The Judas Heart

by Ingrid Black

  The most crucial sheet among the multitude on Fitzgerald’s desk would have been all too easy to overlook. It was stapled to the end of the report on his movements, almost like an afterthought, and came from the pen of a patrol cop on the night Marsha Reed died. This was about 2.45am, and revealed that Solomon had been seen in the area round Fitzwilliam Place East in a dishevelled and drunken state, not seeming to know where he was. A patrol car had stopped him to make sure he was OK and then let him proceed on his way.

  What was interesting about this was not only that it was the only confirmed sighting between him leaving the theatre and the following morning, but that he’d said he was on his way at the time to see the actor Zak Kirby, who was playing Iago in his current production of Othello, at his apartment block in the same area of the city.

  “Kirby isn’t staying at a hotel?” said Fitzgerald.

  “He doesn’t like hotels,” said Walsh, and then he flushed slightly as we turned to look at him curiously. “I read an interview with him in one of the American film magazines,” he explained sheepishly. “It said he found them artificial, and that when he’s in a city he likes to get an authentic feel for the place rather than the front they put on for visitors.”

  Fitzgerald rolled her eyes.

  “So where is he staying?” I asked.

  She checked the notes on the desk in front of her.

  “Mullingar Studios, apparently,” she said. “You know it?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a big fancy building off Leeson Street,” she said. “All shiny glass and chrome.”

  “Very authentic,” I said sarcastically. “He’ll really get a feel for the rough side of the city there.”

  “Don’t be so dismissive,” said Fitzgerald. “A woman pushed her husband off the thirteenth floor last year, don’t you remember? It doesn’t get much more authentic than that.”

  “What does Kirby say about all this?”

  “That’s the thing. He gave a statement to the police when Solomon’s name first came up. He said he didn’t see Solomon from the time the play ended Friday night until the following evening. Solomon didn’t turn up for the matinee on the Saturday.”

  “You think Kirby was lying?”

  “No idea. But you heard what Fisher said about the mixed scene, the different knots, the possibility of two killers. By Kirby’s own testimony, he wasn’t back at his apartment until after one. That gives him plenty of time to have taken part in the killing.”

  “You’re not saying Zak Kirby is a killer?” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because too many people would recognise him if he suddenly started wandering round the city, slaughtering women,” I said. “That’s one of the perils of being famous. OJ apart, it severely limits your chances of committing murder.”

  “I think you’ll find OJ Simpson was found not guilty,” she said.

  “Whatever. My point is that every step he takes is ten times more likely to be seen and remembered than if it had been someone anonymous like you or me taking it.” I paused. “Still, I wonder if he ever came into contact with Buck Randall...”

  “Let’s not even go there,” said Fitzgerald firmly. “I told you, we’ve got to treat these stories like they’re completely self-contained. I can’t start trying to make them link up. That way lies madness. It couldn’t hurt, though, to pull up the CCTV from the building where our American movie star is staying and see if Solomon ever did arrive there that night.”

  It certainly couldn’t.

  **********

  “I have absolutely no idea,” said Zak Kirby, and if he really was innocent as charged then it was a perfectly reasonable answer to the question Fitzgerald had asked him a moment earlier. Having said that, Kirby was, like most of the people we seemed to have encountered during this case, actor, so if he did know why Victor Solomon had turned up at the door of his apartment building at 3am on the night Marsha Reed died, as the CCTV footage had revealed he had, then it wouldn’t be so difficult to pretend ignorance as it might be for the rest of us mere mortals.

  Though if he was lying, it was a damned good act.

  We’d found him sitting in his dressing room at the Liffey Theatre, preparing for that night’s performance of Othello. The show must go, isn’t that what they say? This one had only closed for one night following the near-death of the leading lady and the arrest of the director on a murder charge. The company was clearly taking the old adage literally.

  Kirby had an enviable reputation among young American actors. He’d made the transition from obscure off Broadway shows and small budget independent, slightly left-field movies to big screen Hollywood fame without once being dogged by the usual accusations of selling out. He managed to keep his street cred intact whilst simultaneously beaming out of the cover of every celebrity magazine. He’d mastered the trick of being good-looking enough for teenage girls to want his poster on their walls, but cool enough for teenage boys not to think he was trying too hard, lending his face and name along the way to all the best progressive causes, and hacking his hair into a faux punky style that fooled enough people that he didn’t care what it looked like. Every couple of years, he stepped off the celebrity carousel to ostentatiously rediscover his artistic roots by treading the boards, giving the showbiz magazines another opportunity to write at length about what an intriguing, unconventional character he was. Hence the summer’s sojourn here in Dublin.

  Did I mention that he’d written a novel too? A slim, sensitive coming of age tale set among young actors dreaming of better things.

  It would be.

  Right now, he was lighting a cigarette, trying to recall that night.

  “Let me think,” he said, mussing up his hair self-consciously and creasing his forehead into a photogenic frown. “You have to appreciate that I get a lot of people ringing my buzzer. Lot of people calling my line. Calls all the time. Night. Day. Day. Night. You know how it is,” he added to me. He’d recognised my name soon as Fitzgerald introduced me. Turned out too that he knew some of the people who’d worked on the TV movie of my first book. Now he was drawing me into his story for back up. “Their names all blur into one after a while. Just this morning, I took what must’ve been thirty calls from various TV stations and newspapers wanting to hear about this new script I’ve been working on about the war in Iraq. I’m calling it American Dream, Arab Nightmare. It’s going to totally expose the hypocrisy of what we’re doing out there in the Mid-East. It’s the new colonialism. Seriously. What we’re doing now is no better than what the Europeans did in Africa for centuries, carving up the land, stealing the natural resources, keeping down its true owners.”

  I was beginning to appreciate why Dublin had taken Zak Kirby to their hearts. He talked their language.

  “I’ve no idea how they found out about it,” he continued smartly about his host of morning callers. “I was trying to keep the project under wraps. I loathe publicity.”

  You could’ve fooled me.

  Having more manners than me, however, Fitzgerald waited till he’d finished his little speech on global geopolitics before pressing on.

  “This wasn’t some reporter on the hunt for a scoop,” she said. “It was your own director. You’re saying you don’t remember him coming round that night at all?”

  “I know I didn’t let him in.”

  “We know you didn’t let him in as well,” said Fitzgerald. “The CCTV shows he stood there for five or six minutes, ringing the buzzer, before he went away. Were you out?”

  “No. I gave a statement about that already. I was asleep. The CCTV shows me coming in, right?”

  “It does. It was a little after one.”

  “Then how could I have left again without being seen?”

  “The CCTV on the back entrance is broken,” Fitzgerald said. “Anyone could get in and out without being seen.”

  He looked shocked.

  “They could? I’ll have to get my people onto that. I can’t hav
e fans getting in to the place where I’m staying that easily. I’ve had similar problems before in LA.”

  “You had a stalker?”

  “A teenage girl broke in whilst I was away filming,” said Kirby. “Lived in my house for a week before she was discovered. She’d been sleeping in my bed. Wearing my clothes.”

  “So you don’t remember Solomon buzzing?”

  “I don’t. That’s the gospel truth.”

  “You’re a heavy sleeper.”

  “Acting takes its toll. More so when it’s a part like Iago. Come to think of it,” he said, “I shouldn’t wonder if that wasn’t what Vic wanted to talk to me about that night.”

  “Did he make a habit of calling round after midnight to discuss your part?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. He must’ve been round six, seven times since we started rehearsals. He’s a very learned man. I could listen to him talk all night. And believe me, sometimes it feels like I have.” He laughed indulgently at his own joke. “Solomon must’ve read virtually every word that’s been written about the play. He loved to talk about the part, and the range of different actors down the years who’ve portrayed Iago. Most of the other great actors through the years have tried their hand at it.” I loved that sly use of the word other there. “Laurence Olivier, Kevin Spacey, Kenneth Branagh, Ian McKellan, we’ve all had a shot.”

  “And this is what you spent all night talking about?” I asked.

  “You could talk about this material forever and still not get to the bottom of it. The role of Iago is one of the most important parts in the whole of Shakespeare’s canon. I’m not boasting when I say the play should really be called Iago, not Othello. The whole structure of it is about how manipulation and deceit work together to precipitate tragedy. About how Iago works his will through Othello. I guess Victor and I often got a bit carried away with it.”

  “But not that night?”

  “Like I say, I don’t have any memory of him coming round that night. I certainly didn’t talk to him. It’s always a rough period, coming up to the end of the first week of a show. I generally pop a pill, put on my eye mask, and say goodnight to the world. Particularly for a part this demanding. I’ve never stretched myself so much. Do you know Othello?”

  “I had a part in it once at drama school,” answered Walsh unexpectedly.

  I’d forgotten he was here. He’d been so quiet, standing by the dressing room door the whole time we were talking, not contributing a word, taking in the backstage ambience, if the sound of hammering from the floor above and a radio blaring counted as ambience.

  I guess he was a little star struck. He’d mentioned a couple of days ago how much he admired Zak Kirby. His smile could have lit up the dark side of the moon when Fitzgerald told him earlier that he could tag along to the theatre this time whilst she interviewed him.

  “You were at drama school?” Kirby said to Walsh, and to give him credit he sounded genuinely interested. Walsh flushed ever so slightly.

  “Three years,” he said, “but it didn’t work out.”

  “Please tell me you haven’t given up acting completely.”

  “I’m in a small amateur company. We put on a couple of plays a year. We did Othello a couple of springs ago,” Walsh said.

  “Who were you?”

  “Michael Cassio,” said Walsh. “I know it’s not a huge part or anything.”

  “Hey,” said Kirby, “Cassio’s a good role. You should keep going. Never give up. I’m serious. Once you give up wanting to make a difference, that’s the day you start to die inside. You never know what’s around the corner. I was twenty six before I got my first lead role.”

  The pleasure Walsh clearly took from this exchange almost made me ashamed that I’d been giving Kirby such a tough time in my estimation. Maybe he wasn’t such a schmuck, after all, even if he was a walking mouthpiece for all those liberal clichés I so despised.

  “You should come along to tonight’s performance,” Kirby was telling Walsh. “I’ll get you three tickets, one for each of you, and leave them at the desk. This is a big night.”

  “You’re not missing Victor Solomon too much then?”

  “Don’t you folks have a little rule about being innocent until proven guilty?” the actor said in all seriousness. “I know he’s been through the wringer lately, but Vic’s not such a loser. He lost his way a little, is all. I don’t think he murdered anyone.”

  “Shame for him you’re not eligible to serve on his jury,” I said.

  “I’d rather play the murderer,” he flashed me his big screen grin good-naturedly. “All those weeks centre stage in the dock, all eyes fixed on you and you alone. It’s the ideal role for any actor. It’s always more fun to play the villain.”

  “I doubt Solomon’s looking forward to the prospect quite so eagerly,” said Fitzgerald.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Well, I think you should go,” said Burke, refilling my glass. “Zak Kirby’s one of the good guys. I saw him on TV talking about a film he’s making about the US occupation of Iraq.”

  “You couldn’t have seen him on TV. He hates publicity. You must’ve imagined it.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to like him,” he went on decisively. “Unless someone’s a fully paid up member of the National Rifle Association, you practically write them off as a pinko.”

  “You’re a pinko. I haven’t written you off.”

  “True,” he conceded. “You’re a mass of contradictions.”

  “Don’t knock them. My inconsistency is my best feature. That and my ass. Only difference is it’s my ass that talks most sense some days.”

  Burke laughed so loud that he made his cat Hare dart in alarm from the chair where he’d been curled up making preparations for sleep and the last of the day’s customers in his own store turn round in the aisles of books to see what he was laughing at.

  They looked blank on realising it was me.

  “I still think you should go,” he said. “I know it’s a regular poker night, but Shakespeare’s more important than poker...”

  “Blasphemer.”

  “...and Othello is one great play.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me,” I answered grouchily.

  “You know what your problem is, Saxon?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I do. Fisher asked me that exact same question. In all honesty, I can’t remember precisely which of my many faults it was that he proceeded to elevate into the number one position, but I’m sure it was a good one.”

  “Your problem,” said Burke, refusing to be side-tracked from what he intended to say, “is you think because everyone’s telling you something that it must, by definition, be wrong.”

  “How’s that a problem?”

  “It’s a problem because you miss out on too much that way. Like Othello.”

  “If the play’s all you’re worried about, then have no fear. I’m going,” I declared. “Fitzgerald missed it the first time we had tickets because that was the night they found Marsha Reed’s body. I’m not lucky enough to get out of it a second time. Unless you know someone who can arrange another murder for me at short notice?”

  “Sorry, I sold my last copy of the Psychopaths Phone Directory.”

  “Pity. Shakespeare it is then. If she ever turns up, that is.”

  I checked my watch.

  There was more than an hour to go before the play started, but in a town where time is notoriously relative and an arrangement to meet someone is regarded by most of the people living here as more of a well-meaning aspiration than a definite commitment, Fitzgerald was one of the few who could be relied upon to be in a place where and when she said she’d be.

  But tonight she still hadn’t arrived.

  There had to be a reason for it.

  I wasn’t worried about her as such. Fitzgerald was one of the few people I did let myself worry about, but not on this occasion. I knew where she was. She’d returned to Dublin Castle to give a briefing to Assistant
Commissioner Carson. But that had been more than two hours ago, with no word since. Should I call and make sure she was OK?

  “She probably just got fed up with your bad moods and decided to dump you for another former Special Agent with a better temperament,” suggested Burke helpfully.

  “Kaminski’s the only other former Special Agent in town, far as I know, and he’s not her type. Besides, he’s playing hide and seek again. She wouldn’t know where to find him.”

  “Then drink your whiskey and relax. She’ll be here.” And he went to retrieve the fleeing cat from the storeroom out back and made it sit on his lap, using his big hands to stroke the affronted creature back into forgiving him for the earlier fright. “You know,” he added more softly now so as not to disturb it, “you might even find the evening interesting.”

  “Want to take a bet on that?”

  “I’d sure bet Buck Randall III would find it interesting.”

  “Buck Randall probably couldn’t even spell Shakespeare, let alone understand it,” I said. “What’s he got to do with Othello?”

  “He’s got everything to do with Othello,” said Burke. “Or maybe not Othello so much as Iago. Don’t you see?” I had to admit that I didn’t. “You know the story, right?”

  “Vaguely,” I said. “I caught the Orson Welles version on TV one night years ago, but I was pretty drunk at the time.”

  “That was in the bad old days when actors used to black up to play Othello,” said Burke. “In some of those old productions, Othello couldn’t even touch the fellow actors in case the boot polish came off and stained their nice new costumes.”

  “Al Jolson, eat your heart out.”

  “They did everything but give Othello a banjo and get him to sing Old Man River inbetween eating courses of fried chicken and gumbo,” Burke growled disapprovingly.

  I resisted the urge to confess that such an alternative sounded like it’d be a lot more fun than the version I’d seen all those years ago after coming home late from the bar.