Dance With the Dead

by James Nally

  ‘Well, I didn’t fucking catch him, did I? And we’re definitely not going to catch him now, are we?’

  ‘You lot were never going to catch him,’ he snapped. ‘The will just wasn’t there, was it? You were doing what you always do, waiting for him to strike again, hoping he’d make a mistake. If you’d launched a proper manhunt, it’d be different. I had to do this. How else could we flush him out?’

  ‘It’s not your job to flush anyone out. There’s a good chance he’ll get beaten to death as a result of your article, and you’ll get charged with incitement.’

  ‘God, the editor would love that,’ he gushed. ‘He wants to start a campaign, outing paedophiles. They’re like the ultimate tabloid bogeymen. Would you really give a shit if he got beaten to death?’

  ‘It’s not the ideal way to conduct justice, is it, Fintan?’

  ‘Well, Lynch by name … Look, Da was desperate. Conlon stopped answering his phone days ago. He practically begged me to do it.’

  ‘I’ve got to call this in now,’ I said. ‘Give me Conlon’s mobile number and let me know if anyone else contacts you with any information.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Hey, you know how we went down to Brownswood the other night with a photo of Valerie Gillespie?’ he said. ‘We should really go down there with a photo of Conlon. He’s been around that area all along. Some of the other girls must know him.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that now?’ I said. ‘Even a vague description of his car would help. We’ve got nothing.’

  ‘What are you gonna do?’

  ‘As soon as I make this call, they’ll want me straight in to brief them. We’re now looking at a live incident, possibly an abduction.’

  ‘You should take Da with you.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Conlon will be starting to feel pretty desperate and hunted by now. If he’s going to call anyone in this situation, it’ll be Michael Lynch. And we don’t want him going to see Conlon alone, do we?’

  Chapter 34

  Central London

  Sunday, April 11, 1993; 09.40

  ‘I wonder has anyone ever driven to New Scotland Yard before with a rabid IRA man in their passenger seat?’

  Even Da had to smile.

  ‘Hey,’ I said as we drove past the Tower of London on the edge of the City, ‘this is like a whistle-stop tour of all the places you’d like to blow up.’

  As the Houses of Parliament loomed, he finally spoke. ‘Don’t even start.’

  I knew the streets round the Yard inside out, including where to park free on a Sunday.

  ‘You know I’m going to have to leave you here in the car?’ I said, ‘but don’t worry, I’ll unwind the window an inch so you don’t suffocate.’

  As I walked past the Yard’s iconic rotating sign into the soulless reception area, I couldn’t resist a smirk. Last time I’d been here, two men toting machine guns had to escort me out.

  Post bag search, frisk and airport-style metal detector, I headed to the third floor where a detective sergeant took my statement. I told him everything, except the fact that my dad, suspected IRA member Michael Lynch, had accompanied me throughout the entire escapade. Where could I even start with that?

  As a parting shot, I shamelessly mentioned how much I’d love to assist in the hunt for Conlon. ‘I feel like I’ve developed a good insight into his character and habits that might prove useful,’ I smarmed.

  ‘Well, we’re desperately short of manpower. Why don’t you head into the briefing across the corridor, I’ll have a word with human resources.’

  Some thirty officers already sat before an empty top table. Unsure of the etiquette, I took a chair near the back and waited.

  Finally, two uniformed heavyweights lumbered in.

  The slimmer, younger of the two spoke. ‘As some of you already know, I’m Superintendent John Knox from Special Branch.’

  That sent sparks through the room. Special Branch meant National Security.

  ‘This is Commander Neil Crossley from the Kidnap and Extortion Unit. He’ll talk you through the operational side of things shortly. Firstly, I’d like to give you a heads up as to where we are with this investigation.

  ‘Having been bounced into it as a result of some highly irresponsible journalism, we’ve just had a reporting ban invoked at the High Court covering all aspects of this case. So we’ll have no more trouble from that lot.

  ‘As most of you know, Robert Conlon, age 45, is wanted in connection with the murder of three women, Melinda Marshall, Valerie Gillespie and Liz Little. He was last seen at about seven o’clock this morning checking out of the Pembroke Hotel in Finsbury Park in the company of a female. Staff members were unable to offer a description of the woman or any information about Conlon’s vehicle.

  ‘Conlon has since got in touch, first by dialling 999 from his mobile. Now he’s calling us on a specially assigned direct-dial number, also from his mobile. He’s with a woman called Karen Hartley, age 20, who works as a prostitute in the Brownswood Road red-light area. She sounds in a bad way, very stressed, very scared.

  ‘Conlon is making demands, and threatening to harm this woman if his demands aren’t met. That’s why we’ve drafted in Commander Crossley. We are now treating this as a kidnap situation. Commander?’

  Crossley stood and surveyed the room, seemingly taking command of the very air we breathed.

  ‘You’re mostly murder detectives,’ he almost whispered in working-class cockney. ‘When you investigate a murder, you can’t bring the victim back. Kidnap is different. It’s a crime in action. Every decision you make can be the difference between a kidnap victim living or dying. I want you to keep that at the forefront of your minds at all times. Kidnap investigations require patience and caution. Guile. Do not be gung-ho. Always consider the consequences. The most successful kidnap investigations don’t have heroes.

  ‘Now, let me explain the priorities in a kidnap case. Priority number one is getting the kidnapped person back safe and well. Priority number two is catching the culprit. So the victim’s welfare stands alone as our principle goal, and comes before anything else. Understood? In a straight choice between releasing the victim and apprehending the kidnapper, you always free the victim.

  ‘We’ve already achieved our first priority today, which is proof of life. Karen spoke to us briefly on Conlon’s mobile phone. She’s not coping very well. But we can use that to keep him on the phone, and that’s a good thing as I’ll explain in a while.

  ‘Our mission now is twofold. We must keep Karen alive and safe, but we must also buy time for you to investigate. We, the negotiators, do this by finding plausible logistical reasons to delay meeting the kidnapper’s demands. To give you an example, we’ve explained to him how cash is difficult to raise on a Sunday. Some major decision makers are away with their families and uncontactable. We’re buying time so that you guys can get out there and rescue her. Apprehending him, don’t forget, is just a bonus.

  ‘Often, our only chance of arresting a kidnapper or extortionist is when they break cover to collect the money. But there’s always a risk he’s working with a partner. If we swoop in and arrest him, the partner might kill Karen. I’d rather he walk away with the ransom than risk Karen’s life.

  ‘So, where is he?

  ‘We’ve had audio experts in. They’re convinced that he’s calling from a vehicle while driving around London, and that Karen’s in the same vehicle. We don’t have a lot else right now. So the only thing we can usefully do is get boots, eyes and ears out there on the ground.’

  He walked over to a map of London.

  ‘Thankfully, we’ve got a virtual open line to his mobile. We’ve been tracking his phone signals and we’re establishing a general pattern of where he’s driving, broadly between Maida Vale in West London and Battersea in South London. We can only speculate as to why he’s sticking to these locations. But it means he’s crossing the Thames, over and back, several times. We’ve got five bridges that
he’s most likely driving across on these routes, Wandsworth, Battersea, Albert, Chelsea and Vauxhall.

  ‘We’re going to deploy you in teams on both sides of these bridges. What are you looking for? Any vehicle that looks like it’s been modified for kidnap. Erratic driving. Counter surveillance techniques. Someone clearly disguising their appearance. Listen in on your police radios; we’ll isolate a frequency so that you’ll at least know in which direction he’s driving. Our tracking system is a couple of minutes behind but it’s the best we’ve got.

  ‘The rest of you will be tasked with checking out hotels, B and Bs, car-hire companies. Remember the aliases he frequently uses, Lesley Cahill and Thomas Koschei. Now any questions?’

  ‘What are Conlon’s demands?’ came one.

  Crossley looked to Knox. ‘Money and a deal, basically; the details aren’t important.’

  ‘Why is it a matter of National Security?’

  ‘I can’t possibly comment,’ snapped Knox, ‘but trust me when I tell you that it is. And we’re probably not the only ones looking for him.’

  ‘Who else is looking for Conlon?’

  ‘Strictly off the record, the Provisional IRA is believed to be looking for Conlon, so let’s make sure we get to him first.’

  Chapter 35

  Albert Bridge, London

  Sunday, April 11, 1993; 14.30

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Da grumbled, ‘I’m going cross-eyed looking at fucking traffic.’

  I’d volunteered to take the south side of Albert Bridge, but the relentless stream of vehicles suggested lost cause. Even when the police radio announced his approach from the north, we failed to see anything suspicious.

  ‘Unless he’s wearing a balaclava,’ moaned Da, ‘and her legs are sticking out of the boot, we’ll never spot them.’

  I reached into the glove compartment and threw him a London A to Z. ‘You got any better ideas?’

  He fingered the pages exhaustively, as if checking for nits.

  ‘He’s not a city boy,’ he said finally.

  ‘What a shame they don’t have hookers for him to savage in the countryside.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be looking at where he’s driving. We should be looking at where he’s stopping.’

  He turned the open pages towards me and jabbed at a lump of green. ‘Battersea Park,’ he said.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘He can’t leave the car if she’s in it. And that’s the only place you can stop south of the river that isn’t a street. He’ll be making these calls to the cops somewhere quiet like that.’

  ‘It’s a big park.’

  ‘Tell me, detective,’ he smiled, ‘where’s a better place to hide a needle than in a haystack?’

  I smiled back. ‘What a family of riddlers we are.’

  ‘With other needles,’ he said. ‘Let’s go check out all the parking areas in Battersea Park.’

  We cruised the park, hungrily hunting out opportunity like some father and son dogging combo, when Fintan called.

  ‘You’ll never guess who I’m sitting with outside the Finsbury Park Tavern?’ he said.

  ‘As much fun as guessing would be Fintan,’ I said, ‘we are a tad pressed for time, you know, what with hunting down a homicidal maniac and the woman he’s about to kill.’

  ‘Jo from Middlesbrough!’

  ‘Ah, yes, Jo the frosty hooker. How is she?’

  ‘You know how she takes the registration plates of cars she doesn’t recognise? Well, I’m currently looking at a line on her list from last night that ends KH, for Karen Hartley.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Now pass the phone over to Da.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not telling you because you’ll do the right thing and tell your boss. Da needs this more than anyone.’

  ‘Ah, come on,’ I protested, ‘we’re all in this together.’

  ‘We made a deal. Dad, now.’

  Da’s enthusiastic ‘yeahs’ felt like slash wounds to my chest; his ‘brilliant’ and giggled ‘genius’ daggers to my heart. He’d never said anything like that to me, ever. Yet here I was, upfront with him on the actual hunt, breaking every rule in the handbook.

  ‘Right so,’ he said, hanging up, ‘we’re looking for a Volvo 940 estate. Fittingly enough, they look like hearses, except this one is racing green. I’ve memorised the registration. Do another lap.’

  We drew a blank.

  ‘Again,’ he said.

  ‘I’m a bit worried that we’ve abandoned our post.’

  ‘You’ve a choice in life, Donal, either follow orders or think for yourself. Why don’t you trust your own instincts, for once?’

  I laughed. ‘What’s this got to do with instincts? I’m just following your orders instead of theirs.’

  ‘Well, just do it so.’

  As I drove out of the park’s east side, onto Queenstown Road, Martin shouted, ‘Stop!’

  ‘Turn around and drive past that row of cars, nearest the river.’

  ‘I can’t turn here. It’s illegal.’

  ‘You’re a cop for Christ’s sake! Turn.’

  My gear-crunching, six-pointer felt less Bullitt, more Driving Miss Daisy.

  ‘You must be the most useless fucker God ever put on four wheels,’ Da observed, as the Volvo passed us on its way out.

  ‘Get after it, but not too close.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen the films, Da. Jesus.’

  Halfway across the bridge, we were just three cars behind. I couldn’t make out anyone through the Volvo’s rear-window reflections.

  ‘I should radio for back-up.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ said Da. ‘He’s probably listening in.’

  I remembered the forensic psychologist’s warning that serial offenders often use police scanners. How did Da know this? It would have to be my excuse later for not letting HQ in on our pursuit …

  The Volvo continued up through Sloane Square towards Knightsbridge, then turned right towards Hyde Park Corner.

  ‘Shit, we’ll never stay with him through there. It’s a mess.’

  ‘Get right behind him,’ hissed Da.

  ‘We don’t want him clocking us,’ I protested. ‘He might kill Karen.’

  ‘You can’t fucking lose him now, Donal. She must be in the boot, anyway, look. I can only see his head. If she’s in the boot, he can’t hurt her. Not if we’re right behind him.’

  ‘She might be lying on the back seat.’

  ‘Then the closer we are to him the better.’

  ‘Fuck it,’ I said, cutting someone up to make the outside lane, then veering back in right behind the Volvo. Incredibly, he didn’t appear to react.

  ‘Sure isn’t that how everyone drives over here?’ said Da.

  The Volvo continued left up Park Lane, then onto the Edgware Road.

  ‘He must’ve seen us by now.’

  ‘I’m not sure how much more of this I can stand,’ said Da.

  The Volvo sped up and made a sudden left into Sussex Gardens, then slowed right down.

  ‘Shit, he’s onto us,’ he said as I braked hard to tuck in behind him.

  ‘Fintan loves this car, you know,’ I said.

  ‘Jesus, don’t talk to me. The Ford fucking Mundano I call it. Lord help us.’

  We turned to each other and smiled. My God, I thought, we’ve bonded at last. And all it’ll cost is one brand new Mondeo.

  I gunned the engine and overtook the Volvo, then swung the steering wheel left with all my might. My arse seemed to take off as the world spun wildly around us. Suddenly, we were face to face. As the Volvo braked, I sped up.

  Deafening bang. White flash. That terrible silence when even the birds stop singing.

  I battled the squelching airbag to get out. Da was already opening the green driver’s door. The man who slumped out wasn’t Robert Conlon. Da looked at me, mouth open.

  Remembering Crossley’s ‘victim first’ declaration, I went straight to the back door and opened it. No
Karen.

  ‘Grab the keys,’ I said to Da, ‘she must be in the boot.’

  I twisted the lock and lifted. Empty. What the fuck?

  Crossley’s flat voice from earlier purred in both ears: Every decision you make can be the difference between a kidnap victim living or dying.

  Suddenly, I spotted Da at the front passenger door, shouting.

  ‘Bob, you have to tell me or they’ll kill you,’ he roared.

  I ran up to him. ‘Bob, Bob,’ he screamed.

  He looked at me and lowered his right hand from his ear. His shaking palm opened to show two mobile phones, crudely taped together. ‘He’s hung up,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said, ‘I think we’ve just killed Karen Hartley.’

  As soon as I flashed my warrant card, Taz from Tottenham couldn’t stop talking.

  He’d got to know ‘Mr Bob’ in the Manor House pub in recent months.

  Hang on, I thought, wasn’t that where Fintan met Da the other night? Too much of a coincidence, surely? What did that fucker really know?

  Taz stopped off most nights for a pint on his way home from work. He drove a minicab for a company based near King’s Cross. This morning, Mr Bob called him at work, offering £300 for an all-day job. How could he say no?

  Mr Bob came to the office, handed him two mobile phones, a roll of gaffer tape and the keys to his Volvo. His instructions had been simple. One: drive around London all day on a pre-appointed route between Paddington and Clapham. Two: whenever a mobile phone rings in the car – either Taz’s or the two he’d just acquired from Bob – answer it without speaking. Three: follow my instructions, which may involve dialling numbers and taping the two acquired mobile phones together, head to toe, so that the people on the other end of both phones could talk.

  In classic petty-criminal fashion, Taz had neither asked nor considered what might’ve been going on here.

  When quizzed as to why he sped away from us on Edgware Road, Taz explained: ‘I thought it was like a racist road-rage thing. I get it all the time. People shouting Paki bastard, trying to run me off the road. I wouldn’t mind but I’m Turkish!’