Games with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller

Games with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller James Nally When a young woman is kidnapped, Donal is brought in to deliver the ransom money. But the tightly-planned drop off goes wrong, Julie Draper is discovered dead, and Donal finds his job on the line – a scapegoat for the officers in charge.But when Donal is delivered a cryptic message in the night, he learns that Julie was killed long before the botched rescue mission. As he digs further into the murder in a bid to clear his own name, dark revelations make one thing certain: the police are chasing the wrong man, and the killer has far more blood on his hands than they could even imagine.A gripping, brutal and addictive thriller, perfect for fans of Ian Rankin and James Oswald. JAMES NALLY Games with the Dead Copyright (#ue580d115-badb-5a20-acdb-be6c6188c379) Published by Avon an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017 Copyright © James Nally 2017 Cover photograph © Shutterstock (http://www.shutterstock.com) Cover design © Alison Groom James Nally asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008149574 Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008270971 Version 2017-11-09 Dedication (#ue580d115-badb-5a20-acdb-be6c6188c379) For Bridget, James and Emma. Table of Contents Cover (#ue33cd7d9-8f5c-505d-b8f7-ff6936855b89) Title Page (#ub0ee29c7-6af6-59d5-a427-3384b10dc44a) Copyright (#ua06681e5-1a1b-5ce0-b8db-8e84012721f4) Dedication (#u6abd0183-8831-5e74-9052-7fb88c2b6880) Prologue (#ubc0b0887-2209-5b9d-97ec-56902346575c) Chapter 1 (#u1885f679-f2ea-5944-88c9-e44832b0a224) Chapter 2 (#u46b7f888-3187-529a-b434-381f98d8765b) Chapter 3 (#u4c0e145f-647b-5009-acb8-d640a86f6705) Chapter 4 (#ubc2a91b9-fecb-5df3-9c29-db1dc444a17a) Chapter 5 (#u983b45f0-1afb-5826-8cc8-93df6fbbba86) Chapter 6 (#ue11c8eab-b937-56df-aa97-e69d1b5328a5) Chapter 7 (#ucccadca8-7f0f-5fce-be64-a08366ae73c5) Chapter 8 (#u3e8efed0-2a8e-5c1b-b753-2858e9657a95) Chapter 9 (#uf6c02513-3871-5567-a91c-21b69cd169d6) Chapter 10 (#u2a2b765c-4f7f-54a0-8a40-be6c0276dfcc) Chapter 11 (#u2d789426-0dec-5536-be62-e1a4cb47d381) Chapter 12 (#u2d7387c5-0d35-566d-be36-8ba6ddf965ad) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 59 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 60 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 61 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 62 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 63 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 64 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 65 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 66 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 67 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 68 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 69 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 70 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 71 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 72 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 73 (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo) By the Same Author: (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue (#ue580d115-badb-5a20-acdb-be6c6188c379) We all know Julie Draper now. Her twenty-four-year-old, shyly smiling face is everywhere. Can it really be just nine days since she rushed out of her estate agent’s office in south London to show a client around a house, only to vanish into thin air? The hunt for Julie Draper goes on. Only two people know she’s already dead. The man who killed her. And me. It’s this cursed ‘gift’ of mine, you see. These Games with the Dead that I’m forced to play. Julie comes to me at night now, just like the others did before, haunting and tormenting me. And I know she won’t quit. Not until I find her killer. Don’t judge me. Please. I’m not a dangler of wind chimes or a martyr to the Tarot. I’m a cop, for Christ’s sake, a veritable tank of scepticism. That’s why I’m so desperate to find a clinical explanation for these close encounters with the recently whacked. Several shrinks on, I’m told its sleep paralysis, but with an inexplicable twist. Whereas sufferers typically hallucinate traditional ‘bogeymen’ figures, like demons, witches or aliens, I see people whose murders I’m investigating. More baffling still, these murder victims give me clues as to how they died. There’s nothing in their esteemed medical journals covering that … Which is why I’ve never bought into this Sleep Paralysis quackery. Neither has my jaded girlfriend Zoe: ‘More like Ambition Paralysis.’ Or my hard-bitten hack brother: ‘It’s the DTs.’ I didn’t expect Mam to clear it all up for me like she did, on her deathbed. Presenting me the answer, wrapped in a family curse. A curse I’m too scared to open. Turns out mine is a ‘gift’ that just keeps taking. And taking. I’m twenty-five years old; trying to come to terms with an unthinkable new reality. It’s 50/50 I won’t make it to thirty. Chapter 1 (#ue580d115-badb-5a20-acdb-be6c6188c379) New Scotland Yard, London A few days earlier. Wednesday, June 15, 1994; 19.00 ‘It’s not too late to pull out you know, Donal.’ Commander Neil Crossley, Head of the Kidnap Unit, stares through my eyes into a future he barely dares to contemplate: ‘If he’s going to kill Julie Draper, there’s no reason why he won’t kill you. And we know he’s killed before.’ But I know there can be no turning back now. I’ve got something to prove. To ‘Croissant’ Crossley. To my brother Fintan. To Zoe, my perennially disappointed partner. The kidnapper might be getting his ransom money, but the payback will be all mine. Julie Draper’s abductor has named his price. Crown Estates – her employer – must cough up ?175,000 cash for her ‘safe return’. He nominated Julie’s estate agent colleague, Tom Reynolds, to deliver the cash. Any sign of police or media involvement during ‘the drop’, he’ll kill both. Crown Estates gambled on drafting in the police. Commander Crossley is gambling on a Tom Reynolds-lookalike to deliver the cash. Me. I’d never won a lookalike competition before. Crossley remembered me from a previous attachment to the Kidnap Unit, thought me a ringer for Reynolds, rang me personally to ask if I ‘felt up to becoming part of a top-secret operation’. Having spent the past eighteen months in a career Limbo – languishing in the Cold Case Unit as an ‘Acting’ Detective Constable – I agreed immediately. My new status as hero-in-waiting has already propelled me into exalted company. Yesterday, I accompanied Crossley to New Scotland Yard’s treasury, where we collected a Crown Estates cheque for 175k. Siren wailing, we floored it to a bullion centre in Chancery Lane, where we exchanged the cheque for equal numbers of ?50, ?20 and ?10 used notes, just as the kidnapper had specified. What a scene those 7,750 notes made! We then whisked the windfall back to technical support at the Yard, who spent the night painstakingly videotaping each note’s serial number. As if reading our every move, a second ransom note lands this morning with an additional demand: ?5,000 in two bank accounts with cash cards and PIN numbers. Our nemesis knows that the serial numbers from cash machines can’t be traced. He can use this ‘clean’ cash to travel anywhere in Europe to launder the dirty money. Our target is so smart, so well-informed, he reads our every move. Many of my colleagues are convinced he’s done this before. Or that he’s one of us, a serving or ex-cop, with a snout inside the investigation. Today is our last chance to find out. To collect the ransom, he has to break cover. As in any extortion case, this represents our best and, possibly, only chance of catching the culprit. We return to New Scotland Yard, take the lift to tech support on the third floor and sign for receipt of a black Head sports bag with a transmitter sewn into the base. As per the ransom note instructions, we divide the cash into thirty-one equal units of 250 notes, wrapping each bundle in polythene no more than twelve microns thick. Crossley inserts the cash cards into one of the bricks, but trousers the piece of paper revealing their PIN codes. ‘A little insurance,’ he says. ‘No matter what happens today, he’ll have to get back to us for these.’ We stack the bundles together and gift-wrap them in brown paper. As per a diagram enclosed with the ransom note, Crossley uses nylon cord to secure the parcel, with a substantial loop on top. Why the kidnapper is insisting on certain specifics, we’ve yet to figure out. We place the loot carefully inside the sports bag so as not to disturb the transmitter, then head to the operational hub in East Croydon, just south of London. As I get trussed up in a bulletproof vest, Crossley re-reads the kidnapper’s delivery brief. ‘At 9pm, the courier must await a call at the Mercury public phone in the foyer of East Croydon train station. He’ll be given instructions and a trail to follow, which will take him from phone box to phone box over quiet roads so that the presence of police surveillance vehicles or aircraft will be detected. Any publicity or apparent police action will result in no further communication.’ Crossley glances up: ‘Which means he’ll kill Julie Draper, and he’ll probably kill you.’ As I refuse to let that sink in, he gets back to the kidnapper’s instructions: ‘Once the courier gets to the drop-off point, the money will not be collected by me, but by a young male who parks up in a nearby lovers’ lane for a few hours every Wednesday night. His female companion will be held hostage while I direct the male to bring the cash to me via a two-way radio. Once I receive the cash, I will reveal Julie’s location via an anonymous call to a media outlet, using the code phrase “Is Kipper a red herring?”’ Crossley folds the paper precisely, as if securing it for posterity, then searches my eyes deeply. For weakness? For reassurance? I can’t tell, but it’s a real ransacking of the irises. ‘Okay Donal, in your car is a two-way radio linked to the controller here in the operations room. He, in turn, is in touch with surveillance teams in front and behind you. You know about the transmitter in the money bag, so keep it with you at all times.’ My mind lags behind, conducting a dry run, seeking out pitfalls. ‘He mentioned quiet roads. How close will these surveillance teams be? I don’t want them blowing my cover.’ ‘They’re the best in the business, Donal, shadowed IRA terrorists, underworld hitmen, the lot. They’ll be in constant contact with a stealth chopper who’ll follow the suspect once he picks up the money. Look, if you remember just one instruction tonight, Donal, it’s that these surveillance teams need to know the kidnapper’s every move. Each time you get a fresh set of instructions, pass them on. You must get back into your car and repeat them over the radio, loud and clear, twice. You then wait five minutes before you drive on. Understood?’ I nod. ‘I just can’t wait to get it over with now, Guv,’ I say brightly, diving into my car before his unflagging angst sucks the last bead of self-belief out of me. The door slams shut with a fatalistic thud. ‘Actually, there is one last thing,’ he says, passing me a note through the open window. It’s Met-police-headed paper; the word ‘Disclaimer’ screams out from the bold, underlined first sentence. ‘They just handed this to me,’ he says, leaning down to my level, eyes sizing mine for a reaction. ‘It’s to show we haven’t put you under any undue duress if, well, anything goes awry.’ ‘Undue duress?’ ‘You know what it’s like these days, Donal,’ he smiles lamely. ‘All about protecting the brand.’ By the second line of legal gymnastics, I’m sufficiently bamboozled to quit reading, get signing and hand it back. ‘I expect this is going to be tortuous, Donal, but you must try to concentrate at all times. Be prepared for a last-second change. A sudden contact. You must be ready for anything and everything. But follow his instructions to the letter. ‘Absolutely no heroics. Remember, he may have an accomplice ready to kill Julie if anything goes wrong. It doesn’t matter if the money or the man slip away tonight. It’s all about getting Julie back, alive.’ He passes the sports bag slowly, almost reverentially, through the car window, as if handing over her very fate. ‘We’re counting on you, Donal. Because one mistake, and we’ve all got Julie Draper’s blood on our hands.’ Chapter 2 (#ue580d115-badb-5a20-acdb-be6c6188c379) East Croydon, South London Wednesday, June 15, 1994; 20.50 At 9.40am the previous Tuesday, Julie Draper left her office on Church Road, Croydon to show a client around a four-bedroom house. She didn’t come back. Her colleague, Tom Reynolds, checked out the house, found her car on the driveway, her house keys on the landing. No Julie. He checked out her client. John West’s phone number doesn’t exist. The address he’d provided doesn’t exist. The kidnap squad baulks at the name. Seven years ago, estate agent Suzy Fairclough vanished in West London. Neither her body nor her abductor have ever been found. Also aged twenty-four and a brunette, Suzy had arranged to meet a client called ‘Mr Kipper’. ‘John West Kippers’ are a British supermarket staple. Has he struck again? Or is it some sort of twisted copycat attack? The kidnapper’s methodology has convinced senior officers that their fishiest nemesis is back. The meticulous, almost obsessive attention to detail is the crowning Kipper hallmark. His demand, for example, that the ransom cash be wrapped in polythene twelve microns thick is a direct steal from the Fairclough abduction. Tech wizards have figured out why; through plastic that thin any bugs we might hide in the cash can be detected by a bog-standard, shop-bought metal detector. Yesterday morning’s proof-of-life phone call had also been classic Kipper. He rang Julie’s office from a public phone box and played a tape recording of her reading headlines from that day’s Daily Mirror newspaper. He made the call from a non-digital exchange, which takes longer to trace. But trace it we did, to Worthing on the south coast. In another parallel with the Suzy Fairclough abductor, the ransom letter had been typed on generic WH Smith stationery using an old Olivetti, the typewriter equivalent of a Model T Ford – so, impossible to trace. Once again, he’d been careful not to lick the envelope or stamp, or to leave prints, fibres or hairs. Without a solid lead, detectives agreed to pay the ransom. To my surprise, there is no secret police slush fund to meet this kind of shakedown. Crown Estates had to raise the cash. Now it’s my job to hand it over. East Croydon train station finally looms into view, just as Crossley’s forlorn prophecies perform another club-footed cancan across my aching crown. Change his plan at any second … ready for anything and everything … one mistake and we’ve got Julie Draper’s blood on our hands. I park up and brace myself for the kidnapper’s first instruction; stand by the open car boot for 30 seconds. Presumably, he or his associates want to ensure I’m not harbouring a crack team of SAS midgets between the golf clubs and the jerry can. Getting out unleashes a Grand National of competing terrors. They’re led at the first by the very real fear he’ll realise I’m not Tom Reynolds. What then? I yank down my baseball cap’s stiff peak until it fringes my vision. I take the holdall of cash and my identifying ‘Crown Estates’ clipboard from the back seat, walk to the car boot, open it and start to count. I feel exposed, helpless, JFK in Dealey Plaza. I make it all the way to seven before cracking. Boot still open, I set off pacing and weaving through people outside the station, taking sudden, wild turns like a coursed hare. If he’s planning a head shot, he’ll need to be Robin fucking Hood. I rush to thirty, shut the boot and hotfoot into the station foyer. To my left, I spot the metallic-blue Mercury public phone he’s selected for our cosy chat. It’s framed by a glass hood, open at the front, New York-style. I wonder why he’s selected such an exposed phone, and hover there twitchily, head scoping in case of ambush. Through the frosted glass of a nearby waiting room, a frowning man peers out. Kidnapper or cop? Who can tell? Opposite me, two scruffy men in their twenties loiter outside the ticket office. One of them clocks my clipboard and approaches. I stiffen. ‘Are you doing a survey?’ he asks brightly. ‘No, I’m waiting for a phone call.’ He raises his arm. I flinch. Calmly, he reaches past me, lifts the receiver, checks for a dialling tone and replaces it. ‘Well it’s working,’ he says chirpily and returns to his pal. Kidnapper? Undercover cop? Mercury Communications telephone angel? Who knows. A thunderous rumble grows inside the station. I step out from my glass arch to see an army of knackered, dead-eyed commuters march up a walkway towards me, looking set to sack the city. As they storm the ticket barriers, I scan their addled, timetable-enslaved faces. Ready for anything and everything … He could be one of them, ready to pluck the bag from my grasp and sprint to a getaway car. No one stops. No one even looks. All hopes of a swift exchange evaporate. I sag and step back, my back raging hot against the phone’s cold metal. The money bag’s strap burns a timely reminder into my left shoulder blade; I’m standing here alone with everything he wants. What if he’s watching me, planning to pounce? Who would save me? I scan again. Those surveillance officers are either very good or very not here. The phone’s shrill ring lifts me six inches off the floor. I pick up, killing the ring and every other sound in the world, as if it has ceased spinning. I picture birds tumbling out of the sky, landing with a thud on Croydon concrete. Cold hard plastic cools my scorching right ear. ‘Yes,’ I croak. ‘Tom Reynolds?’ ‘That’s me.’ ‘What’s your car reg?’ demands the Geoff Boycott sounda- like. My addled mind empties like a toppled glass. I can’t even remember my own licence plate! I whimper. He barks: ‘Make, model, colour?’ ‘Nissan Bluebird. Maroon.’ I hear a muffled rustle. ‘Parked outside the station,’ I hear him say, faintly, as if to someone else. He’s got watchers! ‘Get back into your car,’ he demands, tetchily. ‘Follow signs for the M23 and A23 to Brighton. When you see a sign saying Brighton 8 miles, look out for the next left, the A273. Take the exit. On the left after 200 yards you’ll see a lay-by with two phone boxes. The first is a phone card kiosk. Taped beneath the shelf will be an envelope containing a new set of instructions.’ ‘My God,’ I sigh into the dead phone. ‘The world’s grimmest treasure hunt.’ I almost run back to the car to parrot the details, then wait five agonising minutes before setting off south. Signs for Penge, Riddlesdown and Titsey flash past, making me wonder if every Croydon suburb is named after some squalid seventeenth-century disease. It would seem fitting. All I see are rows and rows of houses punctuated by identikit shopping parades, invariably featuring an estate agent, bookmaker, greasy spoon caf?, off-licence, post office, pharmacy and funeral parlour. There’s the futility and emptiness of modern life, right there, I think, in my fug of fatalistic gloom. Each cluster of shops tells our real-life story: you buy a house, spend your life paying for it, cheer yourself up gambling, drinking and eating shit, get ill, old and die. Zap! The suburbs vanish to a vast, velvet night-sky being munched on by tiny, shiny, Pac-Men; on closer inspection, aircraft queueing to land at Gatwick airport. ‘Sunset Boulevard,’ Fintan calls the A23, leading as it invariably does to sun-kissed excess-by-sea. Not tonight. The prospect of messing up in the South Downs yanks my knotted guts to twanging. Be prepared for a last-second change. A sudden contact. Crossley’s ceaseless advice drowns out all self-soothing inner monologues. If he’s going to kill Julie Draper, there’s no reason why he won’t kill you … Christ, poor Matt. My sweet, adorable stepson. The single best thing ever to happen in my life. Why am I taking this risk? None of this is Matt’s fault. Stupid selfish grown-ups. I’m sure Zoe and I will be okay. We’re just in bit of a rut right now. Living together but not really living at all. It’s all work, childcare and sleep deprivation. I know I’m doing this for her. I’m just not sure why. To impress her? To prove myself? To make her worry about me? In place of an answer, I’ve coined a mantra: If I get through this, everything will be better. I’ll have proven myself, to her, to me. We’ll get back to how it was. She’ll look at me in that way again, eyes soft and warm. Smile at my corny gags. Sleep facing me. But doubt, like night, has swallowed the last of the half-light. A ghostly white sign shimmers in the gusty, malcontent air. I squint it into focus: ‘Brighton 8 miles’. I slow to 40 and strain my eyes. The A273 slip road loops around so that I’m now heading north again; Brighton-bound A23 traffic pounds past to my left, headlights mercilessly fanning the lay-by like ravenous searchlights. The phone boxes command centre stage, spotlit by an amber streetlight. Good visibility brings mixed tidings; easier to see, harder to flee. My car creeps into the lay-by, past the phone boxes. I perform a laboured three-point turn, helping myself to a 180-degree, headlight-illuminated view of the lay-by and the A273 beyond. I’m expecting the glint of hidden back-up cars, the outlines of poised police Ninjas. I see neither. Dread claws at my insides like a trapped rat. Surveillance are in front and behind. But they’re not here. It’s just me and him. ‘Right, I’ve pulled up at the phone box,’ I inform the dashboard’s covert radio, squeezing into my baseball cap and forensic gloves. I leave the car engine idling, my headlights beaming so that at least my non-existent back-up can see me. I lean back, grab the money bag and step out. The trees shiver like widows at the workhouse door. Gravel crunches beneath my feet, but I can’t feel it. Halfway across, I spin 360. Nothing. I jog to the phonebox, open it, the door squealing like teeth down a violin. I palm the underside of the cold metal shelf, feel paper, yank it free. The small brown envelope has double-sided tape on each corner. I turn over to see a giant letter ‘A’ scrawled in black marker. Christ, I think, how far through the alphabet is he planning to take me tonight? Sprinting back to the car, I throw the cash in the back, get in, lock the doors and rummage inside the envelope. I flick on my pencil torch and read the instructions, typed on a cut-down piece of A4 paper. This route will show if you’re being followed. Continue on B273 for 75 yards. Take Underhill Lane to right. After 100 yards bear left (signposted public bridleway). 150 yards down is a small outbuilding on left. Pick up black bag by red / white cone. Further message in bag. On reading the message, transfer money parcel from your holdall into this bag. Take money and bag with you. I repeat the instructions twice, then endure the longest five minutes of my life, at least since Matt’s last car-based meltdown. God how he’d hate this; twenty minutes is the most he can take, almost to the second, before he kicks off against his car seat’s straitjacket straps and sweat-sucking foam. I’ve found only one remedy to pacify us both; belting out nursery rhymes at full pelt. Fuck it, I think, and launch into an impassioned version of Wheels on the Bus. Somehow, it works, banishing all terror so that by the time I take the right turn into Underhill Lane, I’m wondering what a bobbin is and lamenting the existential plight of Incy Wincy spider. Hedges join hands above me, so it’s a virtual tunnel. Potholes swallow individual wheels whole, rattling my teeth with such ferocity that I have to sing Postman Pat in scat. I fork left onto the bridle path. My headlights pick out the unmistakeable metallic shape of a car buried deep in bushes. My heart throbs in my ears and behind my right eye. ‘Donal?’ crackles the two-way radio. ‘Jesus,’ I yelp; Crossley’s urgent whisper just snapped my last functioning nerve. Sounding like a snooker commentator, he husks: ‘The bridle track is through open fields. He’ll be able to see and hear surveillance vehicles.’ ‘Which means?’ ‘They can’t risk following you.’ ‘Shit.’ ‘That’s not all,’ oozes Crossley. ‘He’s taking us so far out of range that our radio signals are getting weaker.’ ‘Spit it out for fuck’s sake.’ ‘Listen carefully, Donal. Just because you can’t hear us doesn’t mean we can’t hear you. Carry on as before. Repeat his instructions twice aloud and wait five minutes before proceeding. Just make sure we know his plans. Understood?’ ‘Great, so any second now, I’ll be completely alone with this madman?’ Silence. Then a faint thwack dices the air; the reverberation of distant rotor blades. ‘If I can hear a chopper then so can he. Call it off, for the love of God.’ ‘That may be our sole means of trailing you,’ snaps Crossley, sounding posher now, under pressure. ‘Then don’t.’ The chopper’s blades melt away to deathly silence, save for my juddering trundle. ‘Have you at least got visuals on me sir?’ I beg the silence. The radio’s dead. I’m on my own. My palpitating heart thrums against the seat belt, creating an unnerving sash of terror. Four little ducks went swimming one day … I scat, sounding like Tom Waits strapped to a bucking bronco. Sneering gargoyle vegetation melts away to something scarier; vast and empty night-sky nothingness. I’m out in the wide open now, alone and exposed, completely at the mercy of this maniac. Of course, he knows that police radio signals don’t work out here. He’s been one step ahead of us all along. The rutted track slows me to a bumpy walking pace. For all I know, he could be strolling alongside, gun trained at my temple. Maybe he’s just waiting for me to pull up and get out, so he can soundlessly throttle me in the warm night breeze before spiriting away with the cash. And no little duck came back quack, quack … ‘I’m so sorry Matt, and Zoe,’ I blurt, like some deathbed confessor. How I wish I was home with them right now, where I should be. ‘We’re picking you up again, Donal,’ crackles Crossley’s strangled whisper, jolting me back into cop mode. ‘Thank Christ,’ I mouth. My feeble headlights suddenly pick out neat vertical lines. I squint, pulling into focus a wet corrugated tin roof weighing down a squat and long-forgotten outhouse. In this ocean of wet black, my eyes seize suddenly upon a luminous mini-lighthouse; a red and white traffic cone. ‘Holy shit,’ I whisper. ‘It’s the endgame. I’m approaching the traffic cone and, I presume, the bag. Sir?’ ‘Awaiting instructions.’ I pull up and look around. All black. I figure if he’s here, my best hope of survival is to offer up the cash, the car and no resistance. I get out, headlights on, driver’s door open, key in the ignition, cash on the back seat. ‘Go ahead, Kipper, stitch me right up,’ I cry. I take a swift 360. Nothing. All I feel is night’s balmy breath. All I hear is water slapping tin. I take another 360, my heart thrashing like a trapped bird. ‘The money’s in the car,’ I shout. Wind gasps, water splats. I make out the black canvas ransom bag at the foot of the cone, empty, deflated, expectant. I palm it open, rummage until I feel a single sheet of paper in the base. I take both to the car. Sliding into the back seat next to the cash, I lock the doors, switch on my torch and, as instructed, transfer the daintily-wrapped parcel of cash into his bag. Somehow, he must have guessed that we’d plant some sort of a tracking device in ours. ‘Ah well,’ I soothe my pogoing heart. ‘I should be dumping it soon and getting the hell out of here.’ The note, stencilled in black capital letters, has other ideas. I read it aloud: Go back to Underhill Lane. Turn left towards Ditchling village. Phone box 1.5 miles on left. Message B taped under shelf. My tired brain grapples with these latest commandments. To collect his money, the kidnapper needs to be at the end of this ransom trail. That means he can’t be here. Adrenaline zaps off like a light. All life leaves me, clenched muscles melting to jelly. ‘This is good news,’ declares Crossley, sounding like a local radio DJ relinquishing his star prize. ‘We should have no problems with radio signals at that end of Underhill Lane, so we can resume full surveillance. I’ve got an officer on standby briefed and ready to take over from you before then, Donal. You’ve had more than enough excitement for one night.’ ‘I’d like to see it through to the end, sir,’ I say, solely because I expect that’s what any decent cop should say. ‘I admire your pluck. Give me ten minutes to get the lead surveillance team into position at the next phone box. Then I’ll be en route with your replacement. Your night is nearly over, Lynch. Good work.’ ‘Thanks be to God,’ I mouth, and set about turning the car on the narrow track. I crawl back towards the overgrowth of Underhill Lane. As I slip into the hedgerow tunnel and radio silence, I help myself to a ‘Thank fuck that’s over.’ Out of nowhere, a red Stop sign appears, blocking the route. ‘What the fuck?’ I protest to no one. I ease the car closer, spot a square of white card beneath the circular sign. I squint and recognise more stencilled instructions ‘Sir. Sir can you hear me?’ I know he can’t. My heart revs hard, a pang of sickening realisation sending bile north. I swallow the burn and fight to breathe against that re-clamped chest. The kidnapper sent the cavalry east almost ten minutes ago, and stayed right here. For me. This is his sting-in-the-tail twist. He’s got me precisely where he wants me now, all alone, no back-up, no comms, no hope of rescue, flush with 175 grand. Shit. My only way out of this is to do what he wants. I get out, read the instructions. On wall by painted cross find wood tray. Do not move tray, sensor attached. Place money bag on tray. If buzzer does not sound leave money there. Remove Stop sign in front of car and go. He’s watching me. I know it. And he’s killed before. Seven years ago, he kidnapped and murdered Suzy Fairclough. What’s another life sentence to him? I’m totally dispensable. I remember Crossley’s request that I pick up anything on the trail that may prove evidential. Good little soldier to the end, I remove the cardboard bearing the instructions, take it to the car and read the contents aloud twice, hoping against all common sense that they can hear me. They can’t fucking hear me! He’s selected this spot for that very reason. And I’m not hanging around for five minutes to confirm it; not with 175 thousand in hard cash! He might lose patience and whack me. I grab the money bag, walk over to a four-foot wall. Above a white painted cross, a wooden tray sits on a bed of sand. About 30 feet below, I can make out some sort of lane, maybe a disused rail line. A few feet to my right, an oblong metal box must be somehow connected to the tray’s sensor. Good God, I am so out of my depth … Somehow, I’ve got to lower this hefty bag of cash onto the tray without tripping the alarm. Face screwed into a tense ball of dread, I lift the bag and lower it slowly, painstakingly, ion-by-quivering-ion onto the tray. It sits, rests, no alarm. I wonder why I’m standing here and turn to leave. As I remove the Stop sign from the middle of the lane, the tray scrapes the side of the bridge on its way down, courtesy of his improvised pulley system. He’s below, collecting his winnings. I’m just yards away from the most wanted man in Britain. Fuck it,I think. I ‘ve got to do something. Chapter 3 (#ue580d115-badb-5a20-acdb-be6c6188c379) Underhill Lane, East Sussex Wednesday, June 15, 1994; 21.50 We know nothing about this bastard. I need to spirit over to that bridge, at least get a visual. I pad and wince in turn, Bambi on ice, gripping that metal Stop sign like a lollipop lady in a tornado. If I can bounce this hunk of rust off his bonce, he won’t be going anywhere. Oh my God! There he is below, shovelling spilled bricks of cash into the bag. I raise the metal pole to my chest. If I press Go on this Stop sign, he ain’t going anywhere … He may have an accomplice ready to kill Julie if anything goes wrong … If he’s operating alone … we’ll never get a better chance. The money will not be collected by me, but by a young male who parks up in a nearby lovers’ lane … Damn it! I can’t be sure that’s our man. I need to find a way down there, grab whoever it is and hold him here until back-up arrives. No heroics … It’s all about getting Julie back, alive. What do I do? How I crave a working radio, a direct order. Below, I hear the splutter and tinny whine of a 50cc engine spurting into life. Good God, he’s wheezing off into the night aboard a ‘nifty 50’ scooter with 175 grand. And I’m the only one who knows. I’ve got to find Crossley. I dump the Stop sign, dive into the car, gun the engine and floor it east as fast as the lane’s laddered surface will allow. After a couple of bends, fast-approaching headlights ignite the hedgerows. I screech to a halt. Crossley and DI Mann spring out before their oncoming car even stops. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ demands Crossley. As I jabber my story, they inspect me in wide-eyed disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you call back-up?’ barks Crossley. ‘The radios aren’t working down here, Guv. You know that.’ ‘Dear God,’ spits Crossley. ‘You’ve let him get away.’ ‘You said no heroics …’ He turns to his number two. ‘Peter, get back-up there, radio all units that he’s travelling south from Underhill Lane on a scooter or in a vehicle large enough to carry a scooter. Lynch, take me to the bridge.’ Right on, right on, I manage to stop myself singing as I jump into my car and grab the seat belt. ‘Just drive,’ he snaps. ‘Sir, I can’t turn here …’ ‘Reverse for Christ’s sake.’ Every male cop on the planet thinks he’s Damon Hill. Some, like Crossley, even own special leather gloves for the task which, when they’re not driving, they dangle on their belts like spare penises. Alas, I’m less Damon Hill, more Benny, especially going backwards. ‘Swap!’ cries Crossley and I’m out of that driver’s seat before he’s spat the ‘p’. Crossley throws himself in, flings one elbow over my passenger seat. Palm-steering, he roars off backwards, beaching my poor car into every coccyx-crunching pothole along the way. My anger rises in tandem with my rev counter. Over mashing metal and screaming suspensions, I shout: ‘Why are you pissed off with me? You specifically said no heroics.’ ‘And I specifically instructed you, over and over, that you have a surveillance team in front and behind you that needs to know his every instruction.’ I don’t get it but why distract him now, when we’re careering backwards towards a brick wall in my beloved old banger? After a totally unnecessary handbrake turn, I’m tempted to request his insurance details. Instead, under orders, I perform a walk-through of the drop. I show him the stencilled message and the sensor on the bridge, which he goes over to inspect. ‘Sensor?’ he scoffs. ‘It’s a concrete block painted silver.’ ‘Yeah, well I can see that now sir, with the headlights shining directly on it. They weren’t when I was last here.’ We find a way down to the disused railway line where, mercifully, at least the pulley-driven wooden tray and scooter tyre marks are real. Overhead, cars pull up, resigned. Scapegoat grumblings. Yes, he’s vanished into that great black rural night, but I did everything I’d been told to do. I follow Crossley back up to the bridge, where they turn to face us as one. ‘He’s long gone,’ spits DI Peter Mann, his eyes not leaving Crossley’s. ‘We should’ve put one of us up front as soon as we got out here,’ he rants. ‘It’s pitch bloody black. Kipper was never going to identify the delivery man.’ ‘We didn’t know that,’ says Crossley, firmly. ‘We didn’t know a lot of things, Pete. Like the fact he’d take us somewhere our radio signals don’t work.’ DI Mann switches his glare to me, full-beam. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you run back to your rear surveillance team? You could’ve shouted at them, they were that close.’ ‘We were 100 yards behind you,’ chimes in a moustachioed man I’ve never clapped eyes on before. ‘You’re supposed to brief us after every instruction. You could’ve walked to our car. What were you thinking?’ My brain’s flailing. The radios were down. I didn’t know how close the rear surveillance officers were. I couldn’t see them. Anyway, what could they have done? Any attempt to pursue the suspect would’ve put Julie’s life in danger. That was the deal, right? DI Mann’s head wobbles in contempt. ‘Your fuck-up has cost us vital minutes. You’d best hope it hasn’t cost Julie Draper her life.’ Involuntarily, my eyes clench shut. Please, please no. What have I done? Crossley dry-coughs back control. ‘Let’s save the post-mortem for tomorrow,’ he snaps, checking his watch. ‘If you’re quick, the Lamb in Pyecombe should still be open. Go get a drink and calm down. I’ll wait here for forensics.’ Off they shuffle, muttering bitterly. I’ve never needed a pint so badly in my life, even if I have to toothlessly slurp it off the lino once they’re done kicking the shit out of me, so I follow at a distance. DI Mann spins around: ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I slouch back to Crossley. ‘Don’t bother coming in for a couple of days Lynch, give me a chance to sort out this mess …’ ‘Hands up, Guv, I forgot about the vehicle behind me. But what would my alerting them have achieved? Their radios weren’t working either. And it’s not like they could risk chasing him.’ He rubs his face vigorously with his open palms, as if clearing it of live scorpions. He sighs hard: ‘I thought I’d spelled it out to you.’ His hands drop and his eyes look up to the heavens. ‘All that space-age tech up there, and I’ve got the village idiot down here.’ ‘Now hang on just a minute there, Guv …’ ‘I told you about your number one priority, Lynch, keeping your surveillance teams informed of each fresh instruction. Above us is a chopper with state-of-the-art thermal imaging, infra-red, you name it. Seventy-five grand to scramble. Ten grand an hour to fly.’ He turns to me. ‘I redirected the lead surveillance team but the rear one was still behind you and in direct contact with that chopper via satellite phone. I told you they were constantly in touch. I told you, if nothing else, make sure your surveillance teams are privy to his latest instructions.’ ‘But my radio went down.’ ‘Had you gone to the rear surveillance team, on foot, that chopper would now be covertly following whoever picked up the money, and only we would know. Instead, we’ve lost the money and we’ve lost him.’ An icy snake of terror unfurls inside me. ‘Shit. What have I done.’ ‘I tell you what you’ve done,’ snaps Crossley, voice cracking, eyebrows arched to breaking. ‘Whoever kidnapped Julie has got his money, so he has no further use for her now. He can’t risk freeing her because of what she might be able to tell us about him.’ His upper lip stiffens, reining in his swelling emotions. ‘He has to kill Julie now,’ he states flatly, as if passing sentence himself. Chapter 4 (#ue580d115-badb-5a20-acdb-be6c6188c379) Green Lanes, North London Thursday, June 16, 1994; 02.30 Had the shonky Shiraz bottles I’d unearthed from some dodgy all-night spieler in Haringey not required two fully engaged man-arms to uncork against a solid surface, I’d never have spotted Zoe’s note on our kitchen table. Written at some point yesterday, it reads: Me and Matt gone to mum’s. Thought you could use a night off, Zoe x What a selfless, thoughtful act, you may think. But you don’t know a sleep-deprived mum. And you aren’t competing in the Martyred Parent Olympics (so-called because it lasts four years and, unless you imbibe massive quantities of illicit pharmaceuticals, you’ve no chance of winning). What the note really means is: ‘It doesn’t matter how late you’ve been working, this is going down officially as a night off for you.’ I’ll be made to pay, of course; she’ll yawn pointedly all day tomorrow, slam anything slam-able and consistently ring friends and family to update them about the latest phase of her toootal exhaaaaustion. Aged twenty-two months, Matt still wakes five or six times a night – every night. Having an insomniac stepdad helps. I’m always on hand to slurp drinks, binge Babybels and loop Pingu. Thrillingly, at least for me, Matt’s taken to calling my name when he wakes, or at least his version of Donal. ‘Dong, Dong, Dong,’ he chants. Who he doesn’t call for is mum, because mum minus sleep equals Crazed Harridan. I’m ‘Dong’ because Matt isn’t my biological son. His ‘real’ dad, Chris, is a fugitive from fatherhood somewhere south of the Equator. A posh, feckless surfer-raver type, he fled as soon as Zoe fell pregnant – leaving the way free for my uncharacteristic crime scene seduction. Yes, we met over a dead body! Zoe is a rising star in forensics who, somehow, failed to spot the clues to my myriad flaws. She agreed to go out with me, and it soon became clear why; her morale had hit rock bottom. She’d convinced herself that ‘no man would want me, not now I come with a baby.’ I wanted her with all that I had. When I got to know Matt, I wanted him too. For the first time in my life, ever, I let instinct override indecision, seized the moment, got the girl! A few months later, we bought this place and I’m still in utter shock, clinging onto the cliff-face of overnight fatherhood. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Being a dad is quite a responsibility, and not one I’m taking lightly. Not only have I reduced my nightly quaffing to two bottles of Shiraz, I only buy the stuff that’s less than 14% proof. Well you do anything for your kids, don’t you? And Matt’s my son now. A few weeks back, Zoe caught us partying at 3am and announced her ‘gravest fear’ – that Matt has inherited my insomnia. I had to remind her that this is impossible – we’re not flesh and blood – then hated her for appearing so patently relieved. I let it go because we never row in front of Matt, which means we never row. She seems to spend every second of her child-free leisure time avoiding me. Seriously, she’s either out with her girlfriends, at her mum’s or collapsed like a capsized Alp in bed, clad in those massive off-white ‘comfort’ knickers, previously used to hoist the Mary Rose. I know we’ll get back to how it was. Of course we will. Once we get over the exhaustion. And the constant illness. And the lack of money. No wonder Crossley’s call last week had come as such a shot in the arm. How I’d craved the chance to get drafted onto a ‘live’ investigation squad, make a good impression, become a fully-fledged detective constable and prove all my doubters wrong. All I had to do was not fuck up … What a selfish prick, I scold myself. The only thing that matters right now, after my potentially fatal blunder, is that Julie’s okay. My insides wince, cowering from those stabs of raw, primeval terror. My stressed temples buzz, as if planted against the window of a speeding train. A low electric hum grows louder in my ears, until it whines like the world’s largest mosquito. My vision flickers, causing objects in the room to float in different directions, as if something telepathic is breaking through. My God, Julie? Somewhere close by, a church bell clangs, over and over, louder and louder. I can see it’s driving those ravens wild. They smash into the sitting room window – thump, thump, thump – flinging themselves against the glass with all of their might. They’re inside now, flapping close to my face. I can’t scream or turn away or raise my hands. I can’t move a muscle! All I can do is scan their beady green eyes. I remember suddenly their collective term: An Unkindness of Ravens. And this lot look especially unkind. One launches, pecking at my face savagely. The others join in; a greedy, feeding frenzy. I scream as they pick and pull and gouge at my eyes until all goes black. I’m suspended in the air now, looking down. The ravens are yanking off bits of Julie’s face and body, then flying off, tiny fish flapping in their mouths. I’m holding a metal crook. I should be beating the birds away. But I don’t. I’m lying down again. Julie appears above me, eyes wild with hate, face tattered and torn like bloodied tissue paper. She holds the silver block directly over my face, but I see another man’s bearded face in the reflection. Who is he? Please don’t drop it, I beg her. Please. The reflection in the block is me. I smile just as the head of an axe plants itself into the left side of my face, slicing into my cheekbone, above my ear. Indescribable, ringing pain springs me to my feet. I’m screaming, clawing at the axe. But it’s not there. ‘Oh my God,’ I hear myself scream. ‘Julie Draper’s dead.’ Chapter 5 (#ue580d115-badb-5a20-acdb-be6c6188c379) Green Lanes, North London Thursday, June 16, 1994; 11.00 ‘Morning has fucking broken,’ warbles Fintan, my older brother, yanking open the sitting room curtains. Why did I ever give him a key? I scrunch my dry eyes against the searing white, but the glare scores my sight, summoning splodges and a pulsing star-scape. My day of destiny is here. No doubt Commander Crossley’s already in his office, knotting the rope and oiling the trapdoor. Well someone will have to pay for last night’s cock-up. I’m low-ranking police plankton with an already sullied disciplinary record; he couldn’t have hand-picked a more ideal scapegoat. I suspect Fintan has already heard all about last night from his fathomless pool of ‘police contacts’. That’s why he’s here, the diabolical cock, to get the inside story. It’s this level of conscience-free cunning that has propelled him to the role of chief crime reporter at the Sunday News, the youngest in their history. ‘Why can’t you warn me before you turn up,’ I croak. ‘You know, like a normal person?’ ‘You could’ve done with some of that last night,’ he beams, eyes alive with mischief. ‘Warning, I mean.’ I groan instant and complete surrender, but my own personal Josef Mengele hasn’t even got started. ‘I hear you literally presented the cash to him, on a tray, like some silver-service waiter,’ he mocks in fake shock, shaking his head out of the sheer orgasmic schadenfreudeof it all. ‘You’ve taken such a keen interest in this case, Fintan. Especially since they imposed a media blackout.’ ‘Good job you’ve got that to hide behind. I can see the headline now: “Bungling cops lose man, money and poor Julie”. There’d be an outcry.’ ‘You and your journo pals would whip up an outcry, you mean. Who uses words like ‘bungling’ in real life anyway?’ He’s off on one of his streams-of-tabloid-consciousness. ‘We’d have to describe Julie as “pretty” of course, which is a bit of a stretch, wouldn’t you say, Donal? She reminds me of Linda McCartney, if she hadn’t married a Beatle or given up the sausages. But we can’t call her “lumpen and pasty”, can we? She is the victim, after all. I tell you what though, photos of her make me want to stand on my head while chewing a sack of raw vegetables …’ ‘Jesus, Fintan! Have some respect …’ I stop myself, but not quickly enough for old Donkey Ears. ‘You were gonna say “for the dead”, weren’t you?’ he says, turning towards me, nostrils almost winking. ‘What do you know? Have they found her body?’ ‘No. I mean we don’t even know she’s dead. I’m just assuming the worst, now he’s had his money. What use is she to him now?’ My voice cracks, straining to contain that geyser of inner terror. What if my stupidity last night led to Julie’s murder? How am I supposed to cope with that? Live with that? I screw the lid down tighter. I know she’s dead because she came to me last night. That’s how this cursed bloody condition works. But I don’t know how or when she died. There’s still a chance he killed her before the ransom drop. That would mean her death is not my fault. It makes no sense at all but, for now, I’ve got to cling to that flimsy hope … I scold my emotions for running ahead of the facts. All I know for sure is I must have got close to her dead body at some point either before, during or after last night’s ransom drop. That’s the only time the dead play their games with me … when I’ve been physically close to their recently slain cadavers. Poor, poor Julie … Fintan recognises my pain and changes tack. ‘I heard you got a lot of stick. Don’t feel bad. Crossley should never have put you in that situation, not with your lack of experience.’ ‘Gee thanks, Fint, for such a typically back-handed show of, er, support.’ ‘It’s not just your fault, Donal. The kidnapper outsmarted you all.’ ‘The worst thing is, Crossley just stood there and let them slag me off. After I’d risked my neck for him. Then he told me not to bother turning up for work until he tells me otherwise.’ ‘That’s the British upper classes for you, Donal. They see the rest of us as grateful Sherpas, bred to do the heavy lifting that carries them to glory. Now hose yourself down or something so I can take you out in public. Then I’m going to make you eat a solid before flies start circling your eyes.’ ‘Don’t spend the day trying to wheedle info out of me, Fintan.’ ‘You affront me, Donal. You really do. I come here to offer nothing more than comfort and cheer after your latest dismal and abject humiliation, and this is the thanks I get. Why do you always assume there’s an angle? Jeez. I’ll be outside having a fag.’ With Fintan, there is always an angle. Having arrived here in London from the Irish Midlands a few years before me, he sees himself as my protector, especially now Mam is dead. But Fintan is always a journalist first, my brother second and would sell my arse for a scoop without even realising he’s done wrong. Zoe thinks he’s warped, manipulative and amoral, which, most of the time, is hard to dispute. I shower, dress and catch up with him at the garden gate, where he wheels around theatrically to present a sporty black Porsche convertible, roof down. ‘Where in the name of God did you get that?’ ‘There’s a new rich kid on trial on the showbiz desk, son of an earl or a duke or something. Nice enough fella, but thick as pig shit, of course, and hopeless. But the editor thinks he’ll get us into places we’ve never managed to penetrate before, and he’s usually right about these things. ‘Anyway, young Jamie Benson-Smythe finds it all frightfully exciting, especially crime and investigations. The fucker had the gall to march over and announce that he plans to get my job! Any other newbie would be thrown out on his ear for a stunt like that, but not Jamie.’ I’ve had my fair share of toffs at work and nod. ‘They just have this unshakeable self-belief.’ ‘Wouldn’t we all, if we never had to worry about paying the rent? Anyway, I don’t blame them for making the most of their advantages. What really bugs me is the way the English middle classes unquestioningly defer to them, bowing and fucking scraping. It makes me almost like the French. ‘So, yesterday morning, I bump into the jumped-up little fucker while he’s parking this up at work. I tell him I need a smart motor for a big undercover job, and he just hands me the keys.’ ‘Poor guy. You commandeered his car.’ ‘Hey, Jamie’s thrilled, feels like he’s already contributing,’ says Fintan, getting into the driver’s seat. ‘What if it rains?’ ‘What if it rains?’ he whines, mimicking me. ‘We put up the bloody roof.’ In heaving North London traffic, we barely make it above ten miles per hour. Each gossamer graze of pedal elicits a thunderous roar, earning us looks ranging from mild irritation to unabashed hatred. ‘We need to get out of town,’ I say, suddenly seeing an opportunity to act on last night’s encounter with Julie. When the dead come to me, I can’t just ignore them. Julie needs me. And, after my schoolboy error last night, I owe her. ‘Why don’t we head to the South Downs? I know some great pubs around there.’ Fintan grins. ‘First we’ve got to pick up our smoking-hot dates.’ I groan. ‘Models, Donal. And I’m not talking unemployed nail bar assistants here. Real models. I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you.’ ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Fintan, I’m in a relationship.’ ‘Yeah I saw her note on the kitchen table this morning. Good old Zoe, if she can’t dump Matt on you, she dumps him on her mum.’ ‘She doesn’t dump him on anyone. It’s a long day looking after a kid. She craves a bit of adult company in the evening. What’s wrong with that? You’ll see one day.’ ‘From what I see, Donal, you’re in a job share. From what you sometimes let slip, I sense it’s now a sexless, joyless job share at that. You told me yourself that even her mum labelled it a failed relationship.’ ‘That doesn’t give me a licence to go running around with other women.’ ‘We’re just having a bit of craic, Donal. To quote Loaded magazine, “life, liberty, the pursuit of sex, drinking, football and less serious matters”. The thing is, bro, she’s turning you into one of those lonely married men. You know, first you don’t have time for friends, then you can’t find time for hobbies. Next thing you know, you’re a bonded slave reduced to work and childcare. The irony of it all is that your women end up hating you for it. And you’re not even married.’ I turn to him, shaking my head in disbelief. He grins: ‘You can be my wingman then, okay?’ ‘I don’t see that I’ve got any choice. So where did you meet two models?’ ‘Sandra’s photo casebook. You must have seen it? Tania and Ellen are the paper’s biggest stars now.’ ‘I must never have made it that far through your esteemed rag.’ ‘Every week, it features a letter from the problem page, but told as a picture story. It’s always a raunchy storyline about threesomes and secret affairs so that Tania and Ellen can act their little hearts out in their undies. As Sandra herself puts it, something for the girls to read, and the boys to look at.’ ‘Never underestimate the intelligence of your readers eh? I can’t believe any woman would actually read your newspaper.’ ‘Don’t be such a snob, Donal. And a killjoy. What harm is it doing anyone?’ He pulls up at a smart art-deco block near Angel tube station and beeps the horn. Two skinny women dodder out, all big shades, fake tits and tan, and real attitude. Even from this distance, I can tell they are way out of our league. ‘And I suppose these cardboard cut-outs are now eyeing Hollywood stardom?’ Fintan waves to them, muttering under his breath: ‘Funny you should say that. They can’t wait to meet a heavyweight TV drama producer. Like you.’ I groan loudly. ‘There’s no way I can pull that off …’ ‘It’s the only way I could get them to come. Just use words like “rushes” and “the cutting room”, you’ll be fine.’ ‘Jesus.’ ‘What do you think of the wheels, ladies?’ he bawls. ‘Like, what if it rains?’ says Ellen. ‘Like, we put up the roof,’ snaps Fintan. ‘God that’s exactly what my brother Donal here said. Talk about glass half-empty.’ ‘What you mean he’s a pessimist?’ says Tania. ‘No,’ says Fintan. ‘I mean he’s a roaring alcoholic.’ That gets a good laugh. ‘Donal knows a nice pub near Brighton and he’s going to treat us to lunch. You good with that, girls?’ ‘Yay,’ they coo as I give Fintan the eyeball and mouth: ‘You’re fucking paying.’ We roar off for all of 50 yards before getting snarled up in yet more traffic. Fintan somehow manages to trump the awkward silence with a truly cringeworthy question. ‘So, ladies, what do you look for in a man?’ ‘Vingt-cinq,’ purrs Ellen and they cackle hard. Schoolboy horrors come flooding back; the wink-and-elbow language of cruel-girl delight. Ellen finally composes herself. ‘We were at this party in Paris a few years back, this really sexy guy sidles up to me and whispers “Vingt-cinq” in my ear. I’m thinking twenty-five? Well he might be talking about his age …’ More cackling. ‘Then he says in the sexiest French accent I’ve ever heard, “Not ma age. My size. You don believe me?” And I say, frankly, no. I mean a twenty-five inch penis would be some sort of world record. So, he gets his friend over …’ Tania butts in: ‘Who’s even sexier.’ ‘And he says: “Oui, it is true. And I too am twenty-five.” He can tell we’re not buying it, so he says, “You wan me to pull down my pants and show you?” and I say …’ They might now actually expire out of sheer mirth. Tania finally comes up for air: ‘Ellen says, “If you’re twenty-five, you don’t need to drop your trousers, just lift them up at the ankles!”’ We all laugh now. ‘I’d forgotten about metric!’ says Ellen. ‘Mind you, once you’ve had twenty-five centimetres, you don’t want less,’ she adds quietly. Fintan and I share glances of mild horror. ‘Right, so physique is your thing, Ellen,’ editorialises anchorman. ‘What about you, Tania?’ ‘Money,’ says Tania, refreshingly unashamed. ‘The love peters out, the sex peters out, so you might as well be with someone who’s loaded, make your life easier.’ ‘And you’ve found someone, haven’t you darling?’ says Ellen. ‘Show ’em what he bought you yesterday?’ A spindly orange arm appears between the front seats. Perched on the tiny wrist, a green-faced vintage Rolex with a brown leather strap. ‘Men who wear a certain brand of watch guide destinies,’ announces Fintan to confused looks all round. ‘It’s their slogan,’ he adds impatiently. ‘Very understated. Classy,’ I say. ‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ says Tania, holding my eye for a second, then smiling bashfully. ‘Yeah and then you got it valued, you shallow bitch,’ cackles Ellen. ‘Eight grand. Can you believe it? Wear it? I wouldn’t let it out of my house.’ As we speed along ‘Sunset Boulevard’, wind noise renders conversation mercifully impossible, so that I can turn my thoughts back to last night. If we retrace my journey from yesterday, maybe something will click and lead me to Julie’s body. That must have been what last night’s macabre, raven-based cabaret had been all about. I’ve just got to get down there and follow my gut. It starts to rain just outside Croydon. Fintan pulls up at a lay-by but, of course, the convertible roof won’t go up. Something is stuck or maybe he’s pressing the wrong buttons. The girls moan, so Fintan guns it until we see a covered petrol station. As we shelter in eye-watering fumes, he sets to work on the roof mechanics until they’re well and truly butchered. ‘Like, what if it rains all day,’ says Ellen. ‘Like, we do something indoors,’ snaps Fintan, and we sit in glum silence for twenty minutes. The shower mercifully clears. Even with the girls along, I’m sticking to my plan and direct Fintan to Underhill Lane. As the track narrows and branches start scouring the paintwork, I call halt. ‘Poor car,’ I say. ‘Shall we walk?’ ‘There’s a pub down here?’ squints Fintan. ‘Just around the corner,’ I say, setting off before anyone has time to object. I lead the way towards the bridge, Fintan just behind. The girls are way back, heels floundering in mud. ‘Is this where it went down last night?’ says Fintan, his antenna as keen as ever. I nod. The silver painted block still sits on the wall, above the white cross. After Julie’s performance last night, I’m bringing that hunk of shiny concrete with me. Somehow, it must be significant. I rewind the rest of Julie’s pageant through my mind … the axe, the church bell, the birds, the shepherd’s crook. ‘There must be a church in the village,’ I say, picking up the block. ‘Let’s take a quick look.’ ‘Why are we looking for a church? And what exactly are you planning to do with that block, Donal? Jeez, I know the girls can get a bit irritating …’ ‘I’ve just got a feeling about it,’ I say. ‘Hey girls,’ I shout. ‘My mistake, the pub’s the other way.’ They don’t answer, just turn and totter with all they have back to the sludge-free sanctuary of the car. I place the block in the boot. ‘Is this pub far? I’m starving,’ moans Ellen. ‘Donal here has you down as a fan of Norman architecture,’ says Fintan. ‘He always takes his dates to a cemetery. I mean if you’re going to corpse, you might as well do it somewhere appropriate.’ ‘Just drop us off at the pub,’ sighs Ellen. ‘Oh, come on, Ellen,’ urges Tania. ‘I love old churches and graveyards.’ ‘Wow,’ says Fintan, ‘you and my morbid brother here should get on like a funeral pyre.’ The car growls and Ellen yowls all the way through Pyecombe. I’m first out at the Church of the Transfiguration. Fintan mumbles in my ear, ‘You know Julie’s dead, don’t you? You’ve had one of your whacko dreams.’ ‘Oh come on, Fintan, you don’t believe in any of that old codology, do you?’ ‘Jesus, don’t find her now, Donal. We’re well in here.’ ‘You think? Maybe if I find the 175 grand and you undergo some penile transfiguration of your own.’ ‘I know what you mean. Jesus, we’d struggle to make vingt-cinq between us.’ Built into the wooden gate, a metal hook identical to the one in Julie’s post-mortem performance. ‘I think she’s here,’ I say. ‘This is creeping me out,’ says Ellen. ‘Why don’t you two wait here and admire this lovely gate?’ says Fintan. ‘God, you’re a patronising pig,’ snaps Tania. ‘Well said,’ I nod. My eyes are drawn to the far corner of the graveyard and a pair of all-business ravens. They’re patrolling a candy-striped bundle under a creaking oak. As I get closer, I see it’s a pink-and-white striped sheet trussed up with green cord. The sheet ends are tied together and stained dark. The rope winds about the package three times widthways and once lengthways. ‘Expertly wrapped,’ says Fintan. ‘Got anything sharp?’ ‘Try these,’ he says, handing me the car keys. I tear a strip in the sheet. The stench knocks us backwards. A black cloud of flies descends. ‘What is that?’ screams Ellen. ‘It’s Julie,’ I say, turning to her and, despite my best efforts, failing to suppress a smile. But what I’ve just smelled means I’m not responsible for her murder. ‘Looks like she’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours. Thank God,’ I sigh, shaking my head out of sheer relief. Fintan leans in close: ‘I think we’d better make an anonymous call.’ We turn to see Ellen jabbing at her mobile phone. ‘No wait,’ I say, but she’s already spilling to a 999 operator. I look at Fintan. ‘How the hell are we going to explain this?’ ‘We need to get away from here,’ he mumbles. ‘I’ll suggest the pub. We let them walk ahead, as soon as they get around the corner, bolt for the car.’ Ellen ends the call: ‘Don’t worry, Tan, the police are on their way.’ Fintan pipes up: ‘I don’t know about you ladies, but I suddenly really fancy a steak. Why don’t we wait for the plod in the pub?’ Ellen plants one hand inside her handbag, raising the other defensively. ‘If you or your weirdo brother take one step closer, I swear to God I’ll set off my rape alarm.’ ‘Understood, loud and clear,’ says Fintan brightly. ‘Can I just say though, Ellen, as a parting line to a double date, that may never be topped.’ Chapter 6 (#ulink_9d72a182-cf89-5a7a-beb7-65a6531ba429) Pyecombe Cemetery, East Sussex Thursday, June 16, 1994; 14.30 ‘Christ, check out the fourth horseman,’ quips Fintan, nodding towards the cemetery gate. ‘Croissant’ Crossley – so-called, to quote an under- ling, ‘because he’s a fat, posh, perma-tanned poof’ – has arrived, and looks set to smash through headstones rather than zigzag around them. He may even claw a few corpses out of the dirt with his bare hands and rent them asunder, just to underline his current feeling of profound irritation. ‘Well, if it isn’t Burke and O’Hare,’ he snaps. ‘More like Mulligan and O’Hare.’ I’m still swooning on the stench of Julie Draper’s rotting flesh and shaking the hairy little hand of every passing bluebottle. It’s all confirmation that my surrender of the ransom last night did not precipitate her murder. ‘A perfectly innocent explanation, Commander,’ Fintan pipes up. ‘We were out for a drive with those delightful ladies. Donal loves an old cemetery, especially on a dreaded sunny day like today. Next thing he’s calling us over to Julie Draper’s body.’ ‘We don’t know it’s Julie Draper,’ says Crossley. Fintan smiles: ‘I do know, Commander, and as soon as they confirm its Julie, the media blackout can no longer be enforced? Condition 11 of the code.’ I wince; his bitching isn’t helping any bridge-building. ‘I’ll get a court order,’ bawls Crossley. ‘This maniac is still on the loose.’ ‘All the more reason to publicise it and warn the public,’ says Fintan. ‘All the more reason to starve him of the oxygen of publicity. This isn’t a game, Lynch.’ For a verbal street-brawler like Fintan, Christmas has come early. ‘Tell me, Commander, and just to warn you this is on-the-record for when they confirm its Julie, are you still convinced her kidnap is connected to Suzy Fairclough?’ Crossley eyes him warily: ‘Suzy Fairclough was randomly targeted by a man called Mr Kipper. Julie Draper was randomly targeted by a man called John West. Now I know you only eat potatoes in Ireland but even you will have heard of John West Kippers. Draw your own conclusion, as you reporters always seem to do anyway.’ Fintan shakes his head. ‘A crime of this magnitude, with this level of meticulous planning and forethought, and you’re telling me it’s another random kidnap and murder?’ Crossley sighs. ‘Julie Draper had no enemies. She lived a very quiet life with her mum and dad, devoted to her pet dogs and fish. No ex-boyfriends to speak of. Why would anyone target her?’ ‘There’s always something,’ Fintan goads. ‘Maybe you missed it. Maybe you weren’t looking for it. Maybe you’ve been duped.’ I remember the fish from Julie Draper’s deranged production last night. Before I can stop myself: ‘She kept fish you say, Sir?’ Crossley turns to me slowly, wearing a look of flabbergasted contempt. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘You say she kept fish, Sir. What kind?’ ‘Are you taking the piss?’ I shake my head. ‘Goldfish.’ ‘Their names?’ ‘I don’t know. Christ! Mutt and Jeff I think she called them in her proof-of-life call. Why in God’s name do you ask?’ I don’t answer. Crossley stiffens. ‘You know I can’t help feeling it’s fitting you found the body, Donal.’ ‘Sir?’ ‘As it was you who totally fucked up our chances of apprehending her abductor last night. And that’s gone into my report.’ ‘Sir, less than an hour ago I was scared stiff that I may have caused Julie to be murdered. Now I know I haven’t, I’ll take anything that’s coming my way on the chin.’ Fintan barely lets me finish. ‘Did you also put in your report, Commander, that the kidnap must be the work of a former or current police officer?’ Crossley’s startled reaction shocks me to the core. My God, he believes Julie’s kidnap is an inside job, somehow. For Fintan, this is an open goal. ‘I’m reliably informed that you wrote a memo to the Commissioner in which you stated that the expertise of Julie’s captor has convinced you that it’s an inside job.’ ‘Nonsense,’ snarls Crossley, but way too animated. ‘Is that why you’re so keen to throw Donal under the bus, Commander, to cover up something that will embarrass the force?’ Crossley’s rattled. ‘I’d tread very carefully if I were you, Lynch. The only inside job I’m seeing here is an officer on my case bringing his reporter brother to the scene for an unofficial briefing. I’ve a good mind to arrest you both for obstructing the course of justice.’ Fintan smiles smugly. ‘Oh, I know why you’re so pissed off, Commander. Julie’s body here dashes your hopes of making Assistant Commissioner. Losing her is a stain on your precious record.’ Crossley steps forward. ‘Consider yourself and your rag banned from any further press briefings, Lynch. Understood?’ ‘We don’t need your press briefings, Crossley. I’ve got the Prince of Darkness, Alex Pavlovic on the case.’ Crossley turns ashen, out of rage or shock I can’t tell. All I know about Alex Pavlovic is he’s Fintan’s reporter-of-last-resort when dirt needs digging. Pavlovic, it seems, has dark and unspecified connections capable of delving deeper than any other Fleet Street reporter. The very mention of his name has sucked all life out of Crossley. Fintan’s fiendish smile signals a killer punchline. ‘And, with respect, Commander, Alex Pavlovic would appear to command a lot more coppers than you do.’ Crossley explodes: ‘Write whatever the fuck you like, Lynch. Just know one thing. As of this second, you no longer have a rat inside the investigation. Donal, give a statement to DI Mann about everything that happened here, then fuck off back to the cold case squad. At least there you can’t bugger up any live investigations.’ Chapter 7 (#ulink_71f07047-3b35-5699-ac39-281dac77cf4d) The Lamb, Pyecombe, East Sussex Thursday, June 16, 1994; 16.00 Fintan whisks Sandra’s Cherubs back to Angel Islington while I set about getting slaughtered in the Lamb where, mercifully, the hobbling, russet-faced locals leave me alone. Before we’d left Pyecombe cemetery I’d run into Dr Edwina Milne, a forty-something, no-nonsense pathologist straight out of a mail order ‘Tory Wives’ catalogue. ‘You’re always finding bodies, Donal,’ she’d bellowed across the headstones. ‘Is there anything you need to tell us?’ ‘Yes, there is something I need to tell you, Edwina, or anyone else who’ll listen, but I’m too scared,’ I screamed internally, before scampering off through the headstones, like Michael Stone after he ran out of grenades. Whiskey’s peaty warmth soothes my nerves, melding all sparking thoughts and sizzling fears into a toasting glow of ambivalence. The burnt aftertaste spirits me back to Mam’s funeral; my most recent and somewhat more controversial flit from a cemetery. Only I know what I was really running from. And that I won’t be able to run from it for much longer. It’s almost time … Those entire two days, Da couldn’t bring himself to talk to me, or even look at me. When they finally lowered her into the dirt, Da earthed his grief by grabbing Fintan’s arm. Why couldn’t he have grabbed my arm too? Just for once? I sling back the last of my Jameson and imagine the galvanising heat forging my iron will; I’ll be a better father to Matt. A proper dad. My mind drifts to the visions of Julie I’d experienced last night. The church bells and shepherd’s crook have already paid off, leading me to her body. The silver block must be crucial in some way. What the axe, deranged ravens and tiny fish signify, I can’t even begin to speculate. Once again, I reassure myself that I don’t possess some inexplicable telepathic hotline to the recently murdered. These performances can come from only one place – my subconscious – which has been obsessively gnawing away on this case for several long days now. My mind must process all the information, then present clues to me through my lurid, sleep-paralysis dream episodes. It’s not that I soak up the spirit of the deceased so much as the essence of the case. That must be what’s happening here … right? Unless what Mam said is true … that it’s all wrapped up in a family curse. But who could ever validate such a thing? I’ll cross that bridge soon, when I’m good and ready. Edwina’s periscopic peer around the corner promptly torpedoes all thoughts. She’s actively seeking me out; for what, my booze-fogged brain cannot even begin to fathom. ‘Donal,’ she hisses, as if secretly rousing me from deep slumber. ‘Edwina, how are you?’ I say, making to get to my feet but somehow failing. ‘Er, stay where you are,’ she laughs. ‘I trust that’s a double Scotch?’ ‘Jameson, thanks.’ Edwina and I go back to the very first murder scene I’d attended as a PC, the brutal stabbing of a girl aged twenty-one. I’d tried hard not to get upset, but failed, much to the glee of my emotionally stunted older colleagues. Edwina’s regal upbraiding of them still makes me smile: ‘You may be surprised to learn, gentlemen, that to the fairer sex, male vulnerability is a very sexy quality indeed.’ Since then, she’s sought me out at murder scenes to check on my progress and educate me about her craft. I’ve even been teased about it by female colleagues, who rather cruelly dub her my ‘Crime Scene Cougar’. She stands at the bar with her back to me, her right boot perched on a foot rail running six or so inches off the ground. This uneven stance lifts one side of her white blouse to reveal a denim-clad buttock. On closer inspection, it’s a textbook half-moon arse cheek that should belong to someone twenty years her junior. I’d never even considered Edwina as a sexual being before and blaze like a KKK cross. Christ, Donal, I scold myself, I know you’re not getting any at home, but she’s old enough to be your mother … Double Christ, Donal, is this some form of twisted Oedipal grief? Banish such thoughts at once! ‘You look a little flushed,’ she teases, and I notice her brandy snifter clasped classily between upturned fingers. I then notice perhaps one button too many undone on her cotton shirt, so shift my gaze swiftly up to her half-amused eyes. ‘That’ll be the old uisce beatha.’ ‘Ah, the one Gaelic phrase I know. The water of life, or whiskey as we inelegant Anglo Saxons call it. To poor Julie.’ ‘Julie,’ I say and we clink solemnly. She sits and sips reverentially. ‘Watch this,’ she says, tilting the balloon-shaped brandy glass. ‘Don’t worry,’ she giggles, sensing my rising panic as she tips it all the way down onto its side. ‘See how it comes right up to the rim but doesn’t spill out? That’s how you measure the perfect single shot of cognac. And that’s the only thing I remember from my three-grand-a-term finishing school.’ ‘Sounds like the kind of school I should’ve gone to.’ ‘I heard about the kidnapper making off with the ransom money last night. The good news for you, Donal, is that Julie’s been dead for longer than twenty-four hours.’ I’d already guessed, but now it’s official, tension escapes me like air from a pricked balloon. ‘Thank God,’ I gasp. ‘And thank you for letting me know, Edwina.’ She puts her hand on mine and I convulse violently, like a flatliner receiving an electric shock. It’s all I can do not to bellow ‘CLEAR’. My God, is she coming onto me? ‘What else can I tell you?’ she husks, the minx, giving my stunned, immobile hand a squeeze, then slowly withdrawing. Reluctantly perhaps? Has she got some sort of weird crime scene horn? ‘The ground where she lay has no grass discoloration or flattened vegetation, so she hadn’t been there very long. She was completely naked inside the blanket. ‘There were two obvious fracture injuries to the back of her skull, both about a week-old and caused by a blunt instrument. I’ll be suggesting these were inflicted nine days ago when she was first abducted. ‘I found chain-like marks around her right ankle; she had been forced to wear some sort of restraint or leg iron. The redness of the injury shows it was caused before death. I found no chafing marks around her wrists though, which seems odd as this is universally the preferred method of restraint. ‘I found another ligature mark running along the back of her neck. Her tongue was protruding through clenched teeth which you normally find in people who’ve hanged themselves. She must have been throttled very violently at the end. ‘Her fingernails were undamaged and there were no marks on her forearms, the sort of defensive injuries that you’d expect if a victim had fought for her life. In other words, when the time came, she must have been restrained and strangled from behind, quickly and cleanly, which will provide some small comfort to her family.’ We both need a drink after that. But Edwina’s not finished. ‘Now here’s an odd thing. The changes to Julie’s flesh show she’s been dead for about two days. That makes it impossible for me to determine if she’d been raped or sexually assaulted. But the insects in her body suggest she’s been exposed to air for a lot less time, I’d say between twelve and twenty-four hours. ‘There was also something really striking and bizarre about her appearance.’ She squints at her drink, as if still trying to make sense of it herself. ‘She was completely bald.’ ‘How?’ She shuffles in her seat, theory still percolating. ‘For several hours after she died, her body must have been stored in some sort of sealed container which kept the flies and insects out. If he wrapped her in a sheet or towels and this place got very hot, her hair must have stuck to the bloody sheets or towels. When he unwrapped her, it came away from her head.’ ‘Or he shaved her?’ ‘No. Its ripped out at the root.’ ‘God, her poor family, having to see that …’ She smiles. ‘You’re a sensitive old soul, Donal. I’ve instructed the mortuary to prepare a hairpiece.’ She takes a bigger swig than me this time. ‘Other things of note, no food in her stomach, which suggests she hadn’t eaten for at least eight hours prior to her death. And the sheet she came wrapped in today bears a laundry mark – MA 143 – so if you chaps can find the origin of that laundry mark, you may find her killer.’ She takes a final gulp as I consider how to even word my only question. ‘We had a tip-off,’ I lie, because the truth might get me sectioned. After all, I’m basing this on last night’s bonkers visions of Julie. ‘Look, I won’t bore you with the details, Edwina, but there’s been a suggestion that an axe is involved in Julie’s murder, somehow.’ She frowns and I visualise my question grinding through her red-hot brain engines. She shakes her head finally. ‘I’ve only ever known Triad gangsters to use an axe. Or Irish travellers, I’m sorry to say. How exactly is an axe involved in this?’ ‘Truthfully, I’ve no idea. I just thought I’d better mention it.’ She shakes her head some more. ‘None of Julie Draper’s injuries could’ve been inflicted with an axe.’ ‘Well, thanks so much for taking the trouble to find me, Edwina. I’m really touched,’ I say. ‘If I can ever buy you a drink back …’ ‘Well, I’m frequently alone in London on Sunday evenings, when all my pals are doing family things. You can treat me to a convivial supper some time.’ ‘I’d love that,’ I blurt, not giving myself time to fluster or dither or ruin the moment. She gets to her feet, and I wonder what the hell I should do if she presents herself for an embrace. My finishing school didn’t cover that. ‘Well, it’ll make a nice change from Antiques Roadshow,’ I say, standing up. ‘Not for you, it won’t.’ She smiles and lingers there, eyes glinting. Is this some sort of cue for me to move in? ‘See you soon then, Donal,’ she smiles, searching my eyes. What should I do? She turns to leave, then, Columbo-style, spins at the door. ‘There is one case you might want to check out, from five or six years back, still unsolved. A bailiff named Nathan Barry.’ She lifts her open palm to the left side of her face and starts karate-chopping her cheek. I try not to look alarmed or confused. ‘Axed in the face. Really nasty. That’s the only one I know of. Worth checking out.’ Chapter 8 (#ulink_8fe12a21-be06-5273-bdbf-206d161d6430) Pyecombe, East Sussex Thursday, June 16, 1994; 20.00 I set off home whiskey-bleak, intent on avoiding Zoe until the morning. At least I can count on the combined ineptitude of Southern Rail and London buses on that score. I’ll be lucky to make it home by midnight. The trouble is, I know exactly how it will play out. At first, she’ll greet news of my dismissal from the Kidnap Squad with stoic, purse-lipped disappointment. She’ll get busy with something to avoid me – ironing, sticking labels onto Matt’s clothes, that damned dishwasher – humming in that way that makes me want to strangle her. Every now and then, she’ll stop suddenly to stare sadly into space, and sigh. All the while, her forensic brain will be feverishly constructing the case for the prosecution. She can’t help herself. Soon the questions start. Did Crossley specifically say x? Did you consider all other options before you did y? She’ll shift, gradually, until it becomes clear that she’s entirely on Crossley’s side, albeit in her infuriatingly factual, reasonable and logical way. Indeed, her devout commitment to be ‘totally fair’ to all parties involved is what makes me apoplectic. ‘Why can’t you just take my side and support me, for once?’ I’ll snap. And then she’ll launch her trusty cruise missile; the ‘shock and awe’ hate bomb that obliterates every penis over a radius of one square mile. ‘I just thought we’d be living closer to Mum. By now.’ Her mother, Sylvia, takes care of Matthew while we work. That’s his name when he’s over there, after she declared Matt ‘too communal garden’. For all her snobbery, Sylvia’s ability to mangle common phrases is her unwitting Achilles heel. Just last week, she complained that her new spectacles were impairing her ‘profiterole vision’. Late last year, Zoe found ‘the perfect flat’ for the three of us in Crouch End, just two streets from her family home. Perfect, that is, if I’d been on a DC’s salary. I pointed out that we couldn’t afford it. Her parents offered ‘to help’ until I got my promotion. I refused – out of bullish, old-fashioned and foolish male pride, of course – forcing us to not so much downsize as capsize from cosy Crouch End to grungy Green Lanes, Haringey; home of the Turkish heroin trade, leering Albanian/Kosovan cigarette hawkers and heaving 24/7 traffic. She’s never got over it, especially now that each working day is bookended by the Matt drop-off/pick-up, a tedious forty-minute walk to where we should be living. It’s as if I’ve failed in some fundamental, primeval, manly obligation that can never be reconciled. Postcode emasculation. At least the grocers of Green Lanes never close. Hangover incoming, I snaffle two bottles of rancid Transylvanian Shiraz and shuffle home for my nightly ‘couched grape’ solo session. I unlock the front door, quickly check on Zoe and Matt – both out cold – then open bottle one. As the cork pops my mind snags on my mother-in-law Sylvia’s cutting observation. ‘Failed relationship’ … why does that rankle so? Is it the non-attribution of responsibility – blame – as if our status as a couple is so doomed that Zoe and I are powerless to save it? Or is it the shock realisation that, were we to split up, our incompatibility will be judged by the world at large as a personal failing on both our parts? As I wince through the first aquarium-scale glug, I decide it’s time to pinpoint where this ‘failing’ began, and which of us is to blame. Top of my list: the chronic lack of sex. By her own admission, Matt’s birth marked the death of Zoe’s sexual appetite. Of course, I wasn’t there – I didn’t even know Zoe then – but her oft-repeated, harrowing descriptions of the thirty-four-hour fanny-buster does little for either of our sex drives, in truth. She lays the blame squarely on the National Childbirth Trust (NCT). It was the ‘Nipple-Cracked Tyrants’ – Zoe’s term – who convinced her to undergo childbirth without drugs. As someone who won’t clip a toenail without a tub of Savlon to hand, the notion of ‘natural childbirth’ boggles my mind. Ever since, she’s suffered crippling bouts of thrush, so we just ‘don’t go there’ any more, or even talk about it. So imagine my surprise when I pick up her flashing mobile, on charge in the kitchen, click on a message from ‘Charles’, and read the words: Z, when can I see you again? Missing you every second! My first reaction is disbelief. It’s been sent to the wrong number. Or it’s a prank. Or she’s being stalked by some loon. We’ve had that before – a hazard of her job as a forensics officer. Crime scene weirdos find out her name, rank, place of work and won’t stop calling her. But they’d never get hold of her mobile number … I walk into our bedroom. She’s a snoring bed hump. A human landslide. It is 11pm after all. It can wait until morning. There has to be a simple explanation, surely. I tip toe into Matt’s room. As usual, he’s face down in the cot, bum-in-the-air. I touch his hot little back, my hand earthing the familiar beats of his busy little heart. We always joke how we never want that tiny heart to be broken. Whatever her feelings for me, Zoe wouldn’t do it to him. Never. I pad back into the sitting room, click off the TV and the lamp, pour a greedy red and fidget in the street-light orange gloom. For some reason, the K?bler-Ross model flashes into my mind. This is the Five Stages of Grief we’d been taught about – useful knowledge to any murder detective. DABDA – Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression. Then, finally, Acceptance. In a murder case, any close associate of the victim failing to adhere to the DABDA protocol becomes a suspect. It’s not murder suspects I’m worried about here, but me. Am I in denial? I’ve no idea how long it is before her phone flashes a second time. Charles again, still up, in more ways than one: Z, about to hit the hay. Won’t be able to resist touching myself thinking of you x x x Denial leaves town without packing. Anger stares at the number, wanting to call this fucker up, have it out. My forefinger quivers over the green button. Hang on, I tell myself, I need to be smarter than this. I jot down the number, cross-reference it with the contacts in my phone. Nothing. I check Zoe’s calls and texts records, in and out. No sign of Charles. Then I notice how scant these records are. She’s already been busy deleting. Anger hatches a plan. I deposit her phone discreetly behind the empty flower vase, taking considerably more care to hide it than philandering Zoe. I don’t want her to have any inkling that I know. I need to spring it on her in the morning, catch her cold, so that I can read her eyes. I sit there stewing, unable to stop speculating: who is Charles? How long has this been going on? What have they done together? Who else knows about it? The thing that really bamboozles me; where has she found the time or the energy? Hang on a minute, I remind myself, she goes out two nights a week. It was her childless former work colleagues who persuaded her to resume her pre-Matt social life. ‘I want to get back to my old self,’ she’d announced. Not as badly as me, so I agreed to babysit a couple of nights a week, hoping that ‘the girls’ could do something I clearly couldn’t – make Zoe happy again. I went out with them once, watched them guzzle bone-dry Chardonnay by the half-pint and become feral, so I fled. I now call them the WWF, the White Wine Fiends, and sit in quivering dread of her return, just like we used to with Da. She always thunders in with the Chardonnay rage, ranting and raving about how shit her life is and the inherent injustices of motherhood. The mornings are worse, when she’s gripped by hungover paranoia about what she may or may not have said or done during those alarming blanks in her memory. But even this fails to poop her party lust; she wouldn’t miss her ‘girls’ nights out’ for the world. Now I’m beginning to suspect why. Suddenly, another terrifying thought strikes – who else knows about this? Has she told her best friend? Could Sophie be trusted to keep her mouth shut? Of course not! What if everyone knows? How can I look them in the face again? How can she humiliate me like this? Matt’s even more unsettled than usual tonight. It’s almost like he knows something is wrong. Eight or nine times I fail to placate him. It’s as if we’re both being tormented by the same quandary: How can she do this to him? By dawn, the anger has morphed into a sick sort of satisfaction. For months, she’s been guilt-tripping me about my unsuitability for fatherhood. The Bad Dada Intifada always starts and ends with my drinking. In between that dual denunciation, she takes a tortuous route through my other myriad failings: working all the time; messiness; chronic insomnia. The irony of the latter complaint stings: guess who does the night feeds? I’m stockpiling self-righteous claims as a Doomsday believer might tinned tuna. I can’t wait to cut her down to size. I’ll use my most patronising voice: It’s not about whether I can forgive you, Zoe, it’s whether Matt can forgive you. Dr K?bler-Ross is good. By the time Matt cries out at 6.10am, I’ve moved through Denial and Anger, and am well up for a good old Bargain. You see, in the martyr barter that is our relationship, I’d rarely seized – let alone held – that key strategic piece of ground known as High Moral. I feel unassailable, statesman-like. Nobly, I elect to spare our confrontation until Matt goes down for his mid-morning sleep. I don’t want him to hear us rowing and be traumatised in any way. To be fair, neither would she. Despite everything, we both love that boy with all we have. ‘So,’ I say breezily as she tackles the dishwasher, ‘who is Charles?’ I’m expecting a smashed plate, a torrent of Data Protection Act-based indignation: How dare you spy on me. What I’m not expecting is a flat, emotionally detached weather report, as she focusses chiefly on installing the dishes in the right places. The relationship has just started. Charles is no one I know. This, for reasons I don’t fully understand, provides enormous relief. She then says the things I need her to say; the things I need to hear. It’s all been a dreadful mistake. She’ll finish it with Charles, in her own time. Her saying his name aloud staggers me – the gall. But, for some reason, I find myself believing every word coming out of her lying, cheating mouth. I need to believe every word. She will end it, for sure, I conclude – if only for Matt’s sake. I swallow hard on the gutful of questions I want to spew. Have they had sex? How many times? Where? When? Is he better than me? Bigger than me? Does she call out his name? Does she love him? In my heart, I know the one question I’m too scared to ask: Why? ‘Please stop staring at me like that, Donal,’ she says firmly. ‘I’ve promised to end it. Can we just leave it at that?’ Later, while she’s taking a shower, I get hold of her phone again to find out more. It’s locked. I try both her email accounts; she’s changed the passwords so, just like that, I’m frozen out of her life and powerless. Chapter 9 (#ulink_3fd6306e-7bf2-53c5-afde-30aa5b8bfa30) Green Lanes, North London Friday, June 17, 1994; 12.00 My eyes feel dryer than old grapes and my head thumps like Christmas afternoon. I make for our bedroom but can’t feel the floor beneath my feet. I must still be in adrenalised shock at Zoe’s admission of infidelity. My temples buzz intermittently, my vision shuddering and dimming in time, obeying the sporadic white noise soundtrack. It’s like I’ve just walked under the world’s biggest electricity pylon. Something’s interfering with transmission. Then I remember. I’d been standing next to Julie Draper’s dead body less than twenty-four hours ago and she’s got my subconscious on repeat dial. She’s desperate to connect to me. I must sleep so Julie can get through. I lie down, eyes closed, exhausted brain agape; come on in, Ms Draper, the water’s toasty. Random phrases echo and overlap: Failed relationship … the wink-and-elbow language of cruel-girl delight … The love peters out, the sex peters out, so you might as well be with someone who’s loaded … Once you’ve had twenty-five, you don’t want less … There’s Sinead O’Connor at the end of the bed, tears rolling down her porcelain white face. She’s smiling at the same time, holding a photo close to her chest. I see it’s Zoe, Matt and me on Brighton Beach last summer. Her mouth sneers and that photo rips right down the middle, as if by magic. Dolores O’Riordan of The Cranberries is beside her, drinking a pint of white wine and loving every second. Jesus, ladies, what is your problem? Why do you hate men so much? What’s that they’re singing? Na na na na Na na na na Hey Hey Goodbye Oh and here’s Julie Draper now, bald as a coot, singing her little heart out in that pink-striped blanket, giving it all Alison Moyet, thinking she’s the bee’s knees. What is this, ladies, Fun Girl Three? Behind them, in black and white, Zoe is bowed and shuffling away at speed, dragging a reluctant little boy in shorts alongside her. Matt turns and smiles and waves. He’s oblivious to the masked black figure in front of them, which, at that instant, spins and re-shapes into a perfectly ordinary shadow. They continue to march onwards and into that black shadow … I follow and the black figure reconfigures between us. He starts to turn. I will him; turn … turn … make yourself known! A shape is forming. I know that profile from somewhere. I know this man. He wants to make himself known to me. He’s turning to me … coming to me. Keep turning! He freezes, spooked by a shrill, repetitive tone. I recognise that din. My brain clicks; it’s my mobile. He flicks off like a puppet shadow. Damn! One more second and Julie’s killer would have revealed himself. What the hell was all that about? Why the cameo appearances by those self-styled Banshees of rage, Sinead and Dolores? And why was Julie Draper’s killer stalking Zoe and Matt, then luring them into some sort of darkness? It’s got to be cross-pollination of my current dual traumas – the death of Julie and the prospect of losing the people that I love. That can be the only explanation. I’m stunned to see it’s gone 4pm Why do I always sleep better after bad news? Maybe its pessimistic relief; the worst has happened, so you can quit your fretting now and relax. I pick up. ‘Fintan?’ ‘You still good for the Archway Tavern?’ ‘What?’ ‘What do you mean, what? It’s Friday the 17th. The World Cup finals kick off in less than one hour! That’s where we always watch the games. Is she letting you out? Because you know it’s Ireland–Italy tomorrow night. If you’ve only got the one pink pass for the weekend …’ ‘I don’t need her permission,’ I announce, thinking if only he knew why. ‘Good man. That’s the spirit. Right so, I’ll pick you up in twenty. Is she there?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘I won’t come in so.’ ‘Ah, come on, Fintan, Matt would love to see you.’ ‘I thought we had orders to address him only as Matthew. Anyway, I’m barred.’ ‘You’re not barred.’ ‘Zoe made it very clear she thinks I’m a … how did she put it again?’ ‘A misogynistic menace. She didn’t mean it. She just worries that every time I go out with you, we end up on a bender.’ ‘We end up on a bender because you’re so pussy-whipped. She said the hangovers make you an unfit father. How can you put up with that shite? You do more for that kid than she does.’ ‘Come on, Fintan. Give her a break. She’s under a lot of pressure lately and she hasn’t been well,’ I say, then realise I’m trying to justify her affair to myself. ‘Damn right she’s not well. She’s a control freak. Every man needs to cut loose now and then. The day you roll over and let her control your social life, she’ll end up hating you for it. I’ve seen it happen, Donal. You need to man the fuck up.’ ‘Why don’t you man the fuck up and knock the door?’ ‘Listen, Donal, I’m dumping that silver concrete block on your doorstep. Then I’m off to watch the Americans fail to “get” soccer. My advice is: be ready, because I’ve sensational news.’ ‘Not like you to sensationalise news, Fintan.’ ‘Fine. If you don’t want to know what Julie Draper’s kidnapper is up to now, maybe you should stay in and watch Friends, like a proper dad.’ Ten minutes later, I find Fintan loitering on our front door step, awkwardly cradling the silver breeze-block so that it doesn’t touch his suit. ‘You should present this to Zoe,’ he smiles. ‘Tell her it’s your first down payment on that house of her dreams.’ ‘Arsehole.’ ‘Remind me again why I’ve been ferrying it around southern England since yesterday?’ ‘I just have a feeling about it,’ I say, taking the block and placing it in the boot of my car. He’s still driving the flashy Porsche. ‘I see you figured out how to get the roof up.’ ‘Not exactly. I took it to that grease monkey around the corner. He sorted it out for fifty quid.’ ‘Fifty quid? That’s a miracle.’ ‘Let’s hope the miracles continue, and it rains solidly for several months after I give it back to Jamie.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well let’s just say, when they fixed it, they didn’t bother too much with the electrics.’ He clocks my mounting horror and roars with laughter. ‘They welded it shut.’ ‘Jesus, Fintan. Jamie will go apeshit.’ He throws his arms out in mock defence. ‘I didn’t know he’d set about it with a blowtorch. It kept raining!’ I get in to inspect. ‘He’s added lots of nasty-looking metal,’ I say. ‘It’s now like being in one of those shark cages. Poor Jamie.’ Fintan’s in fits now and takes several minutes to recover, giving me plenty of time to marvel at the crow-black cruelty of his humour. I can’t wait any longer. ‘Commander Crossley hasn’t been in touch. No one’s been in touch. I presume that, as usual, you and your journo friends know more than me about what’s really going on. Has John West or Kipper resurfaced?’ ‘Police got a typed note this morning, which they suspect is from him. He’s threatening to abduct and murder again, unless he gets another pay-off. Except this time, he’s going to target a child.’ ‘Bloody hell. Is it definitely the same guy?’ ‘Police think so. He explained in the note that Julie had to die because her mask slipped and she saw him.’ ‘She did know him then?’ ‘He said he couldn’t risk her being able to identify him afterwards. Police think all this proves is that he has form and she could’ve picked him out of a photo album of ex- offenders. They’re refusing to think anything except Kipper, Kipper, Kipper.’ ‘But you think differently?’ Fintan pulls that pained face, which revs his brain to max. I’d better pay attention. ‘I think the kidnap of Julie Draper resembles the Fairclough case too much. It’s like whoever kidnapped her is desperate for police to make that connection and not look elsewhere.’ ‘Maybe this Kipper character is taunting them. That’s not uncommon.’ ‘Maybe, but I can’t help thinking Crossley and co. have bought the Kipper/John West thing too easily. They’re blinkered, which means they’re not keeping an open mind or delving properly into Julie’s personal life. If the kidnapper is someone else, he’s done a great job of hoodwinking the police. Again, it smacks of the kidnapper getting help from the inside, and you saw Crossley’s reaction when I said that. He knows there’s something else going on here, a bigger play.’ ‘So, what now?’ ‘What now is we’re doing your job for you, as usual. We’re getting stuck into Julie’s personal life, finding out who might have had a grudge against her or Crown Estates. I’ve got my ferret-like crime reporter Alex Pavlovic on it.’ ‘Has he got a source in the Kidnap Unit?’ ‘I don’t ask, Donal. Though sometimes he tells me about his antics, if he’s feeling especially proud of himself. So yesterday, Julie Draper’s mum is under armed guard in hospital. Doctors, nurses and cops won’t let anyone near her. Alex Pavlovic, aka The Prince of Blackness, sends her a massive bunch of flowers, hides a mobile phone in the stems with a note offering her ?50k. She’s agreed to meet him today.’ Fintan parks up, slaps his fake ‘Doctor on Call’ sign against the windscreen. ‘You must lie awake at night, Fintan, worrying that he’s more devious, underhand and amoral than even you?’ ‘And connected,’ he sighs, oblivious to my dig. ‘Ex-cops, private detectives, tech whizz-kids. He’s got this one fella, Gerry Woods, on side, who used to work for the spooky wing of the Met. This guy can place a secret camera in a cigarette lighter. Amazing. That’s how we’ve brought down all these cheating Tories.’ ‘Isn’t secret filming and bugging illegal?’ ‘Using the material gathered is illegal. We don’t use it. It’s just insurance.’ ‘Insurance?’ ‘These people always deny it. You’ve got no idea how many politicians and people in power have got away with affairs because they denied it and we couldn’t categorically prove it. We learned our lesson.’ ‘What does it matter that someone’s had an affair? Maybe it was just sex. Or they made a mistake. Don’t you worry about destroying families?’ I’m surprised at the raw emotion in my voice. The last thing I want is Fintan twigging about Zoe’s affair. He might joyously choke from the satisfaction. Luckily, he’s in full lecture mode so doesn’t notice. ‘Hang on, Donal. These are the same Tory politicians who launched moral crusades against single mothers and the press. David Mellor told us we were drinking in the last-chance saloon and threatened privacy laws; we catch him shagging a MAW.’ ‘A what?’ ‘Model-Actress-Whatever. John Major lectures the nation about morals and getting “Back to Basics” and we expose half his married Cabinet playing away. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s at it.’ ‘And, of course, journalists never have affairs.’ ‘You know what, Donal? I think everyone has affairs. Monogamy is against our nature. Look at the closest relatives to humans, bonobos. They live in peaceful communes and shag like rabbits. That’s what humans were like for millions of years until society evolved this idea of sexual incarceration.’ I hear my voice creak in emotional protest. ‘Monogamy isn’t always enforced. Some people like the security and the trust. What’s wrong with that?’ ‘If we accepted that humans can’t be monogamous, then there wouldn’t be this sense of betrayal by the “wronged” party. That’s what causes all the divorce and strife, someone playing the victim. Anyway, why the hell are we talking about this now? We’ve got to go and shout for whoever’s playing Germany.’ For some reason, the only major international country without a professional soccer league has been awarded the 1994 World Cup. As Fintan puts it: ‘Yanks just don’t get soccer, the way I don’t get fishing, unless I can catch a shark every five minutes.’ On the plus side, the Republic of Ireland has qualified. And the opening ceremony provides unexpected joy when Oprah Winfrey falls off stage and a lip-synching Diana Ross fails to kick a ball ten-feet into an empty goal. ‘Are you watching, Tommy Coyne?’ we chant in delight. We shout for Bolivia as they lose to Germany. We roar on South Korea as they go 2-0 down to Spain. Then, out of nowhere, South Korea score two late goals and the pub erupts. ‘I doubt they’re this fucking ecstatic in Seoul,’ shouts Fintan. I can’t face Zoe tonight. But I haven’t got the energy to tell Fintan the truth. ‘She’ll be on the warpath if I come home like this. Can I kip at yours?’ ‘Any time,’ says Fintan. ‘You need to show her that you’re still your own man.’ ‘God, you really are like something out of The Quiet Man.’ We stumble outside and head for the mini-cab office. ‘Are you sure we should just abandon Jamie’s eighty-grand Porsche outside a pub?’ I ask. ‘What Irish person would be caught dead in a sports car?’ he says. ‘We’re just not like that. Anyway, I doubt if Houdini himself could get in through those welds.’ As we follow the cab driver across the car park, I think suddenly of Nathan Barry – the bailiff Edwina had mentioned to me who’d been axed to death behind a pub in East Croydon. I ask Fintan what he knows about the case. ‘I know the guy who led the investigation.’ ‘Will he talk?’ Fintan laughs: ‘Try to stop him! What’s so interesting about the Barry case?’ ‘We got information that it might be connected to Julie Draper,’ I say flatly, failing to add that the sole source is one of my rabid, booze-fuelled dreams. ‘Really? How?’ ‘I don’t know, but I said I’d check it out.’ ‘I’ll text him in the morning. See if he’s up for a meet.’ ‘What’s your take on it?’ ‘My take? Donal everyone knows who murdered Nathan Barry. And so should you. The police just haven’t been able to prove it.’ Chapter 10 (#ulink_244c8531-dd2d-50c1-985c-92de9d9245c2) Coombe Road, Croydon Saturday, June 18, 1994; 11.00 Still not so much as a text from the Kidnap Unit, technically my current employer. I wish to God they’d get on with stitching me up over Julie Draper. There is truly no punishment worse than waiting for punishment. DI Adrian Lambert insists on meeting us at the Nathan Barry murder scene, right away. Later today, Fintan has an errant Tory MP to ‘front up’ in that neck of the woods, so we bomb down together, spit-roasting in the welded Porsche. ‘Inspector Lambert is somewhat obsessed,’ warns Fintan. ‘Failing to get a collar for this Nathan Barry murder stalled his career. It’s now been investigated three times and they still can’t make it stick.’ ‘Who do they think did it?’ ‘You’re better off keeping an open mind. You’ll be the only police officer who’s done so since about day two.’ DI Lambert’s pacing the car park as we pull in. He’s slight, a little hunched with a long nose. ‘Oh and he’s Welsh, so he gets very animated,’ warns Fintan. Lambert looks gaunt, nervous. His face seems too red, his hair too black, styled in a disturbing Hitler-Youth undercut, making him look like an emaciated Barry Humphries. We race through formalities, then I explain my mission; to see if there’s any connection between this case and the murder of Julie Draper. Lambert looks surprised. It’s the first he’s heard of it. ‘It’s the first anyone’s heard of it, Guv,’ I smile. ‘And I’d like to keep it that way.’ ‘Understood. I hear Kipper sent a note yesterday threatening to take a child next time,’ he says. ‘You buy the whole Kipper theory then?’ asks Fintan. ‘I don’t know squat about that case,’ says Lambert, strolling over to a corner of the car park. ‘But I know everything there is to know about this one. So, six years ago, April 3, 1988, about 9.30pm, a pub regular drove into the car park and saw Nathan Barry lying here, on his back, with an axe embedded in the left side of his face, right up to the hilt. ‘The pathologist is in no doubt that he was effectively executed. He’d suffered three axe wounds to the head, each one would’ve been sufficient to kill him. The final blow was delivered by a backhand motion as he lay on his back, the axe penetrating four inches into his brain. The coroner had quite a job removing it. Whoever attacked him meant to kill him. ‘The pathologist believes the attacker sneaked up on Nathan from behind, was less than five foot eight inches tall and left-handed. ‘It was a common Taiwanese-made domestic axe, which could’ve been bought in any number of places and had no serial number. Elastoplast had been wrapped around the handle to ensure we couldn’t take any prints off it. And it had been sharpened for the job. The paramedics who treated him found a few hundred quid in cash in his left-hand trouser pocket, so it wasn’t a robbery. ‘The first CID officer on the scene sealed off the car park and uniform officers took statements from everyone inside the pub. ‘Forensics struggled to take prints off Nathan’s car or any others in the car park. It was a cold, frosty night which is a nightmare for them. Last year, they found trace DNA on the axe but the sample is too minute to process. ‘We got a lot of criticism for failing to seize glasses and ashtrays from inside the pub for prints or DNA analysis, to check if a known offender had been drinking here that evening. My argument is that whoever killed Nathan had been waiting outside in the car park and had never set foot in the pub. Why would he risk being seen?’ Fintan pipes up. ‘Do you regret not seizing the glasses and ashtrays now, Adrian?’ ‘Every bloody day. But we didn’t know much about DNA then. What we did know was how to spot a suspect. It’s a known fact that ninety per cent of victims know their killer. This was clearly personal. At first, we speculated that it may have been someone he’d upset in the course of his work. But someone else kept cropping up, right from the outset. ‘Nathan had been in the pub that evening with his business partner, John Delaney. In fact, Delaney had left the pub just moments before Nathan. ‘I went personally to tell Delaney the news of Nathan’s murder. He opened the door looking sweaty and agitated, as if he’d been expecting us. His first words to me were, “I’m not the mad axeman of Croydon”. I asked him how he knew and he started dropping names of all his cop pals in Croydon CID. All this time, his wife’s watching the TV, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, believe it or not. She doesn’t look up even once. ‘I take him in to make a statement. He tells us he and Nathan had agreed to meet an associate here in the White Horse that night called Tommy Buchan for a drink to discuss a loan to their company, BD Investigations. ‘We track down Buchan who denies it flat out. Turns out Delaney called him after he left the White Horse that night and arranged to meet him at a wine bar a few miles away.’ Fintan editorialises. ‘Trying to create an alibi after the event, perhaps?’ ‘Delaney’s car phone records confirm this call to Buchan at 21.36. They also show a call from a public phone box to his car phone at 21.33. Now the system can’t identify public phone numbers, but we believe that call was made from the public phone outside the White Horse.’ ‘The killer confirming job done,’ says Fintan. Lambert nods. ‘Over the next few days, we discovered Delaney is a crook. Behind Nathan’s back, he’d been up to all sorts, including hiring cops to guard Riley’s car auctions in Bermondsey. ‘Now, BD Investigations wasn’t insured to do this kind of work, but Delaney signed the contract and employed serving cop friends, who he paid cash. One night last June Delaney decided to take the day’s takings to the bank’s night safe alone. According to him, the safe was glued shut so he’d no option but to take the cash home. Guess what? Outside his house, he’s sprayed with ammonia and robbed of the fifteen grand. ‘Riley, owner of the car auctions, doesn’t believe a word, goes to see Delaney in hospital, where he’s dabbing his eyes with tissue and joking with the nurses. Riley sues BD Investigations for the fifteen grand and that’s how Nathan finds out about the entire racket. He goes mental, firstly because it’d been going on behind his back, secondly because Delaney had employed serving officers, which is against the rules, and thirdly because of the missing money. He refuses point-blank to stump up half. ‘Anyway, we need to prove this, so we go looking for any paperwork concerning the Riley contract, but it’s nowhere to be seen. Employees at BD Investigations tell us that the head of Croydon’s murder squad, Detective Sergeant Phil Ware, attended the office the morning after the murder and seized it all, including the Riley’s car auctions file. ‘That same morning, Detective Sergeant Phil Ware took the first formal statement from Delaney, in which he makes no mention of his row with Nathan over the Riley auction. ‘On Sunday, five days after Nathan’s murder, DS Ware reveals to me that he and Delaney are old friends going back years. To make matters worse, Ware admitted that he’d been one of the officers moonlighting for Delaney at Riley’s car auctions. Of course, we kick him off the case but by then he’d already buggered our investigation. ‘Phil Ware retired on the sick and is now a partner with Delaney in BD Investigations.’ Fintan again: ‘So you’re convinced that Delaney and Phil Ware were co-conspirators in Nathan’s murder?’ ‘Nathan had never drunk in here before that night. This pub is in Phil Ware’s jurisdiction. None of Nathan’s regular pubs were. Delaney lured him here for that reason, so that his murder would be investigated by his pal who heads the local murder squad. Of course, Delaney didn’t swing the axe. Why get your hands dirty? But he had someone waiting outside that night who did. ‘Now, how many people could’ve known Nathan was in here that night? Delaney’s phone records show he made a call to Ware’s direct line at Croydon police station on that evening at 5pm. I’m certain they were in cahoots.’ My brain is clinging on, just, and screaming one question: ‘So Delaney is behind Nathan’s murder, Ware helped derail the investigation. Who wielded the axe?’ ‘Delaney’s brothers-in-law at that time were Chris and Gary Warner, major-league drugs importers with a history of extreme violence. Their alibis for the night are flimsy, to say the least. My information is that they even boasted about the murder in their local pub. We’ve arrested and questioned them but we haven’t got any forensic evidence or witnesses willing to tell us what they know.’ Fintan starts pacing the car park. ‘My old crime editor used to say there are only three motives for any murder. Dough, blow or a ho!’ Lambert frowns, confused. ‘Money, drugs or a woman.’ He stops and turns to Lambert. ‘Why don’t you tell Donal here how there was more to Delaney having Nathan Barry wiped out than a fifteen-grand civil court action?’ Lambert hardly lets him finish. ‘Nathan and Delaney were part of the West Croydon Lunch Club, a group of self-styled local high achievers who used to meet every other Friday and had gained legendary status for drunken shenanigans. Turns out Delaney and Nathan were romancing the same married woman, a local beautician called Karen Moore. ‘In fact, before he went to the White Horse on the night of his murder, Nathan met Karen Moore at a local wine bar where they were seen in intimate conversation for well over an hour.’ ‘She must know something,’ I say. ‘Especially if things had come to a head between Nathan and Delaney.’ ‘I’m afraid Delaney has closed that line of enquiry on us,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘He left his wife and married Karen Moore a few months later.’ Chapter 11 (#ulink_dda6c46a-bb69-55bb-9de9-1a5a9dc5360e) Coombe Road, Croydon Saturday, June 18, 1994; 15.00 Fintan and I remain astride the White Horse for a long liquid lunch. ‘They’ll never solve the Nathan Barry murder,’ he declares. ‘Not unless they get a walk-in confessor, a witness to the actual murder or some incontrovertible DNA.’ I sigh. ‘I just can’t see how there can be any connection to Julie Draper, except the fact they both worked in Croydon.’ ‘At least the Draper case is live. The Nathan Barry case looks dead and buried.’ ‘A bit like my career,’ I grumble. ‘There is another option, you know?’ he says, surveying me archly like a disappointing art project. ‘And this option would get you into CID tomorrow.’ ‘Like I’ve said before, I’m not joining the Freemasons.’ ‘Virtually every cop I know is in it. It’s just a boys’ club, Donal, you can use it purely for your own ends.’ ‘Virtually every criminal I’ve put away is in it too. It’s rotten to the core. I’m having no part in any dodgy secret societies. Anyway, I thought you had some philandering Tory to front up for tomorrow’s paper?’ ‘I do,’ says Fintan, checking the time. ‘We always leave it as late as possible, so he can’t get hold of a lawyer or a judge or the Prime Minister or anyone else who might shoot the story down or leak it to a rival.’ ‘What about his right of reply?’ ‘That’s what I’ll be giving him at precisely 5pm. He wanted me to come to his home or constituency office, but I’ve insisted on a hotel lobby.’ ‘Why? In case he was planning on producing his Boer War Elephant gun?’ ‘Amongst other reasons.’ ‘And what is this man’s grave crime?’ ‘He’s a fifty-three-year-old married dad-of-two who had an affair with a rent boy about four years ago.’ ‘And how does this sexual peccadillo detract from his performance as an MP?’ ‘He’s a “hang ‘em and flog ‘em”, church-going Tory for one thing. And, last week, he defied the party whip to vote against reducing the gay age of consent to sixteen, in line with the heterosexual age of consent.’ ‘How old is his rent boy?’ ‘There’s the rub, for want of a better word. When the Right Honourable George Field began relations with this man, he was a sixteen-year-old boy, which, under the law he himself championed, makes him a child sex offender and, even worse for a politician, a rampant hypocrite.’ ‘God his poor kids. And wife.’ ‘She must have known he swung both ways before she married him.’ ‘How can you just assume that? And how can you square doing this to his kids?’ ‘His sons are cocooned at some twenty-grand-a-year private school where buggery is virtually on the curriculum. I’m sure their wealthy friends will rally around and get them all massively paid numbers in the City.’ ‘Is it a class thing with you really, Fintan? Are you the hunt sab who cares about foxes, or the one who just loves knocking over-privileged gits off their expensive horses?’ ‘A bit of both,’ he grins, jumping to his feet. ‘Come on. Saturday is Take Down a Tory Day!’ Chapter 12 (#ulink_37d5202e-34f2-5f75-835d-c67ac28b4f2f) Lingfield, Surrey Saturday, June 18, 1994; 17.00 Our Porsche turns not a single head outside the Lingfield Park Country Club. ‘You watch, he’ll sit there and lie through his teeth,’ says Fintan. ‘You can tell?’ ‘Jesus, don’t they teach you anything at cop school? Two classic giveaways. If he glances low and left directly after the question, he’s about to lie. If he keeps starting sentences with things like “truthfully” and “honestly”, then he’s in the act of lying. Look and learn.’ I recognise George Field MP as soon as we walk into reception. Tweedy, rotund, red-faced and hairy-eared, he’s every inch the rugger-bugger buffoon who some- how defies evolution by earning the right to run the country. Fintan introduces himself. Field wobbles to his feet, snorting like an addled rhino. He introduces us to Theresa Brunt, a Tory spin doctor dubbed ‘Total’ Brunt by Private Eye magazine and a ringer for one of those cross-dressing brutes who frequented Mother Clap’s in Victorian London. We all sit and, like a magician flourishing a bunch of flowers, Fintan plucks a photo out of thin air and holds it beneath Field’s purple, pockmarked nose. ‘What is your relationship with this man?’ he asks. Field’s nasal breathing grows so equine, it causes the photo clasped between Fintan’s thumb and forefinger to flap. He takes a quick glance low to his left and blusters: ‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/james-nally/games-with-the-dead-a-pc-donal-lynch-thriller/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.