Cold Steel (28 page)

'That was her name.'

On the green Jim Clarke fiddled with his earpiece. He turned sideways and found better reception.

'With me? In here? Ye sure?' Kelly sounded indifferent.

'I'm certain. You were seen with her.' Dillon adjusted the microphone on his buttonhole where it had begun to irritate. He looked outside. The policemen had gathered in small groups and were talking quietly among themselves.
The sun moved briefly from behind a cloud, dazzling with its brightness and casting sudden shadows. 'The two of you had scored a deal and were lolling about. Drinking and maybe shooting up.'

'Was I smashed?'

'That's what we want to find out. Just how smashed you were that night.'

Kelly inhaled deeply and looked around.

'Gimme the fuckin' knife, you scumbag.'

The voice disappeared as quickly as it sounded.

'Jennifer Marks? That the girl in the pictures you were showin' me?'

'Yes.'

'
No
,
Mo, no. No. I wasn't going to do anything.'

The voices returned. Kelly could distinguish two. Someone was shouting angrily. Viciously angry.

'Dark-haired girl, wasn't she? You told me she was a dark-haired girl?'

'She was. Long, jet-black hair. Very pretty girl.'

'Gimme another fag.' Kelly's hands shook as Dillon lit the tip. He inhaled, coughed slightly, then drew deeper again. 'What happened to her?' Over the listening devices the change in his voice was obvious. Kelly was becoming agitated.

'She was stabbed.' Dillon edged closer. 'She was in this shelter with you. What happened? Was there an argument? Maybe she said something that annoyed you? Was that it?'

Kelly shuddered. Sweat dripped off his head and forehead and he wiped at it nervously.

'Gimme the fuckin' knife, you scumbag.'

'I tried to help her, honest to fuck, I did.' His head was slumped, tobacco leaf and saliva dangled off his lower lip.

'Tell me what happened?' Dillon's voice was calm and controlled. He glanced at his watch. It was three thirty-five. He had been inside the shelter for almost fifteen minutes.

'I can't remember,' Kelly shouted suddenly. 'It won't fuckin' come. Quit annoyin' me.'

'There was someone else here, wasn't there? Was it one of your cronies?' Dillon had edged closer again. He could feel the heat from Kelly's breath. 'Who else was here?'

'Gimme the fuckin' knife, you scumbag.'

Words returned, angry, threatening words. Vicious words. Kelly began pacing anxiously. At the perimeter fence one of the tracksuited warders started forward, then stopped. Dillon had raised a reassuring hand.

'Why did you stab her? Did she do you out of a deal?' Dillon's voice was now louder. 'Why did you kill her?'

Kelly looked over. Froth was forming on his lips. 'I didn't mean to do anything. It was the big bastard that started it.'

Clarke and Molloy almost fell against one another. Excited hands cupped earpieces.

Dillon sat back on the seat. 'What big bastard?'

'Gimme the fuckin' knife.'

The exact words came back.

Kelly stopped pacing. He dropped his head, moaned, then wrapped both hands around his body and squeezed tightly. Sweat poured off his face, dropping from chin onto T-shirt, soaking his body. He tore off the red tracksuit top and threw it to the ground. 'Lemme outa here.' He made for the park, as if to run away, to escape.

Then he saw it.

'Jaysus Christ,' he roared. 'Waddid you do to her?'

Lying on the green grass of Sandymount Park was a bloodstained body. The body was clothed in a short black skirt with a red-stained T-shirt. White trainers over navy blue ankle socks were on the feet. The face-up body with dark hair and red lips was sprawled on the exact spot where Jennifer Marks had lain when first struck ten days earlier. It was a mannequin, assembled and dressed according to Dillon's instructions.

Kelly tried backing into the shelter but was grabbed from behind by Dillon.

'What happened to the girl? Who killed her?'

Kelly whimpered with fear. He tried looking away from the body.

'Why did you kill her?' Dillon was shouting. 'You've been lying since the very beginning. You killed that girl. DIDN'T YOU?'

'Gimme the fuckin' knife, you scumbag.'

The voice sounded like a pistol shot in Kelly's brain. 'I didn't mean to hurt her.' His voice dropped to a broken whisper. 'I didn't mean no harm.'

'What happened?' Dillon pressed. He pointed towards the mannequin. 'What happened to Jennifer Marks?'

The voices returned like a babble. A cacophony of curses and vicious roars crowded Kelly's brain.

'No, Mo. I wasn't going to do anything.'

Then it came back. Kelly's mind cleared and he saw again the dreadful scene. 'There was two of them.' He slumped onto his knees. Yards behind, Tony Molloy checked his watch. It was four fifteen. He knew schools in the area and beyond had discharged their pupils for the day. He knew many of the students used the road alongside the park and would now be held up at the checkpoints. He worried they might start shouting, might distract. Come on, come on.

'Who were they?' Dillon forced.

'No, Mo, no. Please, no'

'I dunno. I never seen them before. She knew them, she fuckin' knew them.' It was as if a veil had been drawn back from Kelly's mind. A thick, blood-wet veil. He sounded calmer. 'We were in that shelter and they came in. She knew who they were.'

'What happened?'

'I stayed on. Didn't know who they were and didn't give a fuck either. She took them outside to talk.'

'What happened then?'

Kelly shook his head. 'I don't know. I heard these shouts, she was shoutin' for me.'

'Go on,' encouraged Dillon.

'I sorta staggered out to see what the fuck was goin' on.' He paused as the image faded then returned. 'Wan of them told me to fuck off. The big bastard, that wan. Even in the dark he looked fuckin' huge.'

'What were they doing?'

'They were arguin' about somethin'.' Kelly made a shadow-boxing gesture. 'She was screamin' at them to leave her alone. "I didn't mean no harm." Some sort of shite like that.'

'No, Mo, no. I wasn't going to do anything, honest.'

'What did you do?'

Kelly ran a hand through his stubble hair, feeling the wetness there. He rubbed the sweat off on his T-shirt. 'I had a knife.'

Dillon froze. Ten yards away Clarke and Molly froze.

'What did you do with the knife?' Dillon was trying to keep the questions calm and clear. He sensed he was breaking Kelly's insanity.

'I ran at the big fucker.'

'No
,
Micko, no.'

'What happened then?'

'She tried to stop me.' Kelly shook his head angrily from side to side. 'The fuckin' stupid bitch.'

'Then what? I need to know everything.'

Kelly saw the movements in the dark, the scuffling, the flailing hands. 'She started hitting at me. I wanted to get at the big bastard but she was in the way. She tried grabbin' the knife from me.' Kelly shook violently. 'I lost me fuckin' rag and stuck her. A coupla times.' He began to heave and clutched at his stomach. 'I didn't mean to hurt the little bitch. She just got in the fuckin' way.' He brushed at the wetness on his face. 'I tried to lift her but she was covered in blood and slipped outa my hands.' He crumpled onto the grass, shoulders heaving, body shaking.

Dillon sat beside. 'What did the other two do?'

Kelly dragged his knees to his chest. 'They took her away. They wanted her. The big bastard came back at me.'

'Gimme the fuckin' knife, you scumbag.'

'What did you do?'

'I ran. I dropped the knife and I fuckin' ran.' He remembered the final moments. He was scrambling at the railings, wet bloodstained hands clutching for support. He looked back. The shadowy figures were dragging the young girl's body. He heard loud, angry shouts and curses. Then he saw his own knife flash. The blade swung in a vicious downward arc. 'They stuck her while she was on the ground.'

Dillon wiped his brow. He sat down on the grass beside Kelly, hands behind knees for support.

'Who were they?'

'
N
o,
Mo. I'm not gonna do anything.'

Kelly wiped at his face. 'She kept shoutin' Mo, that's all I can remember. Mo, Mo, fuckin' Mo.' He blew his nose on the T-shirt. 'That other bitch would know.'

Dillon looked over. 'What other bitch.'

'That other bitch in the pub. She was talkin' with that big bastard. She knows him.'

Molloy quickly pulled Clarke aside. 'That's Joan Armstrong. That's who he's talking about. She's known all along.'

Clarke waved furiously at Moss Kavanagh. 'Where would she be now?'

Molloy looked at his watch. 'Coming off the train at Sydney Parade Avenue.'

Clarke hobbled towards the approaching Kavanagh, ushering him back to the gates. 'Organise Kelly,' he shouted over his shoulder, 'then follow me. If Armstrong knows anything I want it out of her immediately.'

As Molloy feverishly issued instructions, something in the back of his mind crowded forward. He tore at his trouser pockets until he felt a crumpled slip of paper. It was his own scribbled report of new evidence phoned
t
hrough from the forensic science laboratory that morning. The fibres taken from the crime scene had finally been identified. Mohair.

Mo. Mohair. He didn't dare believe what he was thinking. Mo. Mohair. Never. Crazy. Too dangerous. He sprinted towards his car to follow Clarke.

38

4.34pm

The Goon had got there first.

Joan Armstrong stepped off the train at Sydney Parade Avenue. She fiddled with her schoolbag, dropping books, picking them up, taking her time. She watched until her fellow pupils had left the platform. All the time she was looking for the Goon, even praying he'd be there. She didn't know how she'd got through the day. She'd shivered and shook in every class, was edgy and irritable. Her mind was fixed on white powder, glass ampoule and clean syringe. How she ached for a hit. She spotted the Goon. He was dressed in black. Black jacket and jeans, black T-shirt and trainers. Hair slicked back. As usual he was leaning against the second lamppost on Ailesbury Gardens.

Making sure no one was following she took the overhead metal bridge to the other side of the tracks, walking as nonchalantly as she could fake. This was the usual arrangement with Mo. The Goon would wait at the lamppost, then the girls, herself and Jennifer, would walk to wherever Mo waited in the parked car. They understood why Mo could never be seen, he was such an important man.

'Where's Mo?' She walked straight past the Goon, apparently ignoring him. He let her get a few yards ahead, checked no one was watching, then followed.

'He couldn't come. I'm to take you to the house direct.'

Joan Armstrong turned. 'I can't, I'm telling you, I can't. I have to be home by six at the latest.'

The Goon made a show of looking at his watch. 'No sweat. I'll have you a hundred yards from your front door in plenty of time.'

'Where's the car?'

'Round the corner.'

Joan Armstrong began to feel uneasy. The black car with its opaque black windows was usually parked nearby. 'Where around the corner?'

The Goon grabbed her roughly by the arm. 'Round the next corner. Now move for fuck's sake.'

The metallic black Lincoln was parked at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, boot facing backwards. The Goon frogmarched Joan Armstrong the last twenty yards, his grip digging deeply.

'You're hurting me,' she protested.

'Come on, come on, we'll be late. You said you wanted to be home by six.' In the distance a police siren sounded. 'Come on.'

The Goon pressed a button on his car alarm pad and four indicator lights blinked twice, then stopped. The door locks clicked, the boot lid opened slightly. Gripping the young girl's arm, he twisted her round, back towards the boot.

'You can put your schoolbag in here.'

Joan Armstrong looked up, fear in her eyes. 'Why do I have to put my bag in the boot?' Her voice was strained.

One-handed, the Goon flipped the lid open. Joan Armstrong turned. The moment she saw the black plastic she started to scream. The Goon hit her hard and she dropped, half slumped. With one swift movement he grabbed her ankles and forced her inside. He looked around. The road was empty, not a movement. He quickly scanned the windows. No one. The siren was coming closer. He pressed the recessed compartment and snatched one roll of binding tape. Within seconds he had
the young girl's ankles bound. She moaned slightly, too dazed to know what was happening. The tape was sliced with the flick knife. Wrap, wrap, wrap. Her hands were strapped together. The Goon stuck an edge of the wide tape along the boot lid, roughly measured and sliced a short strip off. It was stuck down across the groaning mouth. The knife was closed, the tape stuffed back in the recess. The Goon looked up and down the road. Nothing. He turned back to see the frozen-eyed stare of Joan Armstrong. He grinned and slammed the boot closed.

The Goon climbed into the left-hand side driver's seat. The siren had stopped. The clock on the dashboard said four fifty. There was plenty of time. He would drive to the secluded underground car park he'd checked out earlier and slit the girl's throat. Then he would douse the car inside and out with petrol and light a match.

Easy.

Like taking candy from a baby.

4.57 pm

Frank Clancy was a nervous wreck. He stared out at the clouds from his window seat aboard an Air France commuter flight from Paris to Dublin. His heart was pounding. He was sweating. He felt like getting sick. He hadn't eaten since the breakfast on the Virgin Atlantic Boston/Bristol trip. His hair was sticking in all directions, his T-shirt was wet through from perspiration. He now knew something had happened to his family.

'What time's your flight due in at Dublin?' Clancy had telephoned earlier from Orly Airport. The duty sergeant in Clontarf police station made a big effort to sound calm.

'Five ten. Why?'

'We'd like to meet you as soon as you arrive.'

'Why? What's happened?'

'Now we're not sure if anything's happened at all, Dr
Clancy.' The duty sergeant didn't sound convincing. 'It's just that your wife and children aren't at home.'

Clancy almost collapsed. He gripped the telephone receiver. 'There's more, isn't there?' he shouted. 'You're not telling me everything.'

'Now don't be jumping to conclusions,' the sergeant advised. 'There's probably a perfectly simple explanation for everything.'

'They're missing, aren't they?'

'Well, they're certainly not at home.'

'Oh, Christ, they've got them. Jesus. They've got them.'

There was a pause at the other end. 'Now who exactly would that be, Dr Clancy? Who do you think's got them?'

Clancy slapped at his forehead in frustration. How am I going to account for everything? If I start talking conspiracy this man'll have me arrested and taken away by men in white coats. I'll bet he suspects me in some way. Crime in the family is usually between family members.

'It'll be easier if I explain all when I get into Dublin,' he suggested. 'I'm chasing my tail here. I'll miss this flight.'

'Very good then, Dr Clancy. I'll have a squad car waiting for you on the tarmac. You needn't go through arrivals. My men will collect you at the plane.'

That worried Clancy even more. Either they're going to detain me for questioning or they really do know something more than they're saying. Jesus. Dr Harry Walters' parting words in Boston echoed ominously. 'Be careful, Frank. The stakes are high in this game. Whoever's behind this is in too deep to pull back. Keep looking over your shoulder. Play safe.' I did play safe. But not with my family. If anything's happened to Anne or the kids I'll kill that bitch Speer. With my own bare hands I'll twist her neck 'til I hear the bones break. He tried two last desperate calls. His mother-in-law was in but most unhappy.

'No they're not here, Frank. I've been trying to reach them all morning. The line's down or something. Anne was very upset when she left here. The children were very
tearful.' Go on, twist the knife. 'I don't know what you're playing at, but…' He hung up. Then he dialled administration at the Mercy Hospital.

'No I'm afraid there's no one here, Dr Clancy,' he was told. 'Half the hospital's taken the day off for the big press conference tonight. Everyone's expected to be there to hear the minister.'

Clancy swore loudly, then apologised.

'There is a message for you though.' His spirits rose sharply. It's from Anne. She's taken the kids somewhere and left details.

'Oh yeah? What's it say? Quickly.'

The girl at the other end coughed nervously. 'You're to present yourself tomorrow morning for a disciplinary hearing. Nine o'clock exactly. It says you should bring your legal advisor. The meeting will be held in the hospital boardroom.'

Frank Clancy felt his world crumble. I'm gonna lose my job. My wife and children are missing. He seriously contemplated a long swim in a deep pool. End it all with one simple dive. Then he gritted his teeth. Not yet. I'm not beaten yet. He sprinted through the departure gate and his flight home. I'll see you in hell first, Linda Speer.