Inferno (CSI Reilly Steel #2) (31 page)

Lucy looked downbeat, frustrated.

‘Hey, don’t let it get to you,’ Reilly told her. ‘We’re doing the best we can, and despite the circumstances, you did good with the soil.’ 

She spread her arms to indicate the room full of files. ‘I’m just hoping that somewhere in here, amongst all this paperwork, is the key that unlocks this whole mystery.’

In the end it was indeed Coffey’s articles that gave Reilly the breakthrough she so desperately needed.  She had waded through over twenty of his newspaper columns – he was a good writer, but his strident prose became a bit grating after reading several articles in a row – and she was starting to feel sleepy when a headline caught her eye: ‘The Curious Case of Missing Evidence’.

She read the article quickly, scanning for the key indicators that might tie all the victims together, and soon found what she was looking for.

Coffey was referring to a brutal rape case that had been heard by Judge Morgan three years ago, in which the main detective, Crowe, had apparently mislaid some key evidence.

So far, so good. A link between three of their victims. But what tied it to Fitzpatrick or Jennings?

Reilly read on – the journalist was suggesting that in a case like this, where the evidence was weak, the courts should be more lenient, and the defendant should be released.

A name in the article popped out, and something that Chris had mentioned leaped into her mind. He had told her that Coffey’s house – way too expensive for a humble journalist – was actually his wife’s. What had he said? 
Part of the hunting set.

Reilly pulled her phone from her pocket, and quickly dialled an extension. Nobody better than Julius to seek out this kind of information.

‘Hi, Reilly. What’s up?’

‘I need you to do some digging.  Have you got a pen handy?’

‘One sec.’ There was a pause. ‘OK, shoot.’

‘I want you to check the connection between a few people for me.  The first is Sandra Coffey—’

‘The journalist’s wife?’

‘Right.  But her maiden name is Webb.’

‘Got it. Who else?’

‘A defendant in one of Morgan’s cases – Richard Webb. Call Detective Delaney for the docket number.’

‘Richard Webb,’ he repeated back to her. ‘That it?’

‘For the moment at least.  Find out if they are connected, or if there are any family connections to either Judge Morgan or Alan Fitzpatrick.’

‘Will do.’

‘And, Julius?  Call me back right away if you find anything.’

Reilly flipped her laptop open. Time for her to do some research of her own.  A few minutes later, she called Chris at the station.

‘I’ve just had Julius on the phone. What’s all this about Richard Webb?’ he asked her before she could speak.

Reilly filled him in on the only link she’d found between Morgan, Coffey and Crowe. ‘Nothing to get excited  just yet, but can you get me the docket number?’

‘Sure. Let me know if anything flies.’

‘Will do. How are you two getting on?’

‘Well, Kennedy seems to be enjoying himself. He’s using it as an excuse to overdose on muffins.’

‘Dangerous work as usual,’ she chuckled, glad that Chris sounded a lot more awake and upbeat than he had the day before. Promising him that she’d keep them updated, Reilly hung up. She then logged on to the criminal court system’s secure website and entered Ricky Webb’s docket number.

The case soon popped up. Richard ‘Ricky’ Webb had been convicted eighteen months before, and had been given a three-year sentence.  She scanned down the file. He was currently being held at Mountjoy Prison and –  her breath quickened – he’d been granted parole by a review board earlier in the year.

Webb’s conviction was for the rape and battery of a 17-year-old girl, yet his sentence was just three years?

A shiver ran down Reilly’s spine. She strongly believed in intuition and had studied enough psychology to know that such feelings were often the result of processing in the deep parts of the subconscious mind. We don’t know why we reach certain conclusions, and often dismiss them, but the truth is that they are correct most of the time.  Now she felt, deep in her gut, that this was the case they were looking for.

She quickly opened another window on her laptop.  The sentence was disturbingly lenient for such a grievous offence. And who had made the decision to parole Webb barely eighteen months into his prison term?

The names of the parole board popped up, but nothing significant jumped out.

Clicking open another window, Reilly did a search on the politician Alan Fitzpatrick. Who were his buddies, his associates, his cronies?  Page after page flashed by – photos of Fitzpatrick mixing and meeting – and gradually a few names began to appear over and over again. She made a list, then checked back with the members of the parole board.

Bingo.

Two members of the same board were regulars in Fitzpatrick’s inner circle, Nigel Finnegan, and Ken Howard. Had he somehow influenced them to look favorably on Webb’s request for parole?

The ringing of her phone startled her. It was Julius.

‘What did you find?’ she asked.

He couldn’t keep the triumph from his voice. ‘You were right. Richard Webb is Sandra Coffey’s nephew.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘He’s her brother’s kid.’

‘And he is?’

‘Was. He died last year. Roger Webb – founder of Webb Construction.’

Reilly scribbled on her pad. ‘I think I’ve heard of them.’

‘I’m sure you have – they’re one of the biggest construction companies in the country. They’re based in Meath.’

The owner of a big construction company ... Reilly was thinking. ‘There wouldn’t have been a link between the father and Alan Fitzpatrick, would there?’

‘I thought you might ask that.  Seems Webb was one of Fitzpatrick’s biggest supporters when he was an up-and-coming TD.  There was speculation that he smoothed Fitzpatrick’s path into politics, as a reward for convincing the builders’ unions to accept some dodgy pay conditions in the mid-nineties.’

Reilly whistled. ‘Very cosy.’ She could feel her excitement rising. ‘Julius, you know that you have to keep all of this to yourself for the moment, yes?’

‘Goes without saying. Are we getting close?’

She could hear the enthusiasm in his voice. Everyone had worked so hard on this case, invested so much time, emotion and energy. ‘I don’t know, but what you’ve just told me is a very big piece in the jigsaw. Good work.’

Right away, she called the station again. ‘I think I’m starting to pull all of this together,’ she told Chris. ‘And if I’m right, I also know who the final victim will be.’

‘S
o what’s the big news?’ Kennedy asked when Reilly joined them in the meeting room at the station and quickly explained the connections she had found linking Ricky Webb to Morgan, Crowe, Fitzpatrick and Coffey.

Chris was impressed. ‘So you’re figuring that the brother-in-law leaned on Coffey to write the article supporting leniency for his boy?’

‘Exactly. It doesn’t fit with many of his other columns – he usually takes a more populist slant – you know, “Lock ’em up and throw away the key”.’

‘It does sound out of character,’ Kennedy agreed. ‘What about Fitzpatrick?  Where does he fit into it?’

‘He was clearly deep into the father’s pocket,’ explained Reilly, ‘and he’s tight with two members of the parole board.’

‘So you think he twisted some arms or spread some of Webb’s cash around to get the parole board to grant the Webb kid an early release?’

‘We can’t be sure, but it’s the best fit we have right now.’

‘And Jennings?’ Chris asked.

‘It’s the one that still stands out, but remember the rape victim who died in his care?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, that’s what Webb is in for. Or was.’ She spoke quickly. ‘He was released yesterday morning.’

Chris paused for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. He moved over to the coffee machine. ‘In which case, the newly released Ricky Webb would be the next victim.’

‘So he needs to be found, fast,’ Reilly said quickly. ‘Every minute we delay now increases the chance of the killer getting to him first.’ 

Chris slowly poured himself a coffee, then looked back at her over the top of the steaming paper cup. ‘I presume you’ve read his case file?’

She nodded.

‘I did too, while we waited for you to come over. Let’s just say it makes for ... interesting reading.’

The brutality of Webb’s rape crime had been shocking.  ‘You really think we should go out and find this bastard, save him from the only real justice he’s ever going to experience?’  His fingers tightened around the coffee cup. Webb could rot in hell as far as he cared. Maybe the Punisher was the sensible one after all.

‘What?’ Reilly frowned. ‘Chris, listen to yourself. That’s not our decision to make – the Court made its ruling ’

His cheeks were hot as he tried to stop himself from losing control. ‘A compromised decision because Daddy flashed his shagging money around!’

Reilly pressed on. ‘Still, the Court made its ruling, Webb’s served time, and now he’s out. That’s the way it works, Chris. We all know we don’t get to decide who’s guilty, or how long they should be inside.’

‘Exactly,’ Kennedy agreed, studying him carefully, as if wondering why they were even having this conversation.

Chris gulped his coffee down, crushed the paper cup in his hand and hurled it towards the rubbish bin, unable to prevent his emotions rising. ‘This is fucked up. The whole case has been fucked up from the start, and now we have to go and protect some piece of shit at the end of it?’

‘Talking about me again?’ Reuben Knight drawled, entering the meeting room. He winked at Reilly. ‘Or would O Serious One be referring to someone else as excrement, perchance?’ 

‘Knight, we’re really not in the mood for this today ...’ Kennedy began, staring curiously at Chris.

‘It’s nothing, just a difference of opinion.’ Reilly replied.

The profiler looked dubious. ‘If you say so. I got your message. Very kind of you all to invite me to the party. For once. So tell me, what’s the big breakthrough?’ 

Chris picked up Webb’s file and flung it across the table at Reuben. ‘Meet our next victim. And seeing as you’re the psychologist, take a look at that and give me one good reason why we should prevent some scumbag rapist from getting his just rewards.’ 

Shortly afterwards, Chris and Kennedy left to see if they could pinpoint the newly released Webb’s current location.

Reuben looked pensive. ‘Well, well, well ... that was quite the outburst from our trusty detective, wasn’t it?’ he commented.

Reilly nodded. She too had been taken aback by Chris’s uncommonly negative reaction towards saving Webb.

‘Not that O Serious One is typically a barrel of laughs – hence the moniker,’ Reuben continued, studying his nails, ‘but I’m wondering if there’s something else at play. Would Mr Webb’s misdeeds have hit a nerve, perhaps?’

Reilly looked up, confused. ‘What do you mean – hit a nerve?’

Then thinking back to her and Chris’s recent conversation about his ex, suddenly something clicked into place.

‘Not long after we got engaged, something happened ...’ She had immediately assumed that Melanie had cheated on him. But was it possible that 

‘Of course, it’s likely that the right-thinking Detective Delaney possesses a natural, and indeed understandable, reluctance to protect a convicted rapist,’ he continued pensively. ‘However, the force of his negativity suggests to me that there may be something more personal at play.’

Reilly’s heart sank to her stomach. She felt completely wrongfooted now, but she also had to admit that Reuben’s snapshot profiling of Chris’s behavior might have some legs.

‘In any case,’ Reuben went on, ‘as time is of the essence, I should depart for my hotel  and my Dante. With luck, my reading of the text may be able to shed some light on our killer’s next move.’

With that, he left, leaving Reilly alone, unsure what to make of Chris’s outburst or indeed the profiler’s incisive interpretation of it.

Was Reuben right?  Was there something more behind Chris reservations about saving Webb?  Or was she jumping to conclusions too quickly?

Notwithstanding the root of his anger, Reilly could, of course, appreciate Chris’s misgivings about rushing to the rapist’s aid.

She ran her gaze across Webb’s file – the particulars of the attack did indeed make for gruesome reading. In the normal course of events, the guy should have got twelve to life; might not have seen the light of day for a decade. Instead, he was out within a couple of years.

Perhaps Chris was right on that much at least – there was no justice.

However, there was no question that trying to find Webb before the killer did was the right thing to do – on a rational and, more importantly, professional level. But on a moral, emotive one? It was hard to tell. They were now working feverishly to save a convicted rapist whose family had used their money and influence to subvert the true course of justice.

And if it turned out that Chris did indeed have some kind of personal hang-up thrown into the mix, Reilly thought grimly, that was one hell of a moral dilemma.

Chris and Kennedy sat in the car outside the gates of the Webb family residence in Meath, some fifty minutes’ drive from Dublin. It could just be seen through the driving rain, a vast hulking mansion set well back from the road.

Kennedy looked towards the house through the gloom. ‘It’s bloody ginormous.’

‘Of course it is,’ Chris said testily. ‘Daddy obviously has plenty money to splash around on things like fancy houses and subverting the course of justice.’

Kennedy looked at him. ‘What’s going on, Chris?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve never seen you so het up as you were back at the station when Reilly was telling us about Webb. Yeah, the guy’s not exactly a model citizen, but that’s nothing new in this business.’

Chris looked away. ‘It just pisses me off, that’s all. Our job is to protect innocent citizens, not pond scum like Webb.’

‘Look, I can see why it would get to you,’ Kennedy said, and Chris looked at him quickly. ‘It gets to me too, having to waste time and resources on guys like this. But the Webb kid’s been identified as a threat, and as such our job is to prevent this punisher guy from getting to him.’ Kennedy shuddered. ‘I can’t even imagine what that weirdo has in store for him. Judging by what happened to the others, I’m sure it would be no picnic.’