Games with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller. James Nally
‘He said he couldn’t risk her being able to identify him afterwards. Police think all this proves is that he has form and she could’ve picked him out of a photo album of ex- offenders. They’re refusing to think anything except Kipper, Kipper, Kipper.’
‘But you think differently?’
Fintan pulls that pained face, which revs his brain to max. I’d better pay attention.
‘I think the kidnap of Julie Draper resembles the Fairclough case too much. It’s like whoever kidnapped her is desperate for police to make that connection and not look elsewhere.’
‘Maybe this Kipper character is taunting them. That’s not uncommon.’
‘Maybe, but I can’t help thinking Crossley and co. have bought the Kipper/John West thing too easily. They’re blinkered, which means they’re not keeping an open mind or delving properly into Julie’s personal life. If the kidnapper is someone else, he’s done a great job of hoodwinking the police. Again, it smacks of the kidnapper getting help from the inside, and you saw Crossley’s reaction when I said that. He knows there’s something else going on here, a bigger play.’
‘So, what now?’
‘What now is we’re doing your job for you, as usual. We’re getting stuck into Julie’s personal life, finding out who might have had a grudge against her or Crown Estates. I’ve got my ferret-like crime reporter Alex Pavlovic on it.’
‘Has he got a source in the Kidnap Unit?’
‘I don’t ask, Donal. Though sometimes he tells me about his antics, if he’s feeling especially proud of himself. So yesterday, Julie Draper’s mum is under armed guard in hospital. Doctors, nurses and cops won’t let anyone near her. Alex Pavlovic, aka The Prince of Blackness, sends her a massive bunch of flowers, hides a mobile phone in the stems with a note offering her £50k. She’s agreed to meet him today.’
Fintan parks up, slaps his fake ‘Doctor on Call’ sign against the windscreen.
‘You must lie awake at night, Fintan, worrying that he’s more devious, underhand and amoral than even you?’
‘And connected,’ he sighs, oblivious to my dig. ‘Ex-cops, private detectives, tech whizz-kids. He’s got this one fella, Gerry Woods, on side, who used to work for the spooky wing of the Met. This guy can place a secret camera in a cigarette lighter. Amazing. That’s how we’ve brought down all these cheating Tories.’
‘Isn’t secret filming and bugging illegal?’
‘Using the material gathered is illegal. We don’t use it. It’s just insurance.’
‘Insurance?’
‘These people always deny it. You’ve got no idea how many politicians and people in power have got away with affairs because they denied it and we couldn’t categorically prove it. We learned our lesson.’
‘What does it matter that someone’s had an affair? Maybe it was just sex. Or they made a mistake. Don’t you worry about destroying families?’
I’m surprised at the raw emotion in my voice. The last thing I want is Fintan twigging about Zoe’s affair. He might joyously choke from the satisfaction. Luckily, he’s in full lecture mode so doesn’t notice.
‘Hang on, Donal. These are the same Tory politicians who launched moral crusades against single mothers and the press. David Mellor told us we were drinking in the last-chance saloon and threatened privacy laws; we catch him shagging a MAW.’
‘A what?’
‘Model-Actress-Whatever. John Major lectures the nation about morals and getting “Back to Basics” and we expose half his married Cabinet playing away. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s at it.’
‘And, of course, journalists never have affairs.’
‘You know what, Donal? I think everyone has affairs. Monogamy is against our nature. Look at the closest relatives to humans, bonobos. They live in peaceful communes and shag like rabbits. That’s what humans were like for millions of years until society evolved this idea of sexual incarceration.’
I hear my voice creak in emotional protest. ‘Monogamy isn’t always enforced. Some people like the security and the trust. What’s wrong with that?’
‘If we accepted that humans can’t be monogamous, then there wouldn’t be this sense of betrayal by the “wronged” party. That’s what causes all the divorce and strife, someone playing the victim. Anyway, why the hell are we talking about this now? We’ve got to go and shout for whoever’s playing Germany.’
For some reason, the only major international country without a professional soccer league has been awarded the 1994 World Cup. As Fintan puts it: ‘Yanks just don’t get soccer, the way I don’t get fishing, unless I can catch a shark every five minutes.’
On the plus side, the Republic of Ireland has qualified. And the opening ceremony provides unexpected joy when Oprah Winfrey falls off stage and a lip-synching Diana Ross fails to kick a ball ten-feet into an empty goal. ‘Are you watching, Tommy Coyne?’ we chant in delight.
We shout for Bolivia as they lose to Germany. We roar on South Korea as they go 2-0 down to Spain. Then, out of nowhere, South Korea score two late goals and the pub erupts. ‘I doubt they’re this fucking ecstatic in Seoul,’ shouts Fintan.
I can’t face Zoe tonight. But I haven’t got the energy to tell Fintan the truth.
‘She’ll be on the warpath if I come home like this. Can I kip at yours?’
‘Any time,’ says Fintan. ‘You need to show her that you’re still your own man.’
‘God, you really are like something out of The Quiet Man.’
We stumble outside and head for the mini-cab office.
‘Are you sure we should just abandon Jamie’s eighty-grand Porsche outside a pub?’ I ask.
‘What Irish person would be caught dead in a sports car?’ he says. ‘We’re just not like that. Anyway, I doubt if Houdini himself could get in through those welds.’
As we follow the cab driver across the car park, I think suddenly of Nathan Barry – the bailiff Edwina had mentioned to me who’d been axed to death behind a pub in East Croydon. I ask Fintan what he knows about the case.
‘I know the guy who led the investigation.’
‘Will he talk?’
Fintan laughs: ‘Try to stop him! What’s so interesting about the Barry case?’
‘We got information that it might be connected to Julie Draper,’ I say flatly, failing to add that the sole source is one of my rabid, booze-fuelled dreams.
‘Really? How?’
‘I don’t know, but I said I’d check it out.’
‘I’ll text him in the morning. See if he’s up for a meet.’
‘What’s your take on it?’
‘My take? Donal everyone knows who murdered Nathan Barry. And so should you. The police just haven’t been able to prove it.’
Coombe Road, Croydon
Saturday, June 18, 1994; 11.00
Still not so much as a text from the Kidnap Unit, technically my current employer. I wish to God they’d get on with stitching me up over Julie Draper. There is truly no punishment worse than waiting for punishment.
DI