Games with the Dead

by James Nally

  ‘Tea would be lovely.’

  ‘We only have builder’s. And probably no milk.’

  ‘That’s quite alright.’

  I stick on the kettle and sit opposite him, just so he knows where we’re at.

  He’s ridiculously handsome and coyly charismatic, the bastard, like some poster boy for private education. He’s got that Princess Di haircut, complete with just the right amount of flop at the front to suggest vulnerability. Blue-eyed, strong-jawed, I hate the guts that are so tightly packed into that blindingly white, open-neck flannel shirt.

  Worse still, he’s got the imperious inner confidence to sit there and force me to think of something to say.

  ‘So, I hear you were a major player in the rave scene?’

  ‘Oh that,’ he laughs bashfully. ‘I’d read a lot of Timothy Leary. I thought I was going to change the world.’

  ‘We’re all a bit delusional at that age.’

  Both eyebrows leap to his defence. He clearly feels he did change the world, no less.

  ‘We were hurtling into the worst recession since the Great Depression. It felt good to be able to help people snap out of the living-death of drudgery for a few hours of euphoric release, every now and then.’

  ‘Wow, you were almost like a social service.’

  ‘I’ll remember the last rave in 1989 until the day I die. We sold 3,000 tickets and laid on coaches to the wilds of Bucks where I’d hired an equestrian centre. Flares burned along the wooded approach, lasers flashed in the dark sky. We hired a fairground and a bouncy castle, all lit with fairy lights like one huge fantasy playground.

  ‘At the peak of the night, the lights went off, the building filled with dry ice and, in total darkness, I dropped the needle on the opening chords of Strauss’s Also Sprach Zarathustra.’

  He snaps out of his trance now to address me directly: ‘That’s the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey.’

  ‘I know,’ I lie.

  He slips back into reminisce. ‘As the orchestra swelled, a green laser strafed the clouds of dry ice and hundreds of arms raised in unison, cutting through the smoke. All that was visible from my raised platform were disembodied hands, reaching outwards as if to touch the heavens, frozen in the strobe lights. And I remember thinking “I did that.”’

  ‘Was there a bar?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Was there a bar at that one? I’ve only been to one rave and I couldn’t even get a bottle of lager.’

  He glares at me in pained disbelief, as if I’ve just taken a dump in his weekend shoes. Time to get bad cop on his privileged arse.

  ‘What about the people who died because of your raves?’

  ‘None did,’ he smiles smugly. ‘You do know less than 100 people have died in this country from E, yet 30,000 die every year from alcohol. But the alcohol lobby ultimately won by forcing the government to licence raves. You got your bar in the end, Donal.’

  ‘Good.’

  He coughs and straightens his back.

  ‘Look, I didn’t come here to debate drug laws. I came here to tell you that I plan to marry Zoe. I want to make up for lost time. It’s what she deserves.’

  I’m too stunned to respond.

  ‘I think it’s best for Zoe and Matthew. Don’t you?’

  How do I answer that? He doesn’t give me time anyway.

  ‘We can move nearer to her folks, send Matthew to one of the better schools in Highgate, Zoe won’t have to worry about all this freelancing nonsense to make ends meet …’

  ‘She wants to continue with her career. She loves it.’

  ‘Yes of course she does. They have to say that, don’t they? When they’ve got no option. The thing is, I feel awful for you, Donal.’

  ‘Don’t. She hasn’t told me we’re over. As far as I’m concerned, that means she hasn’t made up her mind yet. She probably won’t be able to bring herself to trust you, after what you did.’

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right. I’m jumping the gun. I do hope, no matter what happens, we can all remain friends or at least civilised about it. I want you to know I fully acknowledge and respect the role you’ve played in Matthew’s life up until now.’

  ‘Role? I wasn’t acting, pal. I was the only dad he had, let’s not forget, while you were off investing your ill-gotten gains in various druggie havens around the globe.’

  His head wobbles indignantly.

  ‘The bottom line, Donal, is that I can give Zoe and Matthew things you can’t. You do know your drinking scares her. As does the fact you might drop dead any second from some congenital disease, which you refuse to acknowledge or seek treatment for. You’re a bloody mess. I can’t have her and Matthew exposed to that.’

  I can’t believe she’s told him all this, and wish I’d grabbed that breadknife after all.

  ‘Excuse me, but the day you abandoned your unborn baby, you lost any right to make decisions about him or Zoe.’ My voice is shaking with rage: ‘I know she hasn’t forgiven you for that. I don’t think she ever will.’

  He laughs malevolently. ‘If I know women – and I rather think I do – a dream home near mum, a four-by-four and a bloody good school might just atone for my sins.’

  ‘If I know Zoe, it won’t even come close. She has values, something you clearly lack. What will you do if she chooses me?’

  He winces irritably, like a petulant child.

  ‘It won’t happen but, just to show you I’m a sport … if she picks you over me, I’ll move abroad. Right, I’ll be off. Good day.’

  Good day indeed, I think. At least now I know he isn’t gripped by some sudden and overwhelming paternal instinct. Because if I thought for one second his return would ultimately benefit Matt, I’d swallow my pride and stand aside. But the fact he’s planning to flounce off abroad if he doesn’t get his own way proves he isn’t doing this for Matt. Or Zoe.

  What the hell has he come back for then? And how can I find out before it’s too late?

  Chapter 39

  Arsenal, North London

  Tuesday, June 28, 1994; 16.30

  I return Edwina’s missed call hoping she’s found something – anything – in the Nathan Barry or Duncan McCall pathology reports that might link their cases to Julie Draper. Edwina answers sharply; she clearly hasn’t got long. I barely manage a ‘Hi’ before she unloads.

  ‘Okay, Donal, just to give you some general background about male suicide in this country. About fifty per cent die from hanging. It used to be about twenty per cent from carbon monoxide poisoning but that’s fallen dramatically in recent years with the introduction of catalytic converters. Until the 1970s, turning on the oven used to be the most common method, but then they introduced natural gas instead of coal gas so it didn’t work anymore. Same thing now with cars. Drugs overdose accounts for another fifteen per cent; gravity about one in fifteen. Other methods are rare. Suicide by firearms accounts for less than 100 cases each year.’

  ‘Out of how many?’

  ‘In the UK, about 6,000 in total per annum. Two thirds of those are male.’

  ‘I thought suicide by gun would be right up there. It’s so quick.’

  ‘It’s by far the most common method in the US, but then everyone there has a gun. Only four per cent of British households have access to arms. Now, moving onto Duncan McCall. Just remind me, Donal, what is his connection to Nathan Barry?’

  ‘They were friends who may have been trying to sell a story about police corruption. Four months after Nathan’s murder, McCall killed himself. Somehow, it’s all tied up with Julie Draper, we just don’t know how.’

  ‘Okay, well you’re going to like this. Detective Sergeant Duncan McCall died of a single shot from a 12-gauge shotgun which he’d placed inside his mouth. Time of death estimated at 0200 hours on the morning of August 12, 1988.

  ‘His wife found him in the rear garden of their family home in Croydon next morning. Burn marks around the wound are consistent with a shotgun held at close range, but here’s where it g
ets tricky. They moved his body before forensics got to the scene.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Mrs McCall called the police and said her husband had killed himself. The despatcher sent officers and paramedics to the address to deal with a suicide. Everyone had decided it was a suicide before they’d even reached the scene. It’s a surprisingly common occurrence.

  ‘The body was lying at the rear of their back garden. Mrs McCall had to stop her two young sons looking out of any rear windows or doors until a friend took them away.

  ‘Unfortunately, kids in neighbouring houses could see it. The first officers and paramedics on the scene decided it was a straightforward suicide, covered the body and the weapon with sheets from the house and carried it all into the home. From a forensic perspective, they destroyed the investigation. For example, you’d normally find traces of residue from the gun on the hand he used to pull the trigger, but it was clean. And no suicide note was found.’

  ‘But the coroner’s verdict was suicide.’

  ‘McCall’s life was a mess. He’d been secretly recorded by a colleague making claims about Commander Neil Crossley that formed the basis of the Met’s corruption probe. You can bet colleagues had turned against him. They certainly did at the inquest, talking about his boozing, affairs and growing incompetence. His detective partner said he was cracking up under pressure from events outside his police work, which was dynamite but the coroner didn’t pursue it. Also, the profile of the shotgun suicide is a middle-aged man with no history of mental illness or self-harm, so it fitted. You know what they say, if it looks like a duck and it swims like a duck …’

  ‘Is it a duck, Edwina?’

  ‘I’d be happy to stand up in any court of law and say that the only verdict that should ever have been delivered in this case was an open one. There isn’t one shred of evidence that Duncan McCall killed himself. When I saw who the coroner and the pathologist were, well … I wasn’t particularly surprised.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She sighs. ‘The coroner is a Freemason and the pathologist, Tom Witheroe, has since been struck off the Home Office register. The thing is, they were also the coroner and pathologist in the Nathan Barry case.’

  ‘Are you suggesting some sort of cover-up?’

  ‘Quack quack. Now I really must fly.’

  Chapter 40

  Arsenal, North London

  Tuesday, June 28, 1994; 17.30

  Fintan insists we watch the big game at home and returns with his trusty old Londis bag, rammed full of piss-weak lager.

  ‘All we need is a nil-all draw and we’re in the last sixteen,’ he announces, handing me alcohol’s equivalent to a can of spam.

  ‘And what do Norway need?’

  ‘It depends on the result of the other match, which takes place at the same time, but a draw would probably do them too.’

  ‘Right, so an incident-free, deadly-dull goalless grind is what everyone’s after?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I’m going to need something a bit stronger.’

  ‘Well you needn’t bother sneaking upstairs for a crafty Shiraz.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I poured it down the sink.’

  I’d be freaking out if two fresh bottles weren’t nestling in my work bag. It’s the least I need after today’s bruising encounters with the men who stole my drugs and woman. But I sigh disappointedly for effect.

  ‘How did spooky school go today?’

  ‘Well. Really well,’ I say.

  ‘Ha!’ he crows, pointing at me. ‘They haven’t taught you how to lie yet! You’re redder than a self-immolating Tibetan monk. What happened?’

  I tell him about the Bermondsey Hustle and he almost passes out from hilarity.

  I skip over Christy G’s premature victory lap around our kitchen table a few hours ago, for fear that a second dose of tragicomic vaudeville might render him unconscious. Instead, I hit him with Walter Moore’s claims that Nathan Barry had been about to unmask a cocaine racket at West Norwood cemetery.

  He whistles. ‘I wonder how much cocaine? Because that sounds like the first viable murder motive I’ve heard.’

  I follow up with Edwina’s headlines: there’s no proof Duncan McCall killed himself, and the key people calling the deaths of McCall and Nathan were either bent or incompetent, possibly both.

  His eyes bulge with possibility. ‘We’ve got to find out what scoop Nathan and McCall were hawking about. That’s got to be the key to this.’

  ‘You still think you can get the Prince to talk?’

  ‘I’ve got to find a way to make him talk. Especially now we’re making so little headway on Julie Draper.’

  ‘What about this Rottweiler pup of a reporter? Hasn’t he managed to unmask Julie Draper’s secret homicidal nemesis yet?’

  ‘Sneer all you like. He will.’

  ‘If this nemesis actually exists.’

  ‘He’s turning up some decent stuff. Julie wasn’t quite the meek Mavis everyone has been led to believe. A good sales rep for starters, one of their best, according to her classified employment record.’

  He flings me a folder marked Human Resources: Julie C Draper: Confidential. I daren’t ask how his cunning understudy managed got hold of it.

  Fintan continues: ‘She was ambitious too; did night courses in Gemology and jewellery-making and regularly travelled to Antwerp to wheel and deal rare stones. She had a hell of a collection of jewellery, and an antique Rolex watch.’

  ‘Snap! So had Nathan Barry.’

  ‘Funnily enough, hers has gone missing too.’

  ‘Maybe their killer is a Rolex nut? What was that slogan again?

  ‘Men who wear a certain brand of watch guide destinies,’ says Fintan. ‘He’s found no lovers or exes though. Her friends say she didn’t seem interested in boys, or girls for that matter. Her parents are convinced she bought a mobile phone recently, which no one’s been able to track down. That could tell a story. But the police weren’t interested in any of this. I’m telling you, Donal, it’s Nathan Barry all over again. They’re so blinkered by one suspect, Kipper, that they’re not properly pursuing other lines of inquiry.’

  The game starts, Fintan’s kicking every ball, but I’m finding it hard to engage. I dwell instead on those chilling visits from Julie Draper a couple of weeks back. I close my eyes and re-run the startling images through my brain, racking it for any connection to what we now know. What had she been trying to tell me?

  ‘Did you ask your Rottweiler puppy man to check about her fish?’

  Fintan casts off my question with an irritable shrug.

  ‘It’s a simple enough request. Her friends probably know, so we wouldn’t even have to bother her mum and dad.’

  He picks up his phone, jabs out a text. ‘It’s a good job he’s junior, because if I was to ask an experienced reporter to find out the name of a murder victim’s pet fish, I’d never live it down.’

  His phone pings almost immediately.

  ‘Her fish are named Ben and Jerry. Happy?’

  ‘Crossley said they were Mutt and Jeff, or at least that’s what she called them in her proof-of-life call.’

  ‘Maybe he made a mistake.’

  ‘Or maybe it was some sort of coded message. She was a crossword fanatic, don’t forget. You know all fish tanks are supposed to have what are called hiding places for the fish, to stop them getting overstimulated? Get your man to go to Julie’s home and take a root around the fish tank.’

  ‘I’m not asking him to rummage around her fish tank. Jesus, Donal.’

  ‘What harm can it do?’ I protest. ‘I’ll get hold of her proof-of-life call tomorrow, work out what she did and didn’t say. If I get even an inkling that she’s talking in code, I’ll go and tickle her fish myself. Meanwhile, why the hell aren’t we trying to win this? Wouldn’t that put us top of the group and get us an easier draw in the next round?’

  ‘Hold what we have is the mantra,’ says Fintan. ‘
We’d be stupid to take any risks at this stage.’

  To avoid slipping into a coma, I grab Julie Draper’s employment file. Impressively, she’d been one of Crown Estates’ top five salespeople nationwide every single quarter since starting there four years ago. That’s out of 2,000 employees. Yet she’d never managed to win the title, thus consistently missing out on the star prize: a fortnight in the Caribbean.

  ‘She was the Jimmy White of real estate,’ I say. ‘Always choking it.’

  ‘You’d think she could’ve cooked the books a little, even just once, to win one of those holidays,’ says Fintan.

  The final whistle finally sounds. Ireland have bored their way through to the last sixteen.

  ‘Julie was a bit like Ireland and Norway tonight,’ I sigh. ‘For some reason, she didn’t want to win.’

  Fintan sits forward, eyes like saucers. ‘My God you’re right. You’re a bloody genius.’ He picks up his mobile. ‘Dennis, I need Julie’s entire list of sales since she started there … like yesterday would be good … yes all of it.’

  He hangs up. ‘She didn’t want to win, because that would’ve drawn attention to her, or to someone she sold properties to. There’ll be something in that list. I guarantee it.’

  Chapter 41

  Whitechapel, East London

  Wednesday, June 29, 1994; 09.30

  I decide to level with Gary about getting stiffed by Daryl. Firstly, I suspect he already knows. Chances are he’d planted Daryl with the express purpose of ‘turning me over’. Secondly, I don’t have eight rocks of crack or 100 quid to hand over. I dread his reaction; why do I always seem to mess up when it comes to older male authority? Why do I always feel so intimidated?

  I can’t face getting kicked off yet another squad. Satisfaction for Fintan, vindication for Zoe and yet more proof that she’s right to trade up.

  Gary remains chillingly deadpan throughout my story.

  ‘Four out of five of our trainees fall victim to that scam,’ he says. ‘That’s why I sent you his way first. He reads people better than he can read words.’

  ‘Is Daryl a dealer or a cop?’