Cold Steel (27 page)

36

10.17 am

It seemed to Frank Clancy the gods were conspiring against him.

'This is your captain again.'

A loud groan erupted from the passengers aboard the Virgin Atlantic jet. The estimated time of arrival at London's Heathrow Airport was ten that morning. For the last hour of the flight updates on difficult weather and traffic control conditions ahead had been announced over the PA. A thick blanket of fog covered much of southern England. Spanish air-traffic controllers had called a lightning one-day strike. The combination produced major delays and re-routing of flights in and out of the airports at Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted. There was a tailback of aircraft awaiting clearance to land.

'I'm afraid the news from Heathrow isn't good. There's still a lot of fog and control have informed me it's showing no sign of lifting. I've been advised to circle for a little longer. I'll get back to you as soon as I have anything new. In the meantime please try and relax. I've asked the cabin crew to play the in-flight movie again.'

This only brought louder complaints. Everyone sensed the delay was going to be longer than had been hinted. In his seat near the back of the aircraft, Frank Clancy fretted. He was chewing on his nails. Everything's going to be okay, he reassured himself. When we get off, I'll ring home. I just
know everything will be okay. The optimistic half of his brain wasn't making much impression on the pessimistic side. Something's wrong, I know it. He drank his fifth cup of coffee inside forty minutes. His bladder irritated. He excused himself and waited in a queue for the toilet. Through a porthole he could see the morning sunlight bathed on swirling banks of clouds. Inside the tiny lavatory he inspected himself. His hair was bedraggled and sticking up, his face drawn from worry and lack of sleep. His T-shirt was sweat-stained. He smelt unwashed. Dark stubble made the overall picture most unattractive. I look like a madman. He returned to his seat and waited impatiently.

Thirty minutes later. 'This is your captain again.' Heads craned forward to catch every word, headphones were pulled away from ears. 'I'm afraid we've been diverted to Bristol airport.' Loud groans, frustrated shouts. 'Air-traffic control at Heathrow can't guarantee a flight path for another two hours and we don't have enough fuel for that length of time. We've been advised to land at Bristol. Ground staff will help organise onward connections. On behalf of my crew and Virgin Airlines I apologise for this inconvenience but as you can imagine it's due to circumstances well beyond our control.'

Story of my life, thought Frank Clancy. Situations beyond my control. God, I hope Anne and the kids are okay.

10.58 am

In the basement darkness, Anne Clancy was trying to keep her children's spirits up. She'd stopped the first panicking shrieks in her usual calm, controlled manner.

'Come on, Martin, you're the big boy here,' she'd coaxed. 'You've got to be brave for all of us. I don't want Laura to hear you crying, so stop that.'

It was an approach that had proved successful with
previous temper tantrums. It was working again. Laura couldn't see her brother's fear, it was too dark. She could sense it though. And she sensed it in her mother. She wept uncontrollably.

'I want my daddy.' This only added to the sickening terror.

'Daddy will be here soon to rescue us,' Anne lied bravely. 'And then that bad man better look out for himself. Daddy'll punch him straight in the nose.' The children giggled at the suggestion. 'Let's sing a song.' They began singing 'Jingle Bells'.

Only Laura didn't sing as loudly as her brother.

'Mummy, I feel hot.'

12.37 pm

'I'd suggest you take the train. There are connections to link up with the express to Holyhead. You could then get the ferry to Dublin.' The arrivals terminus at Bristol Airport was bedlam. It seemed to Frank Clancy that every flight into London had been diverted to the small airport in the west of England. People were scrambling for advice on regaining their journeys. He stood at the head of a surging queue leading to travel information and explained his predicament to a harassed young brunette in a blue uniform.

'What time will that get me in?'

The brunette pored over train and ferry timetables. 'Looks like the earliest would be about seven or eight this evening.'

Clancy swore. 'That won't do,' he complained. He stuck his bottom out to give himself more space from the pressing bodies.

The brunette dropped the train and ferry timetables and turned to her PC. She began typing. Five minutes later she offered a different route.

'There's a flight to Paris leaving here in fifty minutes. I could get you on that. You could then…' tap, tap, tap on the keyboard… 'get an Air France into Dublin leaving Orly Airport at four ten, arriving Dublin sometime after five.'

Clancy didn't even have to think. 'I'll take it.'

Tap, tap, tap. His details were entered. The flights were booked. He rushed to the phones and waited in another frustrating queue where tired and thwarted passengers from Europe and North America rang friends and relations and business colleagues to explain where they were. After an agonising ten minutes behind a wildly gesticulating Italian who'd lost his flight connections and baggage and a multimillion-lira business deal, Clancy finally reached the front. He slipped his credit card into the phone set and dialled home. The line was dead. There was no ringing tone. Panicking, he pressed redial. No ringing tone. Redial. No ringing. Redial. No tone. He contacted directory enquiries, ignoring the angry grumblings building up behind.

'I'm sorry, sir, that line appears to be out of order. Are you sure you have the right number?'

Clancy's heart sank to depths he had never before experienced. 'Yes, yes. It's my own home number.'

The operator offered to try again. 'Sorry, sir, still no connection. I'll try going through your local exchange.'

Clancy pulled his T-shirt up and wiped at his forehead. 'Great, thanks.'

The queue was becoming more agitated. The grumblings had gone past the muttering stage to angry shouts. Clancy tried ignoring.

'Sorry, sir, the local exchange can't get through either. They say there's no recorded fault on that number either. They're sending out an engineer later today. Is there any other number you'd like me to try?'

An aggrieved voice shouted into his left ear. 'Hey, buddy.'

Clancy turned to find an angry face squaring up to him. A tall, swarthy looking young man with tight crew cut had had enough. He'd left the middle of the queue to speed things along.

'We're all in this fucking jam so don't start ringing the fucking world. Two calls each, maximum. Your time's up.' He snatched the receiver from Clancy's trembling hands and passed it to a woman behind. The rest of the queue cheered.

Clancy stood back. He was tempted to smack his challenger in the mouth but desisted. He needed to get to another phone fast.

He sprinted towards the departure gates. His flight to Paris was due out in twenty-eight minutes.

12.59 pm

'Laura? Are you okay?'

In the basement Anne Clancy sensed her daughter's unusual stillness. She squirmed closer, the binding around her wrists and ankles still holding them tightly together. The only movement forward and back was like a snake curling and uncurling. She nuzzled her face against the little girl, feeling the heat from the child's body immediately.

'Laura, are you all right? Speak to me, Laura.' For the first time Anne Clancy's voice cracked. Her son recognised the change.

'Mummy, are we going to die?' He began sobbing.

'No, Martin, we are most certainly not going to die. Your daddy will be here very soon. I just know it.'

Anne side-winded to the beakers and lifted one in her teeth, then wormed her way back. The precious water spilled as she crawled. What little was left she tipped over Laura's face.

'Don't, mummy,' the child whimpered. 'I'm too tired. Leave me alone.'

Anne Clancy lay down beside her daughter and began crooning. She felt the little heart racing, sensed the chest rise and fall rapidly. Too rapidly.

'Martin,' she ordered. Her voice was controlled again, firm, commanding. 'Try and grab one of those beakers with your teeth and edge yourself carefully over to me.' In the dark she sensed the boy listen obediently. 'Then tip the water over Laura. Can you do that?'

Martin rose to the occasion. 'Yes, mum.'

He started wriggling. Anne Clancy began praying.

1
.04
pm

Frank Clancy was on the telephone again. He was inside the departure lounge of Bristol terminal, at the gate for his flight to Orly Airport. He rang his mother-in-law first. There was no reply. He tried furiously to remember the names of his neighbours where he lived in Greenlea Road, north Dublin. He couldn't think of one. His wife's rebuking voice echoed in his mind.

'Frank, you're so caught up in work you wouldn't know if the house was on fire. You've made no attempt to make any contacts around here. You just work, work, work. You've no interest outside of that hospital. I'll bet you don't even know the names of the next-door neighbours.'

It was all coming home to roost. He went through directory enquiries once more and finally scribbled the number of his local police station in Clontarf. He dialled.

'Clontarf police station. What can I do for you?'

Clancy took a deep breath. He explained where he was and his difficulties contacting home.

'Are you sure it's not the telephone company you should be ringing?' suggested the officer.

'I've done that,' said Clancy. He was trying desperately to sound controlled. He didn't want to come across like a crank. 'It's just that I'm very worried something's
happened to my wife and children. Could you get someone to call round and check the house out?'

The officer waited. Then, 'And what do you think could have happened to them?'

Clancy suspected he was talking to a man not particularly interested in his rather far-fetched query. 'I dunno,' he admitted. 'I'm just very worried, that's all.' In the background his flight was being called. Come on.

'And who are you again?' asked the police officer. Clancy rattled off his name, address, hospital appointment and estimated time of arrival in Dublin.

'And you're flying in from Paris?'

'Yes.'

'But you're ringing now from Bristol?'

Oh, Jesus. Can you not just shift your arse and go and look? What difference does it make if I'm flying in from the moon?

'Yeah, I've been diverted from Heathrow. There's huge disruption at the airports over here. The only way I can get home is through Orly.'

The officer now sounded interested. 'Did you not think of trying the train and ferry. There's great connections for that new Seacat boat, you know. It takes only an hour from Holyhead.'

Clancy wanted to scream. Through gritted teeth he explained all the difficulties. Over the PA he was named personally, yet again. 'Last call for passenger Frank Clancy on board British Airways flight to Orly Airport.'

'Look,' shouted Clancy, 'I gotta go. Can you check the house out?'

'Will do, Dr Clancy. Give us a call when you get to your next stop. I'll have something for you then.'

'Thanks.' Clancy grabbed his holdall and sprinted.

37

1.27 pm

Micko Kelly was taken from his cell just after lunch on the afternoon of Wednesday, 20 May. He was dressed in fresh casual clothes, navy blue tracksuit bottom, white T-shirt, bright red tracksuit top, white socks inside new white trainers. His stubble hair now looked like a respectable crew cut, his stubble beard was gone, shaved that morning. His tall, lank figure carried more flesh than the day he had first arrived at Rockdale Hospital for the Criminally Insane. His eyes were somewhat clearer and he even managed to smile at his fellow inmates.

'Where ye goin', Micko?' asked the red-haired multiple murderer three cells up.

Kelly shook his head as if in wonderment. 'Fucked if I know.'

Dillon was in overall charge and issued the orders. He was wearing light slacks, short-sleeved, open-necked shirt and light shoes. Two warders in navy tracksuits approached with a set of chains and cuffs. Well used to such manoeuvres, Kelly offered his wrists and within seconds they were manacled. A separate set of chains and cuffs were attached to ankles, barely allowing normal walking pace. Strong yellow-orange rays filtered through the barred windows along the corridor.

'Ye lucky fucker,' growled one inmate. 'Yer gettin' out.'

A black stumped grin was the only reply.

The small group shuffled past open cells towards the iron gate that barred the maximum security unit. Keys jangled and locks clicked as door after door was opened and shut.

'Jaysus,' muttered Kelly as he looked on, 'there's not much chance anywan gettin' outa this kip.'

Dillon smiled slightly. 'Not unless you're well enough.'

Kelly stopped and turned back. 'I don't know what I did to be put in here but I gotta get out before it drives me fuckin' mental.' The warders smirked. 'I don't wanna come back to this fuckin' hole.'

Dillon ignored the outburst. Chains clanked as Kelly was pushed forward. The group stopped at another locked door. Keys jangled, the lock clicked. Kelly was urged through and entered the white-tiled reception area. One of the warders selected an extra large key and glided it into the lock of the front door. With two quick turns it was pulled open and sunlight streamed in. Kelly tried to shield his eyes from the unaccustomed glare but the manacles restricted. He dropped his head and ambled towards the brightness. The warmth of the air, the farmyard smells, the buzzing of insects, all swamped his senses and he stood still, savouring the moment. He was nudged in the back. 'Shift it.' The chains jangled again.

Parked a short distance from the front entrance were three unmarked police cars, each with driver and armed detective. All eyes fixed on the lonely figure in the track-suit. A black transit van drove over and its side panels were slid open. There was a long bench inside with attachments on the floor for chained wrists and ankles. Kelly stiffened. He eyed the scene suspiciously.

'They're going to take you away for ever. They took your hair and your nails and your clothes. They want you, Michael.'

The voice zipped through his brain like a startled rat. For a split second Kelly heard it, then it was gone. It left him agitated and nervous. He didn't want to go inside the
van. It reminded him of another day. A bad day, a very bad day.

'I'm not goin' in there,' he shouted and backed away. Two sets of restraining arms held him fast.

Dillon came beside and talked him down. 'Relax. It's okay, nothing's going to happen.'

Kelly snarled at the watching policeman. The heat of the day was making them perspire and they fanned with their peaked caps. Car doors were open to let air in, windows were wound down. Whispered comments drifted in the still air. Dillon allowed ten minutes, then checked his watch. It was twelve minutes before two. Kelly was due in Sandymount Park by three o'clock. Depending on the traffic the journey would take at least one hour.

'Michael,' he said, 'if you want to get out of here you're going to have to get into that van.' No movement. Dillon sidled up beside his patient. 'I'm giving you three minutes. After that you're back on the wards.' He swivelled the other man's head around so he could see the grey intimidating walls and peaked roof of the hospital.

Kelly looked for only a minute. With a nervous shake of his wrists he finally struggled inside. The chains were released and connected to bolts on the floor. The two tracksuited warders sat beside him on the bench. Dillon climbed into the front passenger seat. He looked around, double-checking the security.

'Okay, move it.' The dice was rolling.

2.08 pm

Two uniformed police officers stood outside Frank Clancy's house in Greenlea Road, Clontarf, in north Dublin. They were in short sleeves and open-necked shirts with peaked caps held under their arms. Both were young men, tall with short hair, neatly combed and parted, regulation style. The sun was high in the sky with only the
occasional cloud threatening. Birds chirped happily from nearby trees. The two were in a relaxed mood. Business was quiet, the level of criminal activity at a lower than average level. They felt unrushed and were glad of the leisurely drive from the local police station along the suburban roads. It broke up the tedium of the day.

Greenlea Road was a row of mainly red-bricked terraced houses on both sides along a wide, tree-lined avenue. The road was quiet, safe even for children kicking football. There were no kids around at that time, most still at school.

One officer rang the front doorbell, the other rested his backside against a front windowsill. They admired the streetscape as they waited. There was no reply. The bell was pressed again. No reply. The letter box was pushed open and one shouted in. No answer. The two ambled around the back and discovered the broken glass. They noticed the rear door lying slightly ajar, its panes shattered.

Gingerly, one pushed the door open and peered inside. Nothing. He shouted. No reply. Quickly they scouted the ground-floor area. Nothing. No sign of any disturbance. One sprinted upstairs and came upon the unmade beds. He shouted. Nothing. There was no reply. He picked up a family photograph from a shelf and studied the smiling faces. Then he took the ten steps to the attic study in three giant lopes. Empty. He shouted again. Nothing.

He punched at the buttons on his mobile phone. He knew his quiet day was over.

2.58 pm

Jim Clarke hobbled up and down along the outer railings of Sandymount Park. Tony Molloy sat in an unmarked squad car parked beside. A white film of antacid flecked his lips; he massaged at his straining belly. Molloy was
listening to anxious reports coming down the police waveband about a missing family. An Anne Clancy and her two children aged eight and four. The details and descriptions were being repeated and transmitted throughout the Dublin metropolitan area. Molloy sensed there was a lot of concern about this missing family. He mentally logged the report.

The road alongside Sandymount Park was sealed off by two squad cars skewed across at both ends. There a posse of reporters, photographers and TV crews fought for vantage positions. The perimeter fence and furthest edges were patrolled by uniformed officers, walkie-talkies moving to and from mouths. They looked edgy, as if expecting some imminent attack. Three cars were stopped near an open park gate. They were empty, their doors hanging open. Armed detectives, handguns bulging under jackets, paced up and down. They mopped at their brows in the afternoon heat. There was a brief diversion while Moss Kavanagh was given clearance at one checkpoint and drove up. He wound the driver's window down and beamed out at Clarke.

'Caroline had the baby,' he announced gleefully.

Clarke stuck a hand forward. 'Ah, Mossy, that's great.' He was elated, then suddenly annoyed. He'd been so preoccupied he'd neglected to ask about Kavanagh's wife. 'When did it happen?'

Kavanagh couldn't stop grinning. The words tumbled out. 'Three o'clock this morning. She felt the pains about six last night. Her waters broke just before eleven and wee Alexander was born at three. Very quick the doctors said.'

Clarke shook his hand again with delight. 'Mossy, I'm thrilled for the two of you. I know it's been a long wait, but sure isn't it worth it all now?'

The excitement was infectious and both men were grinning. Kavanagh shrugged slightly. 'Well, it's third time lucky. The two miscarriages, nearly broke our hearts. She's clean made up with this wee baby.'

'I'm sure she is, Mossy, I'm sure she is,' Clarke enthused, remembering the day he'd first brought Katy home. 'What was the weight?'

'Nine pounds seven ounces.'

'Ouch,' Clarke winced, 'I'm glad she was having him and not me.'

The exchange was interrupted by Molloy. 'We better shift it, the floor show's about to begin.'

A black transit van had stopped at one of the road blocks. A head was half in and half out of the passenger window, a hand gesticulating. One of the blocking cars was moved and the van drove slowly into the controlled zone. Clarke, Molloy and Kavanagh watched. Only the background hum of Dublin's traffic disturbed the relative calm. The van's side door was slid open from inside. Patrick Dillon climbed out of the passenger seat and stretched. He looked at the media pack and shook his head. Micko Kelly's escort stepped out, tugging at their sweat-stained clothes. Camera shutters whirred.

Dillon leaned into the van, rocking the vehicle slightly, then stood back. A white trainer touched the pavement, followed by the red and blue tracksuited frame of Micko Kelly, wrists chained, ankles now free. There was an intense and prolonged whirring of camera shutters. Some of the brasher photographers shouted out, urging Kelly to look in their direction. He started to turn but was pushed ahead and stumbled past open gates into Sandymount Park. The sky was now clouding over. There was a smell of rain in the air. The wind had picked up. It was becoming cooler, less humid.

'Moment of reckoning,' muttered Molloy.

Dillon called an immediate conference, those he wanted were pulled closer, the rest ordered well away. Kelly stood between his minders, head jerking as he watched. He tried brushing at his forehead with an elbow, the only movement possible with the restraining chains. Within minutes four had grouped. Dillon and Kelly, Clarke and Molloy.

'When the chains come off everyone moves to the railings,' announced Dillon. Tiny beads of perspiration were forming on his brow. 'Nobody's to come near until I give the word.' He paused. 'He is still officially under my care. He is a patient, not a prisoner. Is that clear?' The voice was emphatic, firm.

Clarke glanced over at the red and blue tracksuited figure. 'Absolutely.'

Dillon wiped at his brow with a white linen handkerchief. 'When this is over,' he added, 'I want him taken back to hospital without being hounded by photographers.'

Clarke immediately waved towards Moss Kavanagh, beckoning him closer. 'You have my word on that,' he promised.

Dillon slipped a microcassette out of his side pocket and checked the batteries were working. 'I'm carrying my own recorder for a verbatim report. I'm also wearing a listening device.' He patted a side pocket out of which a tiny red-tipped microphone poked. 'There are earphones for you to listen in on.'

Two sets were handed over. Clarke stuck one in his right ear, twisting until it fitted comfortably. Molloy followed suit. Leads from the earphones connected to small Walkman-sized antennae which were snapped onto waistbands. Dillon fed a thin black lead through his shirt, clipped a microphone to a buttonhole and turned it out of sight. The lead was plugged into the microcassette and the
on
button pressed.

'Right,' he said, 'let's start.'

Clarke and Molloy moved back ten yards. The manacles connecting Micko Kelly's wrists were unlocked and released. He rubbed at his skin where steel had dug in, then looked around. He seemed uncertain, bewildered. Cameras whirred in the background. Dillon rechecked his micro-cassette, then guided his patient towards the wooden shelter.

'This is it,' he said. 'This is our last chance to find the truth.'

Molloy and Clarke adjusted the volume on their earphones.

The shelter had been prepared according to Dillon's instructions. It looked much the same as on the night of Tuesday, 12 May. The rotted wood, the graffiti, the peeling paintwork was untouched. Empty beer cans, cider bottles and cigarette butts had been dropped, apparently at random. A blood-red stained syringe had been strategically placed under the chipped and cut seat.

'Sit there,' Dillon directed. Kelly moved awkwardly onto one edge of the semicircular seat. Dillon waited, then sat on the other side.

'Like a fag?'

Kelly's eyes lit up. 'Fuckin' sure.'

Dillon produced a prepared roll-your-own. Kelly stuck it in his lips and puffed at the offered match. The end glowed. He drew on it hungrily.

'Fuckin' brilliant.' He lay back and smoked contentedly.

'Do you remember this place?' Dillon asked as the cigarette burned to a butt. He offered another. Kelly inhaled deeply, found a trace of tobacco leaf on his tongue and spat it out. He looked around the shelter with total disinterest. 'Nah.'

'You've been here before. The night Jennifer Marks was murdered, you were in here with her.'

Kelly adopted a look of bemused astonishment. He pointed a finger at his chest. 'Me? Here?' He found another leaf of tobacco on his tongue and lifted it off with a finger, inspecting the result closely. 'Jennifer Marks?'