‘I told her I ate a packet a day here,’ he said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘I’m not stupid, if I told her I only ate the odd one she might think about cutting down my meals. This way, we’re both happy.’
‘You’re mixing with the wrong sort too often,’ West said with a shake of his head.
They switched to talking about their caseload until they heard voices approach, Sam Jarvis and Patrick Allen jostling one another as they tried to be first into the office with the news.
‘This is going to make your eyes widen,’ Allen said with a grin.
‘Widen? More like pop from your head.’
Andrews gave West an I told you so look that was ignored.
‘How about you grab a couple of chairs and tell us,’ he said. ‘Where have you put...’
‘Richie Gallagher,’ Allen said, filling in the name. ‘He’s sitting in the Big One.’
‘Right,’ Andrews said, ‘will one of you tell us what’s going on?’
Jarvis, with a look at Allen, nodded. ‘We called to his flat early this morning. We’d called a few times yesterday but he was never there and we’d gone to a few places where he was supposed to hang out but he was nowhere to be seen. It was beginning to look like he’d done a runner. But he swears he didn’t know we were looking for him. He said he was busy all day yesterday and didn’t get home until early morning.
‘Busy doing what,’ Andrews asked.
Allen met Jarvis’ eyes and they both shook their heads. ‘We wanted him to talk to us about what Fearon was into, so we didn’t ask him,’ Allen said with a shrug. ‘In fact, when he looked a bit nervous we told him we hadn’t the slightest interest in what he was doing, that we just wanted to know about Ollie Fearon. He was very forthcoming then.’
Jarvis nodded. ‘He said Fearon had contacted him last year and asked if he were interested in doing a bit of smuggling.’
‘Drugs,’ Andrews said, shaking his head.
‘No, not drugs. People.’
‘People?’ West and Andrews exchanged looks.
Jarvis nodded again. ‘Fearon told him they’d go over in a camper van or something similar and bring people back hidden in a false bottom. Gallagher was paid five k upfront and another five when they arrived back in Ireland. He did it twice and then he didn’t hear from Fearon for a few months. About seven months ago, he bumped into him and asked if there were any more trips planned. Fearon laughed and said he was going solo. He told Gallagher that it was more lucrative for him, he got to keep all the money for himself.’
Jarvis stopped and ran a hand over his face. ‘He was bringing children over. Gallagher said some were for families who wanted a relative rescued from migrant camps, but not all of them. Fearon didn’t care as long as they coughed up the money. He said it was less risky than trafficking adults. He went over with a suitcase, spent some time in a hotel, organised someone to bring the child in question to a designated space, then the child was squeezed into the case and carried back on the ferry.’
‘You see now why we wanted you to hear his story,’ Allen said, his face grim. ‘It puts a different spin on our child in the suitcase.’
West sat stunned, his mouth hanging slightly open. Not in his wildest imagination would he have linked the child in the suitcase to Ollie Fearon’s murder. He closed his mouth and gulped. ‘So Ollie Fearon may have been paid to bring our child over.’
Jarvis and Allen had talked about nothing else on the drive over. ‘That’s our guess,’ Jarvis said, ‘but then, probably because of the Sickle Cell disease, she dies before he can deliver her.’
‘Leaving one very unhappy customer,’ Allen said.
‘Who got his revenge by killing him.’
West nodded. Mostly, it made sense. ‘Why wait till now? The child died six months ago. Why wait until now to get revenge?’
‘What’s that expression about revenge being a dish best served cold?’Andrews asked.
West shook his head. ‘She was a child, hardly more than a baby. If it were family, I think they’d have acted immediately.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t family,’ Jarvis said. ‘According to Gallagher, Fearon was happy to supply children to whoever paid him. We all know what that means.’
Unfortunately, they did. Was Fearon supplying paedophiles? ‘Let’s go talk to him,’ West said, standing, ‘maybe we can persuade him to remember more of the details.’
But Richie Gallagher, intimidated by the grim looking men who sat opposite, had no more to contribute. In fact, he was desperately trying to recant all he’d told them. ‘Made it up, didn’t I?’ he said, looking wild-eyed at the detectives.
Allen and Jarvis had made the right call to get as much information out of the man while he was in an expansive mood. Despite reassurance that he wasn’t being charged with any crime, he insisted he knew nothing, getting more and more panicked as the minutes passed.
Finally, almost an hour later, West shook his head. ‘Get him out of here,’ he said to Baxter. He didn’t have to tell Gallagher twice, the man leapt up and was out the door before anyone could change their mind.
‘It’s a shame we can’t arrest him for people trafficking,’ Andrews said, as the door closed behind him.
‘With him spouting that he made it up to impress the lads,’ West said with a regretful shake of his head. ‘We’ve no proof. I think we should just be grateful he was initially so forthcoming.’
They headed out of the room together and stopped in the corridor outside where the main notice board covered most of the wall. The photo of the reconstructed child’s face was there, its central positioning unchallenged. ‘So maybe someone wanted the poor child,’ West muttered. ‘I just hope it was for the right reason.’
Back in his office, he picked up the phone and rang Morrison.
‘Inspector,’ he said when the phone was picked up. ‘I have some news for you regarding two of our cases.’
‘Well, I hope it’s good news,’ Morrison said bluntly.
‘Of a kind,’ West said. ‘It appears that our child in the suitcase might be linked to the murder of Ollie Fearon.’
‘What?’
West smiled, remembering his own reaction to the news. He decided to take the man literally. ‘It appears that our...’
‘Yes, yes, I heard you the first time,’ Morrison said testily. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Jarvis and Allen have just interviewed someone who knew Fearon. He told us about his involvement in trafficking.’ West decided it was in his best interest to leave out the details of Gallagher’s involvement. He wasn’t too sure the inspector would agree with letting him leave. When Ken Blundell’s face popped into his head, he batted it aside. ‘It was adults initially,’ he continued, ‘but then it appears he found smuggling small children to be more lucrative.’ He waited a moment before he added the clincher, smiling to himself as he thought of what Andrews would say. Maybe it was diva behaviour, but sometimes it was allowed. ‘He carried them across in suitcases, inspector.’
‘Well, well,’ the inspector said, obviously as stunned as they had been with this turn of events. ‘A very interesting twist, sergeant. Is this going to assist in solving both cases?’
West had no idea, but he wasn’t going to say that. ‘It’s opened up a range of possibilities, inspector.’
Morrison, who had to play politics every day, said, ‘Indeed,’ and hung up.
The smile on his lips faded as he sat back in his chair. A range of possibilities. He couldn’t think of one. Clasping his hands across his stomach, he twirled his thumbs, and thought hard. It was worth re-interviewing all Fearon’s associates. It would also be worthwhile showing Fearon’s photograph around. He was getting his customer’s somewhere. He picked up a pen and started writing.
When Andrews appeared in his office door a few minutes later, he waved him in and tapped the list he’d made. ‘Have Fearon’s photograph emailed to any sub-Saharan embassy we have in Dublin, Pete. He may have been sourcing his customers there. Same wit
h any immigration assistance groups. In fact, anywhere you can think of. We need to narrow this down somehow.’
Andrews took the list and nodded. ‘Gallagher said he’d been given five k upfront and another five on completion. Fearon was more than likely receiving a lot more, but even at a conservative estimate we’re talking about twenty grand. So I think embassies may well be a good place to start.’
Andrews wasn’t sure where sub-Saharan Africa started or ended, so he emailed the photograph to every embassy on the African continent that had an office in Dublin. To his surprise, less than an hour later, they had a reply from one of them.
‘The embassy of South Africa,’ he said, standing in the doorway and grinning at West who had returned to working on the audit.
‘You’re kidding me?’ West said, taking the email and skimming over it quickly. Then he reread it slowly. ‘So Fearon has been seen at the embassy several times.’
Propping his shoulder against the doorframe, Andrews nodded. ‘I rang them and spoke to a Jason Betterman. He said Fearon called a number of times with spurious questions about applying to work in Cape Town, and vague queries about health and welfare. Initially he was viewed as harmless but they began to be suspicious when he just started hanging around and he was told to take a hike.’ He grinned. ‘They put it more politely but it amounted to the same thing. The time frame gels with what Gallagher said.’
‘It might be worthwhile going to speak to them,’ West said.
‘How about at three?’
‘You’ve already organised it?’ West said with a shake of his head. ‘Where is the embassy anyway?’
‘Earlsfort Terrace. We’ll need to leave pretty sharpish.’
West closed the audit with a sigh of relief. He’d get it done, eventually. Morrison, he knew, would be far happier with a result in the case than a result in the audit. Actually, he reconsidered; he’d want a result in both. But he would just have to settle for one.
Less than an hour later, they were searching for a parking space on Earlsfort Terrace, West, unwilling to park illegally and stick up a Garda Business card, and Andrews arguing they should. It was an old argument that thanks to his seniority, West always won.
‘There,’ he said, spying a car pulling out several yards ahead.
They walked the short distance to the Earlsfort Centre, following directional signs for Alexandra House where the South African embassy was located.
‘It’s on the second floor,’ Andrews said, pushing open the door into a wide ground-floor reception area. A security guard stood to one side and two reception staff sat behind a long curved desk.
There was no stairway visible; signs directed the two men toward a lift, which took them past the watching security man. West could feel the man’s eyes boring into them. Not much would escape him, he guessed. It might be a good idea to have a word with him before they left.
The reception area on the second floor was smaller. Again, it was manned by one security guard and two reception staff, both of whom were dealing with customers.
Rather than wait, they approached the security guard and explained who they were looking for.
He gave them a quick once-over before nodding and walking to a wall-mounted phone. Moments later, he returned and indicated that they follow him.
‘A man of few words,’ Andrews muttered as they followed him down a short corridor.
The guard stopped abruptly at the third door. He knocked on it, pushed it open and waved them inside without a word.
Jason Betterman stood with a smile. Tall and gangly, he reached a hand across the desk to shake their hands. ‘Cal is a great security guard but social niceties aren’t his forte, I’m afraid. Please, have a seat. May I offer you some coffee?’
Both men declined. ‘Thank you for replying so promptly to our email this morning, Mr Betterman,’ West said, following introductions. ‘We’re investigating the possibility that this man, Ollie Fearon, was responsible for the death of a young refugee child. She was found in a suitcase. We’ve recently learnt that Fearon used this means to smuggle children into the country.’
‘In a suitcase? You’re kidding me?’ Betterman grimaced. ‘Mind you, I shouldn’t be surprised. We stop one means of people trafficking and they come up with another.’
‘The child in question was around two years old. Malnourished, she would have been small for her age. And children,’ Andrews said with a sad smile, ‘are remarkably limber.’
‘She had Sickle Cell Anaemia,’ West told him. ‘We’re running with the theory that she died from lack of oxygen. Fearon was paid, probably very well, to bring her into the country. When he opened the case and found the child dead, we think he panicked and dumped her. He has subsequently been murdered. We’ve only recently discovered the connection.’
‘You think whoever paid him to bring over the child, killed him when he didn’t deliver?’
‘He was murdered recently; she died around six months ago. But yes, we’re running with the theory that whoever paid him also killed him. We just need to find who his contact was.’
‘You think that’s why he was hanging around the embassy?’
West shrugged. ‘People at refuge centres probably wouldn’t have the wherewithal to pay him. Embassies were the other option.’
‘I’m not sure why,’ he said, his forehead creasing as he tried to see where the detectives were going with this. ‘South African’s would have no problem taking bringing their children here legally.’
‘But Fearon was here in the embassy,’ West said, frowning. ‘And he wasn’t here for travel advice.’ He was close, he knew it. ‘What about illegal immigrants to South Africa. Isn’t it true to say that your townships can have upward of several thousand illegals at any one time.’
Betterman smiled grimly. ‘Unfortunately, that is true of some of them, but there would be no point in coming to me for help there. If they were undocumented, there would be no way I could trace them, and even if I could, I couldn’t help them bring her here. She’d be sent back to her country of origin, wherever that may be.’
West’s frustration was clear. ‘We have it on fairly good authority that Fearon was smuggling children into the country. He was hanging around your embassy several months ago and six months ago a child from the sub-Saharan continent was found suffocated in a suitcase.’
Betterman held his hands out. ‘I’m not disputing your argument, Sergeant West; I’m just not sure how I can help you.’
West rubbed a hand over his face. ‘You might not have been able to help bring the child out, but did you have any requests of that nature.’
‘Have you any idea how many queries we deal with on a daily basis?’ he said. ‘Hundreds. The desk-staff deal with most, pointing people in the right direction, giving them answers to simple questions. Many of the requests and queries wouldn’t even have been logged.’
‘Can we speak to them?’
‘Sure,’ he said, picking up the phone. ‘It will have to be one at a time.’
Betterman sat back with his long arms crossed while West questioned each of the two desk staff. When the second left the office, he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help. I do hope you find who you’re looking for. Although,’ his face turned harsh, ‘to be honest, it sounds like your Fearon got what he deserved.’
People always said that when a bad guy got killed, West thought. As if it was poetic justice of a sort. There was nothing poetic about murder, no matter who the victim was. Thanking Betterman, they left the office.
In reception, they stopped to speak with the security man before they left the second floor. He looked at the photograph they handed him, shook his head, handed it back and said nothing.
‘Do you reckon he can speak,’ Andrews said before the lift door had even closed.
Suddenly, the guard put one muscular arm between the two doors causing them to bounce open. ‘Goodbye and have a nice day,’ he said, and then stood back.
West and A
ndrews exchanged looks when the door closed. ‘Jesus,’ Andrews said, ‘that’ll teach me to keep my big mouth shut.’
Since West had been thinking much the same thing, he didn’t comment.
The security man they’d seen in the main reception was nowhere to be seen when they exited the lift. They lingered, Andrews reading notices on the notice board, West checking messages on his phone.
They didn’t have to wait long before he reappeared. He came through a door on the far side, his eyes sweeping the room to check it was as he left it. Then his eyes landed on the two detectives, and stayed there.
‘Maybe he’ll be chattier,’ Andrews said as they crossed the reception to talk to him.
They were in luck. As soon as they introduced themselves, the man’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘I guessed, you might as well wear a uniform it’s so obvious.’
West returned the smile. ‘We’re looking for information,’ he said, ‘we’re hoping you might be able to help.’ He took out the photograph of Ollie Fearon. ‘We know this man was seen around here several months ago. We’re wondering if you remember him.’
‘Sure,’ the man said, handing the photo back. ‘He called up to the South African embassy a few times and then he hung around here until I told him to sling his hook.’ He shrugged. ‘Never saw him again after that.’ His smile turned mean. ‘When I tell someone to go, they generally stay gone.’
‘How do you know he went to the South African Embassy,’ Andrews asked. ‘There are other businesses in the building, other floors he could have got out at.’
The guard jerked his head toward the lift. ‘I watch the floor number,’ he said. ‘I know where everyone goes.’
‘Do you remember seeing him with anyone?’
A group of people came through the door, chatting loudly. The security guard’s attention was immediately diverted to them and he watched until they got into the lift, and then until it stopped. He nodded as if he’d guessed rightly and then returned his attention to the detectives.
Death in Foxrock (A Garda West Crime novel Book 4) Page 18
