Late that evening, little by little, Harcourt Street Station grew quieter, as the reunited investigative team struggled to find something, anything that might help them either identify the killer, or find his next victim.
‘So Webb’s just ... disappeared?’ Reilly perched on the edge of Chris’s desk after her return from the Miller residence.
‘Vanished,’ he replied shortly.
Kennedy stood up and stretched. ‘Look, sorry to break up the party but I’ve really got to head away. It’s our anniversary and I promised Josie I’d take her out to dinner tonight,’ he muttered, reaching for his coat. ‘If anything happens—’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know,’ Chris replied.
He’d calmed down somewhat after his outburst earlier, but given Reuben’s assessment, Reilly was still worried that something was blurring his vision and obstructing his objectivity. She was in two minds as to whether to say something about it, but didn’t want to run the risk, and figured Chris wouldn’t appreciate such prying questions, especially at such a crucial point of the investigation.
In any case, the guy was a professional, and Reilly was confident that if Chris did happen to have any ... preconceptions, he would be able to overcome them, and do whatever it took to get to the bottom of this case once and for all.
‘Speaking of dinner,’ she said, after Kennedy left, ‘if we’re planning on making this an all-nighter, we’d better load up on carbs. Anything good in the canteen?’
Chris checked his watch. ‘They closed an hour ago so it’ll have to be something from Crappy Sandwiches R Us. Fancy anything in particular from the vending machine?’
‘When you make it sound so tempting how can I refuse? Get me a ploughman’s.’
Reilly kept on reading, trying to view the entire investigation through fresh eyes: the GFU evidence reports her team had produced at each murder scene, the autopsy reports, the case files. Nothing. There was nothing at all that jumped out, nothing that revealed anything new.
She turned to the report on Amanda Harrington’s death.
The same pattern was repeated: coroner’s report, evidence, interviews. She looked again over the interviews ... the grief-stricken mother, Sally, the stoic father, David.
Suddenly Reilly froze. There on the page was a simple footnote, added almost as an afterthought ...
She looked up. Where the hell was Chris? She tried to engage her brain – where had he said he was going? They were hungry – the canteen was closed. The vending machines ...
Reilly strode across the floor, and almost wiped out another officer as she flew through the double doors into the corridor. At the end of the hallway she could see Chris standing in front of the machine, counting out some change. He looked up as she approached.
‘You’re in one hell of a hurry. Did you change your mind?’
She looked confused. ‘Change my ...?’
Chris pointed to the sandwiches. ‘You said for me to get you a ploughman’s.’
Reilly waved his comments away. ‘Forget the damn sandwich, Chris. I think I know who our killer is.’
He just stared, waiting for her to come out with it.
‘Amanda’s parents, Sally and David—’
‘They’re in Australia, you said it yourself.’
‘Right. But David Harrington wasn’t her biological father. He was her stepfather ...’
Suddenly the hallway grew very quiet.
‘Her real father still lives here in Dublin. But here’s why I know for sure that he’s our guy,’ she added, as the details of Reuben’s original profile came back to her. ‘Remember what Reuben said about this guy casting himself as the role of Minos?’
Chris nodded.
‘Rearrange the letters a little, for a more modern alternative.’
He seemed to think for a moment, then looked at Reilly, eyes widening. ‘Her father’s name is Simon?’
Reilly nodded. ‘Simon Darcy. And get this: he works as a court artist.’
Although the central criminal court was closed for the weekend, Chris managed to press the onsite security guard hard enough to give him the emergency phone numbers. If Simon Darcy worked there as a court artist, then he would have been issued a permit to do so, and they needed the details from that permit.
It took several calls, Chris gradually working his way up the food chain, before he had finally got hold of the head of Human Resources. The man was not pleased at being disturbed at home at seven o’clock on a Sunday evening, but when Chris explained their urgency, he finally agreed to meet him at his office.
Chris had talked the security guard into letting him back in, and was waiting in the lobby when Francis Dowling hurried up the steps and into the building.
The security guard watched carefully as they both passed through the scanner, then he dropped back into his chair and resumed his study of the Sunday World.
‘Thanks for coming in,’ said Chris as they hurried down the corridor. Dowling was in his mid-forties, with gray flecks in his dark hair. He was casually dressed in dark trousers and a navy sweater.
‘So you said on the phone that you think Simon Darcy is tied in to those horrible murders in some way?’
Chris nodded. ‘He may be in danger,’ he said cryptically, figuring this was the best way to get Dowling on side.
Dowling unlocked his office door, and motioned Chris in. ‘Well, I don’t know him personally, but all artists and photographers need a permit so of course he’ll be in the system.’ He dropped into his black leather chair, and flicked on the PC. ‘It’s a bit slow ...’
Chris stood behind Dowling, impatiently looking over his shoulder.
The screen eventually came to life and the man looked up at Chris. ‘I need to put in my password,’ he said pointedly.
‘Sure.’ He looked away while Dowling did the necessary.
‘OK, here we are.’ Within seconds, Simon Darcy’s court permit popped up and Chris turned back to the monitor. ‘Let’s see ...’ Dowling clicked through the pages. ‘Well, there’s his current address and phone number ...’
Chris scribbled a note. Darcy lived in Ringsend, not far from the city center. They could have a unit there within minutes.
But obviously, Darcy hadn’t been holding his victims there. He thought again about the other evidence, the horse feed ... the Kildare-based soil ...
Chris looked back at the screen. ‘Does he have any other addresses listed, one for next of kin ... anything?’
Dowling moved the page up screen. ‘Nope, nothing at all.’
Afterwards, outside the courthouse Chris met up with Kennedy, whom he guessed wasn’t too disappointed about having his romantic dinner interrupted. Josie’s opinion on it would be another matter.
‘Anything?’ his partner asked.
Chris nodded. ‘I got an address.’
He thought about what he’d just learned from Simon Darcy’s file and tried to measure it against not only the evidence, but Reuben Knight’s profile.
‘By all accounts the guy sounds like a real hermit,’ he told Kennedy. ‘I just called his contact at the Clarion, and he said that although he was a brilliant artist, and they run a lot of his sketches, he’s never met Darcy, has no idea what he’s like.’
‘Well then, I suppose it’s up to us to find out,’ Kennedy replied, throwing down his cigarette and stubbing it out with his foot. ‘Let’s go and pay this guy a visit.’