You'll Get Yours, page 17
“Hmm,” McLaughlin mused. “And which of our suspects has black hair?”
“Only Flynn Sheerin, sir.”
McLaughlin grimaced. “Those hairs might have nothing to do with the crime. They might have come from the wheelie bin. But we’ve still the DNA reports from Regina’s flat to come.” He paused. “Then we have the boyfriend, Kyle Minogue. They had a row, and she took off. He might be lying, and I know that partners and close family members are most likely to be the perp, but I’m struggling to find a reason he might have to kill her.”
Lyons raised his hand.
“Boss! If I may...?”
“Never stopped you before, son.”
“I have a reason. I’ve thought it ever since I heard he was an artist.”
“What’s your theory, son?” McLaughlin asked.
“It’s so obvious, but I know some on the team don’t like my flights of fancy. Doesn’t it seem like the naked dead body of a woman, and especially his girlfriend, posed artfully on a cannon, her thumb posed in her mouth, as if she were a wain, could be his latest art project?”
As a ripple spread through the coppers and D’Arcy huffed her frustration, McLaughlin said, stroking his chin, “So you think he was trying to out-Hirst Damien Hirst? This homicide was the next step in artistic expression after a shark in formaldehyde, a cut-up pig?”
“Aye, I do,” Lyons said. “I was forced to take an art appreciation course when I was studying at uni. Before I decided to become a copper. Intolerable, so it was. Intellectuals making things up on the spot and droning on and on about what artists do being able to affect culture and the way people live and think. And a dead woman sucking her thumb on a cannon has all the hallmarks of what I term ‘art wank.’” He began to count them off on his fingers. “You’ve the phallic symbolism of the cannon, sticking out from between her spread legs, the woman as whore in knickers the type a prossie might wear, coupled together with, no! ‘Juxtaposed’,” he sneered the word with finger quotes, “with woman as innocent child with her sucking on her thumb. I tell you,” he addressed the group as McLaughlin stared at him in shock and D’Arcy in offense, “those artists are sick bastards. I never met one who didn’t think they were better than everybody else. They live in their own demented minds, and try to force their obscene views on an unsuspecting world.” Now Lyons turned to McLaughlin. “So, boss, you might think he seems an unlikely suspect, and, aye, I know I said last night that Kylie Minogue seemed a more likely suspect, but I’m going back to my original suspicion. I think Kyle Minogue’s our man.”
There was a moment’s silence punctuated only by the radiators.
“Fascinating theory, son,” McLaughlin finally said. “We need to bear that in mind.”
He cleared his throat, eyed D’Arcy, seemed to forget where he was for a moment, gathered himself and continued.
“Now let’s consider Joe Cullen. He has the strongest motive of all our suspects. Two, in fact. Regina had brought charges against his 10-year-old daughter against the wishes of even the management of the shop where the items were stolen from. Not only that, he had been having an extramarital affair with her, and perhaps he thought she was a liability, she could inform Cullen’s wife on a whim. The two together make him a compelling suspect.”
A hand rose in the crowd.
“Sir? I wonder, though, would he really have written that email if he was going to kill Regina? Surely, he must have realized that it would incriminate him if it was discovered. And even the most dimwitted criminal nowadays knows enough to realize that emails can be traced.”
“Yes,” D’Arcy answered for her boss. “But that presumes he was planning to kill her when he wrote the email. Life doesn’t work like that. He wrote the email months ago, and Regina was only killed three days ago. If she threatened him afterwards to go the police, or even to tell his wife about the affair, he might have been so enraged that having sent her a threatening email half a year earlier wouldn’t have been a deterrent. It probably wouldn’t have entered his mind.”
“Nicely put, D’Arcy,” McLaughlin said.
D’Arcy smiled smugly.
“And, Hawkins,” McLaughlin called once again, “I think we have a long list of things we are waiting for. Has there been anything from Dr. Keedy? Tox report, all that?”
Even at that distance and without his glasses, McLaughlin saw her shake her head.
“Not yet, boss.”
“And what about all those acronyms you were waiting to hear back from?”
“Well, boss,” Hawkins said, struggling to make herself heard over the clanking and the rain pounding on the windows and roof, “I’m still waiting on the DWP as far as employment history and possible benefits is concerned, and the DVA about her car, and the HMRC for any tax irregularities. When I sent off the requests, we knew very little about the deceased. A better timeline of Regina’s life is forming now, so I’m especially interested in her DWP records, as now we know where she was employed. But where did she work before the Top-Yer-Trolley? In fact, where was she before that? Was she here in Derry? Somehow I don’t think so, as we all know not one person has come forward to claim they knew her. There are the people we’ve since interviewed, but we found them. She began working at the Top-Yer-Trolley four years ago. She bought her Dacia Sandero four years ago as well. She’d only just moved into the flat on Antrim Terrace, only just started a relationship with Kyle Minogue, her relationship with Joe Cullen ended eight months ago. We know from Joe Cullen that before Antrim Terrace she lived in a B&B of some disrepute on Gorney Way.”
There were scattered groans.
McLaughlin sought them out. They’d come from Strand Road coppers.
“You lads know that B&B well?”
“Number 17 Gorney Way. Called out on an almost daily basis.”
“Check that out with your records. We wouldn’t have access to them. See if our Ms. Steps was any of the complainants or defendants. We’ll speak to management of the building, see when she moved in there. It will be interesting to see if she moved in three and a half years ago.”
There was some confusion in the assembled masses.
“Why would you say that?” asked one of the female coppers. “What’s so special about three and a half years ago?”
“I think there is compelling evidence of a pattern emerging. Everyone is seeing the pattern, aye?” He banged the marker on the murder board, “New nose, new breasts, new car, new bank account, new job, new flat...all four years ago. What does this pattern suggest to you? Where was she prior to that? We might even ask ourselves, who was she prior to that?”
There was an excited shuffling in the room.
A voice called from the crowd, “Someone...reinventing themselves?”
McLaughlin snapped his fingers. He’d just thought of something, or remembered something.
“There’s evidence she had a renewed interest in religion and all. Perhaps this also happened four years ago. Remind me, D’Arcy, we need to speak to her partner and ask what church she attended. Maybe the priest will be able to tell us something. Maybe she joined the congregation four years ago and all.” He looked lost in thought. “Hmm, I fear that might have been a trick we missed. When Minogue told us she attended church, we should’ve been right on it. A congregation is a tight-knit community.”
“Sir.”
“So...” McLaughlin turned back to the rapt crowd, “back to the deceased reinventing herself.”
“For what purpose?” someone asked.
“She’s a spy?”
“Witness protection?”
“Infamous child murderer released from prison and living back home? What I mean is, your woman murdered when she was a child, not that she murdered children. Face was splashed all over the media at the time and was hated by the nation as a whole?”
McLaughlin exhaled deeply and held up his hands.
“Grand theories, but let’s work within the realm of everyday life, if you please.”
A copper, “We need to ask ourselves, why would someone need to start anew? What would motivate her to do that?”
The female copper, “The cosmetic surgery hints at a desire for increased confidence and improved self-esteem.”
McLaughlin said, “So she might have had low self-esteem? No confidence?”
“That seems to be the case,” D’Arcy said.
“I know when I moved to London for a few years, sir,” Lyons said, “so, reinventing myself, you might say, it was in pursuit of a new career, professional goals.”
McLaughlin raised an eyebrow.
“I soon hurried back,” Lyons said. “Much better here at Twilight Road in Derry under your command, sir.”
In the crowd, O’Shaughnessy was looking unconvinced and raised a hand. “A shelf stacker at the Top-Yer-Trolley, but? I think we can rule that reason out.”
“Who knows where she worked before,” some other copper. “It might have been a step up.”
“Grim.” O'Shaughnessy crossed his arms.
“No judgments, lad,” McLaughlin warned.
Another hand. “Could people reinvent themselves for personal growth? Self-improvement?”
McLaughlin sighed. “Yes, there was evidence of past drug use, her teeth, possibly cocaine. She seems to have cleaned up her act. And coming back into the fold of the church hints of personal growth and self-improvement. She might have been trying and finding it rough going.”
The female copper again. “Cocaine? That’s wild dear, so it is. And that together with the cosmetic surgery? It hints at a...very different type of life to the one she was living when she was killed.”
“Aye. It’s beginning to seem that way...” McLaughlin agreed.
Lyons snorted. “You don’t go from cocaine and cosmetic surgery to a Dacia Sandero.”
“The most obvious to me, boss,” said D’Arcy, “would be to reinvent herself because of the need to distance herself from...hmm, her previous identity.”
“Or her reputation,” Lyons put in.
McLaughlin was scrawling all these reasons on the murder wall under the question mark.
As he did so, he said, “It seems something happened in Regina Steps’ life around four years ago. A momentous change. We need to uncover what her life was like before that time if it kills us. Who knows? It might be what killed her.”
CHAPTER 21
THE RAIN-SOAKED STREETS of Derry glistened under the dull gray sky as DC Lyons and PC O’Shaughnessy pulled up in front of St. Fintan’s, a dilapidated church nestled between a betting shop and a homeless shelter in the city center just inside the city walls from the Moorside. This was where, Kyle Minogue had informed them, Regina went to church every Sunday. They’d spoken to the parish secretary, and Father Steele was waiting for their arrival.
The coppers had asked Minogue when his girlfriend started going to church. Minogue had told them Regina had always gone to church since he’d known her, so it must have been prior to eight months earlier.
Lyons and O’Shaughnessy approached the heavy wooden doors in silence. Lyons could sense a certain unease in the constable at his side, which he understood. He felt the same on the few occasions he had had to go to a Protestant church for an investigation. Now the roles were reversed.
Lyons felt right at home, while O’Shaughnessy was skittish.
As he pushed open the creaking doors, Lyons felt that familiarity; he’d gone through them many times before. St. Fintan’s had been his family’s church for as long as he could remember.
Lyons’ eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior.
“There’s your man over there,” Lyons said, pointing to the front of the church near the altar.
O'Shaughnessy nodded uncommittedly as they made their way up the aisle, past rows of weathered wooden pews. Lyons noticed the PC’s eyes were shifting uneasily as they took in the religious symbols, the statues of the Virgin Mary and some saints, the signs of the cross on the wall every third pew.
Father Steele looked up from some papers he was going over and gave an inviting wave as they approached. He had black hair streaked with silver at the sides and piercing blue eyes. He still looked quite fit to Lyons, perhaps more fit than one would expect from a priest, which perhaps explained the man’s popularity with the congregation.
“Father Steele,” Lyons greeted with a nod, a flicker of recognition crossing the priest's face.
“Tom, isn’t it?” the priest asked, gripping his hand and giving it a warm shake.
“Aye. And this is PC O'Shaughnessy.”
Father Steele pumped the copper’s hand warmly.
“Come, lads, sit,” Father Steele said, motioning to the first pew before the altar.
They all sat down, the two coppers to Father Steel’s left.
“As you probably know, Tom, I have the pleasure of seeing your mother here every Sunday, and on holy days as well. And at the bingo socials.”
“Aye, you would.”
Father Steele tilted his head and looked at Lyons out of the corner of his eye.
“You, however...?”
Lyons blushed.
“They’ve me on duty most Sundays, Father,” Lyons said, squirming. And now he was lying to a man of the cloth. While sitting in a pew of a church, with Christ there before him on the altar. “And I’m not one for bingo. I make it for Midnight Mass every Christmas, but.”
“I’d never be able to single you out, black as we are at Midnight Mass.”
“Aye. I am there, but. And Easter too.”
O'Shaughnessy cleared his throat, so Lyons got down to business.
“We’re here to ask you, Father, about one of your parishioners.”
Father Steele nodded with understanding.
“I gathered as much. I suppose you are talking about Regina Steps? The parishioners have been talking about nothing but.”
“Aye,” Lyons said, and out came the coppers’ PNBs.
“Wonderful woman,” Father Steele said with a sorrowful shake of the head. “A terrible, tragic event. Our parish has lost a devout, loving soul.” He nodded toward the recessed bye altar, where a statue of the Virgin Mary stood watch over a rack of votive candles. Twelve or so little flames flickered in the gloom of the corner. “Many have lit candles in memory of her.”
Something came suddenly to Lyons’ mind.
“Has anyone requested a memorial service for her?”
“No,” Father Steele admitted with some surprise. “Of course, the parish secretary, my Darnella, would deal with that, but I haven’t heard anything. Still, I suppose it’s early days. Perhaps someone will step forward.”
“I wonder...” Lyons said. “You see, we’re having difficulty placing her here in Derry. Nobody seems to know where she comes from, what family she belongs to.”
Father Steele understood completely what Lyons was getting at. “Aye. I know what you mean. I’m not quite old enough to have seen this happen yet, but it’s true that we as priests of the parish do see the different families in our flock go through all the stages of life. So of course one sign of a good priest is to understand your flock, knowing who is related to whom. But this Regina Steps didn’t seem to belong to any family.”
“Had you noticed anything peculiar about her lately?” O’Shaughnessy asked. “Did you see, for example, anyone following her into or out of church?”
“I’m afraid I barely knew her. I didn’t even know her name, in fact, until the other day, not until a parishioner mentioned she was the woman found on the city walls. And then, of course, I heard her name from the news reports.”
Lyons leaned forward. “Perhaps one of the other members of the congregation knows or saw something? You know, Father, we can hardly interview the entire congregation.”
Father Steele smiled.
“I’ll announce your appeal for information at next Sunday’s mass, and I’ll have Darnella include it in the next church bulletin. I’m guessing nobody has responded to your appeal for information? I saw the press conference the other night.”
“Only nutters,” Lyons replied.
“Do you recall,” O'Shaughnessy said, “when she started attending the church?”
Father Steele blew air out of his mouth. “There you’re asking me something...”
He was deep in thought for a moment,and finally he shook his head.
“I can’t be certain. She never came up to me and introduced herself or anything like that, you see. And she never had a, er, showy presence. She came quietly to Sunday mass, sat in the back pew by herself as far as I could tell. I’ve been here myself for ten years, and she certainly wasn’t here then. So she must have been a relatively recent arrival to the parish.”
“What I don’t understand, but,” O’Shaughnessy said, “is how can it be that you even know the woman at all? She just sat in the back of the pew every Sunday, you never met her, you never spoke to her.”
“True, she never introduced herself to me,” Father Steele said. “But...”
He ran a tongue over his lips. He seemed cagey all of a sudden, which was not a good look on a priest.
“There are certain parishioners priests can’t help but know.”
Lyons was nodding with sudden excitement.
“Are you talking about, Father...?”
“Perhaps...”
“What are you two on about?” O’Shaughnessy asked.
Lyons shook his head, clenched his hands into fists and grinned at the priest, even as a growl of frustration left his lips.
“Father Steele knows Regina because...he heard her confession.”
Father Steele nodded.
O’Shaughnessy seemed perplexed. “I don’t know much about confessions, but from what I’ve seen in films and what have you, aren’t you in your wee, er, booth, separated from the, er...?”
“Penitent,” assisted Father Steele.
“Aye, that, and isn’t there a curtain or what have you so that even you don’t know who you are speaking to?”
“That’s true. Our confessionals have not only a wooden latticework which makes it difficult to see the penitent, but also a curtain. And I make a point of staring straight ahead so that I can’t see who is speaking to me. It helps to put the penitent at ease. They are really confessing their sins to the Lord, and I am merely the intermediary. I shouldn’t know who they are.”
