TORN (34 page)

Dead end. So what now?  Reilly looked at the address again: the Harrington residence was in Sandymount, only a few miles from here. She could be there within fifteen minutes. 

She was tired of waiting around, tired of sitting in her office poring over all that evidence that was getting them nowhere …

She grabbed her handbag, pulled her coat off the back of the chair and headed for the door.

A few minutes later, she was driving past impressive Georgian houses, their bay windows bright with Christmas trees and fairy lights, her windscreen wipers slapping out a rhythm against the driving icy rain.

She found the Harrington house just off Sandmount Square, and parking her car, stepped out into the rain.

The bright lights of a Christmas tree filled the front window of the tidy house. Reilly scurried up to the front door, the rain cold on her face, and rang the bell. She listened as it echoed through the house, the ringing soon replaced by the sound of footsteps.

Reilly was dreading this conversation – asking grieving parents to recall the one thing they would have been trying their utmost to forget.

The door opened. A middle-aged woman looked at Reilly with interest.  She had short highlighted hair, and wore jeans and an elegant cashmere sweater. ‘Hello.  Can I help you?’

Reilly briefly showed her ID. ‘Hi. I’m investigator Steel with the GFU.  I’m looking for Mrs Harrington?’

The woman’s face showed a look of surprise. ‘I’m sorry. The Harringtons don’t live here anymore.’

Reilly’s was immediately disappointed. ‘Oh, they’ve moved. Any idea of their new address?’

‘Sydney actually.’ The woman looked out at the biting rain.  ‘Do you want to come inside? It’s pretty nasty out there.’

Reilly nodded, eager to get out of the rain. ‘Much appreciated. Thank you.’

The woman led her in through the narrow hall and into a warm living room – a fire crackled in the hearth, and the Christmas tree sat prettily in the bay window.  She offered Reilly her hand. ‘I’m Sarah – Sarah Miller.’

‘Reilly Steel, pleased to meet you.’

Sarah perched on a chair beside the fire, and indicated for Reilly to sit in one on the opposite side of the hearth. ‘Please make yourself comfortable.’

Reilly shook the rain from her hair, slipped her coat off and draped it over the back of the chair. ‘Thank you.’  She sat, and looked across at Sarah.  ‘You knew the Harringtons then?’

‘Yes, we lived nearby.  Everyone in the village knew them …’ Her face fell.  ‘But after what happened with their daughter …’ She left the remaining words unspoken.

Reilly helped her out. ‘The family decided to move?’

Sarah nodded. ‘They couldn’t get away quick enough and I don’t blame them.’  She looked up, met Reilly’s probing gaze. ‘This might be Dublin but Sandymount has always had a village feel to it, a community, if you like. And while that’s wonderful most of time, when something terrible happens, something like Amanda’s death … well, it affects everyone. David and Sally would have been reminded of it each and every day, every time one of us said hello, or how are you doing …’

‘So it was common knowledge that she took her own life?’

‘Sadly, yes. Nobody knew why, of course, at least not at first … Such a terrible thing, and for someone so young.’

‘Dr Jennings, Amanda’s GP, did he practice locally?’

Sarah frowned. ‘Not in this area, I don’t think. I’ve never heard of him, although now that you say it, the name does sound familiar.  Wait a second,’ she said, as realization dawned. ‘Do you mean the doctor that was in all the papers? The one who was …’ Her face paled. ‘But what does that have to do with Amanda?’

Side-stepping an answer, Reilly quickly changed the subject. ‘And do you ever hear from the Harringtons now?’

Sarah stood up, and lifted a festive card off the mantelpiece. ‘Just a Christmas card once a year.’ She handed it to Reilly.

Reilly looked inside, though it seemed somehow impolite, like spying on someone. The card read: ‘
Merry Christmas – hope you’re very happy in our house. Love, David  Sally and Luke.
’
She looked at the handwriting – it was elegant, but completely different from the writing on the package they’d received with the DVD.

Sarah smiled. ‘They wrote that last year, too, as though they’re going to come back some day, and despite the fact we bought the house from them.’ She sighed.

‘Do they ever visit?’

‘No.  It’s been almost two years since they left, and I’ve never heard anything about them having the slightest wish to come back, even for a visit. Too many painful memories, I’d imagine.’

Too many painful memories
, Reilly echoed.

A rape/suicide incident like this created painful memories for so many people, not just the family.

But who would have been so badly affected by such memories that they would feel compelled to take the law into their own hands – and in such a destructive and elaborate way?

Having thanked Sarah Miller for her time, Reilly drove slowly back through the showers to the GFU building. Visibility was poor, and not just from the rain - it was one of those dark winter days when it never truly seems to get light, when the sun never rises, never sets, just slopes along, low to the horizon, hidden behind a wall of thick gray cloud.

Once again, almost every aspect of this case was proving to be elusive.  Even when they got a break, thought they’d made some progress – they were still going round in circles.

With Ricky Webb now free from prison (ironically the one place where he’d be safe from the killer) – the clock was ticking.

And Reilly guessed they were fast running out of time.

Late that evening, little by little, Harcourt Street Station grew quieter, as the reunited investigative team struggled to find something, anything that might help them either identify the killer, or find his next victim.

‘So Webb’s just … disappeared?’ Reilly perched on the edge of Chris’s desk after her return from the Miller residence. 

‘Vanished,’ he replied shortly.

Kennedy stood up and stretched. ‘Look, sorry to break up the party but I’ve really got to head away. It’s our anniversary and I promised Josie I’d take her out to dinner tonight,’ he muttered, reaching for his coat. ‘If anything happens—’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know,’ Chris replied.

He’d calmed down somewhat after his outburst earlier, but given Reuben’s assessment, Reilly was still worried that something was blurring his vision and obstructing his objectivity. She was in two minds as to whether to say something about it, but didn’t want to run the risk, and figured Chris wouldn’t appreciate such prying questions, especially at such a crucial point of the investigation. 

In any case, the guy was a professional, and Reilly was confident that if Chris did happen to have any … preconceptions, he would be able to overcome them, and do whatever it took to get to the bottom of this case once and for all.

‘Speaking of dinner,’ she said, after Kennedy left, ‘if we’re planning on making this an all-nighter, we’d better load up on carbs. Anything good in the canteen?’

Chris checked his watch. ‘They closed an hour ago so it’ll have to be something from Crappy Sandwiches R Us. Fancy anything in particular from the vending machine?’

‘When you make it sound so tempting how can I refuse? Get me a ploughman’s.’

Reilly kept on reading, trying to view the entire investigation through fresh eyes: the GFU evidence reports her team had produced at each murder scene, the autopsy reports, the case files. Nothing. There was nothing at all that jumped out, nothing that revealed anything new.

She turned to the report on Amanda Harrington’s death.

The same pattern was repeated: coroner’s report, evidence, interviews. She looked again over the interviews … the grief-stricken mother, Sally, the stoic father, David.

Suddenly Reilly froze. There on the page was a simple footnote, added almost as an afterthought …

She looked up. Where the hell was Chris? She tried to engage her brain – where had he said he was going?  They were hungry – the canteen was closed. The vending machines …

Reilly strode across the floor, and almost wiped out another officer as she flew through the double doors into the corridor. At the end of the hallway she could see Chris standing in front of the machine, counting out some change. He looked up as she approached.

‘You’re in one hell of a hurry. Did you change your mind?’

She looked confused. ‘Change my …?’

Chris pointed to the sandwiches. ‘You said for me to get you a ploughman’s.’

Reilly waved his comments away. ‘Forget the damn sandwich, Chris. I think I know who our killer is.’

He just stared, waiting for her to come out with it.

‘Amanda’s parents, Sally and David—’

‘They’re in Australia, you said it yourself.’

‘Right. But David Harrington wasn’t her biological father. He was her stepfather …’

Suddenly the hallway grew very quiet. 

‘Her real father still lives here in Dublin. But here’s why I know for sure that he’s our guy,’ she added, as the details of Reuben’s original profile came back to her. ‘Remember what Reuben said about this guy casting himself as the role of Minos?’

Chris nodded.

‘Rearrange the letters a little, for a more modern alternative.’

He seemed to think for a moment, then looked at Reilly, eyes widening. ‘Her father’s name is Simon?’

Reilly nodded. ‘Simon Darcy. And get this: he works as a court artist.’

Although the central criminal court was closed for the weekend, Chris managed to press the onsite security guard hard enough to give him the emergency phone numbers. If Simon Darcy worked there as a court artist, then he would have been issued a permit to do so, and they needed the details from that permit.

It took several calls, Chris gradually working his way up the food chain, before he had finally got hold of the head of Human Resources. The man was not pleased at being disturbed at home at seven o’clock on a Sunday evening, but when Chris explained their urgency, he finally agreed to meet him at his office.

Chris had talked the security guard into letting him back in, and was waiting in the lobby when Francis Dowling hurried up the steps and into the building.

The security guard watched carefully as they both passed through the scanner, then he dropped back into his chair and resumed his study of t
he
Sunday World.

‘Thanks for coming in,’ said Chris as they hurried down the corridor. Dowling was in his mid-forties, with gray flecks in his dark hair.  He was casually dressed in dark trousers and a navy sweater.

‘So you said on the phone that you think Simon Darcy is tied in to those horrible murders in some way?’

Chris nodded. ‘He may be in danger,’ he said cryptically, figuring this was the best way to get Dowling on side.

Dowling unlocked his office door, and motioned Chris in. ‘Well, I don’t know him personally, but all artists and photographers need a permit so of course he’ll be in the system.’ He dropped into his black leather chair, and flicked on the PC. ‘It’s a bit slow …’

Chris stood behind Dowling, impatiently looking over his shoulder.

The screen eventually came to life and the man looked up at Chris. ‘I need to put in my password,’ he said pointedly.

‘Sure.’  He looked away while Dowling did the necessary.

‘OK, here we are.’  Within seconds, Simon Darcy’s court permit popped up and Chris turned back to the monitor. ‘Let’s see …’  Dowling clicked through the pages. ‘Well, there’s his current address and phone number …’

Chris scribbled a note. Darcy lived in Ringsend, not far from the city center. They could have a unit there within minutes.

But obviously, Darcy hadn’t been holding his victims there. He thought again about the other evidence, the horse feed … the Kildare-based soil …

Chris looked back at the screen. ‘Does he have any other addresses listed, one for next of kin … anything?’

Dowling moved the page up screen. ‘Nope, nothing at all.’

Afterwards, outside the courthouse Chris met up with Kennedy, whom he guessed wasn’t too disappointed about having his romantic dinner interrupted. Josie’s opinion on it would be another matter.

‘Anything?’ his partner asked.

Chris nodded. ‘I got an address.’

He thought about what he’d just learned from Simon Darcy’s file and tried to measure it against not only the evidence, but Reuben Knight’s profile.

‘By all accounts the guy sounds like a real hermit,’ he told Kennedy. ‘I just called his contact at the
Clarion,
and he said that although he was a brilliant artist, and they run a lot of his sketches, he’s never met Darcy, has no idea what he’s like.’