Stephen Booth - Dying to Sin

Palfreyman had done quite a lot of drinking when he was in the force. It was what had helped him relax when he came home at night, or in the early hours of the morning, whenever his shift ended. Sometimes he’d sat drinking on his own, when everyone else in the world was asleep, or just stumbling out of bed to get their breakfast, listening for the milkman whistling outside, turning on the radio to get the morning’s news. He’d drunk while the sun came up and the birds started singing. He’d drunk to ease the stress and dull the memories.

He’d only been eighteen months into the job when he was sent to a serious multiple fatal RTC. He’d been first on scene for that one. Over the years, he’d learned to handle the dead, but it had always been the living he’d had problems dealing with. He still had problems with them, even now. At that RTC, the poor woman whose husband had just died was so distressed that when he left her, he’d been close to bursting into tears himself. A big, strapping copper, left an emotional wreck. What a joke.

Later, he’d developed a sick sense of humour, pretty much like everyone else in those days. He’d viewed a fatal as a bonus. If the victim was dead, it meant one less statement to take. You had to be hard, didn’t you? You had to be thick skinned. You’d go mad if you weren’t.

He felt sorry for those in the job now. That detective sergeant — what was her name? Fry, of course. His memory wasn’t letting him down, not quite yet. And the other — her DC. Cooper, of course. No chance of forgetting that one.

These modern police officers had it worse than he did, no doubt about it. They couldn’t relieve the tension the same way he always had. No sick jokes — it wouldn’t be sensitive. Or, God help them, politically correct. And drinking was probably frowned on these days, too. Poor bastards.

Palfreyman took a sip of whisky, and found the glass was nearly empty. He wasn’t sure how that had happened. He mustn’t have been paying attention. He eased himself out of his chair and went back to the cupboard to top it up. There was plenty left in the bottle yet.

Some memories were very clear, even now. The first sudden death he went to. It had come over the radio just after he’d finished his supper. Chicken Korma, he could remember the taste of it. His stomach had knotted at the thought when they got the call. Most reports were false alarms, they’d told him. But he knew this one was going to be genuine. He knew it from the taste in his mouth. Chicken spiced with fear.

It had been a late winter’s evening, much like this one tonight. December, yes. A couple of weeks before Christmas. When they got to the house, there were no lights on and it was really cold. They’d shouted through the letter box, but got no reply. His partner had used a rammit on the door, and they’d gone in.

The occupant of the house was in the sitting room. He’d been a regular newspaper reader. They could judge how long he’d been there by the date on the newspaper he was holding. It had been about three weeks. Palfreyman remembered hearing the radio on in the background, some music playing, and the man lying on the sofa where he’d died holding his chest.

With a gesture of defiance, he finished the last of the whisky. It had been a few minutes before training kicked in on that occasion, but there was always duty to be done. Things to be sorted out.

Yes, even the dead demanded justice.

Tuesday

Garda Lenaghan took Fry first to Coolock garda station in Oscar Traynor Road and introduced her to his inspector. It was only when the garda took off his jacket in the office that she noticed he was armed.

‘Is that usual?’ she asked him.

‘The weapon? It’s my moral authority.’

Outside the garda station, there was a smell hanging in the air that made Fry feel a familiar craving. When they turned the corner in Lenaghan’s car, she noticed a huge Cadbury’s factory across the road. So that was where the smell came from. How did people stand it? If she worked in Coolock, she’d be a wreck within a few weeks.

Unlike most Irish people, in Fry’s experience, Lenaghan seemed comfortable with silence.

‘You have a couple of unidentified bodies, I gather?’ he said, after a while.

‘Just one now. We managed to get an ID on the first. A Slovakian migrant worker.’

‘Ah.’

Lenaghan nodded thoughtfully for a few minutes. ‘I don’t suppose we can make a match?’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I wondered if we could match up your body with our missing persons file. We have a few to choose from. There’s a Kosovan who’s been missing since January 2004. Would she suit you? Here she is, look — thirty-three years old, five feet nine inches tall, slight build, long dark hair, brown eyes. Name of Lilijana. Last seen wearing a dark jacket, black jumper, navy trousers and brown suede boots.’

‘Too old, and too tall,’ said Fry.

‘OK. Well, we’ve got a twenty-eight-year-old from County Mayo, missing since December 2000. Only five feet, this one. Small, slim build, short brown hair with red highlights. Black trousers, maroon polo-neck jumper, beige sleeveless jacket. None of them were exactly fashion icons, you understand.’

‘Do you have a lot of missing persons?’ said Fry.

‘Oh, yes. Going back to about 1991. We don’t bother much beyond that. But it would be nice to tie one up. Are you sure you wouldn’t like Lilijana?’

‘Sorry, I don’t think I can help you. But I’ll let you know.’

Lenaghan sighed. ‘Oh, well. They were probably killed locally, anyway. It’s the murder capital of the country here, Sergeant. Did you know that?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Dublin is awash with hand guns these days. You can buy one for two hundred euros, if you know which bar to go in.’

They passed something called the Starlight Club Memorial, which was setting off another echo in Fry. She was sure it was something she ought to recognize, but she daren’t ask about it, for fear of showing her ignorance again.

‘Look at this factory here,’ said Lenaghan, pointing at a huge building by the road. ‘It’s the old Tayto Crisps plant. When I was growing up, I always used to wind the window down as we passed it. The smell of the crisps cooking would waft beautifully into the car.’

Fry laughed as Lenaghan pretended to inhale a smell, like a Bisto Kid. He joined in her laughter cheerily.

‘Ah, but there’s no waft to be had today, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘They closed the Tayto factory two years ago. Outsourcing production, they call it.’

Martin Rourke’s house was in a street behind Bunratty Road, near the Northside Shopping Centre. The gardai already had Rourke in custody at Oscar Traynor Road, so Fry and Lenaghan were free to search his house.

Fry moved through the rooms, finding nothing of interest until she came to the bedrooms. The first one was a small room, still decorated with nursery wallpaper. Mr Happy and Little Miss Giggles.

‘Are young children still into the Mr Men these days?’ asked Fry.

‘Pre-school age, I think, yes.’

‘So Rourke has a pre-school-age child?’

‘Ah, I don’t think she’s with him any more,’ said Lenaghan. ‘The mother took the child away, I gather.’

A single bed stood against one wall, neatly made up, with folded pyjamas on the pillow. The only other furniture consisted of a chest of drawers painted pink, a TV set, and a white melamine wardrobe. Lenaghan opened the curtains and peered through the sash window on to the yard below.

To Fry, the bedroom felt cold and empty. It was strange how quickly a room began to feel that way, once its occupant was no longer there. She’d been in bedrooms where a child had been missing for only a few hours, but the feeling was unmistakable. As if the room itself knew that its occupant was never coming back.