Текст книги "Alone with the Dead"

Автор книги: James Nally

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 22 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 9 страниц]

Chapter 6

Salcott Road, South London

Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 22:31

I drove up and down Gabby’s road but, of course, at that time of night there were no parking spaces. On a second pass, I spotted the entry to the street’s rear alley and ignored the No Parking sign next to it.

If Dominic Rogan launched another sortie tonight, he’d get the shock of his fucking life.

During my shift, Meehan’s words from three years ago had been ringing through my head: You need to keep an eye on that one. I couldn’t just hope that Rogan wouldn’t come back and attack Gabby. I’d failed to protect a woman from a violent man before. I wouldn’t be taking that chance again.

Besides, Rogan had clearly slipped into a delusional cycle that only the sharpest of shocks might break. My springing out of the night could do the trick.

I also figured, somehow, that Marion’s foul-tempered spirit /ghost would be less likely to find me here. And, having grown up on The Rockford Files, Cagney and Lacey and Remington Steele, I’d always fantasised about staking somebody out. I even brought doughnuts.

After midnight, the wind picked up, the last of the house lights went off and the trees groaned.

Just a handful of people walked past, mostly carefree couples gambolling home from a night out. How I envied their playful bickering, their easy intimacy, their ‘wink-and-elbow’ language of delight.

It had been almost three years since I’d shared the thrill of giddy affection. Sure, there had been a few drink-fuelled end-of-night snogs and exchanges of numbers, a few awkward dates. At least, they became awkward as soon as anyone mentioned exes. I hadn’t worked out yet how to talk about Eve and what happened – or how to refer to her in the past tense. Unfinished business, and all that.

I thought back to the last time we’d spoken – two days after she killed Meehan.

The lunchtime news revealed she had been released on bail. Three or four times that afternoon, I picked up the phone to call her home, only to replace the receiver. Eve wouldn’t answer for sure: what was I supposed to say to Mad Mo?

‘Mrs Daly, back from New York so soon?’

No doubt they’d blame me for not protecting Eve – as if her prop dagger-wielding high-jinks hadn’t proven, beyond any doubt, that the one person who didn’t need protecting was Eve Daly.

Dusk told me it was time to go and see her. As shadows gathered in the last corners of the golf course, I strode the ninth fairway, relieved to be ‘doing’ rather than ‘thinking’. Barty Morris, keeper of the greens and not many secrets, spotted me and stopped dead in his tracks. It was clear, even from this distance, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. I gave him a wave of my white bandaged hands and turned towards the Daly back garden. To wide-eyed Barty, this represented the scoop of a lifetime. ‘The Dalys are having another party!’ I shouted, and he nearly toppled over.

As I hopped into Eve’s backyard, I spied the press pack out front disbanding for the night. I counted six photographers and two TV cameras. To one side, an orange-faced anchor man completed an earnest piece-to-camera. Behind him, a pair of ferrety little reporters, all bustling and self-important in their flappy macs, buzzed about like bluebottles at a picnic. Fintan would feel right at home amongst that lot, I thought. Except with this story, he could scoop his rivals without leaving his flat in Dublin 4.

As I crept across the crazy paving, I was stopped dead in my tracks by bloodstains – my bloodstains – daubed in manic streaks on the shed’s pebbledash wall. It looked like the remnants of some gruesome pagan sacrifice.

I tiptoed to the outer wall of the house. The kitchen light was off, so I took a quick squint through the window. Ghostly white shapes floated up and down the hallway. On closer inspection, they turned into forensic officers in their white boiler suits and masks. Some sort of tent blocked the doorway into Eve’s bedroom. The place where we fell in love and made our promises was now a crime scene.

I knew that my only chance of seeing Eve alone was after she’d gone to bed. She wouldn’t be sleeping in her own room tonight, so I gambled that Mo would give her the master bedroom. I decided to creep round the bungalow to that window and wait.

The top half of the back door was frosted glass, so I got down on all fours to crawl past. Christ, I thought, what if Mad Mo walks out now? It’d be the second death here in two days, because she’d either keel over from shock, or murder me. I had to stop crawling to laugh. I put it down to nerves.

I got to the window to find the blinds closed solid against the glass. I couldn’t even tell if there was a light on inside. I waited and waited, drumming up the courage to drum upon the glass. When it turned ten p.m., I held my breath and thudded gently with my bandaged hand. Nothing. I thudded louder.

I stood back. I figured the Dalys were feeling a bit raw at the moment and I didn’t want to scare the shit out of anybody. The curtain opened a fraction. The light caught Eve’s fiery hair and I saw one green eye squinting through the gap. I realised I’d been holding my breath for longer than was healthy.

The gap closed, then nothing. Was someone else in the room? I crouched down and waited, and waited. Ten, fifteen minutes passed. What was going on? All I knew was: I wouldn’t leave until I’d spoken to Eve – no matter how long it took. Finally, the window latch squeaked, a little reluctantly to my ears.

I reached out, put my wrapped-up hand on hers. She pulled it away. Well what did I expect?

I’d rehearsed my speech, over and over, but it was gone.

‘Sorry,’ was all I could think to say. ‘Eve, I’m so, so sorry.’

I couldn’t stop my eyes welling up. She looked at me, blankly. She was still in shock. I just had to let her know that I was here for her.

‘I can’t imagine how you must be feeling,’ I said, re-offering a comedy mitten. She looked at it, blinked for the first time, but didn’t take it. She sighed hard.

‘He spiked my drink. That’s why I ended up, you know …’

She looked over my head into the distance for several seconds.

‘Eve, please, we need to talk.’

Finally, she snapped back from whatever far-off place she’d been inspecting, and looked at me properly.

‘He attacked me,’ she whispered.

‘Oh God, Eve,’ I said.

She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the window sill and cradling her cheeks with her open hands. With her hair in bunches, she looked so young, so fragile, so pretty. I just wanted to hold her for the rest of my life.

‘Eve,’ I whispered, and moved closer, ‘I know this is going to sound really weird, but I think I saw what happened.’

Her hands dropped from her face. ‘What?’ she said, her voice suddenly hard. ‘What are you on about?’

‘Please, just let me explain,’ I pleaded. ‘When I blacked out, I had this sort of out-of-body experience. It’s like my spirit came to your bedroom and saw what happened.’

‘What?’ she said, irritated.

‘Look I know it sounds mad but I came out of my body and found myself hovering in your bedroom. I could see you on the bed. I saw … him … walk into the room. I saw the clock radio. It said 1.09.’

Eve stared at me, her damp eyes accusing and wounded. ‘What? What do you mean you saw?’

‘It’s like my spirit got sent to your bedroom. It was as if I was in your room, watching it all happen, but when I tried to shout, when I tried to … help you, I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t move. I really don’t know how to explain it.’

Eve was staring at me hard, blinking often.

‘What did you see?’ she demanded.

‘Oh God, Eve, I don’t know if I should put you through it again, I …’

‘Tell me, Donal. Please. I need to know.’

‘I saw him getting up, er on top of you. Then he threw his hat towards the window … like a Frisbee …’

‘Oh my God …’ she murmured. ‘And …?’

I rushed through the rest as fast as I could. ‘You were sort of fighting back. It was all silent. He lifted up your skirt and then it went black and I woke up in hospital. It felt like I was in some sort of vacuum.’

Eve held my hand tightly.

After what seemed like several minutes, she said, ‘How long were you there, in my room?’

I shook my head. ‘A few minutes. The clock said 1.13 when I blacked out again.’

I decided not to mention Meehan’s post-death attempt to strangle me: she’d heard enough for one night.

‘That’s so strange,’ she said softly, her grip on my hand loosening.

‘There must be a logical reason,’ I said. ‘Maybe I heard them talking about it, when I was unconscious. Maybe my brain formed pictures of what I’d heard.’

‘Yeah but the hat thing … no one would know that.’

We said nothing for several minutes.

‘He did attack me, you know?’ she said, lowering her big wet eyes towards mine, ‘I had to defend myself.’

‘Of course,’ I said, tightening my grip. ‘I – I saw.’

She gulped and looked down.

‘Eve, I want you to know, whatever happens, I’ll be here for you.’ I had never meant anything more in my entire life.

She turned her head to the window frame. ‘Just go, Donal. Don’t wait for me,’ she said softly.

‘Okay, but I’ll come back tomorrow, and every day until this has sorted itself out.’

‘No, Donal, I don’t want you waiting for me. It’ll just make things harder. Go without me.’

‘I can’t do that, I …’

‘Promise me you’ll go to London, like we planned.’

She was eyeing me as you would a defiant child. I shook my head, trying hard not to cry.

‘Promise!’ she demanded sharply, pulling away from my hand and glaring at me. I could never say no to Eve.

‘Promise,’ I whimpered, feeling as lonely and restless as a ghost.

‘Good,’ she said, ‘because we’re finished, Donal. It’s over. I’m sorry.’ She pulled the window shut – thump. The blind fell back down to earth. Thump. In one aching heartbeat, she had gone.

Three years on, my chest still twanged at the memory. I unwound the car window a few inches and gulped in some fresh night air. I decided to give Salcott Road another hour, then go home and crack open the Shiraz.

Yeah but the hat thing … no one would know that. Three years later, Eve’s words still echoed in my brain.

Three whole years. I knew I should move on from Eve Daly. Fintan had told me to move on from Eve Daly. My friends had told me to move on from Eve Daly. What no one could tell me was: how do you stop loving somebody?

I tried to meet girls on the North London Irish scene, but grew dispirited. They seemed immediately turned off by the fact I was a cop: no doubt their daddies wouldn’t approve. Mind you, being a builder or barman hadn’t exactly bowled them over either. I got the impression they wanted to be swept off their feet by a square-jawed sporty type with worldly charm, roguish self-confidence and big plans to make money and move back home. It didn’t help that Fintan seemed possessed of the magic formula for instantly clicking with women. He’d get this glint in his eye that they clearly adored, and I could never make them laugh like he did. Inevitably, I got stuck with his conquest’s perennially overshadowed, unamused sidekick.

It irked me that girls found Fintan’s blatant badness irresistible. And here was another one. Gabby had fallen for Dom Rogan, patently another bastard.

I tried to imagine her inside number 16. After what happened earlier, she wouldn’t be sleeping. I pictured her in the sitting room, reading highbrow women’s fiction and drinking camomile tea. Would she close the curtains, hoping Dom would stay away? Or leave them open so that she’d see him coming?

Suddenly, the back right-hand door of the car slammed shut. I jumped. My arms shot up, instinctively covering my bowed head as I braced for attack. Seconds ground past, but the blows didn’t arrive. I lifted my eyes carefully to the rear-view mirror: I couldn’t see anyone in the back. Was he lying on the seat? Why would he wait for me to turn? To knife me? I opened my left elbow into a more attacking position and slowly turned my body around.

No one. I checked out the back window, the side windows. There was no one there. Who the hell had opened and shut the car door?

I turned back to the windscreen.

‘You’re imagining things, Lynch,’ I told myself, rubbing the stiff hairs on the back of my neck.

I suddenly sensed that crackle in the air: the electricity of malevolent intent. Someone wanted to do me harm, this instant. Rogan must be somewhere close by, I was certain of it.

Both back doors opened and shut this time. I tried to raise my fists and turn, but nothing would move. My entire body was frozen, paralysed. All I could feel was my heart pounding in my throat.

The back doors opened, shut, opened and shut, over and over.

I realised the only thing I could move were my eyeballs. Slowly, I raised them towards the rear-view mirror.

Marion’s bloodshot eyes glared back – wet, alive, deranged. My choking throat closed down. Unable to breathe, my chest filled to bursting. Next thing, she’s hammering my head against the window of the car door, over and over, thump, thump.

The banging rang in my ears, followed by a blinding flash of yellow light.

Someone was hammering the other side of the window. I tried to focus on the banger but, against the glare, could see only a gloved hand. ‘Meehan?’ I screamed.

‘Open up, now,’ came the command. I reached for the handle, slowly unwinding the window. I could move again.

‘Evening, sir. Perhaps you’d like to explain what you’re doing here?’ said the uniformed police officer.

‘Of course, Officer, yes, I can explain. I felt very tired driving home and stopped for a nap.’

‘You stopped for a nap? Here? Have you been drinking, sir?’

‘No. Not tonight. I’m a PC myself, Officer, based at Wandsworth.’

‘Of course you are, sir. Would you kindly step out of the car?’

‘Why? What have I done wrong?’

‘We’ve received reports of a disturbance. Please, step out of the car.’

‘Of course,’ I said, opening the door and getting to my feet.

The first thing I saw was Gabby, cowering behind a WPC.

‘Oh my God it’s you,’ she screamed, ‘you creep.’

‘Please, Gabby, I can explain,’ I tried but she’d already stormed off.

‘Are you this stalker she’s been telling us about?’ said the cop.

‘No. Look, honestly,’ I smiled my most reassuring smile, ‘I can explain everything.’

Chapter 7

Trinity Road, South London

Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 23:00

Aidan cackled mercilessly at my noble attempts to protect Gabby from Dom Rogan. Coming from the most hapless of hopeless romantics, it confirmed that I’d irretrievably fucked up.

When the house phone rang, we both froze like spinsters. Tragically, this had never happened after eleven p.m. before. The look of mild terror on Aidan’s face as I picked up reinforced my conviction that we both needed to get a life.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Donal, it’s Gabby.’

By the time I recovered my composure, she must have assumed I’d hung up. Or lost consciousness.

‘Donal? Donal? HELLO?’

‘Hi, Gabby, hi. God, this is a surprise. A pleasant one I mean.’

Aidan’s eyes sprang out on stalks as I bumbled on.

‘Thanks so much for calling, I – I wasn’t expecting it but I’m really glad you did because I really, really wanted to explain everything.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. If that’s okay? I’m amazed you called, and grateful, really grateful. And can I say sorry first, sorry for freaking you out? I can explain. Did they give you my note?’

‘Oh yes, the WPC was most insistent.’

‘I was so frustrated, leaving you the way we did. I had this horrible feeling he’d come back. I – I’m an insomniac anyway so I thought, well, why not pop round and keep an eye on your place? A spur of the moment thing really. Then I fell asleep in the car and had a nightmare. That must have been why I was shouting.’

Aidan cringed like a condemned Texan.

‘Right. So you shout in your sleep?’

‘Only at the moment.’

‘Great. Soon I’ll have maniacs queuing up at the front door. What were you planning to do to him?’

‘I just thought I’d shake him up a bit, you know, give him a fright. Make him think twice about doing it again.’

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ she said, her voice breaking in panicked exasperation, ‘that’s not going to work. That’ll just make him really angry. And then he’ll come back and do something awful to me.’

‘I won’t let that happen to you, Gabby. I promise.’

‘You can’t make that promise. He’ll just carry on doing what he likes.’

‘Like I said, Gabby, I suffer from insomnia. It’s no trouble to me to drive over and keep an eye on your place. I can just sit in the car, listen to the radio, even for a few nights until you sort something out.’

‘I don’t … why would you do that?’

‘Look, you live on my patch. It’s my duty to keep the people on my patch safe.’

I thought the next silence would never end. But I held my nerve.

‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I’ve got your number. If he turns up, I’ll call you.’

‘I hope you mean that.’

This silence lasted longer. I lost my nerve.

‘Okay, well, I guess I hope I don’t hear from you again then, Gabby,’ I said, as brightly as I could.

‘I hope not,’ she said blankly, hanging up.

Chapter 8

Wandsworth Common

Sunday, July 7; 10:15

A glorious morning deserved a stroll to the Common. On the way, I picked up a copy of the Sunday News. In the cool shade of a gnarled old oak, I settled down to Fintan’s latest journalistic handiwork.

‘Cops Hunt South London Ripper’, said the headline, ‘by Fintan Lynch, Deputy Crime Correspondent.’

The opening paragraph: ‘The maniac who slashed to death a twenty-three-year-old newlywed in her London flat earlier this week is targeting other women in the local area, police believe.’

A police source confirmed that, on the day of ‘Marion’s slaying’ – surely not the source’s phrase? – a nanny had been pestered by a stranger on the Common ‘less than a mile from the scene of Marion’s brutal murder’.

A day later, in nearby Clapham South, a woman had been accosted on her doorstep by a stranger. Her ‘would-be attacker’ tried to push her inside, only for the ‘quick-thinking victim’ to scream, forcing him to run away. I marvelled at the poetic licence of ‘would-be attacker’ and the logic that makes screaming a ‘quick-thinking’ response. Mind you, Marion hadn’t screamed: at least not loudly enough for anyone to hear. She kept her head when screaming it off might have saved her.

I shuddered. This development changed everything.

Could the same man have bundled Marion inside her front door, then marched her upstairs at knifepoint? The mail found next to her body seemed to torpedo this scenario – unless the letters had been planted afterwards. If there was a maniac like this on the loose, how long before he strikes again?

Descriptions of the suspect in the two ‘failed attacks’ tallied, resulting in the usual comedy photo-fit. If we found a simian male with a face wider than was long, with no forehead, a monobrow and tiny, malevolent eyes, then that was our man. If some guy out there really did look like this, then small wonder he’d been forced to opt for non-consensual romantic encounters.

Tellingly, the impeccably connected police source for this ‘exclusive’ didn’t explicitly say that detectives were linking Marion’s murder to these two incidents. The article simply concluded that Scotland Yard had declined to comment. The entire piece was clearly sensationalist, scaremongering bollocks; opportunist skulduggery of the basest kind. Another look at that photo-fit revealed a certain likeness to Fintan. God knows that fucker would do anything to stand up a story.

I suppose the Yard didn’t care, so long as the all-important Incident Room number was tagged on at the end. Sometimes, a single call from the public can save months of investigation, and other lives. But everything else in the article had to be a rip-roaring smokescreen, surely?

I was certain that the ‘Big Dog’ detectives would be sniffing through every aspect of Marion’s life, and that soon they would work out who wanted her dead, and why.

Thankfully, Marion’s vengeful spirit hadn’t come to me again since her car door slamming escapades the other night. And the more I thought about it, although I had been terrified, I don’t think she had actually meant me harm. She was trying to tell me something. The only thing I could think of were doors – the door she’d slammed in my flat and the car door. But what did that mean?

I doubted if the Big Dogs would entertain any of this. I doubted any sane person would entertain the notion that Marion was giving me clues to her killer from beyond the grave. So what was I to do with this information? And why had she not come to me in the last five days?

Suddenly everything around me rustled. A breeze as cold as steel snaked around my neck and shoulders, forcing them to roll together. A daytime moon winked briefly between skidding incoming clouds. Whatever Marion had in store for me would come, as sure as rain and night and death.