‘Mr Hammond, the allegations we’ve heard concern Shawn Barrett.’
Hammond’s eyebrows rose, his forehead remaining immaculately smooth. ‘Allegations? A minute ago, you said “information”.’ He popped a brazil nut into his mouth, displaying his brilliant white teeth.
Patrick cursed himself, but it didn’t really matter. The allegations were going to come up anyway.
‘Information has come to light that, while on tour in Ireland, Shawn Barrett assaulted a girl at his hotel. According to our source, he tied this girl up and beat her.’
Hammond stayed immobile and silent for a moment. Patrick could almost hear his brain ticking. According to Wikipedia (You’re not the only one who can do research, mate, Patrick thought) Mervyn Hammond had an IQ of 160. Not that Patrick placed much faith in IQ scores. Some of the people he knew with high IQ scores had common sense scores of zero.
‘Who’s this source?’ Hammond asked, his voice flat.
‘We can’t reveal that.’
Hammond barked a laugh. ‘Ever thought about working in PR, Detective? Or journalism? This is the first I’ve ever heard about such an allegation, and I can tell you that Shawn Barrett is a sweet, normal lad who has no interest in S&M or tying little girls up.’
‘Who said she was a little girl?’ Carmella asked.
‘Huh?’
‘We didn’t mention anything about her being underage.’
Hammond snorted. ‘Well, you said girl instead of woman. You police are trained to be politically correct now, aren’t you? You probably have to say person of a female persuasion in public, don’t you? I was simply extrapolating from the vocab you used.’
Patrick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘We want the name and contact details of this young woman – and yes, she was underage.’
‘Did he have sex with her?’
‘What?’
‘Well, you talk about her being underage. I assume you mean the age of consent, though I don’t even know what it is in Ireland.’
Patrick had checked – it was seventeen.
‘Listen, Detective, Shawn Barrett and the other members of OnTarget have persons of a female persuasion literally jumping on them and begging them to fuck them, if you’ll excuse my Anglo-Saxon. Maybe one or two of these chicks asked Shawn to tie them up after showing him a dodgy birth certificate. I know for a fact that Shawn is not a psychopathic rapist who gets his kicks from attacking his fans. He’s a normal red-blooded bloke who is taking advantage of the goodies being served up to him on a plate.’
He sat back and folded his arms.
‘How do you know “for a fact” he’s not a psychopath?’ Carmella asked.
Hammond looked at her. ‘Because the management company had them all tested.’
‘Tested?’
‘Yes. The whole band underwent extensive psychometric testing and assessment by a psychologist before being allowed through to the final stages of Face the Music.’ That was the talent show on which the band had been put together. ‘They are all normal, healthy, young heterosexual men with conventional tastes in the bedroom. They are ambitious but lack aggression. In other words, they failed the psychopath test with flying colours.’
Patrick sat up straight. This interview was threatening to skid out of control. ‘Mr Hammond, regardless of that, we need to take this information seriously. I want to talk to this young woman.’
‘And what makes you think I can help you?’
‘Because our source told us that you helped cover it up.’
Hammond stood, snatching up his half-empty packet of nuts. ‘I’m exercising my right to leave of my own free will.’
‘Please sit down, Mr Hammond.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because I’m sure you don’t want anyone to know that you allegedly covered this up. It won’t help Shawn Barrett’s reputation, and it certainly won’t help yours.’
Hammond dropped into his seat, his lip curling. ‘No-one in the press will print anything negative about me.’
‘Who said anything about the press? There’s this thing now called the Internet. You might have heard of it.’
Hammond’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. ‘So . . . you’re threatening me?’
‘We are merely asking for your cooperation.’
Hammond took several deep breaths, then tipped a handful of nuts into his palm, inserting them into his mouth one by one and chewing thoughtfully. ‘You think Shawn Barrett’s a murderer.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Come on, Detective. If you want me to be straight with you, I need to ask for some quid pro quo here. Two days ago you were at Gideon Records’ office, asking about OnTarget in relation to those two dead girls. And now you’re asking me about this. It isn’t a coincidence. You think that because Shawn allegedly engaged in some light bondage on tour it makes him a killer.’ He shook his head. ‘So unimaginative, you plods.’
Patrick clenched his fists.
‘OK, so maybe Shawn did get a little carried away. But he didn’t know that girl was underage, and he didn’t do anything she didn’t want to do. It was all consensual.’
‘He hurt her, Mr Hammond.’
‘That’s what S&M is all about, isn’t it? Pleasure and pain. Except this girl says yes, gives her consent, and then when it actually hurts she’s all boo hoo hoo, I want my mummy, you hurt me, you brute.’
Patrick sighed. ‘I don’t want to get into a big debate about this. But I need the contact details of this young woman.’
‘You’re wasting your time. Detective Lennon, you’re going down the wrong avenue, I assure you. If you want to catch whoever murdered those OnTarget fans, you should stop messing about pursuing Shawn Barrett. The person who murdered those girls has to be a psychopath – and, like I said, Shawn Barrett can’t be one of those.’
‘Just give us the details.’
‘Or you’ll leak?’
Patrick didn’t respond. He reached across the desk, took one of Hammond’s nuts from the bag and put it in his mouth, maintaining eye contact throughout.
Hammond stood up. ‘I will need to look up the details at my office and get back to you. I guarantee you won’t find anything worthwhile.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘I’ll send the details over later.’ He gave Patrick a final sneer. ‘If this does leak, if I find my name on a website related to this story, you might just regret it. Your wife is back home now, isn’t she? That would make an interesting story. Baby-Battering Wife on the Loose . . .’ He wiggled his fingers into speech marks.
Patrick leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of the front of Hammond’s jacket. ‘If one word is published about my wife . . .’
Hammond pulled away, dusting himself off.
‘Then we have an understanding,’ he said. ‘Nothing appears about me, nothing appears about your wife.’ He stood before the door. ‘I’ll send that information over later.’
Chapter 24
Day 8 – Carmella
As the plane climbed above the bank of thick cloud, the seatbelt sign light went out with a ping, and an answering echo of unclicking buckles rattled around the cabin. Carmella switched on her iPad and swiped to the Notes section to double-check where she’d be going once she landed. The witness was called Roisin McGreevy and she lived in the roughest part of Tallaght, an already-rough area in South Dublin that used to be known as Knackeragua among Carmella and her school friends. Land of ‘knacker-wash’ denim – their name for stone-washed – blond mullets and petty crime. Carmella hadn’t been there for years, but by all accounts it was still fairly grim.