CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Superintendent Mackie wasn’t a man who believed in doing things by halves. First thing Wednesday morning he handed Sean a list of names and a thick wad of warrants.

“I want these men arrested and brought in for questioning. Their homes and cars searched.”

Sean ran an eye over the lengthy list. The names represented a sizable chunk of Malahide’s petty criminals, along with a sprinkling of the registered sex offenders living in the area.

“All of them?” he asked, not doing a great job at concealing his astonishment.

Mackie nodded. “As soon as possible. My men will assist, but as you have the local knowledge you’ll be in charge.”

“Where do we hold them? We don’t have nearly enough room here.”

“Start by putting them four to a cell, the rest can go to Swords’ station.”

Looking up sex offenders in a cell with regular criminals was a sure recipe for trouble Sean knew. He noticed that Wogan’s name wasn’t on the list. Mackie was clearly concentrating his efforts on younger men.

Sean ran a finger down the list. “Most of the sex offenders have been questioned already. Pulling them in again won’t achieve anything.”

“We’ll see. Anything else you want to chat about before carrying out your orders?” Mackie asked contemptuously.

‘‘No, sir.”

“Then get on with it.”

Sean turned and left. He examined the list again in the corridor outside the office Mackie had commandeered. Four teams, three detectives to each team would be enough. It was obvious what Mackie was hoping to achieve. A blitz like this would generate plenty of press interest, much of it praising the Superintendent for getting things moving. The men would be held until tomorrow, then released one by one, enough charges having been brought to prevent a press backlash. Only a handful of the named men held down regular jobs. Most indulged in some illegal activity or other to supplement what they received from social welfare: importing pornography with intent to supply; tobacco smuggling; possession of counterfeit goods.

Four of the men regularly fed Sean information on drug dealers trying to muscle in on Malahide. Two of those with jobs were genuinely making an effort to go straight. Either Mackie didn’t know the repercussions of his sweep, or, more likely, he didn’t give a damn. He and his squad would move on to another case in a week or two, but it would take Sean years to undo the damage.

Back in the squad room, Sean divided up the warrants and assigned the teams. He let the others handle the petty crooks, his team would pick up the sex offenders.

The first arrest they made was a mentally handicapped twenty-five year old, Luke Carson. When he was sixteen Carson had been caught masturbating on the top deck of a bus. Cared for by his elderly parents, he had the mental age of an eleven year old. A search of his room revealed nothing. The anguish on the faces of Carson’s parents as he took their son away almost broke Sean’s heart.

“I give you my word that he’ll be looked after,” Sean told them. He’d known the Carson family for several years and up to today they had trusted him.

Luke Carson sat between Mackie’s men in the rear seat of the car for the short ride to the station. His head rocked constantly back and forth and he made a gurgling sound deep at the back of his throat.

At the station Sean made sure Carson was given a cell to himself and gave strict instructions to the custody officer to keep a close eye on him.

“Any chance of stopping for a coffee break?” asked one of the team.

“Forget it,” Sean told him. “The sooner we get this over with the better.”

 

 

O’Brien phoned the Women in Crisis centre shortly after mid-day to break the news of Riona’s suicide. Tara was devastated. Something similar had happened to one of the other counsellors two years previously, but on that occasion the girl had taken an overdose. That Riona had chosen to end her life with a shotgun added an obscenity to the tragedy.

“She must have felt so alone,” O’Brien said.

Fury swept over Tara. “I should have seen it coming, done something about it.”

“You did all you could. If anybody failed it was her rat of a fiancé.”

Tara gripped the phone tighter, thankful that she had the office to herself.

“It wasn’t his fault. Richard’s as much a victim in all of this as Riona. He needed time to adjust. He would have come round in the end.”

O’Brien grunted. “I warned him that she needed him to be strong for her. The only person he cared for was himself.”

“Then he’ll have to live with that.”

“I’m leaving for Meath shortly,” O’Brien said. “To comfort the family if I can — the mother is hysterical. Do you need a lift?”

Tara realised O’Brien would consider her as spineless as Richard if she declined his offer. During her time at Beaumont she had seen something of the man beyond the ecclesiastical collar. The rector was a man who saw things in black and white. Unusual for a man of God.

“I’m on duty,” she explained, hoping it wouldn’t sound like a lame excuse. “There’s no one to cover for me.”

The lengthy pause confirmed what she feared. O’Brien deemed that Riona was being let down yet again.

“If that’s the way it is,” he said finally and hung up.

Tara reached across her desk for a Dublin telephone directory. She leafed through to the Fs.

She found what she wanted almost immediately. She tapped the numbers in and he answered after a couple of rings.

“Fairfax.”

“When and where can we meet?” Tara asked.

 

 

It was late afternoon before McGuirk learnt of the arrests from his car radio as he drove north out of Dublin. He listened as Superintendent Mackie gave a brief interview, then the newsreader spoke live to Tom Cunningham, asking him for his reaction.

“Naturally I’m delighted to hear that the police have at last decided to act,” Cunningham started. “But any satisfaction I might feel at being instrumental in bringing about this initiative has been overshadowed by the tragic news that the first of the rapist’s victims has taken her life. My sympathy goes out to her family.”

“Sad bitch,” McGuirk said aloud.

He switched to an all music channel and started to contemplate his next attack. He was a third through his planned attacks. There would be one tonight and three others if all went according to plan. Ideally he intended to celebrate Christmas Day and New Year’s Day in his own unique style. That left one other to fit in. He could always finish as he had started, on a double.

Like a dart player, he thought.

There was a little over three weeks left of Dublin duty before he could expect to be posted back to his regular station in Gorey, County Wexford. He and three hundred other officers from Garda stations outside the capital had been drafted into Dublin for Operation Freeflow, a crackdown on illegal parking and drunk-driving, designed to keep the city’s Christmas traffic moving. To prevent the annual spending frenzy stalling — God knows the retailers could really do with a good Christmas.

Once safely ensconced back in Wexford, he would never be caught.

Tonight’s attack was the one he relished the most. Admittedly the obstacles facing him were now much greater, but nothing a little ingenuity couldn’t manage to surmount.

A Christmas party thrown for the children of Pearse Street Garda Station personnel had provided him with the means.

He checked the time by the car’s clock. The business part of the conference should be concluding about now. The women would want a drink and an opportunity to unwind before heading to their rooms to dress for dinner.

Maggie Farrell, Mayo born but now living in Malahide, was to be honoured later that evening as the young entrepreneur of the year. The internet cosmetics company she had founded nine years previously now had eighty-five people on the pay-roll. Most of them on minimum wage, McGuirk felt sure. Farrell and the other award recipients had been invited to a drinks party hosted by the Minister for Economic Development before the gala dinner. All the award winners were booked into suites, even Farrell whose house was less than a mile from the hotel.

Farrell would have received the envelope containing her Knave of Hearts from the receptionist when she checked in.

A mile outside Malahide, McGuirk turned right and four hundred yards later took a left into the parkland surrounding Malahide castle. The home of the Talbot family for generations, Fingal County Council now ran the castle and grounds.

Karen, his sister and only family, was employed as a tour guide at the fourteenth-century building.

He swung his car round in the coach park and switched off his engine. She appeared after only a few minutes, He leant over and opened the passenger door for her.

“I didn’t know if you’d make it or not,” she said, climbing in

He moved off. “I said I’d be here.”

“What’s in the bag?” she asked, nodding towards the back seat.

“Nothing much. Just some equipment. Garda issue.”

 

 

At the same time in Malahide, a customer of McLoughlin’s bar was having trouble getting another drink.

“Gimme another glass of vodka,” Sean asked in a low slur.

No one heard him. The place was packed and the noise level had risen dramatically in the last hour.

After he had been informed of Heeney’s death Sean made himself scarce and for the best part of the afternoon and early evening had been rooted to a stool in a dark corner of Malahide’s oldest bar — also the town’s only theme bar. When the town’s aging cinema had been closed and the contents auctioned off, Eamon McLoughlin had thought it cool to bid for a load of old movie posters, have them framed and displayed all over his bar, along with a. bunch of rusty film cans and reels. Some of the regulars had taken their custom elsewhere when he put a ten pence hike on every drink to pay for his bars ‘refurbishment’.

Sean ran a finger inside his shirt collar. Officially, he wasn’t off duty until eleven, but what the hell? He had started on beer, quickly graduating to Polish vodka, straight up.

Exactly ten drinks. The empty shot glasses were precariously stacked in a column on the mahogany bar next to him.

As Sean twisted round on the stool to scowl at Eamon, his elbow came dangerously close to bringing down the tower of glass.

“I would like another drink,” he said, raising his voice slight1y.

Eamon still didn’t hear him. He was up the other end loading beer glasses into a washer tray.

Sean closed one eye and surveyed the room. The usual early evening crowd was in. Young girls still in their teens, dressed and groomed for fun, accompanied by boys who stole occasional nervous glances in his direction. Soon the youngsters would move on, leaving the serious drinking to a different generation, amongst whom Sean’s melancholy wouldn’t be so foreign. The thought depressed him further.

“What do I have to do to get a fucking drink around here?” he roared down the bar.

“Hey,” Eamon shouted, covering the ground between them in a flash. “Watch your language. Any more shooting your mouth off and you’re out of here.”

A half-hour earlier, as Eamon made a move to dismantle the tower, Sean had promised to break his arm if he so much as touched a single glass.

Eamon had made little of it, but Sean knew if it had been one of the younger barmen, he would have been out on his ear. With a lifetime of pouring drinks behind him, Eamon knew there were times when a man wanted nothing more from life than to be left alone. So Eamon had kept himself busy down the other end of the bar, venturing back occasionally to set up a fresh drink for the Detective Sergeant.

The other customers had allied with Eamon and cut Sean a wide berth.

“I apologies for my profanity,” Sean mumbled. “Now pour me a damn drink.”

“Maybe it’s time you were leaving.”

“I’ll decide when it’s time for me to go.”

Eamon gave the bar a quick wipe. “I’ll call the station and have them send a car for you.”

“I’ve got my own car.”

“You handed me the keys when you came in. Remember?”

Sean blinked twice and patted the pockets of his trousers. “I did?”

“Yeah. Made me swear that I wouldn’t give them back. No matter what you said or did.”

“Doesn’t groundwork like that deserve one more?”

Eamon grinned. “Okay, I guess it does. But it will be the last one.” He set a fresh glass on the bar and poured a measure of Stoli.”

“You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

“A half-hour ago I was a dumb bog-trotter.”

Sean lifted the drink up. “It was the vodka talking. It has a way of filling a man’s mouth with unnecessary words.”

“It’s not like you Sean, getting wasted this early.”

“Today’s special.”

“A celebration?”

“Not exactly,” Sean said, his eyes clouding over.

A customer from further along the bar signalled to Eamon.

“Leave the glass on the bar when you’re through,” he said moving away.

Sean gulped down the oily liquid. Easing himself off the stool, he stood on the brass foot rail and stretched up to place the glass on top of the others. His foot slipped and his shin cracked painfully against the foot rail.

The glass tower vibrated and held.

He succeeded to place the glass on the second attempt.

Lowering himself back down, he waited for his achievement to be acknowledged, but no one was paying him the slightest attention.

He took a few faltering steps towards the door. Suddenly he turned, went back, and knocked away the bottom glass with a sweep of his hand. The shattering cacophony brought an abrupt end to all conversation in the lounge. Every eye in the place was fixed on him.

Eamon yelled from up the bar. “What did you go and do that for?”

Sean stared back at him, his head filled with images of how Heeney had ended her nightmare. “I guess I wanted to draw attention to my leaving.”

 

 

Fairfax had arranged to meet Tara Dwyer in the lounge of the Strand hotel. He reckoned that way he could kill two birds with one stone. It didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the delegates attending the conference fitted the rapist’s victims' profile like a glove.

While he waited for the counsellor he entertained himself by identifying the plainclothes Gardai who were dotted all over the hotel trying to blend in with the hotel’s clientele. In their tired sport coats and creased flannels they were easy enough to spot. Their shirt collars wilted from having been worn all day. And their parsimony in ordering soft drinks or coffee. He had noticed a couple of uniformed officers patrolling outside as he parked his car.

Ten minutes after he had arrived, the Minister for Economic Development was ushered through the foyer by two mean-faced bodyguards.

Dwyer turned up ten minutes late and she hadn’t come alone. They shook hands.

“This is Andy, a friend,” she introduced the man with her. “How do you do,” Fairfax said, shaking his hand as well. The young man gave him a broad smile. “I was warned this was a private meeting, so I’ll go make friends with the barman.”

When they were alone Fairfax asked, “Can I get you something?”

‘Thank you. I’ll have a vodka and tonic.”

They indulged in small talk until the waiter served the drinks. One of the plainclothes detectives had taken a sudden interest in them.

“What made you change your mind?’ Fairfax asked her. “Heeney’s suicide?”

“Partly. But mainly because I made a mistake.”

Fairfax lifted his glass and took a drink. “I find that hard to believe”

Tara leaned into him. I’ve always made the premise that the wishes of a rape victim should have priority over the demands of the police. I make sure that any woman I counsel is made fully aware of what exactly will be expected of her if she wants a prosecution pursued. The degrading forensic examination, the endless questioning and accusations, the possibility of coming face to face with her attacker during a police line-up, and not least, the publicity and rigours of a trial. All have to be endured, with no guarantee that the rapist will ever spend a single day behind bars.”

“You sure don’t sugar-coat it. What about civic duty?”

“Assisting the forces of law and order? To save some other unfortunate from becoming a victim? I’ve listened to all the arguments. They don’t add up.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A distrust of authority? I can empathise with that.”

Tara’s head shot up. “You can?”

“I’ve been around a lot longer and I’ve seen some things that don’t fit no matter how you twist them. Tell me about Riona.”

“She was a wonderful person, but she wasn’t prepared for this world. Her whole life she had been protected from hurt, and like someone who’s never been vaccinated, one brief exposure to disease can prove fatal.”

“You’re losing me.”

Tara took a drink. “I asked her to talk about the most traumatic chapter in her life — sometimes it can help put an attack into perspective. It wasn’t the death of her father as I expected. He was in ill health for a number of years and she had been able to prepare herself for the inevitable. The worst moment was the running over of a pet dog. Apart from that one incident her life had been as close to perfect as you could get. She was born and raised in a loving, middle class family living in the heart of the country. Her exam results were always excellent. She was a popular girl, attractive, good figure, confident. Believed in God and attended church regularly. Landed a well-paid job and was engaged to the man of her dreams”

“Life was a breeze,” Fairfax said dryly.

“Exactly. So when she was attacked she had no psychological conditioning to help her deal with it. It was totally beyond her comprehension why anyone would want to hurt and mutilate her to that degree. To Riona, men like the one who attacked her just can’t exist.”

“Oh, they’re out there alright.”

“Yeah. You and I may know it, Riona didn’t. My mistake was in not encouraging her to make an official complaint, to go down the retribution road. It would have enabled her to focus on the man who attacked her. Jackie Breen called me to say Riona had come to see her in hospital. I should have recognised that for what it was — a distress flag. Lacking anyone else to blame, Riona ended up blaming herself.”

“The shrinks call it intrapunative.”

Tara nodded.

“Aren’t you’re being pretty hard on yourself?” Fairfax asked. “You might be doing the same thing Heeney did.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

 

 

Sean chose to walk along the shore to sober up. Treading the soft wet sand was tough going and by the time he made it to the Black Rocks he was exhausted.

The coast road above him was a constant flow of cars and at the base of the rocks a group of hardy teenagers were drinking beer, huddled round a driftwood bonfire.

“Take a drink?” one of them asked, holding out a can of Budweiser.

He shook his head and moved on. The sand came to an abrupt end at the rocks and he could either go back the way he’d come or along the road.

The road he reckoned. He started clambering up the rocks, his feet probing the ground in the darkness. Halfway up he skidded on some seaweed and toppled sideways into a rock pool. Despite

scrambling out as though his life depended on it, his trousers were soaked with ice-cold seawater.

The teenagers’ laughter reached him.

He took a less adventurous route over the rocks and soon reached road level. His right shoe made squelching noises as he started the walk back to town.

Thirty minutes later he was outside the Strand Hotel. A huge illuminated Merry Christmas sign had been erected on the flat roof of the main banqueting suite. The message was spelt out by a string of electric light bulbs attached to plywood lettering. The glow from the hundreds of bulbs made the seaward side of the hotel as bright as day.

A RTE van was parked in the black shadow directly beneath the glare, a thick bunch of cables snaking towards a side door.

“Not on duty tonight?” asked the uniform Garda standing at the front gate.

Sean shrugged. “Mackie’s men only.”

The officer nodded. “Yeah, they get all the overtime they want. He’s inside, brown-nosing with the Minister.”

“Noticed anything out of the ordinary?”

“Just a Santa Claus. I’m hoping to see Prancer and Dancer later.” The officer laughed and said good-night, turning to continue with his rounds.

Sean stood looking at the side elevation of the hotel, the glare from the sign forcing him to squint. He wondered if Mackie had a man inside the door the television crew had propped ajar. Probably not, he thought.

One way to find out. Go ask the bugger.

The first people he recognised when he entered the plush foyer were Fairfax and Dwyer seated next to the fire. Fairfax had kept his overcoat on, though Tara had removed hers and placed it on a stool next her seat. She has a strange notion of non-cooperation, Sean brooded.

He found one of Mackie’s men chatting up the receptionist. He stopped when he saw Sean, his mouth falling open in astonishment. Sean looked down at the front of his trousers. A crust of salt had dried and left a tide-mark across mid-thigh. He bent down and dusted it off.

“Where’s the Super?” Sean asked.

“Banqueting suite.”

“Have you a man on the emergency exit at the side?”

“That door’s shut.”

“Not any longer it isn’t. Put someone on it.”

The man clearly didn’t appreciate taking orders from Sean, but he pulled a radio from his pocket and started to issue instructions.

Sounds of laughter came from the direction of the banqueting suite. The girls were having a ball.

Sean wandered over to the section of the lounge where Fairfax and Dwyer were seated.

“Enjoying yourselves?” he asked.

Fairfax stood up. “Detective Horan, won’t you join us?”

Sean gave him a frosty stare. “Detective Sergeant.”

“My apologies. Having held rank I’m only too aware the discourtesy of addressing someone incorrectly.”

“No offence taken, Mister Fairfax.”

Fairfax smiled, but his eyes didn’t. “Let me buy you a drink by way of recompense.”

“Not tonight. Some other time perhaps.”

“I look forward to it.”

Their sparring ended when Sean thought he heard something. He held up a hand. “Quiet!”

There it was again. A high-pitched wail coming from somewhere on the first floor. Both men moved quickly towards the marble staircase. They pushed through the mass of delegates in evening dress emerging from the banqueting suite and bounded up the stairs.

They paused on the landing, unsure which direction the cries had come from. A bedroom door slowly opened and Sean started as he heard a couple of loud cracks. He ducked down behind the banister, then felt ridiculous when a man and a woman emerged from the room, laughing and wreathed in paper streamers.

“Shit,” Fairfax whispered from beside him. Another shriek sent them tearing down the corridor to their right.

The screams were coming from the third bedroom along. Sean reached it first. He lowered his shoulder and slammed against the door. It held.

“Let me try,” Fairfax said, pushing Sean aside. “This is a trick I learnt in Belfast.”

He turned his back to the door and gave it a donkey kick. The wood of the jamb splintered and the door crashed open. The room was in darkness. Sean switched on the light.

A woman, naked and bloodstained, was cowering on the floor in the corner. The tears running down her face had been turned black as ink by her mascara. Her body shook as she tried to push herself further into the corner.

Sean pulled a quilted bed-spread from the rumpled bed and wrapped it around the terrified woman the best he could. He noticed that he was standing on the remains of a midnight blue cocktail dress. His eyes quickly took in other details. A high-heeled blue shoe lay under a chair. An award of bronze and glass stood on the dressing table, next to an open envelope with a Knave of Hearts playing card protruding from it.

Fairfax slammed open the bathroom door and took a quick look inside.

“Stay with her. He can’t have got far,” he shouted.

“Come back,” Sean ordered, but Fairfax had already gone.

He concentrated his full attention on the victim. “I’m Sean Horan, I’m a police officer.”

Tara and Mackie’s man arrived at the door. One quick glance and Tara took control.

“Come inside and shut the door after you,” she told the officer. “On no account are you to allow anyone else in until I say so.”

 

 

The fire escape door at the end of the corridor had been opened, then pushed shut to make it appear normal to a casual glance. It led to a steel fire escape that ran the full height of the hotel.

Fairfax stood on a metal-grill landing and looked down. The main car park was below. Well lit, it was overlooked by the hotel’s fitness suite. Too risky, he reckoned, and started to c1imb.

He was panting when he reached the top. The main structure of the hotel was six stories high, but he hadn’t time to admire the lights sparkling along the coastline. He ran to the opposite side of the building and looked down.

Sixty feet below, a Santa Claus was kneeling behind the Merry Christmas sign. Fairfax climbed over the parapet onto the hotel’s other fire escape. He took the metal stairs two at a time.

There was one flight of steps left when the sound of his descent caused Santa Claus to look towards the fire escape. Fairfax jumped the final flight and did a parachutist’s landing roll across the flat roof of the banqueting suite. He rose quickly to his feet.

Santa Claus was silhouetted against the bright sign. He was holding a knife in his right hand.

The two men circled each other. Fairfax couldn’t make out the man’s face behind the flowing false beard and drooping hood.

It was twelve years since Fairfax last attended a unarmed combat course at the Aldershot army camp, but since settling in Ireland he’d seen dozens of would-be bodyguards be put the wringer by an ex-wrestler who worked for him from time to time.

Santa Claus made the first move. A feint with the knife at Fairfax’s throat, easily dodged.

“A blind man could have seen that one coming,” Fairfax taunted.

There was no reply. That was okay with Fairfax, time was on his side

“What’s the matter? Easier when it’s a woman?”

The man came at him again. Fairfax took a step back and the heel of his shoe sank into a drain. He stumbled and Santa Claus’s arm flashed down. The blade sliced through the sleeve of Fairfax’s camelhair coat and carved flesh. Ignoring the sharp pain, Fairfax grabbed the wrist clutching the knife and bent it back on itself. He aimed a kick at his opponent’s knee and missed.

Now he had a grip, Fairfax wasn’t about to let go. Keeping his eyes fixed on the lethal blade, he threw a fist into Claus’s side, just under his rib-cage.

The man grunted, drew back his head and butted Fairfax in the nose. The cartilage snapped and a gush of blood poured from his nostrils into his mouth. He spat it out and wrapped his arms around Claus in a bear hug, trapping the knife between their chests.

“Let’s dance,” Fairfax said through gritted teeth.

They pirouetted across the roof as though locked in a deadly Viennese waltz. Fairfax’s back crashed heavily against the Merry Christmas sign. Bulbs exploded like Halloween firecrackers. Glass and sparks flew in all directions making it seem like they were in the heart of some crazy pyrotechnic display. Locked together, they twisted arid rolled along the rear of the six-feet high sign, their feet crushing shards of thin glass.

Claus struggled to free his knife hand. Fairfax tightened his hold and was butted again. The pain brought tears to his eyes. What the hell was keeping the cops, he wondered? Ten minutes ago you couldn’t have moved in the hotel without tripping over one.

He summoned all his strength and spun Claus round, then let himself be turned. When they broke free of the sign, Fairfax suddenly unlocked his grip and chested Claus backwards over the knee-high parapet.

There was a scream, followed swiftly by a crumpling metallic slap.

Fairfax grabbed the sign’s stanchion to save himself from toppling over. A bulb popped and hot glass scratched his cheek. He peered down over the edge.

Santa Claus had landed on top of a RTE van. Sliding off uninjured, he landed on the ground like a cat. He sprinted through the goods delivery entrance and across the road towards the beach.

“Stop him!” Fairfax hollered, knowing there was no one to hear him