Brian O'Hare

PROLOGUE

October 2002

He was standing in a shadowed corner, his back to a wall, observing but not observed. His eyes, the only source of movement in an almost preternaturally still body, ranged the room. They came to rest on a laughing girl, mini-skirted, long blond hair, dancing in the middle of the floor with two of her friends. She was slim, beautiful. He stared at her for a long time, expressionless, studying her smiling face, her slender waist, her long, lightly tanned legs.

There were some twenty students in the room, a large sitting room with all the furniture moved back to the walls to make room for dancing. The students were mostly from Queen’s University but there were a few A-level students from one of the local grammar schools. He could identify them easily, overly made-up, suppressed excitement badly concealed behind a studied nonchalance that was supposed to pass for sophistication.

His gaze flicked to his two friends. Friends? The corner of his upper lip moved imperceptibly. Two guys he hung about with, maybe. Not friends. How could they be? Friends are intellectual equals. Nothing in his face moved, but somehow his expression had metamorphosed into contempt. He watched the two second-year undergrads sitting on a sofa, beers in their hands, giggling stupidly, poking and jostling each other. Half-sozzled, and the party barely started. He did not need to be a seer to decipher their thoughts. Idiots! Living in a drink-fuelled fantasy of sexual conquests to come, nodding and shoulder-pointing at the small group of female students at the music centre who were handing CD covers back and forth as they chose songs to play. Yes, boys, point and nod all you want. But you’ll drink yourselves into a stupor, go back to your digs and be sick, and attend lectures tomorrow with pounding heads and aching regret for opportunities yet again missed.

His gaze returned to the blond girl. The cold eyes seemed to glitter, but his expression and body remained motionless. But not tonight, boys. Not tonight. This will be a night that you will not forget for a long time. He continued to study the girl, the way she moved, her body language. She was enjoying herself with her friends but, unlike them, she exuded a certain diffidence, a shyness that hinted at introversion. Decision flickered in the calculating eyes. She’s the one. Minimum compulsion required. He recognised the type. Shame will silence her. He eased himself from the wall and made his way to his two ‘friends’.

He did not move unnoticed. A number of girls seated at the walls stopped talking to watch the tall, handsome, strongly-built figure as he passed by. Some knew him, or at least they knew his public persona: captain of the Queen’s University debating team, leading member of the drama society and, somewhat oddly, scrum-half for the Queen’s rugby team. He hunkered down in front of the two students on the sofa and put a hand on the outer shoulder of each. Leaning conspiratorially inwards, he spoke in low tones. “Boys, ease back on the booze. You want to be able to perform tonight, don’t you?”

Two pairs of incredulous but extremely interested eyes stared at him. He gave them his charming grin, one that he had perfected before a mirror. He knew it made him look sincere when, in fact, he felt nothing. “Get yourselves upstairs and bag one of the bedrooms. I promised you something special tonight. Now’s the time.”

Excitement, fear, lust, puzzlement chased each other across the students’ faces. “But who … what?”

“No questions. Get a bedroom. Make sure it has a key. I’ll join you ...” He gave them a leering wink. “...in about ten minutes. And I won’t be alone.”

The two friends jumped up from the sofa. He grabbed both their arms and hissed, “Calmly, you idiots. Act casual.”

He watched as they left the room, tense with anticipation and almost sober again. There was a small drinks table near the disc player, manned by a member of the rugby team. He went over, asked for a beer, and chatted for a few moments with his teammate. While he was talking, he noted that one of the blond girl’s friends had just left the room, presumably to use the toilet. He nodded a goodbye to the barman and followed the girl into the hall. There were two or three small groups standing there, glasses in their hands, laughing vacuously or arguing about matters of serious import affecting the future of the world.

He followed the girl upstairs and found her on an empty landing, her head turning from side to side as she searched for the bathroom. He glanced around. No one near. Silently he padded up behind her and hammered a fist into the side of her head, just above the ear. She crumpled immediately. He hooked a hand under each armpit and dragged her into a nearby broom cupboard. He had earlier made a reconnaissance of the area and had left some rags there. With these, he swiftly gagged and bound the still unconscious girl. One final furtive surveillance of the landing and he emerged from the cupboard, closing the door firmly behind him.

He wasted little time returning to the party. He walked over to the blond girl, who had now joined the group at the music centre, and touched her elbow. She turned and saw a handsome student on whose face was an expression of concern. “Excuse me,” he said. “Are you Lynda?”

She gave him a hesitant, “Yes?”

“Friend of Jacqueline?”

She began to share his concern now. “Yes.”

He seemed unwilling to say what was wrong but forced himself to speak. “I don’t think she’s well. I was upstairs, and she collapsed on the landing as I was passing by. She sent me to get you.”

Lynda turned to speak to one of the others, but he touched her shoulder. “She doesn’t want to make a whole fuss about this,” he said quietly. “She just wanted to know if you could just go up and be with her for a while.”

She nodded quickly and went immediately to the door. He pretended to go back to his place in the corner of the room but, stopping to look at his watch, he clicked his fingers as if he had forgotten something and headed for the door as well. He caught up with her at the top of the stairs where she was standing looking right and left, still concerned but puzzled.

She saw him coming and said, “Where is she?”

“Just in here,” he said, leading her to the bedroom at the end of the hall. He had seen the door of the room open a crack and knew that his friends were watching. He stood back as she walked in. The other two students, grinning gormlessly, were standing by the bed.

Lynda stopped, suddenly wary. “Who are you? Where’s Jacqueline?”

The handsome one grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her towards the bed and, with little effort, threw her on top of it. “Right boys,” he commanded, “grab an arm each.”

Instinctively they obeyed his command, seizing an arm each but clearly unsure about what they were supposed to do with them. The girl was struggling now, frightened. “What are you doing? What do you want?”

The handsome one stepped to the side of the bed and slapped her face hard. His features were distorted now with a sneer of contempt. “What do you think we want?” He stared at her for a moment. “You can do this the easy way or the hard way, but either way you are going to do it.”

She struggled all the more and began to scream. Immediately he stuck a handkerchief into her mouth and began punching her even more roughly than before. Face, body, it didn’t seem to matter. “The harder way it is, then,” he snarled with a sour grin. He hit the girl on the face again, very hard, this time drawing blood.

One of his companions, looking shocked, said, “Hey, steady on!”

He lifted a hand to silence him. “Patience, boys, patience. Plenty here for everybody.” And he climbed onto the bottom of the bed, reaching for his belt buckle.

ONE

October 2014

Woman Detective Sergeant Denise Stewart finally found her way to the Serious Crimes room that she was to share with a number of other detectives. She stared at the door and inhaled a deep breath. First time out of uniform, new job, new role, new station, a certain amount of tension was to be expected, but she had not anticipated that Strandtown Police Station would have been so large. It had taken some time to locate the room, but she had been hesitant to ask further directions, trying to make do with what she had been told at the information desk. She was not yet sure of the reception she might receive, particularly in view of the manner of her promotion, and was less than keen to draw any immediate attention to herself. Some detective! New to the job, maybe, but what kind of genius did she need to be to figure out that a station with a complement of two hundred and forty full-time officers and another forty-eight or so civilian workers was not going to be a two or three-room affair?

Her hands were filled with a large cardboard box containing her “stuff,” so she reversed into the detectives’ room, pushing open the door with her back. She turned to examine the room wondering where she was supposed to sit. The room was quiet, almost fully unoccupied except for a fat, jowly detective who had been poring over some papers but who now looked up to see who had entered. He leaned back on his chair, putting excessive demands on the buttons of his shirt, as he gazed at the newcomer. His gaze became an unashamed leer as he noted the trim figure, the blond hair, the exceptionally pretty face.

Pushing himself awkwardly from the desk, he stood up. “Name’s McCullough,” he said, trying without success to suck in his gross paunch. He pointed at the box she was carrying. “Can I help you with that?”

She gave him a curt nod, irritated by his crude interest. “WDS Stewart,” she said neutrally. “Thanks, but I can manage. Can you tell me where I might find Chief Inspector Sheehan, please?”

McCullough stepped back a bit and waved a vague hand in the direction of some offices at the far end of the large room. “Why don’t you try his office,” he said ungraciously.

The woman detective’s lips tightened. Is this guy for real? He’s miffed because I’m not jumping all over him? With that comb-over? Good grief! She carried her box to an office, which she could now see had “DCI J. Sheehan” painted on the door. She knocked and entered at the muffled “Come!” that issued from inside.

She was struggling to support her box on one arm as she turned the handle but the chief inspector immediately came from behind his desk. He seemed to wince as he took the box from her but offered no explanation. He sat it on one of the chairs at the wall of the office and offered her another chair in front of his desk. “WDS Stewart?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Reporting in.”

“Welcome to B District.”

She stared at the intense blue eyes, the darkly handsome face, and the genuinely friendly smile. Inwardly she relaxed. I’ll be able to work with this man for sure. She gave him a tentative smile in return and said, “Thank you, sir.”

He went back behind his desk. “Most of the guys are out, but you’ll meet them later. A good bunch for the most part ...” He saw something in her eyes and grinned. “Ah, you’ve already met McCullough?”

She nodded, choosing to remain silent.

He grinned again. “Don’t worry; he’s not typical of the team.” He leaned back in his chair and continued, “I’ll show you to your desk in a minute.” He stared at her, arms folded. She was remaining mute, waiting to hear what he would say next. He saw a very pretty woman in front of him, mid-twenties, but he saw also a woman in control of herself, a woman who was not intimidated by her situation or his status. He saw no arrogance, but he did sense a hint of concern, of apprehension. He’d read her file and knew what was troubling her. “Congratulations on your promotion to plainclothes, Sergeant.”

Her lips compressed, but she said, “Thank you, sir. I hope I can fit in here. I’ll certainly do my best.”

“You’ll be fine.” He hesitated. “I have not yet told the squad about the circumstances of your promotion, but you’re smart enough to know that word will filter through eventually. McCullough aside, though, you’re unlikely to face any bile. McCullough’s old school, a dinosaur. He doesn’t like Catholics; he hates that he’s PSNI and not RUC; he doesn’t think women should be detectives. In fact, he embodies just about every prejudice Northern Ireland has to offer. He only holds onto his job because he has the wit to shut up when he’s told. Bark at him a few times, and he’ll leave you alone.”

Stewart listened as the CDI was talking and thought that he was unlike any of the bosses she had worked for before. Apart from the fact that she had heard that he had not long been married, she was sufficiently experienced to recognise that he was not trying to come on to her, that he was being genuinely friendly. She had also heard someone say that Jim Sheehan represented the human face of management in the upper echelons of the force. She could already see why he had earned that approbation. She was thus emboldened to ask, “What have you heard about my promotion, sir?”

“Well, you know there’s nothing secret in the ranks of the PSNI, Sergeant, but there’s always the question of interpretation.” She raised her eyes ceilingwards and shook her head slightly from side to side. “Depends on whom one talks to,” Sheehan went on, “but you got promoted either for betraying a colleague, or ridding the force of a corrupt police officer.”

“I have had some stick about it, sir.”

“Sergeant, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of. You discovered the corruption in your station, you ferreted out the culprit, and you were unafraid to bring your findings to your superiors. Good detective work, allied to integrity. Any cop who questions your actions would need to look into his own heart. When are you testifying?”

“Tomorrow, sir. But I have a meeting with the Crown Prosecutor this afternoon.”

“Right. I knew it was soon. Okay, we’ll not put you on duty until you’ve got that business squared away.” He hesitated. “I think I’ll go round the members of the squad individually and see that they get the truth about you. Don’t want any uncertainty cluttering up the place.” He stood up. Again, that slight awkwardness. He must be in pain with something, she thought. “But come on out to the room now, and you can unload that box on to, or into, your desk.” He lifted the box from the chair. She stood up and waited at the door for him to pass, but he said, “Ladies first, Sergeant.”

The feminist in her wasn’t sure how to react to that, but here was a man she could forgive easily. She gave him a quick smile and went out before him although she had to wait immediately for him to lead her to the desk that had been cleared for her, fortunately a comfortable distance away from McCullough’s.

As the chief inspector was setting the box on Stewart’s desk, the door opened, and a tall, well-built young detective came into the room. “Oh, Tom,” Sheehan called to him. “I’d like you to meet our new colleague, Detective Sergeant Denise Stewart.”

Detective Allen came over, hand proffered while he was still a few steps away. “Tom Allen,” he said. “Welcome to the squad, Sergeant.” Then, with a grin, he added, “You’ll certainly brighten up this dreary place.”

Denise accepted the handshake but said, unsmiling, “I’m not altogether sure that that is my role here, Detective.”

The young detective’s handsome face reddened, “Of course, Sergeant,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean ...” He waved his hands defensively. “I’m sorry.” He backed away, embarrassed, and went to his own desk.

Seeing the young detective’s confusion, Denise felt a moment of guilt. If he had been less good-looking, would she have reacted differently? She caught Sheehan’s somewhat puzzled eye and said, “Shouldn’t have said that, sir. Instinctive reaction. I get that sort of thing a lot, and I’m a bit fed up with it.”

Sheehan nodded. “Okay, Sergeant, but keep it outside. Morale in the squad-room is important to me. You’re going to have to get along.”

“Sorry, sir. I will.”

Sergeant McCullough, an interested spectator, looked at Tom and raised his eyebrows. Tom made a face, and with a quick glance at the new team member to see that he was unobserved, he mouthed the word, “Prickly.” …