A couple of clicks on keyboards followed, and they all nodded.

  ‘Right,’ Brody said, ‘no outstanding DNA results as yet, apart from those concerning Jenny Rispin’s shoe, which we’re all familiar with. However, I see here…did you get this, Marty?’

  The young detective nodded.

  ‘Print results received this morning – remember the doorbell and the light fitting at the Rispins’ home?’ Heads nodded again. ‘Both are a match to the same individual – but you know that already. And, see here, it’s now confirmed they are also a match to those taken from Harry Macken’s van.’

  Brody whistled, feeling the invisible elbow nudge him in his stomach – hard. ‘That’s good. That’s very good.’ He glanced at Patton. ‘You don’t know this, and now’s as good a time as any to tell you. You remember the bubble wrap? The envelope I was interested in?’

  ‘I remember,’ Patton said, crossing his arms.

  ‘Gus Tighe purchased one and was a person of interest.’

  ‘Was?’

  Brody nodded.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now, I’m not so sure.’ Brody quickly ran through his conversation with Tobias Lynch. ‘But for now, none of this goes on Pulse other than as intelligence. So too the information about his relationship with that young one at the hotel…’

  ‘Whoa, whoa,’ Patton said, his arms opening into an expansive gesture, ‘you’re telling me all this? And he was what, deported? And he’s a wife beater? He…’ His voice trailed off, the list getting longer of the things he hadn’t known about until now. His mouth clamped into a thin, pinched line. Then he asked, ‘A waitress? What waitress?’

  Brody told him and got the distinct feeling that Patton already knew about that particular nugget already.

  ‘It stays as intelligence,’ Brody said. ‘I don’t want anyone else knowing about it. Understand?’

  ‘Aw, come off it,’ Patton said, his voice tingeing into a whine. ‘Of course I understand.’

  ‘Grand, we’re clear then, because if this does get out, then I’ll know the person who did it.’

  Patton glared but said nothing. It was clear alright. Crystal.

  ‘Now,’ Brody said, averting his gaze to his computer screen again, ‘to matters Current. I’ve mentioned using hypnotherapy on Edward D’Arcy. I’ve changed my mind – for now, that is. I don’t think that’s going to be of any help. But it is an option should we need it. Just not right now. Because, think about this…’ He fell silent for a moment, then continued, ‘The killer’s kept his head down for almost eleven years now. It’s safe to say he thinks he’s gotten away with it. Why wouldn’t he? To all intents and purposes, he has. Now, he’s raising his ugly mug again – I bet it’s ugly anyway, a big ugly mug. Why? Was it because he was locked away? Marty, check on recent prisoner releases, those who might fit the profile.’

  Sheahan jotted it down into his notebook. ‘Got that.’

  ‘And you, Steve, any word on our profiler?’

  ‘I spoke with Pascal Dórea’s office,’ Voyle said. ‘I’m waiting for word back. He’s familiar with the case. I’ve sent him the files, anyway.’

  ‘Good. I think we can all agree…yes, Inspector.’ Patton had half raised an arm and was twiddling a finger about in the air.

  ‘I want to go back to that unidentified DNA on Jenny Rispin’s shoe, if I may. That alright with you, boss?’

  ‘That’s alright with me,’ Brody said, not knowing if Patton had meant the word to sound the way it had, practically spat out, or it had just slipped out that way? He guessed the former.

  Patton knitted his hands across his chest, began twirling his thumbs. ‘I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be a good idea to collect DNA from, I dunno, every male, let’s say within a certain age group, within a certain radius, here in Meadowstown, see what that throws up? It’s been done before. I saw a TV programme about it. And if we get a match, well, boom, we have our man. Have you ever thought of that?’

  Brody had already thought of that and hadn’t completely dismissed it either.

  ‘It’s a thought, and if it comes to it, certainly, yes, we’ll do it…you think of that just now, by the way?’

  Patton didn’t answer right away. ‘Yes,’ he said, then, pleased with himself, ‘I did.’

  Then why didn’t you think of it eleven years ago? But Brody bit his tongue. ‘Put that suggestion into Pending, will you, Marty. We’ll come back to it – and soon.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  Brody took a deep breath, swung his arm over the back of his chair, looked up to the ceiling, then back again, and around the table. ‘I don’t get this Mick Dempsey phone call thing, his mobile calling me like that.’ He caught Nicola Considine poking Nuala Kinsella in the ribs. Kinsella looked at him, startled. ‘What is it with you two?’

  ‘I-it’s just…’ Kinsella said, blinking furiously. Brody found it was all he could do to not start blinking himself, same as watching someone yawning and trying not to yawn either. ‘I was thinking, well, not exactly, but something like…’

  ‘Like…? Get to the point, Nuala.’

  ‘Well, those, what you call them? Venn diagram things? But not a Venn diagram, really. Two big circles overlapping. You know, something that allows you to put things in, see what you’re left with in the middle. Probably a stupid idea. Too simple, really.’

  ‘Not a stupid idea. That’s a Venn diagram. What’s wrong with a Venn diagram? The simple ideas are often the best, as they say. Why not go ahead, see what you end up with in the middle?’

  ‘I already have,’ she said, ‘started, that is. I’ve drawn the circles at least…you sure it’s not too simple?’

  ‘It’s a good idea. I told you.’

  She smiled.

  He looked at Patton, suddenly at a loss of how to address him, prickly as he knew the man was of his status. While he might be the commanding officer of Meadowstown, in here he was merely rank and file. Ouch. But there was nothing to be gained by pissing him off either, yet to call him ‘inspector’ didn’t fit with Brody, not at this moment. What then? Ian? Instead, he turned in his seat and looked directly at him; there was no doubting whom he was addressing – at least he hoped there wasn’t.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘about the last four people to see the victims alive on that night.’

  For a moment, it seemed like it wouldn’t work, like Patton was playing it stupid, as he looked over his shoulder to Voyle, who was seated a couple of empty chairs away, as if that’s whom Brody was addressing. But then he swatted with a hand at something on his shoulder, and Brody realised that’s why he had turned as a tiny spider went sailing through the air.

  ‘Yes,’ Patton said, turning back to him.

  ‘And the others on that night, too, who were there. All were interviewed…’

  ‘Of course, you’ve seen the witness statements.’

  ‘I’m thinking it might be a good idea to interview everybody again.’

  ‘You do? Why?’

  And there it was, in asking that question, Patton had revealed his total inadequacy as an investigator.

  ‘Because we might learn something,’ Brody said.

  Patton’s face darkened.

  ‘Whatever,’ he said, ‘you’re the one in charge.’

  ‘But we’ll hold off just for a little while; we’ll continue with the strands we already have first. Once we’ve dealt with those, then. In the meantime, can you compile an up-to-date list of names, addresses, contact information, have it ready for when we need it? Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good, thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Anything to help with this investigation, Sergeant.’

  ‘Just one more thing,’ Brody added.

  ‘One more thing?’ Patton repeated. ‘What’s the one more thing?’

  ‘Anyone been to the hospital to speak with Cian Ruane? Is he well enough to be interviewed? And Kathy, the girl, anyone spoken to her yet?’

  Brody knew immediately by Patton’s face that no one had.

  ‘I was about to organise it,’ he said, ‘but that’s a separate case. Nothing to do with this. It doesn’t fall under your jurisdiction. It falls under mine.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Doesn’t it? So I’ll look after it.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Brody countered. ‘On the contrary.’

  The room fell silent. Kinsella tentatively raised a hand, looking at Brody. ‘On a separate issue, I spoke with Julie Roche like you told me, you know, the girl attacked near the railway bridge last July.’

  Brody nodded.

  ‘She refuses to make a statement, said she doesn’t want to be reminded of it, and that sorry, but not to bother her again.’

  ‘Charming,’ Brody said, and glanced to Patton, who defiantly held his gaze, opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. There was a knock at the door. Patton barked, ‘Yes, what is it?’ as if he was glad for the distraction – and also, that he didn’t want to give Brody the chance to get in first, because this was still his station, after all. The door opened, and Garda Ryan O’Halloran poked his head in. He didn’t look like Dirty Harry any longer; what he looked like was an unsure young fella wearing a policeman’s uniform, which was what he really was.

  ‘Someone wanted to speak with Mick Ryder?’ he said.

  ‘That’d be me,’ Brody answered.

  ‘He’s waiting in the Public Office.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be right there.’

  O’Halloran went away and closed the door softly behind him. ‘Right,’ Brody said, ‘we can wrap this up; brief again at eight o’clock in the morning…remember, any developments, update Pulse immediately. Thank you.’

  Brody got to his feet and could almost feel the heat of Patton’s eyes as they bored a hole into him.

  29

  The man pointed a finger at Harry Macken.

  ‘This is what I would call a conundrum,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s what I would call it alright, yessiree. A conundrum…but tell me, what would you call it, Har?’

  ‘What’a ya on about?’

  ‘Thought I was stupid, Har, didn’t you? Oh yes you did, come on now, tell the truth.’ The voice had deepened, becoming sludgy, like it had been dredged from somewhere far below, a place of unmitigated evil. ‘Big mistake, Har, have to say, big fucking mistake.’

  Harry swallowed. It wasn’t easy, his throat suddenly dry as sandpaper. ‘I never said that, come on, boy, I never said that.’

  But he had. And now he was frightened. More than frightened, he was about to piss himself.

  ‘Ah, go on with you.’ The voice brightened, becoming playful, which for Harry was even worse. ‘Will you not admit it, like a good man. You thought…’ But the man didn’t finish. He suddenly reached for his head with both hands. ‘Ouch!’

  ‘What is it?’ Like Harry cared. He didn’t. It would suit him just fine if the man died right now – a brain haemorrhage, maybe.

  ‘No, I’m not alright.’ He began to caress his head. ‘It’s in here, a real bitch, like there’s a little fucker hitting a hammer off the sides of my head. It’s been getting worse lately too, I can tell you; everything’s been getting worse.’ He stopped rubbing his head and took his hands away, stood stock-still. ‘You’ve been talking, Harry, haven’t you? Come on, don’t fuck me around. Just tell me, Harry, I’ll understand. You scared? Don’t be. What you think I’m going to do?’

  I dread to think, Harry thought.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been talking.’

  ‘It wasn’t a question, Har. I wasn’t asking whether you did or you didn’t. I know you did. I just want you to tell me. I want to hear it from your lips. So go on, tell me. Tell me, Harry.’

  They were standing at Mick Dempsey’s place. That’s what they both called it anyway, whatever anyone else wanted to call it now. And Harry remembered it from the time before the trees had been planted, to now, long after they’d gone. A new crop was coming though, and it was at least seven feet tall now in places; in another twelve years maybe they’d be ready for harvest. Because that’s the thing with trees. You need patience, needed to know how to play the long game. If you did, you’d make money, maybe €6,000 an acre. That was good money. Even on a small holding – Harry’s was thirty acres – that was a fair amount of ka-ching. But Harry had never gone into trees; he didn’t have it, the patience, and not just that. With age comes patience, they say. Not for Harry. Far as he was concerned, with age comes death. Did that fit the definition of a conundrum? He’d seen plenty of old boys go into forestry down through the years, but few had lived to see the benefit. Instead, they were pushing up daisies, not cutting down trees. No, he’d never bothered. He remembered the way Mick Dempsey used to talk, like he thought he was going to live forever. Harry used to wonder, was that what everyone else thought, too? That they’d live forever? But no one lived forever. He knew that. Maybe it was a mistake; maybe he should have gone into forestry after all. Either way, it was too late now. Yes, far, far too late now. Too late for anything.

  ‘What you thinking of? You got a look in your eye, Har. Yes, you do.’

  Harry suddenly felt a strange sense of release. He knew what was coming. What he’d been ignoring all these years. Served him right, really. And the strange thing was, he didn’t care. Still, he shouldn’t have ignored it; for everybody’s sake, he really shouldn’t. Because, just like a leak, it never goes away, it only gets worse. And that’s why he’d done it, because he knew what was coming if he didn’t.

  As if reading his thoughts, the man spoke.

  ‘You sent them my little mementos, didn’t you, Harry? I’d kept them safe. I never told you about them, but I always felt that you knew. So you took some of them, just enough, didn’t you? Not as dumb as you look, eh, Harry? But dumb enough to think that I wouldn’t know. Yet you never touched old Mick Dempsey’s phone; you left that well alone. Yes, clever alright, but at the same time so dumb. I don’t know, Harry.’ The man shook his head. ‘I thought I could trust you, I really did. But that’s one of the problems with the world today, just don’t know who to trust, do you?’

  The old man spoke softly. ‘I know what’s coming. Just make it quick, will you? Please.’

  ‘Please? Oh, how polite. That depends, Harry.’ The sick, twisted smile he used to wear from years ago, back on his face again. ‘That depends. I’ll see, Har. Can’t promise anything, mind…’ He shot a hand up to his forehead. ‘Ooh, my head.’

  Harry muttered something under his breath.

  ‘What’s that, Har? I didn’t catch it.’

  ‘I said I should have stopped you when I had the chance. But it’s too late now.’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said, ‘you got that right. It is too late now.’

  30

  Brody heard the sound of laughter as he walked along the corridor to the Public Office. He went in to see Wallace with his chair pulled back from the desk and turned to face the man sitting before him, both of them laughing away like giddy teenagers. The man was wearing a smart trench coat, shoes polished to a dazzling gleam reflecting the light through the window, with a trilby on his head that had a tiny feather in its band. They stopped laughing as soon as he entered.

  ‘Hey-up,’ Wallace said, ‘teacher’s arrived… OK there, boss?’

  The man stood. He was tall, and slim as a whippet, with an angular face and deep-set eyes, a long prominent nose, which he looked suspiciously along now, taking in Brody. He cut an imposing figure, and Brody imagined in his Garda’s uniform, with a face like that, especially on a dark night, he’d put the fear of God into you. Instinctively, he didn’t warm to him, but he smiled broadly anyway, covering it up.

  ‘Mick Ryder, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ The voice slow, carrying with it a quiet authority. He didn’t smile.

  ‘Could I have a word…?’ Brody pointed vaguely to the door. ‘Outside, if that’s possible?’

  Wallace stood up, and Brody realised he’d never seen the old guard out of his chair before. He did so now only so he could nudge it back with the tip of his boot towards the desk. He sat down again, the springs creaking loudly, manoeuvring it so that his back was to them.

  ‘Charlie boy,’ Ryder said, mischief in his voice. Wallace turned his head and looked at him. Ryder’s face lit up in a smile as he raised an arm in front of him, clenching his fist tightly and placing it into his mouth, like something a scared child might do. They both burst out laughing.

  The frivolous side of his personality was not on display as Brody accompanied him out of the Public Office. ‘We’ll go outside outside,’ Ryder said, and Brody didn’t object. Outside, Mick Ryder led Brody to a gateway in the wall at the back of the station and onto a laneway on the other side. The gate and the portion of the wall it was in were both covered in ivy. It would be difficult to see if you didn’t know it was there. And Brody hadn’t. They walked along the laneway and emerged onto the street just down from the station. Ryder didn’t speak. They turned right, heading towards the Market Square. Brody was merely tagging along for now, because Ryder was going to do what he wanted to do. It was his way or the highway.

  The retired guard adjusted his trilby against the stiff breeze and buried his hands in his pockets. ‘Mick Dempsey,’ he said at last. ‘Charlie told me that you wanted to ask me about him, that right?’

  So, Ryder was going to control the conversation, too. Brody had no problem with that either, provided he got what he wanted.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘You got a call from his number, that right, too?’

  Wallace had been rattling his mouth off.

  ‘I did,’ Brody said.

  ‘Odd one that, isn’t it?’

  They walked on again in silence. Brody waited for Ryder to speak, as a car sped past, and the driver honked its horn. Ryder waved in return, but Brody wasn’t so sure the honk was meant as a friendly salute instead of something else entirely. But he got the impression – no, the certainty in fact – that Ryder didn’t care either way.

 

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