The Murder Loop, page 3
‘It was Harbour Murphy’s supermarket, right? He did media interviews at the time she went missing?’
Ted Cassidy was referring to Patrick Murphy, prominent politician and businessman. ‘Harbour’ was the moniker given to the family generations ago to distinguish them from other local families of the same name – a common practice in these parts since time immemorial – and stemmed from the small mooring near their home a few miles up the coast. Harbour Murphy was what they called in these parts a ‘cute hoor’ – wily enough to have his hand stuck in seemingly every bit of local business that turned a profit. He’d come from money and turned it into more money, but bought his off-the-peg suits locally and paired them with cheap rubber-sole shoes, working assiduously to give the impression he had no more to spare than the next man.
‘Yes,’ Cass said. ‘Gave media interviews, participated in the searches for her, none of which yielded anything. When her body was discovered three months later, he was interviewed as part of the investigation.’
‘And?’
Harbour Murphy had been interviewed but, again, had relatively little to offer. He had personally hired Nabila, been impressed with her work ethic and had ‘great hopes’ for her. Knowing she was in need of accommodation as well as a job, he had rented her the old flat above the shop. Which, depending on the way you looked at it, may have seemed very charitable, until one realised he was paying her a salary below market rates and charging her rent significantly in excess of what the decrepit flat justified. But it appeared Nabila had been content with the deal, happy to be out on her own and building a future. Nothing more useful had been gleaned from Harbour Murphy.
‘Nothing,’ Cass answered. ‘Nothing obvious, anyway.’
‘He’s still a bollocks,’ Ted Cassidy muttered.
Unlike some of her colleagues in the force, Cass did not disdain politicians, nor was she foolish enough to think they were all the same – she took an interest and recognised the ones who were genuinely interested in progressive policing reform. But from a distance, and probably influenced by her father, she had always thought Harbour Murphy to be something of a crook. Which was why, for reasons she couldn’t explain, she’d found herself underlining his name in the file earlier that morning.
Was it just coincidence that Nabila had been killed not while living in the direct provision centre – where many people would have seen her come and go – but shortly after she had moved into a place of her own, where there was nobody to track her movements?
She turned away from Murphy and began describing the victim and the crime scene in detail to her father.
The file photos of Nabila alive showed a timid-looking young woman with black tousled hair and a mole just above her right jawbone. She had the tentative smile of someone accustomed to needing permission to be herself. Cass had briefly imagined that smile widening suddenly and naturally, free of all caution, as Nabila grew comfortable in her new-found freedom. It was a damned sight better to think of her that way than in the grisly crime-scene photos.
Unquestionably murder, even if there was little recognisable left of the victim to examine. The acidic soil that proved so fertile for the pine trees had also accelerated decomposition. But while the body had begun the stage of dry decay – slowly being reduced to bare bones, dried skin and hair – there were sufficient means to determine the cause of death.
‘Blunt force trauma from a blow to the back of the head from some kind of cylindrical object, in addition to which the hyoid bone in Nabila’s neck was fractured,’ Cass said.
‘Indicative of strangulation.’
‘Yes. The pathologist concluded she’d been hit once to stun her and was then strangled. But not in the woodland. The forensic evidence pointed firmly to the murder having taken place elsewhere, with Nabila’s body later dumped.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Difficult to determine, given the variables involved. The pathologist was assisted by an entomologist. They narrowed it down to the immediate days after Nabila had been reported as missing, but couldn’t be more specific.’
‘What was she strangled with – any idea?’
‘There was a stagnant pool close to where her body had been found, and they discovered a rucksack and scarf there – both identified as Nabila’s. The scarf was distinctive – green and black animal print – and was seen as the likely means of strangulation. Nabila’s friends at the direct provision centre had clubbed together to buy it for her as a farewell gift when she’d finally been granted asylum.’
‘And the water minimised the potential for the rucksack and scarf to yield trace evidence, presumably?’
Cass nodded, for that had been precisely the case, in what had been one of the biggest setbacks to the original investigation. Nonetheless, she felt the murderer had – predictably – made a number of mistakes. Granted, he – and Cass made no apologies for supposing it was a ‘he’, given it invariably was in such cases – had possessed the wherewithal to dispose of the body in an isolated place, unseen. But it felt a little panicky to not try and bury the body and hide all traces. Discarding the rucksack and scarf in the pool had been another error – the murderer had simply got lucky in the length of time it took to discover the body.
‘The forensics of the flat didn’t yield anything either,’ Cass said. ‘The team concluded it wasn’t the scene of the murder. So no forensic evidence or leads, and no obvious suspect. The team ran into a dead end.’
‘And they were comprehensive?’
‘Can’t find any reason to say otherwise.’
Cass had looked through every aspect of the file to satisfy herself that nothing obvious was missed. She read back over everything, no matter how big or small, ranging from the house-to-house questionnaires to the transcript of the farmer’s emergency call upon discovery of the body. While Cass’s time on the detective squad had been brief, every aspect of her training told her the investigation team had done it by the book.
‘So what’s your guess?’
‘I don’t have one. It might have been an opportunistic attack by a stranger, but the team found no sign of sexual assault, even if they couldn’t be absolutely certain given the lack of bodily fluids and skin tissue. Money had been left in Nabila’s rucksack, meaning robbery could probably be discounted too. The team felt, on balance of probabilities, that Nabila had known her killer. But they got nowhere near to identifying him. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to see that they didn’t.’
She sighed audibly, wondering what she could bring to this case that the original team hadn’t. She wondered again why Finnegan had thrown it at her, and – if a test – what she was supposed to do to pass it. She didn’t care for Finnegan or her expectations, but she did care for her own professionalism. Even after a year out, Cass could feel the familiar clash forming at the back of her mind: a burning desire to set the highest standards; a chronic doubt she would accomplish them.
‘Never hurts to get a fresh set of eyes on a case,’ her father said.
‘I feel like I’m being set up to fail. Like I have a target on my back.’
‘And why would they be targeting you?’
‘Maybe they want me out – because of Hugh, what happened.’
‘Crap,’ Ted Cassidy said. ‘Your only failure was marrying a failure. His fuck-up meant your personal life crossed over into your professional one. But I see no signs – none – that the force wants you gone. Finnegan has a job to do and needs you to do yours.’
As much as she wanted to be irritated by her father’s bluntness, Cass took some comfort in it instead. But she wasn’t going to let him off that easily. ‘Finnegan and yourself could give a joint TED Talk,’ she said.
Her father bit: ‘And what would that be now?’
‘“How to Infuriate instead of Motivate”.’
Later that evening, back in the apartment and with the aid of a strong pot of coffee, Cass pored over the case file a second time. Nabila’s relatives in Egypt had sought the repatriation of her body; the local community had taken up a collection to cover the costs, aided by a substantial donation from Harbour Murphy.
Cass found herself scribbling another question mark after the politician’s name, before returning one final time to the crime-scene photographs, and the contents of Nabila’s rucksack. The keys to her flat, attached to a keychain cross. A small black purse containing some coins. A couple of 100-euro notes, found not in the purse but in a hidden compartment in the rucksack, both identically damaged from what appeared to be water erosion.
For a moment, Cass wondered how somebody on a relatively small salary would have such large denominations in her possession, but then guessed that Harbour Murphy possibly paid in cash to evade tax, and she made a mental note to check.
A small make-up bag containing various cosmetics and tampons. A hairbrush and hairbands. Some painkillers, a couple of pens and a phone charger. But no phone – the assumption being that the killer had dumped it elsewhere. A set of prayer beads – but God had not come to her assistance, and Nabila had returned home wrapped in a shroud and placed in a coffin. The last items were a reusable water bottle and a cheap raincoat.
In sum total then: nothing out of the ordinary, no signs of someone who believed her life was in danger – and no pointers towards her killer.
CHAPTER SIX
They looked nothing like him. But Mason Brady knew a mirror image of himself when he encountered it. And from the moment he saw his two fellow Americans walk into the small country store nine miles outside Glencale, he knew they were comfortable inflicting violence.
US tourists were as common as seashells around Glencale and the surrounding region, but the first Friday after Christmas seemed an odd enough day to go sightseeing. And these two were decidedly not holidaymakers. Both wore blue jeans and Guinness-branded sweatshirts, but they looked ill at ease in their chosen costumes. They lacked the casual patter and curiosity of visitors exploring the local landmarks, and Brady, who had popped in for some supplies, pretended to study the store’s single wine shelf while monitoring the pair.
Both were late thirties or early forties at most, he guessed. The first, with an appealing crop of sandy hair offset by severely pitted skin, brushed past him to pick up a six-pack from the fridge. The other, with a shaved head and a punch-drunk nose, approached the storekeeper with a smile feigning benevolence and sought directions.
‘We’re distant relatives of Mr Jeremiah Bannon,’ he said with a flourish, ‘and we’d love to pay him a visit if we can find his farm.’
Milly Cooper didn’t have Brady’s experience of encountering brutality and, over her four decades of running this store on the cusp of the Loop, she tended to see the best in people, always willing to help those genuinely in need with some credit until payday. Brady, who had frequented the shop ever since arriving in the Loop, guessed she wouldn’t see through the pair.
‘The Bridge Bannons, you mean?’
Punch Drunk looked confused. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t quite understand. The “Bridge” Bannons?’
‘For the bridge nearest Jer’s farm. It’s what they’re known by locally.’
‘I see,’ Punch Drunk said, not really seeing at all. ‘And can you tell me where we might find them?’
‘Well, the bridge is a clue,’ Milly responded. ‘Go two miles or so up the road towards the Loop, take the first left after the church, after a mile uphill you’ll cross a small bridge and Jer’s farm is the next gate you’ll encounter.’ She had to repeat the directions in order for Punch Drunk to take them in.
‘Much obliged,’ he said, tipping an imaginary hat, as his colleague placed the six-pack on the table and pulled out some cash to pay.
‘Is Jer expecting you?’ she asked. ‘Because he doesn’t get many visitors.’
Translation: he’s an old crank and I hope you’ve given him advance notice because his reaction will be unpredictable otherwise.
‘Yes, we agreed to call on him,’ Punch Drunk said.
And yet despite the supposed agreement, they hadn’t asked Bridge Bannon for directions.
Brady, who had moved around the store and put a few more things in a basket to avoid suspicion, felt like he was watching a ham actor. The other one, Sandy Hair, stayed mute until finally saying ‘Thank you’ as he took his change.
‘Have a good day now,’ Punch Drunk said as both men exited the store.
But chances are Bridge Bannon won’t, thought Brady. Then he caught himself, recognising his own paranoia. Just because he was an imposter didn’t mean every other stranger was too. Just because he had arrived in Glencale with homicidal intent didn’t mean others followed suit. Besides, if these two were intent on harming an elderly farmer in some way, why would they leave a trail by calling into a local store in advance? Brady’s mind worked like a sensor light – triggered by the slightest encroachment. But his training could lead him astray occasionally too, he recognised.
Still, training was one thing and instinct was another. And his instinct on these two said something was off.
Milly Cooper’s store had an alarm but no CCTV either inside or externally, Brady knew – it was one of the things for which he automatically scanned. Making a rapid decision, he placed the basket on the counter, told Milly he’d left his wallet at home, gently fended off her entreaties to take the supplies and pay later, and slipped out as unobtrusively as he could after the two men.
Sandy Hair was in the driver’s seat of a rented SUV and pulling out of the small car park. Brady memorised the licence plate before slipping behind the wheel of his own, considerably less glamorous vehicle – a sixteen-year-old Ford Mondeo which, from the looks of it, had seen much better days.
Brady knew better than to follow the two directly, and instead pulled out of the car park in the opposite direction, knowing there was a nearby side road he could take to double back, wind across the mountainside, and end up in an elevated position from which he could observe Bridge Bannon’s farm without being noticed. Upon arriving in the Loop, Brady had spent weeks scouting the area, getting a feel for the terrain and identifying his few neighbours. His knowledge of the area and its people wouldn’t have come close to Milly Cooper’s, but it would suffice for present purposes.
And what purposes are they? he wondered. What business is this of mine? What do I care if two hired goons have some beef with a local? Brady told himself he didn’t care. But his sensor light had been triggered, and so the least he could do was check out the cause of it.
It took him just a few minutes to drive to his intended lookout above Bridge Bannon’s farm. Brady parked the car behind a copse offering excellent cover and, courtesy of a set of M25 high-res binoculars kept in the trunk, a solid vantage point.
He slipped between the trees until he found a satisfactory view, and then focused in. He could see the SUV in the farmyard. No sign of its occupants, however: Punch Drunk and Sandy Hair had clearly gone inside.
Brady scanned the windows, saw nothing, and then turned to the farm sheds with the same result. He settled in, guessing whatever was happening in the house might take some time.
Would he intervene? No: he had no skin in this game and couldn’t afford to play the hero. That would draw attention to himself, and he’d come too far for that. So why be here? The spider in the centre of the web wanted to know what caused the vibration – prey or foe. Brady could sense this was a potential disturbance on his territory, and it was best to gauge the potential strength of its shockwaves. In his experience, random unexpected events proved as frequent a cause of failure as poor planning or logistics.
As he waited, he began calculating potential outcomes and his options in each scenario, knowing it might help later. But he didn’t get very far, for suddenly Punch Drunk and Sandy Hair reversed out the front door of the farmhouse. They were holding their hands in the air to signify retreat, and a moment later, Brady saw why.
Bridge Bannon, cussed of face, slightly bent in the back and shuffling on arthritic feet, was still spry enough to hold a shotgun. He was roaring but Brady couldn’t make out the words, nor what the two Americans were saying in mitigation. But he heard the gunshot cracking the sky.
Punch Drunk and Sandy Hair, knowing it was a warning shot fired over their heads, didn’t panic, and for that, went up a little in Brady’s professional estimation. They stayed calm enough to choose the wisest course of action, keeping their hands raised until they got back into the SUV and slowly eased out of the yard.
Brady could only guess at the reasons for the drama he’d just witnessed. But there was clearly something of considerable value at stake. And he was pretty sure there would be a sequel.
He just couldn’t have guessed it would come so quickly – and the peril it would place him in.
CHAPTER SEVEN
First week back at work for Cass: fielding calls about stray sheep on local roads; setting up checkpoints to detect speeding motorists; stamping passport applications and other paperwork for members of the public; fielding more calls about stray sheep on the roads.
It had been a gentle enough reintroduction, Cass knew. The most serious work of the week had been engaging with the farming associations about measures to improve security for their members. The armed gang carrying out aggravated burglaries had struck four times in the county in a little over six months. In each case, they had inflicted serious injuries on the homeowners, all of whom were elderly and known to keep cash on their properties. Mercifully, the gang hadn’t killed anybody yet, but it seemed just a matter of time. All districts had been requested to engage with their respective communities on simple steps to increase personal protection.
‘But let’s do it subtly,’ Finnegan had directed. ‘We don’t want to stoke fears when this shower of bastards hasn’t hit our patch yet.’
