Red Ribbons (39 page)

‘You sure about these registration details, Ollie?’

‘What kind of a question is that? Of course I’m sure.’

‘Just asking before I ring it in. Don’t want to be sending the boys in Dublin on a wild goose chase, do we?’

Ollie winced at the reference to poultry. ‘I’m absolutely sure. It was off the road for a while, but he started to drive it again lately.’

‘And you say Steve Hughes has a photograph that might be helpful.’

‘Could be, is all I’m saying.’

‘And how do you reckon our Mr Hughes came upon this photograph?’

‘You’ll have to ask him that. I’m only saying what I know.’

‘Right, hang on so, Ollie. I’ll ring in this registration number, then you can give me Steve Hughes’ mobile and we’ll all have a chat.’

‘Always happy to oblige.’

‘Indeed.’ Murray grunted before leaving Ollie alone in the room.

Ollie tried Steve again. This time he got an answer. ‘Where are you, you bastard?’

‘Steady on, Ollie. I’m a busy man, you know.’

‘Yeah, right. You still got that photograph?’

‘Was planning on putting it back later.’

‘Well don’t bother. I’m at Gorey station. Murray will be ringing you in a minute.’

‘What the fuck for?’

‘That photograph. He’ll need to see it. I’ve given him the registration number of the Carina. Those murders in Dublin, the ones with the two girls, they think the killer might have driven the same type of car.’

There was a silence as Steve Hughes obviously tried to grasp what Ollie was saying to him. ‘Are you for fucking real?’

‘No, I’m making it up. Of course I’m for fucking real. Murray’s on his way back. When he phones, act surprised.’

‘That’ll be easy.’

‘O’CONNOR, MAKE YOUR WAY OUT OF THAT GLASS house of yours, something’s raised its head, and it might be worth looking at.’

When Donoghue thought something was worth looking at, it usually was. As the bookman, he was forever on the lookout for connections. O’Connor wondered if the stories he’d heard about him were true. According to some of the others, Donoghue could crack a crime in a novel within the first twenty pages. Apparently it was something of an obsession with him. True or not, in real life he was not a man to be messed with.’

‘Skipper.’

‘Sit down, O’Connor.’

‘Right.’

‘Something’s turned up. We got a call from a Dr Ebbs at St Michael’s Psychiatric Hospital. He claims one of his patients, an Ellie Brady, thinks our man killed her daughter.’

‘One of his patients?’

‘Yeah, Adele Burlington took the call. It came in on the priority helpline.’

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘I don’t kid about murder, Detective.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that … go on.’

‘I remember the case myself, happened fifteen years ago. The
murdered girl was the same age as our victims. Different MO though. Filicide by arson’

‘This woman, Ellie Brady, you say she’s a psychiatric patient.’

‘Yeah, and I know what you’re thinking.’

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘Says he’s not sure. She could be making it up, copycat type of thing. Not unusual. But here’s the thing, O’Connor. The killing happened in Wexford, the mother set fire to a holiday caravan, she was dragged out, but the child perished.’

‘Go on.’

‘You know how I love connections. Well, we got a call in from the station in Gorey ten minutes ago. A guy just walked in there, an Oliver Gilmartin, says he knows the possible owner of the Carina. He’s being interviewed now.’

‘The same area as the Brady murder?’

‘Wexford is a big place, but Ellie Brady’s daughter was killed there. I’ll run the plates. Why don’t you and your psychologist friend have a chat with Ellie Brady.’

‘Right, keep me posted.’

‘Will do, and I’ll start the paperwork for pulling that old murder file, just in case.’

KATE’S MOBILE PHONE SANG OUT WITH THE ALL-TOO-familiar piano riff ringtone she’d allocated to O’Connor.

‘Kate.’

‘Detective.’

‘We’re taking a trip.’

‘Where?’

‘The northside. I’ll do the driving. I’m on my way to pick you up.’

‘Any chance you could tell me why?’

‘I’ll fill you in on the way. You at home?’

‘Yeah, I’ll be ready.’

Looking out the tiny window of her study, Kate watched a young mother pass by with her baby wrapped snugly in a buggy. At the newsagent’s, two men chatted as a woman in a smart grey suit walked past them. Ordinary people getting on with ordinary lives, a luxury Caroline’s and Amelia’s families no longer had. She thought about Declan, how if there was going to be any hope for them remaining as a family, things would have to change. She tried him one last time. This time he picked up.

‘Declan.’

‘Kate, sorry, I can’t talk now.’

‘That’s okay. When?’

‘I should finish up around five. I can ring you then.’

‘Okay. And, Declan?’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘We’ll talk later. I have to go, Kate.’

Turning to the photographs of the murdered girls on the study wall, Kate thought again about the Tuscan burial site. If Silvia Vaccaro’s death and the killing of the two girls were connected and the flat stone was a place for them to rest their heads, it was another indicator of his affection for his victims. His perceived relationships with Amelia and, more importantly, with Caroline may have been delusional, but to him they felt utterly real. Eighty per cent of female victims know their killer – a frightening statistic. The one thing Kate knew for sure was that whoever the killer was, he knew his next victim in some way and could be watching her right now. They needed to find him before he could make his move.

≈

Kate sat in the passenger seat beside O’Connor, who seemed more hell bent on getting wherever it was they were going than filling her in on the details.

‘I’m waiting, Detective. Where are we heading?’

‘We’re going to see an Ellie Brady. I’ve squared it with her doctor.’

‘Doctor?’

‘Yeah, she’s a patient at St Michael’s, a psychiatric hospital. It’s a lead we got via the public information lines. Ellie Brady’s daughter was killed fifteen years back, a case of filicide. The mother set fire to the caravan with both her and her daughter in it. Ellie survived. According to the doctor, Ellie now claims the person who killed the two girls also murdered her daughter.’

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of this, it’s hardly reliable testimony.’

‘Donoghue thinks there might be something in it, and he has an uncanny knack of being right about these things.’

‘Did you get the image of Silvia from the Italian police?’

‘Not yet. Wait a second, Kate, I need to take this.’ O’Connor answered a call on his hands-free set.

Kate couldn’t help but think that they might be wasting their time interviewing a psychiatric patient, but she was willing to go with it for now.

Listening to O’Connor’s side of the conversation, she reckoned he must be talking to DI Gunning. She found their animosity fascinating – two men, both of high intelligence, equal ranking in the force, same age, both with an active interest in solving crime – on the face of it, they had a lot in common. But that was where their similarities ended, other than their desire to be the dominant alpha male. It was the latter similarity which was at the root of their rivalry. Given the choice, though, she’d work with O’Connor over Gunning any day.

When O’Connor ended the call, he smiled at her.

‘That was our travel guide from Tuscany.’

‘So I gathered. What did he have to say?’

‘He went to the site where the bishop supposedly slipped.’

‘And?’

‘It was a steep drop all right. According to Gunning, it was less than a quarter of a mile from where Silvia had been buried. Meaning she could well have fallen from the same place, which is a bit coincidental. And that’s not all.’

‘What?’

‘Gunning had a look at the case file. He says there is a resemblance in facial features to our victims, as we suspected. Nolan was right. Sometimes you just have to get the hell over there to check things out.’

‘If the bishop’s death wasn’t accidental and our guy was involved, it meant he returned to Tuscany for a reason, and there is only one which is springing to mind.’

‘Revenge?’

‘It makes sense. Also, the bishop’s death, accident or otherwise, was
six months before the current murders – sufficient time for him to stalk both girls and follow through on making his move.’

‘He certainly took his time turning into an avenging angel.’

‘Think about it, O’Connor. Assuming our killer was a child at the time and that the rumours about the bishop were true, if Antonio Peri was responsible for Silvia’s death, our guy would have looked on Antonio as the hand of evil – time may have passed, but his emotions would not necessarily have faded.’

‘Yeah, but that doesn’t answer the question, why wait? It’s forty years since the girl’s death, Kate. Five years since her remains were discovered.’

‘Something else must have happened, something current. Crimes don’t always fit into sequential patterns. It just takes something fired into the mix to send ricochets all over the place. If our killer was a child at the time of Silvia’s death, he didn’t go to Tuscany alone. We know from Jessica that his voice didn’t have an accent, at least not to her. He’s not from outside Ireland, which means he travelled to Tuscany, both as a child and as an adult.’

‘Okay. We’ll start trawling flight passenger lists around the time of the bishop’s death, starting with flights into Florence.’

‘He wouldn’t have taken a direct flight. He’ll play clever. This guy does nothing without meticulous planning. I know it’s not what you want to hear, O’Connor, but all means of getting there will have to be looked at, including flights to Pisa and Rome.’

‘Jesus, that’s some task, Kate.’

She smiled wryly at him. ‘Our guy wouldn’t want it any other way.’

O’Connor rang Donoghue and gave him instructions to get listings of all flights into Italy, along with passenger details for ferries from Ireland and the UK to mainland Europe for the weeks surrounding Antonio Peri’s death.

As they drove through the large entrance gates of St Michael’s, Kate and O’Connor looked at the building in front of them in silence.
The large, grey, rundown structure loomed on the landscape like something from a Hitchcock movie.

‘I suppose you’re wondering if Ellie Brady will turn out to be another ricochet? I know I am.’

‘Maybe, O’Connor,’ she said without too much belief in her voice. ‘Convince me – what else do we know about her case?’

‘The files are archived. All original documents and exhibits are kept in vaults at HQ in the Phoenix Park. You can’t go pulling old case files without good reason. Donoghue is doing the prep work. He’ll push for opening the file as soon as he hears how we get on.’

‘Right, let’s get in there so and see what Ellie Brady has to say for herself.’

HE HAD CHECKED THE FINISHING TIME FOR JUNIOR INFANTS at the school earlier that morning, and arrived in plenty of time. When the bell rang, all three classes filed out, monitored by their teachers, each of the little ones collected by the dispersing group of mothers, nannies and some token fathers. When he hadn’t seen Kate, he’d thought the boy would be kept waiting, but instead the boy was led away by someone else. Charlie had called out her name. Sophie. He heard Sophie tell Charlie that they were going to the park and afterwards, if he was good, they would make pizza for tea.

Things weren’t going exactly to plan, but no matter. Intelligent improvisation was all that was required. He had already packed the car with hiking boots, backpack, torch and a rope. The duct tape was in the boot too, along with provisions, should they be required.

Turning the delay to his advantage, he bought some comics for the child – something to keep him occupied on the way down. Having made the decision to postpone everything for at least another hour, it gave him ample time to have a late lunch at Meadow View.

He set up the laptop on the table in the kitchen to catch up with events. They had that horrid photofit on again – not a bit like him, the face looking like that of an old man. Zero out of ten to Jessica if she was the one responsible. He allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction.

When the doorbell rang, it made him jump. No one would be able to see him in the kitchen from the front of the house, but if he wanted
to look out without being seen, he would have to go upstairs, which was impossible. Turning off the laptop, he did his best to listen, but the only thing he heard was another ring on the doorbell.

It might not be anyone important, but, still, he stayed where he was until they stopped ringing. He didn’t make it out of the kitchen in time to see who it was. It was ridiculous to think it had anything to do with the investigation. They had absolutely no way of connecting things to him.

He checked the clock in the kitchen, then pulled all the curtains closed before heading off to pick up Charlie. The child had looked so innocent last night, hugging his teddy. Not quite the superhero after all.

‘RIGHT, MR HUGHES, TAKE A SEAT. JUST GIVE ME A second to get organised here.’

Steve did exactly as he was told while Garda Murray pulled out a statement pad and pen, ready to write down everything he was about to say. Sitting opposite Steve at a small, square, formica table, Murray filled in the upper section of the sheet. ‘Interview with Mr Steve Hughes of 25 Edmond Street, Gorey, conducted by Garda Damian Murray, Monday, 10 October, 3.00 p.m., Gorey Garda Station.’

‘Now I’m going to ask you some questions, Steve, and in your own words you can let me know the answers. Is that okay with you?’

‘Sure.’

‘I understand you work at Cronly Lodge.’