Single Obsession

by Des Ekin

  ‘And nobody followed you from the office?’

  ‘No. I’m certain of it. Even if they did, they couldn’t trace this call. It’s absolutely safe.’

  Hunter looked around the café and knew she was right. Even if his last call to the office had been tapped, as it probably had, this line was still perfectly secure. Nobody would know where Joe 90’s was, because it didn’t exist. At least, not under that name. Hunter and Claire had given this nickname to a nearby coffee bar because the owner, with his heavy-rimmed glasses, bore a striking resemblance to Joe 90, a character from a children’s TV show.

  ‘I’ve a lot to tell you, Claire.’ He filled her in on the events of the past twenty-four hours, and cut short her expressions of concern. ‘I’m fine. Honest. Let’s keep our minds focused on the future. We’ve only a day and a half left.’

  ‘Okay. First of all, Mark’s left another message on my mobile. It’s six in the morning in Mississippi. He’s just woken up. He’s about to go downtown to Valentia’s old radio station and show the photos around.’

  ‘Good. I can always rely on Mark.’ Hunter struggled to remain professional and detached. But he still hadn’t forgiven Mark for his outburst about Emma. ‘Now, what was this hint you gave me earlier? That you’d stumbled on something that could be helpful?’

  ‘It’s just a possibility.’ There was a metallic rattle as Claire pushed in more coins. ‘It just struck me that our mystery woman – the one who came to our office, that is – could be a professional con artist. If she is, then there’s a good chance that she may have previous convictions. She may even have spent some time in jail. If so, then she’ll appear on police records. That way, we can establish her true identity.’

  Hunter felt the all-too-familiar slump of disappointment. ‘Thanks, Claire, but don’t you think I’ve thought of that already? We’ve got no name. We’ve got no date of birth, and that’s how police records are filed. Okay …’ He was talking to himself now. ‘We could concentrate on fraud cases, concentrate on females, concentrate on under-thirty-fives; but with only a picture to go on, it could take months, even assuming we could gain access to the police computer in the first place. We’re talking needles in haystacks.’

  ‘Don’t be so tetchy, Hunter,’ Claire hit back, and he could hear the anger in her voice. ‘I’m on your side, remember?’

  He bit his lip. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay. I know you’ve been going through a rough time.’ She paused. ‘There’s another possibility. When I was in Sudan doing voluntary service overseas, I had a boyfriend who was a trainee cop. I phoned him last night and asked him for a big favour. In fact, so big a favour that the price is having dinner with him next Friday night.’

  ‘Me or you?’

  She laughed. ‘Me, unfortunately. So I agreed. You see, he really might be able to help us. I told him the problem, I told him all about it, and –’

  ‘And what?’ Hunter was getting impatient with Claire’s slow, relaxed speech.

  ‘And he pointed out exactly what you’ve just pointed out. But – no, just listen, Hunter – this man has a remarkable talent. He’s famous for his ability to remember faces. Thousands of them. Once he sees a face, once he files it in his head, he never forgets it.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never. You know how some people have the gift of remembering lists of phone numbers, and others can tell you the name of every player in their favourite football team since 1938? That sort of thing? Well, he can do the same, only with people’s features. Seems he does it by concentrating on the nose. It’s all to do with the shape of the nose, and its relation to the rest of the face. He says it’s as unique as fingerprints.’

  Hunter listened and felt a growing surge of excitement. ‘So what you’re saying is, if her photo’s on file, he’ll remember it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And he’ll connect it with our computer image?’

  ‘He might. Anyway, the good news is that he’s agreed to meet you at ten o’clock tonight in the Crannóg Bar. Bring the photos with you and he’ll do his best.’

  ‘I’ll be there. What’s his name?’

  ‘John Wayne. W-A-Y-N-E. Oh, and Hunter …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t make any jokes about his name. He’s heard them all already.’

  ‘I’VE cracked it!’ Emma yelled down the phone.

  ‘Cracked what?’ Hunter looked around him apprehensively. He knew they’d be checking Emma’s phone – that, at least, was a certainty – so before calling her, he’d walked all the way across town to a busy shopping centre in the southwest suburbs. The public phone was on a balcony overlooking the main mall, and he was confident he could get a good view of anyone coming in through the main entrance.

  ‘The card. The card in the mystery woman’s pocket. I’ve worked out what it is.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Hunter nearly dropped the phone.

  ‘It’s not 5K2 at all. It’s SK2. You know how vague these print-outs can be.’

  ‘SK2?’

  ‘Yes. SK2. What we have here is an airport boarding pass.’

  Hunter pulled out the photo, looked at the card, and felt like kicking himself. Yes, of course. Emma was right. The oblong white slip, the numbers at the edge. You could almost see the serrations where it had been torn. It was so obvious, he felt like an idiot for not having recognised it earlier.

  ‘So that number on the card must be either a boarding gate or a seat number or …’

  ‘No!’ Emma’s voice sounded impatient. ‘It’s the flight number.’

  ‘The flight number.’ Hunter’s eyes ranged the downstairs mall restlessly. ‘For her journey home?’

  ‘No, no, no.’ The reply was a barrage of impatient denial. ‘Work it out, Hunter. They don’t usually give you a boarding pass before you check in. They give you it after you check in. The card in her pocket was the stub she was left with after they’d torn off the main portion of her boarding pass – that’s why the number is right beside the edge. She’d already made her journey. She’d flown in.’

  Hunter felt his spirits soar for the first time that day. ‘So what now? I suppose that if we check the flight number, we can tell where she’s come from.’ He had a flash of inspiration. ‘I’m willing to bet it was somewhere in America. Atlanta, maybe. Or Washington.’

  ‘No. SK – that’s the code for Scandinavian Airlines. I’ve flown with them loads of times. I knew there was something familiar about the code, but I just couldn’t …’

  ‘Scandinavian Airlines?’

  ‘I know. It doesn’t make any sense,’ Emma said slowly, as though thinking aloud. ‘What we have here is an American woman posing as Irish … and flying into Dublin from Denmark.’

  Hunter glanced nervously at the main entrance to the shopping mall. So far, there was nothing unusual. No police cars, no sirens, no …

  ‘There are only two flights that start with SK2,’ Emma was saying, ‘and both of them are direct flights to Dublin from Copenhagen.’

  ‘Copenhagen? What has Copenhagen got to do with anything, for God’s sake?’

  She ignored his outburst. ‘The flight numbers stay the same from day to day, and they’re always from Copenhagen. She could have flown in at any time, and flown back equally quickly. It’s –’

  ‘It’s crazy, that’s what it is. It’s completely insane. Denmark?’ Hunter felt he couldn’t take any more non-sequiturs in this relentlessly surreal saga.

  ‘I was about to say, it’s a long shot. But we don’t have much else to work on. What if we go on the theory that she flew in to Ireland a few days before she met me? Or even, let’s say, within the previous week?’

  ‘That’s a big assumption. What if it was a ticket from some holiday she took six months ago and she just never threw it away?’ He glanced around again. ‘Sorry, Emma, but I’ve got to run.’

  ‘Literally?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll phone you later.’

  Two Gar
da motorbikes had roared to a halt in the outer porch of the mall’s main entrance, and their two leather-clad riders, faces raised towards the balcony, were elbowing their way through the crowds of protesting shoppers in a frenzied rush towards the escalator.

  Hunter threw down the handset and ran.

  It took exactly ten seconds to reach the alcove with the steel door marked ‘Strictly no entry, staff only’. He knew because he’d checked it earlier.

  And as he ran panting down the service stairway towards the rear warehouse, he could still hear Emma’s last words echoing in his ears, drowning out the pounding of his own heart.

  ‘You may not be able to reach me later,’ she’d shouted as he’d flung down the phone. ‘I’m off to Copenhagen.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘OH Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling …’

  Hunter winced as the out-of-tune voice boomed out through the fuzzy loudspeakers, fighting to keep time with the music. Standing on the tiny stage, surrounded by the tolerant members of a pub band, the hefty police officer bawled out the words to the traditional song with more enthusiasm than expertise. His face was brick-red with effort, his brow shone with sweat, and his shirt hung out over the straining waistline of his Farah slacks like a triangular white sporran.

  It was ten o’clock on a Monday night, yet the Crannóg bar was packed so solidly that Hunter could hardly find a horizontal surface to rest his glass of Coke. Cigarette ash fell from the smoke-charged air like napalm. Customers fought their way to the counter and returned with up to half a dozen brimming pints wedged between giant hands.

  The man on stage finished his song, grabbed a full pint from the floor beside his feet and downed it in one thirsty gulp before stomping off the stage to the cheers and catcalls of his colleagues.

  As he reached the table, one of his mates grabbed him and thrust another pint at him. In his huge mitt, it looked as small as a shot-glass.

  ‘John,’ somebody yelled, ‘there’s a fella here to see you.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded John, tucking in his shirttail absently. ‘A talent scout? If it’s Paul McGuinness, tell him to get his people to phone my people and we’ll do lunch.’

  Keeping himself well hidden in the shadows of an alcove, Hunter waved across at him.

  The singer ambled over, wiped the sweat from his glistening forehead and stuck out a hand the size of a ping-pong bat. ‘How are you. I’m John Wayne.’

  He paused, as though expecting Hunter to say something. Hunter, warned off by Claire, kept a perfectly straight face. ‘Good to meet you, John. My name’s Hunter.’

  He waited apprehensively for the cop’s reaction. Wayne could easily have made his arrangement with Claire before he’d learned that Hunter was wanted for questioning by his colleagues in Passage North.

  But Wayne’s face had split wide open like a Hallowe’en turnip. ‘Sure, I knew that. I recognised your face. From the newspaper photos. Here, let me buy you a pint of Guinness.’

  Hunter said quickly, ‘No, let me buy you one. It’s the least I can do.’

  He ordered a pint of Guinness for Wayne and another Coke for himself. There was no delay on the Guinness – the pints were so much in demand that they were being poured out constantly and stacked up at various stages of readiness along the bar counter.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Wayne. ‘You took a bit of a chance coming here tonight, didn’t you? Place is full of off-duty cops like me. It’s our local.’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice, John. You’re pretty much my only hope.’ He glanced around him. ‘You aren’t going to arrest me, are you?’

  ‘Listen, my friend.’ Wayne’s face turned serious. ‘Anyone who takes on Joseph Valentia is all right by me.’

  ‘He’s not your favourite person?’

  Wayne snorted. ‘I read what happened to that poor girl in Passage North, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s responsible. He’s a sicko.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve known about Valentia for a long time. A few years ago, his car was stolen from outside his home in Dublin by teenage joyriders – couple of my regular customers from Kilmucklin Estate. It was my turf at the time and I knew everyone. We got the car back later that night, minus the stereo, of course. But the glove compartment had also been forced open and a few things stolen. CDs, loose cash, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Hey, Johnny!’ someone at his table yelled. ‘Forgotten your mates? It’s your shout.’

  Wayne raised a fat thumb in agreement. He hollered at a waiter, rotated a pointed finger around the table to order a round of pints for his friends, and, without checking, ordered two more for himself and Hunter.

  They came back almost immediately and Wayne searched in his pockets for cash. The waiter handed the two pints to Hunter, who searched around in vain for somewhere to set them down.

  ‘Anyway,’ resumed Wayne, ‘I was on duty at the time. I never got the stereo back, or the CDs. But I did get a brown-paper parcel in the post. It had a videotape inside, with a letter attached. The note just said, “We got this in the car we stole on Wednesday night.” It gave a damn good description of Valentia’s car.’

  He set down his empty pint glass on the floor and relieved Hunter of the next one. ‘Listen, Hunter, I’m a broad-minded sort of fella. I mean, there’s nothing I like better than to get a few of the lads around for a few hands of poker, a few cans of beer and a sexy movie. Nothing too heavy. No kinky stuff. Just movies where everyone seems to be having a good time.’

  His face darkened.

  ‘But this video was different,’ Hunter prompted.

  ‘This was sick S-and-M trash. With real women as victims, not actresses. It made me want to throw up.’

  ‘Irish women?’

  ‘Yeah, judging by their accents. But there was nobody we could identify.’

  ‘Any idea where it came from?’

  ‘Yes, we’re pretty sure. A psycho called Chato Cook. Used to operate a protection racket. Now he makes these things at a secret location somewhere in County Meath. We’ve never been able to nail him for it, though.’

  ‘I know all about Chato Cook.’ Hunter sipped his Coke thoughtfully. ‘And you couldn’t nail Valentia either, could you? Because you’d no direct evidence to link the video with him.’

  ‘It wasn’t just that, Hunter. We tried to get permission to question Joey-boy, but the pressure came down hard on us from above. They said the tape could have come from a blackmailer. Or it could have been a dirty-tricks campaign by some rival politician. Or it could have been a set-up. Or it could have been beamed down by little green men from Mars. Anything but the obvious truth. If it had been up to me,’ Wayne drained the rest of his pint in an angry swallow, ‘I’d have applied for a warrant, searched his house and got the bastard before he’d had time to think.’

  Two young women in minidresses climbed onto the stage above them and began singing a Corrs song.

  ‘But you know what happened?’ asked Wayne, staring absently up their dresses. ‘We finally arrested the joyriders. Two jobless kids with records as long as your arm. The youngest one had been robbing cars since he was nine. He used to sit on a pile of cushions so he could get up high enough to see out – we’d always know he was going joyriding when we saw him carrying his cushions.’

  ‘So you arrested them. Then what?’

  ‘Well, there was no doubt we’d got the right people – their prints matched the prints on the car, and on the video. They were facing two years. But again the order came down from above. Drop it. We weren’t even allowed to send a file to the DPP. You know why?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve a good idea. In case they said anything about the video under the privilege of a court hearing.’

  Wayne nodded. ‘Right.’ He stared at his empty glass. ‘But that’s life, isn’t it? The rich guys own the ball. We only get to play with it from time to time. Is it your shout or mine?’

  ‘It’s okay, there’s one waiting for you here,’ said Hunt
er, handing over the pint Wayne had bought for him only a couple of minutes before. He decided he’d better show him the photos soon, before the cop began seeing double.

  ‘John, I really could use your help,’ he said, ‘and I don’t have much time.’

  Wayne nodded. ‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

  Hunter fished out the photos and pointed to the mystery woman. ‘I need to know who this person is. And whether she has a criminal record.’

  Wayne took the pictures and held them up to a spotlight. He looked at them for a very long time. ‘It’s all in the nose,’ he said at last.

  ‘So I hear,’ said Hunter. The minutes dragged on agonisingly slowly.

  ‘I’ve seen her before,’ Wayne said. ‘Her photo, I mean. But I can’t place where. Give me a while to think.’

  He handed the photos back to Hunter and returned to his table. But instead of pondering in silence, he returned to the stage and began singing that the end was near and he faced the final curtain.

  Hunter felt his heart sink slowly towards his boots as he watched the big cop throw shapes before the microphone to the delight of his mates. He tried to tell himself to be reasonable. Wayne was on his night off and was entitled to get merry with his off-duty colleagues. Hunter’s problem wasn’t Wayne’s problem. Nevertheless, disappointment hit hard. Wayne was three sheets to the wind; the entire evening had been a waste of time. And with less than twenty-four hours to go, time was something that he couldn’t afford to lose.

  He fought his way through the crowd towards the toilets, determined that he wouldn’t stick around to make an idiot of himself any longer. Even the lavatories were crowded and fogged with smoke. At the urinals, men swung backwards and forwards on their heels, farted, belched and said, ‘Better out than in.’

  Hunter joined them. As he stared sightlessly at the tiled wall, relieving his bladder of the pressure of half a dozen Coca-Colas and wishing he was somewhere else, anywhere else, a burly figure pushed his way into the line-up and stood grinning beside him.

  ‘Got it!’ said John Wayne.