Marked Off Read online

  MARKED OFF

  First published in 2015

  By New Island Books,

  16 Priory Hall Office Park,

  Stillorgan,

  County Dublin.

  Republic of Ireland.

  www.newisland.ie

  Copyright © Don Cameron 2015.

  Don Cameron has asserted his moral rights.

  PRINT ISBN: 978-1-84840-415-1

  EPUB ISBN: 978-1-84840-417-5

  MOBI ISBN: 978-1-84840-416-8

  All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.

  British Library Cataloguing Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  New Island received financial assistance from The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), 70 Merrion Square, Dublin 2, Ireland.

  For Mum & Dad

  who always believed

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank everyone who helped me write this book, From Don Egremont’s early encouragement to write, to Wendy Conroy’s first red-pencilled corrections, there were always many helpful voices. Also to Brendan Hayes, who has read the book more times than I have, for his observations. Without them, life, and the writing of this book, would have been a lot less interesting.

  Big thanks to the RTÉ Today Show & New Island Books for creating the prize that was to have this book published. I am eternally grateful for the opportunity. And a heartfelt thanks to the professionals at New Island, especially to Shauna Daly for her insight and enthusiasm.

  Lots of love to Millie, Niall and all my family and friends for their generous and continued support – it is invaluable.

  A lucky boy.

  1

  A flash of lightning lit up the sky as the rain lashed against the windscreen. The crack of thunder that immediately followed made his heart jump. ‘That was close,’ he said, and watched dark clouds roll out to sea.

  Across the bay, the sky above Howth was an unbroken blue canvas. David shook his head. Not for long, he thought, and feared that their planned barbecue would have to wait for another day.

  Another curtain of rain danced along the road.

  He got out of the car, grabbed his briefcase, and holding it over his head, ran to the front door.

  He stepped inside.

  ‘Hello, love, I’m home!’ he called out. He put his briefcase down, and slipped off his wet jacket. He could hear music playing in the kitchen and knew that Barbara was listening to Lyric FM. It was Mozart, her favourite composer.

  ‘Hello!’ he called, a little louder.

  The music didn’t seem any louder that it usually did, so Barbara should have heard him. Maybe the thunder and heavy rain had made it impossible.

  ‘Barbara, where are you?’

  He stopped, listening to hear if she was upstairs, but there was nothing. She was probably in the garden, rescuing clothes from the clothesline. Where else could she be?

  ‘Barbara!’ he called, stepping into the kitchen.

  The empty wine bottle was on the counter, exactly where it had been when he had left for the office. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, as he touched the hot iron. Barbara’s golf shirt was lying on the ironing board.

  That’s odd, he thought, when he saw the unemptied shopping bags on the table, and the upturned flower vase.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  A stream of water had made its way over the edge and onto the floor. Something sparkled in the water, like a little star, and he squinted to get a better picture before bending down and touching it with his finger.

  It was a small piece of glass and it turned over when he pushed it with his fingernail. He saw other bits of glass and wondered what was going on.

  Maybe Barbara had hurt herself and had gone into their neighbours for help.

  He was now aware of the creepy stillness in the house. It touched him like a cold hand – he was scared.

  ‘Barbara?’ he called out again.

  He could feel the blood pounding in his ears as his call was again answered with an eerie silence.

  The door between the kitchen and the dining room was ajar, and beyond the door was the patio.

  Then he saw her, and his heart froze in his chest.

  Barbara was lying face down on the cream-coloured carpet. Her head was against a chair leg, her left arm outstretched with her fingers touching the patio door.

  ‘Jesus, Barbara.’

  She didn’t move when he nervously reached down and touched her cheek. It was cold. Deathly cold.

  ‘Oh fuck!’ he cried, and staggered to the middle of the room, unable to look away from his wife’s lifeless body. Moments later his legs went from beneath him, and he collapsed heavily onto the floor.

  2

  It was almost seven o’clock when Bob Nolan leaned forward in his chair and picked up the telephone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Nolan, I’ve got an emergency call,’ said the receptionist. ‘I’ll put it through.’

  A moment later Nolan was listening intently and making notes on his pad. The humming of the tall fan in the corner was the only sound in the room as he wrote and asked questions.

  ‘Who found her?’ he asked.

  ‘Barry Hayes, a neighbour.’

  ‘A neighbour. How?’

  Holmes cleared his throat. ‘Well, her husband came to the neighbour’s door, and he was covered in sick. He was a mess, mumbling about his wife being dead. So the neighbour went to the house, found her, and called it in. He’s scared shitless.’

  Nolan closed his eyes and then shook his head in disbelief. ‘Okay, cordon the place off and don’t let anyone in. Nobody, absolutely nobody!’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  ‘Good man, Holmes. I’ll tell the boss and be back in touch in a few minutes.’

  He ended the call and sat back in his chair. ‘Christ, that’s all we need. That’s all we fucking need.’ He shook his head again, got up and went to see the boss. He stretched his right leg, it was painful – too much sitting behind a desk was never good. He winced and let out a low whistle as the muscles relaxed. Could have been worse, he thought, and slipped a pen into his shirt pocket.

  The boss, Chief Inspector Eddie Doyle, was working his way through a tray of mail when Nolan broke the news.

  Doyle was not one for overreacting, and he waited for Nolan to finish before standing up and walking to the window. Beyond the harbour, Dublin Bay shimmered in the evening sunshine, where numerous sailboats were riding the warm breeze. Above, a few puffy clouds eased their way across the clear sky.

  ‘So what have we got, murder?’

  Nolan coughed, a nervous habit. ‘That’s what the lads reckon, but we’ll know better when someone takes a proper look at the scene, sir.’

  Doyle nodded. ‘Who’s available?’

  Nolan touched his thumb against his index finger, and began counting. First choice. ‘Dave Conroy was called out about an hour ago. A robbery in Sandyford.’

  ‘Robbery?’

  ‘Somebody snatched a van stuffed with televisions and cameras, and hit the driver. He’s been taken to hospital but he’ll be okay.’

  Doyle waited.

  Second finger.

  ‘Brendan Murray went on holiday yesterday, and Pat Brady is at
a course in Athlone. He won’t be back until tomorrow.’

  ‘That just leaves Danny O’Neill.’

  Nolan nodded.

  Doyle turned and looked out at the pleasant scene beyond the window. No trouble out there, he thought, and took a deep breath. ‘Okay, get O’Neill.’

  ‘I’ll call him right away, sir.’

  ‘And Bob, tell him to contact me as soon as possible. I want to hear from him tonight, not tomorrow. Is that clear?’

  ‘Loud and clear, sir.’

  Nolan headed for the door. ‘Bob, I see you’re limping. Is there something I should know?’

  ‘No, it’s just the old hip injury, sir. It stiffens up if I sit down for too long.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll walk it off, it’ll be fine in a few minutes.’

  Doyle nodded his understanding.

  Nolan left, and Doyle continued looking out to sea, beyond Dun Laoghaire harbour, and wondered what drove someone to kill. It was an impossible question. He went back to his desk and dealt with more mundane matters.

  *

  He could feel the sweat running down his back as he pushed hard along the beach. The sand was firm by the water’s edge and he splashed noisily as he ran towards his target, the old baths. ‘Faster, faster,’ he urged himself, and dug his toes into the sand, sprinting for his personal finishing line. Moments later, he reached the baths and slowly came to a stop, hands on thighs and gulping in lungfuls of air. His fingers touched the scar on his lower stomach, an uneven ripple, and a reminder of his fight with a robber. He was eventually subdued with a head butt, but not before his knife had left its mark. It was an occupational hazard and could have been much worse. Shit happens.

  Around him people walked easily on Sandymount Strand, while out to sea sail boats bobbed across Dublin Bay. The sun was a large orange ball descending slowly into the blue waters as overhead, gulls swooped and cawed in the summer breeze.

  He was still breathing heavily, but easier, when he heard his phone ringing. ‘Yes?’ he panted, and wiped a hand across his face.

  ‘Danny, it’s Bob Nolan.’

  He knew from his tone that it was going to be bad news. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It looks like we have a murder, and the boss wants you to handle it.’

  Further along the strand, a young guy was flying a kite with real expertise. It moved up and down and then suddenly it twisted, headed for the sea, and twisted again into the sky. O’Neill was transfixed.

  ‘Danny, can you hear me?’ said Nolan.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard everything, Bob. I’ll be there as soon as I can … and I will call Doyle afterwards. Don’t get your knickers in a twist!’

  ‘Fine. And best of luck.’

  O’Neill nodded. ‘Thanks, Bob, I’ll be in touch.’

  Forty minutes later he parked his car near the house and noted the small group of interested onlookers on the green, watching the proceedings. Members of the Forensics Unit, dressed in white boiler suits, ducked under the flapping yellow tape, going about their grim business. It was quiet, and in the near distance a dog barked, making heads turn.

  ‘So you’re the lucky boy, eh, Danny?’ said Gary O’Connell, leaning against a Forensics Unit van.

  ‘Yeah, the winner alright, Gary, that’s me.’ He had known O’Connell for almost ten, or maybe eleven years, and liked him. He was head of the Forensics Unit, the ‘FU’ as some referred to it, and a top investigator. O’Neill had thanked Gary on at least three occasions for producing information that was vital in securing convictions. He was definitely somebody you wanted on your side and it helped that they actually liked each other.

  O’Connell handed O’Neill a pair of plastic booties and gloves. ‘Can’t have the detective in charge of the case contaminating the crime scene, eh? That would make me look bad, Danny, and I can’t have that.’

  O’Neill didn’t respond and slipped on his booties. Across the road there was much incoherent mumbling and muttering as the onlookers watched him duck under the tape and follow O’Connell.

  ‘In my steps, okay?’

  O’Neill nodded. He’d done this many times before, and grinned when he looked down at the improbable footwear.

  ‘Very fetching, but no good for dancing,’ said O’Connell.

  ‘Or so you’re told.’

  O’Connell made a face. ‘Or so I’m told. Now, follow me.’

  O’Neill saw a young policeman at the front door, a nervous look on his face. ‘Where’s Holmes?’ he asked.

  ‘Inside, sir. Back room.’ He said it like he was happy to be where he was, firmly outside the crime scene.

  O’Neill understood. It was probably the first murder scene he had attended and that was never easy. ‘Good. Keep an eye out, and don’t let any photographers or journalists near the place. We don’t want any silly reporting, do we?’

  The policeman grimaced. ‘No, sir.’

  O’Connell led the way into the hall. O’Neill noted an elegant table against a wall on which were a bunch of keys and some unopened post. Above, a mirror, at least five feet long, hung opposite the stairs, which were covered in a deep red carpet. A painting of a white house in a busy harbour beneath a blue sky, suggesting better times, was slightly off centre.

  O’Connell pointed under the table. ‘Look, Danny, the telephone cable has been cut.’

  O’Neill saw the spliced cable. ‘Recent?’

  O’Connell nodded. ‘Yeah, fresh as a daisy.’ He looked at O’Neill. ‘It wasn’t an accident, Danny, it was deliberate.’

  O’Neill hunkered down for a better look and got a bad feeling in his stomach. Two forensics officers came down the stairs, past the pretty scene, and headed for the door.

  ‘Anything?’ said O’Connell.

  ‘Nothing so far, sir, but we’ve still two rooms and the attic to check.’

  ‘Let me know if you find anything.’

  They knew the routine, and they would.

  A sudden flash caught O’Neill by surprise and he rubbed his eyes in response. ‘What the fu …’.

  ‘Sorry ’bout that,’ said the photographer as the camera’s flash hummed, recharging.

  ‘You okay?’ asked O’Connell.

  O’Neill rubbed his eyes, and scrunched them before opening. ‘Jesus, I thought for a minute I was blinded.’

  O’Connell turned and took a few long steps on the carpeted floor and stepped into the kitchen. He was well over six feet tall, maybe six-three, and all his men looked up to him. Very few didn’t.

  O’Neill looked around the room and spotted the black marks on the doors, bottles, glasses and cups left by O’Connell’s men looking for fingerprints. One of them was dusting a door handle while another stood above him and took photographs. O’Neill closed his eyes again and turned his head away.

  ‘Right lads, take a break – ten minutes,’ said O’Connell. The two officers went outside.

  ‘Any ideas, Gary?’

  O’Connell stepped backwards, allowing O’Neill a view of the table, the adjoining door to the dining room, and the crime scene. ‘So far my lads have no signs of breaking and entering.’

  ‘What about the patio door?’

  O’Connell nodded. ‘It was the first one we checked. There’s nothing. We’ve checked it for fingerprints and there’s no sign of any broken glass or scratches on the lock. So?’

  ‘She must have let the killer, her killer, in,’ offered O’Neill.

  O’Connell nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  O’Connell looked into the room where the body lay. ‘Don’t know, Danny, but you feel that she must have known him. There’s no way, or reason, for that matter, to let someone you don’t know into your house.’

  ‘Unless they’re expected.’

  ‘Yeah, like the TV repairman or someone
like that.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  O’Connell pointed to the corner. ‘The the iron was still hot when we arrived…’.

  ‘So she was interrupted,’ added O’Neill, looking at the now unplugged iron.

  ‘And … the shopping bags are still on the table. She never got a chance to put the stuff away.’

  O’Neill looked into the bags and realised that a barbecue was probably in the offing. Jesus, he thought, and scrunched his lips.

  The room was tidy except for the upturned vase and the small pieces of glass on the floor. Both men had been to many murder scenes, and although they were all different, they had a sameness they recognised. Some places had been completely trashed while others, like this one, were almost undisturbed.

  O’Neill felt a sneer twisting his lip, but he couldn’t stop it. It was a gut reaction to the thought that had drifted into his mind. The killer was methodical, no crazy person lashing out at the friendly woman who opened the door and invited him in. No, she must have known and trusted her killer – that was different.

  ‘There are no marks, you know scuffle marks, in the hall,’ added O’Connell. ‘So whatever happened kicked off here.’

  ‘So she opens the door, recognises him and invites him in. She, or he, closes the front door, and seconds later he attacks her in the kitchen. It was almost immediate.’

  ‘So it was planned.’

  ‘I think so,’ O’Neill said, looking into the garden.

  O’Connell’s eyes followed his gaze.

  O’Neill rubbed his chin in his hand, the stubble rough in his fingers. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at O’Connell.

  ‘What time is it?’

  O’Connell checked his watch. ‘It’s almost nine – eighteen minutes to.’

  ‘It’s still bright outside. When the killer came here he did so in broad daylight, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  O’Neill was doing his best to hold onto the idea and closed his eyes. ‘Our man didn’t mind, didn’t care, that it was broad daylight.’