Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller

by James Nally

  ‘I’d leave the blood and charge people for a look.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  We both stared for a moment in silence at the spattered remnants of Marion Ryan’s final seconds, the red colour already browning.

  ‘What do you think then?’ said Clive.

  ‘Well, if I’ve learned anything over the past two years, it’s that crimes tend to be either personal or opportunistic,’ I replied. ‘This was definitely personal, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Well, if I’ve learned anything over the past twenty years, it’s to keep an open mind.’

  I could feel his look. ‘Tell them what you think today, but don’t be too opinionated. They won’t respect that.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’re a PC, they’ll see you as nothing more than a street butler; present when needed, otherwise invisible. Know your place, son.’

  ‘Got it,’ I said, the words, ‘cannon fodder’ drifting through my mind.

  I’d be fucked if I’d know my place in Clive’s class system. England, the world’s only courteous tyranny.

  Marion lay on the waiting room table at Clapham police station, beaming and radiant. The photo of her and Peter on a recent night out dominated the Standard’s front page. Head tilted into Peter’s chest, her smiling blue eyes oozed contentment. Her hair – big and curly à la Julia Roberts’ in Pretty Woman – had an almost other-worldly crimson glow which seemed to drain all the blood from her milk-white skin. Her high cheekbones and freckled nose brought Eve to mind. But Marion’s features – nose, chin, eyebrows, forehead – were more pronounced: she was striking, rather than pretty. Juxtaposed with her strong face was a smile so coy, kind and natural that it lit up the page, casting a sad shadow across my chest. I forced my eyes away from the photo to the accompanying report. I needed to expunge all emotion, stick to the facts.

  London-born of Irish parents, twenty-three-year-old Marion O’Leary met Peter Ryan in North London’s Archway Tavern when she was seventeen. Peter, from Mayo, had been her only boyfriend. They got married in Ireland last year.

  I’d met lots of second-generation Irish in London, like Marion. Invariably, they held a romanticised view of ‘the old country’, usually based on a handful of childhood holidays, and family propaganda. Most had been indoctrinated in Irish culture since birth. I bet Marion attended the local Catholic school and church. She would have taken First Holy Communion and Irish dancing classes and celebrated Paddy’s Day more than I ever did.

  She would have socialised in Irish pubs and clubs, hoping to meet a dashing Irishman who’d whisk her off her feet. They’d marry and move to a bungalow in the west of Ireland, where their kids – red-haired, freckled and plentiful – would run about barefoot and gleeful, stopping only to say the Angelus together at six o’clock each evening.

  We first-generation Irish had news for these ‘plastic Paddies’, some quite old news at that: romantic Ireland’s dead and gone.

  I couldn’t help assuming that Marion had bought wholesale into her parents’ dream. Marrying her first proper boyfriend made me suspect she was trusting, idealistic, a little naïve – not the type to have an affair, or to let a stranger into her flat. So how then did Peter fit into all of this? Why would he kill her? Maybe he was having an affair and couldn’t bring himself to tell her. After all, most Irishmen will do anything to avoid a scene. Or she confronted him about it and he flipped. But surely he didn’t hack his own wife to death on the stairs with a knife, then go back to work? That didn’t stack up.

  I was mentally listing the most compelling reasons why this crime had to be domestic when I leapt at the sound of my own name. The uniformed officer led me out of the waiting room, down a long corridor, through a pair of electronic security doors, along another corridor, then left into an interview suite. I sat there in airless isolation for what seemed like an age, a hothouse mushroom incubating on stale smoke and sweat. I couldn’t understand why I felt so nervous.

  Two middle-aged detectives finally strolled in, coffee cups full, fags on, fresh smoke sweetening the fusty air.

  ‘I’m DS Barratt, this is Inspector McStay,’ said the taller one, letting his superior sit first.

  I talked through everything that happened last night, throwing in my theories for good measure. When I wrapped up, they told me to write it all down in a statement, minus the theories. As I wrote, I repeated my assertion that Marion must have known her killer.

  ‘Thank you, PC,’ snapped McStay, emphasising my job title, ‘the Big Dogs are all over it now.’

  I went on, ‘She clearly let her killer in. She knew him or her well enough to pick up her post.’

  ‘Who would be your prime suspect then, Lynch?’ asked Barratt, mildly amused.

  ‘I’d have to start with the husband, Peter. Was he playing away? Did she find out? Has he got a history of violence? It doesn’t usually come out of the blue, does it? I’ve read about a lot of other cases and it normally escalates from domestic abuse. Peter is where I’d start.’

  ‘Good theory,’ said Barratt, scanning my statement, ‘we’re bringing him in as we speak. He’s going to talk to the press, appeal for help to find her killer.’

  He looked up at me: ‘Alongside Mr and Mrs O’Leary, Marion’s mum and dad.’

  I tried not to look confused.

  McStay seized the moment: ‘Peter is staying with Marion’s parents. Do you think they’d have him living in their own home if they thought for one second he could have been capable of killing their daughter?’

  He got up, strode to the door and flung it open: ‘Better get back out there, son. Those bike thieves won’t catch themselves.’

  As I made my way back out of Clapham police station, I recognised the rodent-like scurrying of her majesty’s press.

  Amid the yapping throng surged my brother Fintan, now Deputy Crime Correspondent of the London-based Sunday News. If the Chief Crime Correspondent didn’t have a pension plan, he needed to get one, soon.

  I followed the hordes into a large conference room, taking a seat near the exit. I wanted to see Peter explain himself. I wanted to see if his in-laws exhibited any kind of suspicion.

  Within seconds, my identity had become a talking point among a group of photographers. Fintan joined their chat, clocked me and scuttled over, beaming.

  ‘I hear you found the body?’ he roared, confirming he’d no shame.

  ‘Jesus, would you not have some decorum, Fintan.’

  ‘Maybe we can help each other.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you.’

  ‘Come on, Donal.’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘Fine. Fine. I wonder though, is a PC like you supposed to be nosing around a cordoned-off crime scene after the case has been taken over by a senior detective?’

  A red warning light pinged on in my brain.

  ‘Well I am a police officer, Fintan. That’s pretty much what I do these days.’

  ‘Oh okay. It’s just … ah nothing, doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you see that guy over there?’ he said, pointing to a large man cradling a cannon-sized Canon camera.

  ‘He’s a snapper, from the Standard.’

  ‘Bully for him.’

  ‘He said he took your photo earlier today, as you came out of the house on Sangora Road.’

  My heart set off on a gallop.

  ‘And guess what? His editor likes it. Donal, you’re going to be on the front page of the Evening Standard. Imagine that! You on the front page? I’ll send a copy to Daddy. He’ll be made up.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ I sighed.

  Fintan guffawed: ‘You, a lowly PC, sneaking around a live crime scene without DS Glenn’s permission? He’s a real hard ass, Donal. He’ll go apeshit.’

  I’d already pissed off DS Glenn – the officer in charge of the case – during our first meeting last night.

  ‘They can’t just use my picture. I have rights.’

  ‘Afra
id not, bro. It’s a public place. He can snap what he likes. Would you like me to have a word with him?’

  ‘Please,’ I sighed.

  Of course I’d never know if any of this was true. Fintan spent his entire life finagling leverage.

  He returned in less than a minute. ‘Sorted,’ he said, ‘you can relax. I told him you’re on an undercover job at the minute, and this photo could blow your cover. He’s on the phone to his picture editor now.’

  He sat next to me. ‘You’ve got to be more careful, Donal. Seriously, someone like Glenn could have you consigned to uniform for life.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering if that’s what happened to PC Clive Overtime.

  ‘Don’t mention it. You can buy me a nice pork salad for lunch.’

  DS Glenn entered the room through a side door, followed by a bearded man in an ancient tweed jacket and a haunted, ashen Peter. Ten feet behind, clinging together, were a middle-aged couple who needed no introduction. Cameras whirred, clicked and sprayed like slo-mo machine guns.

  ‘Her people are from Kilkenny,’ said Fintan, shouting over the camera cacophony.

  ‘Who’s the tweed?’

  ‘Professor Richards, a forensic psychologist. He’ll be observing Peter, you know, his body language and all that, see if he’s lying.’

  ‘He’ll be able to tell?’

  ‘Glenn swears by him.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It’s my job! Happily for me, you cops gossip like fishwives.’

  Richards sat at the extreme right-hand chair at the top table. Glenn led Peter to the seat next to the Professor then sat Marion’s parents to the left, taking centre stage himself.

  He explained who he was, then introduced the Prof, Peter, and Marion’s mum and dad, Mary and John.

  The snappers continued to hose them down. Glenn pleaded for restraint. They eased off for fully two seconds.

  As Glenn ran through the indisputable facts of the case, I took a good look at Peter, slumped, fumbling busily with his fingers, like a widow with rosary beads.

  He looked impressive, handsome, if somewhat vain and self-satisfied. He had an unfortunate perma-smirk which had probably earned him more slaps in life than hugs. His slicked-back auburn hair owed much to Don Johnson and cement-grade gel. He could have been a lower-league professional footballer or a wedding DJ with a name like Dale or Barry.

  My eyes drifted over to Mary and John. Mary embodied every Irish mum I’d ever known: small, tough, thick grey hair fixed fast into position, a fighter’s chin. Her face puce, her body bent with grief, she clenched rosary beads in one palm and John’s hand in the other. She didn’t look up from the table once.

  I thought about my own mum. I really needed to make that call.

  Marion’s dad John sat bolt upright like a guard dog, surveying the room, defending his family, defying the pain. I’d dealt with the parents of murdered people before. They usually split up in the end. The mum always blames the dad, even when she doesn’t want to. It must be hard-wired deep within mothers that the father’s primary role is to protect the family. Even in cases where the dad couldn’t possibly have done anything to save the child – like this – that sense of blame is there. I hoped John and Mary would make it.

  Glenn summarised: ‘We would like to appeal to anyone who lives, works or who happened to be in the Clapham Junction area between five and seven p.m. last Monday evening to please call us with any information that may help us find this killer. It doesn’t matter how minor or trivial it may seem, if you saw anything unusual or suspicious, please call us. Finally, I’d like to warn people in London, particularly lone women, to be vigilant and alert.’

  It was Peter’s turn to speak. He hadn’t written anything down.

  He looked directly at a TV camera and said: ‘I’d like to ask the public to please help find Marion’s killer. Whoever did this is not human … they have to be caught …’ His already high voice reached castrato pitch, before cracking. He squeezed his eyes shut, then his head fell and he sobbed. The cameras swarmed in for the kill.

  No one noticed Mary sobbing too, or John squeezing her hand.

  Questions rained in from the floor: ‘Are there fears that a maniac is targeting women in their homes?’

  Glenn: ‘I’ve nothing to add.’

  ‘Are you linking this to other crimes?’

  Glenn: ‘As part of any investigation, we look for connections to similar crimes.’

  Then Fintan got to his feet: ‘Is 21 Sangora Road known to police?’

  John glared over. ‘No,’ he roared and I felt myself shrivel.

  ‘No more questions,’ shouted Glenn, summoning Peter to his feet. As Glenn led him out, Mary and John didn’t look his way once.

  ‘I’m off to find a phone,’ said Fintan.

  ‘Grand. See you in Frank’s?’

  ‘Yeah, great. Twenty minutes.’

  Chapter 4

  Frank’s Café, Northcote Road, Clapham

  Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 11:45

  Although he could be toxic, an occasional meeting with Fintan was necessary these days, because he’d become my source of Eve Daly news.

  During my first three months in London, I’d written to Eve four times. I got just one short note back, in which she apologised for not being a letter writer and asked a favour. The list of instructions suggested she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  As decreed, I met Tara Molloy – a girl from home I barely knew – at Liverpool Street train station and drove her to the job interview in Stepney Green. She didn’t utter a single word, save for, ‘Hi’ when we first met. I sensed her nerves and tried to calm her down: ‘Come on, I’m sure you’ll do great.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled, staring blankly ahead. I hoped she’d think of more to say under questioning.

  ‘What kind of job is it?’ I asked.

  ‘I’d rather not say, in case I jinx it,’ she said quietly.

  Almost two hours later, she emerged, looking even glummer. I didn’t say anything until we got back to Liverpool Street.

  ‘Are you straight back to the airport then?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No time for a quick drink?’

  I really wanted to tap her up about Eve.

  ‘No. Sorry. I’ve really got to rush. Thanks so much, Donal, for the lift …’

  She climbed out of the work van and marched into Liverpool Street train station without looking back. It was only after she disappeared that I noticed fresh blood on the passenger seat: enough blood to make me realise she’d just had a termination.

  My next letter to Eve confirmed two things – 1: I’d taken Tara to her ‘job interview’; 2: from now on, I’d prefer to communicate by phone.

  Eve sent a note back containing a single quote: ‘If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.’ She signed it: ‘All my love, Eve x.’

  I couldn’t quite work out which one of us had set the other ‘free’. But the quote and her romantic sign-off reassured me: as soon as Eve got her life back on track, we’d give us another go.

  In the meantime, I felt certain that Mum could keep me abreast of all developments in Eve’s case. How wrong I was.

  During my first year in London, I had been ringing home every couple of weeks from a phone box awash with stale piss, cock carvings and IRA slogans. I fed it a pound coin every three minutes while Mum ran through her news – i.e. who had died – followed by the weather – i.e. how much it had rained. She had poor news judgement, sometimes suddenly remembering the death of a friend or family member after my pound coins had run out and the beeping had started. Nothing made you feel more alone than finding out someone you knew well was already cold in the ground. We never seemed to get around to talking about how she was or how I was or the latest on Eve Daly.

  On the few occasions that my dad, Martin, answered, I hung up. He couldn’t be arsed to say goodbye to me before I left the country. W
hy would he want to chat to me on the phone? Besides, Martin was monosyllabic and opaque in the flesh; the idea that he and I could support a telephone conversation seemed laughable.

  Then, about two years ago, I stopped calling home altogether. The trouble started when the Met police contacted our family GP, Dr Harnett, seeking my medical records. Unburdened by the Hippocratic oath, Harnett mentioned it to his golfing partner – one Martin Lynch – who assumed I’d got myself into some sort of trouble, and called golden son Fintan to find out what was going on. For once, my older brother didn’t enjoy breaking sensational news. He had to tell Martin that his second son had joined ‘the enemy’ – the British police force; the same force that had framed his heroes the Birmingham Six, the Guildford Four and the Maguire Seven.

  After a long silence, Martin Lynch very quietly but clearly gave Fintan the following instructions: ‘Tell him never to call here again, or come home here again, as long as I breathe.’

  I lost count of how many times I’d picked up a receiver and dialled that number you never forget, only to hang up because of what he might do to her. I hoped Mum realised that those countless silent phone calls had been from me, that I was thinking of her.

  So, having lost contact with Mum, I had to find another way to keep up with Eve’s ongoing case and work out how our future together would pan out. Until Fintan came to London, my sole source was the Irish newspapers – especially the one that had employed my brother at the time, the Evening Press. Credit to Fintan’s news nose, he sensed right away he had the inside track on the scoop of a lifetime. But even he could not have foreseen just how globally massive the Eve Daly case would become.

  The day after Meehan’s funeral, the Gardai announced that Eve had been charged with his murder and all went quiet. Two weeks later, they released a short statement announcing that they’d dropped the murder charge, pending further enquiries – a development Eve perhaps should have treated with discreet gratitude. Instead, she granted Fintan an exclusive interview, in which she revealed that she’d knifed Meehan with her Viking prop dagger as he tried to force himself upon her.

  No country relishes a divisive story as much as Ireland: this one proved an ideological ‘perfect storm’. There were two passionate, polarised schools of thought. The first: if a woman dresses like a slut and gets into bed with a man, then she knows what she’s getting. The second: no means no, she must have acted in self-defence. I’ve never understood how people can get so worked up about something that doesn’t remotely affect them. None of the impassioned, self-appointed pundits knew the facts behind the case, yet the entire nation engaged in an almighty gender-based ding-dong with undisguised glee.