The Murder Loop, page 17
‘You’re incredible,’ Brady said. ‘You and your colleagues. I’m not blowing smoke up your ass. You couldn’t have paid me to set foot on that farm without a weapon, a team and a tactical plan.’
‘Yeah, well, we like to leave suspects alive and buildings standing when we’re finished.’
‘Enough already with the constant deflection. Take the compliment – I mean it.’
He was trying, and she knew it, and so contained her instinct to explode at him. She hadn’t exactly brought her best self to this evening either. She wanted some food, some wine, and to fuck hard for an hour and forget everything else for a while. But she was on edge, thinking of Sarah Delahunty in the station, wishing she could do more for her. And to top it off, there was a slight tremor in her hand every time she picked up her glass. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m just finding it hard to tune out of the day’s events.’
‘Tell me what’s most on your mind.’
That was more to her liking. Not making an assumption that the memory of being held at knifepoint was preying on her. Offering an invite to speak about things if she wanted to. She had given him only the bare bones of her day, given her inability to discuss case detail. But they had their killer now, and she felt she could trust him enough to say a bit more, explaining the role Sarah Delahunty had played and the effort she had made to assist Cass when attacked.
‘A good attorney, character references, testimony from you – maybe she avoids serving time?’ Brady said.
‘I hope. She wanted nothing to do with her father and never intended for him to be murdered. The rest is all chicken-shit.’
‘Unless it had been a colleague and not you.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Would you feel the same way if it was one of your colleagues who’d gone to the farm today and been attacked? Your life was put at risk. She was at least partly responsible for that. Maybe she should answer for it.’
It was a perspective she hadn’t considered. Chances were if it had been a colleague held at knifepoint – even the odious Devine – Cass would have wanted to beat the shit out of Peter Bannon and Sarah Delahunty.
‘Not my place,’ Brady continued, ‘and maybe I’m way out of line here. But seems to me you’re trying to prevent another family being ripped apart when you’re no more responsible for this woman’s conduct than you were for your husband’s. Sarah Delahunty had agency. The chips will fall as they may for her.’
‘Tell that to her kids tonight.’
Brady noticed her hands tremble when she lifted the glass: of course he did. But he wasn’t being patronising: he did admire her raw courage.
He wanted to tell her of his own trauma: being captured, coming close to execution. He wanted to tell her that after being rescued, he was unable to speak for an hour or more. The medics initially thought his jaw had been broken until an examination and X-rays told them it wasn’t; he simply couldn’t unclench his teeth from the shock. Could see and hear everything around him, could gesture but not speak. Couldn’t ask what had happened. Couldn’t ask for Pitch. Couldn’t answer questions about where he felt pain. Couldn’t thank his colleagues for saving his life. Couldn’t fucking open his mouth.
That’s what shock could do. And it scarred him, scrambled his mind – warped it, according to his ex-wife. The physical injuries healed in time but his mind didn’t. If he was being truthful with himself, he never holistically recovered, was never fit enough to return to the job. Whereas Cass… tremor or not, he had no doubt she would return to work tomorrow morning – and do her job. Incredible wasn’t doing her justice.
It hurt him to imagine ever having to hurt this formidable woman. The last thing he wanted to do was even consider it.
Which was ironic, considering he’d scouted her apartment some days previously – just as a precaution, more than anything. He didn’t go in – he’d been trained to blow doors open, not pick locks, and he had no idea what type of security measures she had. But he’d studied the apartment building and its surrounds – to know exactly where she lived, and relevant entry and exit points, in case he ever needed that information. But now she’d invited him in, and he could see everything he needed to know.
She woke in the middle of the night, bile rising in her throat. Brady’s side of the bed was empty and she registered the low hum of the television in the living room as she rushed for the en suite. She just about made it to vomit into the sink. Delayed shock.
She heard Brady rise and reached back to lock the bathroom door, not wanting him – not wanting anyone – to see her like this. She clenched her teeth and wished it were Peter Bannon in the living room right now. She’d drag him in here and drown him in the fucking tub.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The joy of being a grunt in a murder investigation, Cass knew, was that you never had to deal with journalists. An aggressive media placed additional strain on a team trying to solve a case. Demanding answers, obtaining inside information, publishing misleading stories, either through mistake or malice, and exacerbating fears in a community.
On the other hand, skilled senior officers could also manipulate the media to their advantage, driving required information into the public domain at the right time. From the clippings in the Nabila Fathi case, Cass guessed that the media coverage, eventually focusing as it did on the failure to catch the killer, had placed unwelcome pressure on Finnegan, though she had never said anything. The coverage in the Bannon case would turn into a different beast entirely now that a suspect was in custody. There was a solid chance that suspect would be charged and brought to court later in the day.
So Cass wasn’t surprised as she approached the station to see one of the local journalists, Con Hart, waiting outside with a photographer.
What did surprise her was Hart nudging the photographer who turned towards Cass, raised his camera, and started snapping.
‘Kate, a quick word?’
‘Why the hell are you taking photos of me?’
Hart nudged the photographer again, this time for him to cease, and beckoned Cass aside to speak privately.
She didn’t know him particularly well, but he had a reputation as an accurate, fair-minded reporter who, because of his reliability, also doubled up as a stringer for the nationals. That ensured just enough credence to hear him out.
‘I’m listening but not commenting. Got it?’
‘Got it. I heard last night about the circumstances of the arrest: that you went up to Sarah Delahunty’s farm alone. That you didn’t notify your superiors and that it might have been in breach of procedure–’
What the absolute fuck? No leaks on the team until the moment the suspect is arrested, and then somebody makes a ham-fisted attempt to undermine the investigation?
‘Gets your facts straight,’ she replied. ‘Speak to Kearney or Finnegan.’
‘I’ve no interest in embarrassing you or your colleagues by asking about this in front of other journalists. And the lawyers can hammer out the finer points as to whether the arrest was valid or not.’
‘Of course it was fucking valid,’ Cass snapped.
‘I don’t doubt you. The way I see it, there’s a much more interesting angle: Hero cop single-handedly disarms and captures suspect. I want to write that story, with a picture. The nationals will snap it up, and it will give you serious profile. So give me a couple of quotes and we’re laughing.’
No thanks – that’s the kind of profile that can kill a career. Colleagues looking at you suspiciously wondering whether you’re a bandit – stealing credit from the team.
‘No interest, sorry. This is a team investigation, a team effort. And it’s ongoing.’
‘You know I can write the piece anyway, with or without your cooperation.’
‘Print some crap like that and I’m sure the people inside will think twice about cooperating with you in future.’
‘I’m making a genuine offer here. My source wasn’t half as willing to give you credit – wanted me to run a very different kind of story.’
‘Tell me who your source was and I’ll happily put them straight.’
She ended the discussion and entered the station, brooding on the fact she now clearly had an enemy within, Devine being the obvious candidate.
She made Finnegan aware of the journalist’s proposed angle, just to ensure there would be no surprises at the media briefing. Finnegan was suitably pissed about the leak, and Cass knew she would pursue it. She also knew it would almost certainly be an exercise in futility, once one counted the sheer number of people on-site the previous day, any of whom could have spoken to Con Hart. Finnegan inquired a little less gruffly about her welfare; Cass told her she was fine – again – and went back to her desk. Where, an hour later, she got her second surprise of the day: a phone call from Maisah Sahraoui.
‘I am glad you caught the gentleman’s murderer.’
‘We have a person in custody, Maisah, that’s all. Nobody’s been convicted of anything yet.’
‘But it is important for the community, no? When one of your own people is murdered?’
It didn’t take a genius to see what Maisah was insinuating, and Cass didn’t like it.
‘I’m not quite sure what you mean by “your own people”, Maisah. If you mean “Irish”, let me assure you we make no distinction between victims – every case is a priority.’
‘Yes, but the murder of a white Irish gentleman must be solved. There is no question about this. People care about him. But not as much for Nabila.’
If you only knew how few people cared for him.
‘That’s not the case, Maisah.’
‘White Irish gentleman – case solved in no time. African refugee woman – more than one year – nothing.’
‘I understand your pain, Maisah, and I understand your frustration. But not every case is the same. Some take longer to solve. It’s not for want of effort. Everyone here – all of my colleagues – want to find the person who did this to Nabila.’
‘I want to believe that this is true.’
This was the point to avoid guarantees at all cost. It would only hurt more if the investigation progressed no further. Cass knew better than to give one…
But she also had no intention of failing Nabila Fathi.
‘I’ll show you it is true, Maisah.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
A week of arrivals and departures followed. The first to come was a seasonal bout of snow – the thinnest of coatings but enough to give the children some fun and cause a handful of minor traffic mishaps. Peter Bannon departed to Cork Prison, to remain in custody until his trial. Sarah Delahunty – much to Cass’s relief – arrived home, the Director of Public Prosecutions deciding there was neither sufficient evidence nor any public interest in bringing her to trial. Cass made a ham-fisted attempt to thank Finnegan but should have known better. Finnegan dismissed her with a curt, ‘We submitted facts, not feelings. The DPP took their own decision.’
The curtness was mild compared to the fury which Finnegan unleashed on the team over the leak. She thundered about the treachery of someone giving the media sensitive information that could have undermined the investigation. She made clear she had it on excellent authority – which sounded a lot like the journalist himself – that the source of the leak came from within the station. And she stressed that if it reoccurred, she would summon the force’s newly established anti-corruption unit from HQ to root out the guilty party.
Nobody came forward to confess; but there were no more leaks in the days that followed.
There was one further arrival towards the end of the week: the CCTV footage which Cass had requested from Dublin City Council.
As she queued the footage, it occurred to her that the Currency Comptroller was within walking distance of the national parliament. Like most rural politicians, Harbour Murphy spent three days of every week in Dublin attending the Dáil. She figured that, unlike some parliamentarians who opted for hotel stays, Harbour Murphy probably owned a place in the capital – which would give him a fair amount of privacy.
Someone had been waiting for Nabila to emerge from the Currency Comptroller the last day she was known to be alive – Cass was certain of it.
Harbour Murphy could easily have been in Dublin for official reasons the same day.
Her profound dislike of him aside, did she really think he was capable of being involved in something so nefarious that it had led to murder?
Old instincts slowly returning.
What were her instincts telling her now?
That he was an asshole, with an invisible hand in all sorts of schemes and scams.
But she couldn’t see him for the murderer, or even the orchestrator of it.
Within twenty minutes, she knew for sure. It wasn’t Harbour Murphy: it was someone new, unknown.
Cass couldn’t help reflect on how much easier the search would have been if the force had blanket, rather than partial, CCTV across the country.
Under law, the force could establish CCTV schemes in new areas for the detection of crime only, not mass surveillance. This was the government’s idea of a joke: the force didn’t have the resources for mass surveillance even if it wanted it, which it didn’t. What it did want was good coverage. What it had was CCTV in the main cities and some – but not all – of the bigger towns. Even in the cities, the CCTV wasn’t all-pervasive – it was confined to certain areas. If the CCTV network had covered every street, Cass would have had relevant footage much quicker.
And would have been staring at the face of the suspect much sooner, because the city council CCTV footage showed exactly what Cass had been seeking: Nabila Fathi running up George’s Dock and turning left onto Common Street before sitting into a small red car parked next to a vacant lot. The licence plate was clearly visible.
And so was the driver.
I’ve got this bastard now.
Cass ran a licence plate check and fed the image of the driver into the facial recognition system to determine if he had priors or was a suspect in any other crimes.
Nabila Fathi tried to exchange damaged banknotes in the Currency Comptroller, probably at this guy’s behest, possibly in return for a promised fee or possibly under threat.
The facial recognition system produced no match. But the licence plate database returned a hit.
It went wrong in the Currency Comptroller when Nabila was asked to identify herself and account for the origins of the money.
The car was a Toyota Yaris, eighteen years old. The plate was genuine, which didn’t surprise her, because any half-enterprising criminal knew the Garda Traffic Corps used an automated number plate recognition system which ran plates against the database and detected false ones. Rather than help evade detection, a false plate increased the risk of it.
In fright, Nabila gave a false name but her real address – possibly thinking that if she left the money behind for the Comptroller to process, a genuine address would be the only way of getting it back. Or maybe it was just a mistake borne from anxiety.
The Toyota was registered to one Charles Desmond, with an address in Boyne, County Meath. Cass didn’t need to obtain a picture of Charles Desmond to know he was not the man behind the wheel of the car.
Nabila was spooked when she returned to the car, and that in turn spooked the driver, particularly when he realised she had given her real address. If any inquiries ensued, the authorities would have the means to trace Nabila – and then trace him.
According to his date of birth, Desmond was seventy-two years of age.
So he decided to kill her, not in Dublin, but in more familiar territory – Glencale. Where he knew somewhere isolated to ditch her body.
The driver of the car was at least a couple of decades younger and olive-skinned – Cass guessed of Middle Eastern or North African descent. He had a neatly trimmed beard which slightly aged an otherwise cherubic, trustworthy face. The average person might have said this was not the face of a killer. Neither Cass nor any of her colleagues would make any such predictions, knowing how little appearances counted for anything.
The killer was smart enough to take her phone, to erase any messages between them. But he never searched her bag – possibly too jumpy by that point to worry about anything other than the phone and fleeing the crime scene – and that was his mistake.
A fellow asylum-seeker surely, Cass thought – that must have been the connection with Nabila. If he had arrived at an Irish port or airport and sought asylum, he would have been registered by her colleagues in the Garda National Immigration Bureau – with details such as name, date of birth, marital status, address and – crucially, photograph and fingerprints – all collected. The fingerprints in turn would have been fed into Eurodac, the EU’s biometric database containing fingerprints of all asylum applicants over the age of fourteen. She fed the photo into the relevant database and ran another search. She felt certain it would yield another hit.
It didn’t.
So all she could say with certainty right now was that the driver was not Charles Desmond (nor, for that matter, Harbour Murphy), that the licence plate was genuine, and that the car had not been reported stolen. Enough, still, to give her a number of threads to pull.
It’s supposition but I’m along the right track. Either this guy killed Nabila, or there was another party involved – an orchestrator, a ringleader – who did it.
She would also run the Toyota through every piece of footage she could get her hands on. Could she build a record of the journey the driver and Nabila took that day, through motorway CCTV and toll records and similar data? And more recently, had the car been seen around Glencale? Did, say, staff in any of the petrol stations recognise it? Had it been in for servicing at any mechanics?
