The Boy Who Fell

Book 5: An Inspector Tom Reynolds Mystery

by Jo Spain

Genres: Hard-Boiled; International Crime & Mystery; Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

FROM THE NUMBER ONE BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE CONFESSION AND CO-WRITER OF RTE ONE'S TAKEN DOWN Kids can be so cruel. They'll call you names. Hurt your feelings. Push you to your death. In the garden of an abandoned house, Luke Connolly lies broken, dead. The night before, he and his friends partied inside. Nobody fought, everybody else went home safely. And yet, Luke was raped and pushed to his death. His alleged attacker is now in custody. DCI Tom Reynolds is receiving the biggest promotion of his career when a colleague asks him to look at the Connolly case, believing it's not as cut and dried as local investigators have made out. And as Tom begins to examine the world Connolly and his upper class friends inhabited, the privilege and protection afforded to them, he too realises something. In this place, people cover up for each other. Even when it comes to murder.

Release date: June 27, 2019

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Dublin, 1 March 2015

The story went like this.

Fifteen years ago, the man who owned the house had walked into the kitchen and taken a knife. The sharpest, largest knife; the one that had been used the previous day to carve the Sunday roast.

He took it and he walked, first, into the bedroom of his son, aged twelve at the time.

He slit his throat while he slept.

Then the man walked into his wife’s bedroom. She had the misfortune of being awake; something had disturbed her sleep. Not the noise of her son being murdered by his father – that was carried out in relative silence. But perhaps some mother’s instinct stirred in her and opened her eyes. And so she saw her husband approach with his weapon of choice, still dripping with the blood of the child they’d made together.

The woman knew her husband to be a violent man.

The papers, at least initially, would carry articles containing words and phrases like ‘pillar of the community’ and ‘mental health issues’ and ‘tragedy’.

Not ‘domestic violence’. Or ‘wife-beater’.

But she knew. And knowing the danger had escalated, she didn’t do what she normally did. She didn’t retreat into herself; she didn’t seek shelter in the quiet recesses of her mind, while she cowered beneath his blows.

She fought.

Her body showed all the hallmarks of resistance when the first responders came. It was her body that caused the youngest paramedic to vomit extensively, and that was before he’d even seen the child’s.

Knife wounds to her hands, arms, face. Multiple stab wounds to the chest.

The husband dropped the knife then, beside his wife’s bloodied body and mere metres away from the suitcase she had stashed in the bottom of her wardrobe. The detectives discovered it filled with the smallest amount of belongings, nothing she thought her husband would miss, just enough for the mother and son to flee with when she found the courage to leave.

Her husband found the suitcase first.

He was the last to die. He laced a rope around one of the more secure beams in the high-ceilinged living room and placed the chair directly underneath. A week previous he’d researched knot-tying on the internet.

And that’s where he was found. Hanging inside his €1.2 million Georgian-style family home in the pretty, affluent Dublin suburb of Little Leaf.

The house was never demolished. There were distant relatives, but no will had been drawn up and the property languished in probate for fifteen years. Gates were locked, hoarding erected, security appointed. Rot and decay set in. The ceiling leaked, the windows cracked, the wooden beams became damp and rotten. The rodents nested. The insects flourished. The ivy sprawled.

The tales grew.

The house was haunted.

Ireland. Ghosts are easy to conjure, even during the brightest of hours.

A house such as this, especially at night, was fertile ground for rumour and story.

Nobody in their right mind would go near that place. That’s what they said.

But go they did. Creeping in, bottles tucked under arms, drugs wrapped in foil in back pockets, hearts pounding, adrenaline surging, teenage hormones pumping.

An empty house.

A dead family.

And now, the body of the boy lay on the ground outside. Almost a man but technically still a child.

The awkward angle of his neck, the torn flesh, the protruding bones.

A three-storey plummet, life extinguished.

A broken boy.

Another soul claimed by the house.

Another story to tell.

Dublin, 16 April 2015

It was difficult to put into words how much DCI Tom Reynolds disliked these occasions.

Perhaps it was best explained like this: if offered the choice of attending the annual police ball or repeatedly banging his head off a brick wall, Tom would already be in a coma in the intensive care unit.

Everybody around him seemed to be enjoying this one just fine. His wife, Louise, was tonight resplendent in a simple black gown, her long dark wavy hair wrapped in a complicated style that had required many thousands of small clip things and enough hairspray to withstand a significant weather event. She hadn’t stopped smiling since they arrived, the yin to his grumpy yang.

The ageing process was treating the couple terribly unfairly, in Tom’s opinion. He’d cut himself shaving earlier, distracted because he had just realised the grey hairs on his head were starting to outstrip the black in noticeable numbers. The lines around his eyes deepened by the day. ‘Rugged’ didn’t quite do it justice any more.

Louise was Dorian Gray; Tom was the picture in the attic.

Tom’s team members and fellow table guests weren’t the slightest bit bothered by his melancholic humour.

Ray Lennon, his deputy, the unwitting centre of attention, was oblivious to most things, including the fires he was igniting left and right. He was concentrating on the beautiful woman sitting next to him, Detective Laura Brennan. Not just his date for the night, but his fiancée these last six months. The ruby-encrusted ring on her wedding finger was a nod to her rust-coloured curls and the smattering of red freckles across her nose.

She, the more aware of the pair, saw the admiring glances of fellow female attendees (she’d overheard fellow officers whispering in the bathroom, comparing her beau to Jamie Dornan at his sexiest – in their opinion, as the serial killer in The Fall, not Christian Grey). The envy didn’t bother Laura, who merely smiled, bemused at the irony.

Tom’s other detectives were in situ. Brian Cullinane was squinting at the wine menu, hoping to find something other than the cheap Cabernet or Sauvignon Blanc being served freely with dinner. He’d brought his partner, Jimmy, whose nervousness was being managed with topped-up glasses of the aforesaid cheap wine. Brian was openly gay and nobody in the team cared a jot. Tom’s station had sponsored a team in a triathlon to raise funds in support of the equal marriage referendum due to be held shortly. But the force in the main was still quite conservative and Brian was breaking barriers bringing Jimmy to an event such as this.

Brian and Jimmy’s nearest neighbours, Detective Michael Geoghegan and his wife Anne, were nicely oiled themselves, ensuring they got the absolute most out of their expensive babysitter. Michael had left his tracksuit at home and brushed his spiky hair before stuffing himself into a black-tie suit hired for the occasion.

The seat booked two months ago for Detective Bridget Duffy had been filled by criminal psychologist Linda McCarn. Bridget had been seconded to the drugs unit and was currently involved in a major operation that would eventually, Tom was sure, see her promoted.

Actually, Tom realised, Linda didn’t look the Mae West. Her mouth was set in a thin sorrowful line and she hadn’t cracked so much as a dirty joke all evening.

‘Tom? Tom . . . ?’ Double naming. How long had Louise been trying to get his attention? His wife squeezed his arm.

‘Go up to the bar and see if they’re serving prosecco, will you?’ she said. ‘Get a few bottles, save us from that vinegar they keep pouring.’

Tom snapped out of his reverie.

Why was he still assessing his staff one by one? He’d made his decision.

Hadn’t he?

‘Prosecco is vinegar, Lou,’ he said. ‘How about G&Ts?’

Very few things had tested Tom and Louise’s marriage. The battle over which was superior, prosecco or cava, was up there.

‘Don’t be such a party pooper,’ his wife replied.

Louise leaned in closer. He smelled something floral – a new perfume their nearly-four-year-old granddaughter Cáit had selected. It was a celebrity brand and cost approximately ninety-nine cents. Tom fell in love with his wife all over again for wearing it.

‘You’re blatantly staring at your potential successors,’ Louise said.

Tom looked over at Ray and Laura. They were whispering something to each other and laughing, hands held under the table, so very much in love.

And he, their supportive, loyal, caring boss, was about to sow the seeds of discontent.

‘Are you still deliberating?’ Louise’s lips brushed his ear and, despite the stress of the evening, or maybe because of it, her touch sent a thrill through him.

He shook his head, ever so slightly. He knew what he had to do. Tom was about to become management. It was what management did – made the best decisions for the team.

‘God, Linda looks miserable,’ Louise observed.

Tom looked back at the psychologist. Yes, Linda was ageing even faster than him. She’d always been skeletal, but tonight her face was pinched and her clothes appeared oversized and lacklustre, so very un-Linda.

‘Is her son still refusing to talk to her?’

Tom nodded. Her son. Linda had given her baby up for adoption twenty-three years ago, but it hadn’t been a willing decision. She’d never had another child, too traumatised by her first experience.

That had been bad enough. But when the young man, Paul, came of age, he had sought out his father. Not his mother. Paul couldn’t forgive Linda for her decision but he’d been happy to build a relationship with his dad, Emmet McDonagh, Chief of the Technical Bureau, because Emmet hadn’t known of Paul’s existence.

Silence crossed the room like a Mexican wave, reaching their table, quieting those around it. An arm leaned over Tom’s shoulder and placed a G&T in front of him, followed by a glass of bubbles for Louise.

‘For the toast,’ Garda Willie Callaghan, Tom’s driver, said. Tom smiled in thanks, then his attention was seized by the man who’d taken to the podium. Chief Superintendent Sean McGuinness, the honouree at this year’s ball.

A montage of photographs began to appear on the screen behind him:

Sean stuffed into his first uniform, looking very much the Kerry farmer’s son – a giant, a fish out of water;

Sean receiving his first promotion, his late wife June standing beside him, beaming with pride;

Sean playing hurling for the Garda team;

Sean at a press conference, intense, serious, ready to do battle with familiar foes;

Sean laughing with the assistant chief commissioner Bronwyn Maher, now sitting at the top table and . . . yes, she wasn’t watching Sean. She was watching Tom.

Sean’s replacement.

His return from retirement had lasted longer than Sean had intended. But the condition he’d insisted on before he came back still stood. Tom would take over when Sean stood aside.

In four weeks’ time.

Tom took a large gulp of his gin just as Sean started to talk.

‘Seriously, lads, somebody turn that nonsense off. I can’t have those pictures on loop behind me while I’m trying to speak. Look at the state of me.’

Titters at the renowned cantankerous humour. The screen behind him paused on an unflattering image of Sean glaring at somebody off-camera in a way that was both terrifying and, to those who knew him, endearing. Unflattering, but possibly the truest image of the man.

‘Yep. That’ll do. Thank you, somebody.’ Sean waved his hand in the direction of the computer operator at the side of the room, hidden behind lights.

‘And so, we’re here.’ Sean loosened his tie. ‘Thank Christ, we’re here.’

‘No sequel this time!’

Cheers greeted the anonymous heckle, followed by laughs.

‘By Jesus,’ Sean said, covering his eyes with his hand to see better into the crowd. ‘There’s no way in hell you’ll get me back again. I’d have been gone already if I hadn’t been waiting for my replacement over there to learn how to tie his shoelaces.’

All heads turned to look at Tom.

He wanted to die.

‘Smile,’ Louise whispered through gritted teeth, her face fixed in a grin.

Tom forced his features into something resembling pleasure. It was more of a grimace.

‘He can’t wait, look at him,’ Sean continued. ‘Ah, Tom. You’re the epitome of what makes a good leader – a man who doesn’t want power but is willing to take it for the greater good. You’ll thank us one day for making the man of you.’

‘I won’t,’ Tom hissed, then almost yelped as Louise pinched his arm.

‘But it’s not easy, being in charge.’ Sean grew sombre. ‘You all know Tom, and many of you know his lovely wife Louise, too. Louise, you and my June were great friends so you know full well what your husband’s taking on. We, the force, apologise in advance and we say to you, especially, thank you for the loan of him.’

Louise raised her glass. Her eyes glistened with tears as they met Sean’s. Not for the loss of Tom to a position with even more responsibility – that she was prepared for. It was the mention of June, a woman who’d died nearly three years earlier after she’d received a diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer’s, but whose death felt as raw as ever.

‘Tom, you take charge of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation at a time of huge challenges across the entire system.’ Sean’s tone was grave, now. His grey brows furrowed in concentration, his mouth pursed with consideration.

‘Public confidence in the force is depressingly low. Resources have never recovered from pre-recession levels. As a colleague once said, we’re moving Guards from one side of the bin lid to the other trying to contain the crap inside and we all know the smell is seeping out. For a while, we had road deaths under control. Then we were carted en masse to drugs. Now, there are more fatalities on the road than ever before. Gang crime is growing. Domestic violence and sexual violence are being reported in greater numbers but we’re struggling to secure convictions. Repeat offenders are walking through the prison system at speed and picking up worse habits in the short duration they spend there.’

Sean paused. Tom could feel butterflies dancing in his innards. He sipped more G&T. Waited for the punchline.

‘Worse,’ Sean continued, and the room held its breath, wondering what could possibly top all of that, ‘men and women – good men and women – have come forward to say there are issues within our ranks in terms of how we manage ourselves and how we interact with the public. And within our ranks, those men and women have been vilified and mocked, instead of being vindicated and respected.’

Tom felt the collective intake of breath around the room. This was uncharted territory, this was pushing the envelope, this was . . . brilliant.

He sat up straighter, glanced around, clocked those who were shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

When Sean had asked Tom to take the top job – the first, and the second time (the latter had been more of an order than a request after the disastrous interim Chief Superintendent Joe Kennedy) – he’d told Tom it wasn’t just because he was an excellent detective with a great solve rate. It was Tom’s instinct for justice; his ability to follow procedure, but allow for flexibility; his natural inclination to serve the force honourably but not be blinded by bureaucracy or tradition. Sean, beneath the fiery, unapproachable, adversarial reputation, was a crusader. A romantic, you might say. He believed in the Blue.

And Tom, for all he knew they were in the right, also knew that he and Sean, cut from the same cloth, were virtually anarchists in a room like this. The rebels.

He bloody well loved it.

Louise caught the sudden enthusiasm on his face and raised her eyebrows, amused.

Sean lifted his glass now.

‘To Kevin Leech.’

There was confounded silence for a moment. Leech was the whistleblower who had pushed the force the most over the last number of years. He’d refused to back down in the face of cajoling, threats, promises, intimidation. He was the sort of character who could break through the omertà.

The room was stunned.

Bronwyn Maher – one of the better ones in Tom’s opinion – even she had a look on her face that said Sean had pushed it too far this time.

Well, best start as he meant to go on.

Tom raised his glass.

‘Kevin Leech,’ he called out.

And his team followed suit.

It spread around the hall. Even the reluctant officers couldn’t be seen to be too reticent. The Commissioner had, after all, apologised to Leech publicly.

It was just in the tribunal of inquiry that he was trying to have the whistleblower silenced.

‘So, you see, we have much to do,’ Sean said. ‘But thankfully, it won’t be me who’ll be doing it. A toast to my successor, DCI Tom Reynolds, the man who inherits all these problems. Soon to be Chief Superintendent Reynolds, or bossy bollocks, as you’ll probably call him.’

Glasses were raised with more relish this time, though Tom, with his excellent peripheral vision, could see a cautious watchfulness in some of his peers from other departments.

‘You’re hot when you’re mutinous,’ Louise whispered, and Tom felt his face burn.

‘Your reign won’t be boring, anyway,’ Linda called across the table. Tom gave her his warmest smile, hoping it spoke to all of his good wishes and affection. She smiled weakly in return.

Later, when the dessert had been cleared and coffee served, Tom made his way to the bar to clear the bill for their table’s extra drinks. Tonight was on him. It wasn’t that it would be verboten in the future – after all, he and Sean had been friends throughout Tom’s time on the force – but soon, socialising with his former teammates would take on a different dynamic.

Especially after he told them his plans.

‘Tom.’

The inspector was just returning his wallet to his pocket when the latest well-wisher greeted him. It was Natasha McCarthy, head of sexual crimes.

Tom had a lot of time for Natasha. Like Assistant Commissioner Maher, Natasha had forged her career in a male-dominated world and she’d done it without over-playing the game and sacrificing her principles. She was progressive, very much of the ‘prevention is better than watching the penal system fail to cure’ mindset. And she’d done all that with the additional challenge of being one of the only mixed-race members of the force.

He was ready to offer her a drink, but the suggestion died on his lips. Natasha’s face was flushed and she had bags under her eyes. She was practically oozing worry.

‘What is it?’ Tom asked.

‘I’m sorry, I know tonight is your big night. It’s just, with you still in your own job for the next four weeks, I thought . . .’ Natasha looked around, desperately. The table nearest to them erupted with laughter at a shared joke; somebody bumped into Tom’s arm on the way to the bar. People going about their business, unawares.

‘God, what am I doing?’ she said. ‘This is neither the time nor the place. Sorry, Tom . . . Really, just . . . congratulations.’

She started to walk away. Tom frowned and caught up with her.

‘Natasha, let’s go out and get some air.’

She had tears in her eyes. Tom was horrified. This woman was practically made of steel.

Taking Natasha’s elbow, and simultaneously catching Louise’s eye back at their table to indicate what he was at, he steered his colleague in the direction of the exit.

Only one thing could make a woman like Natasha McCarthy so upset.

Somebody close to her was either hurt or in danger.

‘Right. Talk to me.’

Tom and Natasha were alone outside. The mid-April day had started mild enough but the temperature had dipped as the evening progressed. The chill meant there was a notable absence of the smokers who’d usually dot the venue’s gardens.

Natasha bit her lip. Tom waited, and watched.

‘Well,’ Natasha said. ‘In at the deep end, I guess. You know my mother is Irish but my father is from Mali.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘He came here to study medicine and met Mum, the most modern woman in the whole of the Midlands.’

‘Modern because she married a black man?’

‘Modern because after she married the black man she kept her own surname. Can you imagine what it was like for me growing up in Westmeath, looking as I do, with a name like McCarthy?’ Natasha smiled thinly. Tom was happy to indulge her, though he knew she was stalling.

‘My father’s brother followed him over five years later. He studied medicine, too.’

‘Coming over here, stealing our women and keeping our hospitals running,’ Tom said, wryly.

‘Ha. My mother would have chewed any Irish man alive, to be fair. Anyway, my uncle brought his wife over with him. And they had a daughter, my cousin Lizzie. Lizzie did marry here – an English man, as it happens. And they had a son.’

‘Okaaay – so he’s your first cousin once removed, right?’ Tom said. ‘And I guess something has happened to him?’

Natasha sighed.

‘His name is Daniel. Daniel Konaté Jones. You haven’t heard it yet because they’ve managed to keep it out of the news. So far.’

Tom shook his head, none the wiser.

‘You know that kid they found dead at that house in Little Leaf?’ Natasha continued. ‘About six weeks ago?’

‘Sure,’ Tom said. ‘Luke Connolly, seventeen. They think he was pushed out of a window on the third storey, don’t they?’

Natasha nodded.

‘They’ve had somebody in custody the last three and a half weeks,’ she said.

Tom frowned, the jigsaw piecing together.

‘Not your cousin, Daniel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Natasha. I’m so sorry.’

She stared at the ground, shook her head softly. It wasn’t his pity she wanted.

‘I knew they were keeping hush about it,’ Tom said. ‘I assumed a minor was involved. I didn’t realise it was because there was a connection to somebody on the force.’

‘That’s not why his name is being kept out of the headlines,’ Natasha said. ‘It doesn’t matter that he’s related to me. And Daniel’s eighteen, not a minor.’

‘Then why . . . ?’

‘It’s being kept quiet because Luke’s parents have asked for that. And also because (a), they’re saying Luke Connolly was raped before he was pushed out that window, and (b), Daniel is black. Everybody’s afraid this trial will become about race and homophobia. And there’s some issue with the victim’s sibling. I don’t know what. All I was told was that there are sensitivities to be considered. Daniel’s in isolation in a detention centre at the moment while they await a trial date. His mum doesn’t have a lot of money and she point-blank refuses to let me pay for a proper brief. She’s old-fashioned, sees it as charity. But Tom, they won’t keep him in isolation. And when the connection is made that he’s related to me, it will be horrific for him.’

Tom frowned again.

‘The investigators are certain it’s Daniel? I’m sorry, Natasha, I have no knowledge of the ins and outs of this case. We weren’t called in, they had their guy almost immediately. And I’ve been distracted with all this job-move stuff.’

Natasha swallowed.

‘They say they’re certain,’ she answered. ‘They have witness statements that put the two of them alone at the scene. And . . .’ She hesitated. ‘They lifted Daniel’s DNA from the victim. Daniel is gay. But, apparently, Luke was not. They arrested Daniel formally three weeks after the file was opened.’

Tom breathed deeply. He knew, he always knew, in every crime, behind the suspect, stood a family about to be crushed. But he’d never had it happen to somebody close to him.

He placed his hand on Natasha’s arm, gave it a squeeze.

‘I’m heartbroken for you, Natasha,’ he said. ‘And for your family. Your cousins, his parents, must be devastated.’

‘It’s just his mother, Lizzie. Daniel’s dad left when he was a kid. She’s inconsolable. But Tom, I need more than sympathy.’

Tom held his breath.

‘Daniel is a . . . challenging kid. He has been, for the last few years. Before that he was a cheeky chappy, real happy-go-lucky. A smile for everybody. But . . . male teen with an absent father, black in a white neighbourhood, poor – every cliché you can imagine – it’s all taken its toll.’

Natasha inhaled sharply.

‘But, Tom, I’ve worked in sexual crimes for more years than I care to remember and I’m telling you, I am telling you, Daniel is not a rapist. He’s not a killer. And I’m not saying that because I’m related to him. Daniel has never hurt a fly. Messing with drink and drugs, bunking off school, moody, secretive, sullen – yes, he has all of that down. But violence, no. He’s not violent. Not to that extent, not to the point of it being intentional. Raping somebody and then pushing them out a window, that is utterly beyond him.’

Tom opened his mouth but Natasha was still speaking.

‘And I know it’s going to be impossible to convince you otherwise, that you’re going to assume my heart has overtaken my head on this, but I’m still going to ask you because we’ve been friends for a long time. And if you only do it for that, and not because you think he’s innocent or because you think I have the capacity to be objective—’

‘Natasha. I’ll look at the case file,’ Tom interrupted.

Natasha stopped.

‘You’ll . . .’

‘I’ll look at it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘You asked,’ he said. ‘I trust your judgement. And if you’re wrong in this, at least you will know that you d. . .