Sherlock.
Joe Mills was driving. The neighbourhood had a fine view of Galway city but Mills wasn’t in a humour to be impressed by the scenery. It could be that the sister had information that might lead them to wherever the blood had been spilled. Or—
I’d never hurt a woman before.
The Moylan house was in a cul-de-sac. Like most of its neighbours, it had a well-tended garden behind high hedges that maintained privacy. A three-year-old Isuzu Trooper was parked in the driveway.
‘Not short of the odd penny,’ Dockery said.
Joe Mills was reaching to press the bell when he saw the blood on the round brass handle in the centre of the door.
‘Declan.’
The blood had dried to the same brownish colour as that on Wayne Kemp’s hands.
Dockery winced. ‘Told you I had a bad feeling.’
Joe Mills used a knuckle to push against the door but it was closed. Instead of pressing the bell, he used his baton to rap hard three times on the door. He waited a minute, then did it again. Nothing.
‘We should call it in,’ Dockery said. ‘Preserve the scene.’
Joe Mills shook his head. ‘There could be someone in there needs help.’ While Dockery spoke into his radio, Joe Mills used his baton to lightly tap the glass in the door, near the lock. Then he swung it sharply and the glass shattered.
They found a dead man lying on his back in the hallway, his blue shirt pushed upwards, baring his chest, his arms spread wide, his eyes and mouth agape. His torso looked like it had been opened by several strokes of a blunt axe.
I’d never hurt a woman before.
Joe Mills took a deep breath. He wasn’t looking forward to the next few minutes.
Declan Dockery’s voice quivered slightly as he got on the radio again and called in the murder. Joe Mills looked into the living room, then the kitchen, then he went upstairs and checked out the four bedrooms. All neat and shipshape upstairs and down. Imaginatively decorated, good-quality carpets, solid furniture. When he opened the bathroom door he immediately smelled the blood. Even with the door half open, Mills could see there were splashes of red everywhere. On the white-tiled walls and the white rug, on the ceiling, on the pebbled-glass window, on the toilet and the washbasin, on the mirror – even on the narrow porcelain frame around the mirror – there were red streaks. Several of the bottles of shampoo and skin cream on the three glass shelves above the washbasin were splashed with blood. Mills opened the door wide. He didn’t go inside. He saw blood on the floor. He noticed a bloody shoe-print. Looking around the door he saw that blood had pooled in the bath around the body it had come from.
The corpse was small, slender, face up, dressed in black shorts and a white shirt. The shirt was open and the torso had been repeatedly slashed. The pale face was serene, streaked with blood, the eyes wide open. It was the face of a teenage boy.
I’d never hurt a woman before.
Joe Mills called down the stairs, ‘Second body. Another male.’ He moved more quickly now, retracing his steps and opening every bedroom closet and finding just clothes and shoes and shelves with neat boxes. Then he went downstairs, where Declan Dockery was standing pale-faced in the hall and looked inside the ground-floor bathroom. Nothing. He pulled back the shower curtain and saw a long wide-bladed knife lying in the shower tray, the blade blood-streaked, a single large bloody handprint on the pink-tiled wall.
Mills found the back door unlocked and went out into the garden. It was about fifty feet long, bounded by a wooden fence. There were garden chairs and a table to one side, a shed to the other, no sign of anyone. He broke open the padlock and hasp on the wooden garden shed. There were only garden tools and old tins of paint inside.
There was no woman – alive, dead, injured or otherwise – in the Moylan house.
10
DUBLIN
Detective Inspector Harry Synnott had already driven through the gateway of
Joe Mills was driving. The neighbourhood had a fine view of Galway city but Mills wasn’t in a humour to be impressed by the scenery. It could be that the sister had information that might lead them to wherever the blood had been spilled. Or—
I’d never hurt a woman before.
The Moylan house was in a cul-de-sac. Like most of its neighbours, it had a well-tended garden behind high hedges that maintained privacy. A three-year-old Isuzu Trooper was parked in the driveway.
‘Not short of the odd penny,’ Dockery said.
Joe Mills was reaching to press the bell when he saw the blood on the round brass handle in the centre of the door.
‘Declan.’
The blood had dried to the same brownish colour as that on Wayne Kemp’s hands.
Dockery winced. ‘Told you I had a bad feeling.’
Joe Mills used a knuckle to push against the door but it was closed. Instead of pressing the bell, he used his baton to rap hard three times on the door. He waited a minute, then did it again. Nothing.
‘We should call it in,’ Dockery said. ‘Preserve the scene.’
Joe Mills shook his head. ‘There could be someone in there needs help.’ While Dockery spoke into his radio, Joe Mills used his baton to lightly tap the glass in the door, near the lock. Then he swung it sharply and the glass shattered.
They found a dead man lying on his back in the hallway, his blue shirt pushed upwards, baring his chest, his arms spread wide, his eyes and mouth agape. His torso looked like it had been opened by several strokes of a blunt axe.
I’d never hurt a woman before.
Joe Mills took a deep breath. He wasn’t looking forward to the next few minutes.
Declan Dockery’s voice quivered slightly as he got on the radio again and called in the murder. Joe Mills looked into the living room, then the kitchen, then he went upstairs and checked out the four bedrooms. All neat and shipshape upstairs and down. Imaginatively decorated, good-quality carpets, solid furniture. When he opened the bathroom door he immediately smelled the blood. Even with the door half open, Mills could see there were splashes of red everywhere. On the white-tiled walls and the white rug, on the ceiling, on the pebbled-glass window, on the toilet and the washbasin, on the mirror – even on the narrow porcelain frame around the mirror – there were red streaks. Several of the bottles of shampoo and skin cream on the three glass shelves above the washbasin were splashed with blood. Mills opened the door wide. He didn’t go inside. He saw blood on the floor. He noticed a bloody shoe-print. Looking around the door he saw that blood had pooled in the bath around the body it had come from.
The corpse was small, slender, face up, dressed in black shorts and a white shirt. The shirt was open and the torso had been repeatedly slashed. The pale face was serene, streaked with blood, the eyes wide open. It was the face of a teenage boy.
I’d never hurt a woman before.
Joe Mills called down the stairs, ‘Second body. Another male.’ He moved more quickly now, retracing his steps and opening every bedroom closet and finding just clothes and shoes and shelves with neat boxes. Then he went downstairs, where Declan Dockery was standing pale-faced in the hall and looked inside the ground-floor bathroom. Nothing. He pulled back the shower curtain and saw a long wide-bladed knife lying in the shower tray, the blade blood-streaked, a single large bloody handprint on the pink-tiled wall.
Mills found the back door unlocked and went out into the garden. It was about fifty feet long, bounded by a wooden fence. There were garden chairs and a table to one side, a shed to the other, no sign of anyone. He broke open the padlock and hasp on the wooden garden shed. There were only garden tools and old tins of paint inside.
There was no woman – alive, dead, injured or otherwise – in the Moylan house.
10
DUBLIN
Detective Inspector Harry Synnott had already driven through the gateway of
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