The Dead (The Saxon & Fitzgerald Mysteries Book 1) (26 page)

Chapter Thirty

I decided to skip the crime team meeting, partly because I felt increasingly isolated in there, partly because there seemed no point to it with so little progress to report. Fitzgerald didn’t press me. I was a big girl, she probably thought, I could make up my own mind.

I stood in the street and watched her car ease round the corner and disappear. She’d barely gone when the sound of another car turning the corner at the other end of the road made me look back.

‘Boland,’ I said aloud in recognition. ‘What’s he doing here?’

Boland pulled into the space Fitzgerald had left only seconds before and got out.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be at the morning briefing?’ he said to me.

‘I was about to ask you the same question, Sergeant.’

‘I’ve got an excuse. I’ve been running round chasing up leads, orders of the Chief. Don’t tell me I’ve missed her?’

‘Afraid so. Want to share your news with me?’

‘I suppose it can’t hurt. I managed to track down the courier firm who delivered the letter to the Chief’s house this morning. They weren’t too much help; the guy on duty last night says he can’t remember who left the envelope to be delivered. Said how was he supposed to remember? People are coming and going all the time.’

‘I don’t know which is worse,’ I said. ‘The witness who claims to remember too much or the one who won’t commit to saying anything in case they might be wrong.’

‘It’s like keyhole surgery sometimes. Every fragment of information has to be fished out of them with tweezers.’

‘Another dead end then,’ I said.

‘Not quite,’ said Boland. ‘They have CCTV.’

‘From last night? But that means we’ll be able—’

‘To see who dropped off the letter,’ Boland interrupted me. He was smiling. ‘Exactly.’

I felt a smile coming to my own face, but brought it sharply under control. It was too early to allow myself to get excited.

‘It’s too easy,’ I said. ‘He won’t be on CCTV.’

‘You sound sure.’

‘I am sure. He managed to avoid the security cameras round the canal when he killed Mary Lynch. Knew exactly where they all were. Why would he suddenly slip up now?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Boland. ‘But can we afford not to find out?’

********

It was Boland who eventually broke the silence.

‘Are you all right, Saxon?’ he asked as we drove.

We were heading towards a narrow street near Pearse Street Station where the courier firm was located. It was the same firm I’d used to send the case notes over to Tillman after hours a few nights ago.

‘Why wouldn’t I be all right?’ I said.

‘You seem distracted, that’s all. You haven’t said much since we set out.’

‘I guess I didn’t get much rest last night,’ I said, sidestepping the question. ‘It’s hard to sleep when every moment seems so vital and your thoughts are going at a hundred miles an hour. And then if I do sleep for half an hour, I feel guilty.’

‘Even the killer sleeps,’ said Boland.

‘He can afford to sleep. He has this all mapped out, he knows where it’s going. He’s known a long time.’

We were snarled in traffic by the hospital in Holles Street. The road ran straight here down to the river. The morning blared with horns and the sounds of construction. Scaffolding laced the sky, shutting us in.

‘Elliott came round to my place last night,’ I said after a pause, glad I’d finally said the words that had been on the tip of my tongue from the moment I saw Boland’s car approach.

‘Did he?’

He sounded like he was wondering what Elliott had to do with it.

‘He wanted me to know he didn’t have anything to do with the deaths. At least that’s why he said he came round.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘Doesn’t matter what I believe,’ I said.

‘It obviously mattered to Elliott,’ Boland pointed out. He waited for me to continue, and when I didn’t he said: ‘Did he tell you anything he didn’t tell Fitzgerald yesterday?’

‘No. In fact, he talked about you mainly. You never mentioned you were friends.’

‘Friends would be overstating it,’ said Boland. ‘I told you the other night I’d seen him around the bars. We used to have a couple of drinks now and then when I was in Serious Crime.’

‘You didn’t hit it off.’

‘I always got the impression that any friendship we ever had would come on the back of what he could get out of me, nothing else.’

‘He wanted you for a source?’

‘He wants everyone for a source,’ said Boland. ‘He never stops thinking about the next story. Every time you talk to him, it’s like he’s picking through the bones of what you’re saying to see if there’s anything in it for him.’

‘So you never gave him a story?’

‘Nothing major, no state secrets,’ he said. ‘I threw him a few scraps, just to be friendly, then I stopped returning his calls.’ He cast me another sideways glance. ‘I hope you don’t think I gave him anything on this investigation.’

I didn’t answer him directly.

‘I just wanted to know what your relationship was,’ I said.

‘Then you’ve got it. That’s all there is.’

‘He said something else,’ I went on before I could persuade myself out of it. ‘He said you told him how Mary Dalton died before Lynch did the autopsy.’

He gave a laugh, but there was no amusement in it.

‘I’m beginning to see how it works,’ Boland said. ‘He’s under pressure so he just shifts the suspicion on to me. Like pass the parcel. The one left holding the bundle when the music stops gets the blame.’

‘Who said anything about suspicion? They’re just questions.’

‘There’s no such thing as just questions. You know that.’

He stopped suddenly at a red traffic light and jerked the handbrake roughly into place. He wiped his palms on his trousers.

‘If you must know,’ he said, ‘Elliott called me at the scene of Mary Dalton’s murder, not long after you left to go to the library. He’d heard about the latest victim. He asked me how she died. I told him. I shouldn’t have, but I did. He caught me off guard.’

‘But how did you know?’

‘I’d just spoken to Lynch is how. He told me.’

‘Before he’d done an autopsy? That’s not like Lynch.’

‘We’re all doing things we wouldn’t normally do,’ he said.

Again I felt that tinge of paranoia I’d experienced as I spoke to Fitzgerald about the discovery of Ed Fagan’s body, but I pushed it back down. Boland couldn’t know about that, or about my trip out to Mullen’s place. Not unless someone in the surveillance team had talked . . .

Or had Healy seen the pictures before he dropped them off on Fitzgerald’s desk? Would he have shown them to Boland if he had?

Stop right there, I told myself sharply. I didn’t have time to be tormenting myself with these senseless thoughts.

‘I needed to ask,’ was all I said.

He was still shaking his head.

‘I can’t believe you let Nick Elliott of all people in your head like that.’

He seemed as if he was about to say more, but a horn sounded behind him.

We were green again.

Nearly there now.

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

There is something unmistakable about the look of a police officer, even out of uniform. The sullen young man behind the counter at the courier firm recognised it as soon as he looked up and saw us walking in. He knew what we were here for all right. A sign flashed behind his head:
24-Hour Delivery Anywhere
.

Anywhere?

That was an ambitious promise.

He was pale, like sunlight was only a rumour he’d heard about, not something he ever encountered for himself.

‘You want the tape from last night, is that right?’

‘That’s right,’ said Boland.

‘I got it out for you. I put it here somewhere. Wait.’ He knelt down and searched under the counter. ‘Here you go,’ he said, standing up again and holding out the video. ‘That’s everything from ten till midnight. The entry for the letter you mentioned was in that list, marked for delivery first thing this morning, so whoever brought it in must be on there. Are you taking it with you?’

‘If it’s no trouble, we’d like to look at it now. Is there somewhere we can go?’

‘There’s a machine in the back here,’ the young man said reluctantly. ‘Will that do?’

‘As long as it works,’ said Boland.

We followed him through to a small room behind the front office, where a kettle sat on a tray next to mugs that needed rinsing and coats hung over the backs of chairs; and there – a TV and video, left for the night shift in case they got bored.

‘It’s a good job you came by now,’ he said as he crouched down once more and switched on the video. ‘If you’d left it a couple of days, it would’ve been taped over. We have them running on a rota system, you see. Once one’s done, we put it to the bottom of the pile and use it when its turn comes round again. Here, that’s the right channel. This won’t take long, will it?’

‘We’ll be as quick as we can,’ said Boland.

‘Oh. OK. I’ll just . . .’

He trailed off lamely, hoping maybe for an invitation to stay and watch.

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said Boland, and he held open the door as the young man left.

Boland sat down as soon as the door was closed and pressed the play button. A grainy picture came into something approaching focus. It showed the view from a camera above the door looking down into the street. A dark-haired woman with a headscarf shrouding her face was frozen as she reached out to the handle. The time at the bottom of the screen said 22.02. My stomach danced lightly, for all I’d said to Boland about the killer not allowing himself to be caught on film.

Could this be it?

‘I’ll fast forward,’ said Boland, ‘and pause when anyone appears.’

He pressed his finger to the fast forward button, and in a moment the woman had jerked out of shot, and another figure had appeared to take her place.

For much of the time there was nothing, disconnected people coming and going too fast, like they were trapped in an old Keystone Kops movie, everything speeded up. The quality of the videotape was poor too. It had been used so often it seemed people kept bumping into ghosts of others who’d been there before, and even behind the clock there was a faint image of other clocks. Faces were indistinct even close up. Figures farther away always seemed to be at the point of breaking up. We took what notes we could of the shadows who came and went.

There were quite a lot of people, considering the lateness of the hour. Motorcycle couriers parking outside as they came in to pick up packages. Office workers dropping off parcels on their way home from working late. Other figures passed without stopping. A woman came to the window, peered in, then left. A boy who couldn’t have been more than ten kicked the glass and ran away.

‘Do you recognise anyone?’

‘No one yet,’ said Boland.

Time ticked on.

A police officer in uniform. A woman in a fur coat. A shuffling teenager who looked like he might be on drugs. A woman in a short skirt and high heels carried two boxes precariously to the door and turned her back to push it open. A tall man with grey hair held it open for her as he left. How long would it take to identify and eliminate all these—

‘Stop the tape,’ I said sharply.

‘What is it?’ said Boland.

He jabbed a finger to pause the film, but the moment had passed.

‘Rewind it slowly,’ I said. ‘Stop when I tell you.’

He pushed the video into rewind and the tall figure of the man I’d seen with grey hair walked backwards in time into sight.

The clock said 23:21.

I waited till his face was in shot.

‘There.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ whispered Boland.

‘Not quite,’ I said, ‘but at least this one’ll be easier to get in touch with.’

Chapter Thirty-One

Tillman didn’t see Boland and me arriving. He was crossing the courtyard of Trinity College, deep in conversation with one of his students – Tim, wasn’t that his name?

‘Mort, wait up!’ I shouted.

Tillman halted, irritated by the shouting, and he was even more irritated when he realised it was me. He looked tired.

‘Good afternoon, Sergeant Boland,’ he said.

No greeting for me then.

‘We need to talk,’ I said.

‘Saxon, I already told you I want nothing more to do with this case. I’m busy. I have other things to do.’

‘Like finishing your lecture for tonight?’

‘That’s one of them.’

‘And is that what you were doing at the courier’s office near Pearse Street Station last night at eleven twenty-one p.m.?’

His surprise was too obvious to hide.

‘How did you—’ He broke off. ‘No, forget it, I don’t want to know how you seem so knowledgeable about my movements all of a sudden. I’ll just make one thing clear. What I was doing last night, or any other night, is none of your business. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have—’

‘Tillman, I really don’t give a damn what you have,’ I said. ‘We need to talk and it won’t wait. How we do it is up to you.’

He stared at me a long time, trying to read what was in my head. He must have sensed something, for he turned to Tim apologetically, opening his hands.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘I understand,’ replied Tim. ‘Another time. It was good meeting you again,’ he said to me and then he was gone, walking off quickly in the direction of College Green.

Tillman watched him go before turning back to me.

‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’

‘The killer sent another letter. To Fitzgerald’s house this time,’ I said. ‘He sent it last night from the same office and round the same time that you entered the building. Boland and I just watched you on CCTV.’

That was one thing I liked about Tillman. He didn’t go through the usual pantomime of astonishment, disbelief, ultimate acceptance. He just stood quietly for a moment, putting the pieces together in his head. The anger had gone out of him now.

‘Did the letter name the next victim?’ he said.

I nodded.

‘Did he say why he killed Fagan?’

‘He said he didn’t do it.’

‘Interesting,’ said Tillman, and he stood thinking for what felt like a long time, seemingly unaware of the students who were drifting past offering greetings on the way to lunch. ‘I got a call from the college switchboard last night about seven,’ he said eventually. ‘It’ll all be down in the log if you need to check it out. They said they’d received a call from a courier firm near Pearse Street Station, saying there was a parcel waiting for me to collect. Whoever it was who called didn’t want to speak to me directly, he just wanted the message passed on. He said I could pick it up from the office any time that evening.’

‘Why did you go?’ I asked.

‘Why wouldn’t I go? For all I knew, it could’ve been important. My lawyer – not that this is any of your business either – is supposed to be sending me over some papers from Boston to sign.’

Papers relating to the sexual harassment suit that Lawrence Fisher had told me about? Possibly.

‘Naturally, I went to pick up the parcel the first free space I had. I knew it was open twenty-four hours because you’d sent me over files with the same company a few nights ago.’

‘And did they have a parcel for you?’

‘They said they didn’t even know what I was talking about. I was pretty sore about it, but what could I do? It wasn’t their problem that someone was calling me up using their company’s name as bait. So I came home again. End of story.’

‘Didn’t you wonder who’d made the call?’ Boland asked.

‘I wondered, but what good is wondering? It could’ve been anyone. Someone who’d seen my name in the paper. One of the students fooling around. I put it out of my mind.’

‘And what about now?’ said Boland. ‘Looking back, can you remember seeing anyone or anything in particular at the office last night when you got there?’

‘You mean, did I notice any serial killers hanging around in the street?’ said Tillman coldly. ‘Afraid not. Whoever it is obviously made himself scarce. Wouldn’t you?’

‘He still managed to send a letter.’

‘He managed to make sure that a letter was sent,’ corrected Tillman. ‘That doesn’t mean he did the sending. He could’ve paid any passer-by to deliver it for him; he wouldn’t have to go near the place. I can see from your face, Saxon, that you’d already considered that possibility. Have you started tracing everyone who appears on the tape?’

‘We only just got it.’

‘Then the quicker you start, the better,’ Tillman said. ‘You don’t have much time left, according to the killer’s first letter. Not that he’ll be on the tape,’ he added. ‘He’s not that stupid. He’ll have got some dupe to send the letter for him. Find the dupe and you might get an ID.’

‘What makes you so sure he won’t be on the tape himself? Your profile said he’d engage in that sort of risk-taking.’

‘There’s risk-taking and there’s idiocy,’ said Tillman. ‘Just because he might secretly want to be caught doesn’t mean he’s going to hand himself to you on a plate. That’s not the way the game works. He’ll still make you work for it. Earn it.’

‘Is that what you’d do?’ I said.

Tillman let out a laugh of contempt.

‘Don’t give me that, Saxon,’ he said. ‘You don’t suspect me. You’re too intelligent not to see what’s going on here.’

‘Which is?’

‘Your killer obviously knows that I dropped out of the game,’ Tillman said. ‘He doesn’t like it, so he tried to draw me back in. One phone call and he has me roped in as a suspect, just like the hapless Nick Elliott. He’s playing us all like chess pieces on a board. It must’ve left him really pissed that I didn’t want to carry on being a part of it. He’s to remind us who’s in charge. Remind us that it’s up to him who makes the entrances and exits; no one else.’

‘Does that mean you are interested again?’

‘No. I won’t be picked up and put down like a toy. I’m in control of me and I don’t want anything more to do with the case, I’ve made that clear. I gave you a profile. My job is done. Anything I do from now on, I do for myself. I’m strictly freelance now.’

‘So you’re just going back to doing what you were doing before like nothing has happened?’

‘Whatever plans your killer has for us all, I have plans too. I can’t change them any more than I can change this filthy weather.’             

I looked up involuntarily. Tillman was right. Dark clouds were looming high; rain was starting to fall. The weather was trying to shut down the day early again.

‘First and foremost, I have a lecture to deliver at eight o’clock and that’s what I intend to do,’ he said. ‘Unless, Sergeant, you’re planning on arresting me for being in a courier’s office after dark without permission of the Dublin Metropolitan Police?’

‘Of course he isn’t going to arrest you, Tillman. Stop playing the wounded innocent. But what did you expect us to do after we saw you on the tape – pretend you weren’t there?’

‘I expected nothing, Saxon,’ Tillman said. ‘I stopped expecting anything of you eight years ago when you wrote your book. I stopped expecting anything of anyone.’

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

When we got back to Dublin Castle, Fitzgerald was standing in the parking lot talking into a cellphone, one hand covering her other ear to shut out the eternal white noise of the traffic. She signalled to us to wait before going in.

‘No . . . no . . . definitely not. Just stay in touch. Anything that happens, anything, I want to know about it.’

‘Bad news?’ I said when she’d finished.

She paused briefly whilst she put away her phone.

‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘It’s not Jackie, is it?’ I said, suddenly worried and feeling guilty for not having called to see how she was coping.

‘Jackie’s fine,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘I talked to Haran less than ten minutes ago. Everything’s quiet there. Everything’s in place. Jackie’s spent most of the time asking for stuff to be delivered.’ That sounded like Jackie. ‘No, that was Donnelly on the line. The problem’s with Mullen.’

‘What’s he done now?’

‘Nothing, that’s the problem. The only time he left his bedsit since returning there early yesterday evening was to buy cigarettes from the shop on the corner. He wasn’t near any courier’s office last night. He couldn’t have sent any letter.’

‘That doesn’t put him in the clear,’ I said. ‘Tillman reckons the killer probably used a patsy to send the letter so that he didn’t appear on the tape. Mullen could easily have had it all arranged for someone else to drop off the letter for him without even crossing his front doorstep.’

‘What tape?’ said Fitzgerald, frowning. ‘And what do you mean, Tillman? I thought you two weren’t talking again? You said you hadn’t heard from him for days now, that he wasn’t returning your calls?’

‘Tillman and me not talking? Whatever gave you that idea?’

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

Two hours had passed since then and Fitzgerald now had everyone focused on identifying the people in the CCTV footage. They were as close as we’d come to eyewitnesses all week. Even Seamus Dalton was helping out without complaint, but then he’d been uncharacteristically quiet, Boland told me, ever since the Assistant Commissioner had hauled him in that morning and taken him to task over Lawlor’s suspension. Of course it wasn’t his fault that Lawlor had been feeding stories to reporters for years. He’d known about it, naturally – who hadn’t? – but had turned a blind eye to it rather than encouraged it. Still, Lawlor’s fall was bound to reflect badly on him. Lawlor was in his orbit, under his planetary influence.

Frankly, I think I preferred Dalton obnoxious.

Already three of the people seen on the film had been identified and spoken to. They were regular clients of the courier firm so it hadn’t been too difficult. Uniformed officers had also been sent to do spot checks on cars in the lanes round Pearse Street Station to find who’d been in the area last night. There’d even been an appeal for information on the lunchtime news which had produced nearly a hundred calls. Now all that was needed was to get through them, one by one, painstakingly.

That was the point. He was sending us off into another maze. Boland’s excitement when he realised the killer might have been captured on CCTV; the dash round there; the listing of each face, each figure, each passing car – it was all part of the illusionist’s sleight of hand, making us look one way whilst the real action went on elsewhere. I was growing weary of it. All we were doing was fighting amongst ourselves over what would probably turn out to be worthless scraps.

It didn’t help that the latest picture of Mullen which Fitzgerald had sent round to Jackie’s house on my suggestion had still not drawn a positive ID out of her. I was starting to doubt she’d ever remember who attacked her that night by the canal.

The day was turning into a chasm. Phones rang distantly down long corridors, sounding urgent. The clock was making us fraught. The ticking sounded louder than normal, insistent, an unnecessary reminder that time would not stop for our benefit.

In the end, I left Dublin Castle and walked round to my apartment to pick up what I needed for the night ahead at Jackie’s place. I didn’t wait around; I didn’t even call in at the porter’s office to pick up my mail. I was beginning to understand how Fitzgerald felt about her own house. Like a stranger.

I was halfway to the door again, having done what I came for, when I saw a copy of one of Lawrence Fisher’s books lying open on the table next to my couch. I’d started reading it again this week to get me through the sleepless hours, when I was restless, agitated. Fisher was who I needed now. But where was he?

Seeing it again in daylight, I recalled again suddenly one late-night drinking session in London when I was researching my book on profiling and Fisher was not yet the celebrity he was about to become. We’d been talking about the black humour cops often used to deal with what they had to deal with. Laughing at death so that death, briefly, lost its terror. Fisher had admitted that night that when he was called in by forces round the country, he sometimes booked himself into hotels under the names of various obscure serial killers. They had to be obscure so that he didn’t terrify the receptionists.

‘It used to be the prime ministers of Canada,’ he’d said with a laugh, ‘but I started running out.’

And there was never any shortage of serial killers.

The only question was: did he still do it?

It had to be worth a try.

I put down my bag again and started ringing round hotels in the city to ask about recently arrived guests. I kept to the five-star hotels, because Fisher was never one to skimp on luxury. I could always try cheaper ones later if I drew a blank. As it turned out, I didn’t need to. Third hotel I rang, I hit paydirt.