Taboo (6 page)

Late that same evening, his head heavy and his joints groaning like a 100-year-old shipwreck, Chris drove home to his apartment.

He turned the key and stepped in the door, immediately feeling better. The small, two-bed place on the quays took a sizeable chunk out of his monthly salary but it was worth it just for the views down over the Grand Canal and was a welcome haven for his tired body, and his equally weary mind.

He dumped his keys and jacket in the hallway and headed for the living room.
The view outside, city lights reflecting on dark water, instantly relaxed him. He stood still for several minutes, allowing the magic of the location to work its charm on him.

Although he was loath to admit it, the combination of recent events was beginning to take its toll. As well as the Ryan shooting, he and Kennedy were also working on the headless torso incident and both investigations were going nowhere. Despite Reilly Steel’s current belief that there was something unusual about the evidence in the Ryan case, it didn’t give them anything solid, or anything that helped move them forward.

‘I’m sorry, Reilly, I don’t see how this helps,’ he’d said when she’d phoned the incident room earlier.

‘Well, surely it tells you that there’s more to this thing than meets the eye,’ she argued. ‘Evidence common to two supposedly unrelated crime scenes – you guys should at least investigate the possibility of a third party.’

But he’d checked with the Ryans as to whether they or Clare had pets (they didn’t – she was asthmatic) and also if there was any link with the Redmonds. And as Kennedy pointed out, it was difficult to give the Freud thing too much in the way of serious consideration given that the girl had been a psychology student.

To top it all off, they still had no clue as to who Clare’s dead companion might be, and the lack of a solid lead was frustrating, disheartening and unbelievably bloody draining.

Hunger finally getting the better of him, he headed to the kitchen to see what he could rustle up for dinner. He was no gourmet cook, but enjoyed experimenting when he got the time.

He opened the fridge and stared at the empty expanse of white –
damnit, he’d been too busy this week to even make it to the supermarket. A half carton of milk and two overripe tomatoes did not sound like the ingredients for any meal Chris could think of.

He checked the freezer in the vain hope that there might be an old lasagne stashed in the back somewhere but no such luck. To hell with it, he’d just order in. There was a great Chinese place down the road that he reckoned he alone had been keeping in business for the past three years.

When he’d ordered his usual and was waiting for the obligatory thirty minutes delivery turnaround, he switched on the television and tried to put work out of his head, at least for the moment. Anything but the news; the media were still banging on about the lack of progress on the Ryan case, and it wasn’t as if Chris needed a reminder. A tedious game show was the best he could find, but at least it was something totally mindless, something to take his mind off it all.

But by not focusing on work, Chris couldn’t help thinking about his own situation. That spasm the other day at the station and the continuous throbbing in his joints meant that what had a few weeks ago been a barely noticeable
ache, was now developing into something much more serious.

He ran through the options in his head, the things he knew of. It couldn’t be arthritis, could it? It might explain the aching joints, but would it explain the dead-on-his-feet tiredness?

Of course, the job was tough physically and getting tougher every year, but according to his most recent medical, he was lean, fit and in good overall health. His regular workouts kept him toned and relatively slim and, Chinese takeaways aside, he ate fairly well.

He exhaled deeply. Arthritis just didn’t bear thinking about – not at his age – not in a job like this.

With no home life to speak of, the job was his world. Indeed, it was the only thing in which Chris felt he really excelled. Out on the streets, striving to retain some semblance of justice in a country he loved was the only time he felt truly alive.

Even though these days he was finding it harder to be proud of his country with every violent death file that landed on his desk, any deterioration in his wellbeing, be it arthritis or otherwise, was not good. He ran a hand through his hair and sat back on the sofa, realizing that sooner or later he’d need to do something about it, or at least try to find out for sure what was wrong.

There was no question of his going to the in-house physician – no way. Anything suspicious or out of the ordinary would directly go into his file and be a question mark on his next physical. He might even be dumped into a dead-end desk job. No, he’d have to go an alternative route, go somewhere he wasn’t known, or more importantly, where his occupation wasn’t known.

He idly remembered reading an article in one of the lifestyle supplements of the
Independent
recently – a feature about a clinic on the Southside that did full-body medicals, like an MOT for people. They tested blood, diet, sight, hearing – the works. It might be worth a shot. At least if the clinic
did
discover something then he, and only
he, would know about it. There would be no report or recommendations, no records sent to the force.

The phone rang, startling him out of his reverie and, checking the display, Chris raised a smile.

‘Matt, how are things?’ he said. Matt Sheridan was his oldest friend and it had been a while since the two had been in touch, what with Chris’s heavy workload, and Matt’s busy career as a barrister. In addition, he and his wife Emma now had a 6-month-old baby, and to his shame Chris realized he hadn’t seen his little goddaughter Rachel since the christening a few weeks before.

‘Just checking in to see if you’re still alive,’ Matt greeted. While Chris couldn’t help feeling guilty about his lack of contact, he also knew that this wasn’t his friend’s intention.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, mate, but it’d take a very strong wind to push me over.’

‘Don’t I know
it. Anyway, good to see you’re home early for a change. Quiet news day?’

‘I wish,’ Chris groaned. ‘Anyway, never mind me, how’s Emma? And Rachel – she must be huge by now.’

‘Yep, huge, getting more like her mother by the day actually and … ouch, Em, that was a compliment!’ he gasped. Chris deduced that his wife had given him a sharp dig in the ribs for that last comment. Not that Emma Sheridan had anything to worry about in that regard. With her tiny waist, petite frame and wide-eyed gamine face, Matt’s wife was a million miles from huge.

‘Tell her I said hello and I’ll pop over to see you all soon,’ Chris told him.

‘That’s why I’m calling actually … wait, hold on, Emma wants to talk to you.’ Matt lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘Word of advice buddy, just before she says anything … if it were me I’d run a mile …’

Chris smiled, used to this kind of good-natured banter between the couple. Emma came on the line.
‘Hi stranger! Are you doing anything this Sunday? We’re having some people over for dinner, nothing major just one or two close friends and—’

‘Ah, not again,’ he groaned, reading between the lines. ‘I told you – I don’t have time for that kind of thing at the moment.’

‘Chris, “that kind of thing” as you call it, isn’t something you should have to make time for,’ she chided. ‘It’s called having fun, and Anne Marie, my friend, she’s lovely. Really career orientated like yourself. I know you’d have lots in common.’

‘Emma, when will you realize that I don’t need a matchmaker and I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself?’

‘Oh really, and when’s the last time you did that? It’s over two years since you and Melanie ….’ Chris could hear the discomfort in Emma’s tone at the mention of his ex and his mouth tightened. No need to remind him.

‘Honestly, Chris, you need to get out and enjoy yourself more,’ she continued quickly. ‘It’s great that you’re so dedicated to work, but one of these days you’re going to wake up and realize you’re an old man.’

‘Thanks, Emma, exactly what I need to hear after a hard day on the job.’

Little did she know that Chris was already feeling like an old man, and he wondered if he should confide in his friends about what was going on. He knew that Emma liked to mother him, particularly after losing both of his parents within a year of each other, but if he told them what was going on she’d be on his case night and day to do something about it. No he wouldn’t say anything just yet, but maybe if it got any worse.

‘You know what I mean. All work and no play. You need to relax more, take time out for yourself now and again.’

‘Well, even if I wanted to, Sunday’s no good for me anyway,’ he lied. ‘I’ve got something else on.’ Just then the doorbell rang and he smiled, grateful for the interruption. ‘Sorry, but I really have to go; my dinner’s here.’

‘More takeaways?’
Emma sounded horrified. Glad of the opportunity to avoid another lecture, Chris bade her a quick goodbye and promised to see them all soon.

He knew she was only trying to help, but he genuinely wasn’t interested in a relationship these days. Not that he’d have time for one anyway, and as for being a workaholic and a loner, at least he wasn’t a demon for the drink like a lot of guys in the force. In fact, alcohol was more of a social thing for him and as Emma had so delicately pointed out, he hadn’t done much of that in a while.

Which meant that hard living definitely wasn’t the cause of his current problems either, he thought, wincing as he stood up to answer the doorbell. Whatever was causing it, with any luck it would be something that could be dealt with quickly and easily, with no one any the wiser. A few pills, maybe a change in diet, something straightforward that wouldn’t distract from the job, or more importantly something he could handle by himself.

But whatever the thing was, Chris thought as he paid the delivery guy for his beef chow
mein, it needed to be sorted soon.

The narrow hallway was dimly lit, half blocked by a bicycle and a pushchair. Reilly squeezed past and stopped outside number twenty-three. She was reluctant to continue; she felt out of place in the dingy apartment block with her smart two-piece suit, her body language different from the confident persona she projected in her office and in the lab.

Slowly, she pushed on the door. It was unlocked and opened easily into the dark apartment. She stepped cautiously inside.

The hallway was short, just enough room for a small table, a couple of coat hooks and some worn old shoes. It led directly into a small living room.

She moved to the doorway of the living room, still stepping cautiously, taking everything in. She glanced around – the TV was on, the sound turned down low, and even though it was the middle of the day, the curtains were drawn, filling the room with shadows.

Reilly paused in the doorway and her nose picked up the reek of booze mixed with a pungent stench of stale food – leftover takeout, she guessed.

Finally, she stepped cautiously into the room. A body was on the couch, sprawled out on his back, one arm hanging free and touching the floor, mouth wide open.

Reilly walked around the couch and looked down at him. He was pasty with an unhealthy looking complexion, unshaven, his curly hair thinning.

She reached out and gently tugged at his arm. ‘Wake up. It’s me.’ She looked
around, saw the empty whiskey bottle on the floor – no surprise there. ‘Dad, wake up.’ There was no conscious response. Mike Steel simply grunted, his head rolling helplessly on the grimy couch.

Reilly sighed and shook her head. Even though this was exactly what she’d expected, she always held out a scintilla of faith – a tiny corner of her hoping that one day she would find her father, if not happy, then at least sober and clean-shaven.
Something other than this usual passed-out drunk. But she guessed that was too much to expect. Even now, when she’d taken the job in Dublin to be closer to him and to try and help him.

She stepped over to the window and flung the curtains wide open. It was a sunny morning and the light flooded in, hitting Mike Steel full in the face. He grunted, stirred, and then tried to cover his eyes. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Hey Dad,’ Reilly checked the nearest armchair for debris and, deciding it was safe enough, sat primly on the edge of it.

Mike slowly hauled himself up, gradually registering her presence. ‘How the hell did you get in?’

‘You left the door open again. How many times have I got to tell you to be more careful?’

He reached an upright position and peered bleary-eyed at his daughter. ‘Did you just come around to nag me again?’

She shook her head. ‘I just wanted to see you.’

He finally looked at her for the first time, took in the smart dark blue suit, the black patent kitten heels. ‘You not at work?’ he grunted.

‘Just popped over on the way to the lab.’

‘So, have you saved the world yet?’ He grinned at his weak joke, looked around on the floor for his whiskey bottle, his face betraying his disappointment when he registered that it was empty. He licked his lips and looked up at Reilly. ‘You couldn’t lend us a twenty, could you?’

She ignored the question. By now this was an old game. He asked for money, she refused, knowing it would just be used to buy another bottle of booze. How he managed to drink as much as he did on benefits she didn’t know, but she certainly wasn’t about to facilitate his habit.

‘I was thinking of taking a tour of the old Bank of Ireland this weekend,’ she replied. ‘It’s supposed to be fascinating. You want to come with me?’

Her father stared at her. ‘Why the hell would I want to go there?’

‘Surely this city has more charms than just cheap booze?’

Mike leaned forward and made an abortive attempt to stand before falling back onto the couch, looking dizzy. ‘Ah, spare me the moralizing for once, will you.’

‘There are other places we could go then,’ she offered. ‘I just thought it might be nice to go out together, get some fresh air—’

Mike made a second attempt to stand up, and this time he managed to haul himself to his feet. ‘I need to take a piss.’

Reilly shook her head as she watched him stagger from the room, his tottering footsteps taking him down the hall and into the tiny bathroom.

He began peeing noisily. ‘Now if you wanted to visit the Guinness Brewery, I might be interested,’ he called back to her.

Reilly stood up, wanting to stay, yet at the same time hating every minute she was there. She stared at his back as he hunched over the toilet. ‘If you want to come with me, the
offer’s open,’ she called.

‘Right.’

She took a last look around the flat, her face a mixture of pity and disgust. He was such a different man to the strong, funny, capable father she and her sister had known growing up. But a lot had happened since those days, stuff that would cause the best of men to seek refuge in the bottle. And no matter how much she tried to help him, how much she’d hoped that a return to the land of his birth would help him get over it – help him forget, Reilly knew that the specter of what had happened to Jess would never escape her father, in the same way that it never escaped her.

Later that day, Reilly was glad to be back in the lab. It provided a sanctuary, a place where everything was orderly and made sense.

But not right now.

She looked again at the printout in her hand. It was a mistake, she was sure of it. It
had
to be a mistake. Otherwise …

She felt like rubbing her eyes, like a character in one of those cartoons she used to watch when she was a kid. Maybe if she rubbed hard enough, when she looked at the results again, everything would look normal.

But no, the same results were there, written down in black and white, and seeing as she’d run these samples herself …

Momentarily worry-stricken, Reilly picked up and reviewed the evidence chain of custody card. Nope, she hadn’t made a mistake, there they were: Sample A and Sample B – one from the deceased female recently identified as Clare Ryan, the other from the also deceased and still unidentified male.

Although nobody was truly infallible, when it came to evidence she was pretty damn thorough, and she knew in her heart and soul that she hadn’t screwed up this sample; she hadn’t screwed up a sample in her entire life. There was always way too much at stake.

And again, as her Quantico tutors had taught her, no matter how weird some things looked, no matter how unlikely they seemed, results were results, and the evidence
never
lied.

Particularly when you ran a test twice.

As Reilly looked again at the two samples, she couldn’t help but recall how another one of her tutors, Daniel Forrest, had drilled the principles of Ockham’s razor into them.

‘People,’ he would say, addressing a group of trainee investigators. ‘Intuition is a valuable tool – but only when it is based on the evidence.’

She recalled the first time he’d introduced the concept to them. Most of the students had never even heard of it, but there was one guy – his name escaped her – who always had an answer for everything.

‘Anyone heard of Ockham’s razor?’ Daniel had queried.

‘Yes, sir.
It means that the simplest theory is always right,’ Clever Clogs had replied.

‘Wrong.’

Clever Clogs looked devastated. ‘I thought—’

‘A lot of people mistakenly think that’s what it means,’ the profiler explained, the overhead lights twinkling off his glasses. ‘But what it actually says is far more subtle than that – and much more helpful to investigators.’ He motioned to the evidence they were reviewing – evidence that could lead to two different conclusions. ‘What Ockham’s razor says is that when faced with two theories, when the available data cannot distinguish between them, we should study in depth the simplest of the theories.’

He watched as light bulbs went on in his students’ brains.

‘So while it doesn’t guarantee that the simplest theory will be correct, it does establish priorities.’

Establishing priorities – that was the perspective Reilly needed right now. Given the results she’d got, there were two possible explanations. One was that all her testing was wrong, her methods flawed, her chain of custody compromised.

And the other …

Well, quite frankly, the other was no less difficult to comprehend.

Reilly had known there was something wrong with the blood samples when the
tox screen had come back. While both samples had been clear of the usual irregular chemicals, upon comparison something that could only be described as unexpected had appeared. So, just to be sure, she’d run the test again herself again – this time using separate samples from both corpses. Sure enough, the same results appeared.

Unwilling to jump to conclusions too quickly, Reilly had eventually decided to settle the matter by running a genome scan. And it was those results that she now held in her hand, results that even to Reilly, who had seen a lot of weird things on the job, were pretty damn shocking.

‘Ockham’s razor,’ she muttered to herself as she cast her eye once again over her findings. She picked up the phone and dialed Chris Delaney’s cell phone.

When he answered, his voice sounded groggy.

‘Detective Delaney, it’s Reilly Steel,’ she began. When he didn’t reply immediately, she felt the need to clarify. ‘From GFU?’

‘Reilly, hi.
What’s the matter?’

‘How’d you know there’s something the matter?’ she asked, faintly surprised.

He yawned. ‘Because it’s 2.15 in the morning.’

‘It is?’ She peered at her watch, recalling visiting her father that morning and coming into the lab straight afterward. It only felt like a couple of hours ago. Had she really been here that long? ‘Oh hell, I’m sorry, Detective, I didn’t realize—’

‘Call me Chris, will you?’ She heard what sounded like him switching on a bedside lamp. ‘All this “detective” business is way too formal – especially when you’re calling me in the middle of the night.’

‘Sure, well – sorry for waking you … Chris.
I honestly didn’t think to check the time.’

‘That’s OK. I’m a bad sleeper anyway. Are you still at the lab?’

‘Yes. There was something I wasn’t happy about so I kept at it until I could make sense of it and …’ she figured she might as well get straight to the point, ‘I’ve found something else on the Ryan case.’ She glanced again at the paper in her hand. ‘Something important.’

‘What did you find this time?’ Now he sounded fully alert.

‘Well, you know tox came back negative. But I noticed something else when the bloods came back. Something very unusual.’

‘OK.’ He sounded guarded now but Reilly suspected that unlike the common trace, he’d take this aspect a little more seriously.

‘So I did a couple more tests – different tests.’

‘Get to the point. What did you find?’

‘Both victims had the same blood type,’ she told him, clearing her throat before continuing. ‘Now, this isn’t unusual in itself until I tell you that they were both AB Negative.’

‘And?’

‘Well, only 0.6 per cent of the world’s entire population is AB Negative – the tiniest proportion imaginable. So, if finding one person of that blood type is unusual, finding two in the same place is damn near impossible.’

‘OK, so they’re both AB
Neg,’ he said. ‘So it’s unusual. Really unusual. But it doesn’t really give us anything new, does it?’

You bet it does
, Reilly thought. ‘That’s why I ran a further test, and this time I carried out a genome scan.’

‘A
what
?’

‘It’s a DNA comparison,’ she explained.

Chris had gone very quiet. She took a deep breath. ‘Clare Ryan and that guy – the other victim? Well, according to their blood samples, they weren’t just a couple,’ Reilly paused and swallowed hard, ‘they were brother and sister.’