Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller (7 page)

He stood and put on his coat: ‘Breakfast and privileged crime scene information from an impeccable source, all for free. Thanks, bro. Now, I better go and rewrite some of that copy.’

South London

Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 20:05

After several months on the beat together, Clive and I had hit on just one mutual interest: food. And even then we rarely saw eye-to-eye. That evening, we pounded the streets of South London discussing which confectionery fridges best, and which shouldn’t be subjected to cooling at all.

As he launched a passionate defence for keeping the toffee in Rolos soft – thus, unfridged – I realised that the drama of the last twenty-four hours had made me desperate to make the jump to murder squad. I’d grown frustrated wasting time mooching about in a comedy uniform, not quite knowing what we were trying to achieve. ‘Catching baddies,’ I’d initially assumed, ‘gangsters, rapists and people who mug old ladies.’ If only it were like that …

The training at Hendon College should have given me a clue. I spent most of the six-week course learning about multiculturalism, hate crimes, best practices, paperwork and adopting multi-agency strategies. There was nothing about gathering evidence, hoofing down doors or bitch-slapping villains – surely the job’s only real attractions.

Since then, I’d spent lots of time taking statements from battered wives who later withdrew them and from gang members who didn’t show up for court. I spent even more time taking statements from victims of vandalism / theft / assault whose complaints against known perpetrators never even made it to court. But I spent the vast majority of my time filling in a mountain of mandatory paperwork that accompanied every single recorded crime, no matter how petty. In other words, I was a uniformed response officer who spent eighty per cent of my time at a desk.

Occasionally, we’d be knee-jerked into an initiative on the back of media pressure. Last year’s big campaign: Nike Crime. There’d been a worrying spate of young trendies getting mugged at knifepoint for their £120 Nike Air Jordan trainers. Of course, the more the media publicised Nike Crime, the worse it got, which in turn gave the media and politicians licence to grow ever more hysterical. It was a vicious cycle, or a self-fulfilling prophecy, depending on how you made your living. Before long, teenagers began to actually get knifed for their Nikes, vindicating the media frenzy and turning the spotlight directly onto the police’s failure to prevent it. The Commissioner ordered every beat officer in the capital to attend a day-long seminar on how to identify Nike-wearing trendies and defend them from knife-wielding envy. The majority of cops who turned up looked too bloated to catch a pensioner wearing flippers, let alone a lithe young shoe-jacker enhanced by recently acquired air-cushioned soles.

I resented being dragged away from my soothing, pointless paperwork to protect spoiled teenagers. As far as I was concerned, anyone dumb enough to wear £120 trainers had it coming. I wanted to solve proper crimes, like who murdered Marion Ryan.

After I caught Marion’s killer, I wanted to ask him: why? Why did you savagely take the life of a completely innocent woman?
Look me in the eye and explain it to me. I need to understand.

‘Well?’ said Clive.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Have you ever actually seen someone eating a Milky Way? You know, on the tube, or the bus?’

I was racking my brains when the disembodied fuzz of the radio buzzed in. It was a T call to a house on Salcott Road. A suspected intruder. I realised right away – Salcott was just a stone’s throw from Sangora. Maybe Fintan was right. What if there
was
a maniac on the loose?

‘Fuck, it’s him,’ I said.

‘You what?’

‘Marion’s killer. I bet that’s him.’

‘Don’t be soft. Probably some kids …’

‘We’re three streets away.’

Clive sagged petulantly, so I took off. But I kept it to a jog: I’d need some puff left if I was going to disarm any deranged psycho.

Images of Marion flashed through my mind: the shock in her cold, dead eyes, her partially ripped-off fingernail.

As I turned into Salcott I checked back. Good old Clive was trundling along fifty feet behind, his head bowed, nodding like a knackered pit pony.

I looked for number 16 and clenched my fists, ready for anything. I gave the brass knocker three manly raps, shouted: ‘Police, open the door.’

A voice from the other side said: ‘Oh, thank God.’

The bright yellow door opened quickly to a pair of big, scared, brown eyes.

‘Oh thank you, thank you,’ she panted, as I stepped into the hallway.

‘Are you okay?’

She nodded.

‘Winona Ryder,’ I gasped. The resemblance was uncanny.

‘Pardon?’ she said.

‘Where is he, er, right now?’ I blurted, hoping she’d assume that’s what I’d said the first time.

‘He was looking through my patio door. Now he’s in the alley behind the garden, looking through a gap,’ she explained, shutting the door behind me.

‘Oh God, he’s never done anything like this before.’

‘You know him?’

She nodded rapidly, scared. Just then, the knocker went again. She jumped.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. When I opened it, Clive nearly tumbled inside.

‘I’ve called for back-up,’ he panted.

I turned and strode through the house until I got to the patio door. I slid it open and stepped into the garden, totally calm. I’d waited three years for this.

‘I’m coming, Eve,’ I thought to myself, ‘this time, I’m coming.’

I strode to the back of the garden, focusing on the only gap in the six-foot fence.

‘Wait for back-up,’ protested Clive from the patio.

Why give him the chance to escape?
I thought to myself, deciding there and then to leap the fence, confront the fucker head on. I took out my standard-issue wooden truncheon, ran three strides, mounted, threw one leg over and braced myself.

I looked left, right. Nothing.

I didn’t need to throw my second leg over: this narrow alleyway had no hiding places. He was gone.

I jumped back into the garden and sensed Clive’s shaking head.

As I walked back to the house he grabbed my upper arm, hard.

‘Get one thing straight, pal, I don’t want to be a hero. If I say wait for back-up, I’m waiting for back-up, whether
you
wait or not. I’m not risking my neck for you or anyone else.’

‘Gotcha,’ I said, yanking my arm from his surprisingly firm grip.

I marched on into the house.

Winona had backed up against a neutral sitting room wall to keep an eye on all doors. I realised she was half-expecting her tormentor to outfox us and come through the front. That’s what real terror does: it bestows superpowers upon the aggressor. I loathed bullies, especially men picking on women. I’d spent years watching Dad chip away at Mum until she became what he loathed most: a timid, meek, frightened wreck.

Winona’s big brown eyes seemed so embarrassed, yet grateful.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said, her soft voice oozing exhausted relief.

‘I’m PC Lynch by the way, that’s PC Hunt. And your name is?’

‘Gabby. Look, I hate calling you but he was trying to open the patio door. I’m really scared he’ll do something stupid.’

‘You know him?’ Clive harrumphed.

She took a deep breath, clearly summoning the energy to go through it all, yet again.

‘He’s my ex. We split up just after Easter, and he won’t accept that it’s over.’

‘He’s still bothering you after, what, four months?’ I said.

‘It’s getting worse.’

‘Has he physically …’

‘No,’ she said quickly.

‘Damaged any property?’ added Clive.

She shook her head again: ‘But this is the first time he’s come into my place.’

Clive threw me a look, one that said, ‘Why do we bother?’

‘How many times have you called us about this?’ he said.

‘This is the third time. Look, I feel terrible dialling 999 but sometimes it’s the only way I can be certain something bad won’t happen. And it’s the only way I can get him to leave.’

‘The trouble is, love,’ patronised Clive, ‘unless he’s committed an actual offence, there’s nothing we can do.’

She nodded, biting her lip.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

I could tell, right away, what she hated most about all of this: the fact that she had to ask for help at all. I’d seen it in Marion’s family that morning: these dignified, fiercely independent, proud people were the ones who paid their taxes so that we could exist, but they never wanted to need us.

Cringingly, Clive wasn’t done yet demeaning our non-victim of crime.

‘I’m not being funny, love, but you could get done for wasting police time. We’re not Relate.’

She put her hand over her face and nodded again: ‘It’s just … there’s no one else I can turn to.’

‘Clive, a word,’ I said, heading to the front door.

‘Shut the door behind you,’ I told him.

‘Are you telling me that there is nothing we can do to help her?’ I asked.

‘What can we do?’

‘We could go see her ex-boyfriend, have a word.’

‘You know the drill with domestics, Donal. He’ll say: “I was only trying to talk to her.” Unless there’s hard evidence of an offence, you end up going round in circles.’

‘What, so we’ve got to wait until she’s lying on her landing with forty-nine stab wounds before we get involved?’

He sighed. ‘She can go to a solicitor, apply for an injunction. We could get him on that later, okay?’

‘But this is our patch. We can’t just abandon this woman until he hurts her. What if she ends up like Marion?’

‘You’ve got to stop letting your emotions get in the way, Donal. You’ll never survive this business if you don’t. We’re not here to referee relationships.’

‘She’s not like the other people we deal with, Clive. You know that. It’s not good enough.’

He sighed and nodded: ‘I know, son. I know. But we don’t make the laws.’

I was growing heartily sick of our helpless appeasement of petty criminals. It felt like we were almost taunting them to go one step further, to do something that would make our dealing with them worthwhile.
Make our day, punk, stick a knife in her next time.

‘What can we do?’ asked Clive plaintively.

‘We can do whatever the fuck we like,’ I muttered, knocking on number 16 again. I knew Clive’s heart was already at the Wimpy. ‘Order me a chicken burger and fries. I’ll see you there in ten.’ Gabby didn’t open the door until he was out of sight.

Her place was classy; chic but homely. I clocked her graduation photo: she was smart too. Why then had she shacked up with a psycho?

She didn’t know where her stalker, Dominic Rogan, currently lived. Mutual acquaintances had confirmed that he still worked for Bank of America in the City.

‘Is there any pattern to his activities?’

‘No. It’s just that he seems to be getting worse. Like I said, he’s never actually come into the garden before.’

‘Do you think he’s capable of violence?’

‘I know he is,’ she snapped, ‘that’s why I dialled 999.

‘Sorry,’ she added quickly, ‘I know you’re just doing your job.’

‘What level of violence, Gabby … are you in fear of your life?’

‘I know he’s capable of … lashing out. That’s why I broke up with him.’

‘What does he want?’

‘I’ve tried talking to him, if that’s what you mean. I tried for weeks. He just won’t accept that I don’t love him.’

‘I can help you get a court order.’

‘I’ve thought about it, but it’d probably just provoke him. I don’t want to make him more angry than he already is. He’d break it, I’m certain. Then what? He gets arrested, charged, a court case? It could drag on for months. All that time, he’d still be in my life. He’d love that.’

‘Look Gabby, don’t listen to my colleague. If he comes again, dial 999. I’ll vouch for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, biting her bottom lip again.

I took out a piece of paper and a pen. ‘This is my work number, and my home number. I live half a mile away. If you feel in danger, call either.’

‘I … really? Wow, I don’t know what to say. Is that …? Thank you, Officer.’

‘Donal,’ I said, offering my hand.

She took it and shook it hard, her tearful smile lighting up a distant galaxy.

Salcott Road, South London

Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 22:31

I drove up and down Gabby’s road but, of course, at that time of night there were no parking spaces. On a second pass, I spotted the entry to the street’s rear alley and ignored the No Parking sign next to it.

If Dominic Rogan launched another sortie tonight, he’d get the shock of his fucking life.

During my shift, Meehan’s words from three years ago had been ringing through my head: Y
ou need to keep an eye on that one.
I couldn’t just hope that Rogan wouldn’t come back and attack Gabby. I’d failed to protect a woman from a violent man before. I wouldn’t be taking that chance again.

Besides, Rogan had clearly slipped into a delusional cycle that only the sharpest of shocks might break. My springing out of the night could do the trick.

I also figured, somehow, that Marion’s foul-tempered spirit /ghost would be less likely to find me here. And, having grown up on
The
Rockford Files
,
Cagney and Lacey
and
Remington Steele
, I’d always fantasised about staking somebody out. I even brought doughnuts.

After midnight, the wind picked up, the last of the house lights went off and the trees groaned.

Just a handful of people walked past, mostly carefree couples gambolling home from a night out. How I envied their playful bickering, their easy intimacy, their ‘wink-and-elbow’ language of delight.

It had been almost three years since I’d shared the thrill of giddy affection. Sure, there had been a few drink-fuelled end-of-night snogs and exchanges of numbers, a few awkward dates. At least, they became awkward as soon as anyone mentioned exes. I hadn’t worked out yet how to talk about Eve and what happened – or how to refer to her in the past tense. Unfinished business, and all that.

I thought back to the last time we’d spoken – two days after she killed Meehan.

The lunchtime news revealed she had been released on bail. Three or four times that afternoon, I picked up the phone to call her home, only to replace the receiver. Eve wouldn’t answer for sure: what was I supposed to say to Mad Mo?

‘Mrs Daly, back from New York so soon?’

No doubt they’d blame me for not protecting Eve – as if her prop dagger-wielding high-jinks hadn’t proven, beyond any doubt, that the one person who didn’t need protecting was Eve Daly.

Dusk told me it was time to go and see her. As shadows gathered in the last corners of the golf course, I strode the ninth fairway, relieved to be ‘doing’ rather than ‘thinking’. Barty Morris, keeper of the greens and not many secrets, spotted me and stopped dead in his tracks. It was clear, even from this distance, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. I gave him a wave of my white bandaged hands and turned towards the Daly back garden. To wide-eyed Barty, this represented the scoop of a lifetime. ‘The Dalys are having another party!’ I shouted, and he nearly toppled over.

As I hopped into Eve’s backyard, I spied the press pack out front disbanding for the night. I counted six photographers and two TV cameras. To one side, an orange-faced anchor man completed an earnest piece-to-camera. Behind him, a pair of ferrety little reporters, all bustling and self-important in their flappy macs, buzzed about like bluebottles at a picnic. Fintan would feel right at home amongst that lot, I thought. Except with this story, he could scoop his rivals without leaving his flat in Dublin 4.

As I crept across the crazy paving, I was stopped dead in my tracks by bloodstains –
my
bloodstains – daubed in manic streaks on the shed’s pebbledash wall. It looked like the remnants of some gruesome pagan sacrifice.

I tiptoed to the outer wall of the house. The kitchen light was off, so I took a quick squint through the window. Ghostly white shapes floated up and down the hallway. On closer inspection, they turned into forensic officers in their white boiler suits and masks. Some sort of tent blocked the doorway into Eve’s bedroom. The place where we fell in love and made our promises was now a crime scene.

I knew that my only chance of seeing Eve alone was after she’d gone to bed. She wouldn’t be sleeping in her own room tonight, so I gambled that Mo would give her the master bedroom. I decided to creep round the bungalow to that window and wait.

The top half of the back door was frosted glass, so I got down on all fours to crawl past. Christ, I thought, what if Mad Mo walks out now? It’d be the second death here in two days, because she’d either keel over from shock, or murder me. I had to stop crawling to laugh. I put it down to nerves.

I got to the window to find the blinds closed solid against the glass. I couldn’t even tell if there was a light on inside. I waited and waited, drumming up the courage to drum upon the glass. When it turned ten p.m., I held my breath and thudded gently with my bandaged hand. Nothing. I thudded louder.

I stood back. I figured the Dalys were feeling a bit raw at the moment and I didn’t want to scare the shit out of anybody. The curtain opened a fraction. The light caught Eve’s fiery hair and I saw one green eye squinting through the gap. I realised I’d been holding my breath for longer than was healthy.

The gap closed, then nothing. Was someone else in the room? I crouched down and waited, and waited. Ten, fifteen minutes passed. What was going on? All I knew was: I wouldn’t leave until I’d spoken to Eve – no matter how long it took. Finally, the window latch squeaked, a little reluctantly to my ears.

I reached out, put my wrapped-up hand on hers. She pulled it away. Well what did I expect?

I’d rehearsed my speech, over and over, but it was gone.

‘Sorry,’ was all I could think to say. ‘Eve, I’m so, so sorry.’

I couldn’t stop my eyes welling up. She looked at me, blankly. She was still in shock. I just had to let her know that I was here for her.

‘I can’t imagine how you must be feeling,’ I said, re-offering a comedy mitten. She looked at it, blinked for the first time, but didn’t take it. She sighed hard.

‘He spiked my drink. That’s why I ended up, you know …’

She looked over my head into the distance for several seconds.

‘Eve, please, we need to talk.’

Finally, she snapped back from whatever far-off place she’d been inspecting, and looked at me properly.

‘He attacked me,’ she whispered.

‘Oh God, Eve,’ I said.

She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the window sill and cradling her cheeks with her open hands. With her hair in bunches, she looked so young, so fragile, so pretty. I just wanted to hold her for the rest of my life.

‘Eve,’ I whispered, and moved closer, ‘I know this is going to sound really weird, but I think I saw what happened.’

Her hands dropped from her face. ‘What?’ she said, her voice suddenly hard. ‘What are you on about?’

‘Please, just let me explain,’ I pleaded. ‘When I blacked out, I had this sort of out-of-body experience. It’s like my spirit came to your bedroom and saw what happened.’

‘What?’ she said, irritated.

‘Look I know it sounds mad but I came out of my body and found myself hovering in your bedroom. I could see you on the bed. I saw … him … walk into the room. I saw the clock radio. It said 1.09.’

Eve stared at me, her damp eyes accusing and wounded. ‘What? What do you mean
you saw
?’

‘It’s like my spirit got sent to your bedroom. It was as if I was in your room, watching it all happen, but when I tried to shout, when I tried to … help you, I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t move. I really don’t know how to explain it.’

Eve was staring at me hard, blinking often.

‘What did you see?’ she demanded.

‘Oh God, Eve, I don’t know if I should put you through it again, I …’

‘Tell me, Donal. Please. I need to know.’

‘I saw him getting up, er on top of you. Then he threw his hat towards the window … like a Frisbee …’

‘Oh my God …’ she murmured. ‘And …?’

I rushed through the rest as fast as I could. ‘You were sort of fighting back. It was all silent. He lifted up your skirt and then it went black and I woke up in hospital. It felt like I was in some sort of vacuum.’

Eve held my hand tightly.

After what seemed like several minutes, she said, ‘How long were you there, in my room?’

I shook my head. ‘A few minutes. The clock said 1.13 when I blacked out again.’

I decided not to mention Meehan’s post-death attempt to strangle me: she’d heard enough for one night.

‘That’s so strange,’ she said softly, her grip on my hand loosening.

‘There must be a logical reason,’ I said. ‘Maybe I heard them talking about it, when I was unconscious. Maybe my brain formed pictures of what I’d heard.’

‘Yeah but the hat thing … no one would know that.’

We said nothing for several minutes.

‘He did attack me, you know?’ she said, lowering her big wet eyes towards mine, ‘I had to defend myself.’

‘Of course,’ I said, tightening my grip. ‘I – I saw.’

She gulped and looked down.

‘Eve, I want you to know, whatever happens, I’ll be here for you.’ I had never meant anything more in my entire life.

She turned her head to the window frame. ‘Just go, Donal. Don’t wait for me,’ she said softly.

‘Okay, but I’ll come back tomorrow, and every day until this has sorted itself out.’

‘No, Donal, I don’t want you waiting for me. It’ll just make things harder. Go without me.’

‘I can’t do that, I …’

‘Promise me you’ll go to London, like we planned.’

She was eyeing me as you would a defiant child. I shook my head, trying hard not to cry.

‘Promise!’ she demanded sharply, pulling away from my hand and glaring at me. I could never say no to Eve.

‘Promise,’ I whimpered, feeling as lonely and restless as a ghost.

‘Good,’ she said, ‘because we’re finished, Donal. It’s over. I’m sorry.’ She pulled the window shut – thump. The blind fell back down to earth. Thump. In one aching heartbeat, she had gone.

Three years on, my chest still twanged at the memory. I unwound the car window a few inches and gulped in some fresh night air. I decided to give Salcott Road another hour, then go home and crack open the Shiraz.

Yeah but the hat thing … no one would know that.
Three years later, Eve’s words still echoed in my brain.

Three whole years. I knew I should move on from Eve Daly. Fintan had told me to move on from Eve Daly. My friends had told me to move on from Eve Daly. What no one could tell me was:
how do you stop loving somebody?

I tried to meet girls on the North London Irish scene, but grew dispirited. They seemed immediately turned off by the fact I was a cop: no doubt their daddies wouldn’t approve. Mind you, being a builder or barman hadn’t exactly bowled them over either. I got the impression they wanted to be swept off their feet by a square-jawed sporty type with worldly charm, roguish self-confidence and big plans to make money and move back home. It didn’t help that Fintan seemed possessed of the magic formula for instantly clicking with women. He’d get this glint in his eye that they clearly adored, and I could never make them laugh like he did. Inevitably, I got stuck with his conquest’s perennially overshadowed, unamused sidekick.

It irked me that girls found Fintan’s blatant badness irresistible. And here was another one. Gabby had fallen for Dom Rogan, patently another bastard.

I tried to imagine her inside number 16. After what happened earlier, she wouldn’t be sleeping. I pictured her in the sitting room, reading highbrow women’s fiction and drinking camomile tea. Would she close the curtains, hoping Dom would stay away? Or leave them open so that she’d see him coming?

Suddenly, the back right-hand door of the car slammed shut. I jumped. My arms shot up, instinctively covering my bowed head as I braced for attack. Seconds ground past, but the blows didn’t arrive. I lifted my eyes carefully to the rear-view mirror: I couldn’t see anyone in the back. Was he lying on the seat? Why would he wait for me to turn? To knife me? I opened my left elbow into a more attacking position and slowly turned my body around.

No one. I checked out the back window, the side windows. There was no one there. Who the hell had opened and shut the car door?

I turned back to the windscreen.

‘You’re imagining things, Lynch,’ I told myself, rubbing the stiff hairs on the back of my neck.

I suddenly sensed that crackle in the air: the electricity of malevolent intent. Someone wanted to do me harm, this instant. Rogan must be somewhere close by, I was certain of it.

Both back doors opened and shut this time. I tried to raise my fists and turn, but nothing would move. My entire body was frozen, paralysed. All I could feel was my heart pounding in my throat.

The back doors opened, shut, opened and shut, over and over.

I realised the only thing I could move were my eyeballs. Slowly, I raised them towards the rear-view mirror.

Marion’s bloodshot eyes glared back – wet, alive, deranged. My choking throat closed down. Unable to breathe, my chest filled to bursting. Next thing, she’s hammering my head against the window of the car door, over and over, thump, thump.

The banging rang in my ears, followed by a blinding flash of yellow light.

Someone was hammering the other side of the window. I tried to focus on the banger but, against the glare, could see only a gloved hand. ‘Meehan?’ I screamed.

‘Open up, now,’ came the command. I reached for the handle, slowly unwinding the window. I could move again.

‘Evening, sir. Perhaps you’d like to explain what you’re doing here?’ said the uniformed police officer.

‘Of course, Officer, yes, I can explain. I felt very tired driving home and stopped for a nap.’

‘You stopped for a nap? Here? Have you been drinking, sir?’

‘No. Not tonight. I’m a PC myself, Officer, based at Wandsworth.’

‘Of course you are, sir. Would you kindly step out of the car?’

‘Why? What have I done wrong?’

‘We’ve received reports of a disturbance. Please, step out of the car.’