Aftermath (5 page)

Reilly continued. “So who exactly was with you last night - at the restaurant and the pub?”

Annabel suddenly recoiled. “Wait a second…. why does that matter, and why are you questioning me like
I’m
some kind of criminal?"

Chris jumped in quickly. “Don’t worry, this is just a standard line of questioning."

“The entire production crew was there," she barked, clearly incensed. "Call them if you like. I think I've had about enough of this."

"Please, Mrs. Morrison,” Chris implored “we still have a few questions..."

"Bullshit!" she retorted standing. "Somewhere in this city the man who broke into my house and stabbed my husband is running from you. Hiding from you. And you are here in the hospital--instead of out there looking for him. For god’s sake my daughter could have been in the house … I suggest strongly that you people put your energies where they belong. On finding the bastard that tried to murder my husband.”

Annabel stood up and stormed out of the room--but before closing the door added, "I'm not saying another word without my solicitor. Are we understood, detectives?"

And she was gone. The three remained quiet for a couple breaths before Kennedy muttered. "Well that went well.”

"What in the hell is wrong with you two?" Reilly asked, frustrated.

“What?"

"You especially. Oh let me give you my shoulder Annabel, you poor, sweet little angel.”

"The woman was upset for goodness sake.”

"And suddenly you’re Sir Lancelot? You are a detective, Chris. Or has star power suddenly blinded you of that.”

“Now hold on just a goddamn second…” he said standing up. "What's this about? Are you jealous or just hormonal?"

“Hormonal?” Now Reilly was standing.

"Settle down," said Kennedy. "Look, we need to focus here. We didn't get a blood sample.”

Reilly took a deep breath, irritated that Chris’s behavior had gotten under her skin like that, and worse that she’d shown it.

She began packing up her kit bag. "I'll take care of it," she said with a sigh and left to catch up with Annabel. “You two go and check out the pub.”

“Gee thanks, boss,” Chris retorted, “what would we do without you telling us how to run an investigation?”

Conceding that the comment had in fact come across patronizing and bossy, Reilly smiled and gave him a truce-making pat on the shoulder.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day. If the food is good like Kennedy says, maybe you two should try pick up dinner while you’re there.”

But Chris’s body language remained terse and cold. “Whatever you say.”

A
nnabel Morrison was
where Reilly expected. Standing outside the ICU, gnawing at her fingers and watching through the window in desperation as her husband lay in a coma.

Reilly felt a little pang of guilt watching the woman. Morrison was motionless, clearly lost in a vortex of trauma and worry.

She approached quietly and stood next to her. “The doctors said they are trying to get his liver failure under control."

Morrison didn't respond.

"It's a good sign, I think," she added gently. "If they can catch it in time, then they can work the toxins out."

“You’re out for my blood, aren’t you?” Morrison said, not changing her gaze or expression. “I know how these things work. Just be sure to pin it on the spouse and then wrap it all up in a nice big bow. Not happening.”

“Don’t you want to help us find the person who attacked your husband, Mrs Morrison?”

“Of course, but not if it means I’m automatically implicated,” she retorted, casting a dismissive gaze at Reilly’s kitbag.

“I just need to ascertain your blood type to eliminate you from the scene…”

“Well, you could have just asked me then. It’s B plus. I hold a donor card,” she added, when Reilly looked surprised.

"Your daughter,” she asked, deciding to press while the woman seemed a little calmer. “She wasn't home last night?”

Annabel shook her head. "Lottie usually stays over with her friend Gemma on Friday nights."

"Because you’re usually out late," Reilly guessed, wondering why the woman wouldn't be more eager to go home and spend time with her family after a hard working week, instead of partying with her colleagues.

But what did she know?

Morrison nodded. "She's with my mother now in the waiting room. Please don't bother her."

“I won’t," Reilly told her. “What about your husband? He usually home on Friday nights?” It would be useful to know the habitual family comings and goings, as if this was a robbery, chances were the burglar might have had that information too.

“Sometimes. It depends on how busy things are. With the company.”

“Were you in touch with Josh at all before you arrived home? Sent a text letting him know you were on the way maybe?”

“Josh and I are a little old school that way. Still remember what it was like in the days before mobile phones. No, I just took a taxi home, came inside and …”

Reilly didn't run the risk of her clamming up again, by asking the name of the taxi company. Instead, she made a mental note to get Rory to check with the taxi firm the TV station normally used, as she guessed a famous face like Morrison wouldn't just take random city cabs home.

“Thanks for your co-operation, Mrs. Morrison."

“Call me Annabel,” she insisted again, but Reilly felt the response was by rote, the result of so many years playing the affable TV host. “You’ll find him won’t you?" she said then, with ferocity in her eyes. "You find him and make my house safe again for me. For Lottie?”

Reilly nodded, and then left the woman alone to watch over her comatose husband, her arms hugged close to her chest as tears streamed down her face.

So dramatic, and of course Annabel Morrison had every reason to be, but still she couldn't help but wonder if this too was all part of a performance.

She shook her head. She really needed to work on being more sympathetic, but something about Annabel Morrison rubbed her up the wrong way.

As she headed down the hallway, her phone buzzed with a diary alert. Checking the screen she realized she was about to miss an appointment.

One she'd been dreading for quite some time.

Fortunately for her, this Morrison thing was a hot case, so she could blow off the force’s attempt to provide her with obligatory PTSD counseling, following the incident with Tony Ellis last month.

The first session was today, and Reilly was grateful for the opportunity to give it a miss. It was a dumb idea and a complete waste of her time. In her line of work she ran into crazies all the time, had done throughout all her time in law enforcement both here and in the US.

How was she supposed to find time to do her job if she had to get therapy every single time that happened?

W
hile the detectives
were off hunting down potential suspects and interviewing witnesses, Reilly once again turned her focus to the crime scene.

One thing that had bugged her from earlier was still bugging her, so as she found her way to the hospital cafeteria to grab a bite, she looked at the Morrison background file information-hound Rory had compiled, and dialed the number to PhoneWatch Security.

"Reilly Steel, GFU,” she said to the woman who answered. "I need some data from one of your customers for an open investigation. I have the necessary codes.”

While Reilly listened to the hold music--Peter Gabriel she guessed--she sought out a sandwich and a soda. And some sort of processed cookie.

The baby made her want sweets. Or at least, that's how she justified it.

Sitting alone at a formica table she got through both her sandwich and the cookie before another person picked up.

"Investigation Liaison, this is Brian."

“Hello, Reilly Steel here from GFU. I'm on the Morrison case."

“Of course you are," Brian drawled. "And no I don't have a comment."

“I’m not a reporter. My office should have faxed over an incident request?"

"Oh," he said apologetically. "Let me look. Yes, I see it now, sorry. Can you confirm the incident number?"

"Yep, hold on," she thumbed through Rory’s carefully compiled info and found it. "X7 stroke 4989."

"Okay got it, so what can I help you with?"

“I know you guys usually send on a form report, but in the meantime, can you check the records for me? Was there an alarm or trigger event anytime last night at the Morrison residence?"

“We’re already checked it, believe me," Brian said, in a tone that suggested he was (yet another) Josh Morrison fan. "Quiet as a church. Not a peep."

"You don't need to get too detailed, but what's the trip configuration exactly? Someone hops over the wall into their garden for instance?"

"That would trip the system, yes. The whole perimeter is motion-sensitive, plus there's a trigger on all the windows and doors. As a matter of fact, we get at least a dozen false alarms from there a month."

"False alarms from what?"

“The usual story. They have a cat. Sometimes it gets out.”

“CCTV?”

“Nah, they didn't want it. Not many people do with a monitored system.”

Made sense, Reilly thought, that a high-profile couple like the Morrisons wouldn't want live CCTV cameras directed onto living areas that random PhoneWatch staff members could access at any time. It would be like living in the
Big Brother
house.

Pity though.

"Okay, got it. Thanks for your time Brian, and just fax the report to us as soon as you can."

S
atisfied
she had what she needed - for now - from both Josh and Annabel Morrison, Reilly left the hospital and returned to Killiney Hill.

The media circus had since turned into an all-out mob. Television crews swarmed the neighborhood. Cops had to close down the main thoroughfare around the coast, and escort locals to their houses.

City TV stations, newspaper and radio journalists crawled around en masse. It put Reilly in mind of trips to Palos Verdes as a kid, when hundreds of crabs would scuttle around rocks in between wave crashes.

Several TV trucks were scattered around as she passed, masts raised all the way. There were even two or three from UK stations. Several reporters were speaking into cameras. Producers crawling around. Photographers snapping each moment.

It reminded Reilly of an average day in Los Angeles.

Walking into the house, she was confronted with the unsettling smell of bourbon again, though thankfully its intensity had since subsided.

The rest of the GFU team were still there, carefully combing the property in full. The interior was now completely photographed and dusted. Samples were taken and crime scene markers were laid out at locations of significance or potential interest.

Going upstairs, she found Lucy finishing up in the master bedroom.

”Anything interesting?" Reilly asked.

“Everything…” she replied, eyes beaming. "Such an amazing wardrobe."

Reilly looked at her. “What I meant was--did you find anything specifically of interest concerning the crime?”

“Oh sorry. No sign of disturbance, or anything out of the ordinary in here. Except for her
incredible
Blahnik collection…”

“Lucy, please. Focus.” This was getting out of hand. First Chris and now Lucy, who Reilly considered her trusty number two.

How this couple (just a jock and a clothes hanger as far as she was concerned) had such a hold over supposedly intelligent people, she didn't know.

Reilly could never for the life of her understand celebrity culture - why people were so revered by the masses, solely because they happened to be in movies or on TV.

Maybe it was because she grew up in California. She'd seen countless so called ‘celebs’ over the years in San Francisco. They were always shorter than you thought (and much, much thinner) and usually had smaller heads. Except for news anchors and reporters who oddly all seemed to have giant heads.

In fact, the only time she was remotely interested was when she happened across Michael Jackson and his entourage sneaking out the back of the Fairmont Hotel one time. Though she’d barely batted an eyelid at Orlando Bloom waiting in line at Panda Express after a late shift one night.

Celebrities were fewer and far between in Dublin, of course. But there were a few--and many in this particular neighborhood. Everyone knew Bono lived just down the block, and this part of town was full of actors and media personalities. Hadn’t she heard that Meg Ryan had lived in these parts onetime too? Or maybe there was a romantic comedy in which Meg Ryan lived here. She couldn't be sure.

Maybe it was both.

The GFU’s tech-maestro Rory was wrapping up in the study downstairs. Clicking at the computer, he barely noticed Reilly and Lucy enter.

"You almost done?"

He nodded. "I've dumped the hard drive, emails, and browser history. I’ll trawl through it all at the lab."

"Just one home computer here?"

"Josh's, I think. He has an obsession with MineCraft by the looks of it. Or maybe the daughter has. If Annabel used it, I can't tell."

"Maybe she has a laptop somewhere? Or an iPad.”

“Well, it’s not here if she does,” Lucy said. “I’ve gone through everything.”

“Mini-tablet? She must have some kind of personal organizer.”

Rory shrugged. “She’ll be carrying it around with her, so unless she hands it over …”

“That might be not be necessary just yet. Okay, thanks, Rory."

Next, Reilly went back to the kitchen and examined the incident markers the team had put up. Initial point of contact, position of struggle, and of course, where it ended with the smashed table.

Gary walked her through it again, giving her his initial impressions.

"Attacker came from behind the island, and made the initial slash here," he pointed to the blood spatter on the floor.

He had marked the knife block already, the assault weapon hadn’t yet been found--and the chef's knife from the knife block was missing.

Premature to assume anything just yet though. They’d have to analyze the wound characteristics in more detail to be sure.

"That would suggest that the perp walked up to Morrison from behind?”

Gary nodded, and then pointed to a kettle sitting on the island's gas hob.

It had stood out to Reilly earlier because it wasn't a plug-in electrical type but one that whistled when boiled - the kind that Americans used.

She hadn't seen one of these in Ireland before, everyone seemed to prefer boiling water electrically rather than wait for it to heat up on the hob.

Looking at it more closely now, she realized that this was likely a choice of style over convenience, as the kettle was an expensive designer Alessi brand, with its signature whistling bird on the spout.

Known for it’s artistic, rather than functional appeal, and glancing around the worktop area, she saw that the Morrisons favored this kitchenware brand quite a bit.

Figured.

“Recorded the water level. It was almost full, and at room temperature. And the hob wasn't on."

Reilly noticed the mug and a tea filter with dry-leaf in it, waiting.

“He didn’t get the chance to start the kettle," she observed.

"Or someone turned it off," Lucy reasoned. "We've dusted it for prints, obviously.”

Pacing around the kitchen, she decided to check the fridge. There was leftover curry inside, plus an assortment of typical groceries. She took a mental note, wondering if Josh Morrison had ordered in for dinner last night.

Her phone rang; it was Chris.

"Just wanted to let you know, her alibi checks out.” His voice was terse.

"What?"

“We spoke to the barman on shift at the Gate House last night. Annabel Morrison was with her colleagues in the pub until the party broke up at about 2 am."

“Which taken with the time of the 999 call, suggests the attack happened while she was on her way home," Reilly observed, almost to herself.

“Sounds like it. Happy now?”

“Maybe.”

Hanging up, she turned to back to the team. “OK then. Anything else?"

Lucy nodded. “Got a couple of decent tread impressions behind the island, despite the mess. Might be something once we eliminate the paramedics and first responders?”

"Great, double check the walls and countertop again for anything I may have missed first time round, fridge too. Use black light on the broken glass--maybe the perp drooled or something. And you printed the internal doors and the slider?"

“Of course,” Lucy nodded, as she continued dusting.

Gary had gone back outside placing markers near the perimeter wall.

“Bit surreal isn't it?" he said when Reilly approached. “To be standing in Josh Morrison’s garden.” Again he had that dreamy look on his face. “I mean, I grew up watching this guy scoring unbelievable tries week after week, and now I’m standing in his garden, where he might have even practiced…”

“And now the guy is fighting for his life in the hospital,” she reminded him, exasperated. “I'll want you to look over the medical charts with Julius. St Vincent’s should be faxing them to the lab soon.”

“On it," he said, recovering a little. “I’m almost finished here anyway. Take a look at this.” He hoisted himself up on the wall, and pointed to a lane-way in the back that seemed to go nowhere.

Then she saw it.

Footprints in the dirt. On first impression they looked like they belonged to a heavy work boot of some sort, and were facing away from the wall. There was much more pressure on the first than the next, so easy enough to deduce that someone had jumped the wall and landed there.

“Impressions?” she said to Gary.

“Already done. Decent ones too. Look to be male - big feet, size eleven or twelve, even. Hopefully we can isolate something similar from the mess inside.”

“Nice work, Gary.” She was inwardly cursing herself for failing to check outside the perimeter during her inspection of the grounds earlier, but the wall was high and she remembered feeling instinctively reluctant to scale it.

Blame the blob.

Luckily Gary had no such issues.

"What are you marking there?” she asked him then.

“Cigarette butt.”

She leaned in close and saw the butt half-hidden beneath a piece of bark mulch in the plant bed.

“Brand?”

Gary was studying it. “Looks like Marlboro. You’d know - give it a whiff.”

Reilly didn't even need to bring it as far as her nostrils to confirm that he was correct.

“Great. Might be good for some kind of partial even if it’s not our perp. I doubt that he took the time for a quick cigarette before hopping the wall.”

“I agree, but you’d never know.”

"Okay, let's try and wrap things up then - I want to be back in the lab before the day’s out.”