Cold Steel Read Online Free PDF

door of the new Marks' residence, a three-storey Victorian splendour in Dublin's embassy belt. 'MARKS MANSION' ran the headline with a photo underneath of a laughing Jennifer Marks, pretty face, slim build, one hand on her mother's wheelchair the other pulling back her long dark hair. She was wearing a T-shirt with its logo clearly visible: I LOVE IRELAND.
    'The All-American Girl' ran the by-line.
     
     
     
    3
    10.30 am
     
     
    'Joe, over here. Get shots of all that group. Don't let them see you. Get close-ups.' Jim Clarke clutched the hand grip on his crutch tightly as he motioned a uniformed officer closer. 'You, yes, you, over here. Stand beside me and pretend you're talking with us. Keep your back to that crowd,' he nodded at spectators gathered at the park railings. 'No, don't look round, keep looking at me. Let Joe rest his camera on your shoulder and stay as still as you can.'
    One of Clarke's trademarks was the number of photographs he ordered in major investigations.
     
     
    Clarke, Kavanagh and Dillon reached Sandymount Park within twenty minutes of leaving the hospital. (It was official policy to include the forensic psychiatrist in high-profile murders and occasionally the inspection of crime scenes was delayed until he arrived.) The park was already sealed off and, in a weak breeze, yellow incident tapes fluttered from precisely placed self-standing stakes. There was about twenty yards between body and nearest tape. A strategically devised corridor allowed all movement to and from the centre of attention without disturbing evidence. Five white boiler-suited forensic specialists were inspecting sites of immediate attention, two conversing and comparing notes as they stared down at a patch of trampled grass near the wooden shelter. A spiked stake with a yellow tip marked an area of bloodstaining, three more lead directly to where the body lay. Clarke scanned the scene, counting the number of uniformed and plainclothes officers and immediately contacted headquarters for another squad car. The sun had climbed higher in the sky with only an occasional cloud challenging. The magpies had fled.
    Joe Harrison, the tall, bald and bulky forensic photographer on duty, switched lenses and began clicking, a spare Nikon resting on his ample belly. He zoomed and panned and shot off a thirty-six-roll film within seven minutes.
    'Finished?' Clarke asked, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. His uniform was overheating his body. Harrison, a man of few words, nodded, then ambled towards a shout from inside the secure zone.
    'Now,' Clarke directed the young officer whose shoulder had been turned into a tripod, 'grab those three over there and split into twos and move as discreetly as possible to the opposite ends of the rails. Get out onto the road.' The listening head craned closer, anxious not to miss a word. 'As soon as you're over don't let anyone up or down. Close in on that group watching. Get every name and address and how they came to be here at this hour. Okay?' Clarke couldn't help but feel his age as he inspected the intense young face listening.
    By five minutes past ten the road running alongside Sandymount Park was sealed off at both ends and all traffic, pedestrian and motorised, diverted to side roads. A few minutes later the group of onlookers began dispersing as they noticed blue police uniforms approach. The same group was kept waiting in line as notebooks were produced and details taken. Clarke looked on approvingly. Beside him Moss Kavanagh rolled his mobile phone from hand to hand, his tall head like a lighthouse beacon. Patrick Dillon had joined a group gathered in a huddle yards from the undergrowth, heads locked in deep conversation. Satisfied, Clarke wiped his brow and shook the numbness out of his damaged leg before limping towards the body.
     
     
    'A touch of cold steel this morning, superintendent.' Dr Noel Dunne, the state forensic pathologist stood waiting in the middle of the taped corridor,