The Murder Loop, page 9
‘Two of us stepping away from the investigation? We’re still in the early stages.’
‘It’s an hour, ninety minutes max. It’s been scheduled for a long time and I want to give the local community reassurance and one of the ways we can do that is by keeping up our engagement across all sectors, including the schools.’
I’ve just taken an hour out of my current investigation so it would be hypocritical to argue. But why me? ‘Did Devine ask for me?’
‘Noel Ryan was scheduled to do it with Devine but is no longer able to. I need you to cover.’
Ryan again. Presumably has an appointment with a barstool. In retrospect, an inquisition would have been less irritating. ‘Maybe it’s not my place,’ Cass said, ‘but Noel Ryan seems unable to do a lot of things.’
‘Meaning?’ There was a sharp edge to Finnegan’s voice and Cass heard the warning loud and clear.
But she ploughed on regardless. ‘I was married to an alcoholic, as you well know. So I know one when I see one. Noel Ryan shouldn’t be on the job.’
‘You’re completely right,’ Finnegan said. ‘It’s not your place. You can go back to work now.’
‘He spoke to Sarah Delahunty and didn’t even manage to figure out her brother was back in Ireland.’
‘Actually, he did figure that out and was following up accordingly – Devine just got there faster.’
‘Well, thank God speed isn’t important in a murder investigation.’
‘You sound like the fucking reporters now, expecting case closed in twenty-four hours.’
‘I’m not criticising the pace of the investigation; I’m criticising Ryan. You know how many murders are committed by family members. That was critical information.’
‘Are you telling me you have reason to believe Peter Bannon is a suspect?’
‘No, I’m not saying that but–’
‘As far as I can see, all relevant leads are being followed and the forensics will tell us more. Kearney’s a first-rate SIO. Leave him to do his job.’
‘Once again, this isn’t about Kearney, or the investigation – it’s about Ryan.’
‘And I told you already it’s not your place. Do I need to say it again? Maybe with a loudspeaker this time?’
‘I know the damage alcoholics can cause,’ Cass persisted, ‘and you’re running a huge risk – to the team, to yourself, to the community – by tolerating him.’
‘You know fuck-all. And if you ever come in here again and question my judgement, you’ll have your own career to worry about, not Noel Ryan’s. You understand?’
‘I understand bullshit when I see it, and this is bullshit.’
Finnegan stood, face flushed with anger, and for a moment, Cass thought she might jump across the desk and swing for her. Instead, Finnegan clenched her fists and drove them into the desktop, hard enough to make the files, cup and laptop jump in the air.
‘Get – the fuck – out of my office and back to work.’
‘With pleasure.’
Cass turned and left, banging Finnegan’s door as she went. Not her most professional moment, not one she was proud of, but she had her own rage to release.
Had she not been so blinded by that rage, Cass might have registered Finnegan’s double-use of the word ‘need’ in the context of her presence at the school visit. Might have launched her own inquisition of Finnegan to understand precisely what it meant.
And might have avoided a very unpleasant surprise some time later.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
But as the afternoon progressed, Cass could barely think of ‘later’. She could only wonder whether she had any career left after the intemperate showdown with Finnegan. She didn’t have to ask herself if she still wanted one. It was good to be part of an investigation team again, and she wanted to play whatever part she could in locating Bridge Bannon’s killer. More than that, she could see Nabila Fathi’s face in her mind, and yearned to make some advance in the case, rather than hand it back to the glacial wilderness of the unsolved pile. Nabila deserved better.
This determination to do right by the victims she found assuring, because a few months back, a few weeks back, she hadn’t been at all sure about returning to the force. Now she was at least clear in her own mind that she still wanted to do the job, and for that certainty, she was grateful: the row had served the most unexpected of purposes. Finnegan she would just have to handle – and offer an apology if she didn’t choke trying to get the words out.
Her phone call to the Currency Comptroller didn’t immediately go as planned. After being routed to the relevant section of the organisation, Cass was informed by a middle manager that he would first have to verify internally that any relevant information could be released. He would also have to verify that he was, indeed, speaking to a member of An Garda Síochána.
A bit officious, Cass thought, but of all places, she supposed, the Currency Comptroller couldn’t take chances on being duped or scammed. Rather than her mobile, she provided the station’s general number so that the Comptroller could satisfy itself it was dealing with a bona fide guard. She stressed the urgency of her inquiry and requested a return call within twenty-four hours. From past experience in dealing with fellow public agencies, however, and knowing the rigid layers of bureaucracy within them, she knew it might take a week or more.
Which meant she was pleasantly surprised when the front desk routed a call through to her thirty minutes later, and a person identifying himself as Oliver Ashcombe, director of currency, asked her how he might be of assistance.
She described the two notes, the water damage, the eroded edges that looked like burns, and the forensic test results that had shown traces of a cleaning agent. While the serial numbers were not visible in the photographs, they had helpfully been recorded in the file, and Cass relayed these too.
‘Can you email the photographs to me?’ Ashcombe asked. ‘I can look at them while we speak.’
She did so, and about forty seconds later, she heard a ping as he received the email.
‘You’ll have to bear with me,’ he said apologetically. ‘The email has come through but our automated systems have removed the photo attachments as suspicious. I’ll have to ask our IT department to release them. I’ll ring you back as soon as I have them on screen.’
‘Can I send them through to your phone instead?’
‘I use an office phone – same security system – so no point. Bear with me,’ he repeated. ‘It might be tomorrow at this stage, but I promise I’ll ring you just as soon as I can.’
They laid the first transatlantic cable with fewer problems than this, she thought. Twenty-first century technology ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.
She’d done what she could for now on tracing the notes, and, satisfied that the Currency Comptroller would revert, Cass turned back to the Bannon case. She had another call in mind, and searched her phone to see if she still had the mobile number she needed. Once she found it, she did a quick Google search to see if her contact still worked for the FBI. It had been a long time, and no doubt protocol would prevent anything useful emerging from the call, but it was worth a try.
Eight years had passed since Cass had spent a week at Quantico on a ballistics training programme. Eight years since she and Nicole Wilson had exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch. Six years since Nicole had come to Dublin for a fortnight, staying with Cass and Hugh, and enjoying herself so much she spoke half-seriously about joining the Guards. Two years since she and Cass had last spoken, the latter losing all contact with friends as Hugh went into steep decline.
Wilson answered after what seemed like an age. ‘Well now, if this isn’t a blast from the past to brighten my day. How the hell are you?’
‘It’s been way too long, Nicole – my fault entirely.’
‘Takes two to tango, sister. How that’s charming husband of yours?’
They all remember Hugh, she thought, male or female. Had the gift of the gab. And when Nicole came to Dublin six years previously, he was still… on the right side of things. The descent hadn’t begun, or at least, Cass hadn’t fully noticed it yet. They’d had so much fun that fortnight, Hugh the ringmaster. His forte. Their fault line.
‘Hugh’s fine, thanks,’ Cass lied, because it saved time. ‘And you?’
‘Really excellent,’ she said, ‘apart from the succession of assholes I seem to meet in my personal life. We can’t all strike it lucky like you. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I’d love to say it’s a social call but you can probably guess it isn’t.’
‘You Irish need some help with a case?’
‘Something like that. More of an informal request, really.’
‘Shoot.’
‘We have an active murder – homicide – investigation where I’m currently stationed, in a town called Glencale in the south-west. Two US citizens have been designated as persons of interest. We’re going through all the proper procedures, and we’re tracking them down this end, as we believe they’re still in the country. But I thought maybe–’
‘You could see if we had anything on them?’
‘Exactly. It might speed things up.’
‘Have they been evidentially linked to the crime scene?’
‘We’re awaiting the full suite of forensics but have enough to believe they were at the scene on the day of the murder.’
‘Good enough for me. Give me their names and passport numbers and I’ll see what I can do.’
Cass did so, and gave Nicole a brief outline of the facts of the case, including the possibility that the pair were chasing the victim’s son across the Atlantic.
‘Give me the son’s details too – three for the price of two.’
‘I appreciate it. I know it’s totally out of the blue.’
‘What made you think of me?’
‘The first transatlantic cable,’ Cass replied, and hearing silence from a puzzled counterpart on the other end of the phone, quickly added: ‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’d be glad to hear it some time,’ Nicole said with a laugh. ‘Let me chase this info first and get back to you. You needed this yesterday, I suppose?’
‘Something like that. You know yourself how speed is everything.’
‘Long time since I worked a homicide. I’m in public corruption these days. Funny how many of our lawmakers secretly like to break the law.’
I should acquaint you with Harbour Murphy, she thought.
‘Some things are universal.’
‘Sadly true. I’ll get working on these then. Anything else?’
Cass hesitated, because there was something else but she knew it was borderline inappropriate, even when using a back channel like this.
No point painting only half the door, Hugh used to say, usually when he was eager to finish whatever bottle was in front of him.
‘Actually, one more name, if you don’t mind,’ Cass said, relaying the details and feeling a twinge of discomfort as she did so.
‘Another suspect?’
No, but my curiosity is piqued. ‘More to eliminate him from our inquiries,’ she lied.
Afterwards, she reflected it wasn’t quite true to think that the first transatlantic cable had been laid without issue. Wild seas, formidable depths and snapping cables meant it took five attempts – each of them a Herculean effort – before, in 1858, Valentia Island off the south-west Irish coast was connected to Trinity Bay in Newfoundland. Valentia was less than ninety kilometres from Glencale, and she remembered fondly her school tour to the island. She remembered, too, the first message transmitted: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will to men.”
The American pair hadn’t crossed the ocean with good will in their hearts – of that much, Cass was sure. But why they had come in the first place remained unclear. Cass hoped her old friend could fill in some of the puzzle.
And Mason Brady?
If the positions had been reversed, and a counterpart asked Cass to seek background on a person who she subsequently learned was not a suspect, not even a person of interest, she would not have been impressed. Even if sometimes police work demanded it, Cass wasn’t, in the main, a fan of trampling on civil liberties.
But if Nicole could rustle up some information about Brady, she would take it, because there was something opaque about him. That predatory look from the car, contrasted with the calm and cordial nature when giving his statement.
He was in control in the station, not me. But I startled him in the car.
So maybe it’s time I surprise him again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At the following morning’s conference, Cass deliberately stood closest to the door. Finnegan was seated, and scowling, and Cass hadn’t yet summoned sufficient willingness to apologise. The next round – in whatever shape it took – would have to wait. The moment Kearney signalled the conference was at an end, Cass made her exit from the incident room and left the station with equal haste.
This one isn’t exactly by the book, so best to act first and use the one apology to cover all sins…
It had been a long time since she’d seen Saint Fiachra’s, and teenage memories returned as she drove out once more to the Loop, passed Milly Cooper’s shop and took the turn-off that would lead her past Bridge Bannon’s farm, up to Sarah Delahunty’s house, and beyond it, the old church and graveyard.
Even though the dead didn’t scare her, she shivered as she thought of the old tale of the priest hanging from the bell. She wondered if Mason Brady knew the history of the church, and if so, whether the dead held any fears for him. Presumably not, given he was calling the place home. Besides, he’d been trained to put people in graves, not worry about ghosts rising from them.
As she drove, she recalled the church’s simple design: the double-height nave formed the core of the building, with a single-height chancel extending from it. Entrance was via a porch to one side of the nave. It had been built at a time when there was a small, mostly self-sufficient community in these parts. Even then, it was the highest building in the Loop, the founding priest believing it was appropriate that people should ‘look up’ to the church, look up to God.
When she’d last seen it, probably twenty years ago or more, the wooden beams were exposed and rotting and the walls were crumbling. She knew she could expect to see a very different building now but expected there would be something amateur or rough about the renovation. Brady was a soldier, not a craftsman. But from her first glimpse, she was pleasantly surprised. The drystone wall bounding the church had been rebuilt with some care – newly cut red sandstone merging with what was left of the original. What she remembered as an overgrown, rutted narrow drive into the church had been filled and shaped with gravel, which crunched pleasingly beneath the car’s wheels. The small garden in front of the church had been cleared of overgrowth and trimmed for winter, with a handful of young trees planted.
As she parked next to his old Mondeo, she could see a bit of the graveyard to the rear of the church, and significant work was evident there too – the gate mended and painted, brambles cut back, and some of the old grave-markers straightened and cleaned. A grove of trees behind it gave windshield and privacy. While to her knowledge the site did not have heritage status, and no archaeological orders would therefore have been imposed, it was clear Brady had treated it with respect.
And that was before she studied the church itself. Again, the walls had been painstakingly restored, the roof repaired and retiled, the arched double-doors in the porch filled, sanded and re-stained. But what caught her eye was what was resting in the nearest window: a tasteful white vase showcasing a green fern. The fern was wilting, admittedly, but either Brady had a woman in his life or had a surprisingly good eye.
And then, as one of the porch doors opened and he emerged in sweatpants, compression top and sliders, she got the odd sensation yet again that she was missing something. In the station, he’d looked trim and tanned for sure, but had been dressed in a shirt and jeans, giving no real hint to his physique. The compression top, by contrast, revealed toned and tattooed arms and it was immediately clear to her that Brady had maintained a rigorous exercise regime since leaving the military.
Perhaps it was stereotype to assume he’d throw himself into the hard labour of the renovation project but struggle where softer touches were required. Maybe he was one of those “warrior-monk” types the US media had been so fond of eulogising during the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts. But Cass didn’t buy it. There was something here that didn’t quite fit. From habit, she sized up every man she encountered, a throwback to her years on the beat when violence could erupt from surprising sources. Most of the time, she fancied her chances, knowing her own training would give her the edge even when her opponent might have natural advantages of height or power. But instinct immediately told her she’d come off second best to Brady. There was something coiled in that calm demeanour.
‘Officer, good to see you again. Welcome to my humble quarters.’
‘I like what you’ve done with it,’ Cass replied. ‘Last time I was up here, it was for teenage drinking parties and ghost stories. Place was in ruins then.’
‘It was still in ruins when I got it.’
‘You did this all by yourself?’
‘Hired local help for the wiring – you need registered guys here, right? And for some of the plumbing, the septic tank and stuff. Everything else, I just took my time with.’
‘Where did you learn to do it so well?’
‘Our more enlightened leaders always advised it was better to build a road than blow a bridge. Assist communities instead of assaulting them. So I picked up stuff over time.’
‘The military renovated a lot of churches in your day?’
He laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe I had to improvise. What can I do for you?’
What could he do for her?
