The Dark Eye (The Saxon & Fitzgerald Mysteries Book 2) (27 page)

I looked up through the trees at the buildings that surrounded St Stephen’s Green, trying to pick out my own window and imagining myself up there, looking down at me.

Should I give myself a wave?

Imagined someone else standing here too, looking up in the same direction, waiting, watching for the moment I left and he could climb the stairs and let himself into my rooms.

Why me?

It could only be because of Felix, I thought. If it was the Marxman who’d called Strange, and I didn’t doubt that it was, then he’d know I’d been investigating Felix’s death. I’d hardly kept quiet about it. I can’t keep quiet about anything.

My tongue has a life of its own.

Did he think that I too was following his footprints in the snow as Felix had done? And if he did, what would he do if I just appeared, like he asked, and handed him Strange’s gun?

Did I really need to ask?

‘So what exactly,’ I said, ‘are you asking of me?’

‘I want you to do what he said on the telephone,’ said Strange, as if the answer was so obvious a child wouldn’t have needed it spelled out. ‘I want you to take the gun, I’ll give you a gun, any gun, and I want you to give it to him.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘Don’t say that. Think about it at least.’

‘What’s there to think about? You’re saying you want me to give the Marxman a gun?’

‘I’ll pay you. I’ll give you ten thousand. Twenty. I don’t care.’

‘Money has nothing to do with it,’ I said. ‘The man’s a killer, Strange. You’d have to be loco to even be having a debate in your head about doing what he says. And why
should
I help you? I’m amazed you have the nerve to even come and ask me. From the first moment we met, you’ve done nothing but frustrate me. Put obstacles in my way. And now you want my help?’

‘Is that what this is about? Getting your own back? No one would listen to you about Felix, so now you’re going to turn me away when I need your help?’

‘It’s not that at all.’

‘Then what is it? I just want him to go away. Can’t you see? I’m desperate. Can you imagine how hard it was for me to get the courage to come and tell you this, not knowing what you’d do, what you’d say, how you’d react? But I had to. I’m in a hole and I want to get out, and I don’t know how to get out except by simply doing what I’m told. I just want to be left alone. I want my life back. I don’t know what else to do. If you don’t do what he says . . .’

I almost felt sorry for him at that moment, but not so sorry that I didn’t realise the risks he was willing to run with the rest of the population of Dublin in order to save his own hide.

‘The fact that you’re desperate is why you’re not thinking straight,’ I said. ‘Can’t you see how much worse it will be for you if it gets out that you’ve knowingly assisted a multiple killer? Whereas if you help the police bring him in, no one’s going to care about a few dollars that found their way mistakenly into your back pocket. You’ve got to start thinking, Strange. I mean it. Don’t you even care that more people will be killed if you do what he tells you?’

‘Of course I care,’ he said fiercely. ‘I feel like a worm for even contemplating doing what he asks, but I’m over a barrel, don’t you see? I can’t be expected to take the responsibility for being a hero entirely on my shoulders. I have to think about myself. My own future.’

‘Then think about yourself. Because do you really think this guy’ll just vanish if you give him what he wants now? That he won’t come back for more, and more after that? There’s always something else to ask for, and you always ask the people who gave most easily the first time.’

‘What else can I do?’

I tried to put the possibilities into some order in my head.

‘When’s he calling back?’

‘About midnight. He’s going to tell me the time and place the handover is to happen.’

‘Then you’re going to have to take the call,’ I said. ‘Act as if everything’s OK, agree to whatever he says, just arrange the details, then call me.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘You have to trust me. You came to me looking for help and I’m offering it to you. But you have to let me do things my way. I’ll make sure your name is kept out of it as best I can.’

‘You’re not going to go to the police, are you?’

‘Strange, listen. You’re going to have to trust me.’

There was panic in his eyes as he stared at me.

And stared.

Then he nodded.

‘What other choice do I have?’ he said.

‘There’s just one thing I want in return.’

‘Anything. Just name your price.’

‘I want to see the photographs in the locker at Central Station.’

That obviously wasn’t what Strange had been expecting.

‘You know about that as well?’

‘I wanted to know where they were,’ I said, ‘so I followed you.’

He sniffed with peculiar disapproval for a man who only moments ago had been suggesting handing a gun to a total stranger just to cover up his own bilking.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t just break in and steal them,’ he said.

‘I considered it. What can I say? I’m an inquisitive woman. But there were too many people about. I didn’t know if the photos were worth the risk. Are they?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Strange. ‘I never looked at them.’

‘Come on.’

‘You don’t have to believe me. But as I told you before, Felix asked me to look after the photographs and that’s what I did. For all my other faults, I am not a peeping Tom. I presumed he had his reasons for keeping them hidden.’

‘What did you think they were?’

‘At first,’ he admitted, ‘I thought the pictures might be of Felix and Alice together. That he’d got worried after the break-in at the house, realised how vulnerable they were, and wanted them out of harm’s way. Then when Alice died too and the photographs of them were found . . . well, that didn’t make any sense. You want to know the truth? The truth was I didn’t know what they were and I didn’t want to look. I was afraid of what I might find.’

‘I’m not afraid. I want to see them,’ I said. ‘I need to know if they have anything to do with Felix’s death.’

‘Not that again. How could they?’

‘Until I see them, how can I ever know?’

We were in Fitzgerald’s office and Draker was shouting, and I was enjoying every second of his discomfort. His voice shook the window like passing trucks. His words were variations on a theme, like he was some crazed maestro banging out angry chords on an untuned piano.

Who the hell do you think you are?

What gives you the right?

I’m afraid he wasn’t very original in his ranting. I tuned out his voice so that it merged into the background like a hum and he was a fly knocking itself in frustration against a closed window, unable to get out. I saw his lips moving, but the words broke apart and disintegrated before they could reach my ears.

‘Time’s running out, Draker,’ I said when the lips stopped moving briefly.

‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?’ he asked.

‘Let me think now. No.’

And that set him off again.

It was a simple deal. I’d told the Assistant Commissioner I was willing to pass on to the murder squad a tip-off about a possible handover of a gun tonight – so long as I was allowed in on the action. I wanted to be there. Plus – let’s not forget the important part – I wanted to be the first to talk to the suspect.

It wasn’t quite what Strange had had in mind when he came to me for help, but I figured he’d thank me for it in the end. Even if I couldn’t guarantee that his name would be kept out of it afterwards. Whatever grief he got as a result, it was better than being in hock for ever to the Marxman.

Draker had a problem with my plan, however.

Two problems, I should say.

Problem One, which I could sympathise with, was that I was a civilian – as indeed he’d reminded me close on a hundred times since I walked into Dublin Castle with Fitzgerald a half-hour ago – and if anything happened to me tonight then he was the one who was going to have to go out in public and concoct some half-baked story to prevent the whole thing going bad faster than the morning’s milk, all the time hoping the press didn’t catch on to the lie, or he could kiss goodbye not only to the Commissioner’s job but probably the one he already had as well.

Problem Two was that he didn’t like me.

Never had.

Problem Two, though, wasn’t my problem, and Problem One was non-negotiable, since there was no way I was going to just hand over what I had and let the police take control.

Besides, the caller expected me to be there.

I hadn’t told Draker that part.

‘Where exactly did you get this tip-off anyway?’ I heard Draker asking irritably again.

‘I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information,’ I said, trying to make each word as irritating as possible. ‘My informant wishes to preserve his anonymity. All I am willing to say is that I got a lead about a possible handover of a gun tonight somewhere on the northside and that I intend to be there. Whether your officers are there with me is entirely up to you.’

‘And if I refuse to do what you want?’

‘Then you’ll never get the chance to find out if this man is who you want him to be.’

‘You’d allow him to get away rather than back down?’

‘There’s no need for anyone to get away,’ I pointed out patiently. ‘All you have to do is agree to my conditions and then we all get what we want.’

‘There are people dying,’ Draker started again, his voice rising. ‘It is your responsibility to hand over any information you have which might be of assistance to the Dublin Metropolitan Police in apprehending him.’

I found myself wondering if he talked in that pedantic way at home.

I pitied his wife if he did.

‘And you,’ I answered, ‘are the one who’s going to have to explain to the Commissioner why you let vital information go because of some personal problem you had with me.’

‘I have a personal problem with
you
? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m the one who’s trying to stop you getting killed here. You know what I should do?’ he said with spontaneous insight. ‘I should have you arrested. See how cocky you are after a few hours in the cells.’

‘Then why don’t you quit threatening and get on with it?’

Draker turned to Fitzgerald in exasperation.

‘Chief Superintendent,’ he pleaded, ‘is there nothing you can do about this?’

I could tell from her face that Fitzgerald was trying not to allow her own enjoyment of Draker’s dilemma show. She wasn’t making a bad job of it either, but I wasn’t fooled.

‘Sir,’ she said coolly, ‘we are both in the same position. I have no more access to this information than you have. Saxon has already made her bottom line absolutely clear.’

He looked hard at Fitzgerald, as if sensing something in her which was relishing his discomfort, and defying her to let it show, but she didn’t flinch, and he was forced to shift his gaze away. Back to me. And I saw that his energy for fighting was fading.

‘You would let this man get away rather than back down?’

I nodded curtly, letting myself believe at that moment that I would, because it was the only way to make what I was saying sound convincing.

‘You’d let more people die?’

‘There’s no
reason
why anyone else should die,’ I said.

‘Look. You can give me the how-dare-you speech again if you like. I’ll sit here and listen to it all day. I’ll even give you marks out of ten if you want. But it won’t get us anywhere. Yes, it could go wrong and you’ll wind up looking bad. Everything’s a risk. Alternatively, you could bring this investigation to a close by the morning. It’s too important to me to let this chance go. What about you?’

He didn’t answer directly. Instead he asked me a question.

‘Why does it matter so much that you get to talk to this fruitcake?’

‘Because if it really is the Marxman who’s going to be there tonight,’ I said, ‘I want to ask him what he knows about Felix Berg’s death. I want to know why Felix died.’

‘Not that again,’ said Draker wearily. They were the same words Strange had used less than an hour ago when I’d asked him for the photographs. I seemed to be uniting the city in disapproval. ‘I heard you were making a fool of yourself over that, but I never thought you’d let it interfere with your judgement. What’s there to know? Felix Berg killed himself.’

‘I want to hear that from the Marxman himself,’ I said.

Draker turned to the window and looked out at grey clouds. The light was flecked with dark shadows, as if the rain that had fallen earlier on St Stephen’s Green, unnoticed by me, was threatening to return. A solitary bird was making its way down to the river.

‘Very well,’ he said eventually. ‘I agree. You get your way. You tell us where the handover’s to take place and you can be there. You can make the first approach to the suspect. You can have your two, three minutes, whatever, to talk to him. But in return . . .’

He gave a thin smile.

‘Yes?’

‘You agree to let Seamus Dalton be your babysitter for the night.’

‘Dalton?’ I echoed numbly, and Fitzgerald began to protest.

‘Seamus Dalton,’ Draker repeated more loudly, to overrule both our objections. ‘He’s an experienced murder squad officer. He is familiar with the terrain on the northside. I also feel that he has been punished enough for whatever misdemeanours he’s been accused of.’

‘Dalton has not been punished,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘I have merely assigned him temporarily on to other duties because his personal problems have made it impossible for others on the team to work with him.’

‘I didn’t say what I just said as a prelude to a prolonged debate,’ said Draker. ‘I’ve made my decision. Take it or leave it.’

He was learning fast.

‘Saxon?’ said Fitzgerald.

‘Dalton it is then,’ I said.

********************

‘Are you sure you’re OK with this?’ said Fitzgerald for the ninth time. I know it was the ninth time because I’d been counting ever since she walked through the door. ‘You sound funny.’

‘That’s because I keep having to shout so you can hear me,’ I said.

‘What? You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.’

‘See what I mean?’

She was in the shower, and I was sitting on the edge of the bath, watching her. She’d come round about ten minutes ago to freshen up ready for the night ahead – it was quicker than making the long trek to her place by the water – but seeing her had only made me feel more guilty than ever. I’d told her from the start that my information came from Vincent Strange, and what the caller had on him, but I hadn’t told her that the caller had insisted I be the one who made the drop-off. That would have prompted too many difficult questions. About just what interest the caller had in me; I might have even had to tell her about what had happened in my apartment on the night of Felix’s funeral. I still hadn’t got round to that.

Still wasn’t sure what the connection was.

In addition, she was already concerned enough about my insistence on being there tonight. She’d even tried to talk me out of it, and I felt so bad watching her worry that I might have allowed myself to be dissuaded if it hadn’t been for the fact that I had to be there, that that was part of the caller’s deal with Strange. Anything else and the whole evening could unravel in our hands.

And I wasn’t prepared to let that happen.

Not now, when it all might be coming to an end. When I might be so close to having with Felix what I’d never had with Sydney: answers. I had no choice. I had to be there.

‘Here, hand me a towel,’ she said, and I started.

I hadn’t heard the water switch off.

I was getting quite a talent for daydreaming.

I reached over for a towel and handed it through the door to her, and watched as she wrapped herself inside it and stepped out, leaving damp footprints on the tiles.

As she rubbed herself dry she talked, trying to distract us both from our anxieties by bringing me up to speed on what had happened since that morning.

For once, it seemed, Fitzgerald had hit lucky. Within a matter of hours of the conference with Fisher and Walsh in her car outside Dublin Castle, they’d managed to put together a better picture of Tim Enright’s dealings than had emerged during the initial investigation.

‘Walsh brought back a huge box of stuff from Enright’s office,’ she said. ‘Letters, email records, accounts, you name it. There was one name that stood out. Charles Mason, head of Mason & Vine, a wine import company with a warehouse down on the quays. Enright had kept an eye on Mason’s investments for years, but the record shows he didn’t take a cent from him last year.’

‘Did Mason say why?’

‘He did indeed, though not without considerable pressing. Last year, it seems, Enright asked him to bring in a package for him from the States, the deal being that Mason would pull some strings to get it cleared through customs, no questions asked, and Enright would work for gratis that financial year. It represented a big saving for Mason. He was one of Enright’s biggest clients.’

‘Did Enright tell him what would be in the package?’

‘A rare vintage wine.’

‘Wine? And he believed it?’

‘Mason had no reason not to believe it. He’d known Enright for years, he didn’t have a stain on his character. And Enright did collect vintage wines; apparently he had a fortune tied up in them. He simply told Mason he didn’t want to pay duty on the purchase, which he’d have to if he declared it. He said the Revenue Commissioners were fleecing him enough already.’

‘And Mason didn’t mind helping him to defraud the tax inspectors?’

‘Probably quite the opposite. Who wants an investment broker who doesn’t cut the odd corner? That’s like a hooker who doesn’t do anything on the first date.’

‘I guess so. So what do
you
think was in the package?’

‘You know what I think was in it,’ said Fitzgerald, hanging up the towel again and reaching for her clothes. ‘A Glock .36 with a spotless ballistics history which now sits in our storeroom with a rather less spotless ballistics history. That’s how the Marxman got the weapon into the country. Through Enright.’

‘And that’s why Enright had to die? It makes sense,’ I said.

‘If he hadn’t been killed, the sequence could have all fallen apart at the start. He knew too much. But how come this Mason didn’t come forward when Enright was killed? Didn’t he think there might be a connection between him receiving some mysterious package from the States and him dying?’

‘Not according to Mason, no. He says the police were briefing the media that the shooting was motiveless and random, which we were, and that there was no connection to organised crime. I don’t think he had the slightest notion what was in the package, always assuming our hunch is right. All he felt,’ Fitzgerald said, ‘was relief because our conviction that the murders were random eased him of the burden of having to come forward and confess his peculiar arrangement with the dead man. It would’ve looked bad for him if it had come out.’

‘And now with another brace of victims it’s going to look even worse,’ I reflected. ‘But if Enright did give the Glock to the Marxman, then what did
he
get out of the exchange, that’s the part I don’t understand.’