The Sisters

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books by dervla mctiernan

the cormac reilly series

The Sisters (prequel)

The Roommate (prequel)

The Ruin

The Scholar

The Good Turn

standalone novels

The Murder Rule

Copyright © 2019 by Dervla McTiernan
E-book published in 2022 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Alenka Vdovič Linaschke

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced
or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the
publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.

Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-200-69616-1
Library e-book ISBN 979-8-200-69615-4
Fiction / Mystery & Detective / Police Procedural

CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520

www.BlackstonePublishing.com

Monday, November 1, 2004

Chapter One

Aifric

It started raining while Aifric was waiting for her coffee at the little kiosk just off Chancery Street, on Meetinghouse Lane. It was the only place between Aifric’s bus stop and the office that served reasonable coffee at a price she could afford, but it wasn’t a coffee shop, really. More of a hole in the wall. They had an awning that kept off the worst of the rain if you were lucky enough to be standing under it, but on that particular day Aifric had the misfortune to be queuing just outside its protection. The freezing, misting drizzle that had been hanging around all morning intensified into fat, icy drops. Aifric shuffled forward, but the man standing directly in front of her didn’t move.

“Excuse me,” she said. She cast a meaningful glance upward, half expecting an apology and fully expecting that he would make some space, but he just looked her up and down, long enough to take in her rapidly soaking hair and her cheap coat, and turned back to his friend, continuing his conversation as if she’d never said a word.

“Excuse me.” Aifric stepped forward again and got close, close enough that she could smell his overpriced Clive Christian aftershave.

“Christ.”

Aftershave Man threw her the dirtiest of looks and took a very small step forward. There was still a generous amount of empty awning-protected space in front of him. He rolled his eyes at the shorter, rounder man standing to his right, and Aifric barely restrained herself from giving them both the finger. She was half under the awning now. Was that better or worse? Aftershave Man kept talking to his friend, as if Aifric weren’t right there, listening to every word.

“Did you go in last night?”

“I was sleeping off the night before. You?”

“For an hour. I’m glad I did. Gilmartin fell off the wagon again. Well, dove off it, really. In full view of half the law library.”

“That’s a surprise.”

Aifric couldn’t have agreed more. She took out her phone and acted as if her attention was absorbed by her screen. She needn’t have worried. She might as well have been a pillar for all the attention they paid her.

“I saw it coming months ago,” Aftershave Man said. “Come on, all that holier-than-thou talk?”

Aifric found that a part of her was bristling in Brian Gilmartin’s defense, which would have made her snort if she hadn’t been making her best effort at discretion. He hadn’t done a thing to deserve her protection or her consideration.

“He grabbed Anne French by the arse. I mean a full, two-handed grab. Then he overbalanced and fell off the stool. Nearly tore the backside off her.”

“Jesus. What did she do?”

“She waited until he climbed up off the floor and then she slapped him. Never did have much of a sense of humor.”

The conversation then evolved into a considered analysis about whether Anne French’s arse was worth a grab. Aifric tried to tune them out. A few moments later, the barista called them forward, giving Aifric a bit of space and a moment to think about what she’d just heard. Then it was her turn to place her order.

“Americano. Small. Actually, can I get a cappuccino, too? Large, please?”

She waited for her coffees, ignoring the obnoxious pair who waited beside her. Her attention was turned inward. Minutes passed, too slowly.

“Here you are, love,” the barista said.

“Thanks.”

Aifric took the coffees, one in each hand, and cast an appraising glance at the skies. The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had lightened at least, and from the look of the clouds this might be her best chance to make a run for it. Roundy and Aftershave were still huddled under the awning, sipping on coffees and gossiping, leaning out every now and again to look up at the sky, waiting for a better break in the weather.

Thunder rumbled off in the distance just as Aifric reached the office. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, then turned and watched in satisfaction as the rain redoubled into an absolute downpour, the kind that could go for an hour and soak you to the skin in ten seconds flat. Ha. She climbed up the stairs, already lighter at heart. When she reached her floor, she turned to the left, pushed open the door, and took a moment to assess the terrain. Behind the reception desk was a large open-plan area. Senior trial attorneys had private offices, but the secretaries and newly qualified trial attorneys, like Aifric, made do with desks in the open space. Delores King, the senior clerk, had a corner desk with her back to the wall. She was, as expected, already in situ.

“Morning,” Aifric said.

That earned her a flick of the eyes, a faint air of irritation, and a begrudging “Morning” in return. Aifric proffered the cappuccino.

“It’s really coming down outside. I thought you might have trouble getting out for your morning cup.”

Delores looked briefly at the coffee as if the gesture were the most outlandish thing she had ever seen. “Thanks,” she said. She didn’t touch the cup.

It didn’t matter—Aifric was already busy scanning the files on Delores’s desk. If Gilmartin was drinking again, he’d probably be on a bender for days, and completely out of action as far as his caseload was concerned. The week’s work would have to be reassigned to whichever trial attorney in chambers was available to pick it up. And thanks to the gossiping gobshites in the coffee line, Aifric just might be the first one in a position to take advantage.

“I was wondering if you had any returned files yet, for the week ahead? I’ll be here for about forty minutes, then I’m off to court. So if you have any cases on today’s list, I’d be happy to take them now. I’ll have time—only just—to read the briefs before call-over.”

Delores raised an eyebrow with a disapproving look. She was good at her job—she routinely chivvied, bullied, and flattered the senior trial attorneys into some sort of structure—but it was widely known that she didn’t like female trial attorneys and diverted cases away from them wherever she could.

“I thought I’d wait. Assign the work according to seniority.”

“Of course, though, if you’re thinking of Mark, I’m sure he said he was going straight to court this morning.”

Mark was the other junior, Aifric’s direct competition and Delores’s favorite. Delores tutted, huffed a bit, then reluctantly pushed the little stack of blue files in Aifric’s direction.

“I was thinking . . . the commercial work . . .” Aifric eyed up the orange-colored files that remained behind the desk. Orange meant commercial; blue meant criminal defense—so orange was where the money was. But Delores’s hand, her knuckles swollen from arthritis, fingernails painted blood-clot red, came down hard.

“The commercial goes to Bannon.”

“Of course.”

Aifric flashed her most gracious smile, picked up the blue bundle, and retreated. It wasn’t an outright win, but it was something. Paying work. She would have skipped to her desk if it wasn’t undignified.

She hung her damp coat on the coatrack, sat down in her chair, and took a sip from her rapidly cooling coffee. She pulled the files toward her. Brian Gilmartin, despite his intermittent problems with alcohol, still ran a quality practice. Most of his caseload was High Court commercial stuff. He wasn’t known for criminal-defense work, and he would surely represent only those who could pay. Which meant white-collar crime, or, more likely, traffic offenses of the wealthy.

There were three files in her little bundle, all of them thin and insubstantial, promising nothing more than minor charges. She opened one to find a dangerous driving charge against a double-barreled name she recognized from the business section of the Irish Times. Aifric read the file and made careful notes, feeling a little leap of satisfaction. She could almost certainly get this down to a speeding conviction with a fine. That would be a win. Double-Barrel might even be grateful enough to send another bit of work her way.

The second file was a drunk-driving case, and this one offered fewer options. Everything about the charge seemed to be in order. The best she could hope for was that the officer wouldn’t show up in court and she could get it adjourned, or maybe, if the judge was grumpy enough, thrown out.

Aifric turned to the last file, the thinnest of them all. She opened it and started to read the single sheet of paper that lay inside. It took her a moment to recognize what she was reading: a summary, recounting in the driest of police terminology, the brutal murder of a young woman by her boyfriend.

According to the report, twenty-two-year-old Laura O’Donnell had gone out for drinks with her boyfriend, Robert Collins, to the Lonely Horse pub on the eighth of October. They’d had an argument which had escalated, and Robert had gotten rough—pushing his girlfriend to the floor then walking out. Laura had stayed on for more drinks, finally leaving two hours later to walk the short distance home to her flat on the Portabello Road. She never made it. Three days later, her body was pulled from the nearby canal. She’d been beaten over the head with a rock and thrown into the nearby water. She would have been found earlier, but her body had become wedged under the lock gate at La Touche Bridge. According to the summary, it wasn’t her boyfriend who had reported her missing but her employer, a Mrs. Sheila Carmody, who owned a salon on Talbot Street. Robert Collins had been arrested and charged with the murder of Laura O’Donnell within forty-eight hours of her body being found.

There was nothing else in the file. Nothing other than the date of Robert’s arrest, which had been three weeks prior. Aifric lifted the page, unable to stop herself from looking under it for papers she already knew weren’t there. This was a murder charge. The file should have been packed with statement transcripts, crime-scene reports, and pages and pages of disclosure. She turned to her computer, looked up the court lists for the day, and found the case: DPP v. Collins was before Judge Hartigan at eleven a.m.

Aifric stood up and hurried back to Delores’s desk, file in hand. Delores was typing dictation. She had her earphones in and didn’t look up until she had finished the section she was working on. Then, with an exaggerated show of patience, she took one earphone from her ear and raised her eyes in Aifric’s direction.

“This case file. There’s nothing on it, but it’s due to be sent forward for trial. I can see from the court list that there’s an application before Judge Hartigan in two hours . . . but I’ve got nothing to go on. No instructions to lawyers, no attendances, no disclosure, no nothing.”

Delores glanced briefly at the file. For a fraction of a second, Aifric saw a hint of concern in her eyes, and then the shutters came down again.

“Well?”

“It’s a murder case. How am I supposed to represent this man when I have literally nothing to work with?”

“You’ll just have to request an adjournment.”

“It’s already been three weeks. The defendant’s been in prison for the best part of a month. Speaking of which, I can’t see any record of a bail application either.”

What could she possibly say to him? Here, don’t worry about pressing for a bail hearing or a trial date. Spend a few more weeks locked up, maybe just because your lawyers have been asleep at the wheel. Oh, and by the way, one of them is a raging alcoholic who shouldn’t even be practicing, but he’s been around forever, so the boys’ club is happy to cover for him regardless of the price his clients might pay.

Delores looked down at her work, slid her headset back into place.

“He’s probably pleading guilty. That would explain the empty file.”

It didn’t. It really didn’t. But if he was pleading guilty, that would certainly simplify things. Aifric looked down at the file doubtfully. The creeping feeling in her gut told her it wasn’t going to be that easy.

Chapter Two

Aifric

Aifric spent the first precious hour trying to track down Robert Collins’s lawyer. According to court records, he was represented by Keyes and Co., a small criminal-defense firm with a very bad reputation. They were bottom-feeders, the kind of lawyers who preyed on people who had just enough money to pay a retainer, but not enough to make a fuss when Johnathon Keyes failed utterly to deliver on any of his extravagant promises. Most reputable trial attorneys refused to work with Keyes, and Aifric couldn’t help but wonder why Brian Gilmartin had taken this case.

When she called Johnathon Keyes’s office, his secretary would tell her only that Mr. Keyes was already in court, and that she couldn’t disclose any other details. At ten o’clock, Aifric went to the cells and tried very hard to convince the prison guards on duty that she should be allowed to consult with her client prior to the hearing, despite the fact that no appointment had been made and no interview rooms were available.

“Listen, I’ve to appear in court for this man in less than an hour, and I’ve never even seen him, let alone spoken to him.”

The prison guard—he was in his forties, fit looking, wore a wedding ring—just tapped his pen on the booking sheets in front of him.

“If you’re not on the schedule, you’re not going in. It’s that simple. We break the rules for you, where does it end?”

A second guard leaned over the first man’s shoulder.

“This is the lad who killed his girlfriend, right? It was in the papers. She was a gorgeous-looking bird. I wouldn’t come looking for any favors here.”

A flicker of irritation crossed over the older guard’s face. He gave his younger colleague a look and waited for him to step back. “I’d help you if I could. But no exceptions.”