Cold Steel (18 page)

25

10.26 am,

Saturday, 16 May.

'Something's come in. Might be important, might be useless.' Tony Molloy's indigestion was playing up after a heavy breakfast. He chewed on an antacid. Clarke, Molloy and Kavanagh were in the incident room at Sandymount police station. Along the walls A4-size glossy photographs were hanging. There were three rows, ten photographs to a row. The shots were of the group of onlookers gathered at the railings on the morning Jennifer Marks' body had been discovered. Clarke edged along, staring closely at each print. 'One of that group gave a false name and address,' Molloy explained. He scrutinised a different set on the desk in front of him.

'Are things moving on this?' asked Clarke.

'Yeah. Everyone's back on the road, three sets of photographs each, putting names to faces.'

Clarke sat down. 'Any word on Kelly?' he asked hopefully.

'Nothing.' Molloy grimaced as a belt of wind-pain hit. 'I spoke with Dillon earlier and he says Kelly's still away with the birds.'

'Did he use those actual words?' Clarke sounded surprised.

'Maybe I'm not quoting him exactly,' confessed Molloy, 'but that's the gist of what he said.'

Moss Kavanagh grinned. He was leaning against a wall
at the back of the room. 'Any word from the Marks family?'

'Nope.' Molloy popped another antacid. 'I've been ringing the house and hospital all morning. No one answers or returns the calls. Dan Marks is operating. A nurse told me they're trying to catch up with lost time since he went out of action after Jennifer was found. Said it has to be finished before the news conference.'

'What news conference?' asked Clarke.

'When the EEC grant is handed over next Wednesday,' explained Molloy. 'Twenty million pounds goes into John Regan's hands if the results from his Heart Foundation look good.'

Clarke eased himself to his feet. 'Time we called on them.' He picked up two faxes from the toxicology laboratory. They were the latest reports on Jennifer Marks. 'Let's
go.'

The drive to the Mercy Hospital took less than an hour along Dublin's traffic congested quays. For most of the journey Moss Kavanagh scowled behind the fumes of a large articulated truck bearing computer parts from Dublin port. Its belching diesel blocked the struggling sunlight. Just before noon Clarke and Molloy climbed the stone steps of the front entrance. They left Kavanagh in the car admiring the nurses. All around was the buzz of the hospital complex. Ambulances drew up at Accident and Emergency, their sirens killed only when green-suited aides rushed out with a stretcher. White-coated laboratory assistants and blue-uniformed nurses scurried along highly polished corridors, some clutching blood samples and specimen bags. Sitting along the same corridors, huddled in worried groups, friends and relations of patients waited for the nod from a doctor that things were going well, were steady or had deteriorated. The smell of disinfectant touched all corners. Pyjama-clad patients occasionally poked their noses out from the wards, looked up and down, then returned to their beds, resigned and depressed.

Occasionally the nervous laugh of a child bored with waiting broke the subdued atmosphere.

As Clarke hobbled to the lifts he tried to suppress the memories of his own weeks in the same wards two years previously. He recalled the many anxious looks cast in his direction. 'I hate bloody hospitals.'

Molloy grinned and punched a call button. Lights signalled the lift's descent to ground level. When the doors opened Clarke noticed immediately the Heart Foundation was highlighted in gold emboss. It was set apart from the names and descriptions of all other wards. An elderly man shuffled in and stood beside them. He was wearing a dressing gown that had seen better days. His face looked pale and drawn, cheekbones straining skin. He was talking to himself.

Clarke felt he knew the Mercy Hospital more than he would have liked. Yet he was taken aback when the doors opened on the top floor. It had the feel of a luxury five-star hotel. The corridors were wider and brighter, the flooring thick linoleum with multicoloured, eye-catching designs. The walls were papered in marigold with a heavy navy stripe pattern. The nurses passing along had a different dress code. Instead of a faded blue uniform with starched white headband, on this level each girl wore a tight-fitting white dress held together at the front with bright red buttons. It didn't take Clarke long to decide the girls had been chosen as much for their looks as their nursing skills. Image was all important.

They asked and were directed to a long corridor at the end of which the Boston specialists had their offices. They passed a number of three- and four-bedded open wards. Inside patients were connected to ECG monitors with green traces blipping across screens. Some had tubes running into the veins, others had tubes draining their bladders. Clarke winced at the sight of the urinary drains and hurried past.

They were soon outside the new laboratory, close to the
operating and intensive care areas. The walls here were thick see-through glass with horizontal Venetian blinds dipped for privacy. Peering inside Clarke could just about make out microscopes, Petri dishes, rows of bottles containing blood, urine and other samples. Paperwork covered almost the whole of one bench and printers whirred and stopped, then whirred again as results came through. He counted seven white-coated lab attendants. A notice warned those passing further to be silent as they were entering the post-operative areas.

Molloy crunched a final antacid. Both men were surprised how much noise there was in this section. Instructions were being shouted over the loud beeping of cardiac monitors. Around a slight curve they arrived at the four-bed intensive care unit. The ward was full, their occupants surrounded by medical technology. Tubes entered the chest area and bright red blood could be seen draining into collection bottles. Thin wires connected to ECG monitors. Face masks carried the hiss of oxygen. Colour-coded lines transferred information on the patients' oxygen saturation, respiratory and heart rates. The technology of recovery and intensive treatment was overwhelming.

Each patient was being supervised by an individual nurse and two looked up as they noticed the detectives staring in. One silently waved a biro, warning them away. The two shuffled guiltily past until they reached the Dream Team offices. Again the walls to the corridor were thick see-through glass, shielded by slim horizontal Venetian blinds. There were three beech doors, each with its own identifying polished brass plate. Dr Stone Colman, Dr Linda Speer, Dr Dan Marks.

Clarke squinted through a gap in the blinds and noticed the suites had connecting inner doors. Molloy took the initiative and knocked on one.

'Come in.' The voice had a distinct New England accent.

Clarke thought Dan Marks looked taller than his TV
image. His shoulders seemed broader and he had large hands with long, delicate fingers. He was dressed in theatre blues, cloth cap on head, mask tied around the back of his neck but pulled away from his face and hanging loosely. He was writing a note on a chart in front and stood up as the two men entered.

'Yes? What can I do for you?'

'Dan Marks?' Clarke began.

'Who are you?'

'I'm Superintendent Clarke and this is Sergeant Molloy. We're investigators on your daughter's murder case.'

Marks slumped back down on his seat, body language suggesting he was less than pleased by the interruption. 'What do you want?'

Clarke pulled a chair closer to the desk and sat down. Molloy elected to lean against a wall.

'We've been trying to reach you,' said Clarke, 'but our calls have not been returned, no messages left.'

Dan Marks pulled his face mask off with a snap and leaned heavily on the desk in front. He tugged the cloth cap away and ran a hand through his curly grey hair.

'What do you need with me or Annie now?' His voice was quiet, contained. 'We've suffered enough. I've been told you've arrested the killer, that he was covered in blood.' His voice rose slightly. 'A well-known and dangerous criminal, I believe.' He looked directly at Clarke. 'What use are we to you now? We need peace, time to grieve.' He leaned heavily on the desk and three charts fell off the edge. No one moved to pick them up.

'Dr Marks,' Clarke interrupted, 'Jennifer's toxicology result showed she was using heroin and cannabis.' He held up a fax with the details. 'Do you know where she got those?' He waited. There was no immediate answer. 'Have you any idea where she got the money to pay for them?'

If Dan Marks was surprised by the questions he didn't show it. He rested his chin on both upturned palms and looked from Molloy to Clarke. 'I'm sorry, I have no idea.
I can't think straight since this happened but I really don't know where she got those drugs.'

Clarke flipped open a notebook and flicked through several pages. 'One person we spoke with,' he said, 'suggested Jennifer got all her money from her family, you and Mrs Marks I presume. The exact question was: "Where did she get the money to buy drugs?" Answer: "From her parents. They're filthy rich. You know, like, it's really weird, they just gave her whatever she wanted." Quote, unquote.'

'Who told you that?' asked Marks.

'I'm sorry, I can't reveal any names.'

Dan Marks' features changed from subdued to angry. He leaned across the table and fixed on Clarke. 'Let me put the record straight. Jennifer was never an easy girl to look after, I admit that. Like many kids her age she experimented with drugs, always soft. I checked that out in Boston.' He half-turned in his chair so he had Molloy's full attention. 'I have a wife confined to a wheelchair with multiple sclerosis. Annie's ability to be a proper mother was destroyed from the day Jennifer was born. I've had to do everything in our house since then. I changed every dirty and wet diaper. I walked the floors when she had colic or earache. I bought her clothes, her shoes, got her hair done. I even bought her sanitary towels when she reached that stage. I know everything about my daughter.' He stopped, as if choked with emotion, yet when he spoke again his voice was hard. 'Jennifer never received a nickel or a dime from myself or Annie we didn't know about.'

Molloy cut across. 'Can you think where else she might have got money?' He sounded unconvinced.

'I can't. But instinct tells me she got mixed up with someone who led her astray.' Marks turned to Clarke. 'There was some girl she was very friendly with, Jane or June or something… Armstrong. I never liked that girl, never liked her simpering, middle-class family. Why don't you ask her?'

Clarke flicked to a different page on his notebook. 'We've already checked with Joan Armstrong.'

'And?'

'She was very helpful. But we don't think she had the money to buy heroin and cannabis. Even in Dublin they're not cheap.'

The door into the office opened and a nurse walked in. She immediately apologised for interrupting. Dan Marks cut her short.

'It's okay, sister, these gentlemen are leaving anyway. What's the problem?'

The nurse smiled nervously, sensing the tension in the room. 'They're ready in theatre two. The chest's open and the veins have been harvested. They're just waiting for you to start the bypass.'

'I'll be right there,' Marks' voice was calm again. He stood up, pulled the cloth cap back on his head and tucked straggling hair under. 'If you don't mind, gentlemen, I'm going. Even in this time of grief my work must continue. I was away for three days and one of the patients on our waiting list died. I have to keep going.'

Clarke was surprised how the other man could maintain his composure under the circumstances. 'You're holding up well, I hope?' he asked.

Dan Marks adjusted his cloth cap and teased at the knot on his face mask ties. 'I've learned over the years to compartmentalise my life. I only deal with what I can change. Events outside my control I leave behind. I'm not the sort to take to the bottle or weep every time I hear a sad song. You don't get to my position in medicine by being fainthearted. Jennifer's death has left a deep void. But don't expect me to wear my pain on my sleeve.'

As Clarke and Molloy made their way back to the lifts, the connecting door between Dan Marks and Linda Speer's office closed softly. Inside her own suite Speer was trembling. She lit a filter-tipped menthol cigarette and poured a finger of Southern Comfort, quaffing half in one
go. Nibbling anxiously on her fingers she paced the floor. She twisted the slats on the Venetian blinds fully closed and checked the clock on her desk. Making sure all doors were locked, she picked up the phone and dialled.

26

3.17 pm

Frank Clancy's house was burgled sometime between twelve thirty and three o'clock that afternoon. He'd gone out to the park with his wife and two children at noon, making a big effort to enjoy some quality time. He'd kicked a ball, played chase, pushed his four-year-old daughter Laura on the swings, sat her on his lap and went down a slide until he ripped a pocket on the back of his trousers. He went out of his way to discuss with his wife Anne the trivialities of family life. How the kids were getting on at school, the cost of orthodontic treatment, the hassle to get into town and buy school clothes. He was lightening up, enjoying himself. He was even forgetting conspiracy theories.

They stopped for lunch at a McDonald's and Clancy forced himself to eat Chicken McNuggets. He vowed never again. On the way back in the car they talked excitedly about where to go for the two-week break he was due in August.

'Disneyland,' screeched Laura from the back seat.

'Yeah, dad, Disneyland,' cheered eight-year-old Martin. He was squashed up beside his sister, leafing through a Manchester United soccer team magazine.

'No,' said Anne firmly. She always sat in the back with the kids to make sure they stayed belted up. 'Florida's too hot. Maybe when you're both a bit older.'

The children started booing. They were still booing when Clancy drove into Greenlea Road in the north Dublin suburb of Clontarf where they lived. There was a police car outside their house and neighbours gathered in small groups. The burglar alarm was whoo-whooing loudly.

'Stay in the car,' Clancy ordered. He felt his mouth go dry, his stomach turn over.

The children started crying when they spotted the blue uniforms. Anne cuddled them to her chest, trying to distract.

'Come on,' she coaxed. 'Let's sing together.' They started with 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer'. Clancy was led inside by one of the officers, a big man with a moustache, his cap halfway back on his head.

'They cut the wires to the alarm at the back,' he said. 'Then forced a window. They haven't taken much from what I can see. Must have been scared off by something.'

Clancy rushed from one room to another. The kitchen was untouched. The front living room where most of the family valuables were on display seemed intact. The Waterford glass decanters and chandelier, the silver canteen of cutlery, a wedding present from his last hospital colleagues and worth a tidy sum, all were undisturbed. Three paintings, two watercolours and a very expensive rural scene in oil, still hung on the walls. He noticed his wedding photographs, personal graduation photograph and framed photographs of the children were missing. He sprinted upstairs, checked the bedrooms and decided they had been ignored. Heart racing he scrambled the ten steps to his study in the attic. It had been turned over. The PC monitor lay smashed in one corner, small filing cabinets were upturned and pages scattered around the floor. The hard disc had been smashed, its heavy plastic casing now in pieces, the information it contained destroyed. The drawers on his desk had been pulled out and their contents strewn. He tore at the paperwork, kicked away file holders, scrambled at books dumped from their shelves.
His briefcase was missing,
GRANNY
was gone. And with
GRANNY
two of the blue tablets Ned Hyland had given to him.

'Anything taken?' asked the policeman. He was standing behind, scratching at his head. 'They've turned this room over rightly. Do you keep any cash or valuables here?'

Clancy was on his knees, stacking books and papers to one side as he assessed the situation. 'No, just research notes and hospital information. No use to anyone.'

The policeman pushed a book out of the way with the tip of a shoe. 'You're not missing anything valuable?'

Clancy stood up. He spotted the photographs. They were propped up against a skirting board in a corner, partly covered by a file. The glass had been smashed, the prints removed and sliced in two. He knew not torn in two but sliced with something sharp as the edges were razor clean.

'No,' he said quietly, 'nothing valuable. Nothing at all.'

The officer started down the stairs again. 'It's odd, I can tell you. Sneaked in the back after cutting the alarm but walked out the front and set it off.'

Clancy wasn't listening. His mind was in overdrive. He had his two-page printed copy of
granny
and three of the blue tablets hidden at the hospital. For the previous twenty-four hours he'd sensed he was being shadowed, felt he was being watched. Now he knew. And they, whoever they were, were trying to frighten him off. Now they also knew what information he was working on. What if I persist? Will they do more than ransack the house? What will they be prepared to do to stop me?

4.33 pm

'You're taking a helluva risk here.' Tony Molloy was half-turned in the front seat of the unmarked squad car, talking
to Clarke. They were parked outside the Marks' Victorian mansion in the fashionable Dublin 4 district. Kavanagh strummed nervously on the steering wheel. 'Dan Marks is well in with the government. He could make life difficult for you.'

Clarke stared at the well-kept lawns and full-leafed trees in the front garden. Dan Marks' response concerned him. It was not that of a grieving father. Parents usually swamped investigators with information, most of it trivial and useless. Marks, by contrast, had given little away. What he had talked about didn't match up with what was known about his daughter Jennifer.

'I'm going in.' Clarke stepped outside and forced the opening passenger door back. Molloy looked up, surprised. 'On my own.' As Clarke hobbled up the drive he noticed a curtain move in a ground-floor room.

Annie Marks opened the front door by a remote control button attached to her wheelchair. 'What took you so long?'

Clarke was immediately confused. He kept his back to the woman to give himself time to think and pushed the door tightly shut. 'I'm sorry?'

'You're the policeman I met at the morgue?'

'Yes.'

Clarke thought Annie Marks looked worse than at that first meeting. Her hair was now totally grey and straggling, almost unkempt. Her face was bloated, blood-red eyes sunk deep. She was wearing a high-neck black dress, black stockings and black shoes. Her fingers played with the control panel on the armrest of the wheelchair. There was a strong smell of whiskey. With a flick she manoeuvred the chair in a half-circle and with the slight purring of an engine she moved into a large room at the front of the house. Unbidden, Clarke followed.

The room was sparsely furnished, two armchairs, one three-seater sofa and a single small walnut-veneer table in the centre on which rested old medical magazines. There were no paintings on the walls, no sideboards with
photographs or glassware. There was little to make the room feel part of a home. The curtains were half-pulled and a beam of weak sunlight struggled in. The atmosphere was oppressive. Musty, unused. Clarke sat on the sofa.

'Mrs Marks,' he began, 'why did you say "what took you so long"? We've been ringing for days trying to make contact.'

'Have you spoken with him?'

'Your husband?'

'Yes.'

'We spoke at the hospital this morning.'

'What did he tell you?' Annie Marks' New England twang sounded less than educated. Clarke sensed a mixture of alcohol and anger.

'Not a lot. Nothing we didn't know.'

Fingers flicked on the controls and the wheelchair sped to a different corner of the room. Clarke found himself staring at Annie Marks' back. Just as suddenly the chair spun around again and was propelled rapidly forwards, stopping only feet away from Clarke. The woman's eyes bored into him.

'He's trying to hide everything.' Her voice had taken on a witch-like tone, the black dress reinforcing the image. Clarke half-expected her to begin cackling. 'He's been doing that for years, denying everything, turning a blind eye when it suits him. But I know it all.' She flicked the controls again and the chair reversed. 'This,' Marks slapped an armrest, 'has been my tomb for the past eighteen years. Since the day I gave birth. I am the living dead.' She stopped, breathless from the outburst. Clarke began to understand why Dan Marks kept his wife out of the public eye. She was mentally unstable.

'Let me tell you a few facts.' The words were spat angrily. 'One or two things you'll never hear from my talented and beautiful husband.' She stopped and a crooked smile flickered. 'He is talented and beautiful, isn't he?'

Clarke nodded glumly.

'Quite a handsome man?' Pure venom.

Clarke shrugged.

'My husband knew little about his delightful daughter. Wasn't aware what she was getting up to. He was never around. He was too busy saving lives or screwing the pretty juniors on his team. He barely noticed her.' The outburst was interrupted by a fit of coughing. 'He barely knew he had a daughter, let alone a wife. We were mere appendages, accessories. He wanted to go to the top, he was a driven man. But from the day I became a liability, he abandoned me.' Her breathing now came in rapid, short bursts. 'Not physically, oh no,' the voice raised an octave, 'that was too risky in Boston medical circles. But emotionally I no longer existed.' She stopped, agitated and trembling. Clarke noticed an involuntary shake in her left arm. One side of her face had a slight droop. 'He neglected that child. She was too much like hard work. While he was out socialising I was left to bring her up.'

Clarke was addled. The conflicting accounts confused. 'Mrs Marks,' he cut across, 'Jennifer was using heroin and cannabis. Do you know where got the money for those drugs?'

The cackle Clarke had been dreading slowly began. From deep inside a guttural snigger surfaced. Half-suppressed by a fit of coughing, it changed to a disturbed laugh.

'She earned every dollar on her back.' The coughing became so violent Clarke stood up to help but was waved away. 'I knew one day she'd end up dead in a ditch.' Annie Marks crowed with the delight of a dreadful secret shared. 'She got there on her back.'

The words echoed in Clarke's mind for the rest of the day.

7.58 pm

Joan Armstrong wore a bright red cloth headband in her
hair. She stood in front of a long mirror in her bedroom admiring her figure. She was wearing tight denim jeans and a long-sleeved red blouse. Her eyebrows were darkened, her lips reddened. She could hear her parents moving about downstairs. They were going out to a bankers' dinner. She reckoned they wouldn't be home before midnight. Harold Armstrong's rules had been announced and Joan knew them by heart. Until he decided otherwise Joan was allowed out two nights a week, Saturday and Sunday. Never on her own. 'You have important exams coming up,' he explained to a sullen face that morning. 'You should be studying.' Joan offered a winning smile. 'Yes, dad.' It didn't work. 'Don't you "Yes, dad" me,' her father snapped. 'That means nothing, young lady, and I know it.' Another 'Yes, dad' was offered, this time without the false smile. 'Your mother and I are going out tonight.' In the background Mrs Armstrong dabbed nervously at the side of her mouth with a lace handkerchief. 'I've asked Andrew to stay with you.' Andrew was one of the beloved sons. Joan couldn't stand him. 'He'll wait until we get home. If you want to go out, Andrew will go with you.' Joan's sullen face changed to angry scowl. 'That's the way it's going to be, young lady, until you learn sense.' Joan immediately protested. Harold Armstrong silenced her with a wave of a hand. 'Those are the rules.'

Andrew arrived just as the parents were leaving. He was clutching a bankers' handbook which his father nodded at approvingly. Andrew was a tall, thin man in his early thirties. He was due to sit banking exams in two weeks. He didn't much mind the 'baby-sitting' exercise, it gave him a chance to escape the drudgery of his own marriage and get a few hours uninterrupted study. He was less than pleased when Joan announced she wanted to go out at nine o'clock.

'At this hour?' he complained. Joan's eyes rolled to heaven. 'Where do you want to go?'

'Just down to the pub to meet a few friends.'

Andrew marked the page he was reading. 'All right. Only for a short time.'

'Sure.'

Joan took him to the Black Bird public house along the seafront at Sandymount. It was loud and smoky, with a small band playing. Andrew didn't last long. The noise deafened, the smoke irritated his eyes and made his asthma flare.

'Is there anywhere else we can go?' he spluttered. His token beer was untouched.

'Nah, this is great.'

Andrew peered through the gloom and smoke. 'Where are these friends you're supposed to meet?'

'Get a life, Andrew,' taunted Joan. She knocked back her lager. 'They don't surface 'til after eleven.'

Andrew checked his watch and cursed. 'I'm not staying in this dump for another hour.'

Joan looked at him with mock dismay. 'Oh, come on, Andrew, you're being really weird, like. We're not going home yet. It's Saturday.'

'You can bloody well stay on your own,' snapped her brother. 'I'm going back. Make sure you're home within an hour, d'ye hear?'

'Only an hour?' Joan wailed.

'An hour and a half at the most. If you're not back by eleven thirty you're in trouble.' Andrew leaned over and shouted against the background din. 'And you can't afford to be in any more trouble.' He left, not before pointing at his watch from the pub entrance.