Ahead of her, Christchurch Cathedral stood witness over the lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic. She had already planned her day: she would review last month’s case files. Other psychologists at Ocean House teased her about having obsessive-compulsive disorder, but she knew the more times she examined something, the more she usually saw. It was her tried and tested method, and had stood her well, the forensic examination, raising fresh questions, leading to a greater understanding of a client and their mental well-being.
When her mobile phone rang, she cursed herself for leaving it in her handbag rather than putting it in the hands-free set. She rummaged through the bag, with an eye on the stationary traffic in case it decided to move. The caller hung up as she grabbed the phone, but she recognised the number: the Special Detective Unit at Harcourt Street. Pulling the car into a side street, she pressed speed dial, and within moments she was talking to Mark Lynch, a detective who delivered information with equal efficiency and brevity. ‘Mark, I assume this isn’t a social call.’ She took a pen and notebook out of her bag. ‘What do we have?’
‘Murdered male, Rick Shevlin, married, mid-forties. He worked as an art dealer in the city.’
‘How was he killed?’
‘Multiple stab wounds – frenzied attack. The body was discovered by Housekeeping this morning.’
‘Housekeeping?’
‘He booked into the Earlbrook Hotel last night. According to his wife, he had a late meeting in town, but I can fill you in when you get here.’
His last comment sounded at worst like an order and at best an irritant. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Mark, that I work with you, not for you. But it’s not far. I can take a short detour.’ She emphasised ‘short’.
‘Appreciated.’
Duly clipped, she thought. A male-dominated environment presented its challenges, but she was up to them, and at the back of Lynch’s minor power struggle, a man had lost his life.
Twenty minutes later, she was in the car park at the Earlbrook. If Mark Lynch was there, the technical squad would be in situ and, most probably, Ian Morrison, the state pathologist. Seeing the crime scene first hand was crucial, an opportunity she couldn’t afford to miss.
It had been two years since she had begun profiling killers for the Irish police. The first case had brought her into contact with Detective Inspector O’Connor, the investigation of the murdered schoolgirl, Caroline Devine. The last time she and O’Connor had crossed paths was six months earlier, during the canal-murder inquiry, prior to his suspension. She had heard he was due back within weeks, but that didn’t necessarily mean he would pick up where he had left off – covering up evidence wasn’t something easily brushed aside. She had felt guilty about not being in touch, especially as she had played her own part in him coming clean, but she’d had her reasons for keeping her distance, complicated ones.
On entering the lobby of the Earlbrook Hotel, the first thing that struck her was its opulence. Large crystal chandeliers hung from beautifully carved ceilings and Romanesque archways. Two stone pillars led the eye directly towards the marbled staircase where a uniformed officer was stationed either side at the top. Management wouldn’t be happy with police activity interfering with daily procedure, but a dead man took precedence, especially a murdered one.
After one of the techies had helped her into a white body suit, Kate braced herself, then walked into Room 122. Despite the police activity in the room, as at any other crime scene, time was somehow standing still. Every contact leaves a trace: a statement drummed into every police officer during training. In the preservation of the crime scene, they were all attempting to stop time, gathering information that would hopefully lead them to the killer.
The bulky, bullish frame of Ian Morrison stood on the opposite side of the four-poster bed to the lanky Mark Lynch. Between them on the blood-stained white sheets lay the naked corpse. Not for the first time Kate thought there was little dignity in death. Neither man turned to acknowledge her, giving her the opportunity to take in as much about the scene as she could before she was briefed.
The murdered man lay face up with his feet at the top of the bed, his right ankle tied to the brass bedpost with what looked like a one-inch double-knotted rope. The left leg was bent at the knee, set at a perfect ninety-degree angle to the one opposite. Lynch had been correct when he described the attack as frenzied. Even without Morrison’s autopsy report the body was a mess. The victim’s throat had been slit, a hideous gaping wound with blood coagulating down his neck. The multiple stab wounds formed gorges of congealed blood across his chest. There was so much blood on the bed it looked weighted down by it. Slash wounds to the face, legs and arms were too numerous to quantify. The victim’s eyes were wide open, his head turned in the direction of the two windows opposite, as if they had seen Hell in all its anguish.