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Authors: Gene Kerrigan

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural

The Midnight Choir (3 page)

BOOK: The Midnight Choir
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When Synnott finished he and Cheney found a corner where they couldn’t be overheard.
Synnott said, ‘No previous. Hapgood has an address in Castlepoint.’ He nodded towards Teresa Hunt’s room. ‘What do you think?’
‘We may have a problem.’
‘I thought she was impressive enough.’
‘After you’d gone I went back over how they came to arrange the date. Seems Teresa wrote to him, got his address from the phone book. Suggested they get together.’
‘What she said was that
he
rang
her
for a date.’
‘He did, but before that – she bumped into him at a party, a week later she sent him a note. He rang her the next day.’
Synnott said, ‘Well.’
Both Synnott and Cheney knew that rape cases can fall one way or the other when they come down to a conflict of evidence. This one could be made to look like a young woman refusing to let go of a passing romance, pursuing the man to a sexual reprise. Depending on the sequence of events, the elements were there to create a defence that when Hapgood walked away, having no interest in Teresa Hunt beyond a quick roll, she made a revenge accusation. With a case that weak it wasn’t in anyone’s interest to let it go as far as a charge.
Cheney said, ‘It doesn’t mean she’s lying about the rape.’
‘No, but if Hapgood’s kept the note and if what she wrote is in any way juicy, that’s it as far as the DPP’s office is concerned.’
‘It’s still her word against his.’
‘The state doesn’t like being a loser. If the odds don’t stack up the DPP will pass.’
The Hapgood place in Castlepoint was way over on the Southside, on the coast. They drove there in Garda Cheney’s Astra. It was a big house, set well back, but it was on the wrong side of the road. No beach access. Rose Cheney parked the car and said, ‘What do you reckon? Two million, tops?’
Synnott said, ‘Depends on the aspect.’
3
The American tourist put his MasterCard back in his wallet and took the money out of the ATM. As he slipped the notes into the wallet he heard his girlfriend make a frightened noise. He turned around Kathy was pale and rigid, staring off to one side. The mugger was four or five feet away, a woman in – what? – her mid-thirties. Thin legs in faded blue jeans, a shabby red jacket too big for her frame. Her long hair was blonde, tied back untidily, she was blinking a lot and holding one arm stiffly down by her side. What the American tourist mostly saw was the syringe she was holding in that hand, the blood inside it a darker shade than the red of her jacket.
‘Give it,’ she said.
‘Take it easy, now—’
Neary’s pub, where the tourist and his girlfriend had had drinks the previous night, was across the street. Down to the right were a couple of restaurants, customers sitting at the windows, people coming out of a fish shop across the road, others crossing towards the specialist kitchen shop, no one paying attention. It was pushing lunchtime and fifty feet behind the mugger, at the end of the side street, the usual throng of Grafton Street shoppers flowed by unheeding.
The woman stuck her chin out. ‘You want the HIV?’
‘Just—’
‘Just fuck off – give me the money—’
‘Thomas—’ The American tourist’s girlfriend was holding out a hand to him. ‘Do what—’
The mugger said, ‘
She
can have it—’ She waved the syringe towards the girlfriend.
The man made calming gestures, both hands patting an invisible horizontal surface in front of him. Thomas Lott, the manager of an upmarket sandwich shop in Philadelphia, had been almost a week in Dublin, Kathy’s home town, her first trip home in four years. Thomas had long ago decided that the sensible thing to do if ever he was mugged would be to hand over whatever money he had, and that was what he intended doing. He just wanted things to calm down.
No room in Kathy’s parents’ house, so they’d stayed in the Westbury. After six days in the city Thomas found Dublin bigger and less folksy than he’d expected. Lots of sandwich bars and coffee shops, just like Philly. Lots of tall shiny glass buildings to provide the sandwich bars with their customers, just like Philly. Just as many shopping malls as Philly, just as many overpriced restaurants and just as many dead-eyed shoppers. And now, it seemed, just as many muggers.
The mugger’s voice had a hysterical edge when she hissed, ‘Give me the fucking
money
!’
Across the street an elderly woman and her middle-aged daughter, both raven-haired and wearing fur collars and dark glasses, were staring at the mugger.
‘Sure, OK—’
Thomas Lott felt the strap of his black leather shoulder bag slip down his right arm and his left hand automatically reached up to catch it. He saw the mugger’s mouth widen, her eyes move this way and that and he knew that she thought he was trying something and he thought for a fraction of a second that he should say
No, it just slipped!
But there wasn’t time, so he caught the sliding strap in his right hand and he swung the bag hard. As soon as he did he felt a dart of horror at his own foolishness – then he saw the bag connect, and the syringe was knocked sideways, flying out of the mugger’s hand, and he felt a giddy rush of triumph.
Backing away, the mugger screamed a string of obscenities. Thomas Lott started towards her, but she was already turning, bent and running.
‘
Thomas!
’
Lott gave up the notion of following the mugger. He roared, ‘Stop her!’ but she was already about to turn the corner into Grafton Street, slipping into the tide of unheeding pedestrians.
‘Thomas.’
When he turned back, Kathy was standing very still, breathing heavily, like she was trying not to scream. Thomas Lott moved towards his girlfriend and he was within three feet of her before he saw the syringe, ugly against her dazzling white skirt, sticking up out of the front of her thigh at a forty-five-degree angle.
Stupid bastard.
All he had to do.
Stupid fucker!
Dixie Peyton’s breath came in noisy gulps as she ran down Grafton Street. It was dangerous to run. Cop sees someone like her running – say goodnight.
To her left, a glimpse of a shaven-headed security man at the door of a shop, watching her, muttering into his radio.
Running, someone like me
—
But the Yank –
fuck him
– might still be coming after her and she had to put some distance—
Half a minute later she ducked left, into a shoe shop. Two elderly women coming out of the shop stood to one side as she passed. They looked Dixie up and down and used their elbows to press their handbags closer to their sides.
Dixie stopped, aware that she looked out of place among the calm, well-dressed shoppers. She fought to control her breathing. She looked out through the shop window and saw a garda running awkwardly down the street. Youngguy, moving too carefully to get up much speed, one hand holding his radio in place, the other touching his cap, glancing this way and that in search of the runaway mugger.
‘Hey, you!’
Dixie turned and saw a big fat bastard coming up from the back of the shop, his stare fixed on her, his walkie-talkie held at chin height.
She turned and hurried towards the door. Behind her she heard the big fat bastard shouting something, as if it was any of his fucking business.
The two old women were still standing just outside the shop, watching Dixie as she ran out. Then she could hear the barking of the big fat bastard as he used his radio to let the whole street know.
Dixie turned right and ran back up Grafton Street. If it was just a thing of running, she’d have no problem leaving the cop or any of the fat bastards standing. But with the radios it was like the cops and the fat bastards had threads linking them all together, sticky threads. No matter which way she ran she left a trace.
To vanish in the anonymity of the crowd she’d need to stop running. To stop running, she’d have to get far enough away from the Yank and the garda and the big fat bastard, and all the other security men and their net of sticky threads.
All she wanted was for this to stop.
Didn’t get any money. Keep it. Stick it where the sun don’t shine.
All a mistake.
Stupid. All the Yank had to do—
Leave me alone!
She’d made eye contact with the Yank’s girlfriend when the syringe hit her –
Jesus!
– talk about bad luck. Try that a hundred times, the fucking needle sticking up out of the prissy brunette’s leg, it’s never going to happen.
Ah, shit.
Twenty feet in front of Dixie.
Less than that.
One of the security men – tall guy in a black leather jacket, short haircut, chewing gum, was coming diagonally down the street, muttering into his radio, his gaze fixed on Dixie. She knew him. Potsy, something like that.
Dixie changed direction, headed straight towards Potsy, weaving through the shoppers. She saw Potsy stop and crouch, arms wide like he was a gladiator waiting for the lions to come out. Then – when she was three feet away from him – Dixie changed direction again and left him standing there like the gobshite he was, crouched, wrong-footed, one arm reaching hopelessly for her flying form, and she was past him and running towards the Westbury Mall and something hit her right shin hard, pain shooting up through her leg so that she screamed. Then her knees hit the ground, jolting her whole body, and she was rolling over onto her back, winded. She tried to sit up and she screamed as someone kicked her in the ribs.
‘
Bitch!
’
It was the Yank, all excited, dancing around her, then Potsy was pushing him away and kneeling beside her. ‘You OK?’
Dixie lay there, looking up. Everyone she could see – and there were dozens of people milling about – was staring at her. The Yank and Potsy, people standing around, people walking past, not looking where they were going, all of them staring at the woman sprawled on the ground. Curiosity in those eyes, excitement, contempt.
Leave me alone.
The garda was pushing his way through, younger even than she’d thought when she saw him first. He stood over her, making breathless noises into his radio.
Dixie’s hands crossed in front of her chest, taking hold of the lapels of her red jacket, her fingers pulling the fabric taut. She tucked her legs under herself and curled up, turning her head to one side. She could feel the cold rough surface of the brick footpath against her cheek.
Dixie closed her eyes.
4
It was lunchtime when Detective Inspector Harry Synnott and Detective Garda Rose Cheney arrived at the Hapgood house, at Castlepoint. The Hapgood kid was chewing something when he opened the front door. Synnott looked at his face and knew two things.
One –
He did it.
Two –
All going well, we’ll have this wrapped up by close of business.
‘Garda Siochana, Detective Inspector Synnott. I’m looking for Max Hapgood.’
The young man’s glance went from Synnott to Garda Cheney, standing four feet behind, then back again.
‘Junior or senior?’
Harry Synnott said, ‘Both.’
The kid blushed. There were two diagonal scratches on his forehead. He’d stopped chewing and Synnott guessed that right now the kid was suppressing an urge to spit out whatever was in his mouth.
He was big, six-two at least, broad and muscled. Across a courtroom from wispy little Teresa Hunt, even in his best suit, he’d come over as Attila the Rugby Player.
More often than not, Harry Synnott looked at a suspect and it was like a parent looking at a child –
Did you take those sweets?
And it didn’t matter if the child denied it on granny’s grave, the parent could tell by the way the guilt rippled through the kid’s facial muscles. For a policeman as experienced as Harry Synnott, it could be the way a suspect stood or moved but mostly it came from what was happening in the face. It didn’t work with the hard cases who could look anyone in the eye and rattle off a phoney alibi like they were saying a cherished childhood prayer. Lacking authority over his own face, Max Hapgood Junior couldn’t prevent it betraying him.
There it was again. The flush rising up the cheeks.
It’s not just that he did it. He knows that I know he did it.
The cling-film kids. Soft as mush, all wrapped up in themselves and you could see right through them. Smart-arses, but nothing to back it up. Synnott didn’t even have to ask a question – all he had to do was turn up on the Hapgood doorstep, looking like he meant business, and a big neon
Guilty!
lit up across the kid’s face.
He knows why we’re here. He was gambling that Teresa wouldn’t make a fuss, now he can feel the ground crumbling.
BOOK: The Midnight Choir
4.36Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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