Blinding Lies Page 2

  Anna nodded and frowned. “Detective Ryan. I haven’t seen him around for a few days.”

  “Oh, he had appendicitis! He’s been out for over a week.” Lauren always had the gossip on the detectives in Lee Street Station. She took pride in knowing everyone’s movements.

  “You know, if the time frame between the break-in and the sexual assault is only a few days, you’ll have to go over his head. An attack could happen soon. Oh my God, Anna, so close to your own house!”

  Anna nodded. She had been thinking the very same thing.

  “Clever to spread out the crimes,” said Lauren. “Geographically, I mean. Except that they all end up here at some point.”

  Anna looked at her towering pile of files and muttered, “Indeed.”

  Cold air assailed them at the entrance to the room. Detective Superintendent Frank Doherty had pushed the double doors in and strode purposefully through the desks and staff which supported his team. He looked straight ahead, offering no greeting, his face a bullish shade of red. The Detective Superintendent was a large man; tall and broad, his shirt buttons were perpetually strained against his stomach. He was unpopular among the Garda staff, never satisfied with anything less than an immediate result. He was a man who demanded answers but offered little in the way of support and encouragement. Lately, he had begun to resent the job more than at any other time in his life. His wife, Noreen, had been making his life miserable, demanding he take early retirement. They had a villa in France that she was keen to live in permanently – there was a vineyard close by she was fond of. Now that their youngest had finished college and was working in Dublin, Noreen saw no reason why Frank should stay. He had “served his time” as she put it and could draw his pension. Daily she nagged and moaned until he approached head office about retirement, to placate her more than anything.

  As soon as Frank Doherty’s retirement date was set, he found he had begun to lose interest in the job. Noreen was making plans for redecorating the villa and Frank found himself growing excited at the prospect of leaving this city behind. He was counting down the days and was relying heavily on blood-pressure tablets to get him to the end. The political conference, with its security demands and the constant emails and phone calls it necessitated, was a highly inconvenient blemish on his intention to coast into retirement.

  Anna groaned as she met Lauren’s eyes. She had no choice but to speak to the detective about her theory. He was Detective Sergeant Ryan’s supervisor in the Special Protection Unit – it made sense to take her suspicions to him. Lauren nodded to Anna in silent agreement, her eyes full of sympathy. DS Doherty was generally considered unapproachable. He had yet to speak to most of the pool of clerical support staff, despite the years they had worked together, other than to issue demands. He had no time for them, and the civilian staff dreaded any direct interactions with the man. When he had once taken to issuing a morning greeting, it had been to call out “Good morning, Nametags!” as he strode through the room, smirking to himself. Someone had had a word, and the derogatory salutation had ceased, but Frank Doherty remained as gruff as ever.

  Anna stood up, notebook in hand, a feeling of dread overtaking her previous excitement. She had to jog slightly to keep up with the long strides of the Detective Superintendent.

  “Sir?” she called, hoping to gain his attention. She wasn’t in the least surprised when he ignored her.

  “Detective Superintendent Doherty!” she called a little louder.

  The detective, his hand on the door to the stairwell, paused and looked around. His eyes settled on the short young woman in front of him and his expression darkened. Anna was aware of the eyes and ears of the full office behind her. Her mouth went dry.

  “What is it?” he asked, in the tone of irritability Anna and her colleagues had grown accustomed to.

  Anna cleared her throat. “I have a theory on the series of unsolved sexual assaults, and I was hoping to speak to you about it. I think –”

  She stopped abruptly as the detective rolled his eyes and sighed. She immediately regretted her decision to speak to the man. But she had no choice but to continue now. Feeling foolish and embarrassed at the edge of the open-plan room, she willed her voice to be steady.

  “Detective Superintendent Doherty, I really think –”

  The man pushed open the door to the stairwell and then turned to look down at her again. His face was a crimson shade, his eyes bulging.

  “Am I missing something? The last time I checked you worked in the typing pool. Now all of a sudden you think you’re Nancy Drew. You have a theory?” He shook his head as he turned to go.

  Anna persisted. “I would take it to Detective Sergeant Ryan, but he is out sick. Anyway, time is really important in this situation and –”

  Frank Doherty sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly fighting to remain patient. Anna felt her cheeks flame.

  “Let me spell it out for you. The detectives in my unit are doing a fine job, we don’t need some typist getting her knickers in a twist and telling us how to do it! The political conference is happening next week, in case you hadn’t noticed, and we are all up to our necks in security and detail – no one has time to entertain your theories. Why don’t you do me a favour and get back to your desk like a good girl. Leave the theories to the detectives, eh?” Muttering under his breath, he continued on his journey to his office, letting the stairwell door slam behind him.

  Anna stood facing the closed door for a few moments after Doherty had gone. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she breathed deeply and calmed herself down. This wasn’t the first time Frank Doherty had made her feel small and insignificant, and she vowed not to let him get to her. He was but one avenue to exploring her theory, and hopefully bringing these unsolved cases to a close. His dismissal stung though – had he just called her a good girl? She thought of her ash-blonde hair tied up in a ponytail, her pale-pink blouse and navy work trousers, and realised she looked a lot younger than twenty-six. A good girl?

  Squaring her shoulders, she turned and walked back to her desk. The room was warm now, and noisy. Telephones and fax machines beeped and clicked, voices rose and fell – the bustle of detective work at its best.

  Lauren’s eyes met hers, and the embarrassment of the encounter passed unspoken between them. As Anna passed her desk, Lauren grasped her hand, her bracelets jangling.

  “Are you OK?”

  Anna nodded and took a deep, steadying breath. She sat at her desk.

  Lauren rolled her chair in closer; she had gossip to share.

  “I expect he’s rattled by the shooting. I just heard – Tom Gallagher’s son David is dead! Shot dead in a house in Wilton!”

  “Wow!” Anna was momentarily distracted from her humiliation. Tom Gallagher was arguably the city’s most prolific criminal, a drain on Garda resources and a very dangerous man. She felt a sense of dread wash over her. The station was already carrying a tangible pulse of tension due to the political conference – the shooting of a gangster’s son would surely add to the chaos.

  “You’re teaching tonight, aren’t you?” Lauren prodded gently. “That’ll help you forget about him.” Her mouth curled in distaste as she nodded in the direction Doherty had just gone.

  “Thanks, Lauren.” Anna smiled warmly at her friend. Thinking of her class of eager six-year-olds, she relaxed even further. Teaching Taekwon-Do brought her huge joy. She was a first-degree black belt and still training. She had assisted her own instructor Jason in teaching Taekwon-Do for almost a year now. The martial art had been her father’s passion, and she always felt close to him when she put on her white suit and wrapped the belt around her waist.

  She felt eyes on her and looked up. A man of her own age, his long frame looking cramped around his makeshift desk, met her gaze. His brown eyes were friendly. She recognised him as Myles Henderson, of the Special Detective Unit; they had been introduced yesterday. He was one of the detectives looking after security detail for the visiting dignita
ries next week.

  Anna could feel sympathy radiating from him – no doubt he had noticed her rebuff from Doherty. She groaned inwardly and turned back to her computer. She didn’t want anyone’s sympathy. She had reports to type.

  2

  A ringing telephone.

  “Natalie, what’s up?”

  “Kate!” It was a hushed whisper, urgent – she sounded terrified. “Kate, there’s someone in the house, I think it’s him!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Where are you? Oh God, he’s coming up the stairs, I can hear him coming!”

  Natalie was beginning to cry and was growing hysterical.

  “Alright, I’ll be there soon. Lock the door, OK? Natalie? Natalie!”

  “Oh God, the twins!”

  “Lock the door!”

  Sometimes, a locked door didn’t keep the monster out.

  Kate woke from the nightmare with her heart racing and her skin glistening from a sheen of sweat. Bedsheets were tangled around her legs. She sat up, switched on the bedside light, and breathed deeply, the way the victim support officer had shown her once – in through her nose and out through her mouth.

  The hotel room was bland, and she struggled to recall where she was. She was seized by panic. Then the events of yesterday afternoon came crashing around her and she fought to swallow the nausea that crept up her throat.

  She leapt from the small bed and ran the short distance to the bathroom, vomiting into the sink. She retched until her stomach was empty, and crouched there, gasping for air. When she straightened up, she was confronted with her appearance in the mirror, and she was momentarily shocked by what she saw. Her face was tearstained and ghostly white, her red hair a tangled mess. Her reflection in the mirror matched how she felt; she looked pale and drawn, stressed and tired. And the face she saw there bore the evidence of the nightmare events of yesterday – her jaw was bruised, her neck red where David Gallagher had put his hands around her throat.

  She lowered her eyes, no longer able to look at the evidence of what had happened. She turned on the taps and concentrated on cleaning the sink, washing away all trace of her vomit and upset. Her whole body hurt – her arms and legs ached, and her lower back throbbed. The heaving as she had vomited a few minutes ago had caused her left side to cramp; she wondered if she had a broken rib. A tremor in her hands frightened her – she looked at them, shaking. These hands had killed a man.

  Stepping from the bathroom, she took in her surroundings. Beige carpet, beige quilt cover, beige blanket … an orange throw to add a splash of colour, which seemed garish in the light from the bedside lamp. The hotel room was tiny. She felt claustrophobic and lonely in the small space. She knew she would have to leave soon and escape the city.

  Moving back to the bed, she began to pick at a cut on her hand, thinking. She no longer had a mobile phone or purse – she had left almost everything behind when she fled her house yesterday. Neither did she have her wristwatch but, to her surprise, the cheap hotel offered a bedside clock and telephone.

  She hoped Natalie might already be awake and up with the twins. She was – she answered on the second ring.

  “Kate! Thank God!” There was no need to ask who it was; no one else had Natalie’s number.

  Kate felt better just for hearing her sister’s voice. Her heart rate steadied, and she lay back on the bed against the pillows.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m still in Cork.”

  “What!”

  “Natalie, don’t worry, it’s not for long,” she whispered, closing her eyes against the harsh bedside light. “I had a nightmare and needed to know you’re OK. Are you safe? How are the twins?”

  “We’re fine, the girls are just having breakfast. Rachel, Rhea – say hi to Aunty Kate.”

  She knew Natalie had turned the phone in her nieces’ direction. There was a chorus of “Hi, Aunty Kate!” from the girls on the other end. She could picture them sitting at the kitchen table, legs not quite reaching the floor, devouring their breakfast, identical blue teddy bears under their arms. She smiled into the receiver.

  “I miss you, guys. I’ll see you soon.”

  Natalie put the phone back to her ear and spoke in hushed tones.

  “Really? How soon?”

  She ignored the question. “Are you set up?”

  “I guess so. I found the hotel OK. The apartments they offer are small, but it feels too big without you. There’s a market nearby where I picked up some supplies and the girls are being so good. We just need you to get here! What happened? I thought you were right behind me!”

  She eyed the red satchel she had grabbed yesterday, grateful she’d had the presence of mind to bring it with her. She could picture Natalie chewing on a thumbnail the way she did when she was worried and trying to think.

  “Things went … wrong. David came to the house. Don’t worry, I’m fine, and I should be able to leave the city very soon.” She didn’t know whether this was in any way true. She needed things to settle down. She thought of her passport, sitting on top of her hastily packed suitcase in the hallway of her rented semi-detached, and sighed wearily. Things had gone so horribly wrong and now David Gallagher was dead. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Natalie just yet. She needed to get to France and join her sister – but how could she do that without a passport? She imagined her house was crawling with detectives and forensics people by now and, knowing the Gallaghers, they would be staking it out too, waiting for her to return.

  There was no way she could go home.

  She tried to put as much confidence as she could into her voice as she said, “I’ll figure something out!”

  “OK. But this wasn’t the plan …” Natalie’s voice trembled and trailed off.

  Kate felt wretched and couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Please stay in touch, OK? And be careful, Kate – we need you!”

  “I will, I always am. And you’re sure they’re safe?”

  “Positive, they never leave my side.”

  “Love you, Nat.”

  “Love you too, Kate.”

  She lay there against the pillows, thinking. To say she would join them very soon was probably an untruth. But there was no way she could tell her twin sister what she was thinking right now, nor what she planned to do. Things were too dangerous. Natalie had been through enough.

  She resolved to press on. She needed to end this nightmare. She had learned that time waited for no one, and that she had to take care of unpleasant things herself. She headed for the shower, determined to move things forward. David Gallagher had been an abusive monster, but he had proved useful in the end. He had contacts, people that had access to all sorts of things … even fake documents. After all he had put them through, she was determined to make use of his resources and leave his twisted world far behind.

  The first thing she had to do was change her hair – the fiery red curls stood out and, now more than ever, she needed to blend in. She would dye it and cut it short – isn’t that what women always did in the movies when they needed to disappear?

  At midday, she exited her hotel prison with bated breath. A quick trip to a nearby supermarket to purchase hair dye, large scissors and a few other essentials had almost caused her heart to constrict with tension. But it had been worth it – her hair was short and dark-brown and she looked nothing like her old self. She resolved to replace the light red jacket she had grabbed as she fled the house – the threat of being spotted grew with every step into the heart of the city. She knew who the Gallaghers were, and she knew that they would be looking for her. Tom Gallagher’s henchmen were probably watching her house, and no doubt combing the city streets. Not to mention the Gardaí. She had to get out of Cork. Of Ireland. She knew her only way out was with a passport, so she had no choice but to leave the hotel again and venture into the city. She knew of no other way to get what she needed.

  It was blustery and very cold. Winter had arrived and she was glad of it, g
lad of the opportunity to huddle under layers of clothing. Her scarf and hat were useful tools to further disguise herself. Blending into the crowd was her best chance of survival. She had the wispy strands of her hair tucked into her hat, hands jammed into the pockets of her red jacket, as she strode quickly forward. She needed food. It had been hours since she had eaten. She forced her weak legs to keep going, one in front of the other.

  Within a few hundred metres was a greasy spoon café with booths and windows that were fogged with condensation. It was perfect. She made no eye contact as she headed for a booth near the door, thinking it was best to stay near the exit in case she needed a quick getaway. The café served an all-day breakfast, so she ordered a full Irish and a pot of coffee. While she waited, she carefully observed the customers, relieved there were few. Perhaps the cold was deterring people from venturing out for lunch, she mused. She was grateful.

  She took a small notebook from her jeans. It was well-worn, thumbed through many times. It had belonged to David Gallagher … now it was hers.

  She quickly found the page she needed, read David’s scrawled note.

  Nick @ the Mad Hatter, docs, p/p, x, cards, cash

  She had heard of the infamous Nick before. He could supply anything required of him, for the right price of course. The Mad Hatter was owned by a businessman in the city, and was in competition with the Gallaghers when it came to clubs and bars. David and Natalie had socialised there occasionally; David liked to check out the competition. Judging by the notes in his notebook, he also liked to keep tabs on what Nick could supply. The bar opened at ten o’clock each morning to cater for the brunch trade and the usual barstool philosophers. Today, she had little choice but to join them.

  She had run through this problem over and over – she could not return home to get her passport or driving licence. And she could not leave the country without identification. She had no other choice but to try to buy documents from the only source she knew of, and fast, before the Gardaí and the Gallaghers closed in. She knew the Gallaghers could have put the word out, that all the businesses in the city could be keeping a lookout for her by now. But she hoped her drastically different appearance, and the fact that the Gallaghers were probably reeling from the shooting of their son, might provide a distraction and buy her some time.