Games with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller. James Nally
should say that. They can’t wait to meet a heavyweight TV drama producer. Like you.’
I groan loudly. ‘There’s no way I can pull that off …’
‘It’s the only way I could get them to come. Just use words like “rushes” and “the cutting room”, you’ll be fine.’
‘Jesus.’
‘What do you think of the wheels, ladies?’ he bawls.
‘Like, what if it rains?’ says Ellen.
‘Like, we put up the roof,’ snaps Fintan. ‘God that’s exactly what my brother Donal here said. Talk about glass half-empty.’
‘What you mean he’s a pessimist?’ says Tania.
‘No,’ says Fintan. ‘I mean he’s a roaring alcoholic.’
That gets a good laugh.
‘Donal knows a nice pub near Brighton and he’s going to treat us to lunch. You good with that, girls?’
‘Yay,’ they coo as I give Fintan the eyeball and mouth: ‘You’re fucking paying.’
We roar off for all of 50 yards before getting snarled up in yet more traffic. Fintan somehow manages to trump the awkward silence with a truly cringeworthy question. ‘So, ladies, what do you look for in a man?’
‘Vingt-cinq,’ purrs Ellen and they cackle hard.
Schoolboy horrors come flooding back; the wink-and-elbow language of cruel-girl delight.
Ellen finally composes herself. ‘We were at this party in Paris a few years back, this really sexy guy sidles up to me and whispers “Vingt-cinq” in my ear. I’m thinking twenty-five? Well he might be talking about his age …’
More cackling.
‘Then he says in the sexiest French accent I’ve ever heard, “Not ma age. My size. You don believe me?” And I say, frankly, no. I mean a twenty-five inch penis would be some sort of world record. So, he gets his friend over …’
Tania butts in: ‘Who’s even sexier.’
‘And he says: “Oui, it is true. And I too am twenty-five.” He can tell we’re not buying it, so he says, “You wan me to pull down my pants and show you?” and I say …’
They might now actually expire out of sheer mirth.
Tania finally comes up for air: ‘Ellen says, “If you’re twenty-five, you don’t need to drop your trousers, just lift them up at the ankles!”’
We all laugh now.
‘I’d forgotten about metric!’ says Ellen. ‘Mind you, once you’ve had twenty-five centimetres, you don’t want less,’ she adds quietly.
Fintan and I share glances of mild horror.
‘Right, so physique is your thing, Ellen,’ editorialises anchorman. ‘What about you, Tania?’
‘Money,’ says Tania, refreshingly unashamed. ‘The love peters out, the sex peters out, so you might as well be with someone who’s loaded, make your life easier.’
‘And you’ve found someone, haven’t you darling?’ says Ellen. ‘Show ’em what he bought you yesterday?’
A spindly orange arm appears between the front seats. Perched on the tiny wrist, a green-faced vintage Rolex with a brown leather strap.
‘Men who wear a certain brand of watch guide destinies,’ announces Fintan to confused looks all round. ‘It’s their slogan,’ he adds impatiently.
‘Very understated. Classy,’ I say.
‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ says Tania, holding my eye for a second, then smiling bashfully.
‘Yeah and then you got it valued, you shallow bitch,’ cackles Ellen. ‘Eight grand. Can you believe it? Wear it? I wouldn’t let it out of my house.’
As we speed along ‘Sunset Boulevard’, wind noise renders conversation mercifully impossible, so that I can turn my thoughts back to last night. If we retrace my journey from yesterday, maybe something will click and lead me to Julie’s body. That must have been what last night’s macabre, raven-based cabaret had been all about. I’ve just got to get down there and follow my gut.
It starts to rain just outside Croydon. Fintan pulls up at a lay-by but, of course, the convertible roof won’t go up. Something is stuck or maybe he’s pressing the wrong buttons. The girls moan, so Fintan guns it until we see a covered petrol station. As we shelter in eye-watering fumes, he sets to work on the roof mechanics until they’re well and truly butchered.
‘Like, what if it rains all day,’ says Ellen.
‘Like, we do something indoors,’ snaps Fintan, and we sit in glum silence for twenty minutes.
The shower mercifully clears. Even with the girls along, I’m sticking to my plan and direct Fintan to Underhill Lane. As the track narrows and branches start scouring the paintwork, I call halt.
‘Poor car,’ I say. ‘Shall we walk?’
‘There’s a pub down here?’ squints Fintan.
‘Just around the corner,’ I say, setting off before anyone has time to object.
I lead the way towards the bridge, Fintan just behind. The girls are way back, heels floundering in mud.
‘Is this where it went down last night?’ says Fintan, his antenna as keen as ever.
I nod. The silver painted block still sits on the wall, above the white cross. After Julie’s performance 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.’
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