The Murder Loop, page 8
Burn.
Burn.
What’s the significance of burning?
In her mind, a red light was flashing. And suddenly, she understood why, seeing a crack of light in the investigation – not in the Bridge Bannon case, but in Nabila Fathi’s.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sweeping views, the estate agent had promised. Brady quickly realised that promise came with a proviso: the need to first cut down the old woodland at the back of the church. The woodland grove covered about the width of a football pitch and a quarter of the length.
When Brady moved in, he had chopped a handful of the trees for use in the renovation, and a couple more for firewood. But most of the woodland he’d left intact – because it offered a perfect screen. He could scramble through it with ease and find a position to scan the valley while remaining totally obscured from view. So he got his sweeping views in precisely the way he liked them.
It had been from there, the day Bridge Bannon’s body was discovered, that he had seen the patrol cars coming. That spot had been something of a fluke, given Brady had been randomly scanning his surrounds that morning in pauses between interval training, as he was prone to do.
This morning’s spot was no such fluke, however. Since returning from the precinct, he had scanned the surrounds every hour, watching the continuing activity on Bannon’s farm, watching the cops fan out to other houses across the Loop, presumably completing their door-to-door inquiries.
So it was that he saw Cass drive onto Sarah Delahunty’s farm. And as he watched her leave again a little while later, he realised the police and military taught very different skillsets.
Had Brady been leaving the farm, his training would have automatically made him look up to scan the mountain ridges for threats. He would have spotted the slim bellcote, creeping above the grove that hid the rest of the church from view. And he would have wondered whether somebody was watching, even if there was no earthly reason why anybody would be doing so. Old habits and all that…
But as he looked at Cass, he figured the police were trained to be observant, not to perform reconnaissance.
Because Cass didn’t look up to scan the mountain ridges as she left. She was wiping her face, as if she’d been crying. Brady couldn’t say why – perhaps Sarah Delahunty was particularly grief-stricken and Cass had internalised some of her sorrow; or perhaps Delahunty had criticised the pace of the investigation.
Even if Cass had looked up, she would never have spotted Brady. He was too well versed in his craft to be picked out by a civilian.
But what had he just witnessed? His gut was roaring at him to flee, seeing the police inching closer to his turf, like a wildfire spreading.
But it was too late for that now, he figured. While he felt certain the two Americans had killed Bridge Bannon, he couldn’t be absolutely sure of it, because he hadn’t witnessed it. If it were established that the Americans were not the killers, the police would have to start over. And who would make a good suspect? Someone living locally, who might know Bannon kept cash on the property, who was capable of inflicting violence, who had, in fact, been trained to kill… To some extent, Brady was surprised the police hadn’t grilled him more extensively. Volunteering his information had been the right approach; it was blinding them to his own homicidal criminality.
After so long alone, so focused on the hunt, so ruthless in his objective, sitting across from Cass in the interview room had been loaded with risk and yet… oddly agreeable. He wished he’d been interviewed by somebody else, because this particular cop…
Back home, unmoored after his discharge and divorce, he’d crashed into every one-night stand available. That all changed once Ireland came into focus. In Glencale, he’d been a virtual monk – on a tour of duty once more. He’d figured there would be time afterwards for women, when he was safe from any chance of pursuit, when he could resume the type of life he had once lived. Finding female company in Glencale had never been on his agenda.
But now…
A fucking cop, of all things.
He told himself it would be a wise way of keeping abreast of the investigation. Just in case anything went wrong. But he knew that wasn’t the real reason – she had left an impression on him when he’d least expected it. And she hadn’t even been trying.
Despite what he was capable of, despite what he had done already, he couldn’t see circumstances in which he would pose a threat to her.
But he could see plenty in which she would pose a threat to him.
Different skillsets.
Hers to hunt killers.
His to be one.
But he was prepared.
And if she became a real risk to him, he knew what he would have to do.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The image of money burning had sparked in Cass’s mind a potential new line of inquiry. There had been two 100-euro notes found in Nabila Fathi’s rucksack, both identically damaged. Because the rucksack had been found in a stagnant pool of water, the original investigators had assumed the damage was caused by immersion. But theirs had been a competent investigation, and so they hadn’t relied on assumptions.
The notes had been dispatched, together with other items of evidence, to the Forensic Science Laboratory for analysis. Had they been counterfeit notes, it might have offered a lead. The bigger prize, however, would have been DNA evidence. The results, though, had been disappointing: the notes were genuine; and the contents of the rucksack, including the notes, had been too long in the water to yield much in the way of DNA traces. They would offer nothing to assist in building the profile of the killer.
But Cass wasn’t interested in fingerprints, hairs or fibres. The damage to the notes – and its precise cause – was what she wanted to re-examine. She had read the case file minutely on Christmas morning, and could recall the salient facts. She was certain, as she replayed them in her head, that she had overlooked the significance of one of those facts. And that the original investigators, despite being thorough, had missed it too.
Sitting at her desk, she pulled out the photographs of the notes and studied them again. She’d done her standard course on counterfeit notes some years back, and knew that euro notes were made from cotton fibre for extra durability, capable of withstanding extremes of temperature and pressure.
Unsurprisingly, therefore, the two notes found in Nabila’s rucksack had retained their predominantly green colour, despite the prolonged immersion, but were pockmarked by spots of black, resembling mould. The black spots obscured whatever image was carried on the front of the notes – Cass seemed to recall it was some kind of baroque arch – but other design features remained visible, including the lettering and the signature of the official issuer of the currency. The hologram security patch was still present on both. The black spots were not the only damage: small pieces were missing from the sides of the notes, as if an animal had chewed around the edges – or an attempt had been made to burn them. Cass imagined somebody waving a lighter beneath the notes, for reasons unknown.
She turned to the forensic report to reread what it said about the actual cause of the damage: prolonged exposure to water and traces of a detergent or similar cleaning agent, undetermined. So no fire, but why the cleaning agent? The presence of diatoms – a form of microscopic algae – on the notes had enabled the experts to approximate the length of time the rucksack had been submerged, and closely matched the estimated range for time of death. In other words, after murdering her, the killer had dumped the rucksack before fleeing the scene.
But from what Cass could see in the case file, nobody had asked further questions about the cleaning agent. Which, in one sense, was understandable. The forensics report had merely pointed to its presence as a scientific fact; it hadn’t offered a hypothesis. And right now, there was probably someone somewhere in the country stuffing a pair of jeans into a washing machine and forgetting they had left notes in their pocket. Compared with some of the substances found on banknotes when tested – cocaine being a frequent one – detergent seemed pretty innocuous.
But if the explanation wasn’t innocuous, then Cass could sense there was something wrong with the sequence. The logical reason for mould-ridden notes to bear the presence of detergent would be because somebody tried to clean the notes after they were retrieved from the water. But these notes had borne the presence of the detergent when they entered the water. So Nabila – or somebody else – had attempted to clean the notes before her murder. Which meant the notes may already have been damaged in some way, and the immersion in the woodland pool simply degraded them further.
So what? Cass thought. What does it matter if the notes were damaged elsewhere? And how would I possibly trace them anyway? Wild goose chase probably. But follow the lead to the end. It’s worth a few calls… If only because it will allow me to annoy Harbour Murphy again.
When reading the case file the first time, Cass had suspected the politician of being the source of the euro notes, it not being unheard of for an employer – even a national legislator – to pay in cash to evade tax. She was now beginning to doubt that supposition, but there was a simple way of finding out.
She already had her task list for the day on the Bridge Bannon inquiry – but that case was a number one priority, there was a whole team working on it, and they had a solid pair of suspects. Nobody was treating Nabila Fathi’s case as a priority any longer; there was nobody working on it aside from Cass, and she wasn’t remotely close to identifying a suspect. The team could do without her for an hour and she would make it up by working late.
She had two calls in mind and she started with Harbour Murphy. Famously responsive to calls from his constituents, he answered his mobile on the third ring, and sighed audibly when she identified herself.
Made a friend for life here.
‘I’m about to speak on an agriculture debate,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to be quick.’
‘I will be,’ Cass replied. ‘I just wanted to check how you pay your staff.’
‘You what now?’
‘Nabila Fathi had some cash on her when she died. Large denominations. I’m trying to determine where she got it.’
‘From an ATM maybe? How the fuck would I know?’
‘Did you pay her in cash? Or any of her colleagues?’
‘And if I did, would you report me, huh? Go running to the Revenue? How in the name of Christ would that help Nabila?’
‘This is not about the Revenue, Mr Murphy, I assure you. I’m simply trying to trace the origin of the money found in Nabila’s rucksack.’
‘You know Alan Ormond in CBC Bank?’
‘Yes, but I need you to–’
‘I pay my staff by electronic transfer. Tenth of every month. Tax, pension payment, social insurance payment, the fucking lot. Go see Alan, tell him you were talking to me; tell him to show you any record of mine that you want to see. Anything.’
He hung up. Which didn’t faze Cass in the slightest, because she realised something now: Harbour Murphy had a temper when provoked – a fact which might be of some relevance in the investigation.
As for Alan Ormond, she would accept the invite to pay him a visit – because if anyone knew about damaged cash in circulation, a banker surely would.
Rural towns across the country were being stripped of bank branches at a rapid pace with increasing amounts of transactions being done online. Glencale’s prominence as a tourist attraction had spared it that fate: the town continued to boast branches of three different national banks, of which CBC was the largest.
While Cass held no personal accounts there, she knew its manager of old: Ormond had been a couple of years ahead of her in school. She remembered him as studious and awkward; he made a good impression on teachers because of his hard work; and virtually none on his fellow students. He’d sooner stare at his shoes than look any of the girls in the eye. Cass would have put money on Ormond moving permanently to Dublin or London and building a more contented life for himself in the anonymity of a big city. She wouldn’t have expected him to end up a bank manager in his home town, a position that required its holder to be something of a social animal, actively involved in the community and spearheading local initiatives.
But the Alan Ormond who genially greeted her and welcomed her into his office bore scant resemblance to the reticent teenager. From one glance she knew the sober navy suit was tailored to fit and the pale-blue silk tie had cost a pretty penny too. If the clothes were expensively bland, the smile was all flash: wide and dazzlingly white. But it was his eyes that really surprised her, probably because she had so rarely seen them: lit up from the seemingly genuine pleasure of seeing her.
‘It’s been far too long, Kate. You’ll have some coffee with me?’
He had a machine in his office and gave a brief résumé while popping in pods and making espressos for them both. University in Cork, joining CBC on its graduate programme, several promotions, appointed branch manager in Glencale three years previously. Married along the way, wife Harry (“for Harriet”) a piano teacher and conductor of the town choir; children Danny and Lena excelling, variously, at football, gymnastics and, of course, music. It was gushing but not fake, Cass knew. He had blossomed and his life had blossomed, and she was happy for him. And, to her immense surprise, perhaps even a touch envious of his wife.
‘And you? You’re keeping well?’
Me? Everyone in this town probably knows about Hugh, she thought. Let’s not.
‘I’m fine, Alan, thank you. But I’m here in a professional capacity. I’m hoping you can help me with something.’
‘Of course. It’s appalling what happened to Mr Bannon. Absolutely appalling. But if it’s an inquiry about accounts, he didn’t hold any with us. One of your colleagues already–’
‘This is about a different matter.’
‘Oh. Well – anything you need.’
Despite Harbour Murphy’s invitation, she had no intention of persuading Ormond to let her see the politician’s personal banking details. It would be a serious breach of procedure and there was no good reason at this point to seek the information. Instead, she focused on the damaged currency found in Nabila Fathi’s rucksack, handing Ormond photos of the two damaged notes.
‘These notes are relevant to a separate case I’m looking at,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to ascertain if any notes like these have been in circulation locally. I thought you might recognise them if so. The damage is quite distinctive.’
‘What’s the case?’ he asked.
‘I can’t give specifics, I’m afraid.’
‘Understood. I was just wondering if it was a robbery or a counterfeit production or something – the kind of things we might be alerted to. Well, the damage is distinctive, as you say. And more or less identical in both pictures. Burned in some way?’
‘Combination of water and chemical damage actually. But I thought the same thing initially.’
‘Presumably they’re from a batch of notes damaged in the same way?’
‘We think so. Do they ring any bells?’
‘Afraid not. We get an alert from headquarters if there are stolen or suspicious notes in the system. Money laundering and counterfeit money are both still big business, although a lot of criminal gangs are increasingly focused on cybercrime now. But I can’t recall any recent alert about damaged notes, and certainly none like these.’
‘You’ve been here three years – would you remember every alert in that time?’
‘I’d remember these, no question. Besides, these are older notes anyway.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The European Central Bank introduced a new series of notes in 2019, called the “Europa” series, across all member states using the euro. These are pre-2019 notes, known as the “First Series”. Perfectly legal tender and still in widespread use – but older, like I said. So perhaps the damage was done further back in time than you’re thinking?’
‘That may be useful,’ Cass replied, while struggling to see how it would help her. ‘Would your headquarters have a record of all alerts going back over a number of years?’
‘Possibly. But if I were you, I wouldn’t waste time with us. I’d go straight to the Office of the Currency Comptroller. They handle the euro currency for Ireland, so most of the alerts originate with them. And they’re the authority on what is legal tender and what isn’t, how badly notes have to be damaged before they’re taken out of circulation, and so on. The serial numbers aren’t visible in these photographs but if you still have the original notes, perhaps the Currency Comptroller could do something with them – trace the notes and see if they belong to any particular batch that came to their attention.’
‘Thank you, Alan. That really is useful.’ This time, she could clearly see how the information would assist. She was, however, annoyed not to have already identified the Currency Comptroller as the natural line of inquiry.
Some detective I’d have made.
She thanked him for his time, and he showed her out, with entreaties to come to the family home for dinner on a suitable occasion.
I don’t think so. You sound like you have a lovely family but I really don’t need any reminders of what I’ve missed out on.
Some things in life were certain. Death. Taxes. And the fact that Finnegan would summon Cass to her office any time she had spoken to Harbour Murphy…
She’d had excellent bosses in her time, competent ones, and a couple of inept ones, all and any of whom could be challenging to deal with depending on the circumstance. But none had ever provoked her like Finnegan, and Cass told herself she would not tolerate another inquisition. She hadn’t been reared to take shit from people, not even commanding officers…
But to Cass’s surprise, it wasn’t an inquisition which Finnegan had in mind. It was an assignment.
‘Devine is doing a school visit on Thursday. To Saint Al’s, the girls’ secondary school. I need you to go with him.’
