Blinding Lies Page 17

  Anna had lived alone for six years, and never in all that time had a floorboard creaked upstairs. She knew houses made noises – settling sounds, as her mother used to say – but that sound coming from her upstairs landing was entirely unfamiliar.

  She had always been a logical person. She had a keen ability to analyse a situation. Standing in her kitchen, her heart pounding loudly in her ears, she quickly and calmly weighed up her situation. There was an intruder in her house – upstairs – and she was in danger. There was a distinct probability it was the attacker she had feared could target her over the last few days.

  Despite being capable in self-defence, or probably because of the skills she had learned, she had no impulse to go upstairs and challenge the intruder. Logically, it didn’t make sense. She had known he would come, sooner or later, whoever he was. But she had no idea how big he was, or what weapons he might be carrying.

  Sheneeded to get outside the house as quickly as possible. She thought of the back garden. It was enclosed by high walls, walls she wouldn’t be able to scale. Her metal side gate was locked, and she would have to locate the key in a kitchen drawer, making noise and taking time. She would be trapped in the back of her house. The front door was a better option.

  Moving quickly through the kitchen, Anna dared not breathe. Suddenly, a noise again. The stairs creaked and groaned. He was coming downstairs.

  With her heart pounding, she ducked behind the living-room door. She had no choice but to wait. There was no way out and the intruder would reach the bottom of the stairs before she could reach and open the front door. The stairs creaked ominously as he made his way down. She was surprised to feel anger surging inside her. She moved her body into position, an automatic, learned response to an imminent threat.

  She watched and waited for the shadow to darken the crack between the door frame and the door. She dared not breathe, but she was ready.

  Fortitude, Anna! A memory, her father’s voice, came to her. Self-Control, Indomitable Spirit – Anna chanted the tenets of Taekwon-Do in her head, a calming mantra as she waited.

  It happened exactly as Anna knew it would. He stepped into the room, his confidence betraying him, causing him to disregard the shadow that shouldn’t be lurking in his peripheral. When he turned towards her his shock registered in the perfectly formed O of his mouth and his wide eyes. Dean Harris never had time to react.

  Anna stepped forward confidently. Three high kicks in quick succession and he was down, unconscious. For now. Anna stepped over him and quickly left the house. She doubted the Pearsons were awake at this late hour but she ran to their front door. She would wait for the Gardaí there.

  31

  Monday

  Monday morning dawned bright and dry. Dean Harris was warm, cosy even, in his hospital bed. He could tell it was freezing outside but he didn’t care – his hospital room was kept at a nice nineteen degrees. He’d had to eat his liquid breakfast through a straw, but his doctor said he should be able to go home today – he would heal quickly. His jaw hadn’t been quite broken, just a hairline fracture, and Dean was feeling more like himself already.

  He knew he had his nurse to thank for that, a beautiful Welsh girl with huge blue eyes and hair a deep shade of brown. His favourite colour. She was kind to him. While some of the others on the night shift had been rough with the needles, seeming to relish taking blood samples so as to jab into him, Grace was gentle and caring. She chatted non-stop while she fussed over him this morning, and she smiled warmly every time she set foot in the room.

  There was gossip about him – Dean had heard whispers at the foot of his bed when the nurses thought he was asleep, but his Grace never took part in any of it.

  “They caught him in a woman’s house, after breaking in!”

  “I heard she almost broke his jaw!”

  “Good for her!”

  “Did you hear they found a type of ‘sexual-assault kit’ on him last night, condoms and everything. I bet he’s the guy, the rapist. I hope they throw the book at him!”

  Dean had pretended to be sleeping, the better to hear what was being said about him, the better to understand what the Guards actually had on him. He was beginning to worry. He had been meticulous about forensics, but there was always the possibility he had left something behind. He was a fan of true crime documentaries, often watching them late into the night. He loved CSI, Criminal Minds, The Shield – those shows were ingenious in his opinion. They were a source of so much information it was astounding they were even allowed on TV. Thanks to those programmes Dean knew that even the tiniest fibre could be his undoing. But he knew how virtually impossible it was to leave a crime scene completely untainted. So, Dean had made sure to never give the Gardaí any reason to have his DNA on file.

  Things had gone a bit wrong with his recent attempted conquest. He realised he had been foolish there – his latest crush was obviously some kind of a nutjob. And violent, too, very unladylike.

  Dean was more than happy to forget about her and begin his courtship of Grace, the beautiful nurse, as soon as he could speak more coherently again and get himself off any charges the Guards came up with. He had caught Grace’s scent many times as she had tended to him this morning – Chance by Chanel, he reckoned. He could only imagine how she would taste …

  In the meantime, he deserved a rest. He had been so stressed lately trying to keep his secret. And his jaw ached, despite all the medication he was on. He would lie back in his soft bed, in the warm hospital room, and enjoy Grace’s gentle touch. Closing his eyes against the bright morning sunlight, he rested his head on the pillow, waiting to hear her cheerful voice.

  The door opened and footsteps approached the bed. Many footsteps. Dean opened his eyes and looked into the clear blue eyes of a tall dark-haired man dressed in a grey suit and long dark wool coat. The man smiled at Dean as he pulled I.D. from inside his pocket – William Ryan, Detective Sergeant. His was the victorious smile of a cat who has cornered the mouse.

  “We meet again!”

  Dean remained silent, aware his hands were trembling as he gripped the thin bedsheet.

  “Dean Harris, I am arresting you on suspicion of …”

  Dean felt faint. A loud buzzing sound rang loud inside his head, drowning out the rest of what the detective had to say.

  No! No! No! he groaned inwardly.

  “You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so,” William Ryan grinned at the irony of his words as he took in Dean’s swollen jaw, “but anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”

  Dean could no longer hear the man; the buzzing sound inside his head was back, making it impossible to hear anything except the sound of his own shallow breathing. He became aware of others standing in the room, staring at him – his doctor and two other Gardaí. And his beautiful Grace, her hands clasped together, her eyes downcast. He met the detective’s eyes and a weariness settled over him. He knew the game was up. William Ryan had the cocky look of Horatio Caine from CSI Miami.

  “Get dressed,” the detective ordered. “The doctor here says you’re good to go. You’re being discharged this morning into Garda custody.” He rubbed his hands together. “Nice and warm in here. Cold in the cells, mind you!”

  32

  On Monday morning Elise woke from a deep sleep to the incessant buzzing of her mobile phone. It vibrated on the wooden surface of her bedside locker, adding a dullness to the shrill of her ringtone. She winced as she sat up.

  Her Sunday had been far from a day of rest. Hours had rolled into one another as she had met the pathologist and forensics team, and spoken to witnesses, attempting to make some sense of the finding of the Addams cousins dead in a car boot.

  There was no reason to suspect Gallagher of killing his own men, apart from the staining on the flagstones at his front door. That in itself, she knew, amounted to speculation at best. As far as Elise was aware, Gallagher’s men had never stepped out of line. He ran a tight sh
ip and seemed to instil loyalty. There were few who would cross him – she was certain of that. The man driving the car and his passenger were still tight-lipped. They wouldn’t say a word.

  It seemed to Elise that chaos had followed the Meiers into the city. She wondered if they had anything to do with the killing. And with the shooting of David Gallagher, for which Kate Crowley was still the main suspect.

  Chief Superintendent McCarthy had far too much on her mind to bother about that aspect of the investigation, try as Elise might to get her to see the connection and assign resources. She had put it all into her report – surely the Chief Super would accept there was a connection between the shooting of David Gallagher, the murder of the Addams cousins and the arrival of the Meiers into Ireland? The woman was utterly preoccupied with the political conference later in the week – right now, she didn’t want complications – all she wanted was for the murders to be solved as quickly and simply as possible, so her PR spin could reassure any jumpy security personnel that the city was safe.

  The whole thing was proving impossible.

  Elise had been lightheaded with tiredness by the time she finally reached her apartment last night, yet unable to fall asleep. A double shot of whiskey had helped. She had sat in her armchair for an hour, savouring the heat of the whiskey, swirling it in the tall glass as her thoughts swam. Images from the crime scene were etched in her memory, every line and angle, every colour. The white of David Gallagher’s face, the dark brown of the fleshy gunshot wound in his neck.

  Elise had gripped her glass tight – how she hated Cork city! She wanted so badly to quit, to leave it all behind. People ran off to deserted tropical islands all the time, didn’t they? But it didn’t have to be a luxury getaway – anywhere would do! To leave the city with its dark shroud of filth and crime, lies and memories behind, was Elise’s idea of heaven.

  She thought of Betsy, her younger sister. She was a grown woman now and Elise had long ago vacated the “mother” role she had been thrust into. But still she couldn’t quite quell the maternal instinct towards her sister. Betsy had made a mess of her adult life so far, and she always expected Elise to row in and put the pieces back together. Drugs and pimps had had control over Betsy for many years. Elise had pulled her back from the brink of her own destruction so many times, made criminal charges disappear, strong-armed men from her flat … but she never blamed Betsy. Their childhood had been difficult. Elise had always risen to the challenge of their mother’s addiction; she had learned to be strong enough for Betsy to lean on her. A long time ago she had realised that Betsy was the only reason she was still in this city.

  When Elise had announced to her mother and sister she was joining the Guards, they had laughed. And her friends had been worse, accusing her of being a traitor. But she knew she was smarter than all of them, and not afraid to search for a way out. She wanted better for herself than the life her mother expected was good enough.

  She studied hard and rose through the ranks; now she was a respected detective. Yet daily she still struggled. She felt the weight of other peoples’ desperate attempts to escape, to climb to the top. Daily she waded through blood and vomit and pools of desperation, and she’d had enough.

  Now, as the light on her mobile phone almost blinded her, she regretted the decision to stay up brooding and drinking whiskey. Her alarm clock told her it was just after six o’clock. She’d had just four hours’ sleep in almost two days.

  “For God’s sake!” she muttered wearily as she answered the call.

  “Taylor!”

  It was Doherty, and he sounded hyper. “We’ve had a report of a burnt-out vehicle on Monastery Road, near Douglas. There are four bodies inside. Get on it! It might be those Germans finally turning up!”

  Elise was stunned. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and fought the urge to retch.

  She was unable to mutter more than “Yes, sir.”

  This situation just kept getting worse. She pushed herself out of bed as Doherty ended the call. She badly needed a shower and food. It would delay her arrival at the scene, but she stepped under the warm water of the shower anyway, praying this nightmare would end soon.

  33

  Betsy sat on the edge of the hotel bed and lit a cigarette. It felt good to light a cigarette indoors for once. It was freezing in the hotel, and even worse outside. This wasn’t the luxury city hideaway Steve had made it out to be.

  Steve had run out of cash by the end of the night, so they’d had to walk back to the hotel instead of getting a warm cab. Although the hotel had a pretty central location, the temperature outside was sub-zero, and her date wasn’t gentleman enough to offer his jacket. Betsy had been frozen to the point of shaking, and her feet ached by the time they reached the tiny bedroom.

  At least she hadn't had to sleep with him – Steve had passed out on the bed and was snoring so loudly Betsy was sure the whole floor could hear him.

  It had been a heavy night. She had to admit she’d enjoyed herself. It was a long time since the music and disco lights had blended together in a drug-induced euphoric state for her – she had missed it. Missed the confidence of feeling that everyone she spoke to hung on her every word, that each song was her absolute favourite, that she could dance forever. Betsy had missed the pure, raw abandonment she felt with pills.

  She didn’t miss the come-down though, the nauseous panic that washed over her every few minutes, the paranoia, the tiny sounds that scratched from the walls. She knew it would pass, and that the cigarette would steady her nerves. Luckily, the hotel wasn’t the type of place to prohibit smoking, not that she cared.

  She rubbed her tired feet, one after the other, as she took a deep drag on her cigarette.

  They had taken the pills in the Oracle club as soon as they had arrived. After that there had been dancing and lots and lots of drinks. The night was a blur of sweating and laughing with strangers, men she had never met before, but who had seemed so interested in talking to her … Betsy loved the self-assurance drugs gave her. Maybe she could be one of those casual drug-takers, in control of it now that she was older? Not let the highs and lows destroy her life. And not need her sister to bail her out so often, sometimes literally.

  Elise! She had been meaning to call her all night.

  The morning sunlight cast a harsh glare through the thin curtains as Betsy fumbled around the floor for her handbag. She wasn’t worried about waking Steve. She didn’t think she’d see him again, businessman or not.

  Finding her mobile phone, she sat back down on the bed and dialled.

  Elise answered on the first ring. Always so efficient.

  “Betsy, I really don’t have time.”

  “Well, don’t answer the phone then!”

  “What do you want?”

  Elise sounded as if she was moving quickly, rushing around her apartment. She sipped and swallowed a drink loudly and munched on something, the sound amplified through the mobile phone.

  Nausea clawed at Betsy’s insides.

  “I’ve found a new man!”

  “Great.”

  More moving, lots of rustling in the background.

  “You’d like him, he owns a hotel in the city centre.”

  “Mmm.”

  “His name’s Steve.”

  “Betsy, I really have to go. I’m in the middle of a murder case.”

  “OK, OK – it’s just that girl you were looking for? She’s staying at Steve’s hotel. I thought you’d like to know.”

  Betsy smiled at the silence that descended, getting a kick out of shocking her sister into stillness.

  “You’re sure it’s her?”

  “One hundred per cent!”

  Betsy could hear the excitement in Elise’s voice. “Give me the address!”

  “Well, I’m not sure what street it’s on – we had a heavy night if you know what I mean, but it’s in town.”

  “Tell me the name!” Elise screamed into the phone, her rage carrying over the airwaves.

&nb
sp; Betsy was silent for a moment, in shock at Elise’s change in demeanour.

  “Jeez, Elise, keep your hair on!” she managed to say with a shaky laugh. She felt as though ice water had been poured over her – this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

  “It’s the Kingsman, in the city,” she said, and Elise immediately hung up.

  Betsy sat and stared at her mobile phone as though it had stung her. Tears sprang into her eyes and she made no attempt to quell them – she let them spill down her cheeks with her smudged mascara. Screw you, Elise, she thought. She was always trying to impress her sister, and nothing was ever good enough. Well, she would show her!

  Sobbing, she selected the number from her contact list and pressed dial.

  “What?” the man groaned, clearly woken by the call.

  Betsy calmed her sobs and spoke as clearly as she could.

  “Nick, it’s Betsy. Do you remember the girl in the Mad Hatter that was looking for a passport? How much is it worth to you to know where she is?”

  34

  Lauren frowned as she approached her desk – no Anna. She had stood her up in Victus and her mobile had gone to voicemail. Now she wasn’t at her desk. What was going on?Lauren hadn’t minded eating her breakfast bagel alone, and the coffee in Victuswas amazing, but she was worried. Anna was reliable. She didn’t usually forget things and she would never not turn up without sending a message to cancel.

  The central telephone line was ringing as she sat down. She answered.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Elise Taylor. I’ve tried Janet McCarthy and William Ryan’s lines, and no one is answering. Where is everyone?”