No Turning Back Read online

  ‘Of course.’ Cathy didn’t know why he thought she’d treat this one any differently from any other case, be any less than thorough, but he was obviously tense about something more than the promotions list. ‘The CCTV at the petrol station should have picked him up on his way home if he was in one of the pubs in Dalkey – if we’re lucky that’ll give us a time frame. It might have picked up the vehicle involved too.’

  ‘I’ll get Frank on to it while you’re out. We’ll get the tapes from any buses that went down Ulverton Road too, their on-board cameras pick up everything outside as well. They’re like mobile CCTV units.’

  ‘I think there’s another camera at the other end of the road, in Sandycove, at the Spar?’

  O’Rourke nodded curtly, his mind obviously on the next problem. Cathy stood up and headed for the door. As she reached it, she turned to him.

  ‘Make the most of me while you can. The minute I get back I’m putting in an application for the Emergency Response Unit. Reckon the Taoiseach’s got any nephews who can cut it out in the wild?’

  She only caught a flash of O’Rourke’s face as she let the door fall closed behind her. He thought she was joking.

  Chapter 2

  Friday, 9 a.m.

  Sean O’Shea was already in the yard behind the station when Cathy got to the bottom of the stairs. Nathan Walker, his observer in the patrol car this morning, was still at the scene. Nicknamed Starsky and Hutch, Sean O’Shea and Nathan Walker could have been poster boys for the force in the unlikely event the commissioner decided to do a glamour calendar. Although the truth was something different. O’Shea was yawning as Cathy swung out of the glazed back door of the station and pulled open the car door. She grinned. ‘How are the kids?’

  O’Shea rubbed his hands over his face. Between them, Starsky and Hutch had seven children under six – sleep was at a premium in both their households.

  ‘Sick, all of them, Eimear too. It’s like a scene from the zombie apocalypse in our house. Her mum’s come down to take over.’

  ‘I hope you’re not contagious.’

  ‘You’re grand, I had it last week.’ He flashed her a grin and started the engine. ‘Do you know the Quinns?’

  ‘Only by reputation. What’s the scoop?’

  ‘We got a call at seven saying that there was a lad lying seriously injured on the pavement, opposite Our Lady’s Manor nursing home. Man out with his dog was heading down to Bulloch Harbour for a walk.’ Cathy grimaced; dog walkers had a special place in the hearts of police officers. ‘Paramedics did their best but he died shortly after arrival. They reckoned it was a hit-and-run – looked like he went right under the wheels.’

  O’Shea reached the security barrier and punched in his number as Cathy said, ‘Weird he wasn’t found earlier?’

  He shrugged. ‘He looked drunk. Was lying on the pavement. Not many people would cross the road these days to help a homeless drunk. If anyone saw him, I’d guess they steered clear.’

  ‘Helpful.’ Her tone reeked sarcasm. ‘So he’s in Vincent’s?’

  ‘Yes, they took him straight in. Poor bastard. Parents have been notified, post-mortem will be later today. He had his student card on him so at least we were able to identify him pretty quickly.’ That was something. Cathy exhaled as O’Shea continued, ‘Traffic think the skid marks on the pavement indicate that the vehicle was driven straight at him, knocked him down, and then reversed and ran right over him as he was lying there. Could have been a drunk driver but . . .’

  ‘It sounds a bit too calculated for someone not completely in control.’

  Cathy finished the sentence for him.

  *

  As O’Shea pulled the Dun Laoghaire patrol car up to the Quinns’ ornate cast iron gates, they immediately began to slide open. They looked like they’d been imported from a French palace: complex scrolls and leaves painted navy blue; a gleaming brass plaque announcing the name of the house, St Gabriel’s. Whenever Cathy had passed before she’d always wondered if it had been a convent at some stage; it was certainly big enough.

  ‘They like their privacy.’ O’Shea indicated the eight foot cut stone wall on either side of the gates.

  ‘Have to say I’d prefer to meet Orla Quinn under different circumstances. I’ve always thought she was pretty amazing. She was on the Irish Olympic pentathlon team until she got injured in a riding accident, then she started ProForce Recruitment in her back bedroom.’

  Cathy had read an interview with her years ago – when her sporting career had ended, Orla Quinn worked her way up from leading corporate team-building events to management recruitment, had expanded into media and tech, placing Irish graduates into some of the biggest companies in the world. She was focused and driven, and had a reputation for getting exactly what she wanted. Cathy had huge respect for her and all the good she did, using her company’s might to lobby the government over the homeless crisis, getting the ladies who lunched to seriously think about the city they lived in.

  ‘She’s a smart lady.’

  ‘Success doesn’t make losing your child any easier.’ Cathy paused, thoughtful for a moment. ‘What’s the story with the rest of the family?’

  ‘Only son.’

  Cathy blew out a sigh. ‘This is one of those days that just keeps on giving.’

  O’Shea pulled up onto a gravel drive that swept around the front of the house. It had an uninterrupted view of the sea, a broad lawn sweeping down to meet the water. A brand new silver Mercedes sport was parked at the bottom of an imposing set of stone steps leading up to the Georgian front door. O’Shea glanced at the car.

  ‘That’s hers. Bet it’s a fabulous drive.’

  The housekeeper opened the door almost the moment they rang, her eyes bloodshot and red. Cathy guessed she was Eastern European from her accent. Attractive, late thirties, her dark blonde hair was shoulder length, pulled back in a low ponytail. The Ralph Lauren logo brightened up her simple dark grey sweater. She obviously wasn’t on minimum wage.

  Inside the house the scent of lilies filled the high-ceilinged hall from a massive display on a circular antique walnut table. Cathy glanced into an enormous farmhouse style kitchen to the left. A huge golden retriever lumbered to the kitchen door to stare at them mournfully as they followed the housekeeper across the pale coir carpeting.

  ‘She’s very upset. This is just so terrible.’ The housekeeper crossed herself quickly in an unconscious movement, her eyes filling with tears.

  The living room was homely but elegant, massive picture windows taking advantage of the view of Dublin Bay, letting in the morning light. Polished occasional tables were crowded with family photos: Tom at various ages, in rugby gear, sailing gear, school uniform, with his mum. One posed shot of both parents at some sort of a charity event. Another of Orla in a showjumping ring.

  Sitting beside a white marble fireplace, the flames licking at huge logs, Orla Quinn was staring blankly at her phone as if she was expecting it to ring. Her face was flawlessly made up but she’d obviously been crying, her face bleached white under her make-up. Cathy reckoned she was in her early forties, but she looked ten years younger, her hair expensively highlighted, pulled back with a tortoiseshell clip. Wearing skin-tight navy jeans and a plain navy silk blouse; diamonds the size of marbles flashed from her fingers. On the sofa opposite her, sat a man Cathy recognised from the press, her husband Conor. He was slumped forward, his elbows on his knees, staring into the flames. He turned as they entered the room. He looked like he hadn’t slept, eyes wet with unshed tears.

  ‘It’s the Guards, Mrs Quinn.’ The housekeeper stood to one side, ushering them in.

  Something Jamie Fanning had said on the way out of the station clicked in the back of Cathy’s mind – Conor Quinn had been in a rock band in the 1970s. Then he’d bought a string of nightclubs in Dublin, and one in London. She could see that he was older than his wife, slightly overweight, his hair unnaturally dark, slicked back. He’d had a big career before they met – di
d he still own the clubs? She wasn’t sure. She’d have to ask Fanning. Cathy thought back to another society face she and Fanning had met not too long before – Richard Farrell with his A-list restaurant and indoor swimming pool – but he’d had plenty to hide. She wondered what was simmering below the surface in this house.

  ‘We’re very sorry for your loss. I’m Detective Garda Cathy Connolly, this is Garda Sean O’Shea.’ Cathy held out her hand.

  Orla Quinn stood up, her face a mask of politeness, and returned Cathy’s handshake.

  ‘It’s Orla, and thank you for coming. Please sit down. Mira, could you organise some tea?’ Her grip was firm despite the huskiness of her voice. Conor Quinn glanced at Cathy stonily.

  Cathy turned back to smile at the housekeeper. ‘We’ll be fine, there’s no need to worry.’ Then turning to both of them, she said, ‘I’m sorry we have to meet like this, but as you know there was an incident earlier today involving your son, Tom. We just want to be clear that we have the full picture.’

  Orla frowned. ‘But it was an accident?’

  Cathy kept her face impassive. ‘We’re not completely sure what happened. We want to understand the reason why Tom was struck, and why the driver left the scene. As it stands it’s a hit-and-run, a crime that carries a custodial sentence.’

  ‘But who? How could they have hit him? And why would they drive off?’ Conor Quinn stood up abruptly and walked over to the window, his hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans, his voice hard-edged. Tears began to slip down Orla’s cheeks. She caught them with a French polished nail.

  ‘That’s what we need to find out, Mr Quinn. Which means we have to ask you both some questions.’

  ‘Of course. Conor only got back from New York late last night. I was at a fundraiser.’ Orla sat down on the sofa, her hands open as she spoke. ‘I don’t know what I can tell you. Oh God. Tom’s been so happy recently. He was just away for New Year; he was loving college . . . I just . . . I’m sorry.’ She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a second, as if she was centring herself. When she spoke again her voice was more controlled, determined. ‘I want you to look at everything, to find out precisely what happened. I need you to find out why and to punish whoever did this. If they had stopped, he might have survived.’

  Cathy sat on the edge of the sofa. These interviews were never easy, no matter who the parents were; they had lost a child and the grief, the recriminations, the need to blame, were universal. This case was further complicated by the fact that, as O’Rourke had said, as soon as the press heard about it, they’d be camped at the gate. Grief was never something that should be public, whatever had happened, no matter how high profile the participants. The public had an apparently insatiable curiosity for the macabre but Cathy had always made it her priority to ensure that the victim was awarded the same dignity in death as they would have expected in life.

  ‘That’s what we’re here for. There will be a special family liaison officer appointed to look after you – Marie would have been here herself now, but she’s on a course today. As soon as she can she’ll call in to you. It’s her job to keep you fully informed as to what is happening with the investigation, and if you think of anything relevant, you just need to let her know.’ Orla acknowledged this silently as Cathy continued, ‘You mentioned you were out last night?’

  Beside her, O’Shea pulled a black notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open.

  Orla’s lip trembled as she replied, ‘Yes, I set up a charity that provides schooling for girls in underdeveloped countries. We work in South America and Africa.’ She tried to gather herself. ‘We have an annual fundraising dinner and hook up a lot of the sponsors with the girls they are sponsoring by satellite, we live stream the whole event to the Web so our contributors worldwide can see exactly what they are supporting. Ronan Delaney, one of the DJs from Life Talk, hosted. He and his wife Karen are close family friends – it was a great night . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Sorry, you don’t need the details, I’m sure.’

  Cathy smiled. ‘Tell me everything you can think of. What time did you get home?’

  ‘Around eleven, I think.’

  ‘And Mr Quinn – Conor – when did you get back?’

  His back to them, Quinn shrugged. ‘Just after nine, I think. I had to go straight out to a meeting that was rescheduled – my plane was delayed. I got back in later, just after Orla.’

  ‘And was Tom home then?’ Cathy looked at each of the Quinns as she spoke.

  Orla shrugged. ‘I thought he was – his room’s right at the top of the house, though. We have an internal phone system as there are so many flights of stairs.’ She hesitated, speaking more slowly. ‘When I got out of the car I could see Tom’s light was on from the driveway. I texted him to say goodnight and he texted me back asking if he could get a lift in to college this morning if I was going into town.’ She shook her head.

  ‘And did you see him this morning?’

  Orla shook her head. ‘I had a meeting, I was running late after last night and when Tom didn’t come down I thought he’d just slept in. I wasn’t worried because he had loads of time to get the DART. He doesn’t have any lectures on a Friday, just a study group in the morning with Anna – sorry, Professor Lockharte, his tutor.’ She drew in a shaky breath. ‘I left at eight, and was heading into town when the hospital called.’ A sob tore through Orla. ‘I should have gone up to him, I should have checked . . .’

  Cathy smiled, trying to look as consoling and sympathetic as she could. She knew it didn’t matter what she did or said, she couldn’t bring him back.

  ‘If Tom was home at eleven, would it have been normal for him to go out late at night or very early in the morning? We need to find out where he was between eleven and when he was found at seven this morning. Could he have gone out for a last drink in the village before closing? Several of the pubs in the village have an extended licence.’

  Orla shrugged. ‘He might have done, but most of his friends are in town. He wouldn’t have gone to a pub on his own. He did go for late night walks, though, I think it helped clear his head when he was studying.’

  ‘Did he go anywhere in particular?’

  ‘I’m not sure, he’d usually stick his head in here on his way out, it could have been any time – I suppose he’d go down to Bulloch Harbour, or around the village.’

  ‘Would he be gone long?’

  Conor Quinn interrupted. ‘Why all these questions about Tom’s movements? Shouldn’t you be out looking for the car that hit him?’

  ‘My colleagues are doing exactly that, Mr. Quinn. It’s my job to establish who the last person to see Tom alive was. To do that, I need to identify where he went last night.’

  Orla glanced at her husband and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I suppose he sometimes went for quite long walks. He has his own key, but he’d be out for at least an hour, sometimes two.’

  Cathy kept her face impassive as she took this in. Did Tom feel the need to get away from home, his family or maybe his studies? Perhaps walking really had helped clear his head. Or perhaps he was meeting someone? Cathy was sure his friends would know.

  ‘Did he have a girlfriend? Any close friends we could chat to?’

  ‘No, no steady girlfriend, but he was very popular.’

  Cathy smiled encouragingly. ‘Tell me more about him.’

  Orla’s sigh was ragged. ‘He’s nineteen, would be twenty next month, in his second year at Trinity studying politics and economics. We wanted him to join Life Talk, but he insisted he needed an academic degree first.’ She half-smiled. ‘He got a part-time job with Ronan Delaney. Ronan does lots of mixing for commercials and things, he has a sound studio in his garden, Tom’s been helping him out. He was really enjoying it, seemed to be there every spare minute.’

  She bit her lip. ‘But he loves his course, adores his tutor – Anna Lockharte – she’s quite brilliant, a real high-flyer in her field. She was at the event last night, her fami
ly are very influential in international politics, they helped get the project off the ground. I met her a few years ago in London at a conference. She’s been fantastic. And she’s really looked after Tom since he started at Trinity.’ Orla faltered. Cathy could feel that she didn’t really know how to continue. Orla cleared her throat. ‘He’s got loads of friends, I can give you a list but I’m sure Anna will be able to tell you more about who he hangs out with at Trinity. He doesn’t have a girlfriend at the moment but he’s not short of offers. He was talking about taking some of his friends to our house in France – it’s near Nice. He loves France, we used to spend all our family holidays there.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He really had no worries that I knew of, money isn’t a problem. I’m not a brilliant mother, I work long hours, and I know Tom’s had to look after himself a lot, but I try to be here for him as much as I can . . .’

  ‘I’m absolutely sure this is nothing to do with your working hours, Orla. I know how hard this is.’

  Orla’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’ve never seen him so alive as this term.’ She pulled her hands out from between her knees and wiped away her tears, shaking her head. A moment later she said, ‘It’s just so horrific that someone would do this.’ She looked directly at Cathy, balling her hands into fists on her knees. ‘He was my son, my beautiful boy.’ Her voice changed, becoming flint edged, ‘I need you to find out who did this and make sure they understand what they’ve done. They need to pay the full price.’

  Cathy glanced at O’Shea. They had no argument with that. Nodding, he closed his notebook.

  ‘Thank you. We’re going to find out exactly what happened. We’ll be in touch when we have more information for you. If you could make a list of his friends, that would be very helpful.’

  Cathy stood up, turning to speak to Conor Quinn, but he spoke before she could.

  ‘Mira will show you out.’ Friendly.

  Outside in the hall, pausing beside the front door, Cathy smiled warmly at the Quinns’ housekeeper.