Games with the Dead

by James Nally

  ‘It’s got to be someone on the inside of the Suzy Fairclough/Kipper investigation six years ago.’

  Fintan’s revving that brain and adopting his constipated face. ‘How the hell are Julie Draper and Nathan Barry connected? Who’s Walter?’

  ‘The only Walter I can think of is Walter Moore, husband of Karen Moore. Remember, she was sleeping with both Nathan and Delaney when Nathan was murdered.’

  ‘Did you check out Walter’s early statements, you know, before Delaney bought him and everyone else off?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I’m kicking myself that I didn’t, but I’m not going to let him know that.

  ‘The paperwork for the Nathan Barry case would fill this house. That’s why not. I’ll check it out tomorrow.’

  ‘Go in today.’

  ‘I’m hoping to see Matt today, although I haven’t cleared it with Zoe yet. Anyway, shouldn’t you be more concerned about how Delaney and Ware know your crime reporter. I presume that’s the Prince they’re referring to?’

  Fintan only chews his lip when he’s rattled. ‘Delaney and Ware must be his snouts. Alex must be using them, you know, to pull records and stuff.’

  The full magnitude of this is only hitting us now. ‘That means your newspaper, through your crime reporter, pays a company ran by a suspected killer and a bent cop to break the law?’

  ‘Who says they break the law?’

  ‘Oh come on, Fintan. I’ve seen you pull people’s medical and financial records. That can’t be legal. And now your paper is paying a couple of killers to do your dirty work. My God, this is a police matter surely?’

  Fintan harrumphs in derision. ‘No senior police officer would dare take us on. Look what happened to any politician that tried. David Mellor threatened press privacy laws. We destroyed his career. We can pretty much do what the hell we like.’

  I let that fly over me. I’m struggling to keep up as it is. ‘What did ex-police officer and Nathan Barry murder suspect Phil Ware mean about getting the Prince to “sort me out” exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. Dig up some dirt on you, threaten to run it if you don’t back off.’

  ‘Can he do that?’

  ‘My God, it’s all clicking into place,’ says Fintan, a celestial glint drifting across his eyes. ‘The Prince was chief crime reporter on our rival paper back in ’88. I bet Nathan and Duncan McCall approached the Prince with their scoop about police corruption. Instead of running with the story, the Prince tipped off Delaney, Ware and the other people this scoop was about to expose. That must be what first connected the Prince to Delaney and Ware; he must have told them what Nathan and McCall were trying to sell. That’s why Delaney, Ware and the Prince are so tight, they must be all in this together. My God, the Prince is key to this whole thing.’

  ‘If that’s true, then how in hell do we get the Prince to talk?’

  Fintan shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, but I’ll think of something.’

  Chapter 30

  Arsenal, North London

  Sunday, June 26, 1994; 12.30

  Zoe’s name beams out from the phone’s screen, causing me to almost drop it into my lunchtime recovery pint. I haven’t spoken to her since Friday night, when news that Matt’s dad, Chris, is back on the scene triggered my complete emotional and physical collapse.

  I answer and she launches straight in, all psyched up. ‘I explained how much seeing you unsettles Matt. He’s just about on an even keel again, so I trust you’ve canned any plans to come around today?’

  ‘I’ve done no such thing Zoe. I never agreed to not see him again. I mean, come on, that’s not fair to him or me. I don’t know how he feels, for one, and I do have rights you know.’

  ‘You’re clearly not in a fit state to look after yourself, let alone a toddler. You’re in a pub now, for God sake.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I lie, scampering towards the door, wondering how she can tell. ‘I’m in a café. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘You’re in a café that has Smashing Pumpkins on the jukebox?’

  ‘It’s a smashing café. They play it every time someone orders pumpkin soup.’

  Nothing.

  ‘You scared me the other night, Donal, wielding that wine bottle and screaming. You’ve become … unhinged. How can I let you take my son away from me in your state of mind? It’d be irresponsible.’

  ‘Oh, he’s your son now, is he? I’m coming around to see him, as we agreed originally. You can’t stop me.’

  ‘I can stop you. I can call the police. Tomorrow I can go to a solicitor and apply for a court order. And don’t think I won’t. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Why are you being like this, Zoe? I’d never harm Matt in any way. You know that. Your parents know it too. They might not rate me as a breadwinner but they were delighted to let me take Matt out last Sunday.’

  I decide not to mention the tense drop off later, when they virtually snatched Matt from my grasp and scuttled inside.

  ‘I lied to them okay?’ she screeches. ‘I told them that you’d accepted Chris’s return maturely and you were giving me time to work things out. Wishful thinking on my part. While you were out with Matt, Mum called me and I told her the truth, that you’d no idea Chris was back on the scene. I told her that I couldn’t tell you in case you freaked out and did something stupid. Of course, all they care about it Matt’s welfare, so she flipped. I had to stop her calling the police to go and find you both.’

  ‘Jesus, Zoe. I’m still me. I thought you loved me? Now you’re all treating me like some Fathers for Justice nut job. This is so unfair. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  She sobs and I can’t help enjoying it. ‘You thought about hitting me with that bottle. I could see it in your eyes. Don’t deny it.’

  ‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Zoe? That would get rid of all your guilt at a stroke. Truth is, the thought never crossed my mind. I am not that type, and you know it. Look, I’m planning to take Matt to the boating lake up at Alexandra Palace. Why don’t you come too? Then nothing bad can happen to anyone.’

  She sobs some more: ‘I said no, Donal. We won’t be at home, so don’t even think about turning up and making a scene.’

  She’s cutting me out of Matt’s life and there’s not a thing I can do about it. I have to make her realise how much I love Matt … how much I love her.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been a bit crazy, Zoe,’ I blurt. ‘Love does that sometimes, but it’s still love.’

  ‘If you really loved me and Matt, you’d have gone to a specialist and taken that test by now. And you’d have quit drinking and found a job you can handle. You’re always playing the victim, Donal, but when it comes to the crunch, you always let me down.’

  Chapter 31

  Arsenal, North London

  Sunday, June 26, 1994; 12.45

  I march back into the Plimsoll pub, vowing to stay there until I’m unable to walk back out again. For once, I manage to keep a promise. It’s one of my few fragmented memories of the day. The others are:

  * Upsetting some Americans by shouting very loudly for Romania.

  * Dropping a full plate of Sunday roast, food-side down.

  * Getting called by Fintan repeatedly, demanding to know where I am.

  * Refusing, repeatedly, to tell Fintan where I am.

  * Accidentally knocking a pint over on my way to the toilets and getting abused.

  * Deliberately knocking a pint off the same table on the way back and wrestling with a large man.

  * Getting barred but refusing to leave.

  * Getting physically carried out of the pub and thrown onto the pavement.

  * Running back in through the door and falling flat on my face.

  * Telling the off-licence owner he’s a bastard for refusing to sell me a bottle of Jameson.

  * Hugging the off-licence owner for selling me a bottle of Jameson.

  * Coming back to an empty house, seeing my bla
ck eye in the bathroom mirror and crying.

  * Scrabbling around for Fintan’s cache of coke, Aidan’s stash of hash and our cornucopia of over-the-counter medications.

  * Popping them all into my mouth and washing them down with Scotch.

  * Sweating and palpitating wildly.

  * Hearing the most beautiful female singing while floating on my back through balmy, dappled sunshine.

  All flashes white, my head lands with a thud and my innards erupt.

  I’m lying in a pool of bile, insanely high. I recognise the lino of our bathroom floor and Fintan’s shoes. ‘Jesus Christ, Donal,’ he chants, over and over, fussing and flapping.

  I wake in his arms on the bathroom floor. He’s sobbing. I’d never seen Fintan cry before.

  ‘You selfish bastard,’ he shouts, punching me hard in the back and jamming his finger down the back of my throat. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he says, sounding crushed, betrayed.

  ‘Don’t know why you bothered,’ I say. ‘I’m going to die soon anyway.’

  Chapter 32

  St James’s Park, London

  Monday, June 27, 1994; 11.45

  I step off the District and Circle Line distressed and dizzy. It’s as if someone has spooned out my insides and replaced them with prickly, chalk-dry wood scrapings.

  Every shallow breath is an invitation for my stomach to spew, making those steep steps out of St James’s Park tube station a tense, tonsil-squeezing round of Russian roulette.

  PC Lynch, request to attend New Scotland Yard, 12 noon. Reply to confirm.

  I should be flapping after this morning’s brusque text but, having spent the night turning my guts inside out, I simply don’t possess the energy.

  My biggest fear is that there’s been some sort of complaint. I can think of several candidates; messing up the Julie Draper cash drop; illicitly sniffing around the Nathan Barry murder; failing to inform my boss at the Cold Case Unit that I’m no longer seconded to the Kidnap Squad. My career is already hanging by a thread; I’m anticipating one final, definitive snip.

  What do I really care? The pay’s rubbish. I keep getting overlooked for promotion. As Zoe pointed out, I simply can’t handle the pressure. And being tormented by the recently whacked has somewhat lost its allure. I’m twenty-five and, in all likelihood, doomed to die young. Why not just walk away?

  A flash of the warrant card, a quick frisk and I’m fetched up to the office of SO10 on the fifth floor, agonising over what that acronym stands for. Surely not Sacking Officers?

  I step out of the lift onto blue carpet so plush that I can no longer feel the soles of my feet. I moonwalk through wooden doors, past sombre portraits of former commissioners, in search of a sign.

  I knock on SO10’s door. A clipped male voice tells me to come in. I open to six world-weary eyeballs leering at me through thick cigarette smoke.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, wondering if the suits balefully surveying me have ever looked anything other than decidedly unimpressed. In their own way, the three men embody the classic stereotypes of the modern British detective; Mr Smooth, Mr Rough and Mr Fast-Track.

  Mr Smooth, in his forties, is rocking a postmodern Poirot look, complete with immaculate black suit with cufflinks, coiffured jet-black hair and a neatly trimmed black moustache. Oozing the pallid radiance of a 1920s movie star, he’s clearly meticulous, confident and in charge.

  Mr Rough is a jowly, overweight, hard-drinking street fighter and the type of roughhouse, wife-beating senior cop who, typically, takes an instant dislike to me.

  Mr Fast-Track is straight out of Eton; a fresh-faced, ruddy-cheeked, Hitler Youth blonde, seemingly insouciant to the greatness being thrust upon him by the warped but enduring British class system. In short, they’re the three Ronnies: Coleman (thin and smooth), Atkinson (fat and racist) and McDonald (a clown).

  ‘Sit down,’ says the Poirot tribute act. ‘You’re in role now. React to what you see and hear.’

  I’m so washed out, I’d struggle to react to an anally inserted cattle prod.

  He points to a TV set next to his drinks cabinet. ‘I’m a paedophile and I’m watching a man getting sucked off by an eight-year-old boy on a video. I’ve got copies for sale, if I’m happy with you.’ He unzips his flies. ‘I’m gonna have a wank. Aren’t you going to join me?’

  ‘I’ll buy the video but please put your cock away,’ I sigh. ‘Grown men do nothing for me.’

  Mr Fast-Track brays like a donkey. ‘Bloody amazing,’ he laughs.

  Even Big Ron smiles.

  ‘You’d be amazed how many people completely freeze,’ says Poirot. ‘Have you ever thought about working undercover?’

  ‘I haven’t to be honest, Sir.’

  ‘As you can imagine, Donal, we’re under considerable political pressure to make an arrest in relation to the Molly Parker-Rae case. Now, the ecstasy scene is very young, in terms of the users and the dealers. Our existing UCs are simply too long in the tooth to infiltrate. We’ve been researching candidates who we feel may be able to get into the ecstasy dealers down in Windsor and Slough. How would you feel about taking on something like this?’

  I’m too stunned to speak. Am I still tripping? Haven’t they heard about my history of messing things up? Maybe it’s some sort of sick pre-sacking humiliation exercise. One question screams out.

  ‘With respect, Sir, why me?’

  ‘You’re the right age. Your background is virtually non-existent. You’ve never been on the electoral roll or had a utility bill in your name. No wife, kids or parents in the UK. No mortgage. In fact, the only trace we could find of you outside of your employment here is one building society current account.’

  ‘You’re a living shadow, Donal,’ booms Fast-Track.

  Poirot toasts me with a glowing smile. ‘You are one of just a handful of young officers we can easily and quickly construct a backstory around that’s check-proof. Now, you won’t all be suitable for this work. There’s every chance none of you will be, but you just passed your first test with flying colours.’

  I can’t for the life of me see how that frankly risible role-play exercise suggests I’m ready to infiltrate a drugs gang. Why didn’t I just call in sick?

  ‘What we need now are volunteers for further testing,’ says Poirot. ‘This isn’t any usual course. There’s no set length, no beginning or end to your day, no assessments or exams. You’ll be tested in real-world environments, in real-life situations. We need to see how you cope with the stress of uncertainty and the unexpected. That’s what makes undercover work especially taxing.’

  Poirot fixes me with an intense look.

  ‘Although this role will be short-term, it will bring with it immense day-to-day pressures. You’ve got to consider your loved ones and the toll it might take on them. Like I said, it’s not for everybody. If you feel you can’t handle it, then please say so and it will stay within these four walls.’

  My eyes are already looking through those pastel plasterboard partitions, way beyond the horizon. All I can see is an opportunity to stop being me, and that’s exactly what I need right now. Posh boy was right; I am a living shadow. I’ve got no ties. I’ve got no life, not now Zoe’s dumped me. And I realise something else. All my life back home, Da had been ducking and diving on behalf of the IRA; he lived on the dark side and survived. In his own way, so does Fintan. Maybe that’s why I’ve never bonded with Da; he doesn’t think I’m made of the right stuff. This’ll show him.

  I look deep into Poirot’s sparklers. ‘I’d like you to sign me up for this course, Sir.’

  He nods slowly, inviting me to change my mind. ‘Just remember, Donal, there are no medals for this work. And it’s dangerous. If you get through the training, you’re likely to find yourself associating with some heavyweight gangsters. You may end up dead in a ditch, and we won’t claim you. You’ll take your secret with you to the grave. In the eyes of the world you’ll die a drug dealer, an underworld scumbag. Are you sure you can handle that?’
<
br />   So what if I die? I’ll just be seeing through what I started last night, but didn’t have the balls to finish. We’d all heard about ‘suicide by cop’. Why not ‘suicide by deranged drug dealer’? If the rest of my life will be without Zoe and Matt, then what have I got to live for? And at least Da will be impressed, for once.

  ‘I’m absolutely certain, Sir.’

  Chapter 33

  St James’s Park, Central London

  Monday, June 27, 1994; 13.00

  This pint is taking an age to drink, each sip requiring Gary Kasparov levels of focus to coax and keep down. I soldier on because I know it’s the only cure for those waves of woozy nausea. What I don’t have a fix for is my intense feeling of mortification. What the hell was I thinking last night? My only defence is that I genuinely don’t remember either deciding to overdose or carrying out the act.

  It wasn’t me. I don’t want to die. I just suddenly felt so tired, so lonely, so scared about the future. They say the darkest hour is before the dawn. What’s just happened has given me fresh hope, a focus, a tiny degree of certainty.

  The relief of finally being recognised by senior police officers – albeit for having less domestic roots than Carlos the Jackal – makes me determined to celebrate.

  All I ask of you these days, alcohol, is to make me feel marginally less wretched.

  Like some inveterate village gossip, Fintan’s on his way ‘with news’. How I wish I possessed a fraction of his whirlwind energy and chutzpah. A fraction of it would be plenty though, otherwise I’d never know any peace.

  As I battle to regain full use of organs and senses, it seems an ideal time to take stock of my tangled personal life and thwarted investigations.

  We’re now convinced that the Nathan Barry and Julie Draper murders are connected. ‘Dusko’ the bug revealed dodgy private eye John Delaney and his business partner, ex-cop Phil Ware stating as much: Someone’s talking, because no one’s been connecting Draper to any of this.