The murder loop, p.5
The Murder Loop, page 5
The second murder investigation around here in less than a year. The first had posed him no problems – there was nothing to link him to it. By contrast, the farmer’s murder – if that’s what it was – presented Brady with a serious dilemma. In this sparsely populated area, he was what passed for a ‘neighbour’ – he knew immediately he would be on the house-to-house inquiry list. He had seen the two Americans – Milly Cooper would vouch for that. So he would have to engage with the very people he had gone to such lengths to avoid – the police.
FUBAR, he mouthed, resorting to the old army slang.
In all the emergency scenarios he had run through, all the escape routes he had devised and practised, he had never planned for something like this.
Fucked up beyond all recognition.
Now he had to figure out how the hell to handle it.
CHAPTER TEN
Eagerness drove Cass into leaving for the station early on Sunday morning, an eagerness she hadn’t felt in a considerable time. It was, of course, a somewhat callous emotion in that moment, fuelled as it was by a murder, and the desire to investigate same. But it was more than defensible: the early stages of the investigation were the most critical.
Finnegan knew this too. Some time back, an independent inquiry had criticised the way that Garda rosters and shift patterns could unintentionally impinge on murder investigations. The inquiry gave the example of a case where an investigation team attending a murder on a Sunday had to be replaced the following day, because they were due their day off. Finnegan wasn’t going to tolerate such sloppiness; she had issued a clear directive to her own team that leave was cancelled and they were to do everything to support the SIO and assembled detectives.
Cass didn’t need the direction. As she walked to the station seized with the case, she passed the supermarket where Nabila Fathi had briefly worked and saw Harbour Murphy’s van parked outside. There was no chance of mistaking it, for the livery bore a massive photo of the politician and his contact details. Black hair parted crisply to one side like a well-behaved schoolboy, but the jowly face and red cheeks a sign that the blood pressure tablets had to work overtime to keep the sixty-something-year-old motoring. Murphy had been on her list to contact as a priority in the unsolved case, and Cass decided there was no time like the present. It was a little before 8am and the first daily murder conference in the Bannon case – whereby everybody would assemble in the incident room to go through what they knew and be assigned jobs – wouldn’t start until ten.
Fifteen minutes with Harbour Murphy will be time well spent, she thought.
Harbour Murphy was unfazed by Cass’s unexpected arrival and had no difficulty making time for her.
She quickly realised why: for he assumed she was there to discuss the murder of Bridge Bannon, and was hungry for detail. The Sunday papers were already neatly laid out in their rows and a couple of them had put the murder on the front page, leading with the suggestion that the burglary gang had struck in deadly fashion. But their reports were fairly basic, as the force hadn’t said too much publicly in the immediate aftermath of the discovery.
Murphy, by contrast, already seemed to have a good picture of what the Guards knew privately. Local gossip would account for a part of it – word travelled fast in Glencale – but more pertinently, a prominent politician like Murphy would have his contacts in the force, as Cass knew full well.
They were alone in the small stockroom at the back of the store. Murphy had told the staff they were not to be disturbed. But if he thought such privacy would enable Cass to share confidential information, he was going to be disappointed.
‘Any sight yet of those hoors who did it? They’ve done enough houses now – you must have some lead on them.’
He shares Finnegan’s view as to the identity of the culprits. How surprising, she thought. ‘The investigation’s at an early stage. I wouldn’t make any assumptions at this point.’
‘I wouldn’t be saying that in public now if I were you.’
‘Meaning?’
‘They’ve gone from dangerous to deadly. People will be terrified around here, and you’re going on about “early stages”. They’ll want a bit more reassurance you’re about to hammer these hoors.’
‘Like I said, we’re working to identify the person or persons responsible. I really wouldn’t jump to conclusions.’
‘Sure, didn’t they cover the place in bleach? Only professionals would pull that kind of stunt. You’ve got to nail them to a wall – fast.’
Christ. That information was supposed to be kept solely within the investigation. Cass could feel her anger rising, and tried to contain it, knowing it had never helped her much in the past. ‘That information is not public,’ she said. ‘I’d ask that you not mention it further.’
A curious half-smile broke out on his crimson face, and it wasn’t friendly; he wasn’t accustomed to being chided. ‘You’re Ted Cassidy’s daughter, aren’t you?’
I should have expected this one. ‘And?’
‘Fine man. Knew the value of public representatives like myself in times like this.’
She’d made a mistake by calling to him on a whim; it was foolish to chase a line of inquiry without sufficient preparation. But she needed to get him back on board – just so that she could, to piss him off again with the questions she’d actually come here to ask.
‘I’ll pass that on. And of course we’ll make it a priority to keep the community informed. But I’m actually here about your former tenant and staff member, Nabila Fathi.’
For a moment, as his brow furrowed in puzzlement, it looked like he had to be reminded who Nabila Fathi was. Then, as it sunk in, the half-smile vanished: she had pissed him off before even getting to the first question.
‘This is what you’re here about? The day after one of our own has been beaten to death? This is what you want to prioritise? Christ on earth, girl, what are you thinking?’
I’ll ignore ‘girl’. But ‘one of our own’? I’ve got your number now, Cass thought.
‘Nabila Fathi was murdered too. I think you’d agree it is just as important we catch her killer or killers.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said. ‘But ye fucked up that investigation something awful; the killer got off scot-free, and now you’re here asking questions about that case instead of prioritising Bridge Bannon’s murder. What in the name of Christ are ye up to at all?’
‘We’re doing our job, Mr Murphy,’ she said coolly. ‘I thought you’d be willing to assist us in that process.’
Murphy didn’t answer. He just shook his head and walked off, leaving Cass standing alone in the storeroom.
‘Prick,’ she muttered under her breath.
Unsurprisingly given the previous day’s events, the station was humming with activity when she arrived. Cass headed for the incident room to see who was already gathered and to be brought up to speed on overnight developments.
En route, however, Finnegan appeared and, with a curt flick of her head, beckoned Cass to her office. It had originally been the stationmaster’s office, the only remaining evidence of which was a handsome Victorian solid oak wall clock. The renovation to change the property’s use from railway station to Garda station had been a crime in itself. The state property agency had thrown all the other historical artefacts and vintage furniture on the scrapheap and replaced them with gunmetal-grey filing cabinets, catalogue desk and chairs and a mounted pinboard now festooned in circulars and notices. Everything functional and grim, the clock being the honourable exception.
That clock’s like me, Cass thought. Out of place.
Finnegan shut the door and sat behind her desk, beckoning Cass to the chair opposite.
I could have gone to Mass if I needed orders on when to stand and sit.
She noticed that Finnegan had somehow found time – and an available hairdresser on a Sunday morning – to get a blow-dry, and knew the reason why. It would be Finnegan, as the local commanding officer, who’d give the press conference later that day, not the SIO. She clearly wanted to look her best for the cameras.
Priorities.
‘Why were you speaking to Harbour Murphy just now?’
Christ. Forget Mass. I’ve been dragged straight into the confessional box.
‘I had some questions for him about Nabila Fathi.’ I’m about to be castigated for my sins.
‘What questions?’
Bless me Sergeant, for stepping on toes. ‘He stormed off before I could ask them.’
‘What questions?’
Heretical ones. At least in your eyes. ‘Just the extent to which he knew Nabila.’
‘Isn’t that all in the case file?’
It would appear I’m more of a sceptic than the original investigation team. ‘I had a few additional questions based on newer information.’ Because maybe that bollocks – to quote my father – has his own secrets to confess.
‘What newer information?’
To hell with another interrogation. ‘Did I suddenly become a suspect in the investigation overnight?’ Cass asked. She said it neutrally, with no hint of edge. But it served its purpose by stopping Finnegan cold. And then, to Cass’s surprise, Finnegan smiled thinly.
An offering of peace?
‘I’m told I handle men better than women,’ Finnegan said. ‘Got lower expectations of the boys. So don’t mind me… But I would like to understand the purpose of your visit.’
Cass wasn’t exactly mollified. But at least the atmosphere in the room had started to thaw. ‘Nabila’s friend, Maisah Sahraoui, was moved to an asylum centre in Donegal. I think Harbour Murphy knows why.’
‘Why would he know something like that?’
‘Because he has a stake in the Glencale direct provision centre. And if he has a stake, he has a say. And I think he used that say to get her moved.’
So that Maisah would no longer bother you. But you know that already, don’t you?
Finnegan adopted her most dangerous expression – a neutral one, utterly unreadable to friend or foe. Cass felt as if there was a trapdoor beneath her and Finnegan was debating whether to press the button.
‘I wasn’t aware Maisah had been moved.’
Pull the other one. You’re fooling nobody. ‘You didn’t notice she was no longer demanding to see you every week?’ Ignorance is not a defence. So no point feigning it.
Finnegan sucked on her teeth, and didn’t answer.
Christ, I’m going to buy a bloody soother for you. ‘You knew the rest presumably?’ Cass said. ‘That he had a stake in the centre?’
‘That’s no secret,’ Finnegan replied. ‘It’s probably how he came to hire her for the job in his shop.’
‘I haven’t managed to contact Maisah yet but I’m going to keep trying. I presume that’s in order?’
The balance of power had shifted in the confrontation, if that’s what it was. Finnegan had been in control, even after Cass shot out the line about being a suspect. But the news of Maisah Sahraoui’s departure had changed the atmosphere, and Cass couldn’t quite determine why.
Did Finnegan now also suspect something?
And if so, and she was as close to Harbour Murphy as it seemed, would she shut down Cass’s lines of inquiry?
‘That’s fine,’ Finnegan said eventually, to Cass’s surprise. ‘And you can speak to Harbour Murphy again if you want…’
This is unexpected.
‘… but your priority is the Bannon murder, and any and all actions the SIO throws at you. Understand? Everything else for now is on hold or side of the desk.’
‘Okay. It’s probably time I got to the incident room.’ Redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
‘You know, Murphy can be a right old bollocks…’
Exactly what my father said.
‘… but he’s fairly straight all the same.’
Well, maybe not exactly what he said.
‘We did speak to him first time round and he had nothing material to offer,’ Finnegan continued. ‘I’d be surprised if it were any different this time.’
‘He knew about the bleach in the Bannon murder when I spoke to him – he had inside information.’
‘Sure, half the town probably knows about the bleach by now.’
‘But if someone on the team is talking…’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll look into it. I’ll see you in the incident room shortly.’
Cass didn’t see merit in pushing further, and stood to leave. But Finnegan wasn’t quite finished. ‘When you do get back to the Nabila Fathi file, make sure to keep me briefed.’
Understood would have been the natural response. But it was Cass’s turn to nod curtly and go on her way.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
About an hour later, Mason Brady sat in his battered Mondeo across the road from the precinct – or station, in the local lingo – kept the engine running, and ruminated some more.
There were people in the world to whom rest and recovery came easy. He wasn’t one of them, hadn’t slept overnight, and was far from his best.
The worst time to launch any kind of manoeuvre, defensive or otherwise, he thought.
People in his line of work were supposed to be decisive, and about certain things, he was ruthlessly so – such as killing when required.
And he didn’t suffer from the misconception it was somehow dishonourable to shoot somebody in the back. Bullshit. Brady had killed different people in different ways, and knew the fundamental truth: whatever the method, it was easier when your opponent had their back turned, was caught unawares, unable to offer much in the way of resistance. On such matters, he suffered from no hesitation whatsoever.
But when things were less clear-cut, when they demanded rigorous evaluation and foresight, he could procrastinate with the best of them.
And he was procrastinating now, at the likely cost of increasing the risk to himself.
Not for the first time, he wondered if the procrastination was a symptom. He knew the nightmares probably were. So too, the hyper-vigilance and the extreme fatigue that arose as a consequence. The feeling he had no future. The many days he didn’t care if that were suddenly to prove to be the case.
Or maybe the procrastination is just proof I’m the blunt instrument and not the master strategist.
His military career had been about executing missions, not devising them. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and calculated, for the umpteenth time, whether it was the safer course of action to walk into the precinct or wait for the police to turn up at his door. He didn’t want cops prowling around his house or, worse again, finding any reason to profile him. Equally, though, he knew it might look odd to turn up voluntarily with information, details, descriptions. Most people were not good witnesses. Would they wonder why he was?
From the glove compartment, he took a pill container, flicked it open, and swallowed two benzos he’d brought with him from the States. He couldn’t tell if they helped or made things worse, and so used them sparingly. But the simple act of taking a couple usually calmed him a little on the rougher days.
Even the military was teaching mindfulness by the time he’d left, but damned if he was ever going to fall for that psychobabble bullshit. No amount of mindfulness could pull him out of the misery he’d seen; as to the misery he’d inflicted, that didn’t haunt him at all.
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the negative thoughts.
Focus. You’ve done what you set out to do. Everything has gone smoothly up to now. This is a speed hump, nothing more. Take it steady and get over it.
The mental siege was lifting, and he finally chose which path to take. He snapped the glove compartment shut, switched the engine off, and took a moment to inspect himself in the visor mirror just to ensure he didn’t look as frayed as he felt.
He pushed the visor back up, and that was the moment he realised he had been spotted.
Cass emerged from the station following the murder conference with her mind spinning and a list of house-to-house inquiries to make in the Loop. Spinning, because the officers conducting the inch-by-inch search of Bridge Bannon’s house had found more than 80,000 euro in cash and another 17,000 in old Irish pound notes in a wall cavity. It wasn’t the first or last time that cash would unwisely be kept in a home – but Cass was staggered by the sheer amount of it, and the old man’s stubbornness in not even using the banks to change the old pound notes, which were now two decades out of circulation. The money had been well concealed, which was possibly the reason Bridge Bannon was dead. Had it been easier to find, or had the farmer revealed its location, the killer or killers might have left him alive.
The money will do fuck-all for you now.
She pushed the melancholy aside by focusing on the list of inquiries she had to make, all of which would be done by means of the same questionnaire to ensure information was collected in a consistent fashion. She had already settled in her mind on the first house to which to call when she spotted the old Mondeo. The Guards had used this make and model for a number of years and Cass wondered briefly whether it had been a former police car. That was why she eyed up the vehicle – and eyed up Brady in turn.
He was seated, but guessing from his position, he was maybe six foot tall. Trim and tanned from time in the outdoors, with a salt and pepper crew-cut that reminded her of a wolf’s fur. But his eyes looked haunted rather than those of a hunter.
There was nothing out of kilter about him; nothing suspicious. She wouldn’t have given him a second glance except that he caught her looking – and suddenly his eyes changed. Locked in on her. Sized her up. Almost as if an opponent… or quarry.
A primitive signal sounded in her brain, an early threat warning. Disproportionate response? No. Permanent precaution around people was to be expected when your job necessitated wearing an anti-stab vest on a daily basis.
