its Julie, are you still convinced her kidnap is connected to Suzy Fairclough?’
Crossley eyes him warily: ‘Suzy Fairclough was randomly targeted by a man called Mr Kipper. Julie Draper was randomly targeted by a man called John West. Now I know you only eat potatoes in Ireland but even you will have heard of John West Kippers. Draw your own conclusion, as you reporters always seem to do anyway.’
Fintan shakes his head. ‘A crime of this magnitude, with this level of meticulous planning and forethought, and you’re telling me it’s another random kidnap and murder?’
Crossley sighs. ‘Julie Draper had no enemies. She lived a very quiet life with her mum and dad, devoted to her pet dogs and fish. No ex-boyfriends to speak of. Why would anyone target her?’
‘There’s always something,’ Fintan goads. ‘Maybe you missed it. Maybe you weren’t looking for it. Maybe you’ve been duped.’
I remember the fish from Julie Draper’s deranged production last night. Before I can stop myself: ‘She kept fish you say, Sir?’
Crossley turns to me slowly, wearing a look of flabbergasted contempt. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You say she kept fish, Sir. What kind?’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
I shake my head.
‘Goldfish.’
‘Their names?’
‘I don’t know. Christ! Mutt and Jeff I think she called them in her proof-of-life call. Why in God’s name do you ask?’
I don’t answer.
Crossley stiffens. ‘You know I can’t help feeling it’s fitting you found the body, Donal.’
‘Sir?’
‘As it was you who totally fucked up our chances of apprehending her abductor last night. And that’s gone into my report.’
‘Sir, less than an hour ago I was scared stiff that I may have caused Julie to be murdered. Now I know I haven’t, I’ll take anything that’s coming my way on the chin.’
Fintan barely lets me finish. ‘Did you also put in your report, Commander, that the kidnap must be the work of a former or current police officer?’
Crossley’s startled reaction shocks me to the core. My God, he believes Julie’s kidnap is an inside job, somehow. For Fintan, this is an open goal.
‘I’m reliably informed that you wrote a memo to the Commissioner in which you stated that the expertise of Julie’s captor has convinced you that it’s an inside job.’
‘Nonsense,’ snarls Crossley, but way too animated.
‘Is that why you’re so keen to throw Donal under the bus, Commander, to cover up something that will embarrass the force?’
Crossley’s rattled. ‘I’d tread very carefully if I were you, Lynch. The only inside job I’m seeing here is an officer on my case bringing his reporter brother to the scene for an unofficial briefing. I’ve a good mind to arrest you both for obstructing the course of justice.’
Fintan smiles smugly. ‘Oh, I know why you’re so pissed off, Commander. Julie’s body here dashes your hopes of making Assistant Commissioner. Losing her is a stain on your precious record.’
Crossley steps forward. ‘Consider yourself and your rag banned from any further press briefings, Lynch. Understood?’
‘We don’t need your press briefings, Crossley. I’ve got the Prince of Darkness, Alex Pavlovic on the case.’
Crossley turns ashen, out of rage or shock I can’t tell. All I know about Alex Pavlovic is he’s Fintan’s reporter-of-last-resort when dirt needs digging. Pavlovic, it seems, has dark and unspecified connections capable of delving deeper than any other Fleet Street reporter. The very mention of his name has sucked all life out of Crossley.
Fintan’s fiendish smile signals a killer punchline. ‘And, with respect, Commander, Alex Pavlovic would appear to command a lot more coppers than you do.’
Crossley explodes: ‘Write whatever the fuck you like, Lynch. Just know one thing. As of this second, you no longer have a rat inside the investigation. Donal, give a statement to DI Mann about everything that happened here, then fuck off back to the cold case squad. At least there you can’t bugger up any live investigations.’
The Lamb, Pyecombe, East Sussex
Thursday, June 16, 1994; 16.00
Fintan whisks Sandra’s Cherubs back to Angel Islington while I set about getting slaughtered in the Lamb where, mercifully, the hobbling, russet-faced locals leave me alone.
Before we’d left Pyecombe cemetery I’d run into Dr Edwina Milne, a forty-something, no-nonsense pathologist straight out of a mail order ‘Tory Wives’ catalogue.
‘You’re always finding bodies, Donal,’ she’d bellowed across the headstones. ‘Is there anything you need to tell us?’
‘Yes, there is something I need to tell you, Edwina, or anyone else who’ll listen, but I’m too scared,’ I screamed internally, before scampering off through the headstones, like Michael Stone after he ran out of grenades.
Whiskey’s peaty warmth soothes my nerves, melding all sparking thoughts and sizzling fears into a toasting glow of ambivalence. The burnt aftertaste spirits me back to Mam’s funeral; my most recent and somewhat more controversial flit from a cemetery. Only I know what I was really running from. And that I won’t be able to run from it for much longer.
It’s almost time …
Those entire two days, Da couldn’t bring himself to talk to me, or even look at me. When they finally lowered her into the dirt, Da earthed his grief by grabbing Fintan’s arm. Why couldn’t he have grabbed my arm too? Just for once?
I sling back the last of my Jameson and imagine the galvanising heat forging my iron will; I’ll be a better father to Matt. A proper dad.
My mind drifts to the visions of Julie I’d experienced last night. The church bells and shepherd’s crook have already paid off, leading me to her body. The silver block must be crucial in some way. What the axe, deranged ravens and tiny fish signify, I can’t even begin to speculate.
Once again, I reassure myself that I don’t possess some inexplicable telepathic hotline to the recently murdered. These performances can come from only one place – my subconscious – which has been obsessively gnawing away on this case for several long days now. My mind must process all the information, then present clues to me through my lurid, sleep-paralysis dream episodes. It’s not that I soak up the spirit of the deceased so much as the essence of the case. That must be what’s happening here … right?
Unless
