by James Nally
Either walking or in a box.
‘Was she a tart, Lynch?’ demanded Maureen, the receptionist, as soon as I got through the door. ‘Tell me the truth.’
‘Why is it important to you, Maureen?’
‘I knew it,’ she declared. ‘I’ve got a gift for reading people.’
‘Amongst myriad others, I’m sure.’
‘Another very secretive Irishman called, left you a number to call him back on. He mentioned that it was urgent several times.’
‘My brother?’
‘Even dodgier, I’d say. And I’d trust him even less if I were you. Here.’
She handed me a 0506 number, code for Tullamore in Ireland. I got to the desk and dialled. The beeping told me I’d got through to a pay phone. After a single ring, someone picked up.
‘Hello,’ I said, ‘DC Lynch speaking.’
‘I have important information for you,’ said a quiet voice on the other end, ‘but I can’t talk over the phone.’
‘Concerning?’
‘Robert Conlon.’
‘How do I know you’re genuine?’
‘I’m a Guard. I’ve contacted your enquiry twice before, most recently on December 30th. And three days before that.’
‘You didn’t give your name.’
‘I can’t. If you meet me, you’ll understand why.’
‘You know I can’t just hop on a plane to Ireland on the basis of this chat. I rang your boss yesterday and he denied that any such person exists.’
‘I don’t expect you to answer, DC Lynch, but does the Gillespie case feature an anally inserted foreign object or weird activity connected with her hair?’
I couldn’t speak.
‘Thought so,’ he said. ‘Give me your fax number and stand by it.’
I recited the number.
‘If you’re still interested, call this number again in exactly two hours.’
He hung up. At least I assumed he’d hung up. Unlike the movies, there was no dead tone, just silence. I wondered why Hollywood did that …
Twenty minutes’ later, a robotic wolf whistle signalled fax incoming, followed by the familiar jerky grind. I jumped up to see a fingerprint inching through. A poor quality black and white passport photo followed. I scanned the fingerprint and forwarded a copy to Zoe. I remembered Tammy’s typed list of IT girls and made a photocopy of that too.
I picked up my ringing phone.
‘Ah, DC Lynch, your personal forensic lab calling,’ said Zoe, sounding stoked. ‘The print you just sent me is a match to the one found on the torch bulb in the twitching den. One hundred per cent.’
‘Wow,’ I said, my guts suddenly churning like that fax machine.
‘Good news?’
‘I think so. I’ll tell you all about it later.’
My mind whirred: whoever this Robert Conlon is, he must have murdered Valerie Gillespie. It looked pretty certain that he then went on to kill Liz Little. Why did a serving Irish cop feel so nervous about putting me onto this suspect? Why had a senior Garda denied all knowledge of Robert Conlon earlier? If he was a known offender, how had he escaped any media attention?
There was only one way to get to the bottom of all this; meet the source in person. The faxed fingerprint would help me swing this with Barrett.
But first, I made an appointment to resurrect my career.
Chapter 22
Finsbury Park, North London
Wednesday, April 7, 1993; 17.00
Spence insisted that I meet him in the Red Rose pub a few hundred yards from Holloway police station.
‘Just tell the barman you’re here to see Alex,’ he said, so I did.
He wordlessly poured my Stella, led me to a door at the back of the pub, unlocked it and pointed upstairs.
As I trudged up the thick red pile, the key rattled in the lock behind me. The bolt slid sweetly and clicked locked, like a bullet in a chamber. My chest tightened and my heart pumped inside my ears. I suddenly thought … if someone wanted to execute me, the preamble would probably go something like this …
With its deep red carpet, wallpaper and leather seats, the upstairs strived to embody the pub’s name, but felt more like the inside of an amniotic sac, or Cooper’s dream in Twin Peaks. I suddenly saw Spence in a red suit and shirt, performing a jerky little backwards shuffle across the floor and laughed out loud. I then remembered Liz’s red-themed appearance to me that first night and shuddered. Something about this colour pointed to her killer. What?
It must be connected to that sample of paint in her head wounds …
Dread clung to me like a stubborn ground mist. Yesterday, Spence had me rattling like a garden gate in a hurricane, until every last calorie of self-confidence had jounced out.
He wanted Tammy on a plate and he wouldn’t stop bullying me until he got her. Too bad Spence, Tammy is my snout, not yours. I reminded myself not to let slip her first name. That alone could be enough for him to trace her. I suddenly felt hot and agitated. I got up and paced the room but that sense of foreboding stalked me diligently.
I needed to open a window, and marched over to inspect the closest candidate. Outside, a bus clattered through the low branches of a tree. That’s what Tammy and I were to Spence now; low hanging fruit to be battered free and devoured.
As the bus cleared my field of vision, my eyes were drawn to a figure bustling out of a William Hill bookies’ shop across the road. He jabbed betting slips into the inside pocket of his jacket, a rolled-up Racing Post into his leather satchel. I had Spence down as a self-flagellating, hair-shirted, abstentious Presbyterian … not a man partial to a flutter. I breathed properly for the first time. I could do business with a gambler.
The clatter of the door unlocking made me jump. I stood to face the stairs and my own terror. Spence devoured them two at a time, and arrived at the top looking at me as if I might be next.
‘This better be good, Lynch.’
‘My contact at the Florentine has been in touch.’
‘When? How?’
‘Let’s just say she’s quite resourceful.’
‘I dare say most whores have to be, Lynch. And …?’
‘She handed me this.’
I took the photocopied sheet out of my arse pocket and handed it over.
‘She said that Liz Little and the other girls on this list formed an inner circle at the Florentine who regularly take trips abroad, seemingly on Jimmy’s behalf.’
‘Trips for what? To where?’
‘Every few weeks, a group of them fly to Morocco, Spain or Holland, “druggie places”, as she put it, stay for a couple of days, then fly back. She doesn’t know the purpose, but they must be up to something.’
‘Surely it’s obvious what he brings them over there for … the same thing that keeps them busy at the Florentine.’
‘She says otherwise. There’s more to it. But that’s all she knows.’
‘Who is this girl? Is she willing to make a statement?’
‘No, sir. And I promised I wouldn’t reveal her identity to anyone.’
‘You can tell me, Lynch.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I gave her my word. She won’t even tell me, or give me an address or number. I genuinely know nothing about her.’
He stared again at the list.
‘I’ll get these girls checked out,’ he said, waggling the sheet my way, ‘see what comes up. Is this the only copy?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I lied.
‘Let’s keep it that way,’ he said, tucking it in with his betting slips.
‘Is that all, Lynch?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let me know if she gets in touch again. I’ll get to work on this.’
I nodded. He turned and walked towards the stairs. Two down, he turned back: ‘You delivered like you said you would Lynch. Fair dues. You’re very close to getting that seat on my team. You just need to work out what’s important here. A collar like Jimmy Reilly and a promotion, or the welfare of some two-bit whore.’<
br />
I treated myself to a few celebratory pints, then rang Zoe with my news – impressing Spence today, flying to Ireland tomorrow. She seemed quiet, distracted.
‘Is everything okay?’ I demanded finally.
‘Oh, couldn’t be better Donal. I’ve just got food to cook, a bath to run, clothes to wash, a kitchen to clean, no shopping in, bills to pay, a really grisly child and a mother who wants me to fail.’
‘I can come over, give you a hand.’
‘You can’t just turn up in his life like that. Boom. Hey presto, here’s your latest dad.’
Latest? I thought.
‘Sorry. It’s just … a grind sometimes.’
‘I couldn’t do what you do, Zoe, and that’s a fact. I think you’re amazing.’
‘God, you wouldn’t have thought so five minutes ago …’ she groaned. ‘Thanks though. Nobody ever says nice things to me, except you.’
‘Glad to hear it!’ I said, determined to leave on a high. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow before I fly back.’
‘Donal?’ she said suddenly, just as I was about to hang up.
‘Yeah?’
‘This meeting tomorrow.’ She sighed. ‘Something about it doesn’t seem right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t know anything about him. You’re a British police officer now. You said yourself it’s something you have to keep quiet about over there. The whole thing worries me.’
‘It’s my old stomping ground, Zoe, don’t forget,’ I said brightly. ‘I spoke to this guy. He sounded genuine enough. We’re meeting in a pub so what’s the worst that can happen?’
‘Just call me as soon as you’re finished, okay?’
‘I will,’ I said, smiling at the warm fuzzy goo flooding my veins. I hadn’t had someone worry about me for quite a few years.
I next dialled the house. If Da answered, I’d hang up. If he’d gone out, I’d take the opportunity to barricade myself into my bedroom until tomorrow’s early start.
‘Hello?’ barked Fintan.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘where is he?’
‘Who the fuck have you been talking to?’
‘What are you on about? Talking about what?’
‘About Da being here? Who did you tell?’
‘I didn’t mention it to a soul. Why would I?’
‘Well, someone’s blabbed,’ he snapped, ‘and it wasn’t me and it certainly wasn’t him.’
‘Fintan, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, you’ll be delighted to learn that Dad’s not staying here any more, as that seems to be all you give a shit about.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Some people he really didn’t want to see turned up this afternoon. I fobbed them off while he hid himself upstairs. I finally got rid of them and he bolted. I’ve no idea where he is now.’
‘What do you mean, “some people”? Irish? Beardos?’ I said.
‘The guy who spoke sounded Scottish.’
‘Oh great. So who were they then? Protestant paramilitaries? Spooks? Are they back to burn us out later? I told you he’d bring nothing but trouble.’
‘I don’t fucking know who they were,’ he shouted, ‘but how the fuck did they know he was here? If you told someone, you’ve got to tell me now. Because this is freaking me out.’
I suddenly remembered that morning’s call with Detective Superintendent Ger O’Donnell in Roscrea, how I’d accidentally blabbed Da’s whereabouts. Surely that can’t be connected …
‘I won’t talk any more over the phone, Fintan, because whatever’s going on here is major league.’
‘Tell me about it. I’ve just packed an overnight bag. I suggest you do the same.’
‘Fintan, no matter what’s going on, you know we’ve got to stay the hell out of it, right?’
‘How can we do that?’ he said quietly, ‘He’s our dad.’
Chapter 23
Maynooth, Co. Kildare, Ireland
Thursday, April 8, 1993; 12.00
Frank, my mysterious source for all things Robert Conlon, refused to meet me anywhere near County Offaly, let alone in Tullamore.
‘It’s just too risky for me,’ he said, and I snapped.
‘Jesus, Frank, it’s not like you’re passing over a briefcase of Plutonium, or nuclear secrets.’
‘You wanna bet?’
We settled finally on Maynooth, a neat little University town sixteen miles west of Dublin, and a noon rendezvous in a pub called Brady’s.
‘Noon in Maynooth it is so. How will I know you Frank?’ I said.
‘Because I’ll be the only person in there,’ he replied, matter-of-factly.
As I slid behind a table at the back of the pub, I realised he was almost right. One of those bone-yellow old timers propped up the far end of the bar. Pint, fag, topcoat and cap on, he sat hunched and staring into his stout, peaceful and content. Every pub in Ireland had one or two of these ancient daytime regulars, quietly basking in the stale morning air like reptiles soaking up the sun. As he took a quivering draw on his pint, I silently saluted him for doing exactly what he pleased, and felt a twinge of melancholy that these gnarled, noble islands of men would die out soon.
Frank strode in bang on 12, looking every inch the off-duty copper. Our universal ‘style’ could best be described as ‘failed casual’ and Frank had it nailed. The desert boots looked too new, the Farrah slacks too pressed and high-waisted, the striped blue shirt too ‘Sunday best’. His combed, side-parted hair had been dyed a clownish chestnut so that it resembled an especially tenacious toupee.
His pale face and sad blue eyes bore the puffs and lines of a stresser. As he got closer, I could see ‘w’ for worrier imprinted into his pillow-ground forehead.
‘Donal?’ he said, right hand outstretched as his left placed a tan leather briefcase on a chair.
‘We have company,’ I muttered conspiratorially, nodding towards the top-coated skeleton at the bar.
Frank’s eyes darted over, betraying his crippling anxiety, but he failed to see the funny side.
‘Can I get you a tea or a coffee, Frank?’
‘I could use a pint, to be honest.’
‘Glad you said that Frank, ’cos so could I.’
It’s great to be back in Ireland, I thought, walking to the bar, where Guinness counts as a healthy snack and a pint at midday is no big deal.
As our pints settled, I returned to the table, laid out my warrant card and laid bare my career, which seemed to settle his flaps no end. Frank Farrell told me he’d recently been promoted to Detective Sergeant in Birr having spent twelve years serving towns all over the Midlands.
As soon as the pints landed, Frank took off.
‘I think it’s best if we start with Conlon’s criminal record,’ he said, reaching into his leather case. ‘I’ve got basic background information on all his convictions.’ He plonked a grubby, cardboard file on the table. ‘Ask me anything you like as we go.’
Frank paused, then exhaled a self-psyching blast of air.
‘Okay, Robert Christopher Conlon, born Foxburrow, April twentieth, 1945.
Aged thirteen, convicted of several counts of burglary and sent to St Joseph’s Industrial School in Clonmel, run by the Rosminian order.’
He looked up from the file. ‘Sounds like a Nazi concentration camp. The kids had numbers instead of names and were starved, beaten, sexually abused.’
‘One day, the lid’s gonna come off all that shit and there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘By the time I’m finished here, you might not feel so confident about that,’ he said glumly.
He got back to the official narrative. ‘Conlon returned home aged fifteen. Aged sixteen he was kicked out by his father. He lived rough in local barns and outhouses, stealing from farms and shops. One of the locals remembers hunting with his father one Sunday when they came across a farmer giving Conlon a blowjob out in the woods.’
‘Jesus. What did they do?’
I laughed out loud.
‘Apparently the screams could be heard in Moneygall,’ said Frank, poker-faced, before he continued. ‘Aged seventeen, he was sent to another reform school, St Conleth’s in Daingean, Offaly. From what I hear, no one came out of that place right in the head. Aged twenty he moved to England, and this is where the really sick stuff starts.’
He located another sheet of paper, sliding it over for me to scan.
1964, attempted rape of a female minor, aged 6, during a burglary in Hackney, East London. Served nine days in borstal, sent back to Ireland.
1969, attempted rape of a woman in Durham, England. Sentenced to six years, served three.
1973, rape, GBH of a woman aged 54 in Birmingham. Apprehended at Holyhead ferry port. Sentenced to ten years, served seven.
Frank spoke up. ‘There’s a pre-sentence report from that one. The psychiatrist described him as, hang on, “an explosive psychopath who will kill if he hasn’t already”, and recommended he be locked away indefinitely. He was out after seven years and on a plane back to Ireland.’
‘So that would’ve been …’
‘1981,’ Frank said with a nod. ‘Of course, this was before computers and sex registers, so he moved to Kilkenny city and slipped back into life anonymously. This is where his rap sheet effectively ends and a new phase of violence against women begins. By now, he’d worked out a way of getting away with it.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Instead of attacking strangers, Conlon got to know his victims first, then brutalised them. And judging by his rap sheet, this new strategy worked a treat.’
He read my confusion, taking a few mouthfuls of Guinness to consider how best to put me straight.
‘Let me explain how I first encountered Conlon. I was at the police station in Tullamore one Monday morning in 1987 when a young woman came running through the door in a terrible state, barefoot, wearing just a shirt with bright red welts on her neck.
‘Her name was Anne Gahan, she was sixteen and she’d just escaped from Conlon’s flat on Market Square having been held there, against her will, since Sunday morning.
