Cold Steel (14 page)

On the wall an eighteen-inch security monitor glowed. A still picture flickered. Clarke peered at the screen, his face scrunched up. Using a remote control Dillon changed the view. The crouched figure of a body could be seen in one corner of a small room. Another button was pressed and sound clicked on. An animal like moan came through.

'That's your arrest, superintendent,' said Dillon. 'That coiled-up ball of humanity is your suspect.' The grunting and groaning ceased. The crouching figure unrolled and Micko Kelly suddenly sprang into the air, hands flailing. 'He's chasing the light bulb in the centre of the ceiling,' the psychiatrist explained. 'This is the only padded cell in the hospital. It's a ten-by-eight room. The walls are fourteen feet high and eight inches thick, heavily padded with a bottle-green cloth which does not make climbing easy. In the ceiling there is a solitary green bulb for light. A TV camera is recessed out of sight.'

Dillon pressed another button and a different image flashed up. Kelly was stripped to his underpants, his bare legs and lower back now visible. The camera caught him trying to scramble towards the light source. The sight and
the sounds chilled despite the warmth of the corridor. Dillon pressed another button and the floor came into view. He used a roll-top joystick to zoom and the lens picked up a mattress with a blanket on top. The blanket was pulled to the side of the bed.

'He's wet himself again,' he said. 'We'll go in and sedate. Then he's into the secure cell.'

The waiting attendants nodded wearily.

Dillon turned to Clarke. 'The predominant colour in that room is bottle-green. Psychologists claim it's a calming colour.' He grinned. 'On the one occasion I asked to be left inside with the door locked it did nothing for my anxieties.'

Clarke managed a weak smile.

Dillon flicked at the joystick. 'Patients are put into this room when they become a danger to themselves or others.' The TV image changed. 'Kelly scored top marks on both.'

The group looked up at the monitor. Inside the padded cell Micko Kelly lunged again at the ceiling. For a split second the lens caught his demented face, the froth at his mouth, the eyes of insanity. Clarke watched with a mixture of fascination and horror. Then he spun angrily on one heel and tapped his way back along the corridor, frustration and exasperation threatening to boil over.

'I haven't examined him completely yet.' Back in the cool of the white-tiled entrance Dillon was explaining events. The three sat on the wooden bench. Dillon held a manila folder with the name MICHAEL LEO KELLY written in thick felt-tip pen on one corner. 'He came in manacled and muzzled. The staff thought they had him settled. They were removing the chains when he went berserk. It took six to restrain him and he put up one helluva fight by all accounts. The orderlies are trained in restraint techniques. I believe that went out the window. It took brute force to subdue him.'

Clarke fiddled with a button on his shirt.

'He was quite psychotic,' Dillon added for good measure.

Clarke's eyebrows shot up. 'Meaning what?'

The psychiatrist scanned an entry in the folder. 'He was hearing voices and seeing visions. Very aggressive. His shouting disturbed the other patients.'

Clarke leaned against the bench. 'What do you make of all this?'

Dillon came back immediately. 'It may be some time before he regains his sanity. No one can question him until I feel confident he has recovered.' He ignored Clarke's deepening scowl. 'I will keep you informed on any progress.' He tucked the chart under his arm and stood up. 'Unlocking his insanity is the key to your prosecution.'

19

5.37 pm

'Joan, you had better come inside to the study. Your father's waiting.'

Joan Armstrong arrived home from school to find her mother fretting at the front gate of their two-storey red-bricked house in the south Dublin suburb of Sandymount. She noticed her father's black Lexus parked in the driveway. He was rarely home before seven most evenings. She sensed trouble.

'That policeman who called yesterday is here. What have you been up to?' Mrs Armstrong, a small plump lady with thinning hair clutched and unclutched a lace handkerchief. She dabbed at the corner of one eye.

'Nothing, mum, nothing,' blurted her daughter. 'Like, I don't know what he wants.' Her hands shook as she slipped off her uniform jacket and hung it in the tiny press inside the front door. Her mother watched anxiously, then ushered her into the study with a silent wave.

Harold Armstrong was the perfect bank manager. A tall, grey-haired man, his dress code matched his temperament and personality: conservative, subdued, dull and boring. Joan was his third child and, as Sister Concepta had so astutely observed, a mistake in every sense of the word for him. She was born when he had least wanted another child, being ill-prepared to start parenthood again. She had been nothing but trouble, rebellious, insolent, defiant and a
compulsive liar. Her behaviour had become more disturbing as she moved into the late-teenage years. 'Where is she getting the money?' Armstrong had snapped during one of many arguments about his errant daughter. She'd been discovered drunk yet again. 'I'm too old for this,' he'd complained. 'I'm out of touch with her generation.'

The most worrying development had been the telephone call from Sister Concepta warning about Joan's involvement in the drugs scene. As Armstrong listened his stomach churned. 'She's only just turned eighteen and thinks she knows it all,' the nun had said scornfully. 'She knows nothing.' Armstrong agreed. 'Thank you, sister.' Joan was grounded for another month and there was an inquisition as to how she was getting money to buy drugs. Nothing new came to light.

Less than two months later the body of Jennifer Marks was discovered in Sandymount Park. Harold Armstrong was shaken to the core. Rumours spread as to how and why she had been killed, all involving his daughter. As soon as Tony Molloy rang to arrange a second meeting Armstrong decided to turn Joan over to the police and let them sort her out. He hoped the experience would frighten her back to respectability.

He sat at his writing desk in the front study. At his side Molloy chewed on an antacid, his usual worrying frown in place.

'Hi, dad,' Joan greeted nervously and sat down in the only other free chair, strategically placed to face both men.

Armstrong ignored the greeting and immediately got down to business.

'Joan, Sergeant Molloy wants to talk to you again.' He let the words sink in for a moment. 'I want you to be completely honest with him. You can discuss everything on your own. Neither your mother nor I will be listening.' He stood up and walked out, closing the door firmly behind.

Molloy inspected the young girl sitting opposite, eyes fixed on her lap, both hands gripping the sides of the chair
to stop them shaking. She seemed so vulnerable, not the precocious young lady any more. He looked around the study, noting family photographs inside silver frames, one of Joan at her first communion, small girl in white-veiled dress, hands clasped together as in prayer. He looked back at the grown-up version.

'I'm not gonna spend all day with this, okay?' His voice was hard, eyes drilling into the averted stare opposite. 'You spun me a pack of lies the other day and I know it.' Joan Armstrong looked up and Molloy sensed her fear immediately. 'You did not get off the train at Sydney Parade Station, you and Jennifer Marks went on to the next stop at Ringsend, didn't you?' A subdued head nodded. 'So maybe you'd like to tell me what really happened? I have statements from a number of witnesses, including school pals, so don't try and hide anything. We know everything, all I need is confirmation. Okay?' He pressed the ON button on a microcassette. 'Start from when the two of you got off the train at Ringsend.'

Trembling hands went up and Joan Armstrong untied jet-black hair from the clasp at the back of her head and shook her tresses free. She pulled them back again and replaced the clasp.

'We went to Balfe's pub to score dope. Jenny was heavy into dope and I often went with her, like, you know, sort of to keep her company.' The voice was weak and defeated and Molloy snapped back immediately.

'Don't bullshit me, Joan, you can feed that sort of crap to your parents but don't try shoving it at me. I don't give a damn if you smoke dope or not, understand? But don't insult my intelligence with that innocent "I was only keeping her company" line.'

The girl's facade collapsed and she shook violently as the words poured out.

'We went into Balfe's pub and waited for Jenny's contact to turn up. She had this fella who supplied whatever she wanted and they always met there.'

The 'you know' and 'like it's really weird' phrases had gone, Molloy noticed. She can't wait to clear her conscience, he decided.

'There was this big-head with a tattoo on his forehead waiting to score as well and she started messing with him.'

Molloy cut across, 'What do you mean "messing"?'

'She'd grab at his drink and swig some of it, snatch a drag on his cigarettes, that sort of thing.'

Molloy turned his microcassette tape volume up. 'What'd he look like?' A perfect description of Micko Kelly followed.

'I left about six. I was late already and I had to go. Jenny stayed on drinking with the head.'

'Had she scored anything?'

'No. The usual contact didn't turn up. The head she was with gave her something, I don't know what. I told her I was going but she said she would go home on her own later.'

'And you left her in the pub with this big fella with the tattoo on his forehead?'

'Yeah. Honestly.'

Balfe's pub, Joan Armstrong confirmed, was a popular meeting place for young kids looking for drugs. Dealers from the inner city had migrated to the more affluent suburbs, getting better money for their trade and less hassle from the police. The pub had been one of Jennifer Marks' favourite haunts. Joan Armstrong's too. They'd often gone there after school and at weekends.

'Where would you go to smoke or drink? Or did you just sit and smoke your heads off in the pub?' Molloy was scribbling notes as well as recording.

'No, we usually went to the park.'

Molloy's head shot up. 'What park?'

'Sandymount Park.'

Molloy stopped scribbling and looked directly into Joan Armstrong's eyes. He noticed the fear had left, the uncertainty replaced by the confidence of truth. 'Did you use the park regularly?'

'Yeah, most weekends, sometimes after school. There's an old wooden shelter there we used to sit in.' The voice was stronger now.

Molloy scanned past notes as he turned the cassette over and pressed the ON button again. 'When Jennifer Marks' body was discovered she wasn't wearing her school uniform.'

Joan Armstrong didn't wait for the question. 'She changed in the toilets in the pub. We always did that so we didn't stick out. You know, little convent girls in a pub full of junkies.'

'What did she do with her uniform?'

'Like we always did, stuffed it inside our schoolbags.'

Molloy noted the 'we' rather than 'she'. 'But we didn't find her schoolbag in the park.'

'I know.'

Molloy's eyes shot up, surprised. 'Waddye mean you know? Where is it?'

'I'd have to show you. I'm sure it's hidden where we always leave our gear.'

'Show me.'

Joan Armstrong's parents were relieved as they watched her climb into the back of Molloy's car. They were relieved it was unmarked.

'I'll have her back in half an hour,' he advised, his frown replaced by a grin for a change. 'We're getting on famously.'

Harold Armstrong even managed a weak smile in response.

5.55 pm

Dr Frank Clancy was rubbing his glasses against a corner of his white coat. He breathed on the lenses to moisten, wiped again, then shoved them back on his nose. With little enthusiasm he flicked at the dog-eared pages of the
charts on his desk. He'd reviewed the facts as he understood them while studying an acute leukaemic blood film in the laboratory. Like a banister in court he'd mentally argued the pros and cons of the conspiracy theory. Then, to grab back lost time, he'd passed the lecture commitment to his registrar, second in command on the haematology medical team. No matter how aggressively he presented the case 'for', instinct shouted 'not guilty'. Fear of the consequences if he read the situation wrong troubled him greatly. This is a legal minefield, he reminded himself. Don't step on a bomb and expect not to get hurt. He began leafing through patient Mary Hyland's chart, stopping when he reached the pink drugs page. His fingers played with the edge of the paper as he stared at the sole entry: Capoten 12.5 mgs. He was about to turn when he noticed the difference between the page he was holding and the rest in the chart. It looked new. Quickly Clancy flicked through all the recent entries. Each page was dog-eared, the look of being well used. There were ink smudges, rushed handwriting and scribbled notes along some margins, even thumbprints. But when he returned to the drug entry pink page its cleanliness, its straight edges, its lack of dog-eared corners suddenly hit him. Unsettled him. Very gingerly he parted the pages beside and eased the ring binding. There was no mistaking the barely clinging torn edge. It was pink. Someone had removed the original page in a hurry. Someone had interfered with Mary Hyland's chart.

Frank Clancy mopped at his brow with the sleeve of his white coat.
Someone's trying to hide something.
Checking through the Venetian blinds that he was not going to be disturbed, Clancy parted the ring file and teased out the edge of pink paper, placing it carefully inside an envelope. He closed the file over and returned to the pages where the post-operation notes had been entered. The handwriting varied depending on which of the heart surgery team was examining and recording. Some of the writing was clear,
some barely legible. Now and then he could distinguish Linda Speer's copperplate from the others. But the entry he was looking for, the one clue he needed to piece together the jigsaw forming in his mind, eluded. Until he spotted the Tipp-Ex. A note had been written in the white daily record pages, a continuous handwritten observation of Mary Hyland's immediate condition when transferred from intensive care to standard ward. Alongside her blood pressure, temperature, pulse and respiratory rates the examining doctor had written:
continue Capoten 12.5 mgs b.d.…
, there then followed a small Tipp-Exed space. By looking at the other side of the page through his desk light, Clancy was just about able to make out the concealed entry: …
and D/N Aspirin 300 mgs daily.
Without closing Mary Hyland's chart, he flicked open the maroon cover on the second, that of patient James Murphy, and hurried through the pages until he reached the most recent cardiac pink drugs page. It too looked brand new. Parting the ring binder slightly he uncovered the remnants of another torn-off pink page. Like Hyland, according to the chart he was reading from, James Murphy
had not
been on D/N Aspirin. But just as with Mary Hyland, he
had been
on D/N Aspirin 300 mgs daily when Clancy had scanned the drugs on the computer screen. Someone was deliberately changing the drug treatment schedules, but in such a hurry they were leaving vital evidence.

He turned to the PC on the desk in front and accessed both patients' records. This time there was no red asterix warning the file was in use. Even before he reached the drugs records he sensed something would have been altered. He was right. According to the existing files on both patients there was no record of either having been prescribed D/N Aspirin. Clancy leaned back heavily in his chair and stared at the blue screen. His heart was racing and he was perspiring heavily. He felt his chest rise and fall rapidly.

What is going on?

He glanced at his watch. It was almost six ten in the early evening. He did a quick mental calculation. Six ten in the evening, Irish time. That was around noon Chicago, USA, time. Clancy had trained in Chicago and knew his old hospital had an emergency Drugs Assist programme for queries. This allowed treating physicians and casualty doctors to call direct for immediate information on any particular drug. It could mean the difference between life and death for someone being treated for a drug overdose, or a patient on the wards with an unusual medical problem possibly related to prescribed medication. One telephone call and the latest data on all legal and illegal, doctor-prescribed or just 'over-the-counter' pharmaceuticals was available within minutes via the hospital data bank. He scanned the telephone book, picked up the phone and began dialling.

'Drugs Assist helpline.' The broad mid-western accent lifted his spirits immediately. Clancy almost cheered, he felt he was back in Chicago.

'Hi,' he said, not certain whether to tell the nurse-aide where he was ringing from. The line was so clear he might only have been two blocks away. 'My name is Dr Frank Clancy and I'm calling you from Dublin, Ireland.' He decided on half truths.