Last Kiss (10 page)

I want you to imagine something. I want you to imagine that you see children playing in the park, pre-school children. There are swings and slides and climbing frames. The playground is colourful, and the sky is clear and blue. You can feel the heat of
the sun on your face. There are parents too, huddled in groups. Can you see them all now? Perhaps you hear laughter or the sound of the swings swishing back and forth. I see something else. I hear other things. I see the children as if they are asleep. Their eyes are closed. They might be dreaming. The sky is turning dark, and I’m in the shadows. As I stare at the swings, their ropes fray, the seats break. When I turn to look at the slides, children’s bodies lie in a heap at the bottom, on top of one another, like bags of grain. The climbing frame surrounding the playground locks everyone in. The image of the inner eye is disturbing, don’t you think? It distorts things. It makes good things bad and bad things good. I’ve learned to do both. I’ve had to. My life is often in the shadows, but it constantly seeks escape to the light.

I remember an afternoon a long time ago. It had been raining. One moment the sky was clear, and then, without warning, it was thunderous, loud, dark and threatening, as if the heavens were angry. Things began to change, like the children in the playground. I found myself standing in a place I had no memory of. I looked for the familiar, something to make sense of the new. I realised slowly that, no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to where I was before.

I wasn’t alone and, like the road in the woods, the one that can’t be seen, the person lurking in the shadows was hidden to me. But they were watching, following me, counting each breath I took. The woman in the shadows comes to me at moments of anxiety. Her presence is like an all-consuming claw, pulling me to her.

I didn’t know what to do. If I stayed still, she would trap me,
but if I ran, I might become more lost. Again, I had the feeling that what was happening was happening to someone else, that I was detached, broken. I began humming, loud and clear, trying to convince myself that I hadn’t vanished, that I was still alive. I willed the clouds to clear, and the road home to reappear. Even when I heard louder noises coming from behind, leaves swishing, twigs snapping, I kept a steady pace until the rain came, fast and furious. I ran to the rhythm of Nature’s wrath until finally the landscape altered again and small things became familiar.

When I looked back, all I could see was a dark mass, towering high. For a split second, I wondered if I’d imagined it all, until I saw her, the hunched shadowy figure, like an old bear. There have been times recently when I’ve wondered if I’ve become that dark shadow. Has she become part of me? I follow people too, meddling in their lives. And now my new lover has become the most promising of them all, and one way or another, we will play out our merry dance together.

MATCHING THE CURRENT investigation to a similar murder across Europe had initially felt to Mark Lynch like trawling through an entire telephone directory armed with only part of a contact name. Certainly, the concentration on a female killer, the type of weapon used and the hotel-room location had reduced the odds considerably, but although he was still dubious about the Tarot connection, it had been the linchpin for the shift in focus to the Parisian killing.

With that cold case unfolding, another commonality was obvious. Both Rick Shevlin and Pierre Laurent had been killed in capital cities, and the hotel rooms were distinctly opulent. If
there were other unsolved cases, narrowing the remit mightn’t be enough due to the population density of capital cities. It was only when he had finished talking to Kate earlier that morning that news of another potential international connection came in. This time it was nothing to do with her analysis but, rather, something Rick Shevlin’s wife had omitted when she was first interviewed. She had been slow to tell the family liaison officer, Claire Boyd, about it, but with three weeks of trust under her belt, Anita Shevlin finally confided her suspicion that she thought she was being stalked prior to her husband’s death. Initially, she told herself she was being ridiculous, underestimating the relevance. The potential stalking added a new dimension: it led him to another case on the Europol database, of a murdered Italian businessman, this time in Rome. Again, it was a hotel-room location, but the wife of the victim, who was present during the attack, had survived, and she, too, suspected she was being stalked. Nothing was carved in stone at this point, but coming three weeks after practically nothing in the investigation, Lynch wasn’t going to stall in contacting Alfredo Masciarelli of the Polizia di Stato in Rome. Thankfully, Masciarelli spoke excellent English, cutting down potential language barriers. Having talked through the Dublin and Paris murder investigations, Lynch asked, ‘Can we rely on your full co-operation?’

‘But of course. However, the senior investigating officer on the case you mention retired a year ago. His name is Andrea Giordano. He is a man with an insatiable memory. You can certainly view the full police report, but Andrea was an old style of investigator, and his nose was usually extremely close
to whatever case he was involved with. It would be good if you spoke with him, but I will need to track him down. In the meantime, we can run through the standard procedures and I will forward whatever we have here.’

Before Lynch could respond, Masciarelli had disconnected. Round one to the Italian, he thought. The next call he made was to Chief Superintendent Gary Egan. The daily briefings were one thing, but Lynch liked the personal, direct approach, rather than sharing key information in a crowded room.

‘It’s still early days, Mark, but if these cases are solidly connected, we have a major international investigation on our hands.’

‘I realise that, Boss, and I plan to talk to Andrea Giordano sooner rather than later.’

‘Steady on. You can’t be everywhere at the one time. You do know O’Connor is due back tomorrow?’

‘Of course.’ The detective’s imminent return didn’t fill Lynch with joy, but he held back, not wanting the chief super to think he was threatened by it.

‘Listen, O’Connor has a lot of experience in this area, especially from his involvement a few years back in that European paedophile ring. He’s a good, solid man to have in your corner.’

He wondered if Egan had sensed his reluctance. ‘I realise that. He’s a bit raw, though, having been out for months.’

‘That might be a good thing, Mark. A fresh pair of eyes.’

He wasn’t keen on the chief superintendent’s request for O’Connor to follow through on the Europol cases, but if O’Connor went to either Rome or Paris, he would do so under Lynch’s command. A wry smile came to his face as he wondered
how his ex-boss would take instructions from him. O’Connor knew better than most not to challenge the line of authority, a roadmap within the Irish police force that only the ignorant or the plain stupid openly questioned. The next phone call he made was to Kate. Egan had pissed him off, and he would feed him information on a controlled basis from now on. Kate picked up his call on the second ring.

‘Kate, we may have another connection.’

‘Where and when?’

He got up from his desk, walking around the room with the handset close to his ear, his shoulders lowered as if sharing a secret.

‘I contacted the Rome police earlier today. We have a similar MO, hotel-room location, the victim stabbed repeatedly, only whoever carried out the attack set fire to the hotel room. The victim was partially burned. His wife, although in a bad condition, survived. A hotel orderly spotted the smoke coming from under the door and raised the alarm soon after the attack.’

‘Apart from the stabbing, and the hotel-room location, what makes you so sure they’re connected? The burning doesn’t seem to fit.’

‘Circumstances may have dictated a change of approach, Kate, but it was something Anita Shevlin mentioned this morning.’

‘What?’

‘She believed she was being stalked prior to her husband’s death, then afterwards put it down to an overactive imagination. The wife who survived the attack in Rome had the same concerns.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘In 2006.’

‘The year after Pierre Laurent’s murder?’

‘Yes.’

She contemplated the short time span. ‘Have you received the images from Paris yet?’

He didn’t want to tell her they’d come a few hours earlier. ‘Yes, they’ve only just arrived.’

‘I can be there in half an hour. I’ll need to see them. Anything of interest strike you?’

‘Not yet – nothing we don’t already know.’

‘You may be right, but the visuals always tell their own story.’

He didn’t need a lecture from Kate on observational skills. ‘You know where we are whenever you care to visit.’ His tone was deliberately businesslike.

He knew he had to keep a cool head, especially if he intended to remain the golden boy in this investigation. Thinking about O’Connor and Kate, he figured it wouldn’t be long before the two of them started getting cosy. Any fool could see how O’Connor felt about the woman. A police officer with an inclination to let his personal life get in the way wasn’t an ideal choice for Lynch in the investigation. And there was no denying that everyone in the Harcourt Street unit now knew about the guy’s son, and how he’d fucked up his personal life for years. Gossip and innuendo were as important to cops as they were to everyone else, perhaps more so. The more you knew about someone, the more you could turn it to your advantage. He would keep O’Connor under control. If the chief super wanted O’Connor to go to Paris and other jurisdictions, he was placing him in a prime position to shine, and that didn’t settle easily on
Lynch’s shoulders. This investigation was a media goldmine: professional victim stabbed in a hotel room, possible bondage issues, the use of an escort, and now the international element. There was enough spin to make any decent tabloid drool.

Swinging around on his desk chair, he pulled the images from Paris up on his PC. The journalists were hovering, looking to get their piece of the action. It wouldn’t take much for a minor leak to multiply and take wings, ending up on the front pages. Gary Egan wouldn’t be happy about that. You’re only ever as good as your last case, and O’Connor’s reputation had already been damaged. If the chief super thought his involvement was drawing heat rather than averting it, that might be enough for him to assign the previously suspended detective to some boring desk duties.

Lynch knew the police force had plenty of weak links, those you could depend on to do your dirty work. Police officers who liked to court the press were common knowledge within the rank and file – ‘lamps’, shining their lights for all the wrong reasons. All Lynch needed to do was inadvertently mention to one that a recently suspended detective was being given a primary role in an international investigation. Fire in some previous alcohol-dependency issues, and they would run to their buddies in the media, salivating at the thought of being
a reliable police source
, yet again.

There were trustworthy journalists too, those who usually got the official low-down on high-profile cases, feeders for what the police wanted the public to hear. Some were held in high regard by the chief super. No, they weren’t the ones to run to with a spin like this. Like the lamps, they had to be of a particular
type, the kind used to getting their information from the same desperate, attention-seeking, loud-mouthed eejits – officers they could depend on to give them the dirt. He could see the headlines now, tabloids screaming about the effects of cutbacks, the lack of high-calibre personnel available to tackle major crime, the police policing the police, one rule for them and another for Joe Public. Oh, yes, the chief super and O’Connor would soon feel the pressure once the media started spouting about an independent inquiry. There would be talk about rash judgements, and all kinds of crap. It was par for the course, but still the heat would be felt, and quickly. The chief and O’Connor would have only themselves to blame. He was doing the right thing, even if others lacked his foresight.

Before ringing Freddie Walsh, a lamp with a bigger mouth than Dolly Parton’s chest, he zoomed in again on the images on his PC. If he had missed something important about the photographs, it would undoubtedly give Kate the upper hand, and that wasn’t a pill he was prepared to swallow. Kate had her uses, and he would manage them to his advantage. She wasn’t one to look for attention or constant praise, but then again, she didn’t have to deal with the crap he had to. Not everyone had his drive and ambition, and he would use that to his advantage too.

WAKING UP ON the sofa-bed in the studio, I have no idea how long I have been asleep. Even though I haven’t painted for weeks, I still look on the studio as somewhere to clear my thoughts. Edgar described it as my place to be alone. I have my own key to lock it from the inside. He made a big deal about it being the only one. He made such a big deal about all of it.

I begin shuffling things around, laying out brushes, thinking about which colours I want to add to the palette. I have plenty of ideas about what I want to paint, but nothing stays for long. It’s been that way of late. I get excited about a concept, and then it fades. Next thing, I’m back walking around the studio like a demented person.

I’m usually less nervous when I’m painting, or thinking about painting. I remind myself that painting isn’t about jumping straight in. You can’t create something the way you can bake a cake. There are no recipes. It’s more complicated than that.
Edgar giving you this studio was a waste of time – all you’re doing is making excuses
.

Mixing the colours on my palette, I use the five bases I’ve used for ever – cadmium light yellow, red, ultramarine blue, burnt umber and white flake, but soon they blur into one another, and I realise I’m crying. I wipe my eyes, but my hands are shaking. I put the palette down. I feel a chill inside. I think again about Edgar organising the studio as a surprise gift. The girls had known about it. They had been in on his little secret. It had bothered me that they’d known and I hadn’t.