Cold Steel (21 page)

'What about those blue tablets?' Clarke interrupted everyone's thoughts. 'Any luck, Arnie?'

Leeson flicked paper briefly. 'Nothing. Mightn't have anything on it for a few days.'

'Could Kelly have done any of this?' Murphy asked, hands reaching for his jacket. 'He was covered in the girl's blood, we now have that for fact. What about a sexual motive?'

Dillon came in immediately. 'He could have carried out the stabbing.' He looked directly ahead, voice firm, eye contact held. 'But our friend does not have the balls, literally, to drive him to a sex crime. I doubt whether Kelly has had an erection for the past year, let alone become sexually excited enough to do something like this.' The room was
quiet. 'More importantly, the attempt to conceal the body and destroy the footprints suggests a thinking brain.'

'And Kelly doesn't have a thinking brain?' Murphy wondered out loud.

'Kelly's brain is porridge. He is your typical chaotic drug abuser, devoid of logical thought, capable only of raw emotion and the drive to find drugs. He may have inflicted the first two wounds but not what happened after. I have to conclude someone else was involved.'

There was a murmur of noise before Molloy cut across, his usual frown now taking on Mount Rushmore proportions. 'Are we dealing with some psychopath here?'

Dillon pulled at his cuffs, showing a little more white. He tucked his tie deeper behind his jacket.

'Psychopathic behaviour is a rather strange phenomenon,' he said. 'Many psychopaths never come to the attention of the police, leading apparently normal lives. Indeed some may use their cunning and guile to achieve high positions in society.' He looked around the table, noticing everyone hanging off his words. 'They have a grandiose sense of self-worth with a superficial charm. They are pathological liars, devoid of any sense of remorse. They show lack of insight, incapable of learning from past mistakes.'

'They'd go far in politics,' suggested Arnold Leeson and the table dissolved in laughter.

Dillon pushed his notes inside his jacket pocket. He stood up to leave. 'As far as I can see there's only one man can clear this up.'

Murphy looked up. 'Who?'

'Kelly. He's the only one who knows what happened that night.'

11.37 am

Inside the maximum security ward of Rockdale Hospital
for the Criminally Insane, Micko Kelly was sitting on the floor outside his cell. He watched with intense interest anything that moved. He was dressed in long, white, hospital-issue pyjamas. The pyjamas had no buttons or cord, only snap-on top and elasticated bottoms. This reduced any attempts at suicide. Kelly was less agitated and now stronger after eating and drinking proper food. He was also less strung out, the anti-psychotic and drug-withdrawal medicine was claiming his mind back. Some of his mind.

'Watch the little piggy, watch the little piggy. Grunt, grunt, little piggy.'
He was still hearing voices and occasionally hallucinating.

'Waddye doin' on the floor?'

The small, red-haired fellow patient three cells along the corridor tried to make contact but Kelly would not respond. He didn't see a small, red-haired man, he saw a small fat pig. Each time he approached, Kelly smelt pig, heard pig. Once when the pig had come too close Kelly scrunched into a ball, seeing the pig's features change slowly into the face of a devil with horns on head and fire pouring out from the mouth. Kelly curled himself tighter and whimpered.

'Waddye doin' on the floor?' the small, red-haired man persisted. 'Why don't ye get up?'

'Don't answer him, Michael, don't speak back to the little fat piggy.'

Kelly curled tighter and rolled his body along the corridor into his cell. He only stopped rolling when he bumped off the wall.

'Yer fuckin' mad,' crowed the small, red-haired man from the doorframe. He walked back to his own cell, muttering and shaking his head.

Kelly uncurled and sat with his back to the bed. He felt something warm between his legs and looked down to see a pool of his own urine trickle along the tiled floor. He stared at it, fascinated. For a few seconds the trickle turned
blood-red and he recoiled in horror. Then the liquid took on a honey colour.

'Bees drink, Michael, bees drink. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Bees drink. Buzz.'

He stretched a finger out and whorled the stream of urine, then licked the fingertip, savouring the sweet honey his mind told him he was tasting.

'Bees go buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.'

'Ah Jesus, you've wet yourself again.' One of the warders spotted Kelly sitting on his soaked pyjamas. 'Don't drink the stuff, for Christ's sake, don't put that in your mouth. You're sick enough.' He slipped the sopping bottoms off the wasted body and lay Kelly back on his bed. 'Now stay there,' he ordered. 'I'll be back to clean you up.'

'Clean the little fat piggy, too. Clean the black ugly face of that fucking pig.'

Back at his desk the warder dialled a number and waited. After six rings the phone was answered.

'Is that Dr Dillon's secretary?'

'Yes.'

'I'm ringing from Rockdale. It's about a message he left earlier.'

'Yes.'

'Would you tell him Michael Leo Kelly is still in no fit state to undergo questioning by the police.'

'Certainly. Is that all?'

The warder sighed as he hung up. 'Yeah, that's all.'

2.45 pm

'Would you like a drink, sir?'

Frank Clancy was staring out at distant clouds from the window seat of a Delta Airlines 747. He looked round. A smiling hostess was standing beside the drinks trolley in the galley.

'No thanks. I'll wait until there's food being served.'

'Certainly.'

His gaze returned to the clouds.

'Did you have a fight with the barber?'

Clancy pretended to duck under his own arm. He turned back, face reddening. 'I did it myself, would you believe that?'

The hostess looked closer. 'I'd believe it.' She pushed the trolley ahead.

Clancy started flicking through a complimentary copy of the
Irish Times.
He stopped at page five and read carefully. Then he tore the page out, stuck the rest under his seat, and reread the item. The article took up two columns with accompanying photographs.

REGAN'S FINEST HOUR

By six o'clock next Wednesday evening, Minister for Health John Regan should feel like a wealthy man. A cheque for twenty million pounds will be sitting in his jacket pocket, compliments of the EEC. The money is due to be handed over by German Minister Dr Hans Otto Mayer at a press conference in government buildings. Dr Mayer is chairman of the Euro Medical Fund and this is the largest single grant ever awarded. It will be John Regan's finest hour, a vindication of his drive and effort over the past two years. While the cheque is conditional on results of the first six months' work at the Mercy Hospital's Heart Foundation, government sources say the money is as good as in the bank. Regan's Boston specialists have produced the goods. 'Medical breakthrough' is the spin being put on the event. There may have been days in the past when Regan felt the project would fall apart. There was the initial hostility of the medical profession here, the battle for funds at EEC level, the jealousy and non-cooperation of some Mercy Hospital staff. All could have taken their toll. But nothing would have prepared him for the biggest setback, the murder of cardiac surgeon Dan Marks' daughter, Jennifer. Close sources say her death has had a profound effect on Regan. He has become more driven, more determined. He is also more easily angered, flying off the handle at the slightest difficulty. Off-the-record comments from senior
police officers suggest Regan also wants to end the uncertainty surrounding the schoolgirl's murder. As one unnamed source put it, 'Regan wants his £20 million pounds and Micko Kelly's head on a plate by six o'clock on Wednesday.' Dan Marks has refused to comment on the investigation. 'After the press conference,' he told staff at the Mercy Hospital, 'myself and my colleagues will fly out from Dublin for a well-earned break. We want to put this dreadful affair behind us.' There was no word on where the Dream Team would be heading.

Clancy folded the page into a small square and stuck it in his hip pocket. Have you got the bottle? Are you ready to collapse this house of cards? He ordered a gin and tonic.

5.17 pm

The Goon was waiting.

When Joan Armstrong stepped off the train at Sydney Parade Station she spotted him immediately. He was dressed in denim jacket and jeans, leaning against the second lamppost on Ailesbury Gardens, their usual rendezvous. The tiny road ran alongside the railway track and was usually quiet. Checking no one was following she took the overhead metal bridge to the other side of the tracks.

The Goon seemed more edgy than usual, his brown eyes darting. He licked at his moustache nervously. She walked past him, pretended to drop her bag and fiddled with the spilled books.

'I can't go now. They'll be waiting for me at home.'

The Goon grabbed an arm and started dragging her along the side road.

'Let me go, you big bastard, let me go.'

The Goon was holding firm. 'Mo's waiting,' he snarled, 'he wants to talk.'

With a sudden twist Joan Armstrong broke free and staggered back against a rickety fence. Steps alerted them
and the Goon forced himself at ease. An elderly gentleman came past, staring at both. He stopped and looked at the schoolgirl, her eyes frightened, her clothes in disarray.

'Are you all right?'

The Goon shot a warning glare. Joan Armstrong picked up her bag and walked briskly away.

'Fine, thank you very much. Just going home.'

The elderly gentleman waited until she was safely on the overhead pedestrian bridge, scowled at the Goon and shuffled away. As she reached the other platform, Joan Armstrong heard the Goon shout.

'I'll be back. Mo has to talk with you.'

She ran home.

29

6.10 pm

Jim Clarke addressed the investigation team in the incident room at Sandymount police station. Heavy rain clouds had cleared into the Irish sea leaving Dublin city sunny but wet.

'There's a possibility someone else was involved in Jennifer Marks' murder.' His face was taut and drawn; he looked angry. 'Forensics feel Kelly could not have acted alone. I want you back on the roads. Someone out there may be watching every move, delighted to have mad Kelly take the rap.' He directed the tip of his crutch towards a flip chart with scrawled writing. 'Read the points I've drawn up. Most crime happens between people who know each other.' He paused briefly. 'Go back over the girl's lifestyle and ask the same questions we asked the first time. Only this time ask them louder.' He hobbled to the other side of the flip chart. 'What happened that night? Who could have committed this crime? What was so important she had to be killed? Was this guy some psychopath hell bent on killing and she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?'

Clarke watched as pens scribbled on notebooks. 'The forensic psychiatrist says Kelly doesn't have enough brain cells to know how to conceal the body and then destroy the footprints.' Laughter rippled and died. 'Interview the same people, those at the railings, the school kids who
volunteered information, the staff at Balfe's pub. Ask did they see anyone besides Kelly? Rattle their brains.'

As the group filed out into weak sunshine, Clarke continued his instructions. He dispatched Molloy back to Joan Armstrong.

'Find out who else was in that pub. Who was the dealer? Ask about those blue tablets. Find out where she got the money for her drug habit. Go into that more.' Molloy sucked on an antacid as he frowned his way to the door.

Clarke turned to his minder. 'Shift it, Mossy. We're going back to the park.'

The early-evening traffic was light along the quiet side roads of Sandymount Park. Cats threatened refuse sacks while dogs sniffed at anything interesting on footpaths and telephone poles. The warmth of the sun raised steam and insects skated along puddle surfaces. The immediate neighbourhood was a pleasant mix of good taste, expensive houses and decent breeding. The only blot was the heavy police presence. Clarke ignored disapproving frowns as the park was cleared of joggers and strollers. He sat in the back of the unmarked squad car. When the last protesting straggler had been escorted out he made his way back to the murder scene. Kavanagh kept a respectable distance behind. Uniformed officers dispersed to strategic corners and hung around with bored expressions. Clarke stopped at the grassy patch where seven days earlier a young life had been brutally taken. With a twisting movement he forced the crutch tip into the wet earth and leaned heavily on its hand rest. His face furrowed.

A gentle breeze lifted his straggling hair. He tried to conjure up the schoolgirl's final moments. Did she scream? How loudly, how often? Did anyone hear? How could Kelly's clothes be covered in her blood? He shifted position and fixed on the graffiti-covered wooden shelter, thirty yards away. Had someone been hiding there and attacked? Nah! Where did the other person go
afterwards? No one saw two leave the park. Clarke remembered Molloy's description of the trail at the far end of the park. On that side there were large trees and heavy undergrowth. As the breeze rustled leaves he noticed redbrick housing on the road behind. The brickwork disappeared as the wind lightened and then reappeared with its next strength.

'Mossy.'

Kavanagh looked over. 'Check that side.' Clarke tugged the crutch from the ground and shuffled towards the undergrowth where Jennifer Marks' body had lain overnight. The uncut grass left wet trails on his shoes. He crouched and inspected the twigs, shrubs and insects. He sniffed at the air, then scooped a handful of wet earth. The spiders had spun fresh webs. Raindrops danced on their mesh.

A sudden movement caught his attention and he turned. The trees were rustled by another faint breath of wind and the brickwork showed once more. The heavy rains had turned dusty earth to mud and leaves showered drops of rain onto Clarke's shoulders as he inched his way along the trodden path connecting Sandymount Park with the road behind. Within minutes he was standing in front of The Palms apartment block and the large granite rocks.

Kavanagh came beside, trying to look interested. 'See anything, boss?'

Clarke shook his head. He hobbled along the quiet road, past the abandoned ESB box that had once held Jennifer Marks' schoolbag. He squinted at doors and windows, trying to decide which house he'd spotted from the park. They were too alike and he stopped after five minutes.

'I want the branches and undergrowth along that trail checked.'

Kavanagh clicked his mobile into action.

'She gave me nothing new and her old man warned he'd want a lawyer present if I came back.' Tony Molloy sat in
the back seat of the unmarked squad car with Clarke.

Kavanagh fumed in the front, annoyed at being kept late from his heavily pregnant wife. It was ten thirty and night was closing in. The squad car was parked at the side of Sandymount Park, lights off. Headlights from passing cars moved shadows behind their heads.

'Swore she knew nothing about another man, certain she only saw Kelly with Jennifer Marks.' Molloy was going over his latest conversation with Joan Armstrong. 'She's scared stiff,' he added, squinting out the back window. His stomach rumbled and he massaged his straining belly.

'Scared of what?' asked Clarke.

'I dunno. Maybe it's the investigation, maybe she's frightened we're gonna spill the beans on drugs to her parents. Maybe,' he paused and wound down the window slightly for air, 'she knows something more she's not sure about telling.'

'Find out anything about the dealer at Balfes?'

'Nah,' grunted Molloy. 'Said she didn't know.'

'What about where they got money for drugs?'

'From Marks' parents. Always says it's the parents who kept Jennifer bankrolled.'

Kavanagh turned around. 'They'd need to be bankrolling her a helluva lot to keep up a heroin habit.'

'Who ya tellin?' Molloy put on his best Brooklyn accent.

'Find out anything about boyfriends,' Clarke pressed. 'Old flames, fellas she may have been screwing?'

Molloy shook his head. 'Nope. Says she knows nothing.'

'What about the tablets?'

'Knows nothing about them either. Acted real surprised when I asked.'

Clarke opened the car door slightly. 'It doesn't add up.' He let the breeze cool his face.

'The semen on her skirt didn't match Kelly's DNA profile, that came through this afternoon. So who
was
she screwing?'

'Not me anyway,' muttered Moss Kavanagh wistfully.

They walked in the dark along the wet grass. Clarke kept checking the trees separating Sandymount Park from the side road. The breeze was gentle, the evening cool. Lights from the red-brick houses twinkled. He made his way to the undergrowth and waited. He felt his hair lifted by soft brushes of wind. He listened to the whispering of the leaves.

'Gotcha, bloody gotcha.' Molloy and Kavanagh looked over. 'Wait a minute.' Clarke was whispering, as if frightened to break the moment. 'Don't move.' The wind disturbed the trees again and the light from a window glimmered. 'I checked the weather reports this afternoon. That night there was a slight breeze blowing, just like now. Whoever's in that house might have heard something. It was a warm evening, the windows could have been open.' The excitement in his voice lifted it. 'We're going there now.'

'Ah, Jesus, boss, it's nearly eleven,' complained Kavanagh.