Deadly Intent (26 page)

He fumbled with his mobile, in case anyone looked in his direction and realised he was eavesdropping. He told himself that he was too tired to join his colleagues. He should go home to bed, that was his best option. He had been given a couple of days off, but he wanted to be at the garda briefing announced for eight thirty in the morning, when the next steps in the investigation would be discussed.

He returned to his car, as indecisive as before. After the day's great surges of adrenalin, he was afraid it would take him hours to get to sleep. His mind would be churning: remembering how Maureen fell because he failed to help her in time; wishing he had spotted Darina O'Sullivan as soon as she got hold of Maureen; wondering again and again whether Dominic had intended to drown himself as well as his wife, for fear of Maureen giving evidence against him in court.

Redmond tried a few radio stations, but he was not in the mood for cheery music or the predictable rantings of phone-in shows. As for news bulletins, he could recite them off by heart, including references to the heroic role ascribed to himself and to Conor. Darina O'Sullivan was also praised widely – in an internet piece Redmond read earlier, she was called ‘Maureen's guardian angel', for saving her life twice. Darina's own comments were more muted, simply confirming that she went swimming in the same place most days, and had done as anyone would when she heard shouting from the pier.

At a garda press conference in the afternoon, praise had also been spread around liberally and Redmond had felt his heart gladden at every mention of his name. He was on a high at the time, feeling he had done something worthwhile at long last, which the super could not fail to notice. Most of all, he had been there for Conor when it mattered.

But as the day advanced, his doubts grew. His deeds were a hollow success if Dominic suffered brain damage because he was under water too long. As for Maureen, it was plain to everyone that it was not him who had saved her, but Darina. He resented her now for depriving him of the full glory of his actions. She was not even the type of person to relish the spotlight as he would.

He went over the opposite arguments in turn. If he had reined in his pride and allowed her to help Conor with Dominic, she might have done a better job at that too. She was clearly as strong a swimmer as he was, and more used to the local conditions. He subjected each incident to the pitiless microscope in his head, and ended up scourging himself as always before.

He told himself now that he should act like a normal person and go home with a few beers and a DVD. But he knew that drinking alcohol would send him off on another well-trodden path – brooding over his father's addiction and his own fear of succumbing to the same weak genes, asking the unanswerable questions about how his life would be today if his parents had taken a different road home on that awful evening.

He could hear music from the hotel as he drove away. He was glad he had left. It would give him a headache to sit in a bar straining to chat above the din. Instead, he would go somewhere quiet, to sort out his thoughts for the morning's meeting. Scannive Strand would be a good spot, and he might walk along the beach to help him sleep later.

Trevor had told him in the afternoon about the latest information from the pathologist, that Oscar's body had been placed by his killer or killers in a double layer of plastic bags, before the stiffening effects of rigor mortis had set in. The pathologist had also commented on another important process known as livor mortis: this showed how the blood had settled after his heart stopped pumping, including purplish discolouration where the heavy red cells had sunk by gravity to the lowest areas of his body, and blanched whitish skin wherever it had been pressed directly against another surface. In Oscar's case, the pattern provided evidence that his body had not lain prone in a car boot or ditch, but rather that it had been pushed, feet first and knees jammed to his chin, into a restricted container such as a box or tub. A new search would have to be made throughout the area to try and identify a likely container.

Redmond sat in his car, watching the sea's rhythmic flux. No matter how hard he and his colleagues worked, it seemed that they had barely advanced in their task. And now there was a serious risk that the biggest questions would remain unanswered. Even if Dominic survived, he might well be unable to face trial. He could certainly not be questioned in the near future about the incriminating strands of wool. Redmond could see himself being moved back to the tedium of routine duties – checking driving licences, maintaining public order and following up on complaints of violence in the home, many of them crimes and rows that were the everyday consequences of excessive drinking as practised by too many people in Ireland.

He had formulated a few specific questions of his own in the course of the investigation, but had been unsure about pursuing them. He was too cautious, too willing to take his lead from others. Jumping into the sea in an emergency was all very well, but presenting original information to his superiors would be better still. The morning's action needed a sequel. And if he failed to make a move before he was taken off the murder team, he would have long months in which to castigate himself.

The clock told him that it was twenty to nine. He procrastinated a few minutes longer, before turning the ignition at last. Reversing out of the parking area, he took the narrow road to the holiday houses at Carraig Álainn. It was time to trust his own judgement, just as Trevor had counselled him to do.

R
edmond opened three drawers in turn, his hand covered with a cloth so that he would not leave any prints. Marcus was careless, he thought, to have left the cabin of his boat unlocked. Unfortunately, there was nothing of interest in the drawers. A pack of cards, a few old sailing magazines, a small box of headache pills and a curl of withered orange peel.

He switched off his torch for a moment. He had seen two cars parked at Marcus's house, and a light on inside. If Marcus happened to step out to the edge of his patio and look down, he would realise that an intruder was snooping about on his boat. If he came down to investigate, Redmond would have nowhere to hide.

In any case, it was hardly acceptable garda behaviour to trespass on private property and carry out a search without a warrant. Even if he found a stash of illegal drugs on board, his evidence would probably be thrown out as inadmissible. Redmond's only excuse would be that he had suspected Marcus since he first laid eyes on him – but as to why, or what he suspected the young man of doing, he could not explain convincingly. He wanted to propose to his superiors that Carraig Álainn should be searched from top to bottom; but his real reason for sneaking onto the boat was to check in advance what might be found by such a search.

He opened a cupboard door quickly and flicked on the torch. Clothes in a heap. A pair of women's tights, rolled up in a ball. On a shelf above them, two boxes of condoms, one empty. No surprise that Marcus kept himself busy in that department. Redmond spotted a mini-cupboard by the door, and tried that too. A few packets of crisps and peanuts in a plastic shopping bag, plus a bottle of water. Some electrical items in a shoebox – a few timers for a central heating system, used plugs and a bit of cable, probably spare stuff for the holiday houses. No sign of what Redmond secretly hoped for, such as blocks of cocaine wrapped in cellophane, or a notebook conveniently listing prices, weights and importation dates. Oscar's name jotted in the notebook too, as clear evidence that he and Marcus were up to their necks in it together.

Redmond kept the torch up his sleeve as he moved around. Another few minutes was all he needed. The boat was a cabin cruiser, maybe twenty-five feet long and fitted with an engine. One main room under the deck, with a tiny kitchen in the corner, a pullout sofabed and a sliding door into the bathroom and toilet. Redmond had noticed the GPS steering system by the wheel upstairs, which probably had a computer record of all journeys. He was fairly sure that the boat was not big enough to make it across to France or Britain, but shunting twenty or thirty miles along the coast or out to sea should be no problem.

Finding valuable drugs on board was just a fantasy, as he soon admitted to himself. That sort of thing was usually the result of painstaking cooperation between Irish and other police forces, assisted by customs officers and sometimes paid informants. Carraig Álainn was ideally located for drug smuggling, however. The boat was part of its tourist offering, available to guests for sightseeing and fishing trips – and it could also be used by people posing as guests, to make a scenic trip out to sea where a consignment of drugs awaited collection from a larger boat.

Redmond left the cabin cruiser and clambered up the cliffside steps in the darkness, holding onto the handrail all the way. He should leave Carraig Álainn too. Marcus would be absolutely delighted to catch him creeping around, and could even claim that Redmond had planted false evidence against him.

A light was still on in the house nearest the cliff, so he stayed in the shadows of the trees. When he reached the middle house, he stopped for a few seconds to calm his breath. The house was as dark as ever, without a glimmer from its shrouded windows.

He was about to set off when he heard a sound. He crouched behind a large shrub and watched as two people came out of the darkened house. Marcus and the woman who fitted Katya's description, according to Conor's information. Perhaps they had switched off the hall light before they opened the door, or had been romping together in pitch blackness.

They paused on the pathway, lit by an outside light, and he got a good view of them. Katya was slim and sleekly dressed, her fair hair draped down her back. She said something to Marcus as he turned to open a garage door. He laughed in reply and called back over his shoulder. ‘Wait till you see the place. It's perfect for us.'

Redmond made a decision on the spot. He could stay at Carraig Álainn, and hope to get into one or more of the houses while they were gone. But that was the kind of crazy risk he had just taken on the boat. Instead, he would slip out the gate and drive ahead to await them at the nearest secluded junction. There was no law against following them along the public roads, in order to find out where their so-perfect hideaway was.

The speedometer climbed rapidly. Well over the speed limit on the twisting main road towards Kenmare. Easily over seventy-five an hour. The needle danced above the eighty-mile-an-hour mark as Redmond's car jolted on a pothole. Marcus was in a hurry – just like so many young drivers who rushed pell-mell to an early grave.

Redmond eased his foot on the accelerator. He hated fast driving. Fifty million people around the world killed since cars had become lords of the roads, a vast battlefield of pain and loss. That was of no concern to Marcus, of course, as fire sparked on hot metal and Katya admired his manly feats.

It was impossible to keep up with them. As soon as they overtook another car, they went out of sight. Redmond would prefer to be accused of burglary than of driving at an outrageous speed. Let them go and good riddance.

He parked in Ardgroom village. He would buy three cans of beer to take home. Total abstention from alcohol was taking things too far, after all that had happened earlier, and he could watch some silly film on television to calm his thoughts. It was none of his business if Marcus snogged a different woman every night. Even if he had a brothel on the go down at Carraig Álainn, well, that was a problem for Trevor or Conor as far as garda action was concerned.

He was about to drive off again when he saw the young pair stroll out of the pub. They must have been in the lounge having a quick drink while he made his own purchase in the bar. Katya was munching crisps out of a bag and Marcus was carrying a few bottles, that same sly smirk on his mouth that made Redmond's blood boil. Strutting about as he pleased, daring anyone to get in his way.

Redmond released the handbrake and drove out of the village. He had to do it. Follow Marcus and his lady friend, and find out why his gut screamed at him that they were up to no good. The morning's heroics had ended in self-doubt. He could not succumb to fear or caution now.

The road north soon narrowed and twisted into the night. Redmond kept ahead of the white car this time, keeping strictly to the speed limit and making it impossible for Marcus to overtake. He eyed the rear-view mirror with satisfaction, sure that he was being loudly cursed from the other car.

Just in time, he spotted them turning off the main road. Redmond drove on until he found an opportunity to make an about turn, and back to the side road taken by the Mitsubishi. He had lost a few minutes now, and would need a dose of luck to catch up.

He rounded a bend and saw red lights at a distance. When he came to a small crossroads, he was unsure of his bearings, but decided to go straight ahead. He glanced at several houses along the way, to check whether the white car was parked beside any of them.

At the next crossroads, he almost drove into the Mitsubishi. Marcus and Katya must have stopped to decide which way to go. Redmond turned down his lights as soon as he spotted them. When they set off, he followed slowly. At the next bend, he decided to switch off his headlights altogether.

The night was quite cloudy and he could barely decipher the landscape's outlines. He was in a maze of small hills and thickets. Every now and then, he caught sight of their rear lights flickering and leading him on.

He was moving through the night in an invisible tin box. Trees grew close to the road in places and he had to flick on his sidelights to avoid plunging into a ditch. Once, he drove through a pitch-black tunnel of foliage, guided only by a red pinprick at its far end. He could hit a wall or a hedge at any second.

When a car approached from the opposite direction, he had no choice but to light up properly and pull in to let it pass. He noticed grass growing in the middle of the road. He drove down a fairly steep slope, wondering if the shiny surface he glimpsed off to his right was the sea. The white Mitsubishi had disappeared from view.