Cold Steel (16 page)

21

11.17pm

'Dr Clancy, how are you?' The man at the door in the west Dublin suburb of Blanchardstown squinted at Frank Clancy in the gloom of a low-wattage light. 'God, but you look awful tired. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? It's very late, you must be exhausted.'

Clancy declined. He was in a hurry. After discovering the deliberate and hastily disguised changes in the medical charts and computer records of both Mary Hyland and James Murphy, he was sure something crooked was going on at the Mercy Hospital. He wasn't exactly sure what or why. His conversation with the Drugs Assist nurse in Chicago had thrown him completely. He now believed it was not D/N Aspirin that was being dispensed to patients.
But what was?
What was the 'tiny blue' tablet each of the three patients had taken that could possibly have caused their blood disorder, agranulocytosis? There was only one way of finding out. To get hold of one of the tablets. Which was why he was standing on the doorstep of Ned Hyland's small cottage in Blanchardstown. He'd rung earlier and explained who he was, certain the late Mary Hyland's husband would remember him only too well.

'Ah, Dr Clancy,' Ned Hyland had greeted over the phone, 'delighted to hear from you again. I can't tell you how grateful I am for everything you tried to do for Mary, God rest her soul.'

Clancy had listened politely, keeping the conversation general and simple. Then he'd slipped in a few questions about Mary Hyland's drug treatments before she'd been admitted for the last time to the Mercy Hospital. 'The "little blue" ones, do you remember them, Ned?'

'Indeed and so I do. Dr Speer gave them out herself every Thursday. I had to go and collect them from herself personally.'

This was all Clancy needed to hear. 'Is there any chance,' he'd asked casually, 'you would have any of them left? Maybe you threw them out, most people do. I was just wondering if you might have held on to any, though?'

'The little blue ones?'

'Yes, the little blue ones.'

'Faith and I do, Dr Clancy.' Ned Hyland had a wonderful country way of making every sentence sound like a major statement. 'I never throw anything out. Medicines are too damned expensive to be dumping. I was going to leave them back to the hospital for any deserving soul who mightn't have the money to pay for them. Just didn't get round to it yet.'

'So you still have them?' Clancy pressed.

'Up in a wee box in the spare room.'

'Could I call over and collect them?'

'Ah, sure don't you be bothering yourself with that. You have a hundred and one more important things to do. I'll drop them over to the hospital myself, tomorrow.'

'It's all right,' lied Clancy, 'I'm going out your way later tonight. I'll call in.'

'Fair enough, Dr Clancy. I'd be delighted to see you.'

Which he was. He had the box containing the 'little blue' tablets on a table just inside the front door and opened the lid with a great flourish. 'There they are. I'm sorry there's only the five left.'

Clancy picked up one carefully, turning it round. Without his glasses and in the poor light he could barely make out the lettering etched on one side. It was
CYN
.
On
the other side were the letters
XP
.

'Perfect,' he murmured, heart racing with excitement. The gloating face of Linda Speer flashed in his mind. 'Thank you very much.'

Ned Hyland beamed in the gloom. He was delighted to be of any help to such an important man. 'They must be fierce expensive tablets.'

Clancy started to leave, then stopped. He turned back. 'Why do you say that?'

'Well, I had some other fella ringing me about an hour after you did, asking about those very same tablets.'

'Did you tell him anything?' Clancy couldn't keep the anxiety out of his voice.

'Just that you were coming to collect them, that's all. I said you might be able to spare him one.' Hyland stopped. Clancy suddenly seemed very agitated. 'Did I do wrong, Dr Clancy? Should I not have said that?'

Clancy forced a confident smile and shook the other man's hand firmly. 'Not at all, Ned, not at all. Probably one of the other doctors trying to beat me to the post in my research.'

Ned sighed with relief. 'Good man yourself, Dr Clancy, you run with it first. Pip the other bastards before they get out of the traps.'

Clancy chuckled in the dark as he made his way back to his car. He clutched the small box firmly in his right hand. 'I will, Ned,' he shouted back. 'I'll be collecting my winnings before they've even marked their cards.'

Hyland closed the door, laughing quietly at the racing banter. Three minutes later he heard a car start up and rev off at high speed. 'Hoors,' he muttered to himself. 'Bloody joyriders, I'll bet.' He turned on the television to watch the midnight news.

22

7.46 am,

Friday, 15 May
.

The weather broke overnight. A deepening Atlantic front swept in over the hills and valleys of Kerry and west Cork. Angry, rain-laden clouds, coiled in swirling masses, were pushed over the countryside by force-eight winds. As if venting rage, loud and violent thunder claps rattled window frames and sent farm animals scurrying into huddles. Lightning flashes lit up skies and fields, warning of the deluge to come. The ensuing rain poured down in sheets, over quiet country roads and lanes, upon green fields and dark bogs. It drilled at the earth and dragged dust from the headstones of the hundreds of thousands of graves around the country. The storm reached Dublin around five o'clock in the morning. Great swirls of wind sparked mini tornadoes among high-rise buildings, scattering the litter of the rich among the rubbish of the poor. The rain filled gutters and downpipes, overflowed storm drains and dragged away the flecks of blood still clinging to blades of grass in Sandymount Park. By six o'clock all remaining traces of the murder of Jennifer Marks had been washed away.

Just as the weather broke on the nation's capital, the blood-filled blister on Jim Clarke's leg burst.

'Wake up, Jim, your leg's bleeding.' The first Clarke knew of the day was his wife's gentle shaking. He had slept uninterrupted, the first time in weeks, had not moved from his on-back position. Next he became aware of the still
sleeping body of his daughter Katy, snuggled beside him. Distressed at her father's pain the night before she'd crept in for a last-minute kiss only to find him asleep. She'd eased her own body into the bed and lay down, one arm around his waist. They had slept like that all night. Maeve had checked before she went to her own bed and left them undisturbed.

'Jim, wake up.'

Clarke lifted his head groggily and looked down at the foot of the bed. He was still disorientated from the night before. He tried lifting his leg and it moved without the usual pain, but the bloodstaining was very obvious. 'Ah Christ,' he cursed.

'Don't move any more,' cautioned Maeve as she fussed to clear blanket away from undersheet. Still Katy slept on, one arm clinging to her father's chest. Clarke leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead.

'I've rung the hospital and they want you in before nine o'clock. Dr Kelleher said he'd see you himself.'

Clarke showered with a plastic bag over his leg, breakfasted in silence while he waited for Moss Kavanagh to collect him. He was kept waiting only five minutes in the casualty department before he spotted the tousled grey hair of his treating doctor bob towards him.

'Overdoing it again?' Kelleher asked.

'I've got a job to do, Declan. We're under a lot of pressure with this Marks girl murder.'

Kelleher lifted the damaged limb above waist level and inspected it closely. 'That's a dreadful business, right enough.' He waited to see if the oozing stopped. It did. 'Are you resting this?' Clarke ignored the question. 'You're going to have to look after this better, there's an ulcer forming.'

Clarke's silence was deafening. Kelleher called a nurse and left instructions on treatment. Before he left the examination cubicle he leaned down and whispered into Clarke's ear. 'John Regan's on the war path. He's ordered
all of the top floor to a press conference.' He grinned mischievously. 'God help anyone turning up here today with a heart attack.'

10.00 am

'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming at such short notice.' Minister for Health Regan was back in the same large hall in which he had held his triumphant news conference eight months earlier. On the podium behind Regan sat Dan Marks, Linda Speer and Stone Colman, each dressed in black. Their sombre faces were in stark contrast to the glamour and buzz of the first appearance. The backdrop of government slogans was missing. Regan had dressed appropriately, muted charcoal single-breasted suit, usual bright tie replaced by a narrow black linen effort.

'I will not dwell on Tuesday's dreadful event.' He turned and looked towards Dan Marks. 'Other than to say the government will bring to justice the man who murdered Jennifer Marks. We have arrested a suspect. He is securely locked up. He will feel the full vigour of the law.' His voice was loud and commanding, his demeanour that of controlled anger. 'We offer our sincerest condolences to Dan and Annie Marks on their tragic loss.' Dan Marks looked up to acknowledge. 'We are,' continued Regan, 'very aware of their immense burden of grief, a pain shared by all in this room and throughout the country.'

He scanned the audience. The hall was almost full, a mixture of journalists and TV network reporters. There was an impressive US East Coast presence. The rest was a mixture of Mercy Hospital cardiology staff and government supporters hounded from their desks to swell the numbers.

'This government is determined to continue the work of the Heart Foundation.' He paused and clenched the
lectern tightly, whitening his knuckles. 'Let me confirm the team of specialists behind me are determined to stay and complete what they have begun.'

The hall filled with unrestrained applause, the acclaim starting from the enthusiastic hands of Regan's advisor, Flanagan. The TV cameramen zoomed in on the Dream Team, catching tight, resolute expressions.

'We will go on.' Regan had to shout to make himself heard above the applause. 'We will not be beaten.'

Dr Frank Clancy listened from a corner at the very back of the hall. He had squeezed in as the news conference began and edged his way out of sight behind a TV crew. Throughout he kept his head down, chin resting on chest. As the first hands started clapping, he slipped out again. 'This government is determined to continue the work of the Heart Foundation.' John Regan's determined pledge worried him. There was no doubt of the government's continuing and total
commitment
to the hospital project. If anything Jennifer Marks' murder seemed to have firmed Regan's resolve.

As he stood on the wet pavements trying to flag a taxi, Clancy began fretting again about his conspiracy theory. Careful, Frank, he cautioned himself. This could blow up in your face. You need more facts. Time to rethink strategy. He just caught a glimpse of the dark figure shadowing him as. a hackney pulled up.

23

11.17am

'We've gone through almost as much as you gave us.' Arnold Leeson, director of the forensic science laboratory, sensed the impatience on Jim Clarke's face immediately he spotted him at reception. He decided to get his retaliation in first. 'We're swamped with work,' he added as he signed a form stuck in front of him by one of his surgically gloved assistants.

'I'm not here to put any pressure on,' lied Clarke.

Leeson flicked off another few signatures, ending with a grand flourish. 'Thank God for that. Both the Minister for Justice and the Minister for Health have been on the phone looking for a preliminary report on Kelly.' He noticed Clarke's alarmed expression. 'Don't worry, I gave them nothing. We won't have much until after the weekend,' he added. 'Can you not wait 'til then?'

Standing just behind Clarke, Moss Kavanagh shook his head.

'What about the bag brought in yesterday? Can we check that?' asked Clarke.

Leeson opened the heavy-duty door separating reception from the main activity centres inside. Clarke prodded Kavanagh ahead with the tip of his crutch.

'Molloy's been in since nine waiting for you,' said Leeson. He let the door shut after them.

They gathered inside the small room set aside for
material collected from Jennifer Marks. The space was cramped and Kavanagh had to stand in the corridor. He peered over the backs of the assembled group. Tony Molloy sat on the one high stool, forehead creased, jowls sagging. Arnold Leeson squeezed into a corner and clipped a microphone lead onto the pencil-filled pocket of his white coat. The other end was connected to a micro-cassette in a side pocket. He lifted a clipboard and slid a fresh A4 page into place. Molloy offered Clarke his seat and the two swapped.

'Okay, gloves on before you handle anything,' Leeson warned. Two pairs of surgical gloves were snapped onto impatient hands. 'Open it up.'

The seal was broken on the evidence bag and Jennifer Marks' school satchel slipped onto the bench. All eyes fixed on the bulging green canvas with leather straps. There was a flap at the back pulled over and buckled in place at the front. On the canvas the letters
Jennifer marks
U6A had been carefully written with thick black marker. The outer margins of each letter were traced further with red marker.
radiohead
was written in longhand with black marker along a side flap. There were two side pockets, each buckled down. Traces of cobweb clung to the leather straps and green canvas at the front.

Clarke lifted the bag and inspected bottom, sides and back. 'It's very light.' He looked at Leeson. 'I'm opening it.'

The buckles rattled as they were released and the flap was peeled back. On the inside more black marker picked up loyalty to Bon Jovi. The side pockets were opened and their contents recorded. The left pocket held an opened box of ten Tampax Regular sanitary tampons. Inside the same pocket were two biros and a pencil. The ink on one of the biros had leaked and the Tampax container had ink-staining on the bottom. The right pocket contained small change, an opened twenty packet of Benson and Hedges
cigarettes, a lipstick, an eye-shadow pencil and a compact with face powder. Clarke flipped the cigarette carton. It looked half full.

Leeson scribbled each detail on his clipboard. 'Okay,' he suggested, 'start with what you've opened and I'll record. Left pocket.'

Surgically gloved fingers turned the ink-stained Tampax packet around. The outside looked unremarkable apart from the ink-wet bottom.

'There are five tampons, four still inside their sealed protective paper,' began Clarke. 'All look clean.' He tipped the box up and onto the desk slid four sealed tampons and one unsealed white circular cardboard cylinder with cotton-wool tampon showing. The cylinder was four and a half inches long and half an inch in diameter, its thin retrieval cord poking out. Clarke squinted inside. 'Looks okay to me.'

Leeson's lips puckered. 'Open it.'

Clarke unscrewed outer cardboard from inner sheath and the two separated. A small packet of clingfilm wrapped tightly around white powder had been forced inside. The cotton-wool tampon had been carefully trimmed to allow space. The end had been left in place to leave the impression of standard tampon.

'See what I mean?' said Leeson. 'If you knew the ingenious ways kids have to hide drugs nowadays.'

Molloy's frown deepened. He poked at the clingfilm package with the tip of a biro. 'Looks like heroin.'

Leeson leaned over and inspected. 'I'll get it analysed over the weekend.'

Kavanagh poked his head in and complained. 'Weekend? You guys do no work at all. What's wrong with working all night?'

Leeson scowled at him, then nudged Clarke. 'Check the fags.'

Gloved fingers teased twelve cigarettes onto the workbench. They were pronounced standard. Three rolled
cigarettes, their ends curled to a fine point, contained the unmistakable mix of leaf tobacco and crumbled cannabis.

'Bag it.' Leeson handed over an envelope.

'Quite a start,' said Molloy.

Leeson pulled a non-committal face. He scratched the side of his nose with an edge of clipboard. 'For a convent socialite, yes. For your average eighteen-year-old scag-head probably less than I would expect. What we get and where it's hidden reveals an art form in deception. If the same crowd could only use their brains more usefully they'd be better off.'

Molloy grinned. 'Then you'd be out of a job, Arnie, wouldn't you?'

Leeson ignored him. 'Go on, see what's inside the schoolbag.'

The bulging green canvas was pulled together at the top by a leather thong threaded through loops. The ends had been tied in a knot. It freed easily. A navy jacket lay at the top. Underneath was a white blouse, navy blue tights and finally, a pair of black 'sensible' shoes. Each was lifted and inspected before being laid in a corner. Pockets were turned out, seams felt, but nothing found. Clarke's gloved hands reached in again and out came a navy tie, navy skirt and one very lonely looking school exercise book.

'Real swot, wasn't she,' observed Kavanagh from the door frame.

All attention was on the skirt. Molloy poked at it with a gloved finger. 'Moment of truth.'