Single Obsession

By Des Ekin

A top politician stands accused of multiple murder.


A psychiatrist is threatened and the life of her small son is in danger.


A well-known investigative journalist is forced to put his career on the line and his future in doubt.


And all three situations are linked in complex and mysterious ways.


In a twisting plot which reveals many surprises, a situation emerges involving conspiracy at the highest level, bribery, impersonation, strong-arm tactics ... and sheer terror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The O'Brien Press
• Release date: Jan 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781847178602

Des Ekin

Des Ekin is a retired journalist and the author of four books. Born in County Down, Northern Ireland, he began his career as a reporter. After spending several years covering the Ulster Troubles, he rose to become Deputy Editor of the Belfast Sunday News before moving to his current home in Dublin. He worked as a journalist, columnist, Assistant Editor and finally Political Correspondent for TheSunday World until 2012. His book The Stolen Village (2006) was shortlisted for the Argosy Irish Nonfiction Book of the Year and for Book of the Decade in the Bord Gais Energy Irish Book Awards 2010. He is married with a son and two daughters.

Book preview

Prologue

KATE Spain pulled her flimsy nylon jacket tighter, in a bid to keep out the wet, chill wind that swept up from the harbour and made rats’ tails of her carrot-red hair. She was shivering, but the cold wasn’t enough to make her quicken her pace and hurry home. Even on a night like this, a bleak fourth-floor flat in Hillery Heights was not the sort of place you wanted to hurry home to.

She didn’t even hear the car as it approached her from behind and pulled up alongside the kerb. The soft purr of its engine was drowned out by the thunderous bass and drums of the new U2 single exploding through the earphones of her Walkman. As the dark shape of the vehicle drew to a halt, motor still running, she didn’t look around. Her head continued to nod to the primal rhythm of the music.

She gradually became aware of the car, of its large, looming presence, and her heart gave a lurch of trepidation. Why was the dark figure leaning over towards her and opening the passenger door?

Kate squinted myopically through the window, then gave a short, high-pitched giggle of relief.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, thrusting her hand inside her coat and switching off the Walkman. ‘You scared the life out of me.’

He glanced quickly around the street, as though to satisfy himself that it was still deserted.

‘Hello, Kate,’ he said. ‘D’you want to get in?’

‘It’s okay,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I don’t need a lift, or anything. I’m nearly home.’

She peered at him again.

‘Come on.’ His tone was urgent. ‘I need to talk to you. I have some good news.’

Her heart began thumping again, this time with renewed hope. If anyone had ever needed good news, it was her. This could be the night her long run of bad luck finally came to a end.

‘Well?’ she asked breathlessly as she scrambled into the passenger seat. ‘What is it, then? What’s the news?’

‘In a minute.’ He had already driven away from the kerb. His shoulders were held high with tension. His eyes stared straight ahead.

Kate felt her palms dampen with perspiration. His attitude made her nervous, frightened. ‘What are you doing? Where are we going?’

The car sped through the empty streets, away from the comfort of the street-lights, into the intermittent light-dark of the suburbs, until it was finally engulfed in the utter blackness of the bleak and lonely countryside.

He didn’t answer, but as he changed gears his breath emerged in tiny hisses, like a pressure cooker letting off steam. She had the sudden feeling he was trying to curb some dreadful and powerful emotion that was boiling up inside him.

He swung into a layby, brought the car to a halt, and killed the lights. For the first time since she’d got into the car, he turned around to face her. It was dark – so dark that his head and shoulders were just a silhouette against the pale moon. And when he spoke, his voice chilled her to the bone. It had an unnatural pitch; it was cross, petulant, aggrieved. It was the voice of a grown man pretending to be a little boy.

‘Night-night, ducks,’ he said. ‘It’s time to go to sleep.’

Chapter One

‘THEY found her body this morning,’ Emma said. ‘Up in the mountains.’

‘Yes, I heard,’ Hunter said. ‘There was a newsflash on the radio. Are they sure it’s her?’

‘As sure as they can be. Don’t forget, she’s been lying up there for nearly three weeks. But she would have been unrecognisable anyway.’

‘Why?’

Emma took a deep breath. ‘From what I’ve heard, her face was completely smashed in. With some sort of blunt object. A rock or a brick or something. They won’t –’

Her voice was lost in a blizzard of static.

‘You’re breaking up,’ Hunter said. ‘You should really invest in a decent mobile.’

‘It’s not the phone. I’m down by the harbour, and the signal isn’t great here.’ Emma walked a few paces along the quayside until she was clear of the vast bulk of a trawler. ‘Is that any better?’

‘A bit. Why not call me back on an ordinary phone?’

She glanced around nervously. ‘Because ordinary phones are easier to tap.’

‘Come on, Emma.’ There was an undertone of concern in his voice. ‘You’re starting to sound like one of your patients. Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid?’

‘No, I don’t think I am.’

‘Okay.’ He paused, and she could almost picture him shrugging as he tilted his chair back to a dangerous angle. ‘You’re the psychiatrist. You should know.’

Dr Emma Macaulay, warmly wrapped in a navy fleece jacket against the November winds, took a seat on a wooden bench near the beach and tried hard to steady her nerves. She hadn’t asked for this. In fact, it was the last thing she needed right now, this unique and disturbing insight into the abduction and murder of a twenty-two-year-old woman in her home town. As she talked into her mobile phone, her strawberry-blond hair whipped across her face and had constantly to be removed from her eyes. But she was used to the wind and she didn’t mind the biting winter cold. At least it wasn’t raining, which it did nearly all the time in damp, misty, mizzly Passage North, the wettest town in Ireland’s wettest county.

‘What were you saying about Kate Spain?’ Hunter asked.

‘I said, the police won’t be sure of her identity until the post mortem later today.’ Emma lowered her voice as two yellow-clad fishermen walked past, carrying a huge orange fender. ‘But the GP who was called to the scene happens to be a friend of mine,’ she whispered. ‘He says it was a frenzied attack. It would have been all over in a few minutes.’

‘So we’re talking about a complete sadist.’

‘No, not a sadist. I think we’re dealing with something completely different.’ Emma paused thoughtfully. ‘Something even more worrying, in many ways.’

‘Worrying in what way? A serial killer?’

‘Not necessarily. I don’t know, really. My speciality is the psychology of addiction, Hunter, not crime. It’s just that … well, there seems to have been a lot of blind rage, a lot of anger evident at the scene. I suppose what I’m saying is that there was an excess of violence – much more force than was necessary to achieve death. In the forensic sense of the word, it was overkill.’

‘Well, I haven’t a clue about all that. But I think if there was a multiple murderer running around a place like Passage North, I’d be aware of it. Journalists tend to notice serial killers. It’s part of our job.’

Emma said nothing.

‘How’s Robbie?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘He’s fine. Don’t worry, I can see him. He’s playing in the sand just a few feet away.’ She smiled and waved across to her two-year-old son. ‘I always look forward to Sundays. It’s our special time together.’

‘I can’t wait to see him again.’

‘And he’s always asking for his dad. Any time, Hunter, you know that. You have access any time you want.’

He sighed. ‘I realise that. Thanks. But freedom of access isn’t a problem, it’s distance. I’m in Dublin, you’re in Passage North. It’s quicker for me to fly to New York than it is to drive to bloody Passage North.’

Emma watched a seagull swoop into the harbour and grab a fish-head. It tried to swallow it in mid-air and succeeded only in dropping it back into the oily water.

‘So what do you think?’ she asked.

‘About what?’

‘About everything that happened last night. Everything I’ve just told you.’

Hunter took a deep breath. ‘I really think you should go to the police and tell them the whole story.’

‘And what if they don’t want to know? What if they know already? What if Mags Jackson is right – that there really is a high-level cover-up to protect the people in power?’

‘I doubt that very much. Tell them you have important evidence about the Kate Spain case. They’re bound to be interested. Last night she was just another missing person. Now she’s a murder victim.’

‘I know, I know. I’m just a bit jumpy. I didn’t sleep too well last night. I’ll go to the station immediately.’

‘Well, not quite immediately,’ he said, and on the other end of the line she could hear the rustle of an opening notebook. ‘First, let’s go over it again. Right from the beginning.’

EMMA had first noticed her in the audience in the conference hall – a hard-faced brunette, late twenties, wearing a white T-shirt and black leather jacket and looking totally out of place among all the sober suits, ring binders and laptops. She wasn’t a doctor or a facilitator or a social worker; Emma was sure of that because of the way she didn’t laugh, or even wince, at the technical in-jokes.

Emma ignored the woman’s fixed stare as her eyes swept across the audience, trying to make contact with every area of the auditorium, before she delivered the final point in her lecture.

‘There’s no doubt that the new technique works,’ she told the audience. ‘Trials at my clinic have proved, over and over again, that it tackles the root causes of addiction more effectively than conventional methods, and at a fraction of the cost of drug-centred therapy.’ Her voice betrayed the anger she felt. ‘Yet the Health Department tells me we cannot afford to devote more resources to research. My reply is simple: can we afford not to?’

The auditorium exploded in applause as Emma gathered her notes together and resumed her seat. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the woman in the leather coat was not applauding.

As she made her way out through the conference hall, pausing to shake hands and acknowledge compliments, she noticed the woman following her. Emma sighed inwardly. She was used to this sort of thing. Dealing with alcoholics and drug addicts left her wide open to all sorts of unwanted approaches. Better to confront it here, among a crowd, than outside in the car park.

‘Excuse me? Dr Macaulay?’

Emma turned around. The woman had a coppery-brown bob of hair that might or might not be a wig. She had a harsh, world-weary face and wary, mistrustful eyes. A powerful blast of patchouli oil failed to mask a significant body-odour problem.

‘Yes?’

‘I wondered if I might have a word with you. It’s about a friend of mine.’

Emma’s heart sank.

‘Listen, I’m really sorry,’ she said, ‘but I don’t do consultations any more. If your friend calls round to her GP –’

The woman shook her head. ‘She can’t do that, Doctor.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s dead.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘She was murdered.’

Emma took a slow, deep breath and looked around for Security.

‘I’m not insane, Doctor,’ said the woman. ‘And, what’s more, I know who did it. I know who killed her.’

‘Who?’

The woman was staring at someone over Emma’s shoulder. ‘He did.’

Emma froze.

Carefully, infinitely slowly, she turned around. Her muscles un-tensed when she realised that the woman was not gesturing towards a real person, but towards a poster that had been stuck to the far wall in readiness for an upcoming general-election rally. At that distance, it was only a blur to her. She fished in her handbag and put on her glasses.

The poster leaped into sharp focus. It showed a picture of Joseph Valentia, leader of the second biggest party in the Coalition Government, and one of the most powerful men in Ireland.

‘JOSEPH Valentia,’ said the woman, still staring at the poster. Her face had turned pallid and she looked shaken, almost at the point of collapse. ‘The Tánaiste. He murdered my friend.’

Emma didn’t know how to respond. Like everyone in Passage North, she was familiar with Joseph Valentia, the local-boy-made-millionaire who had swept to political power on a rural right-wing backlash. After seizing the balance of power in the last election, he had demanded and obtained the position of Tánaiste – Deputy Prime Minister – as the price of his support in the Coalition.

‘I don’t understand,’ confessed Emma, ‘but I can tell you’re upset. We’d better sit down.’

They left the main hall, took a seat in the bar of the hotel and ordered two coffees.

‘Now then,’ said Emma, in the calm voice she used to placate violent drunks and strung-out heroin addicts in her clinic, ‘I’m afraid you lost me a bit there. Better run that by me again. And by the way, I’m Emma. I hate talking to people when I don’t know their names, don’t you?’

The woman accepted the outstretched hand and shook it. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. I’m Mags. Mags Jackson.’

‘Go on, Mags. I interrupted.’

‘Kate Spain. Does that name mean anything to you?’

Emma thought long and hard. Passage North was a sizeable town and had a steady turnover of seasonal workers. Some stayed, some didn’t. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t say that it does.’

‘It wouldn’t. She wasn’t anybody important. She wasn’t anybody powerful.’ She spat the words out. ‘But that doesn’t mean she didn’t matter.’

‘She’s the friend you’re talking about? The one you say was murdered?’

Mags nodded.

‘Where did this happen, precisely?’

‘Right here in this town. In Passage North.’

‘A murder in Passage North? I’m sure I would have heard about that, Mags. There would have been an inquest –’

‘Not if they haven’t found the body yet.’

Emma relaxed. ‘So, strictly speaking, we’re talking about a missing person?’

Mags fished in her cheap handbag and produced a pack of Silk Cut. ‘No, Doctor,’ she said. ‘Strictly speaking, we’re talking about a murder.’

Emma rubbed her eyes. ‘Okay. Go on.’

Mags lit a cigarette from a transparent blue plastic lighter. She took a long draw of smoke and blew it out almost immediately.

‘Kate Spain was my best friend. We saw each other a lot.’ She smiled fondly. ‘Two fecking born losers, I suppose, but we were great mates. We used to meet at the launderette and the chip shop and the park and the other places where losers hang out. We were both at a loose end during the day, what with her working at the video store and me –’

She paused.

‘And you?’

Mags shrugged. ‘I work the quays and the park after pub-closing. I have a few regulars I see during the day, but not many. It’s mostly night and it’s mostly impulse-buying – fishermen coming back after a week at sea, that sort of thing. I suppose there are worse ways to make a living, but I can’t think of any offhand.’

Emma nodded. ‘Was Kate on the game, too?’ she asked.

Mags laughed. ‘No! Kate was too scared for that. She was just another low-paid worker trying to get by.’

‘Does she have any family?’

Mags shook her head. ‘Her ma died long ago. Her da disowned her when she had the baby and her boyfriend fecked off to Boston so he wouldn’t be caught for maintenance. She couldn’t cope and the baby was taken into care. But not before Kate had got her own flat, in Hillery Heights.’

Emma was not surprised at the address. Hillery Heights was a local flats complex populated almost exclusively by tenants with problems and tenants who created problems for everyone else.

Mags noticed her expression. ‘Yes, I know. She was desperate to get out of there and get wee Liam back. God love her, all she wanted was a house on the ground with a scrap of a garden where he could play. She was applying left, right and centre, pulling every string she could, but it was never going to happen. Not while there are families with six kids on the Council’s waiting list.’

‘How old is she?’ Emma was careful to use the present tense.

‘Twenty-two. Eight years younger than me.’ Mags looked at Emma sharply. ‘And don’t say is, Doctor, it’s was. Kate is dead. I’m sure of it. I knew it the moment I saw her get into his car that night. I knew it would be the last time I saw her alive.’

‘You saw her get into Joseph Valentia’s car?’

Mags stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. ‘Yeah. It was a Friday evening. We used to meet for a drink around ten, because she got off early from the video store and I hadn’t started work yet. Afterwards, we walked part of the way together. We split up at Mellowes Road – she was sticking to the street, heading for home, and I was taking a short-cut across the park. I stopped just under the trees to light a fag. That’s when I saw him pull up in his car.’

‘Valentia?’

‘Yes. The Tánaiste. He wasn’t in the big Merc he usually gets ferried around in. No police minder, no security. He was just driving an ordinary Corolla, navy-blue, with a Clare registration. I took a note of the number. Here.’ She pushed a scrap of paper across the table.

Emma studied it carefully. ‘You’re sure it was him?’

‘Absolutely. It’s not a face you could mistake.’

Emma followed her gaze to another election poster and studied Joseph Valentia’s distinctive features. The cadaverous face, the cold, calculating eyes, the dense black hair with a hairline – an actual hairline, not a fringe – halfway down the forehead. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I see what you mean. Maybe he was just offering her a lift home?’

Mags shrugged. ‘Maybe, but her home was just down the road. With the one-way system, it would actually have taken her longer to get there in a car. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘And she never made it home anyway?’

‘No. I called around later that night. She hadn’t come back at all.’

Emma stared across the room. ‘At what stage did you contact the police?’ she asked.

Mags looked awkward. ‘At the start I didn’t. I was a bit pissed off, to tell you the truth. At first I thought she was having some sort of affair with this guy without telling me. And when I checked and found that she’d spent the night away from home, I was sure of it. So I didn’t try to get in touch with her for about a week. I was waiting for her to contact me first. But by that time, her photo was on an inside page of the Passage North News as a missing person.’

‘Which was the correct way to describe her,’ Emma reminded her. ‘Still is.’

Mags ignored her. ‘The problem is, they got the date wrong. Kate vanished when she got into Valentia’s car on Friday, 20 October, a few seconds before 11pm – I remember the exact time because my watch bleeped just afterwards. But she’s officially described as missing from the early morning of Sunday, 22 October, because that’s when the man in the video store said she hadn’t turned up for work.’

‘Well, there’s only one thing for it. You need to tell the police the true story,’ Emma insisted.

Mags shook her head. ‘I’ve already done that. I went down to the police station, met a Detective Sergeant George Arkwright, and gave him a full statement – names, dates, places, just like I’ve told you.’

She sucked savagely on her cigarette. ‘But it’s all been covered up. Someone, somewhere, has ordered that it should be suppressed. The official story is still that Kate must have disappeared sometime on the twenty-first or early on the twenty-second, and the name of Joseph Valentia has never even been mentioned.’

‘There could be a lot of reasons –’

‘Come off it. You know there’s only one reason. Power, influence. Valentia has been allowed to get away with murder. Literally.’ She turned to Emma. ‘You know what I need to do? I need to find a good investigative journalist who’s not afraid to stand up to people like him. Who’s not afraid to name names. Someone who’ll expose the whole scandal. Do you know anybody like that?’

Emma didn’t have to think. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I believe I do.’

Chapter Two

EMMA drove her silver BMW along the tree-lined avenue towards the clinic. Her windscreen wipers slapped against the glass in frustration as they fought a losing battle against a torrential downpour. The twenty-four hours which had elapsed since her last conversation with Hunter on Sunday had changed the weather for the worse, and rain-battered Passage North was settling with grim determination into the start of another working week.

She switched off the radio as her mobile phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Emma?’ Hunter’s voice sounded faint and far away. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Just about.’

‘Where are you?’

‘On my way to work.’

‘Sounds like you’re in a car wash. How did you fare with the police?’

She grimaced. ‘Not a pleasant experience. They just didn’t seem interested.’

‘Really?’

‘They said they were very busy,’ Emma said. ‘And could I call back in a couple of days. So I made a formal appointment to see one of the detectives on Tuesday.’

She swung out of the avenue and parked her car in front of a stately red-brick building. A brass plaque beside the door read ‘The Athmore Clinic’.

‘I’ve been thinking a lot about this,’ Hunter said. ‘And especially about Joseph Valentia. He’s the guy with the bee in his bonnet about unmarried mothers.’

‘I know,’ Emma said. ‘He claims they’re responsible for all the ailments of modern society. Children being raised without male authority figures, that sort of thing.’

‘Yes. And he’s persuaded a lot of people to believe his theories. I find it all a bit sinister, to tell you the truth.’

‘You’re not the only one.’ Emma shivered as she stared out at the driving rain. ‘Remember, I’m a single mum too.’

‘Indeed.’ Hunter paused. ‘The big question is: why would Kate Spain get into the car with him?’

‘If you ask me, they were having an affair. No matter what Mags Jackson says.’

‘I’ve got another theory. Do you want to hear it?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘I had a nagging feeling that this wasn’t the first time Passage North had figured in connection with a missing person case,’ he said. ‘So since you phoned me yesterday, I’ve been going through the files in the office and searching on the Internet.’

‘Searching for what?’

‘For reports of missing women. At least, those that were taken seriously enough for the police to issue appeals to the media.’

‘Big job.’ Emma glanced at her watch. She was ten minutes early, and she was in no hurry to venture out into the downpour.

‘All-night job,’ he agreed wearily. ‘There were lots of them. It was even harder to update them. I had to eliminate the ones who subsequently turned up, either living overseas or floating in the nearest river.’

‘And the others? The ones who weren’t runaways or suicides?’

‘There were three that particularly interested me,’ Hunter said. ‘One, Kate Spain, of course. Two, a German silversmith called Frieda Winter who went missing from County Cavan almost a year ago. Third –’

‘Winter, as in summer? Sorry, it’s such a bad line.’

‘Yes, Winter. Aged forty-two. She went missing from Ballymillett in Cavan in December last year.’

‘And who did you say was the third?’

‘A woman named Karen Quinn, from the north inner city of Dublin. Thirty-one years old, vanished from the Liffey quays six months ago.’

‘Sounds to me like three totally unconnected cases.’

‘Bear with me, Emma.’ He sounded tired. ‘First, Frieda Winter. She created Celtic designs in silver. I’ve got her photo in front of me. Free-spirited artist. Red hair cropped tight. Tattoo of a hemp leaf on her neck. She’d apparently spent her entire adult life moving from one colony of artists to another, never staying anywhere for more than a year. She had two teenaged sons who lived with their aunt in Frankfurt. When she went missing from the artists’ colony in Ballymillett last year, the police went through the motions but, privately, they just shrugged their shoulders and said "So what?’’’

‘Not surprising. She’s probably just moved on to Glastonbury Tor or the Outer Hebrides or somewhere equally daft.’

‘No.’ Hunter was adamant. ‘She lived in Cavan, but she’d always had a dream of establishing a colony for artists in Passage North. Its remoteness appealed to her.’

‘Okay, but, again, so what?’ Emma glanced up at the thunderous black clouds. ‘She probably took one look at Passage North in the rain and decided to go to Tahiti instead.’

‘Perhaps.’ Hunter sounded unconvinced. ‘Anyway, that’s what struck a chord in my memory. Now, let’s look at Karen Quinn from Dublin. The two women couldn’t be more different.’

‘You’ve got a photo of her as well?’

‘Yes. Earth mother type, I suppose. Roundish face, frizzy red hair, warm friendly eyes. Nice smile. She did specialist catering work in Dublin, London and Liverpool. She had lots of friends all over England, and she tended to go over there at short notice to take the contracts as they came up. That’s why the police weren’t too concerned when she went missing from Dublin last May.’

‘Is there a point to all this, Hunter? Because it’s just gone nine o’clock.’

He ignored her. ‘I talked to Karen’s mother on the phone,’ he said. ‘Apparently Karen was getting fed up with all the travelling and wanted to put down roots in the country. She became deeply interested in the rural resettlement scheme. It’s a sort of –’

‘Yes, I know about it. It’s a scheme to encourage people from Dublin to move to remote districts in the west and keep the rural areas alive.’ She paused as the penny dropped. ‘You’re not going to tell me she wanted to live in Passage North?’

‘No. She wanted to go to Connemara. But what she was offered was a home in Passage North. The only thing stopping her was the size of the house she’d been allocated. She was holding out for something bigger.’

There was a long silence on the line.

‘So what you’re telling me,’ Emma said at last, ‘was that all three of them – Kate Spain, the German artist woman, and Karen Whatsername from Dublin –’

‘Karen Quinn.’

‘They were all trying in their different ways to get new homes in Passage North?’

‘Yes. That’s what they had in common. We know that for certain,’ said Hunter. ‘What we don’t know for sure, but what I’m willing to bet, is that it wasn’t working out for them; and that, as a last resort, they all went to Joseph Valentia for help. Remember, he’s the local politician and he’s got a reputation as a man who can fix anything for anybody.’

‘So he may have met them personally? All three of them?’

‘Yes. And that could explain why Kate Spain got into the car. I think he abducted all three of them in the same way.’

‘What do you mean?’

He paused before he replied. ‘I think they all fell into the same trap. I think they were all out walking near their homes when Joseph Valentia drew up alongside them in a private car. I think he probably led them to believe he had some news for them. In the circumstances, I think they would have got into his car without hesitation. And without fuss.’

Emma felt a chill deep inside.

‘What we need to do,’ Hunter said, ‘is ask ourselves what connects these three victims.’

A roll of thunder drowned out his last words.

‘Sorry? Give me that again?’

‘There was another thing these women had in common, Emma. I mean, apart from the place they wanted to live.’

Emma said nothing.

‘Kate Spain,’ Hunter said. ‘Remember? Her baby was taken into care by the health board because she couldn’t cope. Frieda Winter – she had two teenaged sons. Karen Quinn – she didn’t seem to fit the pattern at all, until I discovered she’d had a baby at the age of sixteen and had had the child adopted.’

Emma opened her car door, braced herself against the driving rain, and hurried towards the entrance of the clinic.

‘All three of them, Emma,’ Hunter said, spelling it out as though she didn’t know what he meant, ‘all three of them were unmarried mothers.’

‘But why would –’

‘I don’t know. But it’s more important than ever that I get to interview Mags Jackson. What time will she arrive in Dublin tomorrow?’

‘Not until late in the morning.’ She dived into the shelter of the porch. ‘That’ll give you a chance to check her out in advance. Have you got her address?’

‘Yes, you gave me it yesterday: 15 Ardee Terrace, Passage North.’ There was no disguising the excitement in his voice. ‘If she’s on the level, Emma, and if I’m even half right about the link with the other women … this could be the biggest story of the decade.’

‘It’s more than just a story,’ Emma said sharply. She glanced around and lowered her voice. ‘We could be talking about the deaths of three innocent women here.’

‘You’re right. Sorry.’ There was a long pause. ‘But, Jesus, Emma, it’s still a great story.’

She raised her eyes heavenward. ‘I’d better let you go,’ she said. ‘Battery’s running low.’

‘Sure. And Emma?’

‘Yes?’

Hunter hesitated.

‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘There may be nothing behind all this. But if this is true, and it’s a damn big if, then you’re the only one in Passage North who knows of this connection. Take care. We’ve no idea what we could be stirring up here.’

Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I will, Hunter. Goodbye.’

Chapter Three

THE photographer took the snatch shot in the textbook manner, camera slung low over his left hip as he leaned forward pretending to inspect the chattering inkjet printer in the corridor of Street Talk magazine.

His hand lay on top of the heavy metal camera, as though to stop it swinging forward and getting in his way, but apart from that, he hardly seemed aware it was there.

He didn’t even glance at the woman as she walked towards him along the corridor; he just aimed his hip vaguely in her general direction and trusted the wide-angle lens to do the job. The printer’s noise would disguise the clicking of the camera’s shutter. Within a couple of seconds, he’d shot off six rapid-fire exposures.

Martin Slade was one of the best news photographers in the country, but right now he was bored. It was a quiet morning: there were no fraudsters to doorstep, no drug barons poised to sprint out of courthouses towards waiting limousines. But that could change at any moment.

In the meantime, Martin was keeping himself occupied by testing a new digital camera to see how it would cope with snatch shots in low-light conditions. He didn’t know much about digital cameras, just that they didn’t use film. They captured electronic images and stored the data on a card, which could then be downloaded on to a computer.

But what really interested Martin was that they were now becoming as fast as most conventional cameras. This model, a Canon Powershot Pro 70, was capable of taking four frames a second in burst mode, up to a maximum of twenty continuous shots. Photos taken surreptitiously – snatch shots, in the jargon of his trade – could be taken at high speed and verified almost instantly.

He spent ten minutes snatching pictures of unsuspecting colleagues at close range. To his immense satisfaction, none of them noticed a thing.

And when a hard-faced woman in a black leather jacket walked down the corridor, he took half a dozen snatch shots of her, too. That was the other great thing about digital cameras. You didn’t have to worry about wasting film.

THE woman in the leather jacket walked straight into the editor’s office without knocking.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Mags Jackson. You must be Hunter.’

Hunter looked up sharply. He hadn’t been expecting Mags for at least another half-hour.

‘Yes, that’s me.’ He stood and took the proffered hand. ‘Emma told me to expect you. Grab a seat, there. You must be exhausted. Did you travel all the way from Passage North this morning?’

‘Yeah. Up at five to catch the early express bus. It took six hours, and believe me, you can count every bump and pothole on the road.’

‘Tell me about it. I’ve travelled it often enough.’ Hunter glanced up at the map on his office wall. County Athmore, to the northwest of Donegal, was the most remote county in Ireland. And farthest-flung of all was the fishing port of Passage North, stuck on the end of a peninsular finger that pointed defiantly across the Atlantic towards Greenland.

He glanced back in time to see the woman wiping beads of sweat from her forehead. She was still wearing the heavyweight jacket over a thick black T-shirt, and was obviously sweltering in the warmth of the office.

‘Please.’ Hunter moved towards her, arm outstretched. ‘Let me take your coat.’

‘No!’

The reply was almost a shout. Hunter immediately recoiled.

‘I’m fine.’ Mags’s voice was defensive. She clutched self-consciously at the sleeves of her jacket and tugged them downwards to cover her wrists. But not before Hunter had caught a glimpse of the ugly track-marks left by a dozen hypodermic needles on the bruised skin of her lower arm.

He kept his distance.

‘Listen, Mags,’ he said softly, ‘I talk to heroin users all the time. It would take a lot more than that to shock me.’ He shrugged casually. ‘Besides, I’m in no position to judge anybody. I’ve had my own problems in the past.’

Mags didn’t move. Hunter sat down behind his desk.

‘All I’m saying is, keep the jacket on, take it off, whichever you like. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be comfortable.’

She smiled ruefully and removed the coat.

‘Okay, I’m a user,’ she admitted. ‘And I’m a working girl, too. I’m not saying I’m any kind of saint, Mr Hunter.’

‘Just Hunter.’

‘Is that your first name or your second name?’

‘Surname. And please, don’t ask what my first name is. I never tell anyone that. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee?’

‘Coffee would be terrific. Thanks.’

He lifted the phone. ‘Claire? Could you get us a pot of coffee? And maybe some of those oaty biscuits, please?’ He winked at Mags, as though inviting her to share in some forbidden pleasure. ‘Great. Thanks.’

Mags was leafing through a file of back copies. ‘How long have you been the editor of Street Talk?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Just over two years.’

‘Dr Macaulay tells me it was just another Dublin event guide when you took it over,’ she said. ‘But you transformed it into a shit-hot investigative news magazine.’ She flicked through the pages, pausing here and there to read a headline, then glanced up and studied his face curiously. ‘I have to say, I was expecting somebody a lot older.’

Hunter shrugged.

‘What age are you, anyway? Twenty-six, twenty-seven?’

He laughed. ‘You can be my PR agent any time. I’m thirty-two.’ He noticed her surprise. He was used to being mistaken for a younger man, and now that he’d passed the thirty mark it didn’t annoy him the way it used to when he was in his mid-twenties and was constantly refused entry to pubs. There had been a time when he’d resorted to cropping his hair in a severe military style, wearing glasses he didn’t need, and cultivating a cynical scowl, all in a desperate bid to make people take him seriously. But now he didn’t