No Strangers Here: a Riveting Dark Irish Mystery, page 18
“What is this?” McGraw sounded annoyed.
“Meet Last Dance,” Cormac said. “I believe our painted stones refer to this racehorse.”
“Based on what?” McGraw again.
“Do you know how automotive paint differs from other types of paint?”
McGraw folded his arms across his chest. “Enlighten me.”
“It’s lighter,” Cormac said. “For speed.” He tapped the picture of the racehorse. “Speed.”
“Are you joking me?” McGraw said. “Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?”
Murmurs went around the room. “We all remember that horse,” D.S. Neely said. “Those of us out of nappies, that is. He was going to be the crown jewel of Dingle.”
“You really think the killer painted the stones with automotive gloss on purpose? A nod to speed, and thus to this racehorse?” McGraw sounded outraged.
“I do,” Cormac said. “I very much do.” His mam did as well, but Cormac wasn’t going to dare reveal that. The discovery had excited him to no end, and they’d discussed it late into the night. Cormac was developing a fascination for this killer. This was no ordinary man. Or woman.
He heard a soft curse from McGraw. In the super’s opinion, Cormac was probably going woo-woo. But the truth was the truth. He flicked to the next slide, newspaper articles covering the death of Last Dance, and then more covering Tommy Healy, the one-armed jockey who was supposed to ride him to glory. “Tommy Healy was an aspiring—or should I say rising—jockey back in the day. He and his twin, Brendan Healy, had been abandoned by their parents. They were taken in and sponsored by the O’Reillys. The brother, Brendan—born with both arms—had no interest in horse racing and left for America before his twin’s big race. But once Last Dance was killed, Tommy Healy never rode a horse again. He’s remained with the O’Reillys all these years.”
“You’re telling me he’s been their right-hand man?” McGraw asked. The biggest laugh yet. It was common knowledge that humor helped with the horrific side of murder. But coming from McGraw, it didn’t feel like stress-reduction humor. Just a pathetic man trying to get a laugh. But if Cormac came down too hard on it, then he’d lose respect. He couldn’t afford to alienate his team. Diversity lectures would have to wait for another time. Cormac paused so they could take in a photo of a much younger Tommy Healy in his jockey attire. “Notice the colors. Navy blue, white, and green.” He clicked to a photo of O’Reilly dead on the beach. “Navy blue, white, and green,” he said.
“I wouldn’t call that a mystery,” D.S. Neely said. “Anyone in the O’Reilly racing world would have been in those colors.”
“Correct,” Cormac said. “Our victim lived and breathed horse racing. Yet another tic mark in the column that says Last Dance refers to that colt.” It was the perfect segue to the next slide: COLT BOLTS TO ITS DEATH. The article had a photo of a younger Dimpna Wilde on one side and the beautiful colt on the other. They leaned in to read the lead: Local veterinarian’s daughter releases million-euro horse from paddock. The finish line is deadly and the prize heavenly . . .
“Jaysus,” Neely said. “I remember that one.”
“Morbid and poetic,” Cormac said. “I’m trying to trace down the journalist. Jack O’Shea.”
“You’ll be following a ghost then,” Neely said. “O’Shea died two years ago.”
Cormac cursed himself. He should have spoken with the detective sergeant before presenting. They’d both been stretched thin.
“Are we looking at Dimpna Wilde as a suspect?” D.S. Neely said. “Wasn’t she in Dublin at the time of the murder?”
“Better call her Dr. Wilde,” McGraw said. “This one is a bit sensitive.”
“You know, it probably is best to call her Dr. Wilde,” Neely said. “Can’t be easy to get that title, and she deserves it. You’re so right, Superintendent McGraw.”
It was sorted. Cormac was going to buy Neely dinner. “It’s been confirmed Dr. Dimpna Wilde was in Dublin at the time of the murder,” Cormac continued. “But if someone is setting up the Wildes to take the fall, we’re looking at the angle that it has something to do with this past incident.”
“Twenty-seven years later?” A garda spoke up. “Like Superintendent McGraw said, ‘Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?’ ”
“Perhaps,” Cormac said. “The entire scene could be a red herring. A killer hoping we’ll do exactly what we’re doing now. Chasing our tails.” He waited, enjoying the feel of having everyone’s attention. “Our job here is to get inside this killer’s head. I know we don’t encounter many murders in Ireland, thanks be to God. The murders we do have are often easily solved. A domestic situation. A drunken fight that gets out of hand. A greed-kill. Drugs. Money. This doesn’t fit neatly into any of those boxes. Money, of course, is an angle we’re pursuing. Winning purses, side bets, insurance. There’s a lot to dig into. What we do know is that this killer is extremely intelligent. I think he or she is playing a game. And before we come to any conclusions about the evidence, we need to look at everything from every angle. It’s our only chance of solving this crime.”
“I hear you found the little stowaway,” McGraw said. “What’s the word from her?”
“The mother has requested a solicitor, and given they can’t afford one, we’re waiting on a government appointee. I’ve asked if they would voluntarily come in today, but to be honest, I don’t expect them to show.” Cormac paused. “The girl is traumatized. I believe she saw the killer.” He flicked to a slide of her backpack with the message. They all stared at it. You Tell, You Die.
“Why didn’t you interview her when you found her?” McGraw demanded.
“Believe me, I tried. Paul Byrne was present, and he convinced the mother they needed a solicitor.”
“He’s only looking out for her well-being,” D.S. Neely said. Interesting. Was she protecting Byrne?
“You need to find out what she knows,” McGraw said. “Hell, this case might be over by now if you’d done that.”
“Believe me, questioning her is my top priority,” Cormac said.
“She has a reputation of lying,” Neely said. “I’m not accusing her of anything, but I don’t think we can count on her to solve this case.”
McGraw folded his arms across his chest. “Is that all?”
Cormac nodded to Neely to take over. She swapped places with Cormac. “The morning we found the body we also encountered Donnecha Wilde. He was on O’Reilly’s boat, Dreamscape, cleaning it with bleach.”
“Has he been arrested?” McGraw stood. “That sounds like a killer to me.”
“He’s been a caretaker of the yacht for a few years now,” Neely said. “He was told a VIP guest of the O’Reillys would be using the boat that evening. We have him on CCTV entering the Dingle Inn just like he said at around half-six. He leaves again a few hours later, then returns with take-away. We’ve tracked all that on CCTV as well. He’s not seen leaving again until Sunday morning, and is picked up at the harbor, heading for the boat.”
“He gave us some valuable clues,” Cormac said. “The kid’s footprints and a few odd lines on the boat that I believe were from a makeshift ramp the killer used to slide the body up and onto the rowboat. Donnecha Wilde also sketched out how he thought the rowboat was tied, with a double knot—and when the boat was returned, it was secured with a triple. The Technical Bureau has the rowboat, but so far, nothing of evidentiary value has been found.”
“Sounds like a whole lot of nothing,” McGraw said. “Unless you plan on lining up our suspects and asking them to tie their shoes.”
“It’s early days yet, Superintendent,” Cormac said. What he really wanted to do was punch him in his smug mouth. He knew lives were at stake and everyone wanted the killer caught yesterday, but in truth they’d made a ton of progress in a very short amount of time. Cormac didn’t need outright praise, but he didn’t need the sneers either. “I’m waiting to interview the widow and son. And to be frank, I find it suspicious that they keep throwing up roadblocks.”
“Haven’t they been alibied?” McGraw said. His tone belied his wish that the widow and son be left alone. Money.
“Róisín O’Reilly was confirmed to be at the O’Grady wake well past midnight. Sean said he and the wife and daughter were on a weekend getaway to Doolin.”
“Said?” McGraw said. “Have you followed up on it?”
When Cormac didn’t speak, Neely jumped in. “We have their car on CCTV several points along the way, and the owner of the inn confirmed they checked in at half-eight on Friday evening.”
McGraw looked to Cormac. “I’d say that’s an airtight alibi. What bit your tongue?”
“CCTV shows a man in his car,” Cormac said. “It’s impossible to verify that it’s him.”
“You think he let someone else drive his fancy car?” Once again Cormac didn’t reply. “You think the wife is lying?”
“Wives lie for their husbands all the time.”
“And the owner of the inn?”
Cormac tilted his head. “He didn’t have CCTV cameras pointed at the customers. We only have an image of the back of his head and his word for it that the man who checked in was Sean O’Reilly.”
McGraw crossed his arms. “Have any witnesses come forward to say that they drove Sean O’Reilly’s wife and daughter to Doolin in their car?”
“No.”
“There you have it,” McGraw said. “I call that an airtight alibi. Let’s focus our resources elsewhere.”
“There’s still the matter of the widow,” Cormac said.
“Wasn’t she in a pub full of people for a wake?”
“She was,” Neely said. “Deborah O’Grady.” Neely crossed herself.
“Are they all covering for the widow?” McGraw asked.
“The dance was being held just down the street. It was massively crowded. I’d be extremely suspicious of anyone who had eyes on her all night.” It would have been possible for her to slip out in the midst of a drunken crowd. Make her way down the street to the husband. Perhaps she saw him dancing with Maeve Wilde, and jealousy bloomed.... No. This was premeditated. Staged. Not an impulsive kill. That didn’t eliminate Róisín O’Reilly as a suspect, but he had to be careful about the narrative. If she slipped out of the wake and lured her husband away from the dance, it had all been carefully planned. He became aware of Neely staring at him. “You have more?”
She nodded. “We’ve heard from numerous witnesses that the night of the murder Tommy Healy got into an altercation with someone at the wake. Healy has a reputation as a scrapper. Fights a bit dirty. We’ve heard he’s been known to pull a knife.”
“Did he pull a knife that evening?” Cormac asked.
“According to several witnesses he flashed it,” Neely said.
At least McGraw was paying attention. “Do we know what the fight was about?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Neely said. “We have his interview scheduled this week with both Healy and the publican.” She glanced back at McGraw before directing her attention to Cormac. “The O’Reillys have asked that we give them and their employees a bit of room while they organize the funeral. It’s going to be a massive public event.”
“Stonewalling,” someone in the room piped up.
“Perhaps,” Cormac said. “But a large public event can be a blessing in disguise for us. Gives us a chance to mingle with a number of our suspects.”
“Do we know anything else about this altercation with Mr. Healy?” McGraw asked.
“Rumor is it was with a dock worker,” Neely said. “We’re still chasing down the details.”
“The Devil is in the details,” someone quipped. “Or is that temptations?”
Neely sat down and Cormac returned to the front of the room. He’d saved the best few bits for last. He advanced the screen to a photo of Finbar’s mobile phone “As most of you know, the fisherman who found the body lied to us. Made a point of saying he didn’t own a mobile phone. On Monday, two days after we found the body, Dimpna Wilde was called out to an animal emergency. It happened to be Finbar’s neighbor. Apparently they needed use of a sheepdog that had shown up on Finbar’s property, and when she went to return the dog, she interrupted Finbar in the middle of burying something. The dog snatched this mobile phone out of the hole he had been digging.”
“Good boy,” someone quipped. “We should hire him.”
“Careful, he might replace you,” McGraw said. “Detective Inspector Sheepdog to the rescue.”
Cormac laughed along with them to prove he was a good sport, but stopped short of barking. “We’ve got hackers trying to get into the phone now.”
“Have you questioned him?” McGraw asked.
“He doesn’t even know we have it,” Cormac said. “I’m waiting to see what we find on the phone before we bring him into the station.”
“You could have saved us a lot of time and just listed all the things we’re waiting on,” McGraw said. “I barely have anything to report back. Headquarters isn’t going to be pleased.”
“There is this,” Cormac said. He advanced the slides to a close-up of the necktie. He then clicked through the next five slides, all photographs of Johnny O’Reilly wearing a bowtie. “It’s been widely reported that O’Reilly loathed ties. You’ve just seen years’ worth of photos showing him in bowties. I believe the necktie was placed on O’Reilly after he died. It suggests a killer who wanted to humiliate our victim. Someone who knew Johnny O’Reilly’s past intimately. The state pathologist is releasing the personal effects to the station within a few days. Tracing this tie is going to be a top priority.” He paused. “Any questions?”
“What about this shite about the vet having Swiss cheese for brains?” McGraw asked.
McGraw was needling Cormac. He’d dared to correct his bullying language earlier, and the message was clear. Do it again. See what happens. “He was taken to hospital. I believe they’re releasing him today, but we’ll have to see what the doctor has to say about an interview.”
McGraw wasn’t finished. “What about this affair the wife was supposed to be having with our man?”
“She denies it.”
“Have any witnesses come forward about it?”
“Not so far. To sum up, we’re still conducting interviews, combing through CCTV footage, and waiting for evidentiary reports.”
McGraw stood. “You’ve got six weeks, Inspector. And don’t make me report back that you aren’t thoroughly investigating the Wildes.” He strode for the exit.
“I am,” Cormac said. “I’ve even got a pair of eyes on the inside.”
McGraw stopped. Turned. “What do you mean?”
“Someone who’s going to be hanging around the clinic.”
“I thought that clinic was closed.”
“It won’t be for long. Dr. Dimpna Wilde will be reopening it.”
“Did she tell you that?” McGraw asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then how the hell do you know?”
Cormac smiled. This was a question he could definitively answer. “Because I’ve met her,” he said. “Have you?”
CHAPTER 20
SHEILA MAGUIRE AND A CLUMP OF TOURISTS STOOD IN FRONT OF THE ancient stone chapel, the Gallarus Oratory. Yesterday’s sun had given away to a heavy layer of gray clouds, casting a moody glow around them, but it suited her just fine. Dingle’s weather seemed to follow the patterns of the ocean, constantly shifting, keeping them on their toes. The oratory, otherwise known as “The Church of the Place of the Foreigners,” was an ancient piece of architecture constructed of perfectly cut red sandstone most likely sourced from the nearby cliffs. It was the only known existing structure of its kind, and Sheila loved her volunteer work as a tour guide. Although she was only able to do it once a week, it was a welcome distraction to her hectic life as a vet tech. O’Connell’s clinic was jammed ever since Dr. Wilde stopped practicing. She’d barely had any time for the tours, and she’d missed them. The Dingle Peninsula had been gifted with a plethora of ancient monuments, and the oratory was one of her favorites. She gave her talk with ease, her only difficulty speaking over the wind that had kicked up. “Notice the shape of the structure,” she continued. “Doesn’t it resemble an upturned boat?” She waited for a reaction, head nods, and murmurs as they took in the sloping walls, the corbel vaulting, and an interior of approximately 4.8 by 3 meters, which she sometimes remembered to translate to feet for American tourists. Given several were in front of her now, she added the translation—the interior was approximately 16 by 10.
It was dim inside with only one round window opposite the doorway. Although numerous historians had theorized over its exact origins, antiquarian Charles Smith pointed out that there was no historical information available prior to 1756. Archaeologist Peter Harbison posited the oratory was built around the twelfth century, pointing out the fact that the east window’s rounded top was composed of a pair of carved stones as opposed to a true arch. Whether it was a rocky headland, a shelter for foreigners, a church, or a funeral chapel of a prominent family from long ago, it was, indisputably, cool. And just one of the many ancient monuments adorning the Dingle Peninsula. Sheila had never wanted to live anywhere else. She always ended her tour here; best to leave them with a bang. “That concludes our tour for the day. Do we have any burning questions?” Given her speeches were jammed full of facts, satisfying the most inquisitive ones in the crowds, she waited for the usual questions: What restaurants and pubs did she recommend? Did Murphy’s really have the best ice cream, and what did she think happened to Fungie the Dolphin? This time, the questions were different. She should have been prepared.
