‘So, he’s telling us it was a coloured chap?’
‘Yes, Superintendent.’
Claire shifted around in the chair, her back giving a scream of protest. She’d been at work now for – she glanced at her watch – fourteen hours and counting and her body was threatening to collapse under the strain.
Her boss looked at her and frowned, as if tempted to ask if she was okay. Superintendent Liam Quigley was a father of four, his last child born when he and his wife had been well into their forties. It had been a difficult pregnancy, he had admitted that much to Claire during a quiet moment at the office Christmas party. Claire knew, just by looking at him, that he wanted to tell her to take things easy. She could almost see him swallow back the thought. Those ‘Dignity in the Work-place’ seminars had done their job too well, and Claire knew he had to act as if she were no different to Flynn, or any of the other cops stationed just outside his office door. She should be grateful, she told herself, and fought the urge to ask to be placed gently on a couch and handed a pillow and a cup of tea.
‘And feck all CCTV.’
‘That’s right.’
Claire looked down at her notebook, now covered in scribbles, dashes, arrows and question marks after an afternoon spent banging the phones. Berry had spent almost an hour with his lawyer before making his formal statement, but that hadn’t meant she and Flynn had been able to take it handy. Between them they’d contacted everyone involved with the apartment block, from the management company to the security firm that, according to the Merview website, was supposed to have a man patrolling outside twenty-four hours a day.
The calls had added up to absolutely no new information. CCTV footage from inside and outside the pedestrian gates had been sourced and was being sent over, but a truculent supervisor at the management company had admitted early on in the conversation that the camera coverage in the area was ‘patchy’ and ‘broken’. The man had gone on a rant about tenants not paying their fees and companies having to work with the resources they were given, and it had taken Claire several minutes to cut through the chatter and demand his footage. She wasn’t holding out much hope for it though. The same excuse was given by the security firm who’d admitted after some stoic questioning from Flynn that their twenty-four-hour surveillance was more like every second Tuesday, with the possibility of further cutbacks if the Merview tenants didn’t increase their fees. And none of the other residents, when they’d finally been persuaded to open their apartment doors, said they had seen the occupant of 123.
Meanwhile, a local patrol car in Cork had been sent to the university to break the news to Sean Bradley, the owner of 123, that his new tenant had left more behind than a broken light bulb. He would have to come to Dublin to make a further statement. But his alibi appeared to check out, he had a full-time job in the college and a new baby and had apparently either been changing nappies or doling out lecture notes every day for the past fortnight.
No matter, they’d question him anyway.
Claire sighed. She couldn’t help feeling they were only going through the motions until they got in touch with the man who had actually rented the apartment. And Berry had proved as useful as a chocolate teapot when it came to doling out that particular information.
‘So, what’s his description?’
Superintendent Quigley looked over his glasses at her. A tall, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties, he gave off the impression of being as laid-back as a human sunlounger, but Claire knew that the sharpest of brains lay behind the jovial exterior. She had huge respect for him as a boss and as a policeman and she wanted nothing more than to prove to him that she had made significant headway with this, the biggest case to come under the station’s radar in quite some time. But the information to date was, to put it mildly, brutal.
She looked down again at her notebook as if it might have come up with something new on its own. But only her scribbles stared up at her. The tenant, according to Cormac Berry, had been black, possibly Nigerian. His name was Chris Solana. Claire didn’t think this sounded likely. There was a quite a sizeable Nigerian community in the Collins Street catchment area and she’d never heard a name anything like Solana, but Berry had been adamant.
A copy of the rental agreement had been faxed over from his office, but the name on the lease was almost unreadable, one of those flashy signatures that people put on their credit cards which made them all the easier to forge. It could have been Chris Solana, it could, at a push, have been Claire Boyle. There were no references. Claire had fought to keep her face on a neutral setting as Berry gave a tortuous explanation as to how he, like, hadn’t quite, you know, finalized the paperwork? Like, totally? She knew this stank to high heaven, and that there was more to owning and renting than taking a deposit and handing over keys. The tenancy had to be officially registered. Taxation numbers exchanged. At the mention of the Revenue, Berry had shot a quick glance at the door, as if he could mind meld with the lawyer who was waiting for him outside. And then, reddening, had muttered it was all in hand.
Claire had tried as hard as she could to elicit more information but, fiddling with his cuffs, Berry had stuck to his story. The man had phoned the office, he said, and he had met him at the apartment the following day. He’d shown him around, the man had liked the look of it and had signed a six-month lease on the spot, as well as handing over cash for the deposit. The first month’s rent had also been paid in cash, but the second hadn’t arrived, and it was while trying to make contact with the tenant that Berry had made his grim discovery.
‘Physical description?’
‘Black.’
Quigley raised his eyebrows and Claire sighed deeply.
‘No, seriously, that’s nearly all we got out of him. Black, wearing jeans and a brown bomber jacket. Short hair. Stocky build. Didn’t appear to be in a hurry, didn’t appear nervous. Berry has pretty much admitted he took the money and ran, the apartment had been vacant for ages and the owner was “desperate”—’
‘And we’re talking to him?’
‘He’s in Cork, two of the local lads already took a statement. Claims Berry handled everything, he just handed over the keys and his bank details. Alibi checks out. His baby daughter is being christened tomorrow, but he’s coming up straight after. He sounded pretty shaken, according to Flynn. Not the news you want, is it? That someone has been found dead in your place.’
‘And you’re happy with this chap Berry’s statement?’
‘Not really.’
Claire frowned, and the Superintendent looked at her closely. ‘There’s something … I don’t know. He was talking away, then he shut up, asked for the solicitor. That’s fair enough, he had the right. And then he gave a pretty full description of the fella, but … I don’t know.’
She stifled a yawn and Quigley looked more closely at her.
‘It’s been a long day. Sleep on it. I believe the identification is confirmed?’
‘As good as.’
The full post-mortem results wouldn’t be available for a few hours yet, but the clothes and wallet found at the scene along with the woman’s estimated size and age made her an exact match for Miriam Twohy, who had been missing from her home in Ballyawlann for the previous fortnight. Her parents were due at the mortuary the following morning to confirm the guards’ suspicions. It was a horrific end to their search, and she could only hope that they would get some comfort from the fact that their daughter had been found.
There would certainly be no peace when the family discovered how she died.
Quigley was speaking again and she struggled to focus.
‘Keep me updated. I’ll leave Flynn with you if that works?’
She nodded. Annoying hair or not, Flynn had proved himself to be an adept phone banger and she’d be happy enough to have him by her side.
‘Get some rest, so.’
He muttered the words as if unsure whether to say them, but Claire appreciated the sentiment. She stood up from the chair, utterly exhausted. Suddenly even the thought of getting herself into her car and home was too much for her and she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she left the superintendent’s office and walked slowly through the banks of desks and computer monitors that led to the exit door. All she could think of was sinking into a hot bath and praying Matt had thrown dinner together. But before she could reach the door, Flynn was at her side.
‘I thought you should know we got another call from that computer lady?’
‘Who?’
Tiredness made her sound grumpy and Claire regretted her tone as Flynn flushed before continuing.
‘The woman who said she knew Miriam Twohy from the internet? Well she called back to say she’d been mistaken. Her friend has turned up apparently. Wasn’t the same woman after all.’
‘Grand. Whatever.’
Claire nodded and continued the long tramp through the almost deserted station and out towards the car park. She hadn’t time for housewives and their fantasies right now. A young mother was dead and she wasn’t happy with how things were proceeding. Ramblings on cyberspace were one thing. This death was real.