The Rule Book (24 page)

‘We’ve given it a thorough search, but it seems clean,’ Norrie replied. ‘No blood or hairs from any of the victims. No sign of any paint or anything else that links it to any of the other crime scenes.’

‘If he used it for Laura Schmidt’s death there had to be something,’ McEvoy said, doubt in his voice.

‘Maybe he only used it for Billy Mullins,’ Jenny Flanagan said. ‘That was pretty bloodless.’

‘Maybe,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘We need to know if that car was spotted near to any of the other sites around the time of the murders. We also need to find the clothes he took from the victims and those that he was wearing when he killed. As Samantha says, perhaps he’s got another place where he gets changed and disposes of things. Barney, can you check to see if he owns or rents any other properties?’

‘No problem,’ Plunkett replied, making a note for himself.

‘We’re going to have to construct a full time line for Brady from the moment the
DHC
took those homeless kids out to Glencree until he was brought in for questioning. We know where he was some of the time, but we need to fill in the blanks. Take his mugshot and show it to all the witnesses at the different sites and see if they can place him in the area at the time of the murders. Also talk to the
DHC
and find out when he was at work. In fact, we should re-interview all the
DHC
people again, talk to them about Brady, his relationship to Laura Schmidt and David Hennessey, and how he was behaving out at Glencree. Barney, can you arrange for them to come in later this morning?’

‘I’ll ring them straight after this. Do you want to talk to all of them or just the people who were out at Glencree?’

‘Let’s start with those at Glencree and then move onto the others. You should probably be around for those since you’ve been talking to them already.’

Plunkett nodded in agreement and ran a hand through his sandy hair.

‘Well, I guess we’d better get started then. I’ll leave you to brief your teams. If anything significant comes up then you’re to contact me immediately. I’m going to go and re-interview Brady again, see what he’s got to say for himself now he’s had a night to think about things. And remember, you need to talk to each other. It’s now about connections. We need to link Brady across the different victims and murder sites. I don’t want anyone else running solo on this,’ McEvoy warned. ‘This is a team game.’

Dermot Brady shifted on his seat, rolling his wide shoulders, trying to get comfortable. His thinning brown hair was stuck up at odd angles, his face tired, two-day stubble covering skin that had an odd, pale yellow quality to it, dark crescents hanging under bloodshot eyes. Next to him his grey-haired solicitor sat bolt upright, pursing his lips and picking at his left index finger with his right thumb, his eyes boring into McEvoy. He was dressed in a well-tailored, pinstripe suit, a red tie over an ivory shirt. A blank notepad lay on the table in front of him, an expensive looking silver fountain pen sitting on top of it.

McEvoy subconsciously mimicked Brady, rolling his shoulders and leaning forward, his oversized jacket hanging open. ‘Shall we make a start then?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘My colleagues tell me that you’re still protesting your innocence,’ he said evenly.

Brady stared back coldly but didn’t reply.

‘Forensic evidence places you at all four of the murder sites, Dermot. However careful you think you were, there were hair samples and footprints that match a pair of your shoes. The chances of someone else being at all four sites are practically zero, especially since three of the victims were closely known to you.’

‘Look, I wasn’t in Maynooth and I wasn’t in the Phoenix Park, okay?’ he said firmly. ‘I’m being framed for four murders I didn’t commit. Why can’t any of you see that? Are you all blind or something?’

‘Because,’ McEvoy said patiently, ‘all the evidence points to you being the killer and there’s nothing to suggest otherwise. Nothing. You’ve killed previously and got away with manslaughter, now you thought you’d have another go. Only this time you weren’t as clever as your chapters suggested. Just face the facts, Dermot, and accept the consequences.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Brady snapped. ‘I haven’t written any fuckin’ chapters! And I didn’t mean to kill that woman and her child,’ he said expressively, holding open his hands. ‘I was young, I was drunk, and I was stupid. But I didn’t deliberately set out to kill them. And that’s the truth. I served my sentence and I ask for forgiveness every day. Every day,’ he repeated. ‘But I didn’t kill those four people. He’s planted evidence to frame me. I’m telling you the truth, Superintendent.’

‘That’s not what the evidence is telling us, Dermot, and it’s not what a jury will believe. What we’ve got is solid and whatever else we find will be as well. You lured Laura Schmidt out to Glencree, a place you knew well, to kill her. You visited a place you spent three years doing a degree and you killed your old tutor. You then killed Grainne Malone in the Phoenix Park, before killing Billy Mullins, a man you helped care for, in his own home.’

‘This is ridiculous!’ Brady snapped, placing his hands on the top of his head. ‘I didn’t lure Laura Schmidt anywhere. She came of her own free will. She turned up at the bus minutes before we set off. Yes, okay, I tried to get her to come on the trip, but then so did all the others. That’s our job! And we were all surprised she came. And I would have never have killed David or Billy. They were my friends! They were people I loved and trusted. Why would I kill them?’

‘I don’t know, Dermot, why did you kill them?’

‘I didn’t kill them! Jesus, this is like talking to a brick wall. I didn’t even know Grainne Malone and I haven’t been to the Phoenix Park in ages. The other three all have connections to me, but I’ve no idea who the hell she is!’

The solicitor stopped picking at his nails and placed a hand on Brady’s arm, signalling to him to take it easy, to calm down and be careful what he was saying.

McEvoy read the signal as well; aware it was as much for him as Brady. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, raising his palms. ‘Calm down, Dermot. You okay?’

Brady stared back angrily and snorted breath from his nose.

‘Okay then, let’s say what you’re arguing is true,’ McEvoy said steadily, ‘that you’re being set up by somebody else. Whoever that person is, they must know you pretty well to make all the killings match your life; to make us believe that you’re the killer. So, who do you think The Raven is, Dermot? It must be someone pretty close to you.’

Brady shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Really, I don’t.’ He ran his hand through his thinning hair and grabbed a handful, pulling it gently.

‘You’ve had all night to think about it and you haven’t come up with a single name?’ McEvoy asked, raising his eyebrows. ‘Come on, Dermot, you’ll have to do better than that.’

‘I don’t know,’ Brady repeated. ‘Why does it have to be someone I know? He could have just picked me and followed me – learnt things about me. He could have known about me from the papers.’

‘As you said though, Dermot, you killed that mother and child 15 years ago. It’s a long time since you’ve been in the papers.’

‘People know though. They never let you forget it. Everyone within half a mile of where I live knows I did time. They could easily look me up in the library.’

‘So what you’re saying is that it could be anyone living in a half-mile radius of your apartment?’ McEvoy said sardonically. ‘That must be over 50,000 people, Dermot. Maybe more. Are we to treat them all as suspects?’

Brady shrugged again. ‘Look, I don’t know who it is. All I know is that I’m being framed for murders I didn’t commit. If I’m right, he’s still out there and he’s preparing to kill again. And you’re doing nothing to stop him.’

‘The fact that you’re sat opposite me means he won’t kill again,’ McEvoy said, but there was little confidence in his voice. ‘Let’s take a 15 minute break, okay? I’ll arrange for someone to bring you some tea or coffee.’ He popped the cassette from the recorder and headed for the door of the interview room.

The door opened and Tom Cahill, Dermot Brady’s room mate from Glencree, entered the interview room followed by Barney Plunkett. McEvoy stood and offered his hand. ‘Thanks for coming in, Mr Cahill.’

Cahill shook it firmly and pulled a tight smile. ‘Tom,’ he said with a deep, gravelly voice. ‘Everyone just calls me Tom.’ His short grey hair sat untidily above a rugged face, deep creases defining his ruddy cheeks, strong laughter lines radiating from bloodshot eyes framed by black-rimmed glasses. He wore a mid-brown cord jacket over a red checked shirt, dark brown jeans and a scuffed pair of black shoes.

‘Well, Tom, thanks for coming in.’ McEvoy gestured to the seat and Cahill sat down, his fingers knitting together and coming to rest on his stomach. ‘We’d like to ask you again about the trip to Glencree. That okay?’ McEvoy continued.

‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ Cahill nodded. ‘I still can’t believe what happened to that young girl. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since.’

‘Me neither,’ McEvoy replied sympathetically. ‘Did you know her well?’

‘Me? No, no. She used to drop into Gardiner Street every now and then, but she was a quiet one. If you tried to talk to her she just withdrew in on herself. I guess if what the papers are saying is true then she had a pretty good reason to be like that.’

‘And did you see her leave the den the night she died?’ McEvoy asked, not wanting to dwell on Laura’s life. ‘I mean, did she leave on her own or with someone?’

‘I’ve no idea, to be honest. I was probably talking to someone when she left. I just know she was sat on her own and when I looked over at where she’d been a bit later on she wasn’t there.’

‘And did Dermot Brady disappear at any point for a while?’

‘No, but … Look, I’m not sure what you’re driving at here,’ Cahill said firmly, ‘but I can’t see Dermot Brady as Laura’s murderer.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because there isn’t a bad bone in that man’s body. He’s one of the most selfless people I’ve ever met.’

‘He’s also done five years for manslaughter for killing a young mother and her son.’

‘And he’s prayed for forgiveness every day since. The man is genuinely tortured. It was an act of madness fuelled by alcohol. He’s nobody’s fool, but he’d go to the end of the earth to help you if you needed it.’

‘So you definitely can’t see him as The Raven?’

‘Is that who you’re holding? Dermot? You must be mad! There’s no way that Dermot killed them. No way.’

Tom Cahill handed over the money for his pint of Guinness and his meal, took a long sup from the glass, and moved away from the bar, down a couple of steps, round the end of a long, thin table stretching the length of the pub, splitting it in two, and sat on a badly worn stool half way along its extent. He placed his pint on the pine surface, unfolded a copy of the Irish Times and scanned the front page absentmindedly.

Three stools along the table, near to the door of the pub, a man with shoulder-length brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard and stylish, thin-framed glasses nursed a glass of Coke, a paperback novel spread open before him. He was wearing a black suit over a black shirt and tie, a small black satchel at his feet. He glanced at Cahill, a sly smile forming on his lips and then turned his attention back to the rest of the pub, examining its customers and in particular the flow of people through the door marked ‘Toilets’. Only occasionally did anyone pass through the door despite the pub being busy with lunchtime trade.

All of the smaller tables hugging the windows and walls were occupied, mainly by people in their late twenties through to early forties dressed in suits or smart casuals; office workers from the nearby financial companies and government offices. There were only a handful of people not eating, the majority of tables covered with wide, deep plates. A soft rock ballad was playing in the background, but it was the noise of conversation that drowned out the rumble of the traffic along the quays.