You'll Get Yours, page 42
“Bless us and save us!” McLaughlin roared. “Of all the times to—”
Hawkins tugged open the door and stuck her head inside. Her face was beaming, and behind her they could see Lyons and Cahill grinning from ear to ear.
“That Sonia’s been in touch!” she rejoiced. “We’ve got his name, boss!”
“Dear God!” McLaughlin exclaimed as D’Arcy gasped.
“Riley O’Reilly,” Hawkins said. “And we’ve got his address and all.”
McLaughlin’s chair fell over as he wrenched himself from the table. D’Arcy snatched up the files before her and they ran to the door.
“You stay here,” McLaughlin barked at Roisin Obi.
He noticed the woman's body had deflated in relief, but there was a questioning look on her face.
Even now, she still didn’t remember the boy’s name.
CHAPTER 47
IN THE DIMLY LIT LOCKER room of the police station, McLaughlin, Lyons, and Cahill were gearing up for the critical operation, arms, holsters, two-way radios to maintain contact with constables O’Shaughnessy and Campbell, who were conducting surveillance on 57 Gorney Way, the suspect’s pebble-dashed terrace house.
DI McLaughlin was struggling to fit into his shoulder holster. He muttered under his breath as he adjusted the straps.
Lyons smoothly slid his Glock 17 into a discreet inside-the-waistband holster, an IWB. He gave a glance at his reflection in the locker room mirror, satisfied that the gun didn’t mar the cut of his expensive suit. Now where to put that two-way radio...?
Cahill affixed his Glock securely in his shoulder holster after a few attempts. It was the first time he’d needed the gun, and his fingers were trembling slightly.
“What do we think about bulletproof vests, boss?” Cahill blushed. His voice had come out a bit higher than he’d anticipated. "Our killer has only strangled women so far, no sign he owns a gun, but can we take that chance?”
McLaughlin, finally managing to secure his shoulder holster, paused to consider. He scratched his chin.
“I don't think it's necessary, lad,” he said. “Sure, where would your man get a gun from? This isn’t the Wild West. I think he’s resorted to strangulation because he had no weapons available to him other than his hands. If we move fast and catch him off guard, we won't need the extra weight slowing us down.” He patted his stomach. “Especially when I’m already carting all of this around.”
Lyons, fixing his tie in the mirror, chimed in with a confident nod. “I agree.
Cahill furrowed his brow. “Fair enough. But what about backup? Shouldn’t we call in the tactical unit, just in case?”
“I had a word with Nix about it,” McLaughlin said. “Sure, this Riley O’Reilly’s not killing people willy-nilly, so he’s not. He’s targeted only those women who did him harm when he was a child. The only danger we’re going to see from him is if he panics. Maybe he’ll be relieved to finally be caught. Remember, he put the latest victim at the school. Seems he was helping us locate him. No, I don’t think barging in there all guns blazing’s the way to go.”
With their Glocks securely holstered, the three detectives locked eyes.
“Right, lads,” McLaughlin said. “Let’s get D’Arcy and be on our way.
D’Arcy had chosen to carry her Glock in an ankle holster hidden under her gray slacks. The two-way radio clipped to her waistcoat crackled as she tilted her neck to speak to O’Shaughnessy.
“Sierra-4 to Tango-1, do we have eyes on the suspect’s residence? Over.”
“Affirmative, Sierra-4. Suspect's residence is under surveillance. No sign of activity at this time. But he’s there. Over.”
“Copy. Let's stay sharp. We don't want any surprises. Over.”
“Roger that, Sierra-4. We're maintaining a discreet presence. Will update if anything changes. Do we have any additional units on standby? Over.”
“Negative, Tango-1. We're the primary team for this operation. Backup will be on call if needed. Over.”
“Understood, Sierra-4. Over.” Let's proceed cautiously. Keep me informed of any developments. Over.”
“Stay safe and maintain radio silence unless necessary. Over and out.”
“Copy that, Sierra-4. Tango-1 out.”
D’Arcy wriggled in her seat as she avoided McLaughlin’s gaze. She couldn’t help the special thrill that went through her during such two-way radio conversations. It was like she was on the mean streets of New York, and not just speeding down the Strand Road, as they were now doing.
“This Riley O’Reilly,” McLaughlin said. “We had him on our radar, aye? I mind the name.”
“Yes, sir.” Color rose in D’Arcy’s cheeks. “If you recall, we had a little laugh about the name a while back.”
“Where did he fit into the investigation, but? I’m struggling to place him.”
“He was one of the neighbors who lived on the opposite end of the B&B where Lily Feagins first lived when she moved to Derry.”
“How was he flagged again?”
“Sir...he owned an unmarked white van.”
McLaughlin was apoplectic.
“What?! And this wasn’t followed up?”
“The constables, er, they were snowed under, sir. Too many leads to follow. He slipped through the cracks.”
There was a heavy atmosphere in the car. They felt more responsible for Johanna Codd’s death than ever before.
“I hope that was after Margaret McGuff’s murder?” McLaughlin inquired, steering into Gorney Way.
“Before, sir.”
Now they felt even worse. They passed the B&B.
“There’s the unmarked patrol car, sir,” D’Arcy said, pointing at a rust-colored Fiat Panda.
“Aye,” McLaughlin said. “And an unmarked white van on the other side of the street. The unmarked van we’ve spent the entire investigation searching for.”
D’Arcy slunk in her seat.
“Sir.”
“Still, forensics will have a field day with that van. The victims’ DNA must be slathered all over it.”
“Sir.”
They parked behind the Fiat Panda, and Cahill’s Kia Nero pulled up behind them.
McLaughlin gave a discreet signal to the constables in the car, and the four detectives huddled under the branches of a tree that grew over the pavement. Fifty-seven Gorney Way, where the killer lived, was three houses up on the opposite side of the street, an unremarkable two-story terraced house with a small front garden of concrete. There was a recycling bin just outside the gate.
“I think a direct approach will be best,” McLaughlin said. “We have the element of surprise on our side and, sure, your man’s not an international terrorist. Just an ordinary man who’s been driven to murder due to the torture those women put him through.”
Lyons nodded. “Good call, boss. If your man’s description is as Hawkins said, he won’t put up much of a fight, or a chase, for that matter.”
“Right,” McLaughlin said. “Lyons, you’ll come with me, Cahill and Hawkins will follow behind. Don’t draw your guns yet. We don’t want to scare him. Let’s just behave as if this is a simple door-to-door.”
“The suspect went to the Sav-U-Mor a few hours ago,” D’Arcy put in. “PC O’Shaughnessy told me. He bought eggs, milk and some brown bread. Perhaps a chunk of cheese as well.”
McLaughlin raised an eyebrow.
“He was carrying one of those string bags you can see through, sir. Since that, no action.”
“Let’s hope we’re not disturbing his meal,” McLaughlin said.
He and Lyons crossed the street, Cahill and D’Arcy a few feet behind. As Lyons passed the wheelie bin, he nudged his boss.
“Should we have a wee peek inside, boss? See if he’s put anyone inside?”
“I think that was a one-off, son.”
They walked through the gate and up the concrete to the door. Cahill and D’Arcy lingered outside at the wall next to the wheelie bin.
Lyons knocked almost casually on the door.
They were putting on a show of behaving normally, but the adrenaline was rushing through their veins, hearts pounding in their chests. They couldn’t be certain this was their man, but if the perp wasn’t this Riley O’Reilly, who else could it be?
Lyons knocked on the door again, more forcefully this time.
“Hello?” he called out.
The seconds ticked by. No sound from inside.
Lyons bent over, picked up the flap of the letterbox and peered inside. A front hall with a threadbare carpeting of faded flowers. No sign of anyone. Lyons shielded his eyes with his hand and looked through the front window. Through the net curtains, he saw a living room with the usual: flat screen telly on the wall, sofa, chairs and a coffee table. Nothing out of the ordinary, not particularly neat or filthy.
“I think he’s in the kitchen or somewhere, boss,” Lyons said, “quietly shitting himself, not sure if he should open the door or not.”
“Let’s urge him on a wee bit then, shall we?” McLaughlin decided.
He pounded on the door with his fist.
“Riley O’Reilly? PSNI here, the police! Armed police! We’re here on official business! Just checking out some details, that’s all. Open the door, or we’ve the right to break it down!”
This wasn’t true, but the man inside wouldn’t know if they had a search warrant or not. He certainly knew there was reason for the PSNI to get one. If he indeed was the perp.
They heard footsteps running the length of the front hall, and Lyons placed his hand on the butt of his gun.
The door was wrenched open, and they flipped open their IDs.
Riley O’Reilly looked up at them through the grimy lenses of his little round glasses. He was wearing dirty tracksuit bottoms and a gray hoodie, scuffed Doc Martens on his feet.
“What is it, officers?” he asked. “Sorry, I was out the back and didn’t hear.”
“I am DI McLaughlin and this is DC Lyons. May we come in?”
His eyes grew wide.
“A DI? Why have they sent the big guns out to little old me?”
“Och, budget restraints,” McLaughlin said with a weary sigh. “Won’t hire new staff, so they’ve me and my DC here doing jobs better suited to the lower downs. We’re just conducting a door-to-door and have a few questions for you.”
“Er...a door-to-door about what?” he asked.
“May we come in?” McLaughlin asked again.
The man was obviously nervous. His hands kept fiddling with the drawstrings of his hoodie, and his weight kept shifting from one foot to the other. He seemed an utterly unremarkable individual, totally harmless, and one you’d sooner want to forget about than remember if you ever crossed his path. He brought one hand up to the spindly strands of hair plastered on his bald head and ran his fingers through them. Lyons wrinkled his nose at the smell of body odor that arose from him.
“It’s only a few harmless questions, sure,” Lyons said. “And we don’t care if you answer them here or down at the station. But we don’t want to answer them on the doorstep. Maybe you don’t and all, with the likes of them,” he nodded to the house on the right, “and them,” to the left, “overhearing.”
Riley reluctantly pulled open the door.
The adrenaline shot anew through the detective’s veins as they entered the hallway.
“Er...one minute,” Riley said with a little gasp, door still ajar. He pointed outside at Cahill and D’Arcy, who were making a show of having a little chat there at the wheelie bin. “They look like peelers and all. What are they doing there? Why have four of you come?”
“Och, sure,” Lyons said lightly, “they’ve just wrapped up the interview with your neighbors and are waiting to go to lunch with us.”
“Anywhere nice?” Riley asked, closing the door.
“Not on our salary,” McLaughlin scoffed. “It’ll be the Kebabalicious for us.”
“They do a wonderful curry chips,” Riley said with a nervous laugh. He ran his hand over his strands of hair.
“Aye, they do.”
McLaughlin and Lyons made their way into the living room and stood there waiting for Riley to enter.
“So...what is this about?” he asked again.
“Why don’t you have a seat,” McLaughlin invited, motioning to the armchair near the non-functioning fireplace. There were no personal items, no knickknacks, no photos of family or friends in the living room. The walls were blank. The paint on them had once been white, but was now yellowish. The house stank of sweat, cigarettes and burnt food.
Riley took the few steps to the armchair and perched uncertainly on it. Lyons moved back toward the door of the living room, blocking it. He folded his arms.
McLaughlin stood before Riley and said, “We’re here about those murders in the news. I’m sure you know which ones we’re on about. Cannon Woman, Bus Stop Woman, and now we have Roundabout Woman. What can you tell us about those, Mr. O’Reilly?”
The man moved so quickly it caught them off guard. For one so well-fed, O’Reilly was remarkably nimble on his feet. With a look of horror, he tore himself from the armchair, shoved McLaughlin in the chest, sending him toppling onto the sofa, raced the length of the living room, thrust Lyons to the side even as he was reaching for his Glock and raced into the front hall.
“Those horrible women deserved it!” he screamed as he tugged open the door.
Cahill and D’Arcy jumped, their heads shooting around at the sight of the man racing through the front garden.
“I may be on my way to hell, but they’re already there!” he roared into the street.
D’Arcy grabbed the wheelie bin and tossed it in front of the gate. It toppled over just as O’Reilly reached it, and he kicked it to the side, ran down the street.
“Stop!” Cahill and D’Arcy yelled, drawing their guns and racing after him. Across the street, the coppers flung open the doors of the Panda and, dodging a passing car, wheels shrieking, ran after the detectives.
They saw him up ahead, arms flapping, anguished shrieks spilling out of his mouth. He collided with a woman and a pram, sending it bouncing into the street. The child’s wails rang out, the woman effing and blinding after him.
“Stop him!” Cahill called to the woman.
The woman flipped him off, running into the street after her pram.
“It’s a dead end up there, Cahill!” D’Arcy gasped, sweat lashing down her face. “We’ve got him!”
But their hearts fell at the sight of Riley hunching down and climbing through a hole in the chain-link fence and onto the abandoned buildings of the industrial estate beyond. There were so many buildings to hide in, he would be impossible to find.
D’Arcy whipped her head around, and the coppers and Lyons had caught up to them. McLaughlin was far behind, puffing and panting.
Shrieking as a broken bit of the fence dug into her back as she crawled through it, D’Arcy hauled herself up and continued the chase. Cahill, Lyons and the coppers scrabbled through the damp dirt as they cleared the hole in the fence, and D’Arcy pointed ahead.
“There he is! Over by that burnt-out car!”
They raced toward it, Riley’s bald head bobbing up and down as he ran twenty-five feet ahead of them. An anguished grunt rang out as he tripped. He struggled to get up, reached out to the car for support, but the bumper came off in his hand.
D’Arcy threw herself on him and, as he screamed and shrieked, she pinned his arms behind his back. One leg either side of his wriggling, lardy body, she forced both of his wrists into one hand, and reached behind her for the handcuffs.
She snapped them on just as the others arrived, panting, muddy. And ecstatic.
After a little groan of dismay at the state of his fancy trousers, Lyons reached down to help her, but D’Arcy said, “I think I’ve got it, Lyons. Just about.”
Her voice rang out sternly as she said to the bald head shooting back and forth under her, “Riley O'Reilly, you are under arrest. You do not have to say anything...”
She liked this bit of policing as well.
By the time she’d finished, McLaughlin had arrived. He leaned over, hands on his thighs, face bright pink.
“Grand work, D’Arcy!” he said. “Mother of God, I need to lay off those bacon baps...!”
CHAPTER 48
THE RATHER HEFTY CASE file on the table before her, D’Arcy pressed the button of the recording equipment.
“This is DS Nancy D’Arcy, together with DI Liam McLaughlin. We are interviewing Riley O’Reilly. The time is 1530 hrs. Mr. O’Reilly has declined representation. Is that correct, Mr. O’Reilly?”
This had been a relief to them all. They had been spared hours of ‘no comment’ and ‘my client doesn’t have to answer that’ as they sat on the uncomfortable metal chairs of the interview room. Many times, after blurting out a confession, as O’Reilly had done with his ‘I may be on my way to hell,’ line, perpetrators reconsidered and tried to backtrack, insisting it had meant something else and that they were in fact innocent. O’Reilly’s ‘hell’ comment and ‘those horrible women deserved it’ could be construed as something other than guilt in a court of law, even with a court-appointed solicitor their first week on the job.
O’Reilly, disheveled, slumped in his chair, shoulders stooped, a picture of defeat, muttered something. He could look neither of them in the eye.
“Please speak louder for the recording, Mr. O’Reilly,” D'Arcy said in her stern, cold tone.
The moment they’d dropped the suspect off at the custody suite, D’Arcy had scurried to the ladies’ loo and scrubbed herself in the sink with soap from the dispenser, patted herself down with paper towels, ripped out her hair elastic, shook her hair, dragged her brush through it fifty times at lightning speed, gathered up her ponytail, tied it back up as tightly as she could, then run a sanitizing wipe over both hands and the sink to boot. She now sat, stiff and clean, before O’Reilly.
McLaughlin had sent one of the uniforms off to McDonald’s and a whiff of french fries rose from him, a smear of ketchup on the right lapel of his jacket.
