by Sam Blake
As if O’Rourke sensed her mood change, he rubbed her shoulder. She threw him a weak smile. He’d been through it with her.
Before O’Rourke could say anything his phone began to ring in the depths of his pocket. He stopped walking, grimacing as he listened to the caller. Cathy crossed her arms tightly and took a deep breath to still her anxiety, trying to focus on him and blank out everything around her.
‘Thanks, keep me posted.’ He turned to Cathy, ‘The tech lads are over at Farrell’s place. They’ve found traces of blood in his garage. It’s been hosed down and bleached, but they reckon there was a lot of it.’
‘Daniella’s?’
‘It seems a strong possibility. From Saunders’s report it’s looking like she died during some sort of sex game. I reckon Farrell panicked and called Nacek to get rid of her. There’s a strong chance that her head and hands are in a weighted sack at the bottom of one of the lakes, but unless we get a confession we may never know. Come on, lift is this way. We’ll see what Farrell’s thoughts are on the matter.’
As they arrived at the lift O’Rourke’s phone began to ring again. Cathy heard him exhale like a bull about to charge.
‘What the fuck?’
An elderly nun, who had appeared beside him, glared. He didn’t notice. Staring at the phone in disbelief for a moment, he slipped it back into his inside pocket and said calmly, ‘Farrell’s dead.’
Cathy swung around, looking at him, shocked. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Farrell had been fine when they’d last checked: how long ago was that, an hour? His injuries weren’t life threatening.
Finally she found her voice: ‘How?’
‘Doc won’t comment, could have been an aneurism, reaction to the drugs. They’ve only just found him. We’ll know more from the PM.’ He glared at the lift indicator as it clicked through the floors, his lips pursed in a hard line.
‘Has anyone been in to see him?’ Her eye met his. This wasn’t death by natural causes. Someone had taken him out, they both knew it. Could Givens have doubled back and still be in Dublin?
‘Only the medical staff, apparently. There’s been an armed Guard in the room since he arrived, for Christ’s sake. Obviously there are people out there who are very determined he doesn’t talk to us.’
Upstairs they weren’t able to get much more information. Beside the nurses’ station a group of medics had gathered, two doctors at its centre. As O’Rourke strode out of the lift one of the doctors broke away and held out his hand, ‘Inspector, Dr Murray.’
‘What can you tell us?’
‘Not much at this stage. His vital signs were being monitored, we were checking him at regular intervals. Everything seemed to be stable. I’m not very happy with his drip line, though, there’s a possibility it’s been tampered with.’
‘We’ll need to seal his room.’
‘Already done.’ Dr Murray was familiar with the procedure. ‘It’s this way.’ Reaching a door on the left, the doctor indicated that they could look through the glass. O’Rourke took a glance and pulled his phone out. Cathy slipped in behind him. Farrell looked like he was asleep, the only indication that something was wrong the fact that the machines surrounding him were all switched off. ‘We shocked him but . . .’ Murray shrugged.
*
Cathy waited while O’Rourke called in the techs and uniform to secure the scene. Leaning on the sill staring out of the huge window at the end of the corridor, rain forming droplets that coursed down the pane, her mind was clicking through all the information.
They’d raided the club – they had physical evidence as well as what must be hundreds of witness statements, had Irina’s testimony about what had been going on there. As the investigation continued they’d go through all the paperwork, the bank statements. So what was it that someone thought Farrell could have told them that they didn’t have evidence of already? What weren’t they seeing? Did he have information on arms, or drugs, on who was supplying them? Sarah Jane had said that Farrell had been sure her dad was invesitgating his operation, was looking for information on the connections between organised crime and terrorism. Was that it? Was there something much bigger going on here?
The Guard on duty hadn’t even left his post to take a piss. Which meant if someone had come in and done Farrell harm, they must have been dressed very convincingly as a member of the medical staff. Maybe the CCTV tapes would reveal something.
Her forehead on the cool glass, Cathy looked down on the tarmacked road that snaked through the hospital grounds and landscaped gardens. It was never quiet here, visitors constantly criss-crossing the car park, patients in dressing gowns and slippers hanging out, smoking. Behind her, Cathy could hear O’Rourke pacing the corridor. She could see his reflection in the glass – her own face pale, her crazy hair like a dark halo. Over her shoulder O’Rourke was a blur of navy blue, ghostlike. She glanced behind her; he still had his phone clamped to his ear. Turning her attention back to the limited view outside, she could see the rain was getting lighter, and those who had been sheltering, having a quick smoke break, were now making a run for it. A woman pushing a buggy appeared around the corner of the building heading for the car park.
Who knew Farrell was here? They hadn’t exactly made it public. Who would have easy access? Who would be sharp enough to mastermind something like this?
Then it hit her.
Rebecca.
It had been obvious from the second she’d mentioned Farrell to Cathy that she hated her ex; would she have done this to punish him for trying to take Jacob? Was she more involved in the restaurant than she’d let on? She ran her own business, was obviously in control . . . Billy Roberts had said he knew her from Spain, from before she’d met Farrell.
And Roberts was up to his neck in this.
The idea gathered momentum. The PM had suggested that Daniella had been asphyxiated during sex. Had Farrell called Billy Roberts first in a panic to help him dispose of Daniella’s body? Had Roberts called Rebecca? If Rebecca was the brains behind the business, that would make sense. Farrell sure as hell wasn’t. And Cathy would bet he’d not mentioned the semen . . .
Cathy thought back through all her interactions with Rebecca, starting with interviewing Jacob. What had Rebecca said? That Jacob didn’t lie? Had her reporting his sighting of Sarah Jane been a damage-limitation exercise? The information she’d provided had been sketchy, potentially misleading, but maybe that was deliberate? Givens drove a Range Rover, how could you forget that? Cathy’s mind went back to their chat, to Rebecca’s living room with the brass shell cases on the mantelpiece, to Rebecca’s African rug. Did she know Givens? Had she met him in Africa? The only people Cathy knew who had shell cases like that were operational in theatres of war, guys who had served with the UN.
And this morning with Sarah Jane, Rebecca had said she was in a hurry and then had been hanging about letting Jacob pet that puppy. Listening to their conversation.
And Jacob . . . Jacob was eight. He played Minecraft all the time. On the phone, when Rebecca had told her Jacob had texted her from his dad’s car, he’d said the man Farrell was meeting was like Action Man – how did he even know who Action Man was? That wasn’t his generation, it was Rebecca’s. Christ, she’d hired Givens, she must have done. And then when he’d found out what was really going on, Givens had gone after Farrell not knowing he had Jacob with him. That’s how Rebecca knew he was British army, not Irish – Jacob couldn’t have heard his voice on the phone from the back of the car, he couldn’t have told her – she already knew. And he’d hardly have fitted all that information into a text. Jacob must have called her all right, and then she’d panicked when she realised what was happening. Perhaps she’d tried to call Givens to stop him, but he was hardly going to answer his phone to her if he was about to murder her ex-husband.
Breathless, Cathy swung around to face O’Rourke. ‘It’s Rebecca.’
He looked at her in surprise, stopped speaking into his phone f
or a moment. And, as Cathy said it, another thing fell into place. ‘She’s the R. Farrell on the company directors list, not Richard. When they were married she would have been Rebecca Farrell. She must have reverted to her maiden name when they divorced.’
Before he could object, she was halfway down the corridor. ‘Come on.’ She spun around to face him, ‘Rebecca is the only one who knows Farrell is here – she’s next of kin. She needs to erase all her links to The Paradise Club and its operations. When Jacob saw Sarah Jane with Givens, Rebecca was in the restaurant, she must have spoken to Billy Roberts. Sarah Jane was drugged, but she’s starting to piece things together. I’m sure of it. Rebecca will be after Sarah Jane next, she can’t risk her remembering her being there.’
O’Rourke stared at her for a split second. ‘You sure?’
‘I know it. We need to find Sarah Jane. She’s meeting Jazz O’Connor at Keane’s Field at six. Rebecca was there when she told me. We need to get out there.’
*
The blue strobe light on O’Rourke’s dash illuminated their faces as he cut through the evening traffic. It was getting darker earlier every evening, and with the fine rain now falling the roads were a blur of moving lights. This was the worst time to try to get anywhere in Dublin, but they were only twenty minutes from Ballymun.
‘She’s not answering her phone.’ Cathy clicked out of the call. ‘Decko lent her an old one of his, but maybe the battery died. I’ll try J.P.’ Moments later J.P. answered. Cathy relayed it to O’Rourke, ‘She’s got his car, he doesn’t know when she left.’
‘Get him to contact Ballymun with the make and model. As soon as they spot it get them to call us.’ O’Rourke paused, ‘You’re sure about this?’
‘Absolutely. Rebecca said she’d do anything for Jacob. She’ll be terrified of losing him if anyone finds out about her connection to the club. I’d guess it’s only Billy Roberts and Farrell who know she’s behind everything. She goes back a long way with Roberts, and if he’s not been directly involved with The Paradise Club the only thing we can prove is that he helped Irina into a cab. He’s got nothing to gain by implicating her.
‘Farrell would have been the opposite, though – the minute he saw he was going down for everything he would try to bury everyone around him. I think she’s the puppet master, she’s controlling every-thing, came up with the idea of using Irina to impersonate Daniella, and then when it appeared to work, decided to try it again to direct suspicion away from the restaurant over Sarah Jane’s disappearance.’ Cathy stopped speaking, pulling at her necklace, ‘We should have realised it wasn’t Sarah Jane when Vijay didn’t recognise her – do you remember he was surprised when we told him that it was her getting into the taxi? He knows her but he didn’t recognise her. How big does the writing have to be for us to read it?’ She shook her head.
O’Rourke listened silently, nodding, concentrating on driving up the hard shoulder. The northbound traffic on the M50 was heavy but moving. On the southbound side it was parked. Cathy glanced over the central reservation. If they’d been heading the other way they’d need a helicopter.
50
‘Oh shit.’ Cathy leaned forward in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on a fire engine-red Golf parked at an erratic angle beside the flat scrub at the edge of Keane’s Field.
‘What?’ O’Rourke swung the powerful BMW off the road. Huge rocks littered the verge, an attempt by the Dublin City Council to keep traveller caravans off the land.
‘That’s Rebecca’s car. Look at the number plate. 161-D-2. Jacob told me.’
‘First car issued this year, after the Lord Mayor’s. Expensive. I can’t see J.P.’s car?’
‘If Sarah Jane’s here already she would have parked beside Tesco’s and walked over – she wouldn’t take the risk J.P.’s car would get keyed.’ Cathy swung the door open.
‘Hold on, Cat, we need back-up. If you’re right about Rebecca killing Farrell, she could be armed.’
‘No time. I’ve got a feeling.’ She pushed the car door fully open.
He swung his own door open, about to get out. ‘Not on your own.’
‘You’re wearing a suit and leather shoes. It’s muddy, the grass is like an ice rink. This one’s mine. We don’t have time to wait. I can do it.’
Before he could argue she was out of the car and running up the narrow slippery path worn in the patchy grass to the top of the slope. How long ago had she been here looking for Jazz? It felt like a lifetime.
A lot had happened since then.
On the other side of the hill Cathy knew the horse trough was the only focal point, nestled in a dip in the hills. Jazz had said there were stables on the far side of the field, out of sight, but the trough would be the place where Sarah Jane would meet him, Cathy was sure, and there was a good chance that’s where Rebecca was headed too.
Running silently Cathy reached the top of the hill, her black leather jacket, black sweater and combats blending in with the night. She’d grabbed her Nikes this morning when she’d got dressed, hadn’t had the energy to find her boots, and was very glad of them now.
As she reached the brow of the hill she realised she’d be silhouetted against the sky if she wasn’t careful – anyone could see her for miles. She threw herself onto the cold muddy ground using her elbows to shimmy up to the very crest of the hill.
Then she saw them.
Below her, two women, approximately the same height and build, one blonde, one darker, were standing twenty feet apart. Sarah Jane had her hands open wide, as if she didn’t understand what the other was saying. Even from this distance Cathy recognised the other woman as Rebecca Ryan, or Farrell as she had once been. She was holding a gun, two handed like she’d had experience, aimed directly at Sarah Jane.
Cathy’s mind switched up a gear, just like it did before a fight, like she had the other night at the reservoir and later at the cottage. It was something The Boss had taught her – a mindset that enabled her to filter out the background noise, the extraneous detail, so that she could coolly assess her opponent, calculate odds, assess angles of attack. It was a crucial ability that enabled her to centre herself, to bring all her skills into one place and focus on her target. Winning.
From up here Rebecca was way out of the range of her own SIG. The P226 was developed to use higher-capacity, double-stack magazines, but she’d need a rifle to ensure accuracy at this distance. She’d have a chance if she could get closer, but it was a long run across open ground. Rebecca might not be facing this way, but she’d be sure to catch Cathy in her peripheral vision and would have plenty of time to aim – even if Cathy kept moving she’d be a clear target with zero cover. Cathy pulled her gun from its holster.
How good a shot was Rebecca? It looked easy in the movies, but hitting a target of any sort took practice. Especially a moving one. Cathy knew she consistently hit ninety-eight per cent accuracy at the Garda range – she was good, but she wasn’t any use to Sarah Jane if she was lying wounded on the side of a hill.
The wind was buffeting across the hillside, changing direction, carrying snatches of their conversation towards Cathy and then out across the fields. Cathy could tell from Sarah Jane’s body language that she was talking to Rebecca, pleading with her.
‘You knew? You knew he’d killed Daniella?’ Sarah Jane’s voice suddenly reached Cathy – high, incredulous, Rebecca’s answer snatched away in the opposite direction.
‘He’s an idiot, always has been . . . needs someone to think for him.’ No prizes for guessing who she was talking about. Damn the wind – the horses in the stable at the back of the field were getting more of this conversation than Cathy was.
Then Cathy saw Sarah Jane take a step backwards, caught part of her next sentence, ‘You were there, you were in Billy’s office . . . I heard you talking to Givens, you knew him, you . . .’ Cathy lost the end of it, but she’d heard enough to confirm her suspicions. Sarah Jane was the crucial witness who could directly link Rebecca to Givens, to h
er kidnap. And now Rebecca had confessed to concealing Daniella’s murder. Had she organised for Nacek to dispose of the body?
Jesus, she needed to move now. If she stayed on her stomach, how far down the hill could she get without being noticed?
A moment later Cathy’s decision was made for her.
The sound of a shot ringing out across the Keane’s Field sent Cathy mentally spinning back to the car park beside the reservoir, to Farrell crying out in pain, back to pressing the central locking on her Mini, an explosion lighting up the night.
But she didn’t have time to deal with any of that now. Cathy watched in what felt like slow motion as Sarah Jane’s hand moved to her shoulder and she fell backwards, her body bouncing on the hard ground like a dressmaker’s dummy.
In that same moment Cathy took off so fast she felt like she was flying down the hill, realising that as each foot connected with the ground she could hear or feel something else, a deep rumbling vibration. The vibration of hooves pounding across the field.
She was still thirty yards away when a huge piebald horse with a rider appeared over the brow of the hill, ears back, mane flying, nostrils flared. Rebecca swung around, her attention on the horse, the sound of its hooves drowning the sound of Cathy’s Nikes on the grass. In a blur the horse was almost on top of her, a scream ripping through the night air as another shot rang out.
The horse stumbled and fell, landing heavily, throwing its rider like a rag doll, but Cathy had stopped running, and now within range, fired two handed. She could hear her heart thundering in her ears as Rebecca fell forward, her gun flying out of her hand, and then Cathy was on the move again, crouching beside her. She was conscious, rolling on the ground, her face contorted with pain and anger.
