Games with the Dead

by James Nally

  In heaving North London traffic, we barely make it above ten miles per hour. Each gossamer graze of pedal elicits a thunderous roar, earning us looks ranging from mild irritation to unabashed hatred.

  ‘We need to get out of town,’ I say, suddenly seeing an opportunity to act on last night’s encounter with Julie. When the dead come to me, I can’t just ignore them. Julie needs me. And, after my schoolboy error last night, I owe her. ‘Why don’t we head to the South Downs? I know some great pubs around there.’

  Fintan grins. ‘First we’ve got to pick up our smoking-hot dates.’

  I groan.

  ‘Models, Donal. And I’m not talking unemployed nail bar assistants here. Real models. I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you.’

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Fintan, I’m in a relationship.’

  ‘Yeah I saw her note on the kitchen table this morning. Good old Zoe, if she can’t dump Matt on you, she dumps him on her mum.’

  ‘She doesn’t dump him on anyone. It’s a long day looking after a kid. She craves a bit of adult company in the evening. What’s wrong with that? You’ll see one day.’

  ‘From what I see, Donal, you’re in a job share. From what you sometimes let slip, I sense it’s now a sexless, joyless job share at that. You told me yourself that even her mum labelled it a failed relationship.’

  ‘That doesn’t give me a licence to go running around with other women.’

  ‘We’re just having a bit of craic, Donal. To quote Loaded magazine, “life, liberty, the pursuit of sex, drinking, football and less serious matters”. The thing is, bro, she’s turning you into one of those lonely married men. You know, first you don’t have time for friends, then you can’t find time for hobbies. Next thing you know, you’re a bonded slave reduced to work and childcare. The irony of it all is that your women end up hating you for it. And you’re not even married.’

  I turn to him, shaking my head in disbelief.

  He grins: ‘You can be my wingman then, okay?’

  ‘I don’t see that I’ve got any choice. So where did you meet two models?’

  ‘Sandra’s photo casebook. You must have seen it? Tania and Ellen are the paper’s biggest stars now.’

  ‘I must never have made it that far through your esteemed rag.’

  ‘Every week, it features a letter from the problem page, but told as a picture story. It’s always a raunchy storyline about threesomes and secret affairs so that Tania and Ellen can act their little hearts out in their undies. As Sandra herself puts it, something for the girls to read, and the boys to look at.’

  ‘Never underestimate the intelligence of your readers eh? I can’t believe any woman would actually read your newspaper.’

  ‘Don’t be such a snob, Donal. And a killjoy. What harm is it doing anyone?’

  He pulls up at a smart art-deco block near Angel tube station and beeps the horn. Two skinny women dodder out, all big shades, fake tits and tan, and real attitude. Even from this distance, I can tell they are way out of our league.

  ‘And I suppose these cardboard cut-outs are now eyeing Hollywood stardom?’

  Fintan waves to them, muttering under his breath: ‘Funny you 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 lea
d 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.’

  Built into the wooden gate, a metal hook identical to the one in Julie’s post-mortem performance.

  ‘I think she’s here,’ I say.

  ‘This is creeping me out,’ says Ellen.

  ‘Why don’t you two wait here and admire this lovely gate?’ says Fintan.

  ‘God, you’re a patronising pig,’ snaps Tania.

  ‘Well said,’ I nod.

  My eyes are drawn to the far corner of the graveyard and a pair of all-business ravens. They’re patrolling a candy-striped bundle under a creaking oak. As I get closer, I see it’s a pink-and-white striped sheet trussed up with green cord. The sheet ends are tied together and stained dark. The rope winds about the package three times widthways and once lengthways.

  ‘Expertly wrapped,’ says Fintan.

  ‘Got anything sharp?’

  ‘Try these,’ he says, handing me the car keys.

  I tear a strip in the sheet. The stench knocks us backwards. A black cloud of flies descends.

  ‘What is that?’ screams Ellen.

  ‘It’s Julie,’ I say, turning to her and, despite my best efforts, failing to suppress a smile. But what I’ve just smelled means I’m not responsible for her murder. ‘Looks like she’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours. Thank God,’ I sigh, shaking my head out of sheer relief.

  Fintan leans in close: ‘I think we’d better make an anonymous call.’

  We turn to see Ellen jabbing at her mobile phone.

  ‘No wait,’ I say, but she’s already spilling to a 999 operator.

  I look at Fintan. ‘How the hell are we going to explain this?’

  ‘We need to get away from here,’ he mumbles. ‘I’ll suggest the pub. We let them walk ahead, as soon as they get around the corner, bolt for the car.’

  Ellen ends the call: ‘Don’t worry, Tan, the police are on their way.’

  Fintan pipes up: ‘I don’t know about you ladies, but I suddenly really fancy a steak. Why don’t we wait for the plod in the pub?’

  Ellen plants one hand inside her handbag, raising the other defensively. ‘If you or your weirdo brother take one step closer, I swear to God I’ll set off my rape alarm.’

  ‘Understood, loud and clear,’ says Fintan brightly. ‘Can I just say though, Ellen, as a parting line to a double date, that may never be topped.’

  Chapter 6

  Pyecombe Cemetery, East Sussex

  Thursday, June 16, 1994; 14.30

  ‘Christ, check out the fourth horseman,’ quips Fintan, nodding towards the cemetery gate.

  ‘Croissant’ Crossley – so-called, to quote an under- ling, ‘because he’s a fat, posh, perma-tanned poof’ – has arrived, and looks set to smash through headstones rather than zigzag around them. He may even claw a few corpses out of the dirt with his bare hands and rent them asunder, just to underline his current feeling of profound irritation.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Burke and O’Hare,’ he snaps. ‘More like Mulligan and O’Hare.’

  I’m still swooning on the stench of Julie Draper’s rotting flesh and shaking the hairy little hand of every passing bluebottle. It’s all confirmation that my surrender of the ransom last night did not precipitate her murder.

  ‘A perfectly innocent explanation, Commander,’ Fintan pipes up. ‘We were out for a drive with those delightful ladies. Donal loves an old cemetery, especially on a dreaded sunny day like today. Next thing he’s calling us over to Julie Draper’s body.’

  ‘We don’t know it’s Julie Draper,’ says Crossley.

  Fintan smiles: ‘I do know, Commander, and as soon as they confirm its Julie, the media blackout can no longer be enforced? Condition 11 of the code.’

  I wince; his bitching isn’t helping any bridge-building.

  ‘I’ll get a court order,’ bawls Crossley. ‘This maniac is still on the loose.’

  ‘All the more reason to publicise it and warn the public,’ says Fintan.

  ‘All the more reason to starve him of the oxygen of publicity. This isn’t a game, Lynch.’

  For a verbal street-brawler like Fintan, Christmas has come early. ‘Tell me, Commander, and just to warn you this is on-the-record for when they confirm 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 f
ucked 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.’