Inferno (CSI Reilly Steel #2) (34 page)

‘That’s correct,’ Darcy replied, his voice catching a little, and Chris was almost certain he saw him swallowing a lump in his throat. ‘The nightmares, the panic and fear ... it all became too much for Amanda to take.’

Chris immediately felt for him, but struggled not to project that. This guy was a suspect, possibly a murdering thug.

‘The police identified the perpeprator, Richard Webb,’ Kennedy said, reading from his notebook as if he were seeing the information for the first time. ‘He was duly convicted and sentenced to three years in Mountjoy.’

‘Yes. But my understanding is that he is now once again a free man,’ Darcy admitted in a move that surprised them. ‘I believe he was paroled this weekend?’

‘How do you know that, Mr Darcy? Have you be keeping tabs on Webb?’

Darcy looked at them, his eyes filled with sadness. ‘Detectives, there isn’t a day goes by when I don’t think of Richard Webb and the misery he caused my daughter, my family. But at least I have the comfort of knowing that he was punished for his crimes and has been rehabilitated.’

OK, now they were getting somewhere. ‘You think eighteen months in prison is enough of a punishment for a guy like that?’ Kennedy asked.

Darcy shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But when recently I looked into the man’s eyes, I—’

‘Hold on,’ Chris interjected. ‘What do you mean, when you looked into his eyes? Have you seen Webb since his release?’

‘Not since his release, no. But I went to see him in prison. I didn’t tell him who I was, of course; I couldn’t do that. But I needed to see him. I needed to see if I could capture his essence, decide for myself if he was well and truly repentant. And I believe he was – is – sorry for what he did to my little girl.’

Chris couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘Capture his essence? What the hell does that mean?’ Kennedy asked.

Darcy shrugged. ‘I’m an artist. To me, as to many artists, the eyes are windows to the soul. I arranged it with the authorities to draw Mr Webb as part of a collection I’m working on. I hope to exhibit it soon.’

Chris’s mind was spinning. What Darcy was saying was incomprehensible. ‘So you went to see Webb in prison, shortly before his release, just to paint him? Didn’t you want to strangle this man, tear him limb from limb for what he did to your daughter?’

Darcy fixed his gaze on Chris. ‘There were many times over the years that I thought about doing just what you describe. Yet, I would find no peace in doing so. If there is justice to be served, ultimately we will all be judged in the end. It’s not my place to do the Lord’s job for Him.’

‘What about the devil’s job then?’ Kennedy asked. ‘Drowning a guy in his own shit, hanging another from a tree with his guts pouring out, leaving another one out for the maggots to feed on?’

Simon Darcy looked genuinely shocked. ‘Those horrible things that they’re talking about in the newspapers? What in heaven’s name has that got to do with ...?’ Then suddenly, it seemed to dawn on him. ‘That’s why you’re here? You think, someone like me  ’he looked down at his thin, wasted frame –  ‘would be involved in something like that?’ He snorted. ‘Honestly, Detectives, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

‘We’re going to need access to your medical records in order to prove—’

‘You’re more than welcome to anything you want,’ he interjected shortly, and with that, Simon Darcy lowered both arms, and wheeled himself out of the room.

C
hris was stumped. There was no way this guy in the wheelchair could be their killer.

Even overlooking his disability, Simon Darcy was a slight, feeble-looking 60-odd-year-old man. There was no chance he could have carried out the heavy lifting required at the murder scenes.

Upon further questioning, Darcy informed them that he’d been quadriplegic since the late nineties, following a car accident. His disability was largely the catalyst for the breakup of his marriage to Amanda’s mother.

While the man was talking, Chris noticed something. He’d actually been aware of it all the time he’d been here, but was initially so distracted by Simon Darcy’s condition that his mind hadn’t been able to process it.

Present in the house was an incredibly potent ammonia smell, the kind of smell that Reilly had tried to describe to them throughout the investigation as similar to skunk spray. Clearly there was something else going on here, something they weren’t getting. Simon Darcy might not be directly involved in the killings, but the police were on the right track.  However, the ammonia smell may well have been some side effect of Darcy’s condition ...

But Chris didn’t believe in coincidences, and there were already way too many to ignore. Darcy’s connection to Webb, the spicy cooking sauce, and now the smell ...

‘Do you live alone, Simon?’ he asked suddenly.

‘No, my sonlives with me,’ the older man replied easily. He sighed. ‘Actually, I thought it might have been him you were looking for at first.’

The hairs on the back of Chris’s neck stood up.

A son. Someone who would have also been deeply affected by the rape, and who quite possibly didn’t share his father’s noble ideas about justice and punishment.

He recalled the details from the Harrington case file. An older brother had indeed been listed under family, but because they’d discovered the Harringtons had subsequently emigrated ...

Evidently the brother had decided to swap surfboards and koalas for magpies and maggots. Chris’s mind raced and his pulse quickened. He looked at Kennedy ‘Where is your son now?’

‘Out with friends, I believe. Whatever it is, can’t it be dealt with during work hours?’

Kennedy looked baffled. ‘Work hours?’

‘Well, yes. I presume you wanted to ask him something about the morgue.’

Now Chris was confused.
The morgue?

Simon shook his head. ‘I’m sorry – my mistake again. I just assumed you both knew Luke, and this was work-related. He works as a volunteer assistant at the city morgue. Goodness knows why.  I can’t imagine a more macabre position, but of course he’s always been interested in the darker side of ...’ Then, at the same time that Chris made the connection, Simon did too. The older man stared at Chris, a world of pain in his eyes. ‘Oh, no ... no ...’ he cried out. ‘The drawings ... I had no idea.’

Chris was by now holding his breath. He let it out slowly.  ‘What drawings, Simon?’ he asked carefully. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You said something before – about those appalling murders ...’ he said, addressing Kennedy now. ‘About a man ... hanging from a tree with his ...’ He shook his head, and Chris recalled that the more horrific details of Jennings’ death had been purposely concealed from the media. ‘I thought it was a rendering of Dante, such a vivid, expressive scene ...’

‘Simon,’ Chris said, gently touching the man on the shoulder, ‘show us the drawings.’

‘Luke? The son’s name is Luke? How deliciously perfect!’ Reuben was agog with exhilaration when, following an update from Chris, Reilly phoned the profiler to pass on the details of their most recent find.

She frowned. ‘How so?’

‘Well, all along I had envisioned our killer as Minos, when of course he was acting in the name of the devil himself! Lucifer,’ he added quickly, when at Reilly’s end there remained a baffled silence. ‘A rare blunder on my part, but it happens occasionally, if truth be told,’ he added with typical modesty. ‘But given his familiarity with Dante, I’m guessing our Lucifer must have been keenly aware of not only the connotations of his namesake, but his responsibilities too. In the
Inferno,
Minos ordains the punishments, but it’s the devil who carries them out.’

Luke ... Lucifer ...

The quiet college kid from the morgue, capable of so much destruction? It seemed incomprehensible. Yet at the same time it fit.

From his position at the morgue, Luke Darcy would have had access to the case files and the evidence reports, and was keeping himself abreast of the investigation every step of the way.

Then another thought struck her. Luke’s made-up goth face the last time she’d him ... and that unidentified white dust mark on Crowe’s shoulder on the DVD ...

Reilly knew that poor Karen Thompson would be devastated to learn that this amiable kid she’d entrusted with the city’s dead had deceived her in such a way.

Judging by the drawings that Luke’s poor devastated father had shown the detectives  a sketchpad of perfectly rendered illustrations of all five Dantesque murder scenes  it was clear that the younger Darcy was also quite the artist, which fit in perfectly with the pencil and rubber traces.

Not only that, but the proximity of the takeaway restaurant (and Simon’s reluctant confirmation that his son was a regular customer) tallied with the cooking sauce, and Chris was adamant that in the Darcy house, he too had picked up that same so far unidentified ammonia-type smell.

Now all they needed to do was find out where Luke was, and if he was indeed holding Ricky Webb, the man he held ultimately responsible for his sister’s death.

Reilly was certain that the key to this was the equine slant to the remaining evidence – the horse feed and the alkaline soil that Lucy had identified as being from the Kildare area.

Reuben was on his way to the GFU building to help with the search, while Chris and Kennedy planned to remain temporarily at the Darcy house until Luke returned from his supposed ‘night out with friends’.

They were also keen to continue questioning Simon about his knowledge (or lack of it) of his son’s recent pursuits, and to determine whether the older man could shed any light on the rural location in which Luke had been holding his victims. If they could identify this, they might just be able to save Ricky Webb.

‘Check the Land Registry, see if either is registered as owning property other than this one,’ Chris suggested. ‘Simon says he doesn’t, but I’m not taking anything for granted.’

‘I’m on it.’ Reilly told him.

She’d just hung up the phone when she heard Gary’s footsteps in the hallway outside. He hurried into her office, laptop in his hand. 

‘I just got your message. What do you need?’

Reilly was already tapping on her own keyboard. ‘Property search,’ she replied briskly. ‘We need to know if Simon Darcy owns any property around the Kildare area.’

Gary slid his laptop from its case. ‘Like a stables, or stud farm maybe?’  He stretched his fingers and cracked his knuckles. ‘This is my kind of search.’

Reilly looked over as his fingers flicked nimbly across the keyboard. Always good to have a techie on the team.

Some twenty minutes later, Reuben breezed into the office, full of excitement.

‘Pray tell, my beloved, what news?’

Gary, temporarily distracted from this search, gave the profiler a curious glance, and despite the fraught circumstances Reilly couldn’t resist a smile.

‘We’re trying to figure out where Darcy’s keeping his victims,’ she told him. ‘Chances are it’s where he’s got Webb right now.’

‘Ah, my favorite part of the story,’ Reuben intoned in a singsong voice. ‘Now that the true culprit has been unmasked, we must swoop in, find our villian and save the day. Only then will order be restored.’

‘This isn’t a TV show, Reuben,’ Reilly scolded. ‘Someone’s life is at stake here.’

‘Agreed, but I must admit I’m rather in agreement with the object of your attraction on this one. The life at stake could hardly be considered a treasured one.’

Reilly couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

‘Then why are we doing this, Reuben? Why the hell do we do this job at all? Why not just allow every sicko to get away with whatever random form of justice he fancies?’

‘Calm down, I jest.’

Ricky Webb? Or have you already made up your mind that he’s not worth saving?’

If they  the authorities, the ones who were supposed to uphold order and justice  could be prejudiced, then surely they were no better than viligantes themselves, deciding at will who merited protection or who didn’t?

‘My dearest Reilly, that is precisely the reason I’m here. To assist and illuminate you on your quest to save our man,’ Reuben replied in his typical mocking tone, though for once there was a modicum of seriousness in there too. ‘And truth be told, I have an idea—’

‘I think I’ve got something.’ They both turned to look at Gary, who was still tapping away on his computer. ‘It’s a bit of a long shot, but ...’ 

‘What is it?’ she demanded.

He looked at her. ‘I know you said to search for property ownership under the Darcy name, but then I had a thought. The son, Luke, he and his sister lived with their mother and stepdad at the time of the attack, yes? Then he emigrated to Australia with them after the sister died—’

‘But subsequently returned to ye oul sold,’ Reuben finished.

‘Yes. And went to live with his real father, Simon, who lives in a small terraced house in Ringsend.’

‘I’m not following.’

‘So who’s to say the stepfather doesn’t still own property here?’ Gary continued, excitement in his tone. ‘The Harringtons are reasonably well off, and while they were able to sell their Dublin house before they emigrated—’

‘They might still be trying to offload another place down the country,’ Reilly finished, sitting down and scooting her chair closer to Gary’s. 

‘Yep. There is indeed a property still registered to one David Harrington formerly of Sandymount, Dublin – in Clane, County Kildare. A quick MyHome search confirms it’s currently on the market ...’ He spun his laptop round so Reilly could see the screen, and grinned triumphantly. ‘And here’s what it looks like.’

Her breath caught. It was a two-acre farmstead, a house and an old stone barn located on the property.  For sale and abandoned, yet Luke Darcy would have easy access to the place, probably had his own set of keys, and with the property market in the doldrums, could likely go about his business completely undisturbed.

‘Gary, you’re an absolute genius!’ Reilly exclaimed, and in her excitement she reached forward and kissed him on the lips.