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Authors: Gene Kerrigan

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural

The Midnight Choir (33 page)

BOOK: The Midnight Choir
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Like I had a choice.
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘Hopefully it won’t take long.’ O’Keefe gestured to a chair in front of his desk. ‘You haven’t had time to eat, I take it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Not to worry, we’ll have a bite here while we talk – I’ll order from the canteen.’ Reaching for the phone, he said, ‘They do a damn fine chicken sandwich.’
*
Rose Cheney said, ‘To be honest, I don’t see where this is going.’ Cheney and Synnott were drinking mugs of coffee in the Macken Road canteen. Joshua Boyce was in a cell, having a meal.
A phone call from the security director at Perry Logan’s had confirmed that the CCTV tape from Friday morning had already been reused. Cheney said, ‘Even if they had the tape, and it showed Boyce’s wife alone, that wouldn’t have proved anything – he could claim he was elsewhere, out of camera range.’
‘He wasn’t there, he was in Kellsboro, shooting a security man.’
‘His wife says she has the receipts.’
‘She’ll have them. They’ll be time-stamped and they’ll show that the purchases were made during that period. No signature on the credit card slips, all chip-and-pin these days.’
‘He’s got a workable alibi.’
‘That’s what he meant, in the driveway after we arrested him.’
Cheney looked puzzled. She watched Synnott flick through the pages of his notebook. ‘I have the note here.’ As he read the words, Synnott followed them with an index finger.
‘
You losers don’t have a case. You’re chancing your arm. You have no evidence against me. I saw to that.
’
Cheney said, ‘He said that?’
‘Sneering, playing the big shot. “
You’ve no evidence against me. I saw to that.
” Bob Tidey heard me ask Boyce if he’d sign my notes, Boyce told me to go fuck myself.’
‘One verbal. Is that enough?’
Synnott shook his head. ‘We’ve got him for forty-eight hours. So far, we’ve nailed him to a timeline. Ten-thirty to eleven-thirty, maybe twelve. We find someone who spotted him somewhere else outside that timeline, he’s ours. A busted alibi is worse than none at all. Give a jury an alibi, they’re impressed. Kick a hole in the same alibi and they start to wonder why this guy needed an alibi.’
Cheney said, ‘When will we put the verbal to him?’
‘Tomorrow – he’ll flip. It’s the smart ones who can’t believe they’ve been stupid enough to make a careless remark. He’ll deny it. They always do.’
39
Past nine o’clock, Rose Cheney’s husband was watching something on TV. The kids were in bed and Cheney had eaten the heated-up shepherd’s pie that David had kept for her. Before leaving Macken Road she’d spent an hour making notes on the interrogation of Joshua Boyce and on her meeting that morning with Teresa Hunt and her father. A full day. Time to switch off.
David Cheney laughed softly. ‘You’ve got to see this.’
It was a programme in which an assortment of young business people sought to impress a grumpy rich man with their business acumen. ‘Look at the eyes,’ David said. ‘Naked greed.’
After Rose had watched for a while she wasn’t sure if it was greed she saw in the eyes as much as desperation. She found herself feeling sorry for them. They were still recognisably human, but twisted into various shapes of avarice.
Cheney picked up the evening paper. The
Herald
had a very big headline over a very small story. She went to the kitchen and found the novel she’d put down two nights ago. She was reaching for the kettle when she stopped.
Worth a try.
The family computer was in a corner of the living room. While it was starting up, Cheney went back to the kitchen and made coffee for David and herself.
Hapgood and – what?
Max Senior, it turned out, was the principal of a thriving PR outfit, lately broken out of its niche market into the broader business world.
Hapgood and—?
When she got online she googled ‘Max Hapgood’ and found forty-three references and the top one gave her the firm’s name. She googled ‘Hapgood & Creasy’, then went to the firm’s website. It took another few clicks to find a page that listed the firm’s partners and associates, topped by Max Hapgood himself. There were twelve of them, eleven male, each with a CV and a nice smiley colour photo. She decided that three of the men were too old, fat or bald. She saved the remaining eight male photos to her work file. She separately cut and pasted the personal details of each associate into a text file and printed it. Then she went offline and got a Pritt Stick from Louise’s art box. She ran off a copy of each of the eight photos, on plain A4 paper. As each sheet came from the printer she cut out the appropriate personal details from the text sheet and pasted them onto the back.
Slumped on the sofa, Cheney’s husband had turned up the television volume during the printing. On the screen the grumpy rich man was poking a finger in the direction of a squirming young woman. When Cheney was done David brought the sound down.
Cheney said, ‘Sorry, love.’
David hoisted his coffee. ‘Cheers.’
Leave it till tomorrow?
Or?
Cheney made a short phone call.
When David saw that she was wearing her jacket he said, ‘This time of night?’
Cheney folded the photo sheets over and put them into her handbag. She kissed her husband and said, ‘Won’t be long.’
*
Harry Synnott, waiting for Dixie Peyton in a small room at the back of Cooper Street garda station, used a thumb and middle finger to rub his eyes. It had been a long day. Synnott thought of how much of his life he’d spent sitting across cheap, worn tables in one small room or another, talking to criminals, victims or witnesses, listening to lies and excuses, pleas and outrage. It had become a routine part of his life in the way that opening the bonnet of a car was a part of a mechanic’s life. He’d come to accept the inevitability of moving on from this to whatever kind of police work became routine with Europol. Bigger rooms, perhaps, and bigger lies. Maybe the tables wouldn’t be as cheap and as scarred.
When she came in Dixie seemed smaller, thinner than ever. Her face had a grey overlay that seemed to deepen the lines around her mouth. She sat down without looking at Synnott, her lips making nervous movements.
‘How are you doing?’
She shrugged and sat sideways on the chair, her knees turned away from Synnott.
‘Dixie?’
She ignored him.
‘That three hundred? There might be a way. Maybe more.’
Dixie didn’t look at him.
Bastard.
‘Did you hear me, Dixie? There might be a way.’
Too late.
A few hours ago.
Now.
Fuck him. Bastard.
‘Can’t promise anything, but I’ve been thinking of a way to help.’
Dixie didn’t respond.
‘I’m not going to sit here for ever, Dixie. The thing with the kid – maybe it seems hopeless, but it’s not. I’m here to help you.’
‘What’s the point?’
‘There’s always another chance.’
Her voice was sudden, loud and with an edge of harshness. ‘There’s no
point
.’
‘In jail, Dixie, that’s it – it’s over, nothing but dead time.’ Synnott reached across the table. Dixie’s head jerked an inch as Synnott’s fingers gently touched her chin. The fingers tenderly lifted her head. Her gaze came around to meet his. His voice was low, calm. ‘Out there, some money in your pocket, maybe you have another shot at whatever it is you want to do, wherever it is you want to go.’
Dixie looked at him for a long time, trying to work out where this might be leading.
Synnott’s voice was steady. ‘A thousand. Free and clear. And that thing about you taking the child – the abduction goes away. No harm done. If it’s put the right way, there’s no one couldn’t be persuaded to look at it as a family tragedy. And if it’s a family tragedy, no need for charges. The mugging charge, the needle – there’s no way they’ll drop that, but it’s a long time before that can come to court and I’ll make sure it’s even longer. Time enough for whatever you might decide to do. The people you mugged, they’re tourists. Maybe they’ll decide not to come back to give evidence, so the case fades away.’
Out of here.
A thousand.
Dixie looked up at him, thinking about what he’d said.
‘
Maybe you have another shot at whatever it is you want to do, wherever it is you want to go
.’
Synnott watched her ease back into her chair, her body moving around until she was facing him.
‘If it ever comes to court, I’ll give evidence, tell them how you’ve been making great progress, coming to terms with your problems.’
A detective inspector telling a judge that the defendant was a changed woman made the difference between jail and a suspended sentence
. She wasn’t herself, M’lord, when she committed the offence.
A widow, a young child. A custodial sentence might plunge her back into the depression that had caused her problems, while a second chance would allow her to pick herself up and make a positive contribution to society.
‘It’s the best offer you’re going to get.’
Dixie sat there for half a minute, looking into Synnott’s face.
‘What do I have to do?’
‘Where were you Friday morning? What did you do?’
Dixie looked blank, like she was trying to figure what day this was.
‘Friday,’ Synnott said, ‘when you got out of custody. You got bail, you went – where did you go?’
‘I went home.’
‘Yeah, but take it step by step.’
‘I walked down the quays.’
‘Where to?’
‘O’Connell Bridge.’ She was remembering now. ‘I was going to get a bus, but I didn’t fancy standing there, so I walked.’
‘Down the quays?’
She nodded. ‘Over O’Connell Bridge, down the far side. Grand Canal, Boland’s Mills.’
Synnott said nothing for a moment.
Try it?
Dixie Peyton?
Keep it simple, it’ll work.
One step at a time.
‘You crossed O’Connell Bridge? On foot?’
She nodded.
‘Any idea what time?’
‘No – maybe half-ten – whatever time I got out, then – whatever, maybe half an hour, three-quarters, give or take.’
‘Between half-ten and eleven?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You sure?’
‘I got home about, it was, maybe eleven, around that.’
As long as it’s simple, it’ll work.
‘You saw Joshua Boyce.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘He was crossing O’Connell Bridge, walking the other way. You passed each other.’
Dixie looked at him, puzzled.
‘He walked past you.’
Dixie opened her mouth, then closed it again.
‘You said hello, but he didn’t hear you the first time, so you said it again.’
Dixie said, ‘I said hello.’
‘You said it again. This time he saw you, he smiled, he said “
Hello, Dixie
,” and then he was gone, and you went on your way. Down the quays, Grand Canal, Boland’s Mills, home.’
Dixie sat there a while. Synnott held her gaze.
‘You want me to – what – sign a statement?’
‘More than that.’
‘Give evidence?’
‘You saw him, you said hello to each other – very simple, no one can say it didn’t happen.’
‘You said I could go wherever—’
‘Months, that’s all. We have him solid – the trial would be ready to go ahead in months.’
‘And I just – wait?’
‘Meanwhile, I get you into a programme, detox, visits with the kid, rehab, money in your pocket. Then there’s a trial and you say what you saw, Joshua Boyce on O’Connell Bridge, and then you do whatever. Free as a bird.’
Sooner or later she’d start thinking that once she had the money she could change her mind, just do a runner.
‘You sign a statement – you better know this up front.’ Synnott was leaning across the table now, inches from her face. She had to strain to hear his words. ‘You sign a statement and if you welsh on it there’s no end of ways I can come back at you. You know what I mean?’
Dixie had to lower her gaze from his unblinking stare.
He said, ‘I’m talking about Lar Mackendrick, Tommy Farr, Bill Ridley. You fuck me around, they find out where we got information that blew a hole in their operations. The names, the dates, the places. They’ll be queuing up to take a slice of you.’
BOOK: The Midnight Choir
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