Chapter 62
After a restful sleep in the comfortable bed at the Joyce Hotel, Matt Mooney showered, then dressed in yesterday’s clothes. He hadn’t intended being away for the night, so he’d have to make do with what he stood in.
The shower had shot some life into his bones and the breakfast ignited an urge to get on with the day.
He wanted to talk to this McKeown prick to see what he had to say for himself. That would be an interesting conversation. One where he would find out how many lies McKeown could spin. Because one thing was sure, Matt Mooney believed every word Chloe Parker had told him.
Chloe was surprised that she had slept. Delayed shock must have knocked her out. Or maybe it was relief that she had Mooney looking out for her. Whatever the reason, she felt eager to start her day.
With a free tutorial period to start off the morning, she began comparing the crime-scene photos she’d got from McKeown against the twenty-year-old cold-case file that had intrigued her. She itemised the things she noticed that were somewhat similar in detail.
Both murders had occurred after a child’s birthday party.
That was what had initially drawn her to the case.
The balloons. Nothing unusual there. Most kids’ parties had balloons, though in the old crime scene there were only a few hanging over the door.
There was a tiny compact bouncy castle in the historical case, but a much larger one at the Healys’.
In the old case, the victims had been strangled, as was the same in the current case as far as she could see. She ignored Cameron Healy’s fatal wound for now because that was an aberration she’d come back to when she could think straight.
What drew her in was the way the two female victims had been clothed.
The child in a frilly party dress with a lace collar, and the mother in a high-necked blouse with brown trousers.
In the recent Ragmullin case the victims were similarly clad.
Did it mean something? She was sure there were loads of dissimilarities, but she had to work with what she had.
Then there was the 999 call from twenty years ago. She read the transcript, the words I killed them leaping off the page.
Would the recording have survived down through the years? Would any of the evidence still be available? DNA samples? The clothing worn by the victims?
As she went back over the file, she wondered if she was trying to find something that wasn’t there. Forcing things to fit. Were the cases even that similar?
No matter what, a gut feeling had spurred her to attempt an analysis of the information from both cases. So what was she to do with it all?