City of Lost Girls

by Declan Hughes

  “Jesus.”

  “They were buried in the earth together, no wrappers or tarps, so we’re talking bones here. Need to wait on DNA for an ID, unless we can find something in there that will point the way.”

  “Anything else in the message?”

  “Yeah, the…I don’t know, too early to say if this is some sort of tag, you know, like the killer’s signature, or is it literally three bodies in one grave, but there’s the expression, ‘Three-in-One, One-in-Three.’ That’s the Holy Trinity, three persons in one God, right? Ed? You still there?”

  I’m still here. I’m simply struck dumb.

  “Hold up, looks like we’ve got something else. Here, I’ll keep you on the line. They’re removing it now, looks like a…it’s wrapped in plastic. It’s…it’s a crucifix. One of those, you know they sell them in all the antique stores up in Santa Barbara, it’s Spanish Mission style, plain soft wood with a mild stain, unvarnished, rough-hewn, asymmetrical…oh boy. Oh boy.”

  I hear voices now, an urgent conference, sense excitement mounting.

  “What? Don? What is it?”

  “What it is, maybe we don’t have to wait for DNA to have some idea of what we’re talking about. We’ve got, on the reverse of the cross, someone has marked the head and the two arms with a knife, and then stained in ink, or used a pen to dig deep into the wood, either way, the marks are of three initial letters: D, J, and P.”

  D for Desiree LaRouche, J for Janice Holloway, P for Polly Styles. The names of the lost girls.

  CHAPTER 13

  I try to get Don Coover to talk to me some more, but he closes the call too quickly. I don’t blame him; there would be a circus at Point Dume soon enough, with media helicopters roaring above the bluff; only a matter of time until I can watch it on TV. It was good of Coover to have included me at all; he didn’t have to; it wasn’t as if I had anything crucial to bring to the table that morning. I asked him why he had wanted me along for the dig, so to speak.

  “You’re the one who connected those girls, and you’re the only one who gave a damn about them, Ed. Nobody else ever reported them missing. Nobody else noticed they were lost. Although no doubt once the TV gets going on the Three-in-One Killer, all manner of traumatized parents and siblings will emerge, weeping and wailing for the cameras like a bunch of bought-and-paid-for whores.”

  The Three-in-One Killer. That was the first time I’d heard it, Coover the first person to have said it. Within twenty-four hours, it would feel like we’d never lived in a world without it. The thing I didn’t get to say, the thing that was on the tip of my tongue to ask when Coover abruptly rang off amid the sound of approaching sirens, was about the map reference. He said he had a unit at Point Dume digging at a set of coordinates, and described them as “one of” the map references he was given. Initially I assumed this meant the same thing, that the map references were two or more coordinates. But it could mean that this is one of several locations where the killer had buried bodies. I call Coover back but his phone goes straight to message. I ask him my question, but I don’t expect him to call me back. Either way, I know I will find out soon enough: this is not a story that’s going to unfold in secret.

  I look at the photo message on my phone again, but it’s still unclear; I open my laptop and send it via Bluetooth so I can view it in enlarged form.

  The image is of my mother and father’s roughcast granite headstone in Shanganagh Cemetery. The headstone has been defaced with a spray-painted amendment:

  ED LOY RIP JUNE 2009

  I phone the Garda station in Shankill, the cemetery itself and the stoneworks nearby who had carved the headstone and report the act of desecration. I suggest to the Garda on duty in Shankill that this probably has something to do with the imminent release of Podge Halligan, and he says, “Podge who?,” and I put the phone down. I call Tommy Owens and ask him if Jenny Noble is safe. Then I tell him what has happened, and ask him to talk to Leo Halligan. Then I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of Tanqueray over ice and splash some bitters and squeeze a wedge of lime. I look at the drink, and I think of the Three-in-One Killer, and of the lost girls in Point Dume, and of Nora Mannion and Kate Coyle, and of everything I have done so far and everything I need to do. Then I pour the gin down the sink. This does not make me feel any better.

  By the time Leo Halligan calls, I am in the Volvo on the way to Quarry Fields, where the house I grew up in has just been burned to the ground.

  “Ed.”

  “My mother’s grave, Leo.”

  “I’m sorry, Ed. If he’s changed at all, it’s for the worse.”

  “My mother’s grave? My house?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “What can I do? I can’t move against him, he’s my brother.”

  “You and George bullied him into pleading guilty. Why doesn’t he burn down your houses? Is he out yet?”

  “I’m down here at the Four Courts waiting for the fucker.”

  “So all this is by remote control? Don’t you think the least I deserved was a warning?”

  “He’s not doing any of this through me, Ed. He doesn’t level with me or George, he has his own crew, always had. The dregs of the dregs, they make the common or garden scumbag look like Brad Pitt. You had your run-ins with them Ed, beyond in Redlands.”

  Redlands. George Halligan’s house. Trapped in a garage with Podge’s men. Dessie Delaney. Nose Ring, no longer with us. And Blue Cap, whose nose I broke. I had forgotten all about him. But the face takes shape in my mind—a face I have seen somewhere recently.

  “Leo, George’s security company, Immunicate, is that still to be had?”

  “Still going strong. Or at least, its books are very healthy, if you know what I mean. But no, it does all right. I think it’s doing the security up there on Dorset Street for your buddy’s movie.”

  A face I saw today, when its owner grinned at me as he shot me with his two-way radio.

  “Working a case, Ed, are you?” Leo says.

  “I am, yeah, which is why I don’t need this. Of course, that’s not the only reason I don’t need this.”

  “Dangerous case, yeah?”

  “Always the potential for danger, Leo.”

  “You might be wise to carry a piece, Ed. For this completely separate case you’re working.”

  “I might be…what?”

  “Unmarked, semiautomatic, compact, lightweight. No way of tracing it.”

  “You’re offering—”

  “For self-defense. In this completely separate case. Because many of us believe self-defense, aggressive, first-strike self-defense, would make all our lives a lot easier. In general. And, if necessary, in particular.”

  I say nothing for a while. Leo is suggesting I take Podge out. That isn’t something I can even consider doing. On the other hand, the only way Podge has of raising the stakes is to mount an attack on me, so a weapon would not go amiss.

  “I could use that. Leo, is Tommy safe from Podge?”

  “No one is safe from the cunt. Fuck, here he is now, I’ve got to go. How will I get that thing to you? It wouldn’t be wise for us to meet up.”

  “You know where I live, Leo. Does Podge?”

  “I don’t know, Ed. I don’t know.”

  I DON’T STAY long in Quarry Fields. I speak to the fire brigade and thank them for their service. I make sure that my tenants, Maria and Anita Kravchenko, are safe, and that they have somewhere else to stay. They can bunk in with friends in the short term, they tell me. I promise to help them find something more secure when I can. I see a couple of neighbors I remember from childhood, now very elderly, staring across the road at the smoke. They knew my parents, and would doubtless remember me if I approached them. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t want to let the reality of what has happened infiltrate my consciousness. A Garda car from Dun Laoghaire arrives, and I chat briefly to the two uniforms. At least they know who Podge Halligan is, and are famil
iar with most of his crew; one, Sergeant Mary Fleming, worked with Dave Donnelly, and is familiar with the part I played in capturing Podge. I ask Fleming if she remembers an associate of Podge’s who wore a blue baseball hat; she asks if he’s the one whose nose I broke in Hennessy’s pub, and I nod. Fleming tells me his name is Brian Joyce, and he has a record that started when he was twelve and kept on spinning: on top of the usual drug offenses, he has convictions for sexual assault and rape. I tell the Guards about the desecration of my parents’ headstone, and they say they will alert all units to challenge any of Podge’s gang on sight. I thank them for the support, although I know it doesn’t amount to much in practical terms: if Podge wants to kill me, short of my going into hiding, he won’t be short of opportunities.

  The flames in the house have been extinguished, for the most part, although one occasionally sputters into life. When I find that my eyes are smarting and starting to stream, I tell myself that it’s the smoke, get in my car and leave. On my way back into town I call Tommy Owens.

  “Tommy, it’s Ed. Listen, they’ve burned down Quarry Fields.”

  “They’ve what? The fucking bastards. I’ll call Leo—”

  “I’ve already spoken to him. There’s a limit to what he can do. In the meantime, you’re a target.”

  “No way.”

  “You’re a way to get to me.”

  “If they burn this house down—”

  “I’m not so worried about houses. Jenny Noble—”

  “She’s fine, Ed, Naomi’s here with her. Oh no—”

  “Is exactly my point. Is Paula around?”

  “Yeah, she dropped Naomi over sure.”

  “Better drop them both back, Tommy, and fast. Would they know where Paula lives?”

  “She just moved to Enniskerry, some haulage contractor. But they’re after you, they’re after me; Podge’s crew aren’t going to be chasing Naomi, or Jenny Noble.”

  “You’re right. Take a taxi anyway.”

  “To Enniskerry?”

  “I’ll cover it. Have you got somewhere to go?”

  “Sure I do, Ed. It’s a place called watching your back.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “You gave me a grand and a half, Ed. So far, I’ve sat around all afternoon while Jenny and Naomi watch Bones and America’s Next Top Model. Even with my relaxed work ethic, that’s called taking the piss. They’ll be safe out with Paula, if your snatcher tries to come near he’ll get more than he bargained for, rottweilers and electric fences they’ve got, I don’t think your man is a hundred percent legit, to be honest with you. But I’ll be on you, know what I mean man? Don’t forget, I owe Podge myself, nothing’d give me greater satisfaction than to see him go down.”

  I DRIVE STRAIGHT to the Nighttown set. Maurice Faye has given me a pass so I can park in the yard. I drive through and find a spot and get out. I spot Brian Joyce almost immediately, and as soon as he sees me approaching him, smiling, making a gun of my hand and shooting at him, he begins to run. He can’t run as fast as I can. I catch him before we hit the street and nudge him headlong into the wall and hold the back of his head and tap his face off the wall a few times, or maybe more than a few times; no one has ever established satisfactorily what the difference between a few and too many is, but I possibly extend the terms of the debate. In time, a couple of Joyce’s security colleagues, who sound Russian, get hold of me and secure my arms and frog-march me into the back of an unmarked security truck where a large man with a shaved head sits at a bank of screens. He wears a black T-shirt with IMMUNICATE SECURITY printed on the left breast, like a designer logo; attached to the right breast he has a badge with Head of Security—Barry Holmes written on it.

  “I seen everything. Call the Guards,” Barry Holmes says.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  Instead of answering, he stands up and punches me hard in the stomach. I expect it, so I manage to hold on to some air, but it still hurts like hell. He shapes up to bring some blows into my head.

  “Brian Joyce is a member of Podge Halligan’s gang and a convicted sex offender,” I say.

  Barry Holmes looks at me, then waves his Russian operatives out the door.

  “All right lads, I have this one. Everyone as they were. See Brian’s all right, ha?”

  The Russians leave, and I turn to follow.

  “Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?” Holmes says, tugging at my arm. “I can’t have you just throwing your weight around like that.”

  I don’t turn around, though every sinew of me yearns to, yearns to turn and head-butt his fat face until his nose gives. But I think of the gin I poured down the sink, and I tell myself to play it smart for once, and I bite my lip and take a deep breath.

  “I don’t know what the lines between the Halligans and Immunicate are like these days. In other words, I don’t know who told you to turn a blind eye to the hiring of a convicted sex offender and criminal gang member like Brian Joyce. So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt: that somebody told you to employ him, and to ignore the basic vetting procedures you’d normally use. Am I right? Because frankly, I’m happy to call the cops myself if it turns out you’re one of Podge Halligan’s men too, and more than happy to let Maurice Faye and every actress and female crew member know a rapist is loitering around the set looking up their skirts.”

  I turn now and look in Barry Holmes’s eyes. They’re ugly gray eyes, flecked with red. They look mean, and they look scared.

  “All I know is the connection with George, George Halligan,” he says. “He’s not supposed to be involved but everyone knows he is, type of thing. And occasionally you find a place on a job for someone, you just don’t do the paperwork for them. Joyce was one of those. I…I wasn’t happy, I knew what he done, I asked about it, word came back, it’s for Podge. And Podge is getting out, so everyone’s on red alert.”

  The yelp of a siren sounds outside. I look quizzically at Holmes. He looks at the screens.

  “Ambulance. He needs it.”

  “Could have walked him to the Mater from here. Not cut out for the job.”

  Holmes almost smiles at that one.

  “Podge is out. Today. This afternoon,” I say.

  Barry Holmes’s eyes widen.

  “And you choose now to break his boy’s face? What have you got, a death wish?”

  “May be. I’m off the drink as well, so that’s done nothing to help my mood. But he threatened me, and then my parents’ grave was vandalized and their house was burned down, so I’m not at my most magnanimous. I’m asking you: Have you any connection to Podge?”

  “No.”

  “Any other member of your crew?”

  “No.”

  “Right so. You’ll need to think of a cover story for this.”

  “Cover story for you?”

  “Cover story for you, the man who hired a rapist. Because I don’t mind telling Maurice Faye. And then you’ll be out of a job.”

  I make to leave, then turn back.

  “Just so everyone is clear: my name is Edward Loy. Very fussy about credits in the movie business.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Maurice Faye is waiting for me when I get off the Immunicate truck, shaking his head and beaming. Down the lane, I see Brian Joyce being helped by his colleagues into an ambulance.

  “Jesus Christ, Ed, you’re an awful man,” he says. “What happened?”

  “Barry Holmes’ll tell you.”

  And indeed, Barry Holmes is at my heel, and takes Maurice Faye aside and speaks quietly to him for a moment, until Maurice nods him away and laughs loudly and claps me on the shoulder and ushers me around the corner and down a set of steps and into the basement at the rear of one of the three houses. We’re in a cold, damp room whose walls have been painted a deep, burgundy red; the ceiling is navy; the floorboards are white.

  “Art students,” Maurice says by way of explanation. “House was all in bedsits. State of the place. If they’d done these up
ten years ago, would have made a mint. Too late now. Good for us though.”

  Through an open door, two girls are photocopying different colored pages of script and fastening them together in rainbow sequences. Maurice shuts the door and sits against the table in the corner of the room that houses his laptop and an unwieldy satchel spilling contracts and scripts. He picks up his phone and holds it out for my inspection.

  “Good news, Ed. These came in about ten minutes ago.”

  Maurice shows me two text messages:

  Copped off w/ two fine things all luvved up back tomor sorry for hassul gurlz l b gurlz xox kc

  Embracing inner slut thanx to kate c sorry if we messed up hope not fired but heard about fun and wanted to have some N x

  As I read them, two text messages arrive on my phone: the same messages. I look quizzically at Maurice Faye.

  “They sent them to Jenny, Jenny Noble. She’s passing them on.”

  I ring Jenny’s number as it appeared in the text.

  “Jenny Noble?”

  “Jenny, it’s Ed Loy. We spoke this morning.”

  “Ah God, did you get the girls’ texts? Major relief, yeah? The dirty yokes! I got your number from Mr. Owens, and I forwarded them to Maurice and Madeline as well. God, I hope they don’t get fired, but they deserve a right rocket!”

  “Did you call them?”

  “I called them both, just to get the gossip. Their phones went straight to message.”

  “Did you text replies?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Eh. What, like in detail? We were getting a bit girls only, if you know what I mean.”

  “Never mind about that. Did you tell them where you were?”

  “Did I tell them where we were? God, not sure if I know where we are. In a car somewhere. Enniskerry? On our way to Enniskerry, Naomi says, to her mum. Because Mr. Owens has to go and work for you.”

  “That’s right. Did they ask where you were?”