Aftermath (2 page)

T
he trip
out took only about fifteen minutes at this time of the morning.

As she drove up along the steep hill from Dalkey Village, passing homes with exotic Neapolitan names, meandered along the high elevation, and lush Mediterranean gardens rolled out on either side behind castellated cut granite walls, and around stunning castles & mansions.

Upon reaching the crest of the hill, Reilly didn't even need to double-check the street address to find the crime scene location.

Clustered outside the high stone walls of a property called Villa Azelea, she counted six patrol cars and several support vehicles, including a fire engine, ambulance, and a couple of unmarked detective cars.

Who the hell owned this place? Was it Bono? She knew the rock star lived in the area, but figured that Chris would have mentioned that much at least …

Her curiosity growing by the second, Reilly jogged forward to the gated entrance, throwing up her badge to the uniforms securing the perimeter.

"Reilly Steel, GFU."

The young guy she reached first waved her past. “Welcome to the jungle.”

She quickly understood what he meant. The long pebbled driveway alone was chaotic. There were easily a dozen uniforms rushing about, several paramedics, and a couple of civilians whose function she couldn't immediately identify. Neighbors perhaps?

As she approached the granite front steps of an imposing Georgian-style house the size of a small palace, she noticed police tape falling from across the door where it was poorly secured.

Reilly's mind reeled. If it was this chaotic outside, how messy was the inside? Though unaware of the nature of the crime, she still thought of the things every person here could have done to destroy or otherwise make irrelevant any evidence that might be in there.

As a crowd of whoever-they-all-were parted, Reilly's eyes fell on a rotund man in a bad suit with bushy eyebrows and sideburns.

Detective Pete Kennedy looked up and offered a friendly grin, a freshly-lit John Player cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He raised up two hands, both holding Starbucks cups.

Reilly immediately softened as her nose instinctively picked up the alluring scent of caffeinated vanilla.

“Bit of a madhouse here," he said handing her a cup.

"What in the hell is all this? Didn't you guys secure the scene?”

He gestured absently with the other cup, "This
is
secure, Blondie. You should've seen it half an hour ago."

"Is Chris inside?”

"Yeah, he's with Helen."

Her eyes widened. “Helen Marsh? What’s going on here, Kennedy? Why is the prosecutor here? Who’s house is this?”

"Didn't you check your messages? You really should check your messages, Reilly. And your emails. Or FaceGram and TwitterBook.”

The problem with Kennedy was you could never really be sure if he was deliberately mispronouncing, or being dead serious.

"Do I need to ask Chris, or are you going to tell me what the deal is? What happened in there? And why so much fuss?”

"Rightio," he said and took a swill of Starbucks. “This humble abode happens to be Josh Morrison’s residence. Poor divil’s been stabbed.”

Reilly waited for more, and when none came, she squinted at him.

Kennedy's eyes widened. "Josh Morrison?
The
Josh Morrison."

"Who the hell is Josh Morrison?"

"Who is … ah come on. I’m gobsmacked. No honestly, this time you have really smacked my gob."

She shifted her feet and then crossed her arms. Patience had never been one of her virtues.

"Josh .... Morrison..." he repeated with slow emphasis as if that would make it clearer. “The rugby player. Former Ireland International Team Captain? Played for Leinster?”

The additional information still meant nothing to her.

Not that it mattered anyway.

“Reckon that baby must be absorbing your grey matter, love,” he muttered wickedly.

Reilly shook her head. He was lucky she was so fond of him; no one else would get away with daring to make such a joke.

Since he’d found out about her pregnancy, Kennedy could hardly go two sentences without ribbing her about it.

Now approaching the end of her first trimester, and thankfully over the worst of the hormone swings, Reilly barely noticed from day to day. Sometimes she was distracted enough on the job that she'd even forget all about it.

But when she was reminded, she was reminded. Over and over.

Wait until she started showing. Then the real jokes would begin.

She looked forward to that.

Reilly took a swig of whatever vanilla thing was in the Starbucks cup, reminding herself that she probably shouldn't be drinking it.

“A stabbing, you said?” She turned to go into the house, a huge monolith, set in magnificent grounds. It wasn't an original Georgian house, she realized, but very definitely ‘inspired by’.

Obviously Irish rugby paid well.

“Yep,” Kennedy inhaled hard on his cigarette. “I’m just finishing this and I’ll follow you in.”

At the front door, Reilly was surprised to be waylaid by a short, stressed-looking woman with hair tied back into a bun so tightly it stretched her pockmarked face. Thick glasses atop her raven's beak nose magnified her grey eyes and oversized pupils. The perfume radiating from her pristinely pressed navy suit was humbling.

Agent Provocateur
, Reilly decided, cataloguing the scent instantly.

Figures…

“Hello, Ms Marsh," Reilly said, holding out a hand to greet Helen Marsh, police liaison to the Department of Public Prosecutions. The woman rarely appeared at a crime scene, or interfered this early on in the course of an investigation, unless …

"We have a situation here this morning, Ms Steel," the woman said, her voice barely above a whisper, “one with certain sensitivities that the GFU needs to be aware of…”

“All cases come with sensitivities,” Reilly said. “Now, much as I'd love to chat, I really need to..."

“No rush, you have plenty of time."

“Has the ME been called? What about the victim …?”

“Josh Morrison is in critical condition at the hospital, no need to fret. And thankfully no need for Doctor Thompson either.”

She furrowed her eyebrows. “So this isn't a homicide?"

"Not yet, at least. But a bit of a zoo in there as you can see, so I wanted to talk to everyone about certain …sensitivities.”

That word again. Reilly’s furrowed eyebrow was getting deeper by the second.

"The Morrisons solicitor is already inside. Now don't worry; I've already spoken with him and obtained consent for the GFU to examine the property, or remove any personal items you deem relevant.”

“Consent? Of course we’re going to examine the property and remove evidence. Isn’t this a crime scene?”

“Perhaps but as I said, and especially given the victim’s … profile, we also need to tread lightly.”

Tread lightly…. Who the hell
was
this guy?

“And if anyone wishes to question Mrs Morrison at the hospital, the solicitor will of course need to be present."

"So the wife witnessed the knifing then?"

Helen shook her head. “You'll need to speak to the detectives about the nitty-gritty, I'm only here to mitigate the legalities."

"I thought the DPP’s role was to put the bad guys in jail, Ms Marsh. Do we already have the attacker in custody then?"

“Not yet, no. But we’re talking about
Josh Morrison
,” Helen Marsh repeated with extra emphasis on the victim’s name. “The man attacked here tonight is Josh Morrison.” She blinked at Reilly several times before she finally added, "obviously you are not a rugby fan."

She shook her head. “No, I'm not and the victim’s profession has no bearing on my job at this time."

Helen crossed her arms. “I’m pretty certain you will have heard of his wife though. Breakfast TV presenter Annabel Morrison?"

“The blond from
Good Morning Ireland
?" Bit by bit, Reilly started putting it together. This was the residence of not just a former Irish sports star, but a bona fide celebrity couple. The wife, Annabel Morrison, was one of the most beloved television personalities in the entire country.

Reilly’s broad-stroke opinion of the woman was that she was insipid, annoying, and completely fake. Apparent behind the ditsy blonde TV persona was an obviously shrewd mind, and Reilly disliked intelligent women who liked to pass themselves off as bimbos to come across as likable.

Though apparently it worked, based upon the presenter’s popularity and the breakfast show's viewership.

Reilly usually only caught snippets of
Good Morning Ireland
here and there if the TV happened to be on when she was getting ready for work, and as for Annabel, she’d come across the occasional clip on social media praising the presenter’s wardrobe or hairstyle.

She’d been aware that the woman was one half of a celebrity couple of some kind, but having little interest in these things, had no clue she was married to a sportsman.

And a highly revered one by all accounts.

“I see,” Reilly said at last.

“And sadly no, we don’t have a perpetrator just yet. It seems Mr Morrison interrupted a robbery-in-progress, and his attacker fled just as Mrs Morrison returned home.”

“Did the wife get a good look at the attacker?”

“The detectives haven't been able to take a full statement from her just yet. Obviously she’s in great distress and has accompanied her husband in the ambulance to St Vincent’s. His condition is critical, so it’s unlikely she’s in a clear state of mind at the moment. But again, the Morrison family solicitor is on hand if you have any questions.”

Fat lot of a good a solicitor was going to do, Reilly thought, marveling at the unwavering ability of celebrities to get not only the authorities, but the justice system to bow to their whims. This wasn't even a homicide for goodness sake, and already the prosecutor’s office was breathing down their necks?

She sighed and cast a cursory glance around the property. She wasn't even inside the house yet, and already it was clear it would be nigh on impossible to get this thing under control.

In more ways than one.

Going inside the Morrison house, she was confronted by an impressively huge limestone-tiled reception area, and kit-bag in hand, headed straight for an older uniform standing sentry beneath a grand staircase. On the left was a glass case full of trophies and medals and framed sports jerseys that very quickly left you in no doubt that you were in the home of a major achiever.

She just hoped the glass and limestone themed interior continued throughout this place; such glossy surfaces were optimal for picking up fingerprints and trace, and limestone’s porous tendencies made it a nightmare for household spills, but a boon for crime scene investigators.

“Could you move everyone out now please?” she asked the cop. “We need the area completely cleared so we can begin."

The guy nodded and began ushering out first responders, other uniforms, random legal people and whoever else happened to be wandering around.

Fortunately, Reilly had yet to spy any press at or near the property. But given the house’s occupants, it would be only a matter of time.…

Further into the hallway, the distinct piney-sweet scent of bourbon overwhelmed her senses. While Reilly’s nose was famously sensitive to smell, the vapors were so intense just then, they actually made her stomach roil.

Sorry Blob
, she muttered inwardly, trying to clear her head.

"You all right?” came a voice from beside her, and she shook her head, trying to regain her composure just as a surge of dizziness exploded in her brain. She put her head down, kneeling over.

"Reilly?" Chris Delaney asked again. She felt his warm hand on her back, inviting an automatic spark of emotional electricity that was quickly subdued by nausea.

"I'm fine," she managed.

But she wasn’t just yet. The room reeled as the bourbon scent continued to assault her. Taking a few short breaths she recalled from those prana yana exercises, at last things settled down and she stood back upright.

"Morning sickness?" he offered. His deep brown eyes were wide with concern, unkempt brown hair framing his dark, almost Mediterranean looks. Unlike Kennedy, there was no hint of irony or jest behind the words.

"I don't have that -
yet
," she said a little more bluntly than she’d intended. "I just smell bourbon," she explained. "Enough to make me gag.”

Finally, Reilly was able to take a proper look around. The colorful abstract paintings on the clinically white walls looked expensive and in keeping with the entryway’s minimalist decor.

As she passed the doorway of a more plushly decorated living room, she caught a glimpse of the occupants in a large family portrait positioned above the marble fireplace.

Though she still didn't recognize him from the photo, she saw that Josh Morrison was - fitting for an ex rugby player - a big guy, with manly Harrison Ford-like good looks, and dark hair slightly gray at the temples.

Alongside him, his wife, the famous Annabel, was all perfect white teeth and bouncy blond hair. A dark-haired boy in a striped rugby shirt who looked to be in his late teens looked uncomfortable and solemn, while his cute-as-a-button little sister, a mini-version of her mother, grinned winningly at the camera.

The perfect family.

“So what happened here?" she asked Chris, as Kennedy shuffled up alongside them.

They led her through into a huge kitchen diner - about the size of Reilly’s three-roomed flat, where three uniforms milled about a expansive stainless steel island unit with its own stove-top and sink, that put her immediately in the mind of a mortuary slab.

The comparison was fitting, as just then the island and surrounding area were spattered with ridiculous amounts of blood. All over the floor, the cabinets, and behind it to where an opaque glass dining table had shattered into countless shards on the floor.

This wasn't just a stabbing, she realized, it was a butchering. And there had been a struggle.