TORN (35 page)

‘Well then, I suppose it’s up to us to find out,’ Kennedy replied, throwing down his cigarette and stubbing it out with his foot. ‘Let’s go and pay this guy a visit.’

It was almost eight by the time the detectives pulled up in front of Simon Darcy’s house. As they approached the house itself, Chris grew even more confident that this really was their guy.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing out a restaurant on the approach to the street of red-brick terraced houses in which their suspect lived.

Kennedy followed his gaze to the Malaysian restaurant and its brightly colored sign. ‘I’m sure you are hungry, Chris, but maybe when we’ve finished—’

Chris rolled his eyes. ‘No, you eejit, I’m thinking of that sauce that kept popping up in the trace evidence. Malaysian food is spicy, isn’t it?’

‘Ah, now I get you.’ Kennedy looked sideways at him. ‘Looks like this thing is really starting to come together now. Are we heading for the endgame, do you think?’

Chris was feeling precisely the same way. They were indeed close. Simon Darcy had to be the guy. He had motive, opportunity, and access to all the players. Not to mention, given his profession, a first-hand knowledge of how the justice system worked.

Through their actions, Coffey and Crowe had each had a bearing on Webb’s case. Morgan had had the opportunity to do the right thing and give Webb the statutory sentence at trial, but because of the so-called ‘missing evidence’ he’d bottled it, and ordered a minimal jail term at best.

Then to add insult to injury, a government representative had influenced the parole board, ensuring that Webb had barely begun his sentence before he was once again a free man. This early parole must have been the trigger, or ‘stressor’ as Reuben Knight had described it, to set Darcy on his menacing revenge spree.

And then there was Jennings, the doctor who’d let Simon Darcy’s poor damaged daughter die in his care. It was one hell of a list of people to punish, but Darcy had managed it.

And now, at the very top of the list, was the man who had caused all the heartache in the first place, Ricky Webb. The rapist – destroyer of lives.

What would Chris have done were he in Simon Darcy’s shoes, and it was his daughter, his own flesh and blood, who had suffered at the hands of such an animal? Could he honestly say he would do any different?

Chris couldn’t be certain, and this was all forcing him into a corner. As a man who had sworn to uphold the law, of course he couldn’t condone Darcy’s actions, but there was little doubt he could identify with them.

Well, there was no time to think about that now, Chris told himself as he and Kennedy got out of the car, and rang the doorbell of the house listed as Simon Darcy’s last known address.

They needed to ring the bell twice before they heard a shuffling behind the door and finally a man opened it.

Chris and Kennedy exchanged a surreptitious glance as a slight, middle-aged man wearing glasses appeared at the door. What the hell …?

‘We’re looking for Simon Darcy,’ Chris said, finding his voice before Kennedy did. ‘I believe he lives here.’

‘You’re looking at him,’ the man said softly as he looked from one to the other. Chris stared at him.

This couldn’t be their killer, it was impossible.

‘What can I do for you?’

Kennedy took out his badge. ‘I’m Detective Kennedy and this is Detective Delaney from Harcourt Street Station. Sir, are you the same Simon Darcy who is permitted to work in the Central Criminal Court as a sketch artist?’

‘That’s me,’ the man replied. ‘What is it? Have I done something wrong?’

He leaned forward through the open doorway and looked nervously up and down the road, as if worried about what the neighbours might think, and again Chris was flabbergasted. This man couldn’t possibly be …
wasn’t
the killer.

‘Could we possibly come inside for a moment? We’d like to ask you a couple of questions.’

‘Of course. I really don’t know what this could be about but …’

Simon Darcy moved back to make some room for them in the narrow hallway. From there, he directed them into a small living room.

Glancing around, Chris immediately noticed the prevalence of religious iconography – there was a large Sacred Heart painting over the mantelpiece, a child of Prague on a shelf in the far corner, as well as a photograph of Pope John Paul II hanging on a nearby wall.

The religious stuff certainly fit with the profile, but …

‘Mr Darcy, we understand that a member of your family, namely your daughter, Amanda, was the victim of an unfortunate incident some years ago,’ Chris began.

‘An unfortunate incident, Detective?’ Simon Darcy said, his sad gray eyes boring into Chris’s, and immediately he regretted his choice of words, keenly aware of how understated they sounded. ‘I’ve never heard vicious rape and assault being described quite like that before, but if that’s what you want to call it …’

‘I’m sorry you’re right, of course…’

‘Your daughter took her own life shortly afterwards,’ Kennedy cut in, also somewhat indelicately, Chris noticed, but he knew that they couldn’t assume anything. Darcy might look harmless, but he was the chief suspect in a murder investigation and they already knew that the perp was as cunning as they came. Who knew what kind of ruse the guy was prepared to use in order to manipulate the law yet again?

‘That’s correct,’ Darcy replied, his voice catching a little, and Chris was almost certain he saw him swallowing a lump in his throat. ‘The nightmares, the panic and fear … it all became too much for Amanda to take.’

Chris immediately felt for him, but struggled not to project that. This guy was a suspect, possibly a murdering thug.

‘The police identified the perpeprator, Richard Webb,’ Kennedy said, reading from his notebook as if he were seeing the information for the first time. ‘He was duly convicted and sentenced to three years in Mountjoy.’

‘Yes. But my understanding is that he is now once again a free man,’ Darcy admitted in a move that surprised them. ‘I believe he was paroled this weekend?’

‘How do you know that, Mr Darcy? Have you be keeping tabs on Webb?’

Darcy looked at them, his eyes filled with sadness. ‘Detectives, there isn’t a day goes by when I don’t think of Richard Webb and the misery he caused my daughter, my family. But at least I have the comfort of knowing that he was punished for his crimes and has been rehabilitated.’

OK, now they were getting somewhere. ‘You think eighteen months in prison is enough of a punishment for a guy like that?’ Kennedy asked.

Darcy shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But when recently I looked into the man’s eyes, I—’

‘Hold on,’ Chris interjected. ‘What do you mean, when you looked into his eyes? Have you seen Webb since his release?’

‘Not since his release, no. But I went to see him in prison. I didn’t tell him who I was, of course; I couldn’t do that. But I needed to see him. I needed to see if I could capture his essence, decide for myself if he was well and truly repentant. And I believe he was – is – sorry for what he did to my little girl.’

Chris couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘Capture his essence? What the hell does that mean?’ Kennedy asked.

Darcy shrugged. ‘I’m an artist. To me, as to many artists, the eyes are windows to the soul. I arranged it with the authorities to draw Mr Webb as part of a collection I’m working on. I hope to exhibit it soon.’

Chris’s mind was spinning. What Darcy was saying was incomprehensible. ‘So you went to see Webb in prison, shortly before his release, just to paint him? Didn’t you want to strangle this man, tear him limb from limb for what he did to your daughter?’

Darcy fixed his gaze on Chris. ‘There were many times over the years that I thought about doing just what you describe. Yet, I would find no peace in doing so. If there is justice to be served, ultimately we will all be judged in the end. It’s not my place to do the Lord’s job for Him.’

‘What about the devil’s job then?’ Kennedy asked. ‘Drowning a guy in his own shit, hanging another from a tree with his guts pouring out, leaving another one out for the maggots to feed on?’

Simon Darcy looked genuinely shocked. ‘Those horrible things that they’re talking about in the newspapers? What in heaven’s name has that got to do with …?’ Then suddenly, it seemed to dawn on him. ‘That’s why you’re here? You think, someone like m
e
’he looked down at his thin, wasted frame –  ‘would be involved in something like that?’ He snorted. ‘Honestly, Detectives, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

‘We’re going to need access to your medical records in order to prove—’

‘You’re more than welcome to anything you want,’ he interjected shortly, and with that, Simon Darcy lowered both arms, and wheeled himself out of the room.

Chris was stumped. There was no way this guy in the wheelchair could be their killer.

Even overlooking his disability, Simon Darcy was a slight, feeble-looking 60-odd-year-old man. There was no chance he could have carried out the heavy lifting required at the murder scenes.

Upon further questioning, Darcy informed them that he’d been quadriplegic since the late nineties, following a car accident. His disability was largely the catalyst for the breakup of his marriage to Amanda’s mother.

While the man was talking, Chris noticed something. He’d actually been aware of it all the time he’d been here, but was initially so distracted by Simon Darcy’s condition that his mind hadn’t been able to process it.

Present in the house was an incredibly potent ammonia smell, the kind of smell that Reilly had tried to describe to them throughout the investigation as similar to skunk spray. Clearly there was something else going on here, something they weren’t getting. Simon Darcy might not be directly involved in the killings, but the police were on the right track.  However, the ammonia smell may well have been some side effect of Darcy’s condition …

But Chris didn’t believe in coincidences, and there were already way too many to ignore. Darcy’s connection to Webb, the spicy cooking sauce, and now the smell …

‘Do you live alone, Simon?’ he asked suddenly.

‘No, my sonlives with me,’ the older man replied easily. He sighed. ‘Actually, I thought it might have been him you were looking for at first.’

The hairs on the back of Chris’s neck stood up.

A son. Someone who would have also been deeply affected by the rape, and who quite possibly didn’t share his father’s noble ideas about justice and punishment.

He recalled the details from the Harrington case file. An older brother had indeed been listed under family, but because they’d discovered the Harringtons had subsequently emigrated …

Evidently the brother had decided to swap surfboards and koalas for magpies and maggots. Chris’s mind raced and his pulse quickened. He looked at Kennedy ‘Where is your son now?’

‘Out with friends, I believe. Whatever it is, can’t it be dealt with during work hours?’

Kennedy looked baffled. ‘Work hours?’

‘Well, yes. I presume you wanted to ask him something about the morgue.’

Now Chris was confused.
The morgue?

Simon shook his head. ‘I’m sorry – my mistake again. I just assumed you both knew Luke, and this was work-related. He works as a volunteer assistant at the city morgue. Goodness knows why.  I can’t imagine a more macabre position, but of course he’s always been interested in the darker side of …’ Then, at the same time that Chris made the connection, Simon did too. The older man stared at Chris, a world of pain in his eyes. ‘Oh, no … no …’ he cried out. ‘The drawings … I had no idea.’

Chris was by now holding his breath. He let it out slowly.  ‘What drawings, Simon?’ he asked carefully. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You said something before – about those appalling murders ...’ he said, addressing Kennedy now. ‘About a man … hanging from a tree with his …’ He shook his head, and Chris recalled that the more horrific details of Jennings’ death had been purposely concealed from the media. ‘I thought it was a rendering of Dante, such a vivid, expressive scene …’

‘Simon,’ Chris said, gently touching the man on the shoulder, ‘show us the drawings.’

‘Luke? The son’s name is Luke? How deliciously perfect!’ Reuben was agog with exhilaration when, following an update from Chris, Reilly phoned the profiler to pass on the details of their most recent find.

She frowned. ‘How so?’

‘Well, all along I had envisioned our killer as Minos, when of course he was acting in the name of the devil himself! Lucifer,’ he added quickly, when at Reilly’s end there remained a baffled silence. ‘A rare blunder on my part, but it happens occasionally, if truth be told,’ he added with typical modesty. ‘But given his familiarity with Dante, I’m guessing our Lucifer must have been keenly aware of not only the connotations of his namesake, but his responsibilities too. In the
Inferno,
Minos ordains the punishments, but it’s the devil who carries them out.’