Authors: Rob Kitchin
‘Cheryl?’ McEvoy prompted.
‘Same as earlier. We’re still processing materials from the site. We’d hope to get something more concrete for tomorrow. We’re waiting on the lab. There’s not much to go on to be honest. He cleaned up after himself; left us the minimum to go on.’
‘Same for us,’ Hannah continued. ‘We’re still waiting for results to come back from the lab. It’s just a waiting game at the minute.’
‘We need to work at the links between Laura Schmidt, David Hennessey and the
DHC
,’ McEvoy stated, turning to the whiteboard. He drew a triangle with the letters L, D and
DHC
at the points. ‘I’m not convinced that the victims were picked at random as the first note says. The killings were meticulously planned – they were not spur of the moment murders. I think that both Laura and Hennessey came into the orbit of the killer well before either of them were killed. They were known to him in some way. How? Who did they both know in common? I want to know.
‘Barney, I want you to take charge of that angle.’ He noticed Deegan start to bristle. ‘Charlie, I want you and your team to concentrate on finding out who the mystery man in the photofit is.’ Deegan didn’t look any happier. ‘Also talk to David Hennessey’s family. Try and find out as much as you can about him, who he knew, who might hold grudges against him; the usual stuff.’
Deegan looked away, a sour pull to his face.
‘Kenny, keep looking for those homeless kids. Try the other cities and spread the word around. John, I need you to concentrate on identifying the two quotes he used on his notes. Where are they from and is the source significant? Also liaise with the media and see if we can trace where he posted his letters to them from. If nothing else it might give us a fix on his movements.
‘Simon, Fay, I want you two to continue to work closely together. Keep building the files, but also try and identify the links between them. It’s the connections that are going to lead us to him. It doesn’t matter how small or seemingly insignificant they are, work them through. The tiniest of things might crack this whole thing open.’
They both nodded their heads in confirmation.
‘Anyone got any other observations or questions?’ McEvoy paused, but no one spoke. ‘No? Okay, let’s get back to it. People will now be home after work, there’ll be a new batch of people to survey.’
Charlie Deegan walked up past the orchard heading for his car. He pulled up a number on his mobile and pressed call.
‘Yeah?’ said half as accusation, half as question.
‘It’s Charlie. How you getting on?’
‘I, er,’ the voice hesitated. ‘I lost him about 15 minutes ago. Don’t worry, I’ll find him again. He gave me the slip near Middle Abbey Street. I think there might …’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Deegan interrupted. ‘I only asked you to do one feckin’ thing.’
‘Yeah, as a favour, Charlie,’ the voice said unhappily. ‘As a favour.’
‘Just find him, okay.’
‘What do you think I’m trying to do?’
‘If this fucker kills again …’ Deegan let the sentence hang.
‘If you think this idiot’s the killer, why have you only got me tailing him? Does Colm McEvoy know what you’re up to? You’d better know what the fuck you’re doing Charlie, because if I get into hot water, I’m dragging you in with me,’ the voice threatened.
‘Just find him, okay.’ Deegan terminated the call. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he hissed to himself. Dermot Brady was running round loose. If anything happened and that note or the emails came to light he’d be in big bloody trouble. On the other hand, if he collared Brady, and he was the killer, no one would care how he solved it, just that he had. The next promotion would be in the bag and he wouldn’t have to take any more crap from McEvoy. It was worth the risk.
He was confident nobody had followed him to the edge of the park. He turned off the engine and switched off the lights. The side street was quiet, the street lights dim, the houses hidden behind high hedges.
It was time again. He unclipped his seatbelt and pulled on a black polo neck sweater, tugging it down over his ears. He reached across the passenger seat and dragged a black coat towards him, slipping into it. The park would be cold at this late hour.
Since the discovery of David Hennessey’s body and the second chapter the story had been the centre of the media’s attention. He was confident, however, that as long as he kept moving, they would not be able to keep up. The third slaying would add further confusion and division and without a definite line of enquiry, he could operate with impunity.
He’d expected to be interviewed by a guard – perversely welcomed it – and it had been as easy as he’d expected. He’d scripted everything in advance and he’d just stuck to the script. The guard had hurried through his questions with only half his attention seemingly on the process and he’d then left him alone.
He’d taken a risk following McEvoy earlier that morning, but he would stay away from them from now on as much as possible. After all, there was no point having rules if one was going to constantly keep breaking them; he needed to play his own game, not constantly worry about theirs.
He pushed open the car door and eased himself out. From the back seat he collected a small, black rucksack and a red baseball cap. His body tingled with anticipatory tension, his controlled rage starting to pin-prick in crimson bursts. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, collecting himself, pushing the anger deep down into the pit of his stomach, well away from his focused mind. He needed to manage his fury, harness it, and not lose himself in it. That would lead to mistakes.
He closed the car door and set off towards the darkness beyond the gates.
The light was fading fast and the
Phoenix
Park
was becoming quieter. An irregular stream of cars coasted along the main thoroughfare; a couple turned off to find a secluded spot out of the view of prying eyes. A few late walkers bundled along in pairs trying to burn off calories; some took a more leisurely pace, throwing balls for dogs. A handful of cyclists kitted out in the lurid colours of some team sped around doing laps. A handful of runners in one or twos pounded wearily around their circuits, their legs trying to match the rhythm being pumped into their heads via earphones. The sound of the surrounding city could hardly be heard beyond the park’s walls.
Lurking in the dark shadows of the trees, away from the path, a figure pulled his baseball cap lower across his eyes, checked both left and right and stepped out quickly across a dirt path that ran parallel to a paved one just a couple of yards away, a road immediately beyond that.
He placed the looped end of a black-coated, steel wire around a tree trunk at chest height, fed the rest of the bunched wire through the loop, and retraced his steps back across the path to the nearest tree, feeding out the wire. He passed the free end of the wire around the trunk and pulled it tight. Keeping the tension, he spun the steel cable round twice more and tied it off. Visible for barely a couple of seconds, he backed away into the shadows and lay flat on the ground, blending into the dark, a pair of wire cutters clutched in his hand.
Twenty seconds later a runner came into view. The man was pounding out a steady rhythm, his feet slapping against the tarmac of the path. He ran past where the wire was primed, oblivious to its presence, and disappeared into the dusk.
After a short while a second runner appeared. Rolling from side to side, gasping for air, her eyes focused on the dirt path three yards distant. Robbie Williams, singing Rock DJ, urged her on via earphones snaking from the pink iPod mini strapped to her upper arm. She wore a light grey t-shirt with the letters UCSB written across the front in blue, the underarms and neck dark grey with sweat, a pair of black, tight-fitting Lycra shorts that stopped just short of her knees, and a pair of white running shoes.
She had last been in reasonably good shape ten years ago when she had played hockey while studying in the
United States
. She was now three stone heavier and a long way short of fit. She was hoping that the stitch in her side would ease shortly. That or she was going to have to stop for a breather. She shouldn’t have pushed so hard earlier on, she should have taken a more measured approach. She’d only been running round the park for two-and-half weeks, setting out every other night. The first time she had only managed one circuit, sucking in air while her heart threatened to break through her ribs.
The wire caught her high on her chest just under her collarbones. The air shot out of her lungs, her face twisting into a look of surprise and pain, legs running through empty space. She fell almost horizontally, slamming into the ground heavily, her head thumping off the packed earth.
Her assailant darted out onto the dirt path, glancing left and right. He slammed the wire cutters into the stunned woman’s face, breaking her nose and shattering a cheekbone. Satisfied she was pacified he threw the cutters toward the base of the nearest tree and grabbed the woman by the shoulders, dragging her quickly off the path, away from the road into the darkness of the trees. His gloved hands closed round her throat and squeezed tightly. Off to his left a car swept round the roundabout and carried on down the avenue.
The woman, dazed and confused, managed to raise one arm and half-heartedly clawed at her attacker’s hands, trying to relieve the pressure on her neck, her head feeling as if it were going to explode. With her other hand she tried to hit out at him. She tasted blood in her mouth and a few seconds later she gave up altogether, her arms falling limp.
The figure maintained the pressure, watching the woman’s eyes bulge, white foam forming at the corners of her mouth, a trickle of blood escaping from her already bloodied nose. A minute later he checked for her pulse but found none. He quickly retrieved his wire cutters and wire and a small rucksack. Taking a heavy, dark sheet from the bag, he laid it over the body. He could hear another runner approaching through the gloom. He dropped to the ground, heart thumping, grasping the wire cutters. The feet slapped by and receded into the night.
McEvoy sat in his car, his head tipped back, plastic cigarette clenched between his lips. It was taking all his willpower not to replace the stick with a real smoke. He was exhausted. Totally shattered – physically, mentally, emotionally. He wasn’t programmed any more for back-to-back 15-hour days or for trying to run parallel investigations on horrific murders. He doubted he ever was. The stress was eating him up, gnawing at his innards. He glanced in the car’s rear mirror at himself. Forty-one years old, pushing 60. He was a shadow of what he used to be. His face was hollow and grey, his eyes sunken. He needed to start taking care of himself. He just couldn’t work up the motivation or energy any more.
He should have headed off a couple of hours ago. Gone home, tried to relax, drunk a couple of whiskies and let things tumble around inside his head; allow the connections to float to the surface. Instead he’d tried to force them to rise, spending the last two hours looking through witness statements, trying to spot anything that might give them a breakthrough, determined to be the last to leave the incident room. Simon Grainger, Jane Murphy and Barney Plunkett had pulled out of the car park five minutes earlier. Calls were being diverted to a central call centre, the incident room guarded by a couple of locals.
He’d gotten so wrapped up in things he’d forgotten to ring Gemma, let her know his plans. No point now, he might as well just drive straight there. He sighed and tipped his head forward, started the car, and reversed back from the space. He’d visit Caroline’s and see Gemma. Then ring his mother, and then maybe onto Maggie’s grave, before returning home where he hoped his exhaustion would override his usual insomnia.
He stared off to his right through the gloom along the lime tree avenue. He could barely make out the crucifix with its little roof. It was nearly 48 hours since Laura Schmidt had been killed and they didn’t have a single solid lead. There had to be something lurking in the jumble of samples and witness statements, some wisp of evidence that would show them the way. The problem was that it might take them days or weeks to unearth it and by then the killer would have struck again.