by Ingrid Black
‘Fagan was interested in language?’
‘Well, he hadn’t published much by the time of his arrest,’ said Salvatore. ‘It was more of a developing interest. But it was something he told me once he wanted to delve into more.’
‘Hebrew?’
‘Not really. Principally Aramaic, Greek, the languages of the New Testament period. I doubt if he could even read Hebrew. That would be more my line of enquiry.’
‘Which is why I called you,’ I said. ‘I’m pretty sure the quotations must come from the Old Testament. You’re the Old Testament expert. It makes sense to put the two of you together.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Salvatore answered, ‘though let us hope that you do not succeed only in exposing my true ignorance. I have spent my whole career trying to keep it hidden.’
‘Max, my lips are sealed.’
‘Then let’s go up.’
Salvatore waved a hand to the stairs at the back of the high-domed hall and we climbed up. At the top of the stairs we turned right and pushed the heavy doors into the Reading Room.
I’d almost forgotten how huge it was in here and how the silence filled it like water in a deep pool. It had that incredible stillness all libraries possess, a quiet broken only by coughs and whispers, pages turning, the squeak of doors and chairs. I’d come here often to read in my early months in Dublin, or more usually just to sit and think. I’d spent all day here sometimes reading, and come out to find that it was dark already. I’d never considered those days wasted. Now I hardly came here at all. Another sign of how my relationship with the city was fraying.
Today it was all but empty and no one spared us so much as a glance as we wove our way among the desks to the back where he’d been working, books and papers scattered across his desk, and where he now pulled up an extra chair for me beside his own.
‘You have the quotations with you?’ he said.
I took out a piece of paper and slid it across the table.
‘This is a copy of the note the killer left on a body we found yesterday,’ I said.
‘Go, see now this cursed woman and bury her,’ he read out. ‘Well, at least I shan’t embarrass myself with this one.’
‘You know it?’
‘I am the most important scholar in the field of Old Testament eschatology, remember?’
‘One of the most important is what I said.’
‘Only one of? Funny, I didn’t catch that part.’ He reached over for a book – a King James Bible, I saw it was – and started to flick purposefully through the pages. ‘You know,’ he said whilst he looked, ‘you could probably have found all this information out for yourself with half an hour on the Internet. You’d be surprised what strange things are out there.’
‘Technology and I don’t get along.’
‘You and me both,’ he said with feeling. ‘I refuse to even have a computer in my office. I still use a typewriter. Ah, here it is. The Second Book of Kings, Chapter 9, Verses 33 and 34.’
I read the part he indicated.
So they threw her down: and some of her blood was sprinkled on the wall, and on the horses: and he trode her under foot. And when he was come in, he did eat and drink, and said, Go, see now this cursed woman, and bury her: for she is a king’s daughter.
‘Who is this woman?’ I said.
‘She is Jezebel,’ said Salvatore. ‘Wife of Ahab, King of Israel. She was denounced by the prophet Elijah for encouraging idolatry, and killed on the orders of a certain Jehu. But you don’t need to be a theologian to appreciate the popular connotations of the name Jezebel, no?’
‘A shameless or immoral woman,’ I said. ‘A whore.’
‘Precisely.’
I glanced back to the story of the murder of Jezebel, trying to work out if the words were intended as a sign that the woman in the churchyard was indeed a prostitute, or whether her killer was simply trying to say that all women were prostitutes, all women unclean, all women Jezebel. As I did so, my eyes saw the words that followed; and the breath caught in my throat.
And they went to bury her: but they found no more of her than the skull, and the feet, and the palms of her hands.
This was getting bizarre.
Why would the killer leave a note referring to the murder of a woman of whom only the skull, hands and feet were found, on the body of a woman with the skull, hands and feet missing? Was it a sick joke? Or was there some hidden meaning in there which only he could decipher?
I looked up and realised that Salvatore was watching me curiously. My face must have betrayed something: incomprehension, excitement, disgust. Cool it, Saxon, I told myself. The press hadn’t been told about the missing body parts, and I wasn’t about to betray that secret now. I didn’t suspect for one minute that Salvatore would tell anyone else if I confessed the reason for my startled face, but I was taking no chances.
‘Are you ready to look at the second quote?’ I said instead, and he, thankfully, was courteous enough to pretend not to notice my reaction.
All wickedness is but little to the wickedness of a woman.
‘Now then,’ he said when I passed him a copy of the message found in the lining of Mary Lynch’s bag. ‘It’s not from the Old Testament, I’m fairly sure of that.’
‘It’s not?’
‘But it sounds familiar all the same. Let me think, let me think.’ He was half talking to himself, his eyes closed as if in prayer. ‘Stay here a moment, there’s something I must look at.’
I watched Salvatore retrace his steps and start a whispered conversation with the woman behind the counter; watched her go into the back and emerge some minutes later with another thick, leather-bound book; watched him carry it back to our desk, turning pages as he walked.
‘You find what you were looking for?’ I said.
He certainly had.
*******************
Where was my cellphone? I must have left it in Ambrose Lynch’s car. I cursed as I squeezed into the phone booth downstairs and jabbed out the number.
‘Can you talk?’
‘I have five minutes,’ said Fitzgerald.
I told her where I was and who I was with.
‘Has he been any help?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘He traced the Mary Lynch quote. Turns out it comes from something called the Book of Sirach in the Apocrypha.’
‘Come again?’
‘That’s what I said. Seems that when the Bible was first officially put together, there were all these holy books that got left out because they weren’t considered genuine. They were called the Apocrypha and that’s where we get the word apocryphal, meaning made up. The story about Judith in the last letter the Post printed came from the Apocrypha too. That part about lying being justified in order to smite the enemy was why the Book of Judith was excluded from the official Bible. Lying didn’t fit the image of God they wanted to portray – although now I think of it, that part about the Hebrew midwives lying about Moses made it in, didn’t it?’
The pause was slight, but it was there.
‘Is there a point to this history lesson?’ she said.
‘It’s a message, don’t you see? What the killer’s saying is that he’s not genuine either, he’s apocryphal, he’s not Fagan. All Fagan’s quotes came from the Bible proper. Why would he change now?’ The silence was longer this time. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m here,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘Just thinking how I’m going to put this to Draker. He’s going to love it. Do I have eyewitnesses, blood matches, a confession? No. But don’t worry, sir, I have a two-thousand-year-old book that proves conclusively the killer couldn’t be Ed Fagan.’
Now it was my turn to go silent.
‘Look, Saxon, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to take it out on you. I was just pretty pointedly reminded this morning by Draker when I confronted him about the autopsy of how many other people there are who want my job and how much better they’d do it.’
‘Draker can’t fire you,’ I said.
‘He can promote me,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘and that’s worse. Before I know it, I’ll be one step higher up the pay scale, and handcuffed to a desk all day long, going stir crazy.’
‘He wouldn’t do that. You’re too valuable to waste at some desk.’
‘I’m glad you’re so confident. Unfortunately, you’re not Assistant Commissioner of the murder squad.’ She yawned quietly. Lack of sleep catching up on her, especially after last night’s wine. ‘Anyway, enough of my troubles. Shall we get back to this . . . what was it again?’
‘Apocrypha,’ I said, ‘but that can wait. Tell me what you’ve been doing instead.’
‘At the scene? Well, we found the knife.’
‘Naturally. Fagan left one behind when he killed Tara Cox. He wiped it clean of prints first, of course.’
‘This one wasn’t wiped,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘There was still blood on it. And fingerprints managed to lift a partial.’
‘You must be pleased.’
‘First break we’ve had, practically. It was Healy found it.’
But was the print a mistake by the killer or part of the game?
‘You have a name yet?’ I asked.
‘That’s another thing. She’s Mary Dalton. Twenty. Prostitute.’
‘Dalton?’
‘I already thought of it. First Lynch, now Dalton.’
‘There we were speculating what significance there was in the names of the women being Mary and we never even gave a thought to their other names. Is this part of his game as well, do you suppose, picking women with the same surnames as people on the investigation?’
‘It sure ain’t a coincidence.’
‘That means he must know who you all are.’
‘It’s not exactly classified information,’ Fitzgerald pointed out. ‘He’d only have to read a newspaper, and we know he likes doing that.’
‘I guess. What does Dalton make of having his name adopted by a psycho?’
‘Who knows what Dalton thinks of anything? He’s too busy right now rounding up half the market traders of Dublin so that he can practise his hard cop routine on them.’
‘Sounds like he’s getting nowhere.’
‘He has a few sightings of strange characters hanging round, but the times don’t fit. As you said, the body must’ve been put there before the market opened, and the sightings were all later.’
‘Maybe he came back to hang around the scene,’ I suggested. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. Killers often get a kick out of being there when the body’s discovered. Or say he expected it to be discovered earlier, when the market traders arrived to open up – then nothing happens. He might’ve got nervous and turned up to check out what went wrong.’
‘That was Tillman’s idea too,’ she said.
‘Tillman’s down there?’
‘He was, up until a few minutes ago. I called to let him know what had happened. I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to him, though. He said we could go into all that later tonight. He’s invited us both over to his rooms at Trinity for ten o’clock.’
I snorted.
‘I don’t recall Tillman being the type to throw cocktail parties.’
‘Who said anything about cocktails? This is work. He has his profile ready for us. At least he will have, he assures me, by ten.’
‘That was quick work.’
‘He knows how little time we’ve got,’ she said. ‘Don’t knock it.’
I looked out of the side window and saw a small line of people waiting impatiently to use the phone. How long had I been talking to Fitzgerald? Too long for their liking.
‘One more thing and I’ll let you go,’ I said. ‘What was the quote this time?’
‘Have you a pen handy?’
‘Shoot.’
*****************
Professor Salvatore still had his head bent over the leatherbound book when I returned. I handed him the slip of paper. Stumble not at the beauty of a woman and desire her not for pleasure.
‘Sirach again, same section,’ he replied promptly. ‘I was reading it whilst you were gone. It is fascinating material. You’ve given me a whole new line of research. Look.’
He slipped the book across to me and pointed.
I had rather dwell with a lion and a dragon than to keep house with a wicked woman . . . the wickedness of a woman changeth her face and darkeneth her countenance like sackcloth . . . of a woman came the beginning of the sin and through her we all die . . . give the water no passage, nor a wicked woman liberty to gad abroad . . .
Convenient excuses, every single one, for a score of murders. Why would he stop at five with such a limitless supply of inspiration?
‘This Sirach had a bit of a problem with women, didn’t he?’
‘Show me an Old Testament-age holy man who didn’t,’ Salvatore said. He hesitated a moment before continuing. ‘Listen, I was thinking. Are you hungry? I’m hungry. I thought perhaps . . .’
I should have seen this coming.
‘Professor Salvatore—’
‘Max.’
‘Max. Look. I appreciate your offer, really, but I can’t go out for dinner with you. It wouldn’t be right. It’s just . . . trust me, that’s all, it’s not such a great idea.’
‘You have a husband, I should’ve guessed. My mistake,’ he said. ‘You can’t blame a man for trying. I never could resist a pretty woman.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Me neither.’
Chapter Fifteen
Fitzgerald hadn’t yet arrived when I got to Tillman’s rooms at Trinity shortly before ten. Mort let me in without a word. I was out of breath from climbing the stairs and collapsed gratefully into an armchair in the tiny sitting room, glancing round as I did so.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I said.
‘You think so?’
‘No, I was being polite is all.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ he said. ‘It’ll do.’
Aside from this small room filled with other people’s furniture and lined with other people’s books, there was only a door to the left which led, presumably, into a bedroom, and another doorway which revealed a narrow, dingily lit kitchen like the galley on a ship.
It was, in short, the standard submonastic accommodation that colleges set aside for visiting academics or staff from out of town who just wanted somewhere to collapse for the night. The only thing festive about the place was an artificial Christmas tree about one foot high sitting in a pot on the desk, draped half-heartedly with tinsel and crowned with a paper star. Someone had obviously put it up to welcome their visitor; someone with a warped idea of welcoming, that is. Still, it was more effort than I’d managed in my own apartment.
‘I’ll go make coffee, yeah?’ said Tillman.
God bless coffee. It fills every silence.
Where the hell, I wondered, as the sound of a kettle boiling filled his cell, was Fitzgerald? I needed her to spare me from the awkwardness that was sparking between Tillman and me. Out there by the canal where Mary Lynch died was one thing; there was enough space for everyone out in the open. In here was different. There was no escape, and neither of us had the small talk to hand to put up a pretence of normality. But that seemed to be the nature of our relationship now. There was no point mourning. Even when I’d called him earlier to pass on what I’d gleaned from Professor Salvatore, he was distant, and he certainly wasn’t trying tonight as he came back with the coffee and sat hunched over it like a patient about to face the dentist’s chair.
‘Chill out, will you, Mort?’ I said eventually. ‘You’re making me feel almost as tense as you look.’
‘I didn’t think anything made you tense.’
‘You’d be surprised. I’m human too.’ He looked sceptical. ‘Human-ish, then.’
He smiled faintly at that, and seemed about to say something when there was the sound of footsteps outside the door and a sharp knocking, and he rose almost reluctantly to answer it.
A moment later, Fitzger
ald swept in, trailing apologies, casting her coat aside on the table and lowering herself into the chair where Tillman had been sitting.
‘Busy?’ I said.
‘Busy doesn’t begin to describe it,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘Is that coffee?’
‘I’ll go get you some,’ said Tillman and ducked into the kitchen. ‘You know,’ his voice floated back, ‘if it’d made things easier, I could’ve come round to Dublin Castle tonight instead.’
‘It wouldn’t,’ Fitzgerald said, ‘believe me. Draker would’ve only started asking more questions. You being there this morning freaked him out enough as it was. Once he realised you were nosing around down in the market this afternoon too, he collared me and wanted to know all about you.’ She reached up as Tillman emerged from the kitchen again and took the coffee.
‘Maybe he has me down as a suspect,’ Tillman said.
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ answered Fitzgerald. ‘You come to the city, first criminal profiler we’ve ever had about the place. Next thing, the bodies start piling up. Watch out or we’ll be asking you to account for your movements soon.’
‘That wouldn’t take long.’
‘I doubt Draker has the imagination to think of you as a suspect, anyway,’ Fitzgerald went on. ‘It’s just that he’s from the old school. What you do makes him . . .’ She searched for the right word.
‘Uncomfortable?’ suggested Tillman.
‘More than that. Nervous. Uptight. Edgy. All of this is too out of the ordinary for him. He doesn’t want any of the murderers he has to deal with getting ideas above their station. Husband beats his wife to death with a poker because she was humping the postman: that’s the right sort of murder as far as Draker’s concerned. All this stuff the last few days, he just sees it as a challenge to his authority. Then you come along and it’s the last straw.’
‘These are like the arguments we used to have in the States twenty years ago. It’s about time police stopped fighting every new development, stopped thinking of everything as a threat.’
