by Ingrid Black
‘That doesn’t put him in the clear,’ I said. ‘Tillman reckons the killer probably used a patsy to send the letter so that he didn’t appear on the tape. Mullen could easily have had it all arranged for someone else to drop off the letter for him without even crossing his front doorstep.’
‘What tape?’ said Fitzgerald, frowning. ‘And what do you mean, Tillman? I thought you two weren’t talking again? You said you hadn’t heard from him for days now, that he wasn’t returning your calls?’
‘Tillman and me not talking? Whatever gave you that idea?’
********************
Two hours had passed since then and Fitzgerald now had everyone focused on identifying the people in the CCTV footage. They were as close as we’d come to eyewitnesses all week. Even Seamus Dalton was helping out without complaint, but then he’d been uncharacteristically quiet, Boland told me, ever since the Assistant Commissioner had hauled him in that morning and taken him to task over Lawlor’s suspension. Of course it wasn’t his fault that Lawlor had been feeding stories to reporters for years. He’d known about it, naturally – who hadn’t? – but had turned a blind eye to it rather than encouraged it. Still, Lawlor’s fall was bound to reflect badly on him. Lawlor was in his orbit, under his planetary influence.
Frankly, I think I preferred Dalton obnoxious.
Already three of the people seen on the film had been identified and spoken to. They were regular clients of the courier firm so it hadn’t been too difficult. Uniformed officers had also been sent to do spot checks on cars in the lanes round Pearse Street Station to find who’d been in the area last night. There’d even been an appeal for information on the lunchtime news which had produced nearly a hundred calls. Now all that was needed was to get through them, one by one, painstakingly.
That was the point. He was sending us off into another maze. Boland’s excitement when he realised the killer might have been captured on CCTV; the dash round there; the listing of each face, each figure, each passing car – it was all part of the illusionist’s sleight of hand, making us look one way whilst the real action went on elsewhere. I was growing weary of it. All we were doing was fighting amongst ourselves over what would probably turn out to be worthless scraps.
It didn’t help that the latest picture of Mullen which Fitzgerald had sent round to Jackie’s house on my suggestion had still not drawn a positive ID out of her. I was starting to doubt she’d ever remember who attacked her that night by the canal.
The day was turning into a chasm. Phones rang distantly down long corridors, sounding urgent. The clock was making us fraught. The ticking sounded louder than normal, insistent, an unnecessary reminder that time would not stop for our benefit.
In the end, I left Dublin Castle and walked round to my apartment to pick up what I needed for the night ahead at Jackie’s place. I didn’t wait around; I didn’t even call in at the porter’s office to pick up my mail. I was beginning to understand how Fitzgerald felt about her own house. Like a stranger.
I was halfway to the door again, having done what I came for, when I saw a copy of one of Lawrence Fisher’s books lying open on the table next to my couch. I’d started reading it again this week to get me through the sleepless hours, when I was restless, agitated. Fisher was who I needed now. But where was he?
Seeing it again in daylight, I recalled again suddenly one late-night drinking session in London when I was researching my book on profiling and Fisher was not yet the celebrity he was about to become. We’d been talking about the black humour cops often used to deal with what they had to deal with. Laughing at death so that death, briefly, lost its terror. Fisher had admitted that night that when he was called in by forces round the country, he sometimes booked himself into hotels under the names of various obscure serial killers. They had to be obscure so that he didn’t terrify the receptionists.
‘It used to be the prime ministers of Canada,’ he’d said with a laugh, ‘but I started running out.’
And there was never any shortage of serial killers.
The only question was: did he still do it?
It had to be worth a try.
I put down my bag again and started ringing round hotels in the city to ask about recently arrived guests. I kept to the five-star hotels, because Fisher was never one to skimp on luxury. I could always try cheaper ones later if I drew a blank. As it turned out, I didn’t need to. Third hotel I rang, I hit paydirt.
Three nights ago, a man calling himself Paul Nado had booked into the Imperial, a new, ugly, anonymous steel and glass business hotel down by the river, on an open-ended reservation.
The White Monk.
Fisher certainly had some gall.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Paul Nado was in his room. I checked with reception. The room was at the front – probably a suite, knowing Fisher – overlooking the river. All I had to do was take a seat on a bench by the railings next to the water and wait. He’d see me. He’d come. So that was what I did.
I sat with my back to the hotel and my face to the river and lit a cigar, and let the smoke and the water passing sluggishly below mesmerise me. The river was grey today, and heavy, like it had gathered so much of the darkness of the city as it went on its way that it was slowing under the weight and might stop. A solitary seagull sat bobbing on the surface. The wind was strong and its edge would have sharpened iron. On the far bank brooded the Four Courts. Clouds weighed heavy on its shoulders. Along the waterfront, the buildings were drained of colour.
I loved the river. Sometimes if I watched it long enough, it merged and faded and then it might have been the Charles and I might have been home and I could close my eyes and imagine that when I opened them Boston would have risen round me, like the forest growing round a sleeping princess in some fairy tale. Only then I opened my eyes and Dublin was still there.
Today I didn’t close my eyes. Instead I waited, eking out the time in cigars, until the voice I was waiting for spoke.
‘Not going to throw yourself in, are you?’ it said.
‘And waste a perfectly good cigar?’
I hadn’t even heard his footsteps but I didn’t turn round.
Fisher sat down heavily at the other end of the bench. He was a presence at the edge of my vision, that was all, because I didn’t turn my head to see him. I knew what he looked like.
‘Do you know how many bodies were fished out of there last year?’ he asked. He didn’t wait for me to guess. ‘Eighteen. I looked it up.’
‘Enough for two baseball teams.’
‘There used to only be one or two every year, and that was when the city was falling apart. Now it’s meant to be buzzing, and they’re lining up to take a dive. Why is that?’
‘You’re the expert in psychology,’ I said. ‘You tell me.’
I sensed Fisher shrug his shoulders beside me.
‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Sometimes other people’s success only makes those at the bottom feel worse. It’s a perpetual reminder of what they’re missing out on. Of what they can’t quite reach.’
‘Is that so?’
‘It’s an idea.’
He was silent for a moment and I let him be silent.
This was up to him.
‘I was going to call you,’ he said at last.
‘Sure you were.’
For the first time, I turned my head and looked at him. The same old Lawrence Fisher stared back, watching me warily as if trying to assess whether or not I was in a dangerous mood. He was out without a coat and sat tightly, shivering as the wind off the water jabbed its fingers into him, and he was smiling nervously, shamefaced, like a school kid who’d been caught stealing candy.
‘I spoke to my office,’ he said. ‘I knew all along you’d been looking for me. I knew you’d figured out I was still here in Dublin.’
‘If you knew I was looking for you, do you mind explaining why you kept up the now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t act? I needed you the last couple of days.’
&nb
sp; ‘I was doing it for you,’ said Fisher.
I laughed sharply.
‘I’ve heard it all now.’
‘Saxon, listen. Give me a chance. What did you come down here for if it wasn’t to hear what I had to say?’
I drew a mouthful of smoke from the cigar and arched my head back to release it. It was another cloud, grey as the day.
‘I’m listening,’ I said.
I told you I didn’t want you to give me a lift out to the airport that night,’ he said, ‘but you were so insistent. I knew I couldn’t say no without rousing your suspicions, and I didn’t want to tell you I was staying because you’d only have started asking questions. Questions I wasn’t in any position to answer. I know what you’re like. So I let you take me out and then caught a taxi straight back. What else was I to do? I needed time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘To check a few things out. I wanted to be sure of where I was going before I told you I was going anywhere. I needed some answers. The plan was that if nothing came of my trip, you need never know. Though that plan certainly didn’t last long.’
‘If you want to tiptoe incognito round a small place like Dublin,’ I told him, ‘you’d better make sure you do it properly next time.’
‘I realise that now,’ Fisher said. ‘Not all of us, unfortunately, have your gift for stealth.’
‘You’re being sarcastic now. Things are looking up,’ I said. ‘So tell me. Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘That’s the problem.’
‘Not good enough, Fisher. If you have any ideas about this case, you’d better start sharing them. Our seven days are almost up. There’s another victim in preparation. We don’t exactly have the luxury of sitting around waiting for your suspicions to turn into certainties. Suspicions might be all we have.’
Fisher didn’t answer right away.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘let’s take a walk along the river. It’s cold sitting here. Just give me a moment to go back for my coat.’
‘You’ll get by without a coat,’ I said.
At first it looked like he was going to insist, but I just turned away and started walking and he had little choice but to follow.
‘I’ll catch my death,’ he complained as he fell into step.
‘Stop whining. Walking will keep you warm enough.’
Fisher wasn’t convinced, but he obviously didn’t feel he was in any position to be demanding considering I was still sore with him. He simply took a deep breath as we walked, the quays unfolding beneath our feet, like he was a diver preparing to plunge into cold water.
‘I was checking up on Tillman,’ was what he said when he was ready.
That floored me.
‘What the hell does this have to do with Tillman?’
‘You remember that student of his I told you about the other night?’ Fisher asked. ‘The one who accused him of sexual harassment?’
‘I remember. He gave her an F.’
‘I’ve been badgering some people at his old college for more background about what happened. It seems there were a couple of details that didn’t emerge at the time. I managed to get the full story from one of his former colleagues. It turns out that her name was Mary, for starters. Like Mary Lynch. Like Mary Dalton.’
‘Mary’s a common enough name,’ I said.
‘I said there were a couple of details,’ Fisher pointed out.
‘She was Jewish as well. According to her, that was part of Tillman’s problem with her. That was another reason why the college was so quick to dump on him. You know how sensitive they are about any suggestion of a racial slur.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘Tillman’s no anti-semite. He must’ve had thousands of students before who were Jewish. He’s taught his whole professional life on the East Coast, for God’s sake. How come he never had a complaint from any of them?’
‘I didn’t say it made sense,’ he said, ‘but it would certainly help explain a few things.’
‘You’re talking about the writing on the body?’
‘And on the tree where Tara Cox died. Aleph and lamedh,’ he said. ‘Tillman just dismissed it in his profile, he flatly refused to accept it had any symbolic significance. Why would he do that unless he’s trying to downplay a possible anti-Jewish motivation?’
‘You’re wrong. Tillman did address the significance of the writing. He just concluded that it was there to confuse us, that it was part of the game.’
‘Not so fast. It still matters why the killer chose that game rather than another. However you look at it, the writing is a major difference between Fagan’s killings and these ones, and all differences call for explanation. At the least it needed to be asked why a Jewish symbol rather than, say, an Egyptian or a Chinese one; but Tillman wasn’t even interested in exploring what that difference meant. Even when I called him again this morning on the pretext of asking how preparations were coming along for his lecture, he still wouldn’t discuss it.’
‘Tillman’s stubborn.’
‘Not as stubborn as you, if you refuse to admit that I might be on to something here.’
I didn’t answer. We were coming to the brewery now and the city was breaking up into roughness. Seagulls circled, squawking, over empty ground, descending in turn to peck at the garbage below. It was bleak here and Fisher was making it bleaker.
‘I’m not saying it is Tillman,’ he continued as we stood there watching the birds. ‘Even thinking it frightens me. I’m just saying let’s be careful. You especially.’
‘Me?’
‘Don’t you get it? Tillman never ceases talking about you, about the way you betrayed him after the White Monk case.’
‘I never betrayed Tillman.’
‘Try to see it from his point of view,’ Fisher said. ‘One minute he’s a respected criminal psychologist, the next he’s what? A psychologist with a big question mark next to his name, all thanks to you.’
‘The question mark was there already because of his handling of the White Monk case. People were talking. The FBI were furious. All I did was write about it in my book.’
‘You say that was all you did as if it was nothing, when that’s exactly what made it worse. He could take it that the FBI were furious and a few people were talking behind his back. He could overcome that. To have the whole world know about it too was something else.’
I had no reply. Perhaps for the first time, I was starting to see how I might have done Tillman an injustice. I didn’t have to write my book. He knew he’d screwed up on the White Monk case. He didn’t need me spelling it out to anyone with a few dollars to spare for a paperback. Honesty was a poor excuse for abusing a friendship.
‘The first time I spoke to him when he arrived here,’ Fisher was going on, ‘he said he’d show you he wasn’t such a loser. I thought he just meant he’d make something out of being here, start to put his life back in order, make you rethink your ideas about him. Now I’m not so sure. He’s been acting strange all week. There’s something inside his head.’
What had the letter said? There are nine things I have judged in my heart to be happy, and the tenth I will utter with my tongue: A man that hath joy of his children and he that liveth to see the fall of his enemy.
‘Why didn’t you tell me all this the other night?’ I said bitterly.
‘Because I didn’t have all the pieces then and I didn’t want to send you down the wrong track,’ Fisher said. ‘Tillman’s had a tough time. I had no right to add to that by making you suspicious of him as well.’
‘You were suspicious of him.’
‘My suspicions were in my own head. They were containable there. And that’s where I wanted them to stay until I could be sure that they amounted to anything more than paranoia. I’m still not sure whether they amount to anything. I’m just telling you because I think you have a right to know. If Tillman did want some kind of revenge on you, what better way than to play about with all the pie
ces of your past, rearranging them, disordering them, so that you’re forced to revisit your failures as well, the way he was made to confront his?’
‘My failures?’
‘The failure to get Fagan. The thing that eats at you the same way his failure to get Paul Nado eats at him.’
‘Is that what people say about me?’ I said.
‘They say that’s why you haven’t written anything since.’
I almost laughed again. It was the last thing I’d expected. I never gave much thought to what other people thought of me. I’d forgotten that thoughts and memories were two-way roads.
Now I knew how Tillman felt after my book came out.
Under scrutiny.
Judged.
‘I still can’t believe Tillman would be involved in anything like this,’ I said. ‘To get back at me? Being resentful’s a long way from being a murderer. And besides, he wasn’t to know I’d even get involved in the investigation. For all we know, the killer could simply be setting him up, like he tried to with Elliott. He suggested as much this afternoon.’
‘Elliott did?’
‘I meant Tillman.’
‘You’ve seen him?’ said Fisher.
There was no point keeping information back from Fisher now. I told him about the courier’s office, about the videotape.
He whistled softly.
‘The guy on duty swears Tillman didn’t leave any letter in to be sent,’ I said. ‘Though like Mort said himself, the killer wouldn’t be stupid enough to be caught on tape.’
‘It’s classic risk-taking behaviour,’ Fisher said. ‘Fits the profile perfectly. He arranges for a letter to be sent, then turns up at the same time in order to prise himself into the investigation again when his role was meant to have ended.’
I sighed.
‘What are we going to do?’ I said.
‘There’s nothing much we can do before this evening,’ Fisher replied. ‘Look at the time. There’s only a couple of hours to go before Tillman gives his lecture.’
