Dance With the Dead

by James Nally

  I sat there marvelling at Fintan, his instinct for sniffing out the venal in others so clearly rooted in his own aptitude for corruption.

  He had it all figured out. ‘So when someone comes in with cash, looking for a short let … say three months … you and your chinless little pal there pocket the dough and tell the landlord the property’s not shifting. I’ve a good mind to arrest you here and now on suspicion of fraud.’

  His words vacuumed the blood out of Gaz, who’d slipped into open-mouthed paralysis.

  ‘You’re not stupid though, are you, Gaz?’ he went on. ‘You don’t know these cash renters. They might change the locks and refuse to leave once their let is up, or sell the key. Or use the property for illegal purposes, drugs, hookers, stolen goods. You can’t risk that, so you have to know something about them, otherwise you’re basically handing over someone else’s property to a complete stranger.

  ‘You’ve got a special file for these cash lets, haven’t you, Gaz? I bet you and young Kenny there have even dreamed up a whacky name for this top-secret folder. Come on, boys; let us in on the laugh. What do you call it? The Fun Fund? The Cash Stash? The Whore Chest?’

  I suddenly suspected his familiarity with this con may be connected to how he ran his newspaper expenses.

  ‘Now here’s the deal,’ said Fintan, ‘you show us your secret file on 42 Ennerdale House, and we won’t blow the whistle on this or your other little rackets. Got it? Oh, but you need to commit right now, Gaz, otherwise this deal will be snapped up by someone offering more.’

  Gaz’s loud exhalation announced immediate surrender.

  ‘It’s in my car,’ he said.

  ‘Chop chop,’ said Fintan.

  They both got up.

  ‘Ah ah, you stay right where you are, Kenny Rogers.’

  Gaz returned with a concertina file tucked under his arm. He sat at his desk, pawed his way to ‘E’ and pulled out a transparent plastic file containing a utility bill and a document on headed notepaper.

  ‘You better start talking, Gaz,’ I said. ‘You’re not out of the woods yet.’

  ‘A big fella came in, shaved head, stocky, said he needed a place for two months. I told him the minimum we did was three. He took out this massive roll of cash and said “I’ll give you a grand, you give me a set of keys and I’ll be out of there in eight weeks.” He placed the money on the desk and said “Well?”

  ‘I said you have to fill in a form and provide some identification. He said it wasn’t for him, it was for his girlfriend and produced a gas bill from her previous address.’

  He slid it over. Fintan took one look. ‘Ding dong,’ he said, pushing it over to me.

  The name immediately clicked; Georgina Bell had been one of the six on Tammy’s IT girl list. A shiver made my shoulders perform an involuntary roll.

  ‘He also filled in this form,’ said Gaz, sliding the headed paper over next.

  Fintan devoured the contents.

  ‘He’s not given his own address,’ snapped Fintan. ‘He’s just given hers again. And who the fuck has a name like that? It’s clearly made up.’

  Gaz feigned surprise.

  I grabbed the document. It listed a series of conditions next to pen-ticked boxes, signed Dean S. Sombrero.

  ‘Have you got a loo?’ asked Fintan, suddenly.

  ‘Just through there,’ said Gaz.

  ‘Excellent, because when I come back, I’d like to talk to you about a short-term let. For cash, of course.’

  Minutes later, Fintan handed over 500 pounds in return for a piece of paper and a set of keys to another flat on the estate. My face had to work overtime not to betray my confusion and anxiety. Not for the first time, teaming up with Fintan had quickly escalated into Joint Criminal Enterprise. I wished he’d consult me before embarking on these hair-brained schemes.

  As we walked out, Fintan turned to Gaz.

  ‘This Dean S. Sombrero guy, did he have a Brummie accent, by any chance?’

  Gaz nodded.

  ‘A chunk missing from his left ear?’

  Gaz looked over at Kenny.

  ‘Come on, fellas, no one forgets something like that.’

  Kenny did the nodding this time.

  ‘We’ll be seeing you both again soon,’ he smiled. ‘And so much sooner than either of you would like.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ I asked, once we were outside.

  ‘Well, we need somewhere to put Da up,’ he said, ‘and I felt an overwhelming urge to turn those fuckers over.’

  He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a Dictaphone.

  ‘Popped it on in the bog … now I have a nice little scoop, we can move Da into Woodberry and the paper will cover the five-hundred quid as legitimate expenses. Oh, and because I guessed Kenny’s name, you owe me lunch.’

  ‘And who’s Dean S. Sombrero?’

  ‘It’s an anagram, you halfwit. Dean S. Sombrero, meet Bernard Moss.’

  As we walked into the Star café, I realised that the ‘specials’ on the window had been ‘special’ now for the entire six months I’d lived here.

  ‘I mean what’s so special about them?’ I asked.

  ‘Microwaved, not fried, so less chance of human contamination during the cooking process. I’d say that’s pretty special.’

  Human contamination. I tried to remember where I’d heard that term before.

  I settled for a tea, Fintan a can of 7 Up, his wipes at the ready.

  ‘I don’t understand why Bernie would risk using an anagram,’ I began. ‘He must’ve known someone might crack it. We’ve still got his Times crossword. We can get a handwriting expert in now to confirm it’s his scrawl.’

  ‘He thinks he’s a bit clever though, doesn’t he?’ said Fintan, ‘what with his literary quotes and knowledge of Viennese flooring. He’ll probably find it poetic if we nail him for this, you know, the bittersweet hubris of his own pedantry. God, is there anyone more boorish than an ex-con with a few O levels from prison? They all think they’re Charles Bukowski.’

  ‘If we can find Bernie’s print anywhere at Ennerdale House, then he’s implicated in Georgie Bell’s murder. She’s on Tammy’s list so that drags Jimmy Reilly into it too, right?’

  Fintan leaned back and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Any senior cop will say you need more. You’d have to get Tammy on board, and the only way you can make that happen is to place her in the witness protection programme. Even then, you’d need to trail the other IT girls before, during and after a trip abroad, find out what they’re doing for Jimmy. Then you’d need at least one of them to break rank.

  ‘You’re talking about a major international investigation here, Donal. It’s another league. We need to get the Regional Crime Squad involved. They’ve got a unit that targets major organised criminals. Guess who’s heading up that unit? Our old friend Shep.’

  The mere mention of his name re-activated a long dormant geyser of resentment. Two years ago, Detective Superintendent Dan ‘Shep’ Shepard gave me my first big break onto a murder squad. He then tried to break me. Shep openly accused me of leaking intelligence to Fintan, when he’d been the source all along.

  ‘Your old friend, more like,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t think Spence would be very happy about that. He’s been on a personal mission to bring down Reilly for years.’

  ‘Who cares about Spence’s personal mission? We’re talking about taking down a major criminal here, possibly saving the lives of the four other women on that list.’

  He could tell I wasn’t budging.

  ‘Oh, I see. You’re on a promise of some sort. Come on then, Donal, you can tell me. What’s your little arrangement with Spence?’

  I reddened. ‘He’s asked me to brief him personally about any developments in the Liz Little case. He says we have to keep it tight because Reilly has so many bent cops on his payroll. Sounds fair enough to me.’

  ‘And what has he promised you, Donal, in return for these personal services?’
<
br />   ‘You don’t have to make it sound so squalid. If I deliver Tammy, he’ll bring me onto his squad. I’ve already delivered Tammy’s list. Georgie Bell’s murder shows that this list is right on the money. Jimmy Reilly must be knocking off his IT girls, one by one.’

  Fintan put out his cigarette. ‘What about Robert Conlon? Last night you seemed convinced he was your prime suspect.’

  ‘That was before we knew that a second girl on Tammy’s list has been murdered.’

  ‘Please tell me you’ve kept the original copy of that list?’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Fintan.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I’m not telling you that.’

  ‘Okay, well, just don’t keep it in your jacket pocket or in a drawer at work. I’ve got a personal safe deposit box. That’s the kind of place you need to keep stuff like that.’

  I sighed, pulled it out of my pocket and handed it over.

  ‘Why is it so important where I keep it?’

  ‘Because if both copies go missing, then it never existed, especially if Tammy disappears. This perfectly illustrates my point. You and Spence are way out of your depth here. What is he playing at, thinking he can take down Reilly on his own? Especially with his piss-poor track record in major cases.’

  ‘Piss poor?’

  ‘I told you about that major villain who got out on appeal because one of his officers illegally bugged a hotel room. Then there’s the Helen Oldroyd murder, when they fucked up the crime scene.’

  My mind flashed back to the Oldroyd case, which I’d looked into only a week ago. She’d been co-owner of a Bureau de Change in Paddington. They’d found her stabbed to death at the wheel of her racing green Jag in a leisure centre car park in Brentford, West London. I’d requested a forensic sweep of the Jag only to discover that undertakers had contaminated the scene. Of course … human contamination; that’s where I’d heard that phrase.

  ‘He was in charge of that?’

  He nodded. ‘I mean to lose one major case may be regarded as a misfortune, but to lose both …’

  My mobile rang. Zoe.

  ‘As usual, I bring news both good and bad,’ she said as soon as I answered. ‘Shall I hit you with the bad first?’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘Forty-two Ennerdale House is clean. We didn’t find anything non-canine.’

  ‘And the good news?’

  ‘A fingerprint at the Melinda Marshall murder scene matches Robert Conlon’s. They found it on her balcony rail, of all places.’

  I rewound that case through my bewildered mind. Melinda from Bristol had been on the books of a ‘high-class’ escort agency. Her client failed to show on New Year’s Eve. The Waldorf turned her away at 11pm. Her flatmate found her stabbed and battered to death next morning at their flat-share in Chelsea. Happy New Year. The prime suspect had been an untraced minicab driver.

  ‘Thanks, Zoe,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been very good to you, mister. I expect a full refund this evening.’

  ‘How could I possibly repay you?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ I said, unable to prevent my laugh escalating into a dirty cackle. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Glad, I haven’t eaten. Jesus,’ he said.

  ‘You always were a romantic, Fintan.’

  ‘Just try not to fall head over heels every time, bro. Otherwise she’ll walk all over you. The way Eve did.’

  Nothing he said could twist off my happy tap.

  ‘They found Conlon’s prints at the Melinda Marshall scene.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard. You need to work out how to control the volume on that thing.’

  ‘What was he doing in the West End at eleven o’clock on New Year’s Eve?’

  ‘Maybe it’s like that hooker Jo said, we never hear about the girls who fight back.’

  My face told him I didn’t follow.

  ‘What if Conlon picked up a prossie that evening and failed to overpower her. In a rage, he drove to the West End to find a lone woman pissed out of her head. You know how hard it is to get a cab of any sort on New Year’s Eve.’

  I visualised the scene. ‘He spotted her. She looked upset and hammered. He claimed to be a minicab driver. Jesus, it’s only a matter of time before he kills again, if he hasn’t already.’

  ‘You need to forget about Reilly,’ said Fintan. ‘I think you’ve been seduced by the size of the collar. It’s blinding you to the facts. You’ve got nothing on him. At the same time, you’ve got fingerprints connecting Conlon to the murders of Valerie Gillespie and Melinda Marshall. You’ve got MO and Valerie’s hair linking him to Liz Little. You could charge him right now for all three and win Cop of the Year. All you need to do now is find the fucker.’

  We both knew what had to be dealt with next.

  ‘So, have you spoken to Da today then?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Not properly. I’m a bit pissed off to be honest that he came over here thinking he could piggyback us to get to Conlon.’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  He leaned forward, a man with a proposal to sell.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, the three of us want the same thing, Donal, and that’s to find Robert Conlon, correct?’

  I nodded.

  ‘If I thought for one minute he was setting Conlon up to get whacked by the boyos, then I wouldn’t be suggesting this. But he swears on his mam’s grave that all he wants to do is talk to Conlon, face to face. In other words, he needs Conlon alive even more than we do. I think we should offer to help him. He’s flesh and blood after all. But he’s got to help us first.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’m gonna call him, meet him somewhere quiet like the Manor House pub up near Woodberry for a pint and suggest he tells me everything he knows. He must have a way of contacting Conlon, otherwise he wouldn’t have come here. If that’s the case, he can help us set a trap. We catch Conlon, he gets his few minutes to say whatever it is he needs to say to him, I get the story, you get the collar.’

  ‘What if he says no?’

  ‘Then he’s on his own. He won’t be staying at ours and I won’t be giving him the key to the place on Woodberry.’

  ‘But if he’s in touch with Conlon …’

  He smiled. ‘The first thing he asked me to get him when he arrived was a pay-as-you-go mobile phone. I’ve already got my helpful ex-copper pulling the records of every number he’s called since he got here. We’ll soon have Conlon’s number, one way or another.’

  Chapter 28

  Crouch End, North London

  Friday, April 9, 1993; 19.15

  I ignored the bell, tapping Zoe’s front door instead so as not to wake Matthew.

  I tapped a second time, a little louder, and congratulated myself on such paternal forethought. Step-fatherhood? Piece of cake.

  The door opened six inches to her deranged eyes, askew make-up and Jackson Pollocked clothes, bringing to mind one of those tranny junkies from Andy Warhol’s factory. Matthew’s caterwauling completed the desperate scene.

  ‘Can you come back in an hour?’ She didn’t so much suggest as insist.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, backing away slowly from her Gary Busey stare.

  I slipped into a reassuringly dreary local pub, ordered a pint and smiled to myself: well, she did warn me. Matthew would always come first. I’d forever be the supporting actor, the assistant coach, the man at the front of the toboggan, Jim from the Corrs. In the race for her affection and love, the best I could ever hope for was silver, or a non-fatal head-on into a frozen snowdrift.

  For a man with a healthy ego, this might present a challenge. Not to me. I could be her fun diversion, her occasional escape, something she can reach out for when it all gets too much. Her bottle of Shiraz.

  Thinking about it practically, Matthew kept her busy and out of the way of more desirable men. Sure if it wasn’t for Matthew, she probably wouldn’t have looked at me twice.
r />   I felt a sudden twinge of agitation. So that’s all you are to her then, I taunted myself, the most she could hope for, given the circumstances? Someone to ‘settle’ for; to provide stability for blameless Matthew and comfort to critical parents. She’d said as much herself …

  They’re desperate for me to meet a man, of course, so that they can offload us.

  I ordered a pint and a Scotch, hoping the chaser would scatter these uncertainties. I sank it in one and toasted the Dutch for their celebrated cowardice.

  The hour spread to another two pints and chasers so that I strutted back to Zoe’s a cocky gunslinger, primed to gun this lady down.

  ‘Wow,’ I said to the smoking hot lady who answered the door.

  She smiled. ‘A lot of slap and Chardonnay.’

  ‘You look stunning,’ I said, all matter of fact so that it wouldn’t sound creepy.

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  The little black dress led me into a sitting room with closed blinds and a candlelit table set for two. As if to offset any romantic presumptions, a corner lamp blazed a couple of notches above ‘intimate’ and toys littered the floor.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said, niftily side-footing a miniature building site out of her path.

  ‘He went down okay?’

  ‘Eventually. People keep telling me he needs routine. Try telling that to him! He’s different every evening. Anyway, I promise not to talk about Matthew all night!’

  ‘Talk about whatever you want to talk about, Zoe,’ commanded the triple whiskey. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  She made a face that I think meant ‘thanks’, then nodded towards a battalion of bottles on the sideboard.

  ‘I bought the most expensive Shiraz Budgens could offer.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I beamed, pretending I hadn’t already clocked it, for I’d scoured the room on entry, certain that only the crutch of good liquor could control my crippling nerves tonight.