Marked Off

by Don Cameron

  ‘I like what you’re saying, Christine, but it doesn’t get us any further down the road, does it? How do you think we should use this insight? We can’t very well go and tell every blonde woman in the vicinity to watch out. There’d be a riot. So …’.

  ‘I don’t know, sir, but I just thought that I should offer it up. At least we should bear it in mind.’

  O’Neill nodded in agreement. ‘Anything else?’

  Conroy sat forward in his chair and caught Christine’s eye. ‘The woman I interviewed recently, Margaret Power, who was attacked at Sandycove train station, was also a blonde. Coincidence? She remembered that her attacker was taller than her and that he smelt of French cigarettes.’

  Nobody said anything and the words floated in the stuffy air.

  ‘It could be that she was an early victim of our killer,’ continued Connolly. ‘These guys have to learn sometime before they finally cross the line, so to speak. He’s moved on and his latest attack was more sinister and better carried out than the first one. His behaviour is escalating, and his technique is improving.’

  O’Neill nodded again. ‘Okay, but sadly it’s not getting us any nearer the bastard. But please keep it in mind. You never know where it might lead.’ He paused for a moment and exhaled loudly, unable to hide his frustration. ‘Right, carry on with what you’re doing. I’m off to Barbara Ryan’s funeral.’

  The traffic was light as he made his way to Deansgrange Cemetery. Above, the sky was blue and unending; it met Dublin Bay in an azure embrace. The sea was calm with yachts and windsurfers enjoying its salty pleasure. After the recent stormy days, sailors and water lovers were now making up for lost time.

  Lost time: how he hated those words. Since Liz’s death he often felt that he was living in lost time. Life wasn’t the same without her, and burying himself in his work was the only way he knew of dealing with the pain. He had progressed professionally, no doubt, but at what cost to himself? He knew it had hardened him and dulled his senses. That was a good thing for his work, but not much use for a long-term relationship. And now, as he passed Foxrock church and drove down Kill Lane with Dublin Bay a spectacular backdrop, he was beginning to feel he needed someone in his life. Liz had noticed and made sense of so many things that he seemed to miss, and he knew his life had been richer with her. Shelly Tobin wasn’t another Liz, never would be, but she stirred feelings that he had bottled up for too long. It wasn’t his feminine side or whatever anybody wanted to call it that he was locking away, it was a need not to be hurt again. It had to change. He turned left at the traffic lights and when he stopped near the gates of the cemetery he felt better, a little lighter. Even with all the mayhem and murder about him, he felt as if he were being given a second chance, and was determined to grab it with both hands.

  The graveyard was quiet in the sunshine with only the sound of gravediggers at work intruding. Small birds flitted from one headstone to another, chirping happily, unaware of their playground’s sorrow.

  A small crowd was gathered around the open grave at the far end of the graveyard when O’Neill arrived. He kept his distance and saw Christopher Ryan, looking exhausted. He had his arm around David’s shoulder who was visibly shaking and sobbing into a hankie. About fifty people, including Jenny Collins, formed a circle, and in the centre a priest said prayers before the coffin was lowered into the ground. O’Neill slowly turned his head to see if there were any suspicious observers, but he saw nobody. Just a chance, he thought, before leaving and heading back down the narrow gravel path that ran between the lines of ordered graves.

  He made his way, as he had many times before, to the corner of the cemetery and stepped into the shade of a giant fir tree. It was cool and he bent down and picked some pine needles from Liz’s grave. He put them in a bin a few feet away and then looked down at the bed of small white stones. A few streaks of sunlight danced on the headstone as it cut through the gently moving branches.

  ‘How are you today?’ he said, and smiled. ‘It’s alright for you, you know, here in the sun all day. Me, on the other hand, well, I’ve been chasing a very dangerous man – a killer – and I haven’t a clue about him. He needs to be stopped but … I don’t know how. I need a break, so keep your fingers crossed.’ A robin landed on the headstone and chirped a few times before flying away. He wasn’t one for believing in omens; his job didn’t allow it, but he wanted to believe that Liz knew how he was feeling and was telling him that. He smiled sadly and gently touched her headstone. ‘I miss you,’ he said quietly, and left.

  22

  The office was uncomfortably warm and stuffy, and pretty much mirrored how John O’Toole felt. Another lost night in the pub talking inconsequential and meaningless nonsense had left him, yet again, with a sore head. Too many pints of beer were bad news, but topping the night off with a large whiskey was a recipe for disaster. He’d known he’d pay it for the next day but he had been beyond caring. He was, as one of his drinking buddies had put it, ‘on the crest of a slump.’ And how those few words had summed up his position.

  He took a mouthful of strong coffee and shivered as the hot liquid ran down his throat, washing away the sins from last night. The sudden thought that he might not live past fifty made him shudder, and he looked away from his reflection on the computer screen. ‘Can’t keep hiding,’ he told himself. ‘You can’t escape’. He stubbed his cigarette, hating the taste in his mouth. He was about to get up and go to the toilet when his mobile phone rang.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, and drew the back of his hand across his mouth.

  ‘Jaysus, John you sound as rough as a bear’s arse,’ said the weedy voice, and then it laughed.

  O’Toole was not in the mood to be humoured. ‘Who the fuck is this?’

  ‘John, it’s Donie Driscoll – it’s been a while?’

  O’Toole scrunched his eyes and tapped his forehead, trying to remember. Too many fucking brain cells gone, he thought, and then he made the synaptic connection. ‘Double D, how are you? And to what dubious honour do I owe this call. It’s been what, nearly two years?’

  ‘Nearly three years, John, long time.’

  ‘Wow, that long! So what’s going on D, staying out of trouble I hope?’

  He leaned back and conjured up his image of Double D. The small man, no more than five-five, had features that told of fights and a life lived mostly in the shadows. The grey eyes that moved back and forth like those of a cautious weasel, set in a narrow face that was pale and pasty. Someone who didn’t like exposure to the light – someone with something to hide.

  He remembered Donie Driscoll alright, and his dull senses perked up. The little hustler might have something, he thought, so pay attention.

  ‘Want to meet, man? Could be worth your while.’

  A tease, but Donie had passed him some sweet information in the past, so….

  O’Toole’s eyes were now wide open. ‘Sure thing, D. Where?’

  ‘The usual spot, in an hour.’

  ‘See you,’ said O’Toole, and rang off.

  The traffic was light, thankfully, as O’Toole drove to his flat in Sallynoggin, showered, changed his clothes and drank some more coffee. When he looked in the mirror he was surprised by the improvement, and wondered yet again what his meeting with Double D would produce.

  The warm breeze tugged at O’Toole’s hair as he walked along the West Pier in Dun Laoghaire harbour. He bought an ice cream from the local vendor and licked it like he’d done hundreds of times, before walking along the worn granite slabs. The sunshine sparkled off the tiny pieces of quartz, changing with every step he took. To his right the harbour was quiet with lines of boats from the National Yacht Club rocking easily. Overhead, seagulls swooped, cawed and glided in the warm air.

  At the end of the pier, O’Toole sat below the lighthouse, its green slanted roof brilliant against the blue background of the bay and
sky beyond. He lit a cigarette and watched as some boats readied to sail, while others returning from sea made a steady glide to their berths. Music drifted across the harbour from the bandstand on the East Pier, where a brass band was entertaining a small crowd. He had almost forgotten about Double D when a movement in the corner of his vision made him turn.

  It had been nearly three years, but D had hardly changed, not like himself. D was wearing a red polo shirt, jeans and sandals. He was tanned and looked really good.

  ‘Good to see you,’ he said, and they shook hands. ‘How goes it?’

  D nodded. ‘I’m good, man. You okay?’

  O’Toole smiled. ‘As good as can be. No point in complaining.’

  They eyed each other for a few moments; it was what they always did, but said nothing. This meeting wasn’t about fashion, at least O’Toole didn’t think so.

  D sat down and lit a cigarette, all the time looking around, his voice high and twitchy, showing his nervousness. He tapped his foot and blew smoke noisily from his nose. He was looking over the harbour and didn’t turn his head to O’Toole when he spoke. ‘That chick who was killed in Belfield the other night, yeah …’.

  O’Toole was listening carefully. ‘Yeah.’

  Another long, slow drag. ‘Well I hear that she was stabbed with a pencil.’ He looked directly at O’Toole. ‘Can you believe it, a fucking pencil. Never heard of that before.’

  O’Toole lit a cigarette, nervous solidarity and all that. ‘Didn’t know that, D. How … strange. I don’t know what to say.’

  D. sniffed. ‘Jaysus, a reporter lost for words. What is the world coming to?’ He tapped O’Toole on the shoulder. ‘But here’s the kicker. Are you ready for this?’

  O’Toole could suddenly feel the blood pulsing in his veins – he was excited. He knew the way D was talking that something big, something that he could get his teeth into, something that might be very important, was only a few breaths away. He watched the smoke from his cigarette float away and disappear in a spiral of grey. His heart thumped in his chest. Sweet Jesus, let this be good.

  Their faces were only eight or nine inches apart and O’Toole could see the worry lines around D’s eyes. After years of hanging around the edges of criminal activity, D had done time in jail, but was now trying to take a step back. He was less involved, but as is the way with these folk, he still ‘heard things’. And it was one of these ‘things’ that he laid on a nervous and anxious reporter.

  ‘A little bird told me earlier that a pencil was used in the Ryan murder.’ D’s eyes were steady – there wasn’t a flutter, as cigarette smoke drifted between the two men. ‘Now is that strange or what, Mr Reporter?’

  O’Toole was lost for words, again. ‘Fucking strange, and then some. I’d say that it’s one helluva coincidence.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

  D let out a stream of smoke and leaned back against the warm stone. ‘Seems like there’s a right nutter out there.’

  O’Toole was beginning to feel the weight of D’s words. Christ, what if they were true? It was the original good news story for a reporter trying to rack a big hit. Fuck, a serial killer on the loose in Dublin. It was crazy stuff, absolute madness. But then again, two innocent women had been brutally killed in a matter of days – so there was a lot of craziness about.

  O’Toole took a long drag, the dizziness making him light-headed. He shivered and smelt the strong tangy air. ‘And your source is reliable?’

  D grinned. ‘Good as gold, it’s family.’

  O’Toole slipped two fifty euro notes into D’s shirt pocket, and stood up. ‘Nice one D, that’s really appreciated. I’d better get going and start drawing something up.’

  D. flicked his spent cigarette into the air, where it spiralled its way into the water below. ‘Do what you gotta do.’

  O’Toole took a few steps and stopped. ‘This is good? The source, I mean?’ He needed reassurance.

  D. took the notes from his shirt pocket and put them in his trouser pocket. ‘Sweet as a nut,’ he said. ‘No need to be worrying, Mr Reporter. I have a cousin who works in the coroner’s office.’ He gave him a thumbs-up, leaned back and closed his eyes. It was still warm and he needed to keep his tan topped up. His image needed it.

  *

  Smoke drifted from the over-full ashtray as John O’Toole typed and read his words on the screen. He had told Marty Murphy about his meeting with Double D and recalled his open mouth on hearing the news, an almost exact copy of a giant grouper fish ready to eat.

  ‘And the source is good?’ was all that the editor asked.

  ‘I’m assured that it’s as good as it gets. It’s family.’

  Murphy slapped his hands and pounded the table with his fists. ‘I told you that there was something off about this, John. I knew it, just fucking knew it.’ He clapped his hands and rubbed them vigorously. It was a gesture of excitement and nothing to do with any lack of heat. If anything, the temperature had just gone up with O’Toole’s news from the pier, or ‘the Western Front’ as Murphy as called it.

  ‘Write it up, John, you know what I want,’ he winked, ‘and let me see it. We’ll have it ready for the next issue; it’ll be a showstopper.’

  At his desk he lit a cigarette, took a long pull and contemplated how to start. It was the bane of his life and he silently pleaded for divine assistance, or whatever it was that would help him. God, he needed it like never before. Years of mediocre, dull as ditch-water reporting could all be forgotten with one story. One story and a powerful headline could improve The Local’s less than certain financial position. It was a godsend – one Murphy was sure to exploit to the full. After all, he was only doing his readership the service they deserved. And like all ‘good’ editors, he was going to give them what he knew they wanted. To publish and be rich.

  Over cups of coffee and an ever-filling ashtray, O’Toole worked to get the right words and rhythm. It’s not a Nobel Prize for literature that you’re trying to produce, he kept telling himself. Nevertheless, he corrected his work until he was satisfied. He read it twice, then again, each time mouthing the words as he went, and printed it out. He lit another cigarette and rested his head in the palms of his hands, elbows on his desk. He saw no typos or grammatical errors, and took it to Murphy.

  A marker in hand, the editor went through the text word by word but found no errors. He read it again, more quickly, but O’Toole’s text remained intact.

  ‘Alright?’ asked O’Toole.

  Murphy nodded and made a face that said he was happy. ‘That’s a fine piece of writing, John, much better than your usual stuff.’

  O’Toole accepted the backhanded compliment, but knew it was true. ‘Don’t usually write about a possible serial killer on the loose in South Dublin, Marty. That’s big news.’

  ‘Sure is, John, so let’s tell them about it. He slipped the cover off his marker and held it over the start of O’Toole’s piece. ‘Must be eye-catching and simple,’ he said to himself, waiting for the words to come to him. He moved his head from side to side considering options before dismissing them and starting again. After two or three minutes he had it and wrote it clearly in big letters. He sat back in his chair, satisfied, and turned the page for John O’Toole to see. ‘What do you think?’

  He frowned. ‘But he uses pencils, Marty.’

  ‘Pens, pencils, what’s the difference?’ said Murphy. ‘And besides, this makes a better headline.’

  O’Toole looked at the words written at the top of the page and knew that the shit was about to fly, big time. Marty eyed him closely. ‘I hope to fuck that your source is good.’

  ‘So do I, Marty,’ replied O’Toole, as the genie flew from the bottle.

  Marty Murphy, who was never one for understatement, had decided on a short and provocative three-word combination: ‘Penman Strikes Again’. Th
is was bound to generate controversy, just what Murphy wanted. More talk meant more sales, and that meant more money. It was a simple business strategy and he didn’t care what others thought of him. He was trying to run a business, and if that upset some people then they would have to like it or lump it. ‘Fuck the begrudgers,’ he thought, and liked his words even more.

  O’Toole bit his lip, thinking hard. This was the first time that anything like this had happened in Dublin, and fuck knows where it was going to end. It was a very uncomfortable thought. I might even need a drink later, he thought, wiping his mouth in nervous anticipation. Of course he would need a drink later, a lot of them. And fuck the headache.

  23

  After following Liam Burke for three days he knew exactly where he would attack the politician. He wasn’t stalking like some muppet said on the radio. That was for sick perverts and he wasn’t one of them. He was on a mission – and what did they know anyway. Nothing, that’s what they knew, absolutely nothing, and he was going to keep it that way.

  He had seen Burke up close and personal and resented his smooth manner and easy charm. Smug bastard, he thought, you’re the one. He was rich, with all the trappings of success, and he despised him. He hated bastards like him, and sneered when he remembered Burke’s line about ‘Serving the public’. Well, Mr Burke, it’s your time to deliver.

  *

  The early evening sun was still pleasantly warm as he rounded the playing fields and headed into Mount Merrion woods. He was breathing hard, not that he was under pressure; no, he was just pushing himself hard, like he did with most things in life, he thought, and suddenly felt the cool offered by the shade of the tall trees.

  It was quiet in the woods and he raced across a path that was dappled with sunlight and shadow. Most people who jogged around here usually avoided coming through the wood and took the longer route around the football pitches. The wood was old with trees thick on the ground, and after a few strides, silence was his only companion. He wasn’t nervous and pushed harder to the highest point, where a break in the tree line afforded a wonderful view of Dublin Bay and the sprawling city below.