by Ingrid Black
“She’d corresponded for weeks with a couple of dodgy characters,” I said, “batting scenarios back and forth. There, all the details are on the next page. See? But it seemed to come to nothing. They expressed an initial interest then backed off.”
“Maybe they got scared off when they began to suspect she was serious. Well, it shouldn’t be too difficult to trace them and get their version of events. But even if they have a perfectly innocent explanation for what they were doing, that doesn’t mean she didn’t excite someone else’s interest who then managed to track her down independently.”
“So it could be anyone in the whole of cyberspace?”
“Practically,” said Fisher.
“That doesn’t exactly narrow down the suspects, does it?”
“Don’t forget the money too,” he added.
“The money?”
“In her purse the night she died. The taxi driver saw it when she was looking for her key. According to her bank records, Marsha had taken out five thousand in cash that afternoon. What if that money was to pay someone to kill her?”
“The subject of money’s never mentioned in any of her emails.”
“But she didn’t find anyone to do what she asked of them that way either, did she? What if she realised she had to make other arrangements? Find a professional?”
“Marsha’s lost me,” I said. “What was she doing?”
“You’ll never understand other people’s desires, other people’s deepest needs,” Fisher said. “It’s futile to try. That’s one thing I have learned. What goes on in people’s heads will always be a mystery. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”
“Victims aren’t supposed to be as dangerous as their killers,” I said stubbornly.
“When are you ever going to realise that there are no rules when it comes to murder? Everything is chaos and surprise. That’s what makes this job so interesting.”
“You’re saying I should see it as a good thing that nothing makes sense anymore?”
“There are worse things than being baffled,” he observed placidly.
“There are also worse things than walking stark naked round St Stephen’s Green,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean you have to recommend it as a lifestyle choice. And what if our bafflement leads to some other woman being butchered? Have you thought about that?”
“Saxon, my dear, right now I’m thinking about precious little else.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“This isn’t my idea of a party,” said Walsh.
“This isn’t anybody’s idea of a party,” I answered. “And if it is somebody’s idea of a party, then I don’t want to have the misfortune of ever meeting them.”
We were standing in a large room in the Parliament Hotel, at the top of Dame Street, almost directly opposite Dublin Castle. A wall of windows looked out onto buses passing below. Traffic was heading home. Waiters circulated inside with trays bearing drinks, and there was a free bar until nine. That was something at least.
I was clutching a bottle of warm beer and wondering what I was doing here. I knew what Kaminski would say I was doing here. Kissing ass, that’s what he’d say. And maybe he was right.
The room was crowded with people I didn’t know and didn’t particularly want to get to know. Patrick Walsh, who’d grabbed hold of me almost as soon as I’d arrived and saved me from splendid isolation, was taking time to point out a few of them to me.
“See that guy over there with the bad hairpiece? He’s in charge of the DMP press office. That short guy who looks a bit like Hitler, only not quite so pleasant? That’s the Assistant Commissioner for Traffic.”
On and on he went, telling me who’d screwed who to get what positions and the gossip about the various people in various departments. Some of the guests needed no introduction. I recognised their faces, in particular the huddles of reporters, getting snippets for the weekly social diaries charting who was hot and who was not in Dublin public life.
It was certainly good for public relations to have a woman taking over the murder squad. They wanted to make sure they got as much capital out of it as they could.
“Here, pass me another one of those beers. I seem to be empty. Thanks. You know, you don’t have to stand here with me. You can circulate if you want. I’ll be fine.”
“No problem. Besides, I’m trying to avoid someone.”
“Anyone I know?”
“See the woman over there with the tits?”
“Don’t they all have them?”
“Not like those ones,” said Walsh with an appreciative leer, then the smile vanished when he saw the look I returned. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I forget you’re a woman.”
“Thanks, I needed that.”
“No, I mean it in a good way,” he said quickly. “Usually with a woman these days, you have to watch everything you say or they start looking at you like you’ve broken some golden rule of the sisterhood. With you, I don’t feel like you’re judging me. I don’t have to be so careful what I say. I can say what I’m really thinking. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
I was still trying to work out whether I’d just been on the receiving end of a compliment or an insult and whether it mattered if you’d been insulted if the person doing the insulting meant to say something nice.
Either the question was too deep, or I was too sober.
“You were telling me about the woman with the tits,” I reminded him. “I presume you’re seeing her?”
“And trust me, there’s plenty worth seeing,” he said.
“So why are you trying to avoid her?”
“She’s been moving a little too fast for my liking,” he said. “She always wants us to be spending time together, she wants to know where I’m going, what I’m doing, she even asked me a couple of nights ago for my home phone number.”
“Women today,” I said sardonically. “What are they like? Just because they’ve let you have ramblers’ rights over their bodies, they think they ought to be able to call you.”
“She has my mobile phone number, what else does she want? I need my space,” said Walsh. “I know the score. They start by asking for your number and then they want to know where you are all the time and then they tell you that you’re drinking too much and before you know it they’re saying they love you and want to have your baby.”
“And you deduced all this from the fact she asked for your home phone number?”
“I can read the signs,” he said confidently. “And I figured that if she saw me with another woman, she wouldn’t make a scene. She can be... fiery. Women can be very vengeful, you know.” And that was true enough. “The truth is I don’t believe in monogamy. It’s not natural for men and women to stay together for ever, don’t you agree?”
“I’ve never had a problem with monogamy,” I said. “When I’m with someone, I’m with them. I don’t usually look around for a replacement.”
“I couldn’t be like that. It’s only natural to try out what else is available.”
“Maybe it’s a male thing,” I said with a shrug.
“Most of the women I know are like that too. Maybe there’s just something wrong with your sex drive.” And he said it so pleasantly that I was again stumped how to respond to what sounded like an insult. But I never got the chance, because he suddenly interrupted his own thoughts with a low appreciative murmur: “Hello.”
Another woman had caught his eye on the other side of the room. She was tall, dark-haired, with mischievous eyes and prominent cheekbones and a great figure. She was smiling politely at something her companion, a small dumpy man that Walsh had already identified to me as an inspector with the Immigration Office, had said to her.
The smile verged on a grimace.
“Now that’s more like it,” he said. “Who is she?”
“That’s Stella Carson’s daughter,” I said. “I saw a picture of her in the Assistant Commissioner’s office. She’s a lawyer.”
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“What’s her name?”
“Ally, I think. You’re not going to make a move, are you?”
“Why not?” he said. “It could be good for my career, going out with the boss’s daughter. I’d be one of the family. I’d make Inspector two years tops.”
“Unless you cheated on her and broke her beloved daughter’s heart and the outraged mother decides you’re being transferred to the dog unit. Mothers can be very protective.”
“I never thought of that.” Walsh looked disappointed, until another thought struck him: “But it couldn’t hurt to just talk, could it? Wait here. I’ll not be long. I’m a fast worker.”
Walsh checked his appearance quickly in a nearby mirror before starting a nifty sideways dance to where Ally Carson was beginning to look a little less than delighted by the anecdotes of Mr Immigration. I couldn’t help smiling at Walsh’s talent for getting himself into emotional tangles, until I became aware that someone was staring at me.
I looked over and saw the infamous woman with the tits and the bad habit of asking men for their home phone numbers glaring at me with obvious dislike. I was clearly being put down as the big bad wolf who’d stolen boy wonder away from her.
“It’s OK,” I wanted to tell her, “I never date anyone who needs to shave their back.”
But I doubted she would’ve believed me.
Suddenly weary, I wondered how long it would be before I could sneak away without my absence being noted. Assuming, that is, that my presence had been noted anyway.
I began to walk slowly round the room because, when you’re on the move, you can always pretend that you have something to do and somewhere to go. I estimated I could spend an hour making my way round and round the room, like a goldfish in a bowl, avoiding conversation, before I got so dizzy I fell over.
I hadn’t gone far when I spotted Fitzgerald. She was standing with Stella Carson and Sean Healy and the mighty Commissioner himself at the far end of the room. I hadn’t spoken to her since arriving. It was one of those occasions when we both decided it was judicious to stay discreetly apart – so as not to frighten the horses, as it were. The Commissioner knew about our relationship, sure he did, but I sensed it was something he preferred to know about in the abstract, like a mathematical equation, rather than have the evidence in front of him.
They were all laughing at something one of them had said. Probably one of the Commissioner’s bad jokes. Fitzgerald had a very expressive mouth. I often found myself watching her talk, not necessarily hearing what she said, but just liking the way it moved.
She’d also loosened her hair so that it hung down her neck. She told me once that she’d had hair down to her waist as a child and having to cut it was the saddest thing she’d ever had to do. It was, she said, like the end of childhood. Me, I couldn’t get out of my childhood fast enough, but I could see how the symbolism might’ve meant more to her.
When she wore her hair loose, it was like she was free in some indefinable way.
It was then that the Assistant Commissioner reached out and touched Fitzgerald’s arm. It was nothing, a gesture to command attention, and yet for a moment, it made me angry, and I was surprised at myself. I’d never been the jealous type before. It shocked me.
I turned away in irritation, hating the irrationality of thoughts. The way you had no power over them. The way they just came unbidden and unwanted, and drove out all self-possession. I took a deep breath and told myself not to be so stupid.
It didn’t help.
At that moment, I wanted to get out of there.
Be alone.
On the way out, I met Walsh coming back from the men’s room. He looked sheepish, but it was too dim at first for me to see what was wrong with him.
“You had enough?” he said.
“I need some air,” I told him.
It was a plausible enough lie.
“I’ll come with you. I could do with getting some air myself.”
“Honestly, I just want some time to myself. What’s up with you, anyway? I thought you were moving in on the younger Miss Carson?”
“Let’s just say I don’t think that’s going to work out.”
He stepped forward a little into the light and I saw that he had the beginnings of an impressive black eye. So that’s why he’d looked so sheepish.
“She hit you?” I said, amazed.
“Not Ally. Monica.”
“Monica being the girl from Vice?”
“She saw me chatting up Ally. I told you she’d make a scene. She just came right over and kapow. The woman’s fucking nuts. What did I tell you about them being vengeful?”
“What did Ally Carson say?”
“When she stops laughing, I’ll let you know.”
“Don’t let it bother you. Women can be vengeful, surely you’ve realised that by now? And I’m sure your male ego will survive. There are plenty more women upstairs for you.”
“True,” he said, brightening. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“Walsh, you’re a sweet guy, and I appreciate the offer, I do. But I couldn’t forgive myself if I came between you and your raging libido. I don’t want to cramp your style.”
“If you put it like that,” he said, “it does seem a shame to deny the women of Dublin the incomparable pleasure of my body on such a warm summer’s evening. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t seem to need it,” I pointed out. “Except with Monica.”
“Ouch,” he said. “What’d you have to have to go reminding me about her for?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I didn’t feel like returning home straight away. I was restless, antsy, disgruntled with myself and the world. Nothing new there then.
I needed to walk. But I scarcely noticed where I walked because I was still thinking about Stella Carson’s reception. Had Fitzgerald been trying to make me jealous back there, to punish me in some way for not telling her about Kaminski and me? Was she trying to send me a message not to take her for granted? Telling me that, if I didn’t appreciate her, there were plenty of others who would?
No, I was being paranoid. She hadn’t known I was there. Her back was turned the whole time. I was making myself unhappy for no reason.
Perhaps I was simply feeling vulnerable. Fitzgerald had always spent more time in work than out of it, it came with the territory, but there’d never been anyone that she worked with before that I could have imagined her having anything other than a professional relationship with. Now there was someone who, given different circumstances, it didn’t take a huge leap of imagination to suppose could spark a mutual attraction. Stella Carson was a good looking woman. After her recent divorce, she was available. Nothing was unthinkable.
The city that night was hot. Suffocatingly hot. The weather still showed no signs of breaking. The streets were crowded and noisy, like they’d been a couple of nights ago when Fitzgerald and I had walked back to my apartment from the bar. I even thought I recognised some of the same faces, taking advantage of the warm whilst it lasted - which in Dublin, it rarely did. It was exactly the same scene, except that tonight the city had become infested with a kind of malignancy.
Everything which had seemed healthy and vital now seemed to be rank, rotten, like meat left out in the sun too long. It even felt like it was getting hotter rather than cooler as the night got later, as if everything was conspiring to just feel wrong. I didn’t know how the other people in the streets couldn’t feel it too. How it didn’t ruin everything for them.
Could they not smell the city going bad?
It was the kind of heat that makes people lose control. Maybe I’d been touched a little by it myself. It was almost as if something was about to explode or catch fire. The streets needed a dousing of rain to slake their thirst and cool their fever, but there was no chance of that. The sky was drier than an African plain, cloudless and cracked like a dirt track.
Everywhere I walked, I saw signs of the festering mood which had g
ripped the city. In the crimson sweating faces of the people that I passed. Their exposed roasted flesh. The scent of food in the air, normally so inviting, now sickened me. A man stood on the corner of Molesworth Street, cramming a burger into his mouth like a python greedily swallowing its prey whole, and the juices ran down his chin like blood.
Another stood nearby, urinating through the bars of a metal grille covering the doorway of an office. A man and a woman stood arguing loudly on the junction of Ely Place and Merrion Row. There was a dead dog decaying on the banks of the Grand Canal. Garbage floated by on the water’s oily surface. The smell was bad here. And getting worse. The weeds looked like strips of raw flesh.
Gradually I realised that I wasn’t walking without purpose or direction. Without realising it, I had been making my way to Kaminski’s hotel. I found myself standing across the road from its weathered old stone facade, looking up where I imagined his window to be.
Was he in?
Fitzgerald hadn’t mentioned whether she’d put the tail on Kaminski that she’d talked about that morning, but I guessed so. If she said she’d do something, she did it. Even so, I knew any tail on Kaminski would prove fruitless. He’d know he was being followed and adjust his patterns accordingly. He knew how to make his daily existence as anonymous and lacking in trace evidence as Mark Hudson’s was looking right now. He’d proved that in North Carolina. I checked out the street in front of the hotel quickly to see if I could detect where the watching officers might be positioned. A stationary silver car a hundred yards away with blacked-out windows looked the most promising. Unless, I thought, it was Buck Randall himself, keeping an eye on the object of his tormenting. Now wouldn’t that be something?
I wandered over and knocked on the car window.
Nothing.
So I knocked again. Louder. This time, the window descended slowly with a whirr. In the driver’s seat sat a man who couldn’t have been more obviously a police officer had he walked about with the words Police Officer tattooed on his forehead in fluorescent tattoo ink.
