodded at the window as he emptied the remains of his coffee into the sink, ‘traffic is bound to be heavier thanks to that deluge.’ He bent to kiss her on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, taking her coffee to the table.

  He knew when he was beaten. With a last look in her direction, he left, picking up his raincoat on the way. The post was early; he picked it up from the mat, quickly looked through and removed his, and dropped the rest on the hall table.

  Traffic wasn’t as heavy as he’d expected and he arrived in the car park before Andrews. He thought about going inside but knew, if he did, he’d be waylaid by someone about something. So he stayed in the car, turned up the radio and opened his post. The first couple were the usual rubbish that he tossed unread onto the back seat. The last, with his name and address h
andwritten in block capitals, looked to be more interesting ‘What’s this then?’ he muttered, tearing across the top.

  He hesitated when he saw the contents. Photographs. Three of them, he guessed, moving the top edges. No letter. Reaching over, he opened the glove compartment and pulled out vinyl gloves. Once they were on, he carefully extracted the photographs.

  There were three. And the subject was the same in each. It was Kelly as he’d never seen her before, posing naked, legs splayed. They left little to the imagination.

  A car pulled up alongside and glancing out, he saw Andrews getting from his car. He put the photographs back into the envelope and shoved them and the gloves into his pocket just as the passenger door opened.

  Andrews was full of talk about some match he’d watched the night before and wasn’t aware of the silence from the driver’s seat until they were well on the road to Kilkenny. When he did notice, he put it down to concern over the upcoming search. ‘Edwards picked up the warrant early this morning, your pal Dobby had it waiting for him. He and Baxter will meet us outside the shop. I told them ten.’

  West nodded but said nothing. His head was spinning. Who would have sent the photographs? And to what end?

  By the time they reached Outdoor Sport, he’d stopped trying to work it out and pushed it to the back of his mind. He needed to concentrate on what was happening.

  Edwards and Baxter were there before them, getting out of their car as they pulled in beside them. ‘Here you go,’ Edwards said, handing the warrant over.

  Andrews had already filled the two men in on the previous day’s events so they knew they were on, what amounted to, a fishing expedition. ‘Just keep your eyes and minds open,’ he said to them before he turned to West. ‘We might have company from Kilkenny, you know.’

  West nodded. The same thought had crossed his mind; Whelan’s tame copper might indeed show up. ‘Let’s worry about that if and when it happens.’

  They approached the door together. It opened before they reached it, and the nervous acne-scarred youth of the previous day peered out. ‘I thought we’d given you what you wanted yesterday,’ he said.