TRACE - CSI Reilly Steel #5 (Forensic novel Police Procedural Series) (16 page)

‘Reilly,’ he said gently. ‘Maybe you don’t have a stomach bug. All this tiredness, high emotion, nausea. You’re the one who’s usually first to put all the pieces of a puzzle together.’

When she said nothing, just continued to stare blankly at him, he came up beside her and put a hand on her arm. ‘Is it at all possible,’ Chris suggested kindly, ‘that you might be pregnant.’

Chapter 29

I attended my first running group tonight. As expected, it was full of idiots. People who have no form, who can’t run to save themselves.

But there, in the middle of all this, was Constance Dell, shining like a light. She has long red hair, pale skin and blue eyes. She is nothing like her mother.

We began at a slow jog, and I fell into pace beside her. I made it seem quite effortless, though I had to shorten my stride noticeably.

‘You’re holding your breath,’ I told her. ‘Just try to breathe normally.’

She flashed me a smile, too short of breath to talk. She smelt like vanilla and cinnamon, like a cake freshly risen from the oven.

I will enjoy this, I thought. I will enjoy this very much.

After the run, she approached me. Cheeks flushed, décolletage glistening with perspiration.

‘You’re the guy who gave me the pointers on Facebook, aren't you? Thank you so much.’

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Any time’.

‘I’ll definitely be in touch if I need some advice,’ she said.

And I hope she will be. She radiates calmness and pleasantness. Again, the complete opposite to her mother.

As she walked away I watched her braid slither down her back like a gold snake.

There is no greater boon than hunting something beautiful.

‘Has anyone considered that poison is typically the murder weapon of choice for women?’ said Gary. ‘Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree completely here.’

‘Maybe we would get a break on this case if people would stop coming up with completely idiotic suggestions,’ said Reilly bad-naturedly.

Lucy and Gary exchanged a glance, realizing that their boss was not in the mood for joking around that morning.

And Reilly wasn’t. She had endured a horrific sleepless night after Chris suggested she might be pregnant. She flat-out refused to entertain the idea, but there it was, niggling at the back of her mind. She and Todd had indeed neglected to use protection that one night together, but what were the chances? Some enduring jet-lag and an out of whack appetite were
not
enough reasons to make the automatic leap to pregnancy. The up and down emotional stuff was worrying though, because her emotions had been all over the place lately, so much so that she’d wondered if she was going mad, or suffering a particularly severe cause of SAD or something.

There was one way she could find out for sure of course, but Reilly wasn't willing to go down that road. Not yet.

Today was a big day, in any case. Kennedy and Chris were bringing Nico Peroni in for questioning and she wanted to sit in on the interview. She would have to ignore everything else that was going on and try be at her sharpest with Peroni. If he was the killer, it was clear that he was no dummy. She needed her wits about her. She couldn’t be distracted by notions of pregnancy or indeed anything else.

‘I want everyone to keep on with this case today,’ she said. ‘No distractions. I want you combing through every email, every piece of information we have. Rory, where are we on those private messages?’

‘Got them,’ he said. ‘Not a problem.’

‘OK. So everyone has work to do. There are about a thousand trace samples in the lab that still need analysis. I know it’s boring work, but it still needs to be done.’

‘I’ve got the results back on the Worthington bedcovers,’ said Julius. ‘Same chemical compound as the other one. Likely spandex, again. And that yellow powder? Pollen.’

Reilly nodded. It was good to hear that the evidence was mounting. It would merely make it easier to put the killer away when they did catch him.

If only it could reveal how they might do just that.

Constance Dell was no fool. She was used to men hitting on her. Every day, someone would find a new and novel way to ask her out. It might be funny or amusing if it wasn’t so annoying. What gave men the right, anyway? Did they really think if they followed you around for long enough, or told you how great your legs were, that you would just fall in love with them?

Running was her outlet. Having been a pre-work park jogger for years, she was finally getting more serious about it. It was true what they said about running: it did amazing things for your body, it focused you, it taught you strength and endurance. So the last thing she needed was another guy ruining her buzz as she pursued her passion.

But the guy at the running group didn’t seem interested in her like that. Maybe he had a wife, although she didn’t see a ring. He just seemed to want to help her get the most out of running. At the second group run, he had shown her some great stretches and had done so without touching her, except to pull her shoulders back a little. It was great.

‘Not all men are sexually attracted to you. You know that don’t you?’ said her mother when she told her about it over the telephone. She could almost hear her mother’s eye roll from Oxford.

‘Of course I know that,’ said Constance.

‘Great, have fun,’ said her mother, and hung up before Constance could reply.

It was a typical farewell from her mother. She was notoriously brusque and not hugely affectionate. The point was that she tried.

Constance had given up trying to explain her relationship with her to others. While other girls she knew spoke of rushing to their mothers for advice about love and jobs, all Ruth would tell her daughter was: “Do what you want, Connie. You have to do what you want.” And forget going to her for comfort if you had a broken heart. She would pat you on the back for a couple of seconds and say: “That’s pretty much my capacity for motherly love, Constance.” It was true. Ruth loved her in spades. She just had trouble expressing it.

Instead, Constance and her mother debated politics, sex and religion. Anything under the sun, really. Sometimes Constance took a viewpoint that was completely the opposite to the one she really had, just to see if she could argue her mother under the table. In most cases, she could.

She had studied to be a lawyer, but the hour before she sat the bar, she thought: Is this what I really want? Screw it.

She moved to Dublin and became a music teacher instead. Her mother never expressed disappointment with Constance’s whimsical approach to her career and other major life decisions. It was the same old adage: Do what you want.

And I do, Constance thought deliciously, as she ate ice-cream in bed at 9am on a Friday morning. She would spend the day reading
Something From Tiffany’s
and lying in the bath until the hot water ran out. Because who could stop her, after all?

Reilly watched through the one way mirror as Kennedy and Chris questioned Nico Peroni. Even from here she could see the sweat pouring off the restaurant owner. It wasn’t necessarily a sign of guilt. He was nervous. Plus, fit people sweated more easily, she knew. The body was accustomed to cooling itself down.

‘First off,’ said Kennedy, ‘we would like you to submit to a DNA test.’

‘Do I have to?’ asked Nico. ‘What are my rights?’

‘Legally,’ said Kennedy, ‘you have the right to refuse. However we can gain a court order that will force you to comply.’

‘Then that is what you will have to do,’ said Nico.

Kennedy shook his head and made a note.

‘We need to ask a few more questions,’ said Chris. ‘You told us you met Harry McMurty roughly eighteen months before he died, is that correct?’

‘Give or take,’ said Nico.

‘How about you try to narrow it down,’ said Chris. ‘Be more specific.’

‘Maybe a little longer than that,’ said Nico.

‘Did you know him before Rose Cooper was killed?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘So that’s a definite yes?’ asked Chris.

‘Yes,’ said Nico.

At this stage, anyone with a sense of self-preservation would have demanded a lawyer. But it seemed not to have occurred to Nico, despite his assertion of his “rights.”

‘What was the capacity of your relationship with Mr McMurty before he worked for you?’ asked Chris.

On this Nico seemed clear. ‘An acquaintance. He worked at the restaurant of a friend of mine.’

‘Why did you lie before about the length of time you had known Mr McMurty?’ asked Chris. ‘It seems like you wouldn’t forget that he had worked for a friend of yours.’

‘Well, I really began to know him once he worked for me. Before that, I just knew
of
him. Saw him round, so to speak.’

‘So to speak.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell us where you were last night?’ asked Kennedy.

‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything. If I am in trouble for something, you should just arrest me.’

‘Answer the question, please,’ said Kennedy tiredly.

‘I was out on my bike.’

‘Where?’

‘In the Phoenix Park.’

‘Can anyone confirm this?’

‘Only if you can track down the hundreds other people who were in the park at the same time. I’m getting a bit tired of this,’ Reilly watched as it dawned on the guy at last. ‘I want a lawyer, please, if you continue going on in this ridiculous vein.’

‘We’ll get you your lawyer, Mr Peroni,’ said Chris. ‘In the meantime I would strongly suggest that you submit to that DNA test. Resisting only makes it harder for everyone.’

The suspect shook his head. They would have to get a court order.

Back at the lab afterwards, having successfully avoided Chris at the station by slipping out before the interview was over, she started to go through the mail on her desk. Lots of correspondence regarding other cases, jiffy bags full of documents that she would have to read sooner, rather than later. It never ended.

There was something else. A thin grey envelope. So cheap and thin you could almost see right through it. She recognized the stamp on the back. It was from the Prison Service.

She almost didn’t open it. She received things like this every now and again, sick notes from men the GFU had helped to put away and had seen her when she testified in court. Dirty, badly written things about what they would do to her if they ever got out. Which they wouldn’t.

But when she saw it was postmarked as being from Mountjoy, she opened it. It might be abusive, but it might also tell her something.

The script inside was elegant and ornate, so she had a little trouble at first making it out.

“Dear Ms Steel,” it read. “I know you will probably want to tear this up when you see who it’s from and that’s fair enough. I just wanted to say sorry for last week. I lost my temper, and in the process I came close to hurting you and I am sorry for that.

At the time, I wanted to hurt you. I don’t deny that. I have these flashes when I want to, or I actually do, these awful things, and afterwards I just can’t work out why. I do have a counsellor here. He is helping me with my anger problems, but I still have a long way to go. Obviously.

My rage has been with me for so long that I worry that I would be unrecognizable without it. It shields me. I wonder if you can understand that? Is there anything that you cling to, knowing that without it, you might not know who you are anymore?

My counsellor is also trying to help me to see the truth about my brother. Sometimes I see Brendan as my saviour, the only person who ever truly loved me, and sometimes I know him for a monster. I don’t think I will ever be able to feel just one way about him.

I know what you want from me. I know that you want to know what happened to Grace. And part of me wants to help you. But what do I get in return? Here I am, and I know this is as far as my life goes. I don’t believe in any redemption for myself. But I could do one last good thing, if I wanted.

I want to know: what will you give me in return? I don’t ask for much. I am a lonely man. If you reply this letter in kind, it may be incentive enough.

Darren Keating.”

Reilly refolded the letter very deliberately and put it in her handbag. It left her with a cold, creepy feeling. Grace Gorman’s old boyfriend was truly a man broken into many pieces. The letter had been sincere in parts, manipulative in others. He was charming, then repulsive. He showed self-awareness, but a total lack of will to do anything with it. Reilly knew that to write back would be a huge mistake. Prisoners like that were con-men. They knew how to play with people.

But what if he did have something to tell her?

Chapter 30

‘OK, just one little pointer,’ the guy said to Constance as they ran.

‘I’m doing it all wrong, aren’t I?’ she laughed through her short breaths.

‘No, not at all. You’re doing great,’ He pulled up, and she did too. ‘It’s just, your strides are a little wide. A lot of short distance runners do the same thing, and it’s fine, but if you’re going long distance it’ll really tire you out. Lean forward a little, so that you’re not overextending yourself, and make sure your stride is no bigger than the width of your hips.’

They ran for a few more minutes. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘that does actually feel better.’

The guy at the running group was really helping her out. She had felt her form improve just from the couple of times she had run with him. He was older than her, but definitely fitter, and quite handsome too.

They ran for about 12k, and then she declared herself done in. ‘You look like you could go all night, though,’ she said.

‘Well, I’ve been running for a long time,’ he said.

She laughed, and then asked: ‘I noticed you change your pace a lot, from slow to fast. Why? Isn’t it better to keep an even pace so that the body can adjust?’

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Varying your pace helps you build endurance. The bursts of high intensity get your body more accustomed to a higher rate.’

She nodded. ‘That makes sense. I have to tell you, I’m grateful for this. I spent the day with my mother.’ She rolled her eyes and grinned. ‘Almost killed me.’

She noticed a strange look pass over his face, almost like she had stabbed him with a pin, or something. ‘Is your mother…not very nice?’

‘Oh, no. She’s great. She lives in the UK so I don’t see her that often but she can just be hard work sometimes. Like, did you ever notice that once your parents get older, it kind of feels as though you’re parenting them a little bit?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I never noticed. My mother died when I was young.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘That must have been very hard.’

Her sympathy came very naturally. One of the best things about Constance was her ability to feel pain for others. Her mother told her it was also a weakness that led her to surround herself with less than deserving people, but sometimes her mother was a crank.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. ‘But yeah, it was hard.’

They parted and as Constance walked back to her car, she thought that she had just had a curiously intimate moment with someone whose name she didn’t even know.

They had to let Nico Peroni go, but there was the warning that he shouldn’t leave town. Reilly had her team working overtime trying to see if there was a DNA match for him with any of the samples they had collected from any of the victim’s houses. This stuff could take a long time, but she wanted results.

They’d got a court order to take a sample from Peroni, and she had watched Lucy take a swab from the inside of his mouth. A curiously intimate thing to do to someone. When Peroni left the station, he looked like he had spent a night in hell. Somehow though, she couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for him.

‘What do you think?’ she asked Chris.

‘I think he’s hiding something. We’ve got the connection between him and the first victim. The others aren’t too much of a stretch to make, given that they had eaten at his restaurants. He says he doesn’t do online dating, though.’

‘Well, that connected the victims, but we don’t know for sure that they met the killer online. We’re going to need something stronger to hold him.’

‘I’ve got Lucy, Gary and Julius working like robots in the lab. We’ll get it at soon as we can, if it’s there.’

He nodded. ‘He doesn’t have an alibi for the Worthington night, but he can’t remember where he was the night Jennifer Armstrong was killed.’

‘Which, at the moment, means that he could have done it.’

‘Yep.’

They were silent for a second, looking through the glass into the interview room, which was now empty. Reilly could faintly see their watery outlines.

‘Did you do a test yet?’ he asked gently.

She stiffened. ‘I don’t need to do a test, Chris. I know my own body. It’s impossible.’

‘Is it? Impossible I mean? Not that it’s any of my business but …. if something happened when you were in the States.’

Her silence was enough and she walked out, leaving Chris with his worst suspicions confirmed.

So, something had happened. With who - Forrest? Hardly, although he couldn't be sure. Then he remembered Reilly mentioning something about a son, the one she’d worked an investigation with. Todd. That was more likely. Chris didn’t have a right to be angry, he knew but he felt saddened all the same.

It had taken him and Reilly years to get to this point, and now just when they’d reached a major breakthrough, everything had just got a lot more complicated.

On the way home, Reilly’s mind was racing. It was ridiculous, she thought, how men thought they knew women so well. So Chris had correctly suspected she’d had a fling. What had happened between them the other night had happened in a moment of desperation.

Yes, Reilly had feelings for him, knew she always had, but she certainly wasn’t ready to jump into anything. He had been there for her during so many tough times. She just couldn’t imagine being in the kind of place where their relationship was about romantic dinners, movies in the weekends, or spending time together at home after work.

What had happened with Todd had been overwhelming, physical - so overwhelming unfortunately, they hadn’t used any protection. She hadn’t used birth control for years, not liking how bloated it made her feel. But could it really have happened? In a window that small? She had become so used to her life alone that the thought of getting pregnant had never occurred to her. It just didn’t seem like something that she was destined for. She
still
wasn’t destined for it, she told herself and she truly believed she knew her body well enough that she would notice if something major was happening. So she might as well just take the test and nix the possibility. She had enough on her mind without worrying about that, too.

Plus, it would get Chris out of her hair.

She picked up a predictor test at the chemist in Ranelagh village, and perhaps she was imagining it but did the women behind the counter gave her an appraising stare? No, she was just reaching. Reilly tried to tell herself that she wasn’t nervous; wasn’t concerned at all, but as she opened her wallet to pay the cashier she realized her hands were clammy.

You might think, that because Constance is so obviously a sweet girl, that I have qualms about killing her. But that’s simply not true. Only an amateur would get distracted by a feeling so mild as “like”. There is a chance that I might have liked some of the wriggling lobsters I have dropped into boiling pots of water, but I still did it.

The truth is, Constance is means to an end. She is simply the vessel for pain. Her death will not be as easy as the others, but that is simply because I don’t want someone to say to her mother: ‘She did not suffer.” She will suffer, because I want her mother to suffer. It is that simple.

Her running is really coming along, though. Perhaps, if I ever get sick of my day job, I could consider a career in coaching. But my life is so easy right now. Because of my success, I simply have to waltz into the kitchen, make a few tweaks to the menu, shout a few orders, and I am free to pursue my real life.

The inner life is always the real life. So many people concentrate on the exterior. Looks, jobs, education: those are all well and good, but it’s the river that runs through us all that we must pay heed to. Ignore it at your peril. I have given up many things to follow my true self, but it has been worth it. He leads me into darkness, and I follow without hesitation.

There last few days have been a little tense. Surprise of surprises, the cop is still alive. My little mushroom ruse failed. He looks no worse for wear. He and the other two, that big handsome brute and that career obsessed American have been hanging around the restaurant. I thought it might be time for me to lie very low, which would be a great pity, just when everything is coming together. Added to this, the papers have begun calling me “The Chef.” How very original. Probably every restaurant in Dublin will soon be as empty as a tomb. They have cast Harry McMurty as a kind of much-maligned, completely innocent victim. Nonsense. He deserved his death.

No matter, all I need is time. Time to carry out my most daring, and most fulfilling plan yet. They will not stop me before I have done what I need to do, I will make sure of that.