The Dead (The Saxon & Fitzgerald Mysteries Book 1)

by Ingrid Black

  Gradually I calmed down, and my hands stopped shaking enough for me to think about driving home.

  It was only when I reached into my pocket for the car keys that I realised what I’d done. My fingers touched the cold edge of the knife, the one I’d picked up for protection when Mullen’s neighbour disturbed me.

  I’d forgotten to replace it in the drawer.

  So much for not leaving any clue to my visit, but I wasn’t going back in there to put it right. I simply had to hope that Mullen wouldn’t notice the missing knife, or, even if he did, wouldn’t have sufficient imagination to figure out why it was missing.

  I started the car and made my escape.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Six o’clock. Fitzgerald had asked me to call in at Dublin Castle as soon as I was free again. I was one of the last people to see Fagan alive, was the way she put it, and I could hardly deny that, so I’d have to make a fresh statement to the police detailing what I knew of his last movements.

  I wasn’t worried about it; I’d been rehearsing my lies about Fagan for five years. Besides, now that my head was buzzing with angles and possibilities, I was desperate to know what the crime tech team had uncovered at Nikolaevna Tsilevich’s apartment; and whether anything had been found during the search of the older scenes that Fisher and I had instigated the night before.

  All the same, I couldn’t face it straight away, not after the fright in Mullen’s place. I decided to head back to my own apartment first to see if Fisher had called in my absence.

  I’d barely got inside and thrown the car keys on to the table by the door when the buzzer went and Nick Elliott’s voice came through the intercom. That was the last thing I’d expected.

  ‘Saxon, can I come up?’

  I ignored his question.

  ‘When did you get out?’ I demanded instead.

  ‘Half an hour . . . an hour ago . . . Christ, I don’t know. I’ve lost track. Can I? Come up?’

  ‘That’s not such a great idea, Elliott. I’m still connected with this case; you shouldn’t be speaking to me.’

  ‘I need to talk to you, Saxon. Please.’

  That please was so pathetic, I could hardly refuse; but there was no way Elliott was getting into my apartment.

  ‘Saxon?’ he whined again.

  ‘Wait there,’ I said. ‘I’ll come down.’

  A few moments later, I was in the front lobby again. There was no sign of Elliott on the other side of the rain-streaked glass, just traffic swishing by on its eternal journey, headlights glaring in the dark like the eyes of hungry predators.

  I stepped out into the wet. The noise of the city, dulled by the glass, assaulted me at once. Evening sounds. The unremarkable sounds of people winding their way home. Tyres turning on a wet road. But no sight or sound of Elliott.

  Was I imagining him now? That was all I needed.

  I looked up and down the street a couple of times, and was about to go back inside when I caught sight of him attracting attention to himself at the edge of the building, beckoning me clumsily, before ducking out of sight again. I followed with a weary sigh, and found him waiting round the corner. He looked tired. He’d had a long day. Hadn’t we all?

  ‘Is this your idea of being discreet?’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, looking hurt.

  ‘You couldn’t have made yourself more conspicuous if you’d put out a press release announcing when you’d be visiting me,’ I said. ‘And if the DMP see me with their prime suspect’ – he snorted at the description and I didn’t blame him; if he was their prime suspect, he wouldn’t be standing here talking to me – ‘I won’t be on the investigation longer than it takes to say conflict of interest.’

  ‘Thinking of yourself again?’

  ‘You’re the expert at that, Elliott.’

  He was starting to look sulky now as he turned up his collar to take shelter.

  ‘I was only—’ he began to explain, but I stopped him right there.

  ‘Save it,’ I said. ‘Let’s walk.’

  Before he could object, I set off against the flow of the traffic as it streamed towards me, dragging lights, pricked by rain, making my way to the darker streets off St Stephen’s Green.

  ‘How did you get out, anyway?’

  ‘I dug a tunnel,’ said Elliott, ‘like they did in Colditz.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

  ‘I got an alibi, if you must know.’

  ‘Lawyers are good at providing those. I hope it didn’t cost you too much.’

  ‘My alibi was genuine, like I told Fitzgerald when she questioned me this morning,’ Elliott said. ‘My lawyer had nothing to do with it. It would’ve saved everyone a whole lot of trouble today if you’d just listened to me from the start.’

  ‘Who was it then?’ I said.

  ‘Ray Lawlor. I was having a drink with him last night after I left Sadie’s place . . . Nikolaevna’s place, I suppose I should call it now. The time on Lynch’s autopsy report puts me in the clear. Not even I’m gifted enough to have killed her and met Lawlor at the same time.’

  ‘So you split on Lawlor?’

  ‘Didn’t need to,’ said Elliott, putting his head down as another gust of wind, heavy-bellied with rain, flung itself at us. ‘He came forward and told Fitzgerald he was with me from nine onwards. I think he felt guilty that I was on the rack when he knew I was innocent.’

  Innocent wasn’t exactly the word I’d choose.

  I held my tongue, though. For the first time in his life, Lawlor had done something noble. It almost made me feel guilty for disliking him so much. ‘He saved your skin,’ I said, stepping back to avoid a car before crossing the street and forcing Elliott to trail in my wake.

  ‘If he hadn’t come forward, I was going to tell them anyway.’

  ‘Tell them about your little arrangement with Lawlor?’ I stopped and stared at him for a moment in disgust before walking on. ‘So what was all that about protecting your sources?’

  ‘There are limits,’ said Elliott.

  ‘A matter of principle, you said it was.’

  ‘Fuck principle,’ he said. ‘I’m not being landed with Sadie’s murder on a matter of principle. Lawlor knew the rules. Especially as he’d stopped being any use to me since this whole thing started. He wasn’t giving me a scrap. Even that first night when Mary Lynch got herself killed and I followed him to his car, he just blanked me. Said things were different now. Last night when we met he even tried to palm me off with some leftovers about a drugs hit on the Northside. He knew what I wanted was information on this case.’

  I was getting more respect for Lawlor with every word.

  ‘What’s happening to him now?’ I asked.

  ‘Suspended pending an enquiry,’ said Elliott. ‘Probably drowning his sorrows somewhere in the soulless city as we speak.’

  ‘You’re all heart.’

  ‘I’ve got troubles enough of my own without wasting my energy worrying about Lawlor. Do you have any idea what this has been like for me? The editor won’t even return my phone calls. I went round there tonight and they told me I couldn’t come in. They called security.’

  I couldn’t help smiling at the picture that conjured in my head.

  ‘What did you expect them to do?’ I said. ‘Throw a party?’

  ‘Some thanks is what I expected,’ said Elliott. ‘I brought them the biggest story the paper’s ever had and they go and dump on me. They could at least have been glad I’m in the clear.’

  ‘Just because your lawyer pulled some strings and got you released a few hours early doesn’t mean you’re in the clear. You might still be charged if your alibi falls apart, or Lynch changes his autopsy report. Maybe he got the time of Nikolaevna Tsilevich’s murder wrong. The Post might not be the New York Times, Elliott, but even they don’t want murder suspects on the staff.’

  ‘But I didn’t kill anyone. An idiot could see that the bottle was planted to make me look guilty. I don’t know
how yet, but you do see that, don’t you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I see,’ I said. ‘What matters is what your editor thinks. He’s the one who pays your salary.’

  He thought about that.

  ‘This is still my story,’ he said at last, ‘whether they believe me or not. I’ll go somewhere else if I have to. The killer will come with me, I’m sure of it. I think he trusts me.’

  ‘In case you’ve forgotten, the first letter that came made you out to be an idiot. And for another thing, it looks as though your boyfriend has switched allegiance to the Evening News.’

  ‘You don’t know that information yesterday came from the killer. It could have come out of your girlfriend’s department. And even if it was the killer, he could’ve simply been pissed off with us because we didn’t print his letter when it came in. But when the next letter’s ready, he’ll come to me, I’m sure of it. Then the Post can either bring me back on board or I’ll go elsewhere.’

  ‘You almost sound like you can hardly wait for him to strike again, just so that you can get some action out of it.’

  ‘That’s uncalled for, Saxon. I’m just looking out for myself. No one else will.’

  ‘Then you’d better find another way of doing it,’ I said, ‘because the Post won’t touch you whilst you’re still a suspect and nor will any other newspaper, no matter what you bring them. And the police warned you to tell them each time you get something else. Not even you’re stupid enough to go and hack them off whilst you’re only out on sufferance.’

  ‘I have the rest of my career to think of,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean, the rest of it?’ I said. ‘That was your career and you blew it.’

  ‘But that’s not’ – he struggled for the right word – ‘fair.’

  ‘What are you – eleven years old? Life isn’t fair, Elliott. You just got unlucky picking a prostitute to screw who then goes and gets killed. Life was a hell of a lot more unfair for her.’

  ‘So because she got cut up, I have to suffer for it?’

  ‘You should have thought of that before.’ I looked at him. ‘Look, I don’t hold it against you that you were seeing Nikolaevna. None of my business. But it’s always a gamble; you could’ve been arrested any time just for being in her apartment and the same thing would’ve happened to your career. The gamble didn’t pay off. You’ll just have to deal with it.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he said. ‘I’ve got no job, and no chance of one again according to you, and now you tell me I just have to accept it?’

  ‘I’m not a career guidance counsellor,’ I said. ‘It’s your problem what you do next. Maybe once this psycho’s caught and everything calms down, you’ll get your chance to tell your side of the story. You can do the Romeo and Juliet act about Nikolaevna, make it seem like you were saving her from herself, and they might let you have your old job back.’

  ‘You can sneer, but I did care about her,’ he insisted. ‘I can’t wait that long, that’s all.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Just make sure what you think of doesn’t include trying to make contact with the killer,’ I said. ‘For what it’s worth, I happen to agree that the bottle was planted to make it look like you’re guilty. Finding it at the scene of Mary Lynch’s death was too convenient, too obviously staged. But the killer’s not stupid. He’ll know it wasn’t going to fool anyone for long. So you have to start asking yourself why he’s chosen you as his outlet to the world, only to then get you arrested. Ever wonder if he’s building you up for something other than stardom?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Gee, I don’t know, Elliott,’ I said artlessly. ‘What is it he does best? It sure isn’t flower arranging.’

  He stared at me a moment as the realisation of what I meant sank in. A shadow crossed his face, then he laughed unconvincingly to erase it.

  ‘I can look after myself,’ he said.

  ‘That’s probably what Fagan thought too,’ I said, ‘and look what happened to him.’

  We had come to a halt outside a pub, and Elliott looked to the door as if for refuge. The light was warm within, beckoning.

  ‘You want a drink?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I said firmly. ‘Not with you. I don’t like you, Elliott, I never have, and this coming round here playing the victim hasn’t exactly endeared you to me further. I still don’t see why you wanted to come round and needle me at all.’

  ‘I wanted you to know that I’m innocent.’

  ‘Why do you care what I think?’

  ‘It just bugs me,’ he said. ‘Bugs me that you think I’m such a lowlife when you’ve got this blind spot about things a lot closer to home.’

  He turned away and shifted awkwardly inside his coat like he’d said too much but I’d driven him to it.

  ‘You want to elaborate on that comment?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Elliott, but it was plain that he could barely keep from giving me the whole ten chapters, together with footnotes and illustrations. ‘Maybe you should ask Boland.’

  ‘Here’s a better idea. I’ll ask you. You’re the one who seems to have all the answers. About Boland especially, it seems.’

  ‘I don’t have answers. I just have questions. Questions like, who leaked the Nikola letter to the Evening News? I know, I know, you think it was the killer, but what if I’m right and it was someone in the murder squad? It wasn’t Lawlor, I can guarantee that. He’d gone all saintly since the investigation began. Questions like, how did Boland know how Mary Dalton died before Lynch’s autopsy? Boland was the one who told me another body had been discovered. He told me the cause of death was loss of blood caused by a severed jugular. How did he know that? She was still lying in the shed when I got there; she hadn’t even been carried to the mortuary, never mind opened up by Ambrose Lynch.’

  ‘You’re not trying to tell me you think Boland’s involved in the killings, are you? Because if you are, that’s—’

  ‘I’m not saying anything,’ Elliott said with the same infuriatingly artless air I’d used on him earlier. ‘Like I told you, I’m just posing questions.’

  I stood there, thinking.

  Boland?

  It was ridiculous. I couldn’t let Nick Elliott start manipulating my thoughts so easily. And yet I knew, as I watched him flash me a final smug smile of triumph and disappear into the comfort of the bar, that it was already way too late for that.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The lights were out in Fitzgerald’s office and the door was ajar.

  I didn’t even knock, just put my head quickly round the door, expecting her to be gone already – but there she was, sitting in the dark, chair turned to the window.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said when she caught sight of my faint reflection in the glass and realised who it was.

  ‘Sorry. Dalton kept me longer than I expected.’

  ‘You gave your statement to Dalton?’

  ‘He insisted. Gave me the full nine yards about what I knew of Ed Fagan’s final movements. Like it’s going to help catch the killer. That man has a genius for being obnoxious.’

  ‘Do you want me to pull him up about it?’

  ‘Dalton doesn’t bother me. I’ve dealt with enough of his sort in the past. What are you doing here in the dark anyway?’

  ‘Facing facts, losing hope.’

  ‘Facts like what?’

  ‘Facts like we’ll never find him,’ Fitzgerald said bluntly. ‘Look how dark it is. That’s another day gone, another day wasted; we’ve got nowhere.’

  ‘Not nowhere,’ I said, though even as I spoke the words I wondered if they were true. ‘Just not far enough. We’ll get there.’

  ‘It’ll be too late even if we do,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘Four women are dead already. There’s only one to go. If he stops.’

  If he stopped. That was what had been bothering me too. There were only five victims promised at the beg
inning because he wanted us to believe that he was Fagan. Now no one believed he was Fagan any more, there was no need to keep on obeying the pattern. And who knows how he’d react to the discovery of Fagan’s body. The police and media might be blaming him for it, but he’d know that someone out there was playing a game of their own; and what if that only enraged him? What if it only made him worse?

  It was a risk I’d had to take; the police needed to know Fagan wasn’t the man they were looking for, and nothing else but Fagan’s body would have convinced them; but my fear now was that my intervention might have changed the template for the killer. Part of me had already begun taking refuge in the hope that, when the killer spoke of disappearing after the fifth death, he meant that he himself would die. Suicide was often the logical outcome of such short-term killing sprees.

  A fume-filled car, slashed wrists, a rope; a written confession; fingerprint and DNA samples to wrap up the case. An unsatisfactory end, but at least it would be an end. What, though, if this was only the beginning? If freeing himself from the shadow of Fagan simply gave him new energy? How many more victims would there be then?

  ‘You’ve been in the dark too long,’ I said suddenly to break the spell of despondency I could feel creeping over me, and I reached down and turned on the desk lamp. Outside vanished immediately, and the window was another office with another Saxon and another Fitzgerald staring back. If only it was so easy to step outside yourself.

  I looked down and caught sight of a folder on her desk.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘That?’ Fitzgerald glanced across at it, still blinking in the light. ‘That’s a list of what the search teams found at Fagan’s last two crime scenes. Here, take a look.’

  She handed me the report which Sean Healy had compiled on the search and I flicked through it quickly whilst she withdrew into the building somewhere to get coffee. Had she eaten? Maybe we could go somewhere afterwards for supper.

  My eyes glided over the usual lists of everyday detritus that had been picked up and meticulously logged by the search teams. Scraps of newspaper – none of it relating to the case. Empty plastic cider bottles. Wrappers from tins of cat food. Broken glass. A few rusted coins. Just like at the Law Library, there was nothing that could possibly have any relevance to the investigation. Except . . .