Hiding in Plain Sight Read online

  every facet of life, particularly a person who’s NOT afraid to

  commit.

  No. I’ve no plans to walk down the aisle yet! (Lol) I’ve a good

  sense of humour – another quality I admire in a man. Hey, we

  can’t be serious ALL the time, right?

  I enjoy music (all kinds), reading (American classics) and

  keeping active. (I’ve joined a gym – New Year’s resolution).

  I’m not much of a drinker, and I don’t smoke. I love romance

  And affection. Staying in, cuddled up on the couch, can be as

  Much fun as going out.

  I live outside Ganestown, with my son, who’s my world. So, if

  we’re on the same wavelength, and I haven’t put you to sleep,

  keep in touch. Phew, that wasn’t so bad!

  What plans have you for the rest of the week? I guess I’ll be

  building (more) snowmen!

  I look forward to hearing from you.

  BachtoBasie

  The art dealer re-read the mail and deliberated how best to respond.

  Construct comparable sentences. Use her own words back.

  He looked at his watch and logged out. The timing didn’t matter. Later tonight would suffice.

  Lol? We’ll see who’ll be laughing when we meet. Like both Bach and Count Basie, you’re already dead.

  -----

  A combination of traffic snarl-ups and a torrential squall of sleet conspired to delay Hugh getting to the hospital. A lorry attempted to turn into the oncoming traffic flow. Drivers stared ahead, loathe to give way. Hugh mounted a footpath and steered around the bottleneck. A hundred metres further, he ground to a halt again. Red and blue lights flashed in his rear-view mirror. He checked the time. Half-two.

  The ambulance sped by.

  Hugh took a risk and slotted the van in behind. When it turned off into the hospital main entrance, he swerved by, whizzed into the underground car park, dumped the Hiace in the first free space he found and raced upstairs to St Joseph’s ward. He handed the health insurance card to a nurse writing up a report at the nurse station. ‘Have I missed the consultant?’

  The nurse shook her head. ‘Got delayed. Could be … I don’t know.’

  Hugh crammed the suitcase into the small built-in unit, and sat with his mother and watched hailstones skiing down the windowpane. Water cascaded from a drainpipe that had fractured at a connection outside the window. Kathleen watched him. ‘You’re okay, Ma. The blood test results will be back soon. I’ll have you home later, tomorrow at the latest. Rest now.’

  Kathleen closed her eyes.

  At three p.m., a ward sister bustled in; the advance scout on a reconnaissance mission. Behind her, a big man with a bay-window belly strode into the ward. Doctor Abbott had a craggy face and bushy eyebrows that looked like an eagles’ eyrie clinging to a cliff face. He mumbled a curt greeting, positioned glasses on the end of his nose, and glanced through a file clipped to a railing at the foot of the bed.

  Hugh took the hint. ‘I’ll have a word afterwards, doctor.’

  Doctor Abbott murmured to his patient.

  Hugh waited in the corridor. The nurse reappeared and rushed into the next patient’s room, intent on avoiding the doctor’s ire by ensuring it met his standards.

  When the doctor’s bulk darkened the doorway, Hugh stepped into his path. ‘Is my mother allowed home today?’

  ‘Not today.’ Abbott edged past.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Hugh blocked his path. ‘Did she suffer an eye injury?’

  ‘The eye will heal.’

  ‘So, what’s—?’

  ‘I’ve requested a neurologist to carry out tests on Mrs Fallon.’

  ‘Why? Did the x-ray—?’

  ‘I’m querying early stage dementia. I want your mother to undergo further tests.’

  ‘Why? Because Ma misplaces keys and household things from time to time? Happens to me—’

  ‘Until I get my colleague’s evaluation, my patient stays put.’ The doctor glared over the rim of his spectacles. ‘It may be the onset of Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘Alz … That’s … Old people get that. Ma isn’t sixty yet.’

  Doctor Abbott removed his glasses, breathed on the lens and polished them with his tie. ‘Alzheimer’s can occur from forty onwards, and it’s a short life sentence. Leads to death between four and eight years, but it can advance quicker. Or slower. There’s no cure.’

  ‘No cure?’ Hugh blinked and stared.

  The doctor exhaled and moderated his tone. ‘The neurologist will assess your mother. Talk to me during the week.’ He vanished, leaving Hugh slumped against the wall.

  -----

  Jana Trofimiack snatched at the phone. ‘Có?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Tomasz? I’m stressed—’

  ‘Fuck your stress. The McKelvey’s finished.’

  ‘It couldn’t be … Is it—?’

  ‘Jezus, Jana. You wanted it today. Then, when I move mountains to get it for you—’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You want it or not?’

  ‘Yes. Kiedy?’

  ‘Tonight. Or tomorrow morning.’

  Jana breathed a sigh. ‘Dobry. What time?’

  ‘Jezus Chrystus, how do I know? Answer when he rings and take the replacement to the woman’s house. He’ll also give you the Yeats copy. Make the switch. I need that Yeats painting soon. Na razie.’

  Evening

  The art dealer ditched his BMW in Midland Airport’s short-term car park and sprinted to the terminal. The automated check-in machine printed out a boarding pass, and he snaked through the customs queue. In the departure lounge, he bought a newspaper, boarded the plane, buckled up and opened the paper. A passport-size photo of Roberta Lord was on page three:

  Lead in Missing Persons Case?

  Roberta Lord has been missing for three days. The twenty-nine-year-old disappeared last Monday after returning home to Oak View Lane, Ganestown, with her son Christopher (6), at approx. 5:30 p.m. Christopher’s father, Ruben Gardner, discovered the boy alone three hours later.

  “There’s no way Roberta left of her own free will,” Ruben declared. “When I reported her disappearance, the police said they couldn’t interfere for forty-eight hours, so, through social media and with the help of locals, I organised search parties to comb through vacant houses within the area. We’ve plastered fliers across Ganestown. I even hired a psychic to hunt for clues in Roberta’s home.”

  Earlier today, a Garda spokesperson confirmed they were treating the disappearance as “suspicious,” and “several people are helping us with our inquiries.”

  “Gardaí interviewed me last night,” Mr Gardner admitted. “I heard one of their suspects got released from prison two weeks ago, after serving a sentence for abduction and assault.”

  “Detectives face a frustrating challenge when they tackle a missing persons’ case,” the spokesperson added.

  Voluntary or involuntary disappearances have reached unprecedented levels in Ireland – from 3000 in 2001, to 12,000 last year. While the vast majority return, journalist Jessica Ryan reports and remembers a selection of those who vanished, and never came home.

  The art dealer turned to a double-page spread of photos and profiles of men, women, teenagers and children, with times, dates and last sighting. Ignoring the cabin crew’s safety demonstration, he settled in to read and instantly recognised three pictures sprinkled amid the others. A jolt of adrenalin surged around his body.

  Victor and victim. Hunter and hunted.

  He looked over the images, eyes flashing past dozens of pictures as his mind placed the seven victims in chronological order. He turned the page. Two photos, side by side at the bottom right-hand corner, caught his attention:

  Relatives of Denise Alexander reported the sixty-eight-year-old retired national schoolteacher missing when she didn’t return home on Thursday, March 12, 2015. She boarded a bus at Ros
ses Point, for a night out in Sligo, and CCTV footage placed Denise in the bus depot at 5:35 p.m. A short time after, Denise spoke to an elderly couple on Adelaide Street, near Hawk’s Well Theatre. There’s been no sighting since.

  Slim, with shoulder-length grey-black hair and hazel eyes, Denise is 5’ in height and wore a red coat with a matching soft shoulder Guess sling bag.

  The first.

  Identical… to mother. Impulse plus opportunity equalled victim number one.

  The art dealer pondered.

  Yes, first victim. Mother doesn’t count. That was putting a wounded dog out of its misery. An act of mercy.

  His eyes shifted to the second head and shoulders photograph.

  Elizabeth Carroll.

  Detectives are still appealing for help in tracing a Co. Louth woman who vanished on Friday, February 19, 2016.

  Elizabeth Carroll, 33, a single mother, disappeared between 9:30 p.m. and 10:30 p.m. while walking through a residential estate in Dundalk, on her way to a colleague’s birthday party.

  Police used search dogs and quizzed several hundred people during extensive inquiries, but no evidence of abduction ever emerged.

  Wrong place for her.

  Right place for me.

  Friday.

  Heavy rain.

  His mother’s anniversary still a month away. He’d collected a new cattle prod and was stuck at a traffic light on the outskirts of town when a woman tapped on the car window looking for directions. The lift was a “Good Samaritan” gesture. On reflection, he’d never picked up anybody before, so a primitive part of his brain must have homed in on her scent. She’d given him a condensed version of her life story.

  Hapless victim. Fate sealed.

  He remembered her raised eyebrows, the unspoken question when he reached behind and picked up the eighteen-inch battery operated prod. No time to react when he jabbed the electrodes against her neck, again and again. Awkward. Even in a big car.

  Could have got caught. Too exposed. Stupid.

  He’d pulled into a lay-by and found it much harder to strangle someone than he’d thought possible. The challenge lay in blocking the carotid artery and jugular due to layers of fat around her throat. Once the woman stopped breathing, he relaxed his grip, and she’d inhaled another gulp of air. The jagged high-pitched wheezes made him yearn for a rope. Or a cord. He tried again. Air rattled in Elizabeth’s lungs. She thrashed, struggling to stay alive. He’d zapped her twice more, dug both thumbs on her windpipe, kept them there long after the body became limp, and until the tingling pain of pins and needles forced him to remove his numb digits. Under cover of darkness, he’d transferred her to the boot and wondered what to do with the body.

  Killing was easy. Hiding evidence was hard.

  He’d crossed the Silver River at Kilcormac and buried her in the peaty soil of Boora bog. Primary settlers from the Mesolithic era wouldn’t mind another body.

  That was a mistake. If it’s ever found, the bog will have preserved her.

  The art dealer scratched phantom knuckle pain, remembered how his fingers cramped in agony for days. And then, the wait. For a week he’d anticipated an official inquiry, imagined somebody had glimpsed a number plate …

  Nobody ever came.

  After that, he’d pressed tennis balls to strengthen his fingers.

  Must buy a stun gun in Belfast.

  Gardaí are still seeking the public’s help in tracing Monica Flynn. On Friday, March 10, 2017, Monica (28), and her three-year-old son left Galway and arrived at Tullamore train station hoping to spend an enjoyable weekend with relatives. That night, Monica and two cousins enjoyed a meal in Chiquita’s, a Mexican restaurant on Church Street, before they visited several bars, mingling and chatting with friends.

  At 11:53 p.m., a group that included the trio entered Heat Niteclub, attached to Fieldbrook Hotel. After 2 a.m., Monica disappeared. When gardaí examined CCTV footage, they caught her on video entering the nightclub, but there was no footage of her leaving. They identified people Monica spoke with, arrested two, but released both without charge. To date, detectives have no prime suspect.

  Number three.

  For a year he hadn’t felt the urge to kill again. Until that night. He’d entertained clients in Chiquita’s restaurant. Conscious of the internal pressure building as he watched three women seated at an adjacent table, his companions continued the conversation while he eavesdropped—easier as the women’s chat became more animated. By the time they’d paid for the meal, he’d learned her name, her son’s name, Stephen, Monica’s relationship status and what they’d planned for afterwards. He’d chauffeured the customers to Fieldbrook Hotel, his brain shrieking: “Danger. Too close to home.” But she’d been in the restaurant, on that day, at that moment, at that table, for a reason.

  Destiny.

  The headache hammered, demanding deliverance, and he’d embraced the familiar pain like an old friend. He’d mooched around the nightclub until Monica appeared. From a distance, he stalked her, slipped close when she stood alone at the bar, swigging another cocktail and shouted over the music: ‘Stephen needs you. This way’s quicker.’

  He hadn’t waited for a response or gave a backwards glance, just pushed through the heaving crowd, towards a never used fire exit that opened onto Kelly’s Lane. Whether Monica assumed he was one of the management team, or driven by concern for her son, she’d battled to keep up, obedient as a pet dog. He recalled her breathless questions. Recalled slipping on rubber gloves, opening the passenger door and Monica clambering in. Thanked him. Asked if he knew the way and if Stephen was okay …

  The cattle prod kept her stunned. Outside Tullamore, he’d driven down a twisty back-road. Her neck, thin as a sapling, was easy to squeeze. A nice one to practise technique. He’d locked his fingers together for extra purchase. A single spastic leg twitch, and … nothing.

  The first I buried on the farm. It made sense, with machinery available. Didn’t have to traipse across bogs or woods to find a suitable spot. Buried deep, with no chance of accidental exposure by freak weather conditions, or a protruding limb getting spotted by a walker or uncovered by a stray dog. Hattinger’s land includes their family cemetery. I’ve created my own graveyard and maintain control over the dead.

  “It could be a runaway or an abduction. We’ve no evidence regarding Joanne Cranley,” a police spokesperson admitted. Joanne, 31, vanished outside her rented apartment in Monaghan town on Sunday night February 18, 2018, after she returned from Belfast. “The search team and forensic investigation uncovered nothing of substance,” the source added. “Tracker dogs traced the scent to the road, and the trail ended there. But the file remains open. We’re always hopeful people will recall something and come forward with concrete information.”

  The art dealer studied the photo.

  Number four. It’s not the image I’ve got in my mind.

  She’d applied for a position in the Belfast office. After reading her CV, he had all the information required. He’d have preferred to take her to the farm, but it was too distant. Instead, he’d crammed the young woman into a heavy duty canvas sack, filled the space with rocks, and dumped the body in a lake outside Donaghcloney.

  His gaze shifted, searching for number five.

  Isobel Stewart. August 17, 2018 …

  His ears popped as cabin pressure decreased.

  Not enough time now to reminisce on Isobel. Later.

  He flipped back the page and skimmed the photos again.

  Where was number six? Eileen.

  He couldn’t remember her surname. Less than two months ago. Newbridge. A quiet bar. He’d spent two weeks looking for a prospect, visiting bars, awaiting the opportunity. The woman, seated alone at a table, expecting somebody who didn’t show. Asked him for a light. He’d told her he didn’t smoke. That was their conversation. He observed her check a mobile; listened to her talk to a childminder. She went outside to get a better signal, giving him a moment to add a drug to her drink, re
ady to tip it over if she returned before it dissolved. It took an eternity, fizzing and foaming. He’d sipped coffee and speculated what reaction the Rohypnol would have on her.

  She came back, polished off the drink, rechecked the phone, gathered her belongings and stumbled to a silver hatchback. He’d tailed the half-dazed woman home, parked a distance away, waiting for the babysitter to leave.

  Eileen answered his knock.

  So easy.

  Ashen-faced, with traces of vomit on her chin, she’d unchained the lock, maybe thinking the babyminder was returning. It almost made him feel sorry for her.

  Almost.

  Near the farmhouse, the woman reacted to the drug. She shuddered and choked, froth lathering her mouth and vomiting all over his car’s expensive leather upholstery before she died from a seizure. He vowed never to use his car again.

  The effort it took to clean up after her.

  A half bottle of prescription drugs in Eileen’s coat pocket, plus the combined alcohol and Rohypnol had set off the allergic reaction. The art dealer recalled the clothes she’d worn; black coat, mauve skirt, a long-sleeved grey T-shirt. He remembered the tattoo – a Celtic cross – on her left wrist. He glanced through the pictures again. Her photo wasn’t there. His gaze returned to Isobel Stewart.

  Isobel Stewart. The days spent tracking her, the gambles I took. Careless. The whole house of cards could’ve tumbled, but it was hours well spent. It challenged me. Made me sharper. Helped me evolve.

  The pilot requested the cabin crew to take their seats. The woman beside him stretched. ‘Are you in Belfast for business or pleasure?’ she asked.

  ‘Business,’ the art dealer said. ‘You?’

  ‘Same. No rest for the wicked.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  I’m attending a convention at the Merchant Hotel,’ the woman smiled.

  ‘That’s my hotel too.’

  The woman nodded. ‘Perhaps we’ll bump into each other.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the art dealer said.

  -----

  Hugh left a voicemail for Ferdia, saying he’d meet him at the Ganestown Hotel at eight.

  When he got back to McGuire’s, tension on the shop floor was palpable. Upstairs, he poked his head into Malcolm’s office. Malcolm was slumped across the desk, staring at a computer screen.