‘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.’
GREY DOOR CLUB, SOUTH GREAT GEORGE’S STREET, DUBLIN
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.’