Begging to Die

by Graham Masterton

  ‘We have a mother and a baby here,’ said Dr Kelley. ‘If you can store the baby away in the chiller for the moment, we should have enough time this afternoon to examine the mother.’

  Denis raised the sheet and looked underneath it, but said nothing. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and then lifted up the baby boy as carefully as if he were still alive. He carried him over to the cold storage units at the far end of the mortuary, slid out a stainless-steel drawer, and laid him inside.

  When he came back, Dr Kelley was bending sideways, peering closely at the purple blotches around Ailbe’s neck.

  ‘Mr O’Malley said she broke her neck falling downstairs, but this bruising is highly unusual for an injury like that. I could almost believe that she was throttled.’

  ‘Maybe she was throttled,’ said Denis, gravely. ‘Maybe she was throttled and then she was pushed downstairs afterwards to make it look like an accident.’

  ‘Oh stop,’ said Dr Kelley. But then she palpated Ailbe’s neck with her fingertips, and turned her head from side to side.

  ‘Her cervical vertebrae are dislocated all right, and I can feel a fracture, too. We’ll have to do a CT scan to tell exactly how extensive the damage is. But it does seem excessive for a straightforward fall downstairs. I’d say she’s suffered an abrupt rotation of the head. Look at the way it flops over. This is what you’d expect from a fellow having his neck screwed around in a rugby scrum, or the victim of a T-bone car crash. Not a young woman tumbling down a flight of stairs.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Denis.

  ‘Let’s scan her neck first, before we make our abdominal incision. I want to be satisfied that this was an accident, and that she wasn’t throttled and thrown downstairs afterwards, like you said.’

  ‘I’ll bet you a hundred yoyos she was.’

  ‘Denis – this is a mortuary, not a branch of Paddy Power. Have some respect.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Denis, and genuinely looked it.

  15

  On her way back to Anglesea Street Katie had to pass Gilabbey Veterinary Hospital, so she stopped off to collect Walter.

  She caught Dr O’Sullivan just as he was shrugging on his overcoat to leave. He went back to fetch Walter in his plastic dog carrier crate and set him down on the table in reception.

  ‘It’s a sin, and there’s no other word for it,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen far too many brachycephalic puppies in this condition. Whoever bred him, they should be waterboarded. Then they’ll know what it feels like to be gasping for breath.’

  Katie could hear Walter wheezing inside his crate and leaned over to give him a little wave and blow him two kisses. Then she turned back to Dr O’Sullivan and said, ‘You know as well as I do, Domnall, you’d only be fined for mistreating a dog, but if you did the same to a human you’d get six months in jail. Did you see that fellow who killed his dog in the Peace Park by stepping on its head – and what did the judge give him? Two hundred hours of community service, that’s all.’

  ‘Sure, but it’s so wrong. Aren’t dogs God’s creatures too? Even this unfortunate little pug.’

  ‘Well, thanks for taking a look at him,’ said Katie. ‘What do we owe you?’

  ‘My usual fee is seventy euros for an examination, but let’s call it fifty, plus twenty for the overnight stay. But don’t bother yourself with it now. My secretary will send you the bill.’

  ‘Is it possible to set him right?’

  ‘It depends what you mean by setting him right.’

  ‘Well, could you sort out his breathing, and take the swellings out of his throat, and make sure that his eyes don’t pop out? And whatever else he needs, do you know, like vaccination and worming and chipping.’

  ‘I could, yes. But it wouldn’t be cheap. I’m not saying you couldn’t find a vet in Cork less expensive than me, but these wouldn’t be simple operations and I’m not blowing my own trumpet when I say that I’m one of the best. If not the best.’

  ‘So how much are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve known Conor for years, so of course I’d give you a discount. Off the top of my head, I’d say three thousand. It could work out a doonchie bit more if there’s complications. But three thousand should cover it.’

  ‘As much as that?’ said Katie.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Conor will have to have a word with Walter’s owner, of course. She’s only a library assistant, so I don’t know if she’ll be able to stretch to that. Maybe she has pet insurance. I simply don’t know.’

  Dr O’Sullivan gave her a rueful smile. ‘I wish I could say that I could charge you less, but veterinary surgery can cost as much as human surgery, sometimes more so.’

  He hesitated, still smiling in the same regretful way. ‘I hope I’m not sounding morbid if I say that you could have him put to sleep for a hundred and twenty.’

  As if he had heard what Dr O’Sullivan had said, Walter let out a thin, hopeless whine.

  Katie looked in through the holes in his crate and said, ‘It’s all right, Walter. I’ll take you home this evening and you can have some of those training treats and sit by the fire with Barney and Foltchain again.’ Then she turned to Dr O’Sullivan. ‘I hope to God that he didn’t understand what you said then. I think he’s suffered enough, if only by being born.’

  *

  Back in her office, Katie had only just set down the dog crate under the window and hung up her coat when there was a knock at her open door and Detective Sergeant Begley and Detective Bedelia Murrish came in.

  ‘How’s the form, ma’am?’ asked Detective Sergeant Begley. ‘And how’s your Conor doing today?’

  ‘He’s on the mend, thanks, Sean.’ Katie had told her fellow officers that Conor had been taken into hospital but she had given them no more details than that. She hadn’t wanted to tell them that he had been beaten up, and how badly, or why, because then they would have been curious to know why she hadn’t yet taken any steps to identify and arrest his assailant. She had thought about inventing some story about him falling off a ladder while he was clearing the gutters around her house, but she had never been able to tell even the whitest of white lies. As her father used to say, ‘Telling a lie – that’s like setting a rat loose. It’ll always come back to bite you.’

  She sat down at her desk. As usual, there was a stack of messages and files on her blotter. ‘So – what’s the story with our deceased rough sleeper?’ she asked, quickly leafing through them to see if there was anything urgent.

  Detective Sergeant Begley came around her desk and laid down his tablet in front of her. On the screen there was a photograph of Matty lying face down on the pavement, staring at nothing.

  ‘I gave him a quick once-over, and would you believe it, he has a hole in the back of his head, in exactly the same place where our late friend Gearoid had a hole.’

  He swiped to the next photograph, a close-up of the back of Matty’s head. His scraggly hair had been parted so that Katie could just make out a small dark knobble of dried blood. ‘There, can you see it? I couldn’t tell for sure if it was done by a drill bit, but it would be one hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t, wouldn’t you think?’

  ‘Mother of God,’ said Katie. ‘Did your man have any other injuries?’

  ‘Minor bruising and scratches and contusions – only what you’d expect from somebody sleeping out on the street. His body’s on the way to CUH now for an autopsy but I have plenty of pictures for you. There’s something more, though. The technicians found bloodstains in the doorway that didn’t seem to correspond at all with the position that your man was found lying in, or the hole in the back of his head. As you can see, the hole has scarcely bled at all.’

  ‘So the bloodstains could have come from somebody else?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘And there’s still no trace of this woman who was always with him?’

  ‘Nothing so far. We haven’t been able to find any witnesses, but we’re chec
king through the CCTV footage and we should have the EvoFIT soon, if it isn’t ready now.’

  ‘Have we put a name to him yet?’

  ‘We found this in his jacket pocket,’ said Detective Murrish, and handed Katie a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a pale green Personal Public Service card, with a black-and-white photograph of an unshaven young man on it, with a strangely haunted look in his eyes. The name beside the photograph was Matthew Donoghue.

  ‘We checked with the Intreo Centre on Hanover Quay. When he first applied for his PPS number he gave his parents’ address on Military Hill, so we went up to see them.’

  ‘They were in bits, of course,’ put in Detective Sergeant Begley. ‘Upset, but not totally surprised. Your man was studying to be a solicitor but he was only halfway through law school before he got himself hooked on crack and fentanyl and who knows what else. He kept fleecing money from his parents to pay for his drugs and in the end they kicked him out. They told us that everybody knew him as Matty.’

  ‘But they didn’t know who his woman friend was?’

  ‘No. They hadn’t seen Matty since the last St Patrick’s Day parade, in the street. It was only by chance, and not to speak to, and so far as they could make out he was alone. But we’ll be taking the woman’s EvoFIT round to all the clubs this evening and showing it to some of the dealers. It’s a hundred to one that she’s a druggie too, so maybe some of them will reck her.’

  Katie sat silent for a while. Then she said, ‘That must be a pure profitable pitch for a beggar, that doorway. Plenty of footfall – plenty of shops and cafés and pubs all around.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, ma’am,’ said Detective Sergeant Begley. ‘We’ll be keeping our eyes peeled for whoever takes it over, once the technicians have gone, believe me, and I won’t be altogether gobsmacked if it’s a Romanian.’

  ‘No, me neither. I have such a strong feeling it’s this Lupul character behind this. Haven’t we made any progress in finding out where he’s based? Little Ana-Maria said it was a big house on a steep hill, didn’t she? A big house that smelled of cabbage.’

  ‘You’re talking about half the old houses on the northside, ma’am.’

  Katie pressed her fingertips against her forehead. She could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.

  Detective Sergeant Begley said, ‘We thought of driving little Ana-Maria around to see if she could pick out the house for us, and Kyna asked Margaret O’Reilly at Tusla if we could do that.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Absolutely not. The poor little girl’s still far too upset about losing her mother. The couple who took her in said she was screaming half the night with nightmares, that’s what Margaret told us. She’s worried that she’d only have to see the house and it could traumatize her even more.’

  ‘What about estate agents? Doesn’t anybody have a record of renting out a house to somebody Romanian? You wouldn’t easy forget a fellow who looks like this Lupul, would you, and talks with such a thick accent?’

  ‘We’ve checked with all the main ones, ma’am – Lisney and Savills and Charles McCarthy – and most of the smaller ones, too. Nothing so far. Of course, it could have been a private letting, like, or maybe it’s just a friend’s house.’

  ‘And how about that Romanian coffin-maker who’s taken over that spot beside the Savoy Centre? Have we seen anybody making contact with him? Giving him food or drink or collecting money from him? They could be tailed.’

  ‘Not so far, ma’am. The only people we’ve seen talking to him at any length was one of the Simons and some fellow who came out of The Long Valley, so wrecked he could hardly stand up.’

  ‘All right, keep trying,’ said Katie. ‘If it is Lupul, he’s doing this so brazenly that we’re bound to catch him one way or another.’

  ‘That’s what surprises me, do you know what I mean? It looks likely this Matty was killed the same way as Gearoid, and you couldn’t make it more obvious, could you, that they’d both been murdered – and both been murdered by the same offender. He could have used a little imagination, don’t you think, the murderer? I don’t know – maybe given one of them an overdose and pushed the other one under a bus.’

  ‘You’d make a first-class serial killer, Sean, no mistake about that.’

  ‘Now, myself – if I wanted to get rid of a rough sleeper without anybody finding out that it was me – I’d knock him out first with a length of scaffolding, so that it would look like he’d tripped over and hit his head on a street sign. He might be drugged up or langered already, in which case I wouldn’t have to. After that I’d simply sling him into the river. Nobody would be able to tell for sure if he was murdered, like, or if he’d fallen in by accident, or if he’d committed suicide. I mean, suicide’s the favourite. How many people did the riverdance in the Lee last year alone? Fourteen, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sure like, but maybe it’s not so surprising,’ said Katie. ‘What’s the usual procedure in Romania, when the police find vagrants deceased on the streets? It could be that they don’t always give them such a thorough autopsy as we do. Without an autopsy we could easily have concluded that our two rough sleepers died of natural causes – hypothermia or liver failure or some such – and that the scabs on the back of their head were only that – just scabs. After all, they’re covered in them. Needle tracks, psoriasis, scabies, rat bites, you name it.’

  ‘So you think that our killers may have used a drill because they thought we’d never catch on how these fellers died?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it? And that makes me think they might have done it before, either in their home country or here. Listen, I’ve a friend in the international fraud unit at Harcourt Street – DI Jimmy Joyce. He has regular contact with the police force in Romania, as well as Bulgaria and the Czech Republic and all the other Eastern European countries. I’ll ask him to check on their procedures, and whether they have any records of murders being committed with a similar MO.

  ‘I’ll also be asking DI Fitzpatrick to start nosing a bit more intensively around our immigrant communities here in Cork – especially Orchard Court. Maybe I’m wrong, and this Lupul is nothing more than a small-time gouger, but you have to ask yourself, don’t you, who else could it be?’

  ‘There’s that fat fellow.’

  ‘Oh… you mean that Ştefan Făt-Frumor. He’s a piece of work all right, but he’s been keeping a low profile lately, hasn’t he? I don’t know if he’s still in business even – here in Cork, anyway. Patrick O’Donovan heard some rumours that he’d moved most of his drug-running up to Dublin. So many of the Kinahans and the Hutches have either been shot or banged up that he saw there was a gap in the market.’

  ‘Lupul does seem to be our prime suspect, doesn’t he? Most of the Romanians I’ve come across are perfectly law-abiding. About the most criminal thing they ever get up to is pocketing the tips they collect from the car wash and not declaring them to the Revenue.’

  There was another knock at her door, and Chief Superintendent Brendan O’Kane came in. Katie could see that his hair was freshly cut, and there was a strange sly smile on his face, as if he had come to ask for a favour.

  ‘Kathleen… I heard you were back. How’s your – fiancé?’

  ‘He’s bearing up, thank you, sir. He might have to stay in hospital for three or four more days, but that’s only so that they can keep him under observation.’

  ‘You did tell me why they’ve taken him in, didn’t you? Perhaps I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘No, sir, I did not,’ said Katie. She paused for a moment to make it clear to him that she wasn’t going to tell him now, either. Then she said, ‘DS Begley and Detective Murrish have been briefing me about the homeless fellow who was found dead on Cook Street this morning.’

  ‘Well, that’s really what I came to talk to you about. That’s the second rough sleeper who’s died this week. I was wondering if there was any connection.’

  ‘It looks likely, sir, althou
gh we’ll have to wait for the autopsy. Gearoid Ó Beargha was killed with a drill bit into his brainstem, as you know, and this fellow Matty Donoghue has a similar wound on the back of his head.’

  ‘The media have been pestering Mathew McElvey down in the press office, that’s the thing, and he wants to know if we can release any details yet. And so do I. This is doing our image no good at all. The public don’t like to see the homeless sleeping on our streets, but on the whole they feel sorry for them, or else they wouldn’t give them so much money. And until they can find accommodation or shelter of some kind, we’re supposed to be protecting them. I made that pledge at that media conference, didn’t I? “No more Gearoid Ó Bearghas!”, that’s what I promised. What does this make me look like?’

  ‘Superintendent Pearse has extra patrols out at night, sir. But like all of us, he has only a limited budget and his officers can’t be everywhere at once. The ideal answer would be to clear all the rough sleepers off the streets, but where would they go? Apart from that, a fair number of them wouldn’t even want to go into shelters.’

  ‘So what do you intend to say to the media about this latest fatality?’

  ‘I’m not going to announce that Gearoid was murdered, not yet anyway. Even if it turns out that this Matty was murdered, too, and in the same way, all I’m going to say is that in both cases we’re still trying to ascertain the cause of death. For the time being I want our perpetrator to stay under the impression that he or she has got away with it, undetected. Of course there’s no way of telling for sure if that’s what they believe, but it’s a possibility.’

  ‘It’s the use of a drill, see,’ put in Detective Sergeant Begley. ‘Why use a drill when you could just stab them or shoot them or bash them over the head with a shovel? The drill holes, they’re well hidden in the victim’s hair, and what with all the other lesions on their scalps, it’s easy to overlook them, do you know what I mean?’