The Murder Loop, page 21
Cass was trying the same bluff, but unsuccessfully: her face was white with fear.
What gave me away?
I hid every trace. There is nothing in the house – nothing – that could be used against me.
I didn’t use the shotgun to kill, and there’s no way she found it – it’s too well hidden.
She got the coat from the spare room.
Nothing there but tools, a knife, my backpack. The backpack that’s fully packed – clothes, toiletries, passport, minor sums of money – as a precaution.
Indicative of nothing by itself. Certainly not indicative that its owner is a killer.
But somehow, she’s figured it out.
She knows.
And if he had even the slightest doubt, the manner in which she fled the house would have dispelled it.
Leaving her clothes behind, ramming the car into reverse, before taking off like a bullet from a gun, absolutely terrified.
If he were an innocent man, he would have thought her insane.
But he wasn’t, he’d been reckless – and it was time for Plan B.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
What had she really seen? What could she actually prove?
By the time she’d reached the station, Cass had driven through a hurricane of emotions.
Relief – simply to have escaped in one piece. Rage – at the thought of how Nabila had died. Self-recrimination – for getting so close to Brady and not seeing him for what he really was. Anxiety – desperate to ensure his immediate arrest, but unsure how to effect it, given the circumstantial nature of the evidence. Irritation – for giving into her fears and fleeing when she should have taken him into custody there and then. And doubt – the worst of all, tracing inexorably through her veins, telling her she was suffering from delusion. The further away from Brady she got, the greater the doubt she felt…
It was, after all, the first unspoken rule of any case: don’t go all in on a witness. Memory could be faulty, and an uncertain witness’s testimony in court could be torn apart by the defence. What a person saw and what they remembered seeing... well, it was like the image a person had of themselves versus how they were actually seen by others: the gap could be the size of the Grand Canyon.
So what did I really see? What can I actually prove?
One damaged banknote.
The damage looked identical to that on the notes found in Nabila’s rucksack.
That was the sum total.
What had the Currency Comptroller said in relation to the Benghazi notes?
They started showing up around Europe, individuals walking into central banks across different member states and trying to exchange the damaged notes for new ones. Both in small and large quantities. Including in Ireland.
Which meant the notes were in circulation – even if limited circulation.
It was entirely possible – if not exactly plausible – that Brady’s possession of one such note was entirely coincidental…
I spent time in the guy’s company and slept with him, for fuck’s sake. We were good with each other, good for each other. We were building something and it felt reassuring – promising – for both of us. There was a touch of reticence on both our parts but no hint of subterfuge in it – not one.
Besides, why would he even risk associating with a police officer if he had murdered two people? Unless this was an act of subterfuge from the start. To find out what the police knew. To determine whether he had cause to worry or was on safe ground. That day outside the station: maybe it wasn’t accidental that we encountered each other. Maybe he had researched me and knew everything about me and waited until I appeared. Maybe I was just an easy mark.
But he’s not that fucking good, nobody is. And could my antennae be so lousy that I wouldn’t have spotted something was amiss?
I saw a damaged banknote.
And can’t prove anything right now.
So process what I do have until I can prove something.
What she had to process consisted of a blurry photograph and the fork she had taken from Brady’s kitchen.
The station was mercifully quiet when she arrived – just the overnight duty officer, who was on a call which spared Cass the need for small talk, although she noticed his querying look at her unusual choice of clothing. She changed back into the uniform she had discarded with so much relish the night before – it seemed like a lifetime ago now – and took the time to make a strong coffee before sitting at her desk to plot her way through the next steps.
Generally speaking, a person’s property was inviolable, and could only be searched with a warrant. But there were, of course, exceptions. The law had been amended a few years back to recognise that, occasionally, a member of the force could find themselves invited somewhere in which they then saw an item which they believed to be evidence of a crime. In such circumstances, they were legally entitled to seize and retain the item.
Cass had been invited onto Brady’s property – she hadn’t been trespassing. But in her haste to avoid detection, she felt sure she’d made what was, in retrospect, a clear mistake. The note was the potential evidence linking Brady to a crime – that was the item she should have seized, and would have had legal cover to do so. By contrast, the law did not envisage taking a random item unconnected to a potential crime for the purposes of a DNA sample. Cass felt fairly sure a court would view the DNA sample as illegally procured – if it even got as far as a court.
So what to do? It had seemed so clear-cut in the church. But now? Just all-pervasive doubt again. Her instinct was to seek advice from Finnegan, but she couldn’t countenance telling her the extent to which she’d got involved with a person she now suspected of murder. Nor did she want to tell Finnegan about the manner in which she’d taken the DNA sample from the house, or lost her bottle and failed to arrest him on the spot.
Get over yourself. Nabila is dead, Akeem Issa is most probably dead too, I know their likely murderer, and I’m sitting here worrying about Finnegan? Yes, because she really will think I’m a basket case, unmoored, unprofessional, unworthy of the job – a job I know I want to keep doing now.
But there was no way around it – all roads led back to her superior. Finnegan already harboured suspicions that Cass was prone to solo runs – the episode with Peter Bannon being the prime example. Even if it were true – and Cass didn’t believe it to be so – this was too significant to keep from her.
Besides, my fucking judgement is shot. I couldn’t see Brady for what he was. This needs a grown-up in charge now, someone actually capable of rational perception.
Lost in thought, she was startled by the ping of her phone. She saw immediately it was from Brady, and after a moment’s hesitation, clicked open the message.
Dinner 2nite? I’ll collect car then – can get lift in. Kill 2 birds with 1 stone.
Her instant reaction was one of cautious welcome: this would give her the day, which might even give her a route to get legal clearance to search Brady’s car.
But why was he acting so normally? Could it really be that he saw nothing erratic in her behaviour a few hours earlier, or had bought her pretence?
And then she read the message again.
Kill 2 birds with 1 stone.
Was it some coded declaration?
Was he taunting her?
Whatever this was, better to keep the pretence going. Seized with anger, she texted him back as seemingly normal as she could.
Sounds good. I’ll book somewhere.
Somewhere public. Somewhere safe. With a fucking posse ready to arrest you, you treacherous murdering bastard.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Cass didn’t expect an FBI agent’s work ethic to stretch to being awake at 4am. But she figured Nicole Wilson would have her phone within reach and, more importantly, would answer, despite the five-hour time difference between their respective locations.
She was correct: Wilson answered, groggy and distinctly unamused. ‘Please tell me it’s a goddamn emergency.’
‘It is. The guy I asked you about – Mason Brady?’
‘What’s he done?’
‘He may have committed two murders.’
‘May have? Cass, you’re ringing me at this hour with a suspicion?’
Yes, I caught my ‘may have’ too. Because I’m going hot and cold. I know what my head is telling me – I saw the evidence with my own eyes. But I can’t reconcile what he’s done with the person I spent time with. He’s a treacherous murdering bastard. Maybe.
‘I know you can’t tell me much,’ she said. ‘I just need an answer to a single question.’
‘Cass–’
‘Did he serve in Benghazi? That’s all I need to know. He did, right? He did a stint there. Just confirm that much for me.’
‘I’m not confirming any goddamn thing.’
‘He’s a double murder suspect, Nicole. One of the victims was twenty-four. She’d just been granted refugee status. Could finally see a better life ahead of her. Someone hit her, strangled her and dumped her body in the woods.’
There was a groan as Wilson processed what she’d been told. Cass looked at the clock and thought, not for the first time, that while Nabila’s killer would get a mandatory life sentence, they’d technically become eligible for parole in twelve. Nobody could give Nabila her life back; Cass failed to see why her killer should eventually get his back. And then, as sometimes happened, she felt a twinge of guilt as she thought about her ex-husband in prison. She hated him, she thought he’d got off lightly, and yet, she’d known him long enough to know what seven nights in prison would do to him, let alone seven years…
‘You know I’m not unsympathetic, Cass,’ Wilson said suddenly. ‘But why the hell does Benghazi have anything to do with two homicides in Ireland?’
Cass explained about Nabila Fathi, Akeem Issa, the damaged banknotes and what she’d seen pinned to Brady’s dartboard. ‘Brady being in Benghazi is the link to Issa and Nabila,’ she added.
There was a long pause, before Wilson said: ‘Could just be a coincidence.’
‘Thank you,’ Cass replied, feeling a flood of relief to have a link finally confirmed. ‘I won’t bother you again with this unless I have proof.’
‘I didn’t tell you anything. And Cass?’
‘Yes?’
‘If you do get proof, don’t hesitate to call – even at 4am.’
Cass had decided she needed something else before going to Finnegan. And in the short time available to her, she had two ideas. Nicole Wilson had been the first. Fiona Mitchell was the second.
Absurdly, Cass looked over her shoulder as she made the short walk from the station to the estate agent. For sure, Brady could have already made his way into town somehow, but he wasn’t going to attack her on a public street in daylight.
Having received an advance call from Cass, Mitchell was at the door when she arrived, and ushered her through the pleasant and airy reception area and open-plan office into a considerably more cramped rear room, with boxes of brochures and associated paperwork piled at either side of a well-worn desk bearing a laptop and decades of coffee cup rings. Her father’s desk probably, Cass thought.
Like her, Fiona Mitchell had gone into the family business, before assuming full control of the estate agency when her father had died a few years previously. She was well liked around town, professional and fair to deal with; her honesty helping the firm gradually overcome her father’s cut-throat reputation.
Cass declined the offer of tea or coffee and got straight to the point, explaining that she was looking for some background information – confidentially of course – on Brady’s purchase of the church.
‘We’re off the record?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Yes, just background queries at this point.’
‘Well, there was nothing unusual about it, if that’s what you’re asking. It was a cash deal–’
‘He paid outright in cash – no mortgage?’
‘Yes, but that’s pretty common these days. You’ve got your standard portion of first-time buyers or families trading up who need mortgages or refinancing. And then you’ve got a portion of people who’ve got a bit of savings or proper wealth, looking for a new home or a holiday home in a nice part of the world. Looking for a bit of isolation and privacy in some cases. We see a lot of those buyers in Glencale, do good business because of them, particularly on higher-end properties. Brady’s purchase was nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘And where did the cash come from – do you remember?’
‘Well, he didn’t walk in with a suitcase, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Mitchell said, laughing. But then she saw the look on Cass’s face. ‘We have guidance against that kind of thing, to prevent money laundering,’ she added.
‘So the money came through a normal route?’
‘US bank account, I recall. But no hiccups on any of the bank transfers.’
‘Did anything else strike you about him?’
‘I can’t say anything did. He was pleasant to do business with.’
‘Did you have any more contact with him after the sale was completed?’
‘Yes, he asked for recommendations for tradespeople – electricians and plumbers. I gave him the names of the guys we work with.’
‘He needed certification, right?’
‘Yes. And then he asked us out a couple of months ago to take shots.’
‘Shots?’
‘For these,’ she said, holding up a brochure. ‘Listings. He was talking about moving to Dublin, doing a course, that kind of thing.’
‘He’s selling?’
‘Well, no. He hasn’t asked us to list the place. Just said if he did buy in Dublin, he’d need a quick sale here.’
She rang Maisah Sahraoui on her way back to the station. But Nabila’s friend had never heard of Mason Brady, and didn’t recognise the photo of him which Cass had pulled from the passport system a short time earlier.
‘What has this man got to do with Nabila’s murder?’ Maisah asked. ‘I thought Akeem Issa was the murderer.’
‘I’m just closing off loose ends,’ Cass replied.
At the station, her instinct was to find Finnegan and confess to the fuck-up she’d made of everything. There were no circumstances in which the force would accept as reasonable the fact that an officer had been involved with a murder suspect – even if suspicions had formed only after the relationship had begun. To say nothing of the fact that the same officer had form, in the shape of a criminal ex-husband in prison for manslaughter. It was so surreal she wasn’t even quite sure Finnegan would believe it, even if Cass at last now felt she had enough with which to go to her. But as she walked towards her office, intent on laying out chapter and verse even if she incurred Finnegan’s excoriating judgement, she was interrupted by Noel Ryan.
‘The boss doesn’t want disruptions,’ he said. ‘There’s been some news.’
He pointed to the kitchenette, adding, ‘Let’s talk there.’ When he was sure they were alone, he continued. ‘Devine has been suspended. The ACU are investigating.’
The anti-corruption unit; Cass’s stomach lurched. ‘Because of what happened in the school? It looked iffy but it was hardly proof…’
‘Relax. Finnegan knew his ways. She quizzed him about it, he refused to say a word, she gave him an unofficial warning. And then she went investigating.’
‘Investigating?’
‘She’d heard the names of a couple of girls around town who he’d preyed on. Both seventeen. In one of the squad cars, for fuck’s sake. One of them said she’s in love with him; the other was traumatised by the way he used her. Finnegan handled them sensitively and with care. And then she called the ACU. He’s fucked – and rightly so.’
‘I can barely believe it.’
‘It’s a lot to take in, and when word gets out – because it always does in a small town – we’ll no doubt see more girls coming forward. Plus, Finnegan thinks he may have had his wife under coercive control.’
‘You knew this: it was you who flagged him to Finnegan.’
‘I’ve seen Devine’s type before.’
And what does that say of me? I didn’t see through him until the evidence was in front of my face. And the same with Brady.
While all the time failing to see the decency in Ryan, because I applied my wreck of a personal life to his – and judged him accordingly.
Finnegan has one catastrophe of an internal matter on her hands in Devine, and now I’m going to give her another. Maybe there’s a way of fixing this first.
‘Noel, I could do with your help tonight on something a bit… extracurricular.’
‘I’m not at my best in the evenings. I’d only embarrass you.’
‘I’ve done that all by myself, believe me. Fucked things up entirely.’
She could tell he didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to be dragged in. But against his better instincts, he said: ‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve been seeing someone – Mason Brady, the American from–’
‘The Bridge Bannon case. The fella up in the old church in the Loop.’
‘Yes. I had no reason to suspect anything when I hooked up with him. But now… I think he may have form.’
‘Form for what, exactly? Drugs? Theft?’
Had she imagined it all? Was her judgement so shot that she had conjured up a preposterous scenario? What did she know for sure?
‘Murder, possibly.’
Cass didn’t think it was possible for somebody of Ryan’s permanently flushed complexion to go so pale.
‘Bring him in for questioning, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I don’t think I have enough yet.’
‘Tell me what you do have.’
She did – releasing a torrent of words, feeling a great rush of relief to be confiding in someone.
When she was done, he said: ‘You need to tell Finnegan – now – regardless of when you started the relationship, regardless of how you lifted that sample. Forget all that. Just tell her.’
