Last Kiss (23 page)

‘It turns out Mademoiselle Ryan gave us false documentation.’

Again Kate noticed the nervous twitch in the teacher’s face. ‘When did you discover this?’ She maintained eye contact, ignoring the muscles pulsating in his cheeks.

‘It was before Pierre’s death, a month before to be exact. We wrote to the Irish college in question, seeking further applications for the following year. They were interested in the programme, but said we must have made an error regarding Mademoiselle Ryan. They had no record of a Sandra Ryan with that date of birth.’

‘What did you do then?’ Kate asked.

‘Naturally, I spoke to Mademoiselle Ryan. She was very upset. It was extremely distressing. The girl had potential. Otherwise we would never have considered her application. She spoke at length about her admiration for the college, her desire to study art, how difficult it had been for her. That she had recently received a small inheritance and had jumped in without thinking. It felt like such a wonderful opportunity. She said she had never done anything like that before.’

‘So you kept her money and let her away with it?’ Adam’s accusation was tinged with sarcasm.

‘The payment was clearly stipulated as non-refundable.’

He was on the defensive, thought Kate.

Jacques continued, in a more authoritative manner. ‘I spoke to Victor. We were both unhappy with the situation, but we couldn’t turn back the clock. Mademoiselle Ryan was asked to leave, which she did, and most gracefully too. We put in safeguards to ensure it wouldn’t happen again. It had all been a terrible error.’

‘What you’re saying is, you covered up your mistake and kept quiet about it.’ Adam was clearly astounded.

‘Yes, we removed her details. In essence, she had not been a valid student here.’

‘And when Pierre died, Sandra had already left the college?’ Kate hoped her less adversarial approach would keep him onside.

‘That’s correct. She had left the college, but not Paris. I can’t be sure, but I believe she had some time left at her accommodation. Some friends had come to join her for a brief stay. I understand she went home with them.’ He looked at Kate. ‘I liked
Mademoiselle Ryan. She was very gentle and unassuming. It was her love of art that led to her error of judgement. It seemed best to let the matter rest.’

‘And slip under the radar?’ Again Adam’s tone was hostile.

‘Did you meet any of her friends?’ Kate asked.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

Kate turned to Adam. ‘Sandra could be an innocent party.’

‘Or she could be the missing link in the chain,’ he replied, before addressing Jacques: ‘You do have contact details? They didn’t disappear too?’

‘Of course. Now that this interest has been shown in the ex-students, we have passed all the information to Inspector Girardot. I have a copy here.’ He sounded delighted to be of assistance. He pulled a brown envelope from the bureau where the register had been, and handed it to Adam. ‘You will find all seven addresses and contact telephone numbers in there.’

‘Can you give us a physical description of Sandra?’ Kate pressed.

‘About five foot six, slim build, with brown hair. At least, I think it was brown, or it could have been dark blonde.’

‘Anything else?’ Adam asked sharply.

‘It was a very long time ago. There are so many students. It doesn’t take long for their faces to fade into one another.’

The fire had practically extinguished in the grate when Adam and Kate got up to leave. ‘You best put another log on, Jacques,’ Adam said, sounding anything but helpful. ‘There’s a nasty chill in here.’

Kate pulled the door closed behind them, knowing Adam would probably have slammed it.

‘Arsehole,’ was the first word out of his mouth once they got outside.

‘He was trying to protect the college. A stupid mistake, but a mistake.’

‘I’m not feeling as kind as you, Kate. That idiot and his superior interfered with an investigation. I doubt Girardot will be jumping up and down with delight either.’

She wanted to remind him about his own error of judgement, covering up for someone he thought was innocent, and the reason behind his suspension. She decided to let it go, knowing it wouldn’t help things. ‘Look on the upside,’ she said. ‘We now have seven more leads. We need just one to be useful.’

He raised the brown envelope Jacques had given him. ‘Rick Shevlin might still be alive if one of these names leads us to the killer and that idiot in there hadn’t wanted to protect his precious college.’

‘Can I see the names?’

He handed her the envelope.

‘If you’re right about that, the killer’s name could be on this list.’

‘And we’ll be starting with Mademoiselle Ryan.’

MARK LYNCH DECIDED to get two things out of the way at the same time. First, pay a visit to the Grey Door, a well-known bondage club in Dublin city. Secondly, meet up with Freddie Walsh and put some heat on O’Connor.

Although Claudia, the madam from Connections, had proved less informative than he’d hoped, she had at least told him about a couple of her girls accompanying Rick Shevlin to the club, saying, it had become a recent favourite of his. Freddie was easy to convince to tag along. He wasn’t part of the unit investigating the murder, but when Lynch mentioned he needed back-up visiting a bondage club, he wasn’t long in deciding to oblige.

Freddie was big and broad, with a stomach that wasn’t doing his heart much good. His dark hair had started receding a while back, but in the spirit of denial, he’d let the remaining hair grow long enough for a comb-over. Lynch never understood why men did that – who were they kidding? If it ever happened to him, he would shave the whole bloody lot off. Still, he was counting on Freddie’s lack of brainpower to play along with his plan. All he needed was to have him there so he could plant some words in his head, and as they made their way up South Great George’s Street, there was undoubtedly vigour in Detective Freddie Walsh’s step.

‘Are we flashing the IDs or going undercover, Mark?’

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve already got the clearance.’

‘Sure you’re a great man for the connections!’

‘Funny you should say that. Our intro to the club came from a very obliging woman in a company by that name. Ten out of ten for detective work. Now, flick back that hair of yours and let’s get inside.’

‘What the fuck do you mean?’ Walsh immediately took offence.

But Lynch was already smiling at the bouncer, saying, ‘Claudia has cleared us to go inside.’

The bouncer, a Latvian, even broader than Walsh, didn’t return the smile, saying, ‘Don’t make any trouble in there or your visit will be a short one. Clear?’

‘Sure,’ Lynch replied, before heading down the darkened cellar steps, Walsh behind him, the pulsating sound of the torture chamber smacking them both in the face. At the bottom, he opened the padded leather door.

‘Fucking hell,’ were Walsh’s first words.

Lynch took it all in, the transvestite males in their wigs and corsets, one suspended from the ceiling, his wrists tied above his head, his skin red and raw from being lashed with a cat-o’-nine-tails whip. To the left, a woman wore a black bra and panties. Her arms were restrained on a wooden rack, as a leather-clad Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonator thrashed her with a whip that looked like an extension of his tattooed arm. The real reason for Walsh’s expletive, though, was a young woman with bare breasts, and the hungry crowd gathered around her. She was gearing up to take a lashing, as a guy wearing a gimp mask and a black leather thong increased the tension on the ropes, opening and contorting her legs to the delight of the onlookers.

‘I’ll get us a couple of drinks. Grab that table, Freddie.’ Lynch pointed to one in the corner, as far away as possible from the bare-breasted woman. ‘Watch my back, not her boobs, will you?’

‘Sure thing. Get a couple of pints. We could be here for a while.’

‘We’re on duty. I need to go back to the unit after this.’

‘Correction.
You’re
on duty. I’m helping you out, remember?’

‘You’re all heart, Freddie.’ But Walsh was already staring at the woman being whipped.

The guy Lynch wanted to talk to wasn’t due in for a quarter of an hour. He wondered if he’d be able to put up with this freak show until then, but figured it was as good a time as any to get his other mission out of the way. As he placed their drinks on the table, Walsh said, ‘It’s something else, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, a real eye-opener.’

‘Have you read
Fifty Shades
?’

‘What? Me? No. I don’t go in for that shit. You?’

‘The wife’s read it, all three books.’

‘Spice up your sex life, did it?’

‘There was fuck-all to begin with but, yeah, it got her horny. Never look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.’

‘Too much information, Fred.’ He let out a sigh. ‘I’ve enough on my plate with this bloody investigation.’

‘I’d have thought this was right up your street, high profile and all that. That Rick Shevlin fella, he was into this shit, wasn’t he?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I hear they found ropes at the scene, and the guy’s arse had been lashed with a whip.’ Walsh was practically drooling.

‘It’s not that that’s bothering me.’

‘No? What is it, then?’

‘I have O’Connor to deal with.’

‘He’s all right.’

‘Do you think? He’s a bit of an arsehole, if you ask me.’

Walsh took his eyes off the sideshow for the first time. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Him and Dr Kate Pearson.’

‘She’s a looker, isn’t she?’

‘It seems O’Connor shares your taste in women, Freddie.’

‘You mean the two of them are doing it?’

‘That’s what I heard, but I wouldn’t be one for spreading rumours.’ He took a sip from his bottle of non-alcoholic beer. ‘The chief super’s only gone and sent them to Paris together.’

‘Fucking Paris?’

‘And Rome.’

‘And Rome?’

‘What are you, Freddie? A feckin’ parrot?’

‘Keep your hair on.’

He decided not to comment on Freddie’s hair remark, saying instead, ‘The guy is only back from suspension, and the boss is treating him like the prodigal son.’ He paused. ‘He has a kid, you know.’

‘Sure everyone in the unit knows that.’

‘I don’t think they’re getting along. He didn’t make contact with him for years. That doesn’t sound like something a decent guy would do.’

‘You’re probably right. Ignoring your kid like that, Mark, that’s shite, that’s what that is.’

‘I think the boss is playing with fire.’

‘Because he doesn’t know about O’Connor and your woman?’

‘It doesn’t look good, sending a guy who’s just back from suspension on a strategic leg of an investigation.’ Lynch could practically see Walsh’s few brain cells ticking over.

‘It’s messy, all right.’

‘If the papers got wind of it, they’d have a field day. I can see the headline now: “Suspended detective gets key role in Shevlin murder inquiry”. They’d be talking about cutbacks, not enough trained personnel to do the job, not to mention if there was any horseplay going on, not that I know for sure there is. Only telling you what I heard, Freddie.’

‘Fucking Paris? He wouldn’t be able to resist, would he?’

‘He’s broken the rules before, covering up evidence. That says something.’

‘Yeah, I hear you.’

‘Fancy another pint, Freddie?’ He glanced at the bar. ‘The gentleman I want to talk to has just arrived.’

‘Do you need a hand?’

‘You’re all right. I’ll bring your pint down to you, but remember you’re here to watch my back, not the show. I don’t trust those trannies over there.’

‘Fucking weirdoes.’ Walsh lifted his pint, finishing it in one go, as if one of the tranny weirdoes might take it from him. Then he turned his attention back to the naked boobs, and the sound of skin being lashed.

Lynch smiled all the way to the bar. It wouldn’t take Freddie Walsh long to be chatting to his journalist buddies. It didn’t matter if he mentioned O’Connor and Kate Pearson: all Lynch needed was a bit of light shone on things, and sure wasn’t that what
lamps
were for?

Lynch figured Simon Reynolds knew he was a detective from the moment he’d stood up from where he’d been sitting with Walsh. Reynolds was renowned on the Irish fetish scene. It wasn’t only the Grey Door club: it was the website, the retail outlets and the private parties. None of it caused Lynch too much concern. If people wanted to have a bit of fun, he wasn’t going to make trouble when it was legal, even if it was hard to get the sound of skin being lashed out of his mind.

‘Nice friendly place you have here, Simon.’

‘We believe in being open-minded, Detective.’ He had a bulldog face, tight red hair, a thin moustache and shoulders twice the width of his waist. He spoke with a Scottish accent
that came from somewhere deep in his chest. He was well dressed, in smart black jeans, a striped linen shirt, and shoes that screamed money. Lynch couldn’t be sure, but his accent wasn’t street – more than likely born with a silver spoon in his mouth. ‘We all have our fetishes, Detective. It’s only a question of working them out.’