And So it Began (Delaney Book 1)

by Owen Mullen

  ‘I knew you’d do it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said again, and let go of his hand. He spoke to Fitzpatrick. ‘Update?’

  They walked to Delaup’s office and closed the door behind them. I settled in front of the PC I’d been given and booted it up. The sooner I produced my report and answered any questions, the sooner I’d be on my way to Stella. McLaren and a man I didn’t recognise passed without acknowledging me and joined the others. Everyone’s expression was serious. In reality, they must’ve been elated. Fitzy waved me in. I saved the work I’d done and joined the quartet.

  Agent McLaren pushed out a hand. ‘Fantastic work, Vince. Your colleagues always had faith in you. They were right.’

  I found a half-smile from somewhere. Now, I was Vince. I was impossible to please – call me Mr Delaney, and I didn’t like it. Change it to Vince, and I still bristled.

  ‘This is Agent McWilliams. He’s been on this thing from the beginning, working with the teams in other states. He’s here to assist me.’

  He introduced the new guy – Bureau standard issue: clean-featured, conservative suit, well aware of his federal status. We nodded to each other.

  Delaup jockeyed himself back in charge. ‘Tell us how it went down, Delaney.’

  So, I told them. How the list I’d asked Mrs Sinclair to give me showed no mention of a Labelle Roy; Tom Donald’s words crystallising into meaning; my face-off with Peter Roy, his sneering admissions, and his wife Reba: just about the last person I would’ve suspected. When I described the chase across the stage and the wig, Agent McWilliams broke his silence.

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  Soon after, I went back to the report. It was somebody else’s job now. My part was done. Almost.

  Three hours later, she opened the door. Stella took my hand; fed me, made love to me and after, she listened.

  ‘He was a friend. Least, I thought he was.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They haven’t found his body. Perhaps they never will.’

  ‘One minute he was there, and we were talking, then he shouted and jumped. I didn’t see him fall. I was only a few steps from the barrier. When I got there, he was already gone.’

  She held my hand. We sat like that for a while.

  ‘You need sleep. It’s after two. Let’s go to bed.’

  I hadn’t had any rest since Friday, and now, it was Sunday morning. Stella laced her body with mine. I closed my eyes and was almost asleep when she asked her question.

  ‘Cal Moreland. You said he jumped and shouted.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, what did he shout?’

  41

  Fitzy grinned at me. ‘Just can’t stay away, can you?’

  Delaup joined in. ‘’Course he can’t. This is where he belongs. This is home.’

  I let them have their fun.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. McLaren and his buddy have been interviewing them all night. We found two pairs of latex gloves in Reba Roy’s handbag. Premeditation. Narrows down the defence options.’

  ‘Defence? What defence?’ Delaup’s disgust was undisguised. ‘They’re guilty as hell, and that’s where they’re going. What they did …’ He tailed off, there were no words.

  I spoke to Fitzpatrick. ‘We need to talk.’

  He heard me, though his expression didn’t alter.

  McLaren chose that moment to come through the door. McWilliams followed a pace or two behind. The FBI man took his time before including us, enjoying his seniority. He’d reverted to type. We’d been a team for as long as we were needed.

  ‘Well?’

  Delaup tried to hold on to a corner of the case, but the Bureau was running things now. McLaren wouldn’t be bullied or rushed. To emphasise his control, he walked round the desk and sat in the Captain’s chair: a symbolic gesture that escaped no one.

  ‘Peter’s the weak link. He’s got plenty to say, starting with the first body.’

  I asked an obvious question. ‘Has he told us where Lucy Gilmour is buried?’

  ‘Uh, uh.’ McLaren shook his head. ‘The first body, not Lucy. These two have been at work a long, long time. He credits – and that’s the right word – his wife with planning the whole thing. She’s the leader.’

  ‘He actually said that?’

  ‘He actually did. The way he tells it, she’s the smartest person alive. Smarter and more daring than anybody. His story drips with admiration. She’s what he wishes he could be.’

  ‘Trophies?’

  ‘We haven’t found them yet. Peter Roy says they kept the certificates the kids got. Winners. It was all about snuffing out life at its unblemished peak, before the world could corrupt it. “In the perfect moment of innocent victory.” His exact words.’

  That did it. For a long time, nobody spoke.

  Danny broke the silence. ‘What was his involvement?’

  ‘Peter Roy views himself more like a student, a fan, privileged to be able to watch a master at work.’

  Delaup spat. ‘Sick fuck.’

  The agent’s interest in Delaup’s opinion was nil.

  Danny said, ‘So what did he do?’

  ‘Watched. Just watched. Says he never touched a single child.’

  My turn. ‘Who invented Labelle?’

  ‘That’s one of the best parts for him. They needed to be able to move freely at the pageants. Reba conjured up a daughter for them, and Labelle was born.’

  ‘Reba’s inter-personal skills border on brilliant. Her daughter was always on her way, always somewhere else but never got registered. Her mother spoke to everyone, dropped Labelle’s name like confetti. People believed she was real.’

  ‘High-risk strategy.’

  ‘Indeed,’ McLaren agreed, ‘but it was all high risk – their front, the abduction, the murders. Her husband’s eyes shine when he talks about it. Thinks it’s great.’

  McWilliams surprised me by speaking. His boss indulged him. Bureau-boys together. He said, ‘Latex gloves in her handbag. No fingerprints. And the wig minimised the chances of hair. She must’ve removed it before she started on the kids.’

  Red lipstick and a hairless head: the last thing the terrified victims would see. I remembered my scuffle with her on the stage: I’m no kid, and it had shaken me.

  McLaren said, ‘All of us assumed the attacks on children must be by a male. But it isn’t exclusively a single-gender crime. Child abuse in its many ugly forms is committed by both sexes. These crimes are rare, but not unique. Reba Roy outguessed us on that one.’

  Reba Roy was a mystery I needed somebody to explain. ‘What about her? What’s she saying?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing about the murders. She talks. For all the world, a refined southern woman. Hard to believe. If I didn’t know better, I’d have to say she’s charming.’

  Delaup spoke and added nothing useful. ‘Charming? She’s a mutant. Needs to be put down.’

  ‘Yes, charming. And quite insane. Probably never stand trial.’

  He let the agent’s judgement fill the room. We knew he was right.

  I said, ‘How long have they been doing this?’

  The Captain couldn’t let it go. ‘But she planned it. The gloves. Labelle.’

  McLaren struggled to bring order to the story. ‘They claim they heard voices. Both of them. Lots of voices. Their heads are full of voices according to him. When a team of psychiatrists have had them for a while, my guess is the verdict will be they’re both unfit to plead. They’ll spend the rest of their lives in some secure hospital facility.’

  ‘Your tax dollars at work.’

  ‘Something like that, Delaney. Better than the alternative. They could still be out there, and they’re not. Because of you.’

  ‘What now?’

  The agent made a business-as-usual face. ‘We’ll spend the next twenty-four hours grilling them before a public statement tomorrow evening. During that time, we’ll revisit the crime scenes, talk to people there. We
can be more specific about what we’re looking for now. The Roys – especially Reba – are distinctive types. It won’t be too hard to place them at the scenes.’

  He paused. ‘Even if that gives us nothing, Peter Roy will tell it like it is. He’s a fan, remember. And then, there’s your testimony, Mr Delaney.’

  Goodbye, Vince. Hello, Mr Delaney.

  ‘Anything else you need from me?’

  ‘No, just your report. When I’ve read it, we can talk it through.’

  I left and waited outside the door until Danny joined me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You haven’t given me a copy of the transcript from Friday night.’

  It seemed like a month ago.

  ‘It’s on my desk. Forgot about it with all this going on.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Sure. We’ll check it again if you like.’

  In his office, Fitzpatrick lifted a manila folder. ‘Want to do this now?’

  ‘Is this the only copy?’

  ‘Apart from the one with my report to the Captain, yes. Have you written yours? What’s got you all fired up?’

  ‘Not yet, and something Stel said.’

  My interest in his transcription only concerned the last page.

  ‘Cal! Not this way!’

  ‘Yeah, buddy! This way! The only way!’

  ‘You can cut a deal!’

  I heard him laugh; it was eerie.

  ‘The people I work for don’t make deals, Delaney! There are no deals with them!’

  ‘Cal! Don’t do it! Think!’

  Reading through it, I remembered the look on his face at that moment.

  ‘Cal! Give them up! Whoever they are! Whoever’s behind this thing!’

  The sound of footsteps.

  ‘Cal! Let’s talk!’

  ‘Who knows where the road goes? Sorry, Delaney. It’s gotta be!’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Cal! Don’t! Let’s deal! Give me a name!’

  I lifted my eyes from the last words on the page. ‘This isn’t it all, Danny.’ The certainty on my face stopped him disputing it.

  ‘I’ll get the tape. It’s in the evidence room.’

  He came back. We listened again to how it ended.

  ‘Whoever’s behind this thing? Cal! Let’s talk!’

  ‘Who knows where the road goes? Sorry Delaney, it’s gotta be!’

  ‘God’s sake, Cal! Don’t! Let’s deal! Give me a name!’

  We played it, and played it again. Then, we heard it: not the anguished wail I’d mistaken it for, but a long cry that faded with his fall. Cal Moreland used the final moments of his life to answer me. I’d asked him to tell me who was behind the extortion. He had. With his last breath.

  The night hadn’t devoured that truth.

  ‘Can’t make it out.’ Fitzy said.

  Neither could I. Anxiety fuelled by lack of sleep pulsed in my temple.

  ‘Play it again.’

  Twenty minutes later, we were ready to quit. Danny said, ‘We’ll give it to Randolph. He’ll clean this up in no time.’

  Randolph was Randolph Todd. He was in Tupelo visiting his mother. Tomorrow, he’d be here. Danny smothered the phone with his hand. ‘He wants to know how early you want him to start.’

  ‘Early-early.’

  Fitzpatrick finished the conversation and closed the cell. ‘He’ll meet us here at 6 a.m. That the early-early you had in mind?’

  ‘No, that’s just early, but it’ll do.’

  42

  The journey that began with Cilla Bartholomew was coming to an end.

  Along the way, people had died. Now, we had all the pieces of the puzzle apart from the last, and tomorrow, a guy called Randolph would sprinkle his magic over the tape and make it give up its secret. That was the hope.

  I drove to Catherine’s to collect my dog and see the family. When I rang the bell, I heard Lowell bark and the tread of approaching footsteps. Molly was usually first to the door; instead, it was Ray.

  ‘Hi, Delaney. Not at the game?’

  ‘Not today.’

  It was all I had. Lowell bounded to me, wagging his tail, pleased to have me back. Seeing him made my day. I had to hold myself back from getting down and wrestling with him on the floor. Catherine sat with her feet curled up under her on the couch. In the corner, the television was on, loose pages from newspapers were scattered around, a typical Sunday scene.

  ‘Hi. How’re you?’ She kissed my cheek.

  No announcement about the capture of the killer. That would be tomorrow’s news. Until then, ignorance was bliss. I wasn’t going to drag it through Catherine’s Sunday.

  ‘Fine. Thanks for looking after Lowell.’

  Lowell licked my hand. I patted him and changed the subject. ‘Where’s Molly?’

  ‘Oh, Molly.’ Catherine made a face.

  ‘She all right?’

  ‘You could say.’

  ‘Upset about her singing career coming to an end?’

  ‘Not at all. She’s got a new ambition.’

  The sound of someone coming down the stairs made me turn. When she came in, I saw the change. She held her hands together in front, her gaze cast down, not looking at her parents or me, or even the TV.

  ‘Hi, baby.’

  I bent, expecting her arms to go around my neck and hear a dozen questions I couldn’t answer. It didn’t happen. She left as she’d arrived, with her head bowed and her hands together.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing. She’s fine.’

  ‘Well, what was all that about?’

  ‘Molly’s made a decision.’

  ‘Really? What would that be? She’s five years old.’

  Catherine’s face was solemn as her daughter’s, except for the flicker of a smile at the corners of her mouth. ‘No more pageants. From now on, it’s mass. Molly wants to be a nun.’

  I said my goodbyes at the door.

  ‘By the way, I’ll be bringing someone from now on.’

  My sister seemed relieved. She sighed and kissed me on the cheek. ‘About time.’

  Randolph was about twenty-two, tall and thin. He wore jeans and a tartan shirt over a grubby T-shirt with writing on it I couldn’t make out. His hair was long and unwashed, which might have been a description of him. When Fitzpatrick introduced us, he grunted and nodded, blinking behind his glasses.

  Danny produced the tape and handed it to him. This guy spent his life in a part of the building I’d never been in; a basement section of the east wing. Following him there was like going in search of the Phantom of the Opera, except instead of a cavern, we found a neat room crammed with equipment I’d struggle to turn on.

  He sat in front of a bank of screens and machines, flicked some switches, leaned in and passed from this world to his own. Fitzpatrick and I hung around. Apart from answering a few initial questions about what we needed, there was no role for us to play; we left Randolph to it. Whenever he had something, he’d call Fitzpatrick.

  Danny and I went our separate ways. I returned to my unfinished report – likely to remain unfinished until we heard from Randolph.

  The clock on the wall showed ten-thirty. My cell rang.

  ‘Conference Room. Five minutes.’

  I took the elevator. Danny was running through the channels on the big-screen television at the end of the conference room. ‘Press statement any minute now,’ he said.

  We watched, not speaking. What was there to say? This was a level above our humble toil – the land of PR, of square-jawed senior officials asleep in their beds while the real work got done. It was about promises and confidence and perception; most of all perception. And, of course, recognition, the more public the better.

  Danny’s cell rang. ‘Ok. Good.’

  I knew who he was speaking to.

  In the basement, Randolph said, ‘Think I have what you want. Not sure you’re gonna like it.’

  His longest sentences of the day. He touched a switch. I might have been listening
to a different conversation. My voice and Cal Moreland’s were clear as glass. When Randolph stopped the tape after the fourth or fifth play, the silence screamed.

  Fitzpatrick said, ‘How could we have missed it?’

  ‘The phone call about Tom Donald interrupted us. We never got past that point again.’

  ‘But how did you even know to look?’

  It would’ve been nice to take the credit and add another layer of shine to my legend.

  ‘Female curiosity. Never underestimate it.’

  He was alone. We gave it a couple of minutes and joined him in his office. He was seated behind his desk engrossed in a case folder, the same one that was my current fascination, jacket off and hanging over the back of his chair. His concentration never wavered. Everything about him said business as usual.

  Quite an act.

  ‘Saw you on TV,’ Fitzpatrick said. ‘Good that the department gets some credit.’

  ‘Saw it, did you?’

  He put the case-notes down and leaned back, pretending a modest acceptance of the heights he was forced to climb on our behalf.

  ‘Only what we deserve. Making sure we get ours. Those Bureau guys want it all. Always been the same. It was important to be there this morning. Even so, we won’t get a quarter of the recognition we deserve.’

  Fitzpatrick said, ‘Still, quite a thing to be on the same successful team as the FBI, especially with the Cal Moreland shit-storm coming down the line.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The mention of scandal changed his mood.

  ‘You read the transcript?’

  ‘I did. Can hardly believe it. And he was your friend, Delaney. You must be feeling it.’

  Yes sir. Quite an act.

  Fitzpatrick produced the tape machine and placed it on his desk.

  ‘One more thing I think you might like to hear.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  The recording was primed. When Fitzy pressed the start button, Cal Moreland’s voice cut through the air so clear, he might have been standing in the room.

  ‘Cal! Not this way!’

  ‘Yeah, buddy! This way! The only way!’

  ‘You can cut a deal!’

  ‘The people I work for don’t make deals, Delaney! There are no deals with them!’