Cold Steel (2 page)

'Yes. His name was Christy O'Hara, a well-known hit man. He went into hiding but was shot dead in a gangland feud.'

'Was anyone else involved,' the same girl pressed.

'Three months later, while I was still in a ward upstairs,' an index finger pointed roofwards, 'the investigating team discussed possible suspects, those most likely to benefit from my death. It took four hours to go over the list.' Someone near the back whistled softly and a few giggled nervously. Clarke ignored them. 'We narrowed the group to seven. Finally an informer came forward with the name. Jude Kennedy, the drug baron we were shadowing.' No one spoke, the theatre silent again. The pointer in Declan Kelleher's hand threw the red blip aimlessly against a side wall.

Clarke cleared his throat and reached for the glass at his
feet. Against the microphone the noise of the water trickling down his throat sounded above the tiered rows. He set the glass back and looked up. 'He's also dead, taken out in a dispute over territory.'

'Great,' someone muttered and Clarke allowed a terse smile.

Declan Kelleher stood up and motioned the forensic psychiatrist back to the lectern.

'Perhaps, Dr Dillon, you might explain what drives men to murder in cold blood? What is the mind-set of the hit man? What is the psychiatric background? How can you help the police, say, in a murder investigation?'

Dillon listened to the questions, lips puckered, eyebrows creased. He didn't speak for almost three minutes, then adjusted the microphone to his height. 'The ruthless hit man is almost certainly a sociopath. In cold blood and without remorse, he kills for money. Those who send him on such missions and pay for the results are equally evil, equally devoid of remorse. My role in police investigations is to assess the type of crime. Is it a frenzied attack with multiple injuries or a single bullet to the back of the head?' The lecture theatre was totally silent. 'The type of attack,' continued Dillon, 'reflects the mind of the attacker. When I advise the police I explain the specific characteristics of each event; the crime, the likely murder weapon, the crime scene, et cetera.'

The eerie silence was broken by the noisy opening of the only door at the back of the theatre. Everyone turned to the tall figure filling the frame, coughing for attention. A hand waved into the darkness. Clarke reached over and lifted his crutch in the air to show where he was sitting. Down the steps bounded Moss Kavanagh, Clarke's full-time minder and part-time driver. Six foot three with cropped black hair and the squashed face of a front row rugby player he rolled a mobile phone from hand to hand as he bent down and whispered.

'Boss, you've gotta go. They've found the Marks girl.'

Clarke examined the other man's face.

'Where?'

'She's lying in some park in the east of the city.' The whispers were caught on the microphone and Clarke enveloped the tiny device in his right hand.

'Alive or dead?'

'Dead.'

'Jesus,' was as much as Clarke could muster as he struggled to his feet. He motioned Dillon to follow.

The body was discovered at 7.46 that morning.

A jogger had tripped over a pale and still white leg that stuck out from undergrowth. He'd stumbled and dislodged the earphones on his Walkman, causing him to stop to readjust. While he fiddled with the earpieces he glanced back. For almost two minutes he didn't move, barely able to believe his eyes, barely able to trust the rational explanation for what they were seeing. Then he edged closer, twice looking over his shoulder to see if anyone else was around. There was no one. The park was deserted apart from a few magpies strutting across dewy grass, the only sound coming from their raucous screeches as they crisscrossed one another's paths. Going as close as he dared, he made out two very pale, wax-like legs, one slightly bent, the other more or less straight. The legs were attached to a body, face down, partly hidden by twigs and leaves on which spiders had spun dew-dropped webs. As he parted a branch, the early morning sun glinted and danced on the droplets before the delicate lattice work collapsed. The legs were female, he immediately decided, as he also spotted a skirt hitched up to the waist. He knew within seconds those legs, like the rest of the body, were lifeless and wasted no time running for help. He glanced at his watch as he ran.

The first squad car arrived at 8.23, as recorded by the young policeman who climbed over the green spiked
railings surrounding the park and followed the jogger to his discovery. As he strode along the wet grass he fired off questions and the jogger, a forty-year-old balding accountant, a good six inches smaller than his sudden companion, did his best to answer. His replies were cautious, not wanting to give the impression he was personally responsible for the body being there in the first place. At 8.35 the body was officially reported to police headquarters as that of a female with clothes in a state of disarray. At 8.37 there was an additional finding. A knife was imbedded in the back of the body, somewhere around the middle of the right upper-chest area. The officer added that the knife was imbedded to the hilt. A minute later he added in a slightly flustered voice he now had a collapsed jogger and asked for an ambulance to be called.

'Clear that group back from the railings. Find out where the keys to the gates are and get a couple of the uniformed lads to patrol the perimeter.' Detective Sergeant Tony Molloy was protecting the crime scene, waiting for the forensic team to arrive. He was tall but paunchy with a bald pate and fluffs of grey hair above both ears. Aged forty-six, he moved with the ease of a man who'd done this many times before, clear instructions, few hand movements, quiet words rather than shouts. Those under his control lost no time, their movements casting weak shadows in the early morning sunlight.

'Don't anyone go near the body and don't let one of those bloody birds near.' The magpies had fled their quiet haven, only a few squawked from surrounding trees which were coming into full leaf after the harsh spring weather.

Sandymount Park in east Dublin was two acres of square ground. There were mature trees, a mixture of sycamore and chestnut, blocking the green itself from nearby houses and apartment complexes. The central uncut grass lawn was used mainly for ball games, two coats as goals and someone taking penalties, or frisbee throwing. The park was sealed off from the road and back gardens
that abutted its edges by a six-foot-high green spiked railing that screamed for a lick of paint. Scattered randomly, or so it would appear to anyone with gardening expertise, were clumps of bushes and small trees. At the south edge, where the body had been found, thick undergrowth flourished. There was a sad-looking wooden shelter about thirty yards from this spot. The wood had rotted in places and graffiti covered most of the remaining paintwork. Inside the shelter were a number of empty beer cans, cider bottles and cigarette butts. Molloy had noted these when he peered in earlier. He'd also spotted a bloodstained syringe.

'Seal off that shelter,' he ordered and a yellow crime-scene incident tape circled the wooden structure in minutes.

Molloy was a born worrier. He worried about his health, his pension, about the weather, about the way the country was going, everything. When he wasn't worrying, he worried he had nothing to worry about. As he checked the description of the missing Jennifer Marks with headquarters, he quickly sensed he'd have a lot more to worry about than usual.

2

10.05 am

Two uniformed police officers arrived at the Marks' house just after ten o'clock that morning. Dan Marks had waited downstairs all night beside the telephone. He had disconnected the two lines upstairs so as not to disturb his invalid wife.

'Dr Marks?' The policemen were both tall and gangly, young, one red-haired, the other dark. They held their peaked caps at their sides, and were sombre-faced.

'Yes.'

The red-haired officer spoke first, in slow, deliberate tones. 'I'm afraid we've come about Jennifer.'

Dan Marks went into denial mode. 'Yes, yes. Have you found her?' Desperate. 'Is she all right?'

'I'm afraid the news isn't good.' The dark-haired officer turned away slightly to avoid eye contact. His colleague continued. 'The body of a young girl answering Jennifer's description has been found in a park about two miles from here.'

The slow, clear, deliberate delivery of information continued. Time found, clothes worn; immediate observations toned down significantly to conceal the awful truth. Marks listened for about four minutes, then pushed the door closed.

'Annie, they've found Jennifer.' Dan Marks stood at the half-open door leading into his wife's bedroom.

There was a silence and in the gloom of the bedroom Dan Marks could just about make out his wife. She sat in a wheelchair staring at the closed curtains pulled across the windows.

'When? When do they want us?'

'Annie, if you don't want to…'

'When, you bastard! I said when?' The scream shook Marks and he gripped the door frame.

'As soon as they let us know we can go there.' His voice was heavy with pain.

'Where is my daughter, where are they taking her?'

Dan Marks could barely speak the words. 'The morgue. They'll call us from the morgue.'

'Well, get yourself ready,' Annie Marks snapped as she dabbed at her eyes in the dark, 'I've been waiting all night for this. I'm ready.'

'I'll come back when I hear more.'

There was an unintelligible grunted response.

Dan Marks started to close the door then turned. 'Annie, I'm sorry.'

'Leave me alone, you bastard. I don't want your snivelling tears. Do you hear?'

He closed the door gently to drown out the sobs.

It had all begun so differently eight months earlier.

'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming along.'

Dr John Regan, Minister for Health in the recently elected government, addressed the gathered media from a podium. The large hall in government buildings was full to overflowing and Regan glanced around, assessing the turnout. He was well satisfied. There were eight TV crews, each with their own station reporters. He noted two major US networks, as well as CNN and Sky. In another corner the BBC, two European crews he couldn't identify and the national station RTE. A TV crew from Boston had pushed to the front, checking angles. Slumped in chairs around the
room were print and radio reporters, some gossiping while others scribbled in notebooks. Just as well I ordered the big hall, thought Regan. It was an impressive turnout and he knew the journalists would mention that in their reports.

Behind him was an empty table covered in green cloth with bottled water and glasses on top. Four empty chairs were pulled back awaiting occupancy. Two feet behind the chairs large screens carried government propaganda with photographs of the winning election slogans and logo:
A New Government For A New People.
Smiling faces of the 'future of Ireland: its young people' with John Regan shaking hands, looking concerned, head thrown back and laughing, wiping away tears, kicking a football. The images were strong and positive. Ireland with the youngest population in the European Union needed to brush away the cobwebs of the past and concentrate on the future. The slogans had won the day and the government swept into power with a handsome majority.

At thirty-three John Regan was the youngest ever Minister for Health. Born into a poor working-class home in Dublin's inner city, Regan had fought his way to the top on the streets. Drive, ambition and an incisive brain won him a place at university where he had been a student radical, campaigning against privilege and class distinction. His choice of medicine as a career surprised many, though all agreed he had enough ruthless dynamism to carry him to the top. But the tedium of hospital medicine and lack of promotion frustrated. A politically charged Regan left the wards to stomp the campaign trail. Despite angry protests from opponents about intimidation from his handlers, Regan cruised to victory in the election.

He was in office only two weeks when he stage-managed the first confrontation with a medical profession he secretly loathed. He announced all public hospital appointments would no longer carry the right to private practice. There was uproar within the ranks of the
consultants, used to doubling and sometimes trebling their incomes with private work. Next he published the official salaries of the consultants and their estimated extra private fees. There was public outcry at the excesses. While the consultants went into a huddle to plan their strategy, Regan played his trump card and announced the establishment of a Heart Foundation. This was to be an international heart disease research and treatment centre based at Dublin's Mercy Hospital ('already a centre of medical excellence').

The Mercy Hospital had been created on a green field site in 1994, amalgamating five of the older inner-city Dublin hospitals. The first few years after its opening had been difficult, but the petty rivalries and jealousies that bedevil many medical institutions soon burned out. The institution became a recognised nucleus of medical excellence with special interest in cancer research, diagnostic radiology and respiratory diseases. Regan's intervention was a bold and daring move. The government promised thirty-five million pounds to establish the Heart Foundation. Fifteen million pounds would be provided by Irish tax payers, while the balance was guaranteed by the European Union, a community initiative designed to counter North American dominance of medical research. The EEC money was conditional on regular reviews and appraisal of results from the Foundation. At the time Regan said he anticipated international interest in the project. 'It will be the envy of the world.' He hoped Irish doctors would be at the top of his appointments. He knew they wouldn't. His project was snubbed from the beginning and looked certain to collapse. But Regan had laid his plans carefully. After a decent delay of six weeks to allow the local medical fraternity an opportunity to come around, he flew to Boston and arrived back with the scalps of the 'Dream Team', three heart specialists committed to establishing the Foundation. They had been lured from their positions at Springton hospital, one of
the most prestigious medical institutions in the United States.

It was an audacious and courageous coup. The people loved it and the government's rating shot higher in the polls. Regan's personal profile was established. He had taken on the might of the most formidable trade union in the country, the medical profession, and left them gasping. And he had captured twenty million pounds of EEC grants. Even Dublin's gossip columnists were silenced. Throughout the election campaign they had made much of Regan's single status, occasionally printing unsavoury rumours about his private life. He was now untouchable, the nation's favourite son. Today was the culmination of many months' work, a vindication of all his effort.

'As you know we're here today to meet the medical specialists from Boston now under contract with our government to develop the proposed Heart Foundation,' Regan began when the audience had settled. He looked the consummate politician, tall and broad-shouldered. For the occasion he'd chosen a beige Armani suit over dark blue shirt and bright yellow tie. His short black hair was swept back severely, emphasising his broad forehead. Unmarried, Regan's looks meant he was sought after by many women. He was wearing his concerned face which could just as easily turn vicious and angry if provoked.

'You'll see in the press release a brief summary of their backgrounds, hospital appointments and research work to date. After you've had a chance to read this I'm sure you'll agree we are very fortunate to have such high calibre talent here in Dublin.'

He paused and allowed his gaze to drift around the room. Cameramen fiddled with lights and lenses, Dictaphones were held up in the air to capture every word.

'I'm going to introduce each in turn and at the end we'll throw the meeting open for questions.' He looked down, noting the cynical posturing and bored expressions of journalists who'd attended too many press conferences.
Wait'll they see what I've got. They'll be hanging out of those chairs by the end.

'First I'd like you to meet Dr Stone Colman, biochemist and internationally recognised expert in the field of cellular changes in heart disease.'

A door to the side of the podium opened and a rather bookish looking man stepped out and smiled nervously. Regan glanced at the press release detailing Colman's background, age, appointments and research work. He looked up and smiled encouragingly. Stone Colman was medium height, forty-four years old and dressed in a rather sagging, crumpled dark brown suit. His ginger hair was tight crew cut giving him a military air which his slight stoop marred. He moved quickly and sat down at the table, immediately opening a bottle of mineral water and pouring a glass to almost overflowing. He looked ill at ease in such a public arena.

'Dr Colman will continue research on the cellular changes that occur in the immediate hours after heart attacks. In particular he will seek to identify the mystery chemicals we believe trigger off fatal heart rhythms.' Regan noticed some of the journalists scribbling. 'It's all in the press release, boys,' he rebuked. 'Next I'd like you to meet Dr Linda Speer, internationally renowned cardiologist.'

Onto the podium, walking like a model in a fashion show, came Regan's showpiece, brains with beauty. Linda Speer was thirty-five years old but looked ten years younger. She wore a fashionably cut navy jacket over long grey skirt and white cashmere roll-neck. She walked confidently over to Stone Colman who smiled and set a glass in front, lifting a questioning eyebrow. She declined with a flick of her right wrist, allowing the audience a glimpse of gold bracelet, then sat down. Regan watched as one or two cameramen zoomed for better views. Linda Speer crossed her legs and allowed a polished Gucci high heel to dangle provocatively off her toes, then swept a hand through her short blonde hair, pulling it away from her face.

Regan smiled to himself as he watched the shoe rock back and forth. This girl's got class. 'Dr Speer is both an adult and paediatric cardiologist and is particularly keen to expand the paediatric heart surgery programme in Ireland. If you look at page three of the press release,' paper rustled all round the room, 'you'll see the statistics of our current heart surgery programme and waiting list. Since modern trends suggest children with congenital heart disease should be operated on in the first twelve months of life, we are failing many young patients by delaying surgery beyond their first birthdays.'

Regan turned to look at the upturned face of Linda Speer who was listening attentively. 'Dr Speer believes we can halve the current waiting list inside a year as soon as our new centre's up and running. Isn't that right, Linda?'

The beauty with brains smiled and a perfect white flash stunned the audience. She mouthed a slow 'yes' at Regan and he felt a slight stirring in his groin. He coughed to distract himself and turned back to the journalists.

'As you know, this government was elected to represent the future of Ireland, our young people. If we cannot provide adequate medical services for our youngest members, our babies, then we fail the electorate who voted us into power.' A few in the audience smiled at the party political broadcast, the rest carefully read Speer's CV. Regan was sure they would note she was divorced with no children. He knew one or two of the cockier journos would wonder about their chances.

'Finally, I'd like you to meet Dr Dan Marks.' The side door opened again and into view strode the icing on the cake as far as Regan was concerned. Dan Marks was two inches above six feet, with the build of a man who'd played American Rules football for years. His curling hair was totally grey, long at the back. He wore an off-white linen jacket over navy T-shirt and denim jeans with the sort of trainers middle-aged men choose to hide their advancing years. His face showed a healthy tan, courtesy of a recent
cardiology conference in Florida where he'd delivered a paper in thirty minutes and spent the rest of the week at the poolside. Marks stopped halfway to the podium, looked down at the audience and bowed slightly. A ripple of laughter reached his ears and he smiled broadly before sitting down.

'Dr Marks is an internationally renowned cardiac surgeon,' Regan went on smugly, 'and has a patient list that reads like the
Who's Who
of celebrities. Before he left Boston he carried out a triple bypass on Senator Bill Hall of Alabama before moving to theatre two and replacing a damaged mitral valve on top chat-show host, Marvin Hanna.' He waited to allow these feats of glory to sink in before continuing, 'And I'm told he went out that afternoon and played an almost perfect eighteen holes of golf.' Regan started to laugh at his brilliant aside but stopped short as he noticed the impassive faces in front of him. Dan Marks was whispering into Linda Speer's left ear, ignoring all else.