‘Don’t worry,’ Sadie said. ‘We won’t be disturbed here, not between shift changes.’
I cradled the cup of machine soup she had given me and tried to breathe. We were in the briefing room, off the station reception area, though reception wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t a waiting room, either. Coughlan’s Quay was Cork’s detective HQ. No traffic cops. No overnight drunk and disorderlies. But if you’d done something bad, you’d probably end up here. And you’d probably be coming in the back gate.
‘So this is what I know,’ Sadie said. ‘Rhona left her house …’
‘At Park View Mews.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. At approximately ten past eight this morning intending to walk to work.’
‘On Infirmary Road.’
‘Exactly. You’ve been busy since I last saw you, by the sound of it. But she barely got outside the gate of the development. An unknown assailant attacked her – we’re working on the theory that he might have got out of a car and come up behind her. He had a weapon – believed to be a screwdriver – and he stabbed her with it in the side of the head, the right temple area. He took her bag and walked, not ran, away. Nobody heard anything.’
‘No scream?’
‘He probably put his left hand over her mouth and used the right hand to stab her. Nobody saw anything either – the wall blocked the view from inside Park View Mews.’
‘The houses across the road, though?’
‘You’re right, the attack could have been seen from across the road, but no one’s come forward so far. The team in Dublin aren’t holding out much hope. People had either already gone to work or it was breakfast time and the kitchens are at the back in those houses. But a neighbour, inside Park View Mews, who was putting rubbish in her bin, saw a man in a dark hoodie crossing the gate, and then crossing back, a minute or two later at most. She thought it was unusual at the time but didn’t take any notice until the Gardaí arrived. She didn’t see the man’s face – though she’s sure it was a man. She thinks she remembers hearing a car driving off but doesn’t know if it’s connected. Another neighbour found the body – never regained consciousness – and called an ambulance. By the time it arrived, Rhona was dead. When our lads got there, they fenced off the immediate area and did a patrol car search of the surrounding district. Nobody answering the description of the assailant to be seen. That doesn’t mean much. He may be a local, might have had somewhere to go nearby. It’s being treated as a random drug-related mugging. Timing fits, early morning, money needed for the day’s supply. The extreme violence is less usual – but that depends on what he was on, and how desperate he was. The team in Dublin will check all available CCTV, but there’s nothing in the immediate area. Rossbeigh Road is a residential street. They’ll be able to pick up footage from traffic cameras on the North Circular and up on the Navan Road. Trouble is, if he escaped in a car, they have no idea what kind. Best hope is that someone comes forward. But at the moment the lads have nothing to go on.’
‘And the weapon?’
‘From the shape of the wound, it looks like a screwdriver, like I said, but as to what type or where it was bought, nothing yet. Maybe nothing ever. He might have had it for years. It’s not CSI, Finn. We won’t be checking every Woodies and B&Q in Ireland.’
‘It’s not a random mugging,’ I said.
‘I thought you might say that,’ Sadie said. ‘Talk to me. Fast.’
‘There’s a lot to tell – come up to my house? It’s all on my computer.’
‘I’ll get a car to drop us,’ Sadie said.
‘Great.’
If Jeremy Gill’s security guard was still following me, a Garda car might frighten him off for a while.
‘I think you’re on to something big,’ Sadie said. ‘Coincidences happen, of course. But, based on what you’ve told me, I need to pass on this information to the murder team in Dublin. Jeremy Gill is a suspect in Rhona’s murder. Has to be. You’ll have to pull back now, though – this is an active investigation, Finn, and you can’t do anything to prejudice it.’
I said nothing.
‘Are you listening to me, Fitzpatrick? I said you’re going to have to back off.’
‘I will. I know I can’t have anything to do with the criminal investigation – but I have to keep on with my own work, my civil case for the wrongful death of Deirdre Carney.’
‘You’ve spent the last hour telling me that Rhona’s murder is inextricably linked to Deirdre’s death. You’ve told me Gill had a man following you up to Dublin and back again. How can you possibly think it’s okay for you to continue with your investigation? A woman is dead, Finn. You’re out of your depth and you’re too stubborn and pig-headed to admit it.’
‘I see your point.’
‘Thank God.’
‘But I have just a few more things to do. Cork-based, mostly. Backgroundy things. I can’t just let it drop.’
‘Come on, Finn. What about your job? Your job that you were so worried about on Wednesday night? Has it even crossed your mind today?’
‘It’s less of a priority, actually.’
‘You’re impossible,’ Sadie said.
‘I know,’ I said.
‘If you’re right about Rhona and Gill … what I’m saying is that if Gill’s killed once, he could kill again. You could be in danger.’
‘I don’t see it that way. Now that I think about it, I’m in no danger whatsoever.’
‘I like your confidence.’
‘Look, this Twitter debacle is like health insurance for me. I’ve been all over the web, and the newspapers. I’m connected to Gill. So is Rhona. She’s been killed in a so-called random attack. If something happens to me, it’s going to look a lot less random. It’s going to point a finger at Gill. I’m not going to take any stupid risks. But I reckon he needs me alive.’
‘Assuming that’s how he thinks. The guy’s a psychopath, remember? Arrogant. Egotistical. Above the law. As far as he’s concerned, normal rules don’t apply to him. By the time he figures out they actually do, you might be dead.’
‘Okay. That is a good point,’ I conceded.
‘Which you’re going to take no notice of.’
‘I promise that if I find myself straying into territory that might be part of the criminal case, I’ll call you immediately. And I’ll back off, for definite.’
Sadie sighed.
‘Remind me why we’re friends again? I’ve forgotten.’
‘Sadie,’ I said. ‘Rhona’s death … her murder … I have blood on my hands. Not literally, I know. What I mean is, it’s my fault.’
‘Oh, Finn. It is not your fault. It’s whoever killed her, it’s their fault.’
‘Gill.’
‘It might be. But whether it’s Gill or someone else …’
‘I can’t help thinking that, if I hadn’t started all this, she’d still be alive.’
‘Maybe she would, and maybe she wouldn’t. It’s terrible that she’s dead. It’s an awful thing. But you didn’t kill her.’
‘That’s all well and good,’ I said. ‘I didn’t wield the actual weapon. Doesn’t matter. I’m the one responsible.’
‘You’re not. Look, I understand where you’re coming from. It goes with the territory. At home at night, if I’m on my own, if Jack’s out, or working late, I’ve got dead bodies piling up around me, fighting for room on the couch. The people I could’ve saved. If I’d done my job right. If I’d been a bit faster. A bit cleverer. A bit some fucking thing that I’m not. This one woman, though.’
Sadie stood up from the table, and walked to the kitchen island.
‘I’ve told you about her before. She’ll haunt me for ever. Jacqueline Delaney. It was when I was working over in Gurran station. If we’d answered the call a couple of minutes sooner, then, maybe … But we were sick of her by then. The husband had a barring order against him. Timmy Delaney, a weed with one of those bum-fluff excuses for a moustache. A horrible man. And she kept saying he was going to kill her, barring order or not. She kept calling the station. We’d go and investigate. It was a cat one time, a bird on the Velux another time. The wind blew over the washing line one night, one of those roundy twirly things, and she heard the bang and called us in a panic. And it was nothing. It was always nothing. Until the night he killed her. I’d started at ten, it had been busy, and it was coming up to one in the morning, and we were in the patrol car eating our supper that we’d just got from the chipper on Baker’s Road. A sausage and chips with curry sauce I was having, I remember. We moved when we got the call, we did, but we weren’t killing ourselves with speed, we took it handy. Lost a couple of vital minutes. Only down along Cathedral Road and off to the left, a short spin, but by the time we got there Jackie’s head was half hanging off and Timmy was sitting on the floor in a pool of his wife’s blood, still holding the shovel he’d battered her to death with. Crying, he was, penitent, the fucker. He found God in prison after. He’s out now on licence, did his twelve years. I see him sometimes in town handing out leaflets for that dopey church he’s taken up with, whatever it’s called, some born-again shower of gobshites. So when you talk about Rhona, I know what you’re feeling. Or something like it. But the thing that keeps me sane, the only thing, is that I know I didn’t kill Jackie Delaney. Like you didn’t kill Rhona. You have to keep remembering that, Finn, or you’ll go mad.’