TORN (33 page)

‘In any case,’ Reuben went on, ‘as time is of the essence, I should depart for my hote
l
and my Dante. With luck, my reading of the text may be able to shed some light on our killer’s next move
.
’

  With that, he left, leaving Reilly alone, unsure what to make of Chris’s outburst or indeed the profiler’s incisive interpretation of it.

Was Reuben right?  Was there something more behind Chris reservations about saving Webb?  Or was she jumping to conclusions too quickly?

Notwithstanding the root of his anger, Reilly could, of course, appreciate Chris’s misgivings about rushing to the rapist’s aid.

She ran her gaze across Webb’s file – the particulars of the attack did indeed make for gruesome reading. In the normal course of events, the guy should have got twelve to life; might not have seen the light of day for a decade. Instead, he was out within a couple of years.

Perhaps Chris was right on that much at least – there was no justice.

However, there was no question that trying to find Webb before the killer did was the right thing to do – on a rational and, more importantly, professional level. But on a moral, emotive one? It was hard to tell. They were now working feverishly to save a convicted rapist whose family had used their money and influence to subvert the true course of justice.

And if it turned out that Chris did indeed have some kind of personal hang-up thrown into the mix, Reilly thought grimly, that was one hell of a moral dilemma.

Chris and Kennedy sat in the car outside the gates of the Webb family residence in Meath, some fifty minutes’ drive from Dublin. It could just be seen through the driving rain, a vast hulking mansion set well back from the road.

Kennedy looked towards the house through the gloom. ‘It’s bloody ginormous.’

‘Of course it is,’ Chris said testily. ‘Daddy obviously has plenty money to splash around on things like fancy houses and subverting the course of justice.’

Kennedy looked at him. ‘What’s going on, Chris?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve never seen you so het up as you were back at the station when Reilly was telling us about Webb. Yeah, the guy’s not exactly a model citizen, but that’s nothing new in this business.’

Chris looked away. ‘It just pisses me off, that’s all. Our job is to protect innocent citizens, not pond scum like Webb.’

‘Look, I can see why it would get to you,’ Kennedy said, and Chris looked at him quickly. ‘It gets to me too, having to waste time and resources on guys like this. But the Webb kid’s been identified as a threat, and as such our job is to prevent this punisher guy from getting to him.’ Kennedy shuddered. ‘I can’t even imagine what that weirdo has in store for him. Judging by what happened to the others, I’m sure it would be no picnic.’

‘Maybe.’ In truth, Chris couldn’t imagine any punishment the killer might level at the rapist that would even begin to make amends for what he’d done to the girl he’d harmed. ‘Prince Charmless might be able give us the heads-up on that one.’

‘It’s not just about protecting Webb either,’ Kennedy insisted. ‘It’s more about finding our guy and trying to secure justice for five dead men and their families.’ He rolled the car window down just enough to fit a cigarette butt through it. ‘Anyway, let’s just get this over with.’

‘Agreed.’ Chris pulled up the collar on his coat. ‘By the way, I know what you’re doing,’ he said.

Kennedy looked at him in surprise. ‘What?’

‘You’re waiting for me to go out in the rain to buzz the damn intercom, aren’t you?’

His partner feigned a hurt expression. ‘Always so bloody suspicious  …’

‘Well, I don’t see you getting out.’ But before Kennedy could answer, the gates began slowly to open inwards and Chris slipped the car into gear and moved forwards. ‘Which is why I called ahead and made an appointment,’ he continued. ‘I figured they would have CCTV and that someone would let us in if we waited a minute.’

‘God, I hate it when you come over all clever.’ Kennedy said, glaring at him.

‘I’d have thought you were used to that by now.’

Through the rain, they scurried from the car into the house. The front door was already open, a young Eastern European woman, whom Chris deduced was some kind of housekeeper, waiting patiently in the doorway.

As soon as the detectives were inside she closed the door behind them.

‘I’ll take your coats,’ she said.  They wiped their feet on a huge mat, shook the rain off and handed their coats to her. ‘Mrs Webb is in the library.’

Chris looked around – the entryway was huge, bigger than his little flat, with a vast chandelier hanging high overhead. Their feet echoed on the polished wooden floor as the housekeeper led them to the far side of the hallway.  She opened a door and waved them inside.

The room was large, the walls lined with hardback books that looked as though they’d never been handled, let alone read. Chris looked at it with some disdain. This was definitely the house of your typical arsehole Irish property develope
r
a library was such a typical nouveau riche touch. 

A fire burned in the grate at the far end of the room.  As they walked in, a woman stood up and turned towards them.

‘Detectives? I’m Angela Webb. How can I help you?’

Chris, taking in the room, found his gaze irresistibly drawn to the woman.

Although now in her mid-fifties, she was beautiful, with natural poise and grace. He instantly guessed that she had been a model, actress or dancer in her younger days. Today she wore a slim-fitting gray skirt, elegant pale pink blouse, and a long string of pearls, but she would have been just as arresting in sweats and an old pair of wellies.

She stepped forward to meet them and held out her hand. Chris shook it, Kennedy right beside him. Like Chris, he too appeared to be temporarily tongue-tied.  She looked at them quizzically.

‘Detective Chris Delaney,’ he said, finally finding his voice. ‘And this is my partner, Detective Pete Kennedy.’

‘You said this was about my son?’ Mrs Webb continued without further preamble.

‘Yes,’ Kennedy replied. ‘Thank you for taking the time to see us.’

‘So how can I help you?’  She still hadn’t offered them a seat; it was clear that, for her at least, this was going to be a short conversation.

‘Seems he was released on parole yesterday,’ Chris said flatly.

‘So I believe,’ she replied without missing a beat. ‘And?’

‘We’d like to speak with him.’

She gave Chris a condescending look. ‘Well, I’m sure I haven’t seen him.’

‘We really need to find your son,’ Kennedy put in. ‘We believe that someone may want to kill him.’

At those words, Mrs Webb’s resolve seemed to crack. ‘What? Who on earth would—’

Kennedy quickly explained about the recent murders and how they believed her son was the last name on the killer’s list.

‘What? But that’s impossible!’

‘Mrs Webb, I’m sure you’re aware that there were … irregularities surrounding your son’s convinction.’ Chris said, trying his utmost to keep his tone neutral. Surely she knew that her husband had paid off people connected to the trial?

She half turned towards the fire, the orange glow casting dark shadows on her high cheekbones. For a moment no one said anything.  The only sounds were the crackling on the logs in the hearth and the wind dashing the rain against the windows.

Finally she turned back towards them. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve not been a good hostess. Please sit down.’ She indicated a small cluster of chairs by the window. ‘I’ll get you some tea.’

They sat as instructed, and watched as she pressed the button on an intercom. ‘Freya?  Please bring tea for my guests.’

When she turned back towards them, she had regained her previous composure. She too sat down, legs crossed at the ankle, hands held neatly in her lap.  ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, ‘but the last few years have been …difficult.’

Chris’s knuckles whitened. 
Difficult? Imagine how difficult they’ve been for the parents of the poor girl whose life your bastard of a son destroyed!
he wanted to say. 

Kennedy again took up the baton. ‘I’m sure it must have all been very hard for you,’ he said, giving Chris a surreptitious questioning glance. ‘With your son … and the trial and everything?’

Chris took a deep breath, trying to hold it together and get back on track.

Angela turned her haughty gray eyes on him, as if picking up on his negative opinion of her son. ‘Do you have children, Detective?’

‘No, ma’am, I don’t.’

She nodded, as though she suspected as much. ‘When Ricky was little he was always mischievous, always headstrong – typical boy, really. Still, I know that he didn’t … would
never—
’ 

‘Are you saying that you think your son is innocent of the sexual assault charges?’ Chris asked disbelievingly.

She looked up as the housekeeper entered the room, carrying a tray. ‘Set it over there, please, Freya.’

The young woman scurried across the room, put the tray on the table and looked expectantly at them. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’

Kennedy nodded and she poured three cups of tea, handed them out, then turned and hurried from the room. Chris half expected her to curtsy on her way out.

Mrs Webb sipped at her tea. ‘To answer your question, of course he’s innocent. Richard is an intelligent, attractive young man who could have any woman he wanted. Why on earth would he need to … force …’

Chris was so angry he couldn’t concentrate on the rest of the sentence. The arrogance of these people! ‘The girl in question was seventeen years old,’ he said heatedly, ‘and besides raping her violently, your son also broke her nose and fractured her jaw.’

If Ricky Webb was anywhere near as patronizing and disdainful as his mother, then he must be a right little shit. Clearly, these people considered themselves completely above the law. And that given the father’s wheeling and dealing had secured Ricky such a short sentence, evidently they were. It was surprising that Webb had spent any time in jail at all.

‘Chris …’ Kennedy frowned at him, then turned back to Angela. ‘Mrs Webb, it’s important that we know where to find Ricky now.’

‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t know. I haven’t seen my son since his release.’ She regained her closed, impenetrable demeanor.

‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone? ’Kennedy pressed. ‘To see friends, any other family, a girlfriend, even?’

Anglea shook her head ‘You must understand, Detectives, Richard is a free spirit, always has been,’ she said fondly.

A free spirit?  Overindulged little prick, by the sounds of it, Chris thought bitterly.

Given everything he’d heard today, he was coming to the conclusion that if the Punisher got to Webb before they did, he certainly wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

.

Back at the station, Reilly tried to put aside her concerns about Chris’s state of mind, and refocus on the investigation. She read through Webb’s file again, focusing this time on the details of his victim. 

Reilly tried to imagine the horror for a 17-year-old girl, attacked, raped, beaten …

Shaking these distracting thoughts from her mind, she forced herself to read on. Amanda Harrington was a secondary school student and lived in a well-to-do area of South Dublin. She focused in on the family details. The girl’s parents were listed as Sally and David Harrington. The mother worked as a teacher, the father was an architect and she had one older brother.

The obvious conclusion was that someone close to this girl had to be responsible for these murders. But who? Who was picking off one by one those they believed were collectively responsible for this miscarriage of justice? Was it the mother, father … close relative or boyfriend, even?

Reilly ran her hand through her hair, and tapped her pen on the edge of the table. She looked at the names again – they could probably eliminate the mother, as it would have been necessary for someone strong to control and manipulate the bodies into the scenarios the killer had set up. And although anything was possible, she doubted that a woman would have been able to do it.

What about the father or brother then? Architecture seemed like a mild-mannered profession, but God only knew the kind of things grief could drive a person to. Reilly made a short annotation beside David Harrington’s name.

The brother was a possibility too, but he was only a few years older than Amanda, now in his early twenties, and again someone strong and very capable had been responsible for the level of expertise and planning that went into the murders. Then again, a college kid might well be very familiar with Dante’s
Inferno
. It was worth checking out.

For now, Reilly supposed the simplest thing to do was to talk to the parents. There was a phone number in the file …

She dialled and immediately got an automated message: ‘
We’re sorry, but the number you have dialled is no longer in service.  Please check the number and try again.
’