The Wrong Kind of Blood (13 page)

“You’re right,” I said. “It was inexcusable. I assume I’ll be going before a judge this morning?”

Fiona Reed was staring at me like I was something the sea had washed up. Dave moved to the wall by the tape machine and leaned against it, rubbing his palm against the nap of his tightly cut salt-and-pepper hair. The blood had drained from his face, and his eyes were red. He looked like I felt.

Reed turned to him and said, “All right.”

Dave switched the tape player to record.

“Interview room two, Seafield Garda Station, July 22nd; Detective Inspector Reed, Detective Sergeant Donnelly present; interview with Edward Loy commenced 09:45 a.m.,” Dave said.

“I didn’t knock someone down, did I?” I said, fairly certain I hadn’t, but needing to wrest some control of the situation back my way.

Dave sat down and rested his elbows on the table again. He pushed his mouth into his fists, then rested his chin on top of them. He started to speak, then stopped and looked at D.S. Reed, who nodded.

“D.S. Donnelly interviewing Mr. Loy. Can you account for your movements after you left Hennessy’s pub last night?”

“I went to Linda Dawson’s house in Castlehill. I was there about half an hour, maybe longer.”

“What is the nature of your relationship with Mrs. Dawson?”

Mrs. Dawson.

“She hired me to find her husband.”

“Hired you in what capacity?”

“As a private detective.”

“Are you licensed to work as a private detective in this jurisdiction?”

“No.”

“But you represented yourself to Mrs. Dawson in that capacity.”

“She was already aware that I had worked as a private detective in the United States.”

“So you would characterize your relationship with Mrs. Dawson as strictly professional.”

“What’s all this about? Is Linda all right?”

“Just answer the question please.”

“I suppose so.”

“Meaning you’re not sure?”

“Meaning I saw her for the first time in twenty years two days ago at my mother’s funeral. It’s a bit early to be talking about ‘relationships.’ Is Linda all right? Because if—”

“And after you left Mrs. Dawson’s house?”

“I drove back down the hill and into the Garda checkpoint.”

Fiona Reed’s lips were pursed; her green eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed; her flame-colored hair stood on end. She lifted her finger and pointed it at me.

“Peter Dawson’s body was discovered last night, on his boat. He was shot at least twice. A Glock 17 was found at the scene,” Reed said.

With a missing person, you always know whether there’s any hope or not, but you always suppress that knowledge in case it interferes with your investigation. I think I had known Peter Dawson was dead from the moment Linda asked me to find him.

“Mr. Loy makes no verbal response,” Dave said for the benefit of the tape.

“Your prints were found all over the boat. And on the gun,” Reed said.

My prints? So that’s what the stains on my fingers were. The last Laphroaig must have switched my lights out completely.

“I searched the boat from top to bottom yesterday,” I said. “Like I told you, I was looking for Peter Dawson.”

“Your prints are on the murder weapon.”

“You assume it’s the murder weapon. You couldn’t have done ballistics yet.”

“We spoke to the boatman.”

“Colm? Well, there you are.”

“He said you came up from below looking for tools. He said you went back down, that you were there long enough—”

“Long enough to what? Shoot Peter Dawson twice with a witness fifteen feet away?”

“You could have used a silencer.”

“And what? I left the gun behind to incriminate myself but took the silencer with me, because it had sentimental value?”

I had a sudden flash. One of the faces in Hennessy’s bar, among the crowd who rose to greet George Halligan, was Colm the boatman, Colm who went up the town a stretch if he wanted a pint.

“How did your prints come to be on the gun?”

Reed, the finger in my face again.

“Was there any blood?” I said.

Dave looked at the floor.

“Answer the question, Mr. Loy—”

“Were there any shell casings?”

Dave looked away. Reed pursed her lips.

“I’m betting no. That means he wasn’t murdered on the boat. What about time of death? But you probably haven’t had the postmortem results yet.”

Reed’s green eyes never left me; her gaze was unsettling, but I wasn’t going to let her know that.

“So what is all this?” I said. “Do you really think I killed Peter Dawson?”

Dave stood up and knocked his chair to the ground, rolling his huge shoulders as he moved.

“Your prints are all over the Glock, you were placed at the crime scene before the discovery of the body, what are we going to do? Tell Superintendent Casey not to worry, we were at school together? How did your prints come to be on the gun?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

Dave crashed his huge fists down on the table and began to shout into my face. “Don’t give me any rigmarole here, Ed, just answer the questions I ask like a good man. Or we’re gonna have some trouble, you and me.”

Dave sat down and flashed me a quick grin. Some of that had been for Reed’s benefit, but by no means all. I tried to figure out just how much I could tell them without landing Tommy Owens in it. I didn’t think Tommy was capable of murder, but I wouldn’t have thought he was drug dealer material either. I realized I didn’t really know anything for sure about Tommy anymore, but that didn’t mean I was going to offer him up to the cops on a plate.

“I think the gun came from Podge Halligan,” I began.

There was a knock on the interview-room door. Reed raised the finger she was fond of pointing and flicked it toward Dave. “Don’t go away now,” Dave said, and went out.

“Interview suspended while D.S. Donnelly leaves the room, 10:07 a.m.,” Reed said, hitting the pause button on the tape player.

It was stuffy and warm in the airless room, and I could smell my own scent rising, a toxic cloud of booze and sweat and smoke. My skin was crawling, and I wanted to scrub it with a can of bleach and a wire brush. I tried to focus on the danger I was in, but all I could do was wonder whether Linda would be upset or relieved to hear of her husband’s death. And whether it would come as a surprise to her. And whether all that would mean I wouldn’t get to sleep with her again. Fiona Reed was gazing at me like I was something that had crawled up out of a drain. I was wondering how I had managed to excite quite so much of her hostility on such a short acquaintance when Dave came back into the room with two sheets of paper, one of which he passed to his boss.

“D.S. Donnelly returns to the room, distributes copies of preliminary postmortem report, interview resumes, 10:11 a.m.,” said Reed, after releasing the pause button.

“Peter Dawson’s body had already passed through rigor and begun to decompose. Which sets the estimated time of death at least five days ago, if not more,” said Dave.

“He was last seen on Friday at about six in the evening,” I said.

“And this is Thursday morning,” said Reed. “What time did you get in from L.A.?”

“Sunday afternoon, about five-thirty. So not only did I not do it, it looks like I couldn’t have done it.”

“Just about,” snapped D.I. Reed.

A silence followed this outburst. I smiled. Reed nodded at Donnelly.

“All right. The two bullets retrieved from his body are nine-millimeter Parabellum. The Glock 17 is chambered for the Parabellum nine-millimeter round. It has a 10-round magazine with two bullets missing. We don’t have ballistics confirmation yet, but I think it’s safe to assume the bullets came from this gun. So — Mr. Loy — once again — how did your prints get to be on the murder weapon?”

D.I. Reed came crashing in.

“Because it’s not just the finger on the trigger, Mr. Loy, as I’m sure you know. You think the gun came from Podge Halligan. What’s that you’re telling us, in the time you could take from your mother’s funeral you were handling weapons for the Halligan gang?”

“All right. Who else’s prints are on the gun?” I said.

“Who else’s prints? You tell us,” Reed said.

“Because this is what I’m trying to say, it’s a setup by the Halligans, they’re trying to frame this guy, just like they’ve tried to frame me.”

“What guy, Ed? We need you to say the name,” Dave said.

They were pissed off with me, and I didn’t blame them, but Dave was as straight as they came or no one was. Tommy would get a fair shake from Dave — and if he had killed Peter Dawson, there was nothing I could do to protect him, and nothing I wanted to do either. I wasn’t as optimistic about Reed, but Dave was going to be compromised through his relationship with me if I didn’t give them something. So I told them about Tommy’s unexpected arrival at the house on Tuesday night, about how he claimed to have come by the Glock and all the rest, leading up to the gun being stolen with the rental car last night, when I was on alcoholic maneuvers.

“So let’s get this straight: Podge Halligan or one of his boys shot Peter Dawson, then gave the murder weapon to Tommy Owens and he brought it to you? Why?” said Reed.

“Why bring it to me? He feared he was being set up for a murder. And now it looks like he was.”

“Alternatively, Tommy killed Dawson himself, then brought you the gun—”

“Why would he do that? Why didn’t he just dump the weapon, if it had his prints on it? Or wipe it clean before he gave it to me?”

“Maybe the gun itself is significant — whoever owned it—” Dave began.

“I doubt very much this gun is legally registered to anyone,” said Reed. “It’s probably a reconditioned piece.”

“The third possibility is, that Tommy took the gun without Podge Halligan knowing about it,” I said. “I went in and pretty much told Podge I was holding it for Tommy. They have Peter Dawson’s body since Friday, trying to work out when and where to dump it. While I’m in Hennessy’s with George, they go to Quarry Fields, trash the place, find the Glock in the boot of the rental car.”

“And then Podge took it and placed it with Dawson’s body in the boat? How would they get access to the Royal Seafield? I don’t think they’re members, Ed,” said Dave.

I shrugged. I wanted to take a crack at Colm the boatman myself.

“All I know is, there was no gun and no dead body when I looked the boat over at lunchtime. It had been scrubbed clean.”

“Did you find anything?”

Just a photograph of my father and John Dawson.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Any idea where your pal Tommy Owens might be now?” asked Reed.

“You’ve tried his mother?”

“He didn’t come home last night.”

“He’s not a killer, Inspector Reed.”

“We’ve evidence that says he did it, and nothing to link the Halligans to it.”

“That’s how a good frame works.”

“Why should we suspect a frame?”

“I’ll find him. And I’ll prove he didn’t do it,” I said.

Reed exhaled quickly, a silent, mirthless laugh. She waved that finger at Dave again.

“Interview ends, ten thirty-five,” said Dave. He leaned across and switched the tape off.

“Don’t forget, we have you here on a number of charges, Mr. Loy. You may not be in a position to be finding anybody,” said D.I. Reed.

“Shouldn’t I be appearing before a judge this morning, to answer for my sins?”

“You certainly should.”

Reed stared at me for a moment, then pursed her lips and headed for the door.

“Unfortunately, the charges won’t stand,” Dave said, shaking his head sadly.

“What?”

“Procedure wasn’t followed correctly.”

“How do you mean?”

“Garda Nolan put the wrong date on the arrest form,” Dave said. “A caution and you’re free to go.”

“What about Garda Nolan?”

“Garda Nolan will have to learn how to do his job properly. Just get the car taxed and insured, Ed. And don’t be drinking like a girl, and if you do, don’t be driving like a cunt.”

“Is that my official caution?”

Reed turned back to me.

“No, this is,” she said. “Peter Dawson is now a Garda inquiry. We’ll look after all aspects of it, and that includes tracking Tommy Owens down. You keep out of it, Mr. Loy. No ifs or buts, no outside assistance invited or appreciated: just stay away. Do you understand?”

I looked from her to Dave. No ifs or buts, no nods or winks there; they were warning me off for real.

“I understand,” I said.

I had always been a convincing liar.

I GOT A TAKEOUT CUP OF COFFEE AND SAT ON A BENCH
on Seafield Pier watching seagulls swoop and shriek, and boats fill their sails and gust in and out of the harbor. The mackerel were running, and two men in a small green fishing boat out in the bay looked like they were pulling them out of the sea with their hands. The Garda Crime Scene teams had left the promenade, but the Royal Seafield Yacht Club was still swarming with police.

I called Linda, but she wasn’t answering; I left messages of sympathy on her home and mobile phones, and asked her to call me when she felt up to it. I tried to make my voice sound crisp and businesslike, but it didn’t fool me; I hoped it wouldn’t fool her either.

I called Tommy Owens’s mother, who said she hadn’t seen Tommy for two days, and didn’t sound particularly bothered about it. Then I called his ex-wife, Paula, who said she hadn’t seen Tommy for two weeks, that he owed her money and that he was a malingerer and a useless waste of space. She sounded extremely pissed off about it, and I couldn’t say I blamed her. The only other place I could imagine Tommy being was Hennessy’s; when I called there, however, the barman told me Tommy had been barred. I said I found that astonishing, and asked had anyone ever been barred before. He said he didn’t think so, he had worked there twelve years and he didn’t know what you had to do to get barred, but whatever it was, Tommy must have done it: the word had come down from Noel Senior, and Noel Senior hadn’t kept Hennessy’s open for fifty years by telling anyone his reasons.

I walked around Seafield until I found a menswear shop. I bought another black suit, five more white shirts and a supply of socks and underwear. In the supermarket I got new potatoes, peas in the pod, lemons, oatmeal, flat-leaf parsley, and a roll of black garbage bags. I went down the pier and bought two mackerel at a stall that guaranteed all the fish it sold had been caught fresh that morning. I bought half a dozen newspapers in a newsagent’s. Then I walked back to Quarry Fields.