Cold Steel (4 page)

4

2.57 pm

Micko Kelly didn't know he had blood on his hands when he finally awoke to the high-pitched screech of the drug-addicted baby in the next flat. It was just before three that afternoon and he was still lying on his flea-infested mattress. He reached one hand out, eyes half closed, and searched until he felt a small plastic bottle. He shook and listened for the comforting rattle, flicked open the lid and slid out two Rohypnol tablets. Gathering as much spit as he could, he swallowed them in one go then reached out again until he felt a large plastic bottle. He shook it until he sensed the comforting roll of liquid inside. One-handed, he twisted the cap off and took a deep swig on the methadone, coughing as he felt it burn his throat. He pulled himself half upright and took another swig, rinsing his teeth and foul-tasting mouth before swallowing. He noticed the blood for the first time and splayed his fingers out to see how much. The staining even covered the tattoo on each knuckle. He slumped back onto the filthy pillow and pulled both edges over his ears to drown out the screeches.

'Fuck off,' he screamed, pounding the thin walls. 'I'll slit that child if ye don't shut the bastard up!'

The screeches only intensified. In a violent rage Kelly fumbled under the mattress until he grabbed the handle of a wide-bladed Bowie knife. He made for the door.

'I'll kill that wee bastard!'

The screeches were momentarily muffled.

Kelly slumped back onto the mattress, moaning. He was still holding the knife. He squinted at the dark staining on his hands and tried to remember how he'd got home. It wouldn't come. His mind was a blank. He struggled unsteadily to his feet, leaning against the wall as he stood up fully for the first time in over sixteen hours. He felt dizzy.

Kelly was six foot three and once weighed fourteen stone. That was in his early twenties. Now aged thirty-three he was down to eleven and still dropping. His hair was unwashed and lay in dank matted curls over both ears and along the top of his shoulders. He was unshaven and hadn't attempted a cut for days. He was still in the same clothes he'd been in for the previous four days, a stolen navy blue tracksuit bottom and stolen white Marks and Spencer T-shirt. His mind was fogged, his vision slightly blurred, his mouth dry and unpleasant. He was in a foul, vicious temper. He noticed bloodstains on the T-shirt and ran his hands up and down vigorously as if trying to shake the discoloration away. With one hand he pulled the T-shirt off, threw it angrily into a corner and staggered to the cracked and chipped hand basin in the corner of the room. Resting his right elbow against the wall in front he peered at the reflection in the dirty half mirror stuck above the basin with glue.
Fuck it.
The vision was not good, not even to Micko Kelly who'd spent many years squinting at mirrors watching his face disintegrate. The hand-clutching-dagger tattoo over his left eye was sagging, reflecting his recent weight loss.

The screeching started again and he flicked on a stolen Black Sabbath CD on his stolen CD player and turned up the volume. Then he pissed into the plastic bucket beneath the sink and tried again to remember the night before. It still wouldn't come. He started washing the blood off his hands and glanced at the bloodstained T-shirt lying in the corner. For a minute he ran wet fingers across his face and
jaw, testing he hadn't anything broken. Then he lit up a prepared silver foil containing heroin and inhaled deeply.

Outside in the corridor he heard loud angry voices and doors slamming and screams and curses and the baby started screeching again.

'I'll kill that fuckin' child, I fuckin' will,' he promised and turned up Black Sabbath. He slumped down on his backside, opened a Mars bar and began munching. His brain was fogging even further and he felt himself slipping as he drew on the last of the foil. He smiled a little, munched some more then began a fit of coughing. A hand reached out and pulled back the ring on a stolen can of Pepsi. He sipped on the opening.

Where am I gonna get some scag today? I'm right outa everythin'. Fuck it, I'll havta get out.

The bloodstained T-shirt caught his eye again.

In the outside corridor a seventeen-year-old drug-addicted mother wheeled her six-month-old baby down to the stairwell that led to street level. The baby had been born addicted to heroin courtesy of his mother's habit. They lived in an inner-city tenement called Hillcourt Mansions. This had the reputation as Dublin's toughest and most drug-infested hot spot. It was a three-storey flat-roofed 1950s design, twenty units on each level overlooking a central concrete courtyard, two stairwells to the ground at each end. Before heroin fully took over it was merely a petty-crime area, handbag snatching, mugging, drunken brawling. After the city's surge in hard drugs 'the mansions' had become a vicious, dangerous complex. Doctors refused to go into it and the police only in numbers and not for long. Hillcourt Mansions was hell on earth, an urban desolation of graffiti, used syringes and crack houses.

Kelly had a single room along a narrow corridor in one of the shared flats and spent most of his time lying on a filthy mattress on the floor, spaced out in a multi-drug-induced stupor. He had no other possessions apart from
the stolen CD player and discs. In one corner rested a tin waste bin quarter-full of dirty syringes and small clingfilm sachets that once contained heroin. A selection of knives, flick and fixed-bladed, wide and slim, were usually hidden under the mattress. More often than not they were bloodstained. The room was a pit, a flea-infested, urine-stinking dump. Micko Kelly couldn't care less.

5

3.30 pm

'I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Nolan, but I have something important to tell the girls.'

Sister Concepta Downes stood at the front of classroom six of the Holy Rosary Convent in Blackrock. The school was four miles from Sandymount Park. Slightly behind her Detective Sergeant Tony Molloy watched and waited. Sister Concepta wore standard nun's uniform, navy veil across the middle of her hair allowing tufted grey fringe in front, long heavy grey skirt and white blouse, with grey cardigan. A wooden crucifix hung around her neck and she fingered it nervously. She was barely two inches above five feet and was dwarfed by the tall policeman.

'This is a policeman, a Sergeant Molloy. He would like a word as well.' Her words were directed at the French teacher, Gerry Nolan, but loud enough for the class to hear. Nolan was a good-looking man in his early thirties, dressed in slacks and linen jacket with dark blue shirt open at the neck. He moved away from the blackboard and leaned against a radiator.

'I'm afraid I have dreadful news,' the nun began, choosing her words carefully.

Molloy inspected the faces behind the desks. There were twenty-two girls, aged around seventeen to eighteen years, all with the healthy complexions of good breeding and careful diet. There were a few black and oriental faces,
probably from the embassies he decided. The girls were dressed in school uniform, grey skirts, white blouses, navy ties. Beneath the desks he spotted regulation navy blue tights and black, sensible shoes. There wasn't a pair of trainers anywhere. The overwhelming impression was wealth and privilege, the sort of girls ferried to school in BMWs, Volvos and Mercs, not old bangers like the '90-registered Toyota Corolla Molloy's wife used for their three children.

'I'm afraid Jennifer Marks is no longer with us.' The words hung in the air and puzzled glances were exchanged around the classroom. 'She's dead.'

There was a sharp intake of breath and the expressions changed suddenly to shock and disbelief. Gerry Nolan muttered a quiet 'Jesus Christ'.

'I'm not going to say any more, I know this is a terrible shock for all of us,' continued the nun quickly, 'but Sergeant Molloy wants to know if any of you were with Jennifer, God rest her soul,' she crossed herself, 'yesterday after school.'

As one all heads turned to a dark-haired girl sitting two desks from the back and near the window.

'Also,' Sister Concepta added, 'I was wondering if Joan Armstrong,' now looking directly at the centre of attention, 'would come with me immediately? I know you and Jennifer were close friends.' She forced a reassuring smile towards the girl.

Joan Armstrong seemed to be struggling to put on a brave face.

'Yes, sister.'

Molloy noticed her hands shaking slightly as she stood up. Her face seemed drained of colour.

'Now, sergeant, is there anything else you'd like to add?'

'Thank you, sister.' The deep voice was a stark contrast to the nun's quieter tones. Molloy hitched at the belt on his trousers and allowed his gaze to glide slowly around the room. He frowned. 'I'm sorry to bring such dreadful news,
but this is no ordinary event.' He stopped, wondering how to go on. He decided to call it straight. 'Sometime late last night Jennifer Marks was murdered.'

A girl in the front row turned white and began to slide in a faint. Gerry Nolan rushed and grabbed her head before it hit the floor. Sister Concepta was quickly at her side, loosening her tie, lying her in the prone position. The rest of the girls in the class appeared numb, senses reeling. The nun urged Molloy to continue while she cradled a tousled blonde head in one hand. Joan Armstrong sat back heavily in her chair, breathing deeply.

'If any of you,' Molloy said quickly, 'know anything of Jennifer Marks' whereabouts yesterday please tell your teacher,' he glanced over at Nolan who nodded vigorously, 'and he will take details. All will be followed up later.'

The girl who had fainted was slowly coming round, muttering loudly, wondering what had happened. There were a few nervous giggles. Molloy decided this was a good time to get out and opened the classroom door, holding it ajar. Sister Concepta followed. A very young and frightened-looking girl was in tow behind her.

'Let's go down to my office,' the nun suggested.

Molloy had left Sandymount Park for the convent just after three that afternoon. Jim Clarke started immediate house-to-house inquiries, hoping to catch as many as possible before memories dulled. Molloy drove the short journey to Blackrock, tuning in to the latest radio broadcasts, noting the story was already the main news item. One station had interrupted its chat-line to discuss developments and the airways quickly filled with listeners' dismay and disgust.

This is gonna make waves, he thought as he drove into the immaculately kept school grounds. This is gonna make big waves. He could feel his stomach tighten and began
chewing an antacid.

'At what time exactly did you and Jennifer split up?'

The three, Molloy, Joan Armstrong and Sister Concepta, sat in the principal's office, a large, bright airy room full of religious books and school timetables. The nun sat behind her desk, while Molloy placed himself beside the schoolgirl. Armstrong worried him immediately. She was tall, about five nine, he reckoned, and more mature-looking than her years. Despite the school uniform there was no disguising the gentle curves and slopes. Her jet-black hair was pulled back severely and held in a clasp at the back. He could imagine the tresses let down and hanging loose over shoulders in some tight outfit at the Saturday night discos. Her face held slight traces of acne camouflaged by cosmetic. She was pretty rather than beautiful, with full lips that would look provocative when reddened.

Before he had gone to the classroom, Sister Concepta briefed him on what to expect. What she had to say was not for Joan Armstrong's ears.

'The two of them hung around a lot, they were great pals.'

He sensed immediately the nun wasn't much pleased by the friendship.

'They are…' she'd corrected herself immediately, 'rather, they
were,
very alike. Mature, precocious and a bit too showy for my liking. They even looked alike, almost sisters. Same hairstyles and clothes, same foul language. I may as well tell you I wasn't happy with most of their habits.'

'Like what?'

'Well, I know for a fact they smoked, it's strictly forbidden here,' she added in a disapproving voice, 'and they were in and out of pubs every weekend.'

Molloy couldn't stop himself interrupting. 'Ah God, sister, this is the nineties. Most young kids their age are in pubs at the weekends.'

Sister Concepta had cut across immediately. 'I know that, sergeant, I'm well aware of that. It's the type of pubs
they frequented that worried me. And,' she added thoughtfully, nibbling on her lower lip, 'it worried their parents, too.'

Molloy encouraged her to continue.

'Joan's father is in banking. He's about sixty, a tall grey-haired man, always wears a pin-stripe suit. The perfect bank manager, conservative and subdued. Joan is his third child and I think she was a bit of a mistake, if you know what I mean.'

Molloy fixed a smile at this insight.

'The other two children,' the nun continued, 'are boys, late twenties, early thirties. Both in banking like their father.' Sister Concepta obviously approved of the boys. 'Joan is a pea from a totally different pod. She has tormented both parents since the day she was born. She's rebellious, difficult, disobedient and a born liar. Totally at odds with her father most of the time.'

'What's his name?' Molloy interrupted.

'Harold, Harold Armstrong.' The nun waited until this was added to Molloy's notebook. 'I know they were delighted when Joan teamed up with Jennifer. I mean everyone thought the Markses such a
respectable
family. Friends in the government and all that.' The sarcasm suggested the Marks family had not impressed Sister Concepta. 'I can tell you, sergeant,' voice low, strictly confidential, 'their delight quickly soured when they discovered the girls actually fed off one another. They became notorious.'

'How?'

'Well,' the nun disclosed, 'Joan's father found out she was drinking when she came home from a friend's party with speech slurred, clothes in a state of disarray. I believe she was banned from going out for a month but sneaked away the next weekend.'

Molloy suppressed a grin.

'But after certain information came my way,' Sister Concepta was triumphant, 'I took the issue into my own
hands. I rang Harold Armstrong myself.'

Molloy looked up from his notebook. 'About what?'

'I wasn't completely sure but I felt I had to let him know my fears.'

'About what?' Molloy pressed.

'Joan was taking drugs. She might have thought she was experimenting, it was only harmless fun. But we have two past pupils addicted to heroin and that's how they started.'

Molloy held up a hand. 'What'd he say?'

Sister Concepta frowned. 'All he wanted to know was where the money was coming from.'

'Do you know?'

'No. I confronted her and she lied as usual.'

'Are you sure?'

The nun nodded. 'She blamed everything on Jennifer Marks. She claimed Jennifer's parents give her loads of pocket money.' At the other girl's name Sister Concepta crossed herself again.

'But you didn't believe her?'

'I never do, sergeant. I never do.'

'About five or maybe a little after five. We took the train from Blackrock and got off at Sydney Parade Avenue.'

'Was Jennifer in good spirits or did she seem down or preoccupied in any way?'

'No. She seemed normal, you know, like, just her normal self.' Joan Armstrong's voice lifted an octave and she glanced towards her headmistress. Sister Concepta had her head bowed, as if in prayer.

'Did you notice anyone following or did anyone strange talk to you on the train?'

Armstrong put on her thinking face. 'No, no. I mean, I wasn't really looking, you know, like, it was just a normal schoolday, you know. I mean, we weren't paying attention to anyone and, like, I don't remember anyone sort of looking at us.' Her voice was strained.

Sister Concepta reached across and took one of the
young girl's hands in her own. She squeezed it reassuringly. 'I telephoned your mother, Joan, and she knows we were going to ask you to talk with Sergeant Molloy. She particularly asked me to tell you to make
sure
you tried to remember everything.'

'But I am, sister, I am.' The protesting voice sounded less than convincing.

'Good girl, Joan,' the nun soothed, 'good girl.' She withdrew her hand.

'So the last you saw of Jennifer yesterday was sometime around five o'clock, after you got off the train at Sydney Parade Avenue?' Molloy decided not to be heavy-handed. He was interviewing the girl without her parents and didn't want to create a problem if he had to come back to her later.

'Yes. She went off towards Ailesbury Road, like the way she always goes, and I went down Park Avenue like usual. I mean, that's what always happens.' The nervous flicking of the head, the slight shake of the hands suggested otherwise.

'But she couldn't have gone to Ailesbury Road, could she?' pressed Molloy. 'She ended up in Sandymount Park. That's over a mile away in the opposite direction.'

Armstrong shrugged nervously. 'Yeah, it's really weird, like, you know. I mean, I don't know how she could have got there, like it's miles out of the way.'

'No idea, no idea at all?'

'No, none.'

'She's lying, sergeant. I can tell. I'm over thirty years in teaching and I know when someone's lying, believe me. That's Joan Armstrong's lying face.'

Twenty minutes of asking the same questions in as many different ways hadn't shaken the girl's version of events. Molloy let her return to classes. Sister Concepta's expression was hard as granite.

'Maybe she's worried about saying too much in front of
you, sister?' Molloy offered.

The nun looked at him strangely. 'I hope that's all there is to it, sergeant. But I don't believe it is.'

The trail was picked up in the first hour. One of the forensics spotted a smear of blood on a spike of railings that surrounded Sandymount Park. It was near the edge where a red brick wall marked an outer perimeter. Scuff marks suggested feet scrambling to gain a foothold, the blood suggesting a bloodstained hand grabbing the spike for support.

'Yeah, he was a big bollox all right. About six foot, maybe a bit more.'

Star Sign Cabs was based on a first-floor office along one of the nearby roads. There was always somebody leaning out of one of the windows watching the world go by. Cigarette butts lay in small pockets on the pavement beneath the vantage point.

'He was lolling along the footpath heading towards town.' One of the cabbies, a small fat man with bald head and Coca-Cola-bottom glasses was feeling important as he recalled the man who had staggered past the offices around ten thirty the night before. 'Raggedy sort of a mangy dog look about him. He was in a whitish-coloured T-shirt and there was something on the front, you could see that as plain.'