be observing Peter, you know, his body language and all that, see if he’s lying.’
‘He’ll be able to tell?’
‘Glenn swears by him.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s my job! Happily for me, you cops gossip like fishwives.’
Richards sat at the extreme right-hand chair at the top table. Glenn led Peter to the seat next to the Professor then sat Marion’s parents to the left, taking centre stage himself.
He explained who he was, then introduced the Prof, Peter, and Marion’s mum and dad, Mary and John.
The snappers continued to hose them down. Glenn pleaded for restraint. They eased off for fully two seconds.
As Glenn ran through the indisputable facts of the case, I took a good look at Peter, slumped, fumbling busily with his fingers, like a widow with rosary beads.
He looked impressive, handsome, if somewhat vain and self-satisfied. He had an unfortunate perma-smirk which had probably earned him more slaps in life than hugs. His slicked-back auburn hair owed much to Don Johnson and cement-grade gel. He could have been a lower-league professional footballer or a wedding DJ with a name like Dale or Barry.
My eyes drifted over to Mary and John. Mary embodied every Irish mum I’d ever known: small, tough, thick grey hair fixed fast into position, a fighter’s chin. Her face puce, her body bent with grief, she clenched rosary beads in one palm and John’s hand in the other. She didn’t look up from the table once.
I thought about my own mum. I really needed to make that call.
Marion’s dad John sat bolt upright like a guard dog, surveying the room, defending his family, defying the pain. I’d dealt with the parents of murdered people before. They usually split up in the end. The mum always blames the dad, even when she doesn’t want to. It must be hard-wired deep within mothers that the father’s primary role is to protect the family. Even in cases where the dad couldn’t possibly have done anything to save the child – like this – that sense of blame is there. I hoped John and Mary would make it.
Glenn summarised: ‘We would like to appeal to anyone who lives, works or who happened to be in the Clapham Junction area between five and seven p.m. last Monday evening to please call us with any information that may help us find this killer. It doesn’t matter how minor or trivial it may seem, if you saw anything unusual or suspicious, please call us. Finally, I’d like to warn people in London, particularly lone women, to be vigilant and alert.’
It was Peter’s turn to speak. He hadn’t written anything down.
He looked directly at a TV camera and said: ‘I’d like to ask the public to please help find Marion’s killer. Whoever did this is not human … they have to be caught …’ His already high voice reached castrato pitch, before cracking. He squeezed his eyes shut, then his head fell and he sobbed. The cameras swarmed in for the kill.
No one noticed Mary sobbing too, or John squeezing her hand.
Questions rained in from the floor: ‘Are there fears that a maniac is targeting women in their homes?’
Glenn: ‘I’ve nothing to add.’
‘Are you linking this to other crimes?’
Glenn: ‘As part of any investigation, we look for connections to similar crimes.’
Then Fintan got to his feet: ‘Is 21 Sangora Road known to police?’
John glared over. ‘No,’ he roared and I felt myself shrivel.
‘No more questions,’ shouted Glenn, summoning Peter to his feet. As Glenn led him out, Mary and John didn’t look his way once.
‘I’m off to find a phone,’ said Fintan.
‘Grand. See you in Frank’s?’
‘Yeah, great. Twenty minutes.’
Frank’s Café, Northcote Road, Clapham
Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 11:45
Although he could be toxic, an occasional meeting with Fintan was necessary these days, because he’d become my source of Eve Daly news.
During my first three months in London, I’d written to Eve four times. I got just one short note back, in which she apologised for not being a letter writer and asked a favour. The list of instructions suggested she wasn’t taking no for an answer.
As decreed, I met Tara Molloy – a girl from home I barely knew – at Liverpool Street train station and drove her to the job interview in Stepney Green. She didn’t utter a single word, save for, ‘Hi’ when we first met. I sensed her nerves and tried to calm her down: ‘Come on, I’m sure you’ll do great.’
‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled, staring blankly ahead. I hoped she’d think of more to say under questioning.
‘What kind of job is it?’ I asked.
‘I’d rather not say, in case I jinx it,’ she said quietly.
Almost two hours later, she emerged, looking even glummer. I didn’t say anything until we got back to Liverpool Street.
‘Are you straight back to the airport then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No time for a quick drink?’
I really wanted to tap her up about Eve.
‘No. Sorry. I’ve really got to rush. Thanks so much, Donal, for the lift …’
She climbed out of the work van and marched into Liverpool Street train station without looking back. It was only after she disappeared that I noticed fresh blood on the passenger seat: enough blood to make me realise she’d just had a termination.
My next letter to Eve confirmed two things – 1: I’d taken Tara to her ‘job interview’; 2: from now on, I’d prefer to communicate by phone.
Eve sent a note back containing a single quote: ‘If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.’ She signed it: ‘All my love, Eve x.’
I couldn’t quite work out which one of us had set the other ‘free’. But the quote and her romantic sign-off reassured me: as soon as Eve got her life back on track, we’d give us another go.
In the meantime, I felt certain that Mum could keep me abreast of all developments in Eve’s case. How wrong I was.
During my first year in London, I had been ringing home every couple of weeks from a phone box awash with stale piss, cock carvings and IRA slogans. I fed it a pound coin every three minutes while Mum ran through her news – i.e. who had died
