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.’
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
