Dance With the Dead

by James Nally

  He leaned in. ‘They’re only telling me that an IRA ceasefire is on the fucking table.’

  I snorted dismissively. ‘It’ll never happen.’

  ‘That’s what I said, unless someone has something very juicy on a few of the leaders. They just smiled. That’s when I realised they weren’t bullshitting me.’

  ‘So what’s this got to do with you?’

  ‘They’re trying to carve out a new role for themselves, using their counter-terrorist resources to tackle organised criminals.’

  ‘Like Jimmy Reilly?’

  ‘They didn’t mention him by name, but yes. They want me to help them write a briefing for the Home Office. Of course, I’ll agree. It’s a win/win. If MI5 starts tackling major criminals, I’ll have two sources in prime positions inside the organisation. Meanwhile, right now, I’ve got the inside track on these secret talks, and an IRA ceasefire would be scoop of the century.’

  ‘The auld fella won’t be too happy about it,’ I said, suddenly remembering Mam’s mysterious answerphone message from last night. As soon as I opened my mouth to tell him about it, he changed the subject. ‘Who knows? So you think Bernie Moss didn’t know Liz had been murdered?’

  I wondered why he seemed so jumpy about the subject of Da these days, and made a mental note.

  ‘Unless Bernie’s a trained actor, then no way,’ I said. ‘He seemed genuinely shocked.’

  ‘If Jimmy had her killed, you’d expect Bernie to be in on it, wouldn’t you? I mean he’s one of Jimmy’s main enforcers.’

  ‘Maybe Bernie hadn’t the stomach to hurt her, and Jimmy knew this.’

  ‘Are you kidding? I checked out Bernie’s form this morning. He’s been a football hooligan, an animal rights’ activist, a hunt sab. He’s served a couple of stretches for GBH. He put one fox hunter into a coma.’

  ‘Maybe he draws the line at women, kids and animals. Anyway, if he was involved, we’ll nail him, because I’ve got his prints and DNA.’

  He recoiled in surprise.

  ‘Remember the newspaper and cans of beer last night? His and Slob’s.’

  ‘Brilliant. Now all you need is a good friend in the forensics department to cross-reference them for you. Mmm, I wonder who that might be …?’

  ‘I don’t know, Fint. The way she was back there … Anyway, it’s not like I can just walk right up to her and ask her outright, is it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What do you mean “why not?” Because I’d be asking her to break every rule in the book for me, someone she doesn’t even know. Jesus.’ I frowned, clutching the pint to my face for comfort.

  ‘That’s right, Donal, have a drink. Sit back there and wait for everyone else in your life to take the lead. Have you ever heard of spontaneity? Taking a risk? Blowing a woman away with your verve and daring? The trouble with you is you’re inert. A passenger.’ He downed the rest of his pint and got to his feet.

  ‘Another?’ I said.

  ‘Honestly, you’re like a lump of driftwood, Donal, dawdling along aimlessly with no purpose. You need to make things happen in life … see ya later.’

  I ordered another pint. When a third sank easier still, I knew I was straying into dangerous territory. Time to head home, maybe call Mam, check she’s okay.

  On the way home, distant church bells chimed 3pm, the homely scent of roast beef wafted across the cooling air and an ache clawed at my insides. Back home, the only time we sat as a family was over Sunday lunch. Dad and Fintan always had something on after, so Mam and me would drive deep into the Slieve Bloom Mountains, take a good hike, maybe stop in for a drink at Giltraps in Kinnitty. The more pointless and aimless our journey, the more meaningfully we talked. Dad and Fintan could never understand that.

  At around 4 or 5, I’d cycle to Eve Daly’s house where we’d watch MT USA and abuse her estranged dad’s collection of fine malts. On summer evenings, we’d jump over her back wall into the golf course and play ‘pissed and putt’. In winter, we’d snuggle up and make outrageous predictions about everyone’s future.

  In London, I’d wake to a house full of people, but bereft of any comfort such as food, drink or a source of heat. So I’d bunker down somewhere that did. Lunchtimes in pubs like Quinn’s in Camden or the Spotted Dog in Willesden suggested many thousands of young Irish, Aussies and Kiwis faced the same dilemma. That’s how ‘The Church’ came about.

  Lonely ex-Pats needed to drink all Sunday afternoon to forget, but some archaic British law forced pubs to close between 3pm and 7pm. So in the spirit of prohibition, some bright spark hired a large venue and stocked it with cans of beer which his staff gave away for free – once you paid for a ticket on the door.

  With fancy dress, drinking games, strippers and a sawdust-covered floor to soak up unspecified spillages, the Church delivered debauchery on a biblical scale. To me, it felt like an 18–30 holiday set in about 1830, for sex-starved Goldrush desperadoes. Laddish, lairy and vulgar – and that was just the drunk Antipodean women. By early evening, those worshippers who’d achieved their goal of oblivious salvation looked capable only of crying themselves to sleep. How I envied them that luxury. For an insomniac, being legless at 5pm came with a massive drawback – I was awake for the 10pm hangover. And so, after three or four ultimately doomed pilgrimages, I never set foot in the Church again.

  Sunday afternoons continued to render me antsy and anxious. I’d decided they were good for one thing only, romance. I just needed to find somebody to share them with.

  ‘Fuck it,’ I declared to no one in particular, fishing around for a 20p piece. I found a phone box on Blackstock Road and dialled Zoe’s mobile.

  Perhaps I should have rehearsed this, I thought, as her answer machine’s shrill tone demanded instant ad-libbed sentiments.

  ‘Hi Zoe, Donal Lynch here, the man who fell head over heels yesterday at the Liz Little murder scene. Not for Liz Little, of course. I didn’t suddenly like fancy her or something. Jesus, that’d be weird. I just tripped over the tape, like I’m tripping over my tongue now. I’m sure you remember who I mean. Sniff. Er, me. Anyway, can I say sorry firstly for my brother’s behaviour. He’s a very underhand and devious character. I sometimes think that we can’t actually be related …’

  The tone beeped and I cursed loudly. But I hadn’t finished or given her a number to call, so I dialled again. As her greeting repeated its demand for a brief message, I vowed to supply just that, as unruffled as possible.

  ‘Zoe, sorry, I was going on a bit there. Anyway, you asked me to let you know when we made any progress with this case and I think we have. In fact, I think we know who did it, the difficult part will be pinning it on him. But I have a few ideas on that score, as I’m sure you will. So I was wondering …’

  The beeping caused me to scream hysterically and slam the receiver hard into the dull silver metal of the phone, over and over. ‘Fucking technology,’ I howled. When a knock sounded on the glass, I felt my eyes bulge to bursting. This fucker’s gonna get it …

  ‘What the fuck is your problem,’ I bellowed, dropping the receiver and spinning around. Zoe had that worried/amused look on again. I’d already committed to hoofing the door and it now cracked against her shoulder with some force, causing her to tumble backwards.

  She managed to stay on her feet, barely. Her eyes screamed wounded bewilderment, like I’d just reversed over her dog for a laugh. My face literally steamed red, like a microwaved Santa.

  ‘Zoe, I’m so sorry,’ I protested, ‘I was just leaving you a message …’

  ‘What is the matter with you?’

  ‘I’m an insomniac,’ I said pleadingly, without thinking.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘And I’ve got sleep paralysis,’ I added meaningfully, as if that explained all that had gone on here, with plenty to spare.

  ‘Is that why you were … vandalising the phone?’

  ‘Like I said Zoe, I was trying to leave you a message. Please don’t listen to
your messages.’

  She scowled. ‘What?’

  I realised I was panting – it’s never a good sound. Or look.

  ‘I’m – going – to – go – now,’ she said, enunciating each word slowly and loudly, as if talking down a nutter.

  ‘How did you find me here?’ I smiled, sounding just like that nutter.

  ‘I didn’t find you,’ she snapped, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I saw someone trashing a public phone and decided to intervene. Vandalism is my pet peev.’

  I nodded solemnly, mouth pursed.

  ‘Mine too.’

  The laugh came involuntarily, from somewhere low in her throat, seemingly catching the rest of her off guard. It burst through her nose as an alarming snuffle, causing her to clamp her hand to her face. She quickly caved in to it, bending to let those hysterical peals of laughter pour out of her.

  I tried to laugh along, out of embarrassment mostly.

  She recovered, finally, wiping her eyes and shaking her head in apparent disbelief.

  ‘Can we start again?’ I asked.

  ‘I think we’d better,’ she gasped, helping herself to a good gulp of breath.

  ‘But please don’t listen to your answerphone messages.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ she said, ‘I can’t wait.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the neighbourhood’s dullest pub preparing for its Sunday afternoon lock-in. I knew this was my chance.

  ‘Zoe, do you remember asking me to let you know when we caught Liz’s killer?’

  She nodded urgently, eyes now serious and searching.

  ‘I think I’ve figured out who was behind it. And I’ve got an idea about how we might be able to prove it. But I need your help.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘That pub over there is so numbingly dull that it doesn’t even get full on match days. Yet they persist with a Sunday lock-in that feels like drinking in an old people’s home. No one will ever see us in there. Can I buy you a drink and fill you in?’

  ‘Blimey, you’re a bit forward.’ She smiled.

  ‘Eventually today, I will say something right.’

  ‘Believe it when I hear it.’

  Chapter 10

  The King’s Head, Blackstock Road N4

  Sunday, April 4, 1993; 15.20

  ‘Whoever owns this pub loves the colour brown,’ I whispered at the bar.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen this particular shade on a paint chart,’ she gurned in mock horror, and I loved her for it.

  ‘What do you think they’d call it?’ she asked.

  ‘Ooh I don’t know. Monkey-shit brown?’

  ‘I’m thinking more Bog-body Mahogany.’

  ‘Nice. And spoken like a true forensics officer.’

  The pub’s funereal atmosphere was perfectly topped off by the barman’s mournful pale face, tragi-comic comb-over and slow-witted rural Northern Irish lilt.

  ‘Well?’ he said, as if he wasn’t expecting anyone at all, ever.

  ‘A pint of Guinness for me,’ I said, ‘and …?’

  ‘Same please,’ said Zoe.

  ‘I’ll bring them over to ye,’ he announced sadly.

  ‘Do you do sandwiches?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure there’s no money in it,’ he said, shaking his head in genuine, wide-eyed regret.

  The pub was all quiet corners so we just sat at a table in the middle.

  Zoe had read the Sunday News’ splash about Liz Little, including her own quotes which Fintan had attributed to ‘a source inside the investigation’.

  ‘What an utter bastard,’ she said, but with a sense of mild awe, ‘but a clever bastard, and charming with it.’

  ‘All part of the Irish brand.’ I smiled. ‘What he couldn’t include for legal reasons was where Liz worked and who for.’

  Zoe knew nothing of Jimmy Reilly or his monstrous criminal career so, as soon as our pints landed, I kicked off our maiden date with those gory nuggets.

  Before long, she looked thoroughly sickened.

  ‘Sorry, I know some of it is pretty gruesome,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, it’s not that,’ she said, ‘gore doesn’t faze me, not in my line of work. It’s just that I really hate Guinness.’

  ‘Me too!’ I said, way too loudly. ‘I thought it would make me look more intelligent, you know, with their trendy ads and all.’

  ‘It didn’t achieve that I’m afraid, Donal.’ She smiled. ‘It is only beer after all.’

  ‘You’re one to talk. Why did you order it if you hate it so much?’

  ‘I don’t know. It always looks so appealing. It should be gorgeous. But it actually tastes how this place feels, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah, sad and sour.’

  ‘That’s what they should call this pub, The Sad and Sour.’

  ‘What can I get you instead?’ I said, rising to my feet.

  ‘Not that kind of girl,’ she said, shooting up too. ‘I’m gagging for a large red wine. What about you?’

  ‘Now you’re talking, lady.’

  I ran her through our visit to the Florentine Gardens – the glum Slavs, vanishing Tammy, bonding with Bernie and clobbering Slob.

  She wanted me to run through it all again, in detail, so I raised her round by ordering a whole bottle of red.

  As the barman with suicidal puppy eyes planted the bottle on our table, I sensed Zoe shifting uncomfortably. Was I pushing it too far?

  ‘Don’t worry Zoe, I’m not trying to get you pissed,’ I assured her. ‘It’s just my liver celebrating.’

  ‘What has your poor liver got to celebrate?’

  ‘Meeting the female liver of its dreams! You can keep up, hallelujah!’

  She raised a deadpan eyebrow: ‘You Irish boys and your charm.’

  As the wine reddened her lips and softened her eyes, Zoe began asking more personal questions. I told her about my professional fall from grace – retold as a grossly unjust suspension over a slanderous news article – and how I needed this case to get back onto a murder squad.

  She seemed sympathetic, but my misery memoir had killed the euphoria of earlier, somehow overshadowing my feats of derring-do at the Florentine. I needed to get her excited about catching Liz’s killer again; time for my pièce de résistance.

  ‘Before I got out of the Florentine, I grabbed hold of these,’ I said, opening my leather bag to reveal a Times newspaper and two cans of Heineken, all safely stowed in sealed freezer bags.

  She looked at my exhibits, then at me, her eyes hardening, sobering up.

  ‘These are the cans Bernie and Slob were guzzling out of, and that’s Bernie’s crossword. I was wondering if you could take their prints and DNA from these items, then see if they match anything at the scene. If we can place either of them at Brownswood early Saturday morning, we can start building a case against Jimmy Reilly.’

  Her forehead scrummed down into a let me get this straight frown. ‘You want me to bring these exhibits to my boss, explain what you’ve just told me?’

  ‘Not exactly, Zoe. I was wondering if you could do it … unofficially, as a favour to me.’

  I could sense an instinctive resistance to going off-grid, bending the rules. I’d been the same myself, not so long ago, before my crash course in the dark arts of policing. So I spoke next not to Zoe, but to my old self.

  ‘I could go through official channels, of course, but I’d have to make a statement and admit that I didn’t have a warrant to remove material from the Florentine Gardens, and that I wasn’t even there on official police business. My boss didn’t know I was there at all. The police lawyer would probably throw this stuff out before it would even get to a lab. And, like I said, Reilly supposedly has a lot of dodgy cops on his payroll. I’d hate for these cans to get lost.’

  I couldn’t tell if my appeals were tilting any of her scales. But it felt useful reiterating the reasons why we needed to keep this under the radar – if only as a rehearsal for any official enquiries later.

/>   ‘The thing is Zoe, if you find anything that puts either of them at the murder scene, I’ll take that information directly to the straightest senior cop I know. That’s our best chance of getting justice for Liz, possibly our only chance.’

  ‘I wished you’d brought me to a busy pub,’ she said, ‘sitting here like this makes me feel exposed, like we’re in that Edward Hopper painting.’

  ‘Nighthawks! I love that picture. I should have consulted Fintan. He’s an expert at this kind of thing.’

  ‘No,’ she said, looking into my eyes, ‘your brother’s devious. What you’re trying to do here is actually very honourable.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I’m going to the loo now,’ she said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. ‘Can you keep an eye on my handbag until I get back? I’d hate for someone to tamper with it.’

  No matter how much Shiraz I sank or blow I sucked that Sunday night, Liz wouldn’t come to me.

  Instead, I had both of my recurring dreams about Da, over and over.

  In the first, I walk into a sparse room to a soundtrack of ‘Love, Sex, Intelligence’ by The Shamen. Da’s lying on a bare, stained mattress, on his front, naked save for a hood over his head. Like Liz, he disappears at the waist. I notice dried brownish blood below the right side of the hood, on his neck and right shoulder. As I get closer to the hood, I realise that it’s packed full of brain, wriggling like maggots. The hood turns. As it does so, the material is devoured by the brain maggots.

  ‘Why won’t you help me?’ Da’s voice pleads, over and over.

  In the second, he’s facing our open fire at home, drinking whiskey alongside a bearded man whose face I never fully see.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asks the man.

  ‘Away visiting some relations,’ the man replies.

  They both laugh knowingly at this in-joke. The fire hisses and starts to bang. Their laughs grow maniacal, scary.

  Every time I started awake, I asked Liz where she was. In the past, I only had to attend the scene of a recent murder to get a visit from the victim. She turned up last night, after my first trip to Brownswood Road. I’d been there again today – why hadn’t she shown?