Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller (13 page)

Karen described coming up the stairs directly behind Peter. At this point, she broke down. Glenn’s officers felt sorry for her and let her take a break.

Next, they jumped forward to the nature of Karen’s friendship with Peter. I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t pressed Karen about discovering Marion’s body. Clearly, Glenn’s team had already concluded Karen couldn’t have had anything to do with this murder. I made a note to check out how they’d made this seismic leap.

Karen said she first met Peter at work and they became friends. When Peter and Marion moved into the clinic’s staff accommodation after their marriage, she became friends with Marion. They visited each other’s rooms. She and Marion sometimes went to the pub. She visited them in January after they rented the flat on Sangora Road.

I’ve always been suspicious of men and women claiming to be friends. In my experience, one of them always has some sort of romantic designs on the other. But none of this was proof. None of this provided the fresh plot twist Shep craved. I’d seen the bloodlust in his eyes. I dreaded having nothing juicy to throw his way. He might devour me instead. I had to find something – anything – to impress him.

I asked my frosty new colleague if I could take a look at the exhibits recovered from the murder scene. Wordlessly, he handed me a numbered list, led me to a cupboard, unlocked the door and stomped off. I pulled the door open, my eyes fixing instantly upon the grisly familiarity of Marion’s handbag, jacket, keys and post. A shiver fizzed across my neck, making my shoulderblades rattle.

I reminded myself that these were inanimate objects, nothing macabre, and got stuck in. Soon, all that remained unsearched was the very first thing I’d clapped eyes on in the chaos – Marion’s flowery plastic handbag. It was the usual dumping ground for receipts, make-up, a brush, some loose change. She smiled out at me from a Reuters security pass: demure, poised, gentle – a far cry from the crazed harridan who had been attacking me. I pulled out a tissue with a bright pink impression of her lips. I held it reverentially, this last remnant of her living body, and let a fresh band of melancholy pass through me. Marion’s Turin Shroud. I thought about how much an item like this would mean to her family, yet here it is, stuck in a sterile cupboard, destined for the skip. I knew it would never be evidence in the case, so I folded it carefully and pocketed it: one day I’d send it to her mum Mary.

A small gold zip on the back of the bag revealed a thin compartment. I could barely slide my fingers in. Right at the bottom, I felt something long and thin. More prodding revealed that this object was trapped within the inner lining. I looked inside the handbag again. I noticed for the first time a barely-visible little compartment – lining on lining and stitched in the middle. I tried the small opening on one side and could only get two fingers in. I pulled out the object: a tampon. I realised this was Marion’s secret compartment. There was nothing else on this side of the stitching, so I slid my fingers into the small gap on the other side. I felt a thin scrap of paper. I dragged it up and out.

It was a folded page ripped out of a small notebook. I opened it.

‘
Dear Andrea
,’ began the undated, unfinished letter, clearly from Marion to a close friend. My eyes popped: the contents of this note changed everything.

Church Road, London SW19

Thursday, August 8, 1991; 21:01

I hadn’t seen Gabby since intercepting Dom’s deranged love note a couple of weeks back and packing her off to Kent.

Earlier today, she left a message on my home answerphone.

Hi Donal, Gabby here, from Salcott Road, you know the woman men can’t stay away from. Anyway just to say I moved into a house share in Wimbledon on the first of the month with some old friends from Uni. They happened to have a room free so it felt like it was meant to be really. Anyway, thanks for all your help these past couple of weeks. If you could drop my post around some evening this week, that’d be great. If you’d like to call me at work to let me know when you’re coming, that’d be even better because then I can thank you personally and maybe introduce you to everyone. I’ve told them all about you! But don’t worry if you can’t do an evening. Hopefully see you soon.

By the time I got to Church Road SW19 it was already after nine p.m. I couldn’t wait to see Gabby and tell her about my breakthrough today. On the downside, I felt knackered and wasn’t sure I could handle her no doubt highly educated and very chatty friends. These days, I seemed to have about ten per cent of everyone else’s puff.

But her bundle of post included a couple of large packages – books of course – that wouldn’t fit through her post box. I buzzed and reassured myself that I could hold my own with these people if I had to. I’d discovered that my accent acted as an impenetrable shield against what certain English people wanted to do most: pigeonhole you by class and education. It was impossible for them to judge whether I was educated or thick, rich or poor. So long as I avoided the subject, they might not even be able to tell that I’d never been to university.

The door was flung open by a lady with spiky blonde hair who asked me what I wanted. I held up the bundle and explained I was dropping round Gabby’s post. She turned, shouted, ‘Gabby, someone for you’, and disappeared. So much for the hero’s welcome.

Gabby bounced down the stairs in denim shorts over black tights and a tight white vest, all indie rock and beaming. Sharing with Uni friends had clearly made her regress.

‘Evening, Officer. Do please, come in.’

She got to the bottom of the stairs and strode confidently towards me, a new woman. I couldn’t understand why her familiarity made me uneasy: maybe I found it easier to empathise with victims.

‘Well, what do you think of the place?’ she said, arms outstretched. Before I had time to answer, she ordered me to follow. I got the grand tour of a grand old sprawling Victorian family home, complete with wonky chandeliers, oriental rugs, vanity watercolour portraits, a grand piano, vast leather couches, school corridor radiators and a mossy-glassed, off-kilter conservatory.

Robert Johnson played on an old-school record player stained with candle wax.

Her flatmates lounged about with music magazines, red wine, rolling tobacco and Rizlas, clearly determined to test my law enforcement convictions.

‘Hi everyone, this is Donal,’ Gabby announced, and I felt like I’d gatecrashed cool.

The goth girl squeaked: ‘Hello, Donal’ and I couldn’t tell if she was taking the piss.

‘Hi,’ smiled spiky blonde, as if she’d just met me for the first time.

The man – skinny, blonde and more feminine than either of the girls – cut straight to the quick: ‘How would you feel, Officer, about me engaging in some doobie, here in my own home?’

‘That’s Ricky,’ said Gabby, in a manner that suggested everyone else in the world would have known already, ‘he’s a session player.’

‘Rick, is that short for prick?’ I thought better of saying, opting for the more convivial: ‘Yeah you go for it, man. I’m only a bastard on duty.’

That seemed to calm everyone down no end. Before long, I was red-wining them under the table while enduring their stories. I foolhardily took several tokes on several joints – declining to tell them the one about the last time I sampled drugs, you know, when one person died and another ended up in prison.

They were all completing Masters’ degrees or PhDs, had jobs they felt beneath them and no real idea what they wanted to do with their lives. I resisted the temptation to say: ‘Find something you like and just go for it.’

At some point in the night, one of them mentioned Sylvia Plath. When I asked if she was the woman who sang ‘Je Ne Regrette Rien’ they nearly died laughing.

Just as they recovered, I said, a little bitterly: ‘I guess not then.’

They slid like capsized Alps into balls of hysterics: Gabby’s convulsions the most pronounced and cutting of all.

Not wanting to appear petulant, I waited fully five minutes before making my excuses to leave. As Gabby went to grab my coat, friendly goth said: ‘We haven’t seen her laugh like that in years. You’re really helping her come out of herself.’ The others concurred and insisted I come back soon.

‘Any time you like, dude,’ drawled Ricky.

At the front door, Gabby inspected my tatty old coat and asked when it had last been to the cleaners.

‘No gumshoe worth his salt sports a dry-cleaned coat. Look at Marlowe, Sam Spade, Columbo?’

I slipped it on. Before I knew it, she was buttoning me up like a schoolboy.

She fastened the top button and gazed up at me, well inside my personal no-fly-zone. Her eyes glazed, mischievous, sexy, her scent netting me like a helpless mackerel. ‘Get in there,’ I ordered myself. Instead, inexplicably, I spouted a line of Larkin poetry.

‘But they were fucked up in their turn. By fools in old-style hats and coats.’

‘You read it!’ She smiled, her eyes ignited, loving. A seal formed, somewhere, inexplicably. Everything had changed. She leaned in and kissed me, hard. She pulled away only after several seconds, smiling coyly. The earth tilted.

‘Well he’s like Morrissey aged seventy, isn’t he? What’s not to love?’ I laughed.

‘Friday night, would you like to come round for dinner?’

‘I’d love to,’ I said, but the moment had fled. ‘Now I really must go. I can’t drive like this. I’ve got to find a bus. Good night.’

I clung onto various parts of the door until it opened, bundled my body out and focused hard on putting one foot in front of the other.

My car looked so inviting. I put the key in the lock, then told myself not to be stupid and walked on. I slowed before crossing the road. Behind me, footsteps stopped suddenly. I pretended not to notice. Halfway across the road I stopped dead. A single footfall echoed behind. I spun around.

No one. I sniggered. The pot had made me paranoid.

I turned and walked on, my ears on high alert. Feet click-clacked in time with mine, but on the other side of the road. I stopped. They stopped. My chest froze. I was being followed.

I walked on, heart pumping like a thresher. How the fuck had Rogan found her? Had he followed me here? Had I put Gabby in danger? I badly wanted to teach Rogan a lesson. The cowardly fucker had floored me once, from behind. It was time for payback. I came to a skip. Walking on the spot, I peered in and grabbed hold of a brick. I rounded the front of the skip then launched three giant strides across the street.

‘Hope you like the taste of masonry, fucker,’ I roared.

A high-pitched scream stopped me dead in my tracks.

I spun around to where it had come from. A woman stood next to a bin holding a rubbish bag, jaw hanging.

I scanned the pavement. Empty.

‘Fuck,’ I said, jogging back the way he’d come, checking left and right. That scream had given him the second he needed to duck in somewhere.

Now I had a decision to make: should I tell Gabby that Rogan may have tracked her down, or should I just hope the weed had been playing tricks on me?

Clapham Police Station, South London

Friday, August 9, 1991; 12:00

At noon on the dot, Shep strode into the incident room.

‘Morning Guv,’ we all bleated.

That simple tribute turned his stride to swagger. He looked scalpel-sharp in a gunmetal-grey woollen suit, Italian for sure, a sky-blue tie, pressed white shirt and shiny black brogues. You could tell he was a man worshipped and served by his dear wife.

Earlier, Mick and Colin – the detective sergeants seconded from Shep’s team – introduced themselves. Stout, with a bushy moustache and side-parted mousy hair, Mick could only be a cop. Balding, tall Colin looked more like an accountant or a tax inspector.

Officers of varying rank slunk in like wounded strays. I recognised the Big Dogs, Barratt and McStay, who took my statement, and the piss, the day after Marion’s murder. They didn’t even recognise me. The grunting psycho who did so little to help yesterday pointedly blanked me. I recognised a couple more from the Feathers. They acknowledged me with the faintest of hostile nods. I understood. They were hurting. Our arrival had endorsed their failure to catch Marion’s killer. We were a rubber stamp stain on their proud record.

‘Sorry I couldn’t get in first thing,’ Shep addressed the room. ‘Detective Sergeants Mick Mulroney and Colin Gibson have come across with me on this. Stand up and say hello, gentlemen.’

They stood up and grunted

‘And we’ve a newcomer. Where are you, Acting DC Donal Lynch?’

I stood up.

‘Welcome aboard, Lynch, probably not the best name for a cop in some of our rougher estates.’

The laughter – thin and forced – spelt tough crowd.

Shep dipped another comedy toe in the freezing water: ‘I met an American cop once called Lou Tennant. Can you believe that?’

Silence.

Quicksilver Shep changed tack.

‘Okay, so we don’t have a weapon. We don’t have a witness who heard the incident or saw any suspects on Sangora Road.

‘We’ve run all the prints found at the scene: none matches anyone with previous convictions or any potential suspects.

‘The lab has come up with nothing else from the crime scene.

‘CCTV shows nothing.

‘We don’t have a motive: according to colleagues, friends and family, Peter and Marion were blissfully happy. Neither has any enemies or buried skeletons. Peter has no history of violence and a watertight alibi for the day.

‘In short, we’ve got no witnesses, no forensics, no weapon, no motive, no suspects.’

His new underlings shuffled awkwardly and murmured. The hectic chaos of the incident room told me they’d been living, eating, smoking and drinking Marion’s murder for over four weeks now, without a result. Shep was gambling that they’d respond to a good old-fashioned half-time rollicking. He was smashing metaphorical teacups against dressing room walls.

‘All this points to an opportunist, says Professor Richards, a maniac on the loose with a knife and a hatred for women, a Lone Wolf Killer who has escalated to this level of violence … unhindered by us blundering cops.’

Nice touch, I thought, driving a wedge between Professor Richards and ‘us blundering cops’.

‘The Prof’s Lone Wolf Killer is a curious chap. He will have stalked Marion for a few days, maybe even weeks, learned her movements. But on the day he decided to kill her, he didn’t stalk her. He waited with his trusty murder kit on Sangora Road, for her to come home from work. Somehow, he talked his way or barged his way into her flat. Ever the gentleman, he let her pick up her post first, before following her up the stairs and stabbing her forty-nine times.’

‘DS Shepard, with respect, that is a rank over-simplification of the stranger killer theory,’ barked McStay, the Scottish terrier.

‘That may be so, but you see I didn’t study psychology or forensics or any of that stuff. I didn’t even go to university. I’m an old-fashioned cop. As you all know, before the computers and the psychologists, we were taught to look for two things: probability and motive. And we all have a pretty good record at this, let’s not forget. So let’s deal with probability first. We all know the stat – virtually all murder victims know their killer. Random attacks are extremely rare. That’s a fact.

‘That leaves motive …’

Shep was playing every card he had.
I’m just a workaday cop like you, I don’t understand all that high-falutin’ psychology stuff, I just catch baddies like we used to in the good old days, before computers and mandatory solicitors and taped interviews and internal disciplinary procedures.

Shep made a big play of producing the piece of notepaper from his pocket.

‘This was found hidden in Marion’s handbag yesterday. I’ve confirmed that it’s a match for her handwriting and I’ve spoken to the intended recipient.’

The room leaned forward as one.

‘This is a letter Marion was writing to an old school friend who now lives in Glasgow. Allow me to read you the content.

‘Dear Andrea, I’m so thrilled that you’re coming down to London and staying with us. I really need to offload to someone about Karen. I could write pages but I would rather wait till I see you. Obviously don’t mention it to any of the girls. Last time we got together of course she was there and everyone was saying how nice she seemed. I felt like shouting ‘no she isn’t! You don’t know her!’

I will fill you in on the whole story when I see you. Peter tells me Karen’s off to Ireland in a couple of weeks for a weekend. I’m saying nothing until she’s gone. I hope I don’t sound bitter and twisted.’

Shep let it hang and slowly folded up the paper. McStay asked to see it.

‘Now, who can say that Marion didn’t have an enemy?’

No one breathed.

‘I rang Andrea last night. She told me that Marion felt that Karen was obsessed with Peter, and constantly trying to involve herself in their lives.

‘This letter suggests to me that Karen was the third person in their marriage. Marion was “saying nothing” until Karen went to Ireland for the weekend. What did she mean by this? Was she about to confront Peter about his affair with Karen? This has to be our focus now.’

Murmured agreement: he was winning them over, some at least.

‘Tomorrow, I want you to split into four new teams – I’m breaking up your partnerships just for a few days, freshen things up a bit – and I want you to focus on Peter and Karen. Were they once an item? Was he sleeping with her? Was Karen, as Marion’s closest friend Andrea has expressly stated, obsessed with Peter Ryan?

‘I want one team to go back to the Pines old people’s home where Peter and Karen worked. If anything was going on between them, at least one colleague will know.

‘Karen’s people must know if she has a thing with Peter, either now or in the past. I want a team to talk to her family, friends, ex-boyfriends.

‘Another team can do the same with Peter: talk to everyone he’s ever known in London. Was he or is he a player?

‘And finally,’ he said, looking at McStay, ‘I need you to take on the toughest job of all. Go back to Marion’s family and find out what they know. Marion must have talked to someone about why she disliked Karen. She wasn’t the disliking kind. Something was up.’

McStay wasn’t buying it.

‘Are you telling us, DS Shepard, that we’re now focusing solely on Peter and Karen? Based on one undated, half-written page of girlie gossip?’

Shep looked at him, confused. McStay held up the note and decided to spell it out.

‘She doesn’t actually state here that she suspected Peter and Karen of having an affair. She says nothing of the sort. There’s no anger or suspicion, just irritation. I’ve heard worse in the staff canteen. And I trust you’ve read the pathology report. No woman could have carried out this crime.’

‘No, but a woman and a man could have,’ said Shep.

McStay refused to budge: ‘They have solid alibis. Both of them. You clearly have some sort of personal grudge against Professor Richards. I think that’s why you’re ruling out the stranger theory. Well, what if her killer strikes again while we’re looking the other way? The wrong way?’

I had to agree with McStay: Shep wanted to prove Richards wrong so badly that he’d donned blinkers. I’d seen Peter and Karen the night they found Marion. Both had been deeply traumatised and clearly in shock. You can’t act emotions like that.

Shep changed key: ‘I’m not ruling out the Lone Wolf Killer theory, McStay. I just think it’s about time we eliminated the most obvious suspects in this case once and for all. That’s Peter, her new husband and Karen, her husband’s work colleague and friend whom Marion clearly disliked. As for the stranger theory, I happen to think that needs a fresh pair of eyes. That’s why I’m putting DC Lynch on it.’

‘What?’ I stopped myself from saying.

McStay turned and looked at me: ‘You’re giving this to the new kid?’

‘He’ll liaise with Mulroney and Gibson. That’s why I’ve brought them in. Sometimes fresh eyes see new things.’

McStay turned back, still shaking his head.

‘Guv, you said you want us to get on with this tomorrow. What about today?’ asked one of the younger DCs.

‘Ah, yes, this afternoon we’re going on a team-building exercise.’

Groans all round.

‘To the pub,’ Shep smiled. Everyone looked around in confusion.

‘I’m serious,’ said Shep, ‘you’ve all been through the wringer. I think we need to finish our chat over a few pints.’

An hour later, among the cut mirrors, etched glass and faded Victorian grandeur of the Falcon near Clapham Junction, opinions and gossip vied for air supremacy with thick cigarette smoke. I wondered if policing was the unhealthiest profession in the world, maybe even elbowing out journalism in the wheezy sprint to early death.

Privately, some of the officers told me about the ‘Big Dog’ culture of DS Glenn’s team. They all felt that Peter Ryan hadn’t been properly investigated. But the pack leaders – DS Glenn, the Professor, Barratt and McStay – had ruled out Peter and Karen from day two. I’d pass this on to Shep later, though he probably guessed as much already.

Shep got stuck into McStay, Barratt and a real ale chaser. He tirelessly reassured them that the Lone Wolf Killer line of enquiry remained open and live. Within a couple of hours, he had them rolling on their backs.

As drink took hold, more damning claims emerged about Peter. Officers said he ‘loved himself’. The only woman on the investigation team – a brunette who looked capable of taking any one of us in a fist fight – swore he’d flirted with her.

‘I mean, his wife’s barely cold. What a slime ball,’ she gasped. Within a week of Marion’s murder, Peter had emptied both her personal bank accounts and got a refund on her annual rail ticket.

‘Disgusting,’ said Shep.

‘Shows what a ruthless bastard he is,’ said someone else.

I decided to join in: ‘Well, I suppose it’ll tide him over until her life insurance pays up.’

That got a good laugh.

‘Actually that’s a good point,’ said Shep, ‘have we checked whether he gets anything for her death?’

The silence told us no one had bothered. I couldn’t believe it: life insurance, one of the oldest motives in the book. Shep and I exchanged a fleeting look of disbelief. But we needed to win the team over today, so said nothing.

I was taking a leak when Shep came crashing in. He checked the cubicles, then stood at the latrine next to me: ‘Did you see that Scottish git’s face when I read out Marion’s letter? Can you believe he demanded to see it?’

‘He just can’t accept that they messed up, Guv.’

‘Well done on finding it, Donal. Otherwise we’d never have persuaded them to target Peter and Karen.’

‘No problem, Guv. You’ve definitely got them onside now, most of them at least. The junior officers are saying they never felt Peter had been properly looked into. But they were overruled.’

‘That’s good to hear. Honestly, the day you stop listening to other opinions and ideas, you’re no longer a manager but a tyrant.’ I recalled Fintan’s description of Shep as a dictator. He seemed the opposite to me.

‘Of course he’s right in one way,’ said Shep, shaking his cock vigorously, ‘the letter tells us nothing on its own. We still don’t have one solid piece of evidence. Someone will have to cough tomorrow.’

I waited so that he could wash his hands first.

‘Guv, about me looking for connections to other stranger attacks,’ I started, ‘I do worry that maybe I lack the experience …’

‘Nonsense Lynch, it’s common sense. If anything catches your attention, flag it up to Mick and Colin,’ he said, shaking his hands and ignoring the dryer. He looked at me and read my anxiety.

‘Come on, these fuckers spent four weeks looking for a Lone Wolf Killer. I’m not expecting you to find one because there isn’t one. I just have to keep McStay onside. You can be sure he’s reporting back to Glenn who’s reporting back to the Commissioner. You’ll do fine, Lynch.’

He left me drying my hands and hoping to God he was right. If not, some maniac slasher was roaming London unchecked, seeking out his next victim.