The Dead (The Saxon & Fitzgerald Mysteries Book 1) (25 page)

The Fourth Letter

At least that’s over. You people cannot imagine how hard it is keeping up the religious fruitcake act. ‘I have seen the ungodly in great power and flourishing like a green bay tree.’

Who talks like that?

Not forgetting: ‘One must be on one’s guard with every woman, as if she were a poisonous snake and the horned devil.’

Though I suppose that part’s true enough.

In one way I am quite annoyed that the deception has to end. I really did have some interesting material for my next letter. My theme was to be the impertinence of the Dublin Metropolitan Police in believing they had any right to interfere with the work of the Lord. Scripture teaches that death is not so bad, after all.

Death is to be embraced, welcomed, yearned for. So who are you to prevent what Scripture says cannot come soon enough? Now all that will have to be scrapped and I must start again. What a waste. What an inconvenience.

Speaking for myself, as I now can, I always preferred the wise words of Noël Coward rather than those of the Good Book. ‘We have no reliable guarantee that the afterlife will be any less exasperating than this one, have we?’ he once said. How true that is. The next world might be exactly like this one, only without those glorious distractions of wine, women, song, murder. And what would be the point of an eternity like that? One would surely die of boredom – if one wasn’t dead already. I couldn’t have said so, of course, if I was still being Ed Fagan; if I was still the offerer-up of sacrifices of the ungodly on the altar of . . . well, I forget the details now. But I am not Ed Fagan any more, because what is left of Ed Fagan lies on a mortuary slab having been disturbed from a dreamless five years’ sleep in his shallow soily bed in the mountains.

You cannot honestly believe that I put him there? If I had made Ed Fagan’s acquaintance, I would have offered him my congratulations and admiration for a job well done rather than giving him the chance to fertilise some patch of barren earth with a half-inch hole in his skull and a bellyful of worms. So who did kill Ed Fagan? Who saw fit to reveal that Ed Fagan was dead? It was hardly in my interests to have him emerge from his grave to prove me a liar. In whose interests was it then?

Who had motive? Who had opportunity? Who had means?

These, it need hardly be said, are meant to be matters for the Dublin Metropolitan Police – for Chief Superintendent Grace Fitzgerald and her motley crew of ne’er-do-wells and rejects and second-rankers in the murder squad – but the city would wait a long time for them to disentangle the web they have woven about themselves in the past few days. They seem no closer to catching me now than they ever did. Further, in fact? They blindly follow every lead, every red herring that goes swimming by. One flick of its tail and they dive into dark water after it.

It is embarrassing. A display of ineptitude and incompetence that would be shocking were it not by now such an accepted pattern.

Monica Lee, two years ago. Unsolved. Sally Tyrrell. Where is she? Helen Cranmore, credit for whose demise Nick Elliott in his absurd book sought to give Ed Fagan. She was another of mine. And what was the name of that syphilitic bitch that I ran down on the corner of Fitzwilliam Street and Merrion Square one night some years ago on my way home from work? I forget now. As if it matters. And there were more. So many more. Perhaps one day I shall tell you all about them.

But you will have to catch me first.

It will be too late for Jackie, poor thing (I promised five when I was Fagan and, having come so far, I should see it through to the end), but perhaps you’ll be in time for the next one.

Or the one after that. Or the one after that . . .

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Fitzgerald had thought my presence might calm Jackie down.

It wasn’t working so far.

‘Why?’ she kept asking, her voice rising to a wail as she struggled to control herself. She’d barely stopped crying since we arrived. ‘Why would he want to kill me?’

Why, I thought, would the creep want to kill anyone? Because his heart was poisoned by evil; what other reason did he need?

But I didn’t say so to Jackie.

‘We don’t know if he wants to kill you, Jackie,’ I said flatly instead. ‘But you’ve the letter. We just want to take precautions.’

Yeah, right. Precautions. We’d been through all the lists of known prostitutes, even contacted the Blessed Order of Mary for help, and she was the only Jackie whose name had come back. There might be others the police didn’t know about, or the name might be only half right, like with Nikolaevna Tsilevich, but there wasn’t any serious doubt in my head that Jackie Hill was the target the killer intended to go after next.

The search had narrowed down quickly and it had narrowed down to this one mean room in her tiny terraced house not far from the canal.

The letter had taken us all by surprise. I couldn’t even remember when Fitzgerald asked me which courier company it was had delivered it. Another slip-up – or another sign, perhaps, of how luck was shining on the killer. She hadn’t said anything yet about the letter itself, and I was grateful for that. I dreaded her asking me why the killer was denying having killed Ed Fagan. Is it part of the game? Is he telling the truth? It would just be more riddles to her, and I wasn’t sure I could keep up the pretence any more. Though what had I expected?

Had I really thought the killer would just sit quietly in his hole as the newspapers, finding out about the discovery of Fagan’s body (still officially unidentified, though when did that ever hold back the press?), drew the obvious conclusions and immediately blamed the killer of Mary Lynch for the Night Hunter’s death as well?             

At that moment, I didn’t know what I’d expected, and I certainly didn’t know what would happen next. I couldn’t think more than a few hours ahead. That was how I kept going.

One step at a time.

Again, I found myself wishing that I knew where Fisher was. I needed to talk to him. Needed his advice. He sure picked his times to become secretive.

I stared now at Jackie as she reached nervously for another cigarette, lighting it from the end of the last one, which she’d smoked down till the hot glow of it was almost touching her fingers. The proximity of danger, of pain: my eyes were transfixed by it. It was too symbolic. Her eyes were black-ringed, bloodshot. She’d been working late last night. She’d only had a few hours’ sleep, and it showed. The room stank of alcohol, stale food, stale bodies. Jackie’s hands were shaking as she raised the cigarette to her lips. She wasn’t dressed.

‘And even if he does mean you,’ I went on, trying to free my attention from the sight of her disintegration, ‘we’re here now.’

‘What can you do?’ she said bitterly.

‘We can protect you.’

‘Like you did with Mary, you mean?’

‘We weren’t able to find Mary Lynch in time,’ said Fitzgerald from the doorway, where she was listening to Jackie and me talk. She was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, foot tapping quietly but impatiently against the carpet. ‘It’s different now. You’re here, we’re here, and we’ll not be going anywhere until we’re sure you’re safe.’

Saying all the right things like they were true.

‘Fitzgerald’s called up support from the Armed Response Unit,’ I tried to explain to Jackie. ‘They’ll be here soon. They’re going to stay here with you whilst we get this sorted.’

‘And how long’s that going to be? I can’t have her fucking Armed Response Unit out with me when I’m working, can I? That’d really help business.’

‘How long it takes depends on you,’ said Fitzgerald.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Jackie demanded of her, and when Fitzgerald didn’t answer she turned to me. ‘What does she mean?’

‘The man who killed Mary names those he wants to kill. This time the name fits you. Might be a coincidence, but if not then it means we have a good chance, maybe, to get him.’

‘You want me to . . . what? Sit here and wait for him to climb in the window to kill me, just so that you can maybe catch him in the act? You must think I’m as crazy as he is.’

‘Not crazy, Jackie. Realistic. I think you’ll try and help us so this doesn’t happen to any other woman out there.’

‘Right,’ said Jackie, stabbing out her cigarette on the table before getting up and walking about angrily. ‘So now you’re trying to tell me it’s up to me to catch this bastard? That if I don’t let him come and get me, it’ll be my fault if anyone else dies, is that it?’

‘You can help bring this to an end,’ I said. ‘I’m not pretending it’s easy—’

‘You’re damn right it isn’t easy,’ Jackie answered, raising her voice and pointing a finger at me like an accusation. Her head was framed by a picture of the Sacred Heart. Some protection that was. ‘I can’t. I can’t do it. I’ll go away.’

‘You can’t go away,’ I said.

‘Don’t tell me what I can do! I can do what I like, you fucking Yankee bitch. I’m going to pack my bag right this minute and get out of here.’

‘Where you going to go?’

I saw her stop as she considered her own words, trying to put flesh on the bones of the idea she’d just thrown into the conversation without thinking what it really meant.

‘I’ll go to London,’ she said eventually. ‘I know people there.’

‘You went there once before,’ I said.

‘I did.’

‘You were back within two weeks.’

That was the thing about people like Jackie: they lived in an enclosed world, it wasn’t possible for them to break free of it, it kept drawing them back, their nerves would never allow them to settle too far from where they’d spent all their lives.

She probably couldn’t even cope on the other side of the city, never mind another city, another country, unfamiliar streets.

I watched her face as she remembered, saw the truth settle on her features like a shadow. She knew herself well enough.

‘What are you going to do?’ I went on before the possibility of escape could truly penetrate her head. ‘Spend the rest of your life wondering if this monster is going to find you one night?’

I was being cruel again, playing on her fears. I had to.

‘Each punter, each car that slows up to the kerb and winds down a window, you’re going to think it’s him. Every stranger who walks past and catches your eye, every man you find walking behind you at night. Are they on their way home from the bar, or is it him?’

I glanced over at Fitzgerald. She gave a sharp approving nod.

And even if you do get away to London,’ I said, ‘what are you going to do? Never come back to Dublin in case he finds out you’re back and comes to finish the job? You don’t even know he won’t follow you there. We can’t protect you if you go to London, Jackie, no one can.’

That was it. I saw the last trace of a fight go out of her eyes. I didn’t exactly feel delighted with myself, but what was happening here was too important to risk failure by sparing Jackie’s feelings; and to be honest, she didn’t seem too disappointed by defeat.

She didn’t have the resources to manage her own life, that was how she’d ended up where she was. Sure, she’d whipped herself up into defiance to show that she could get away and take control, but she’d never truly believed it. Now I saw the relief in her as she realised she could just submit to someone else’s bidding again.

‘So what am I supposed to do?’ she said.

Like I said, the Armed Response Unit will be here soon. Everything will be kept quiet. Low key. They’ll arrive in an unmarked car, plain clothes, and they’ll stay here with you. There’ll be others outside the house too, front and back. No one will know they’re there. And if he does come to the house to find you, it’s us who’ll find him.’

Simple as that.

Though I wished I felt sure it would be that simple.

‘You just tell people you’ll not be about for a few days so that they don’t get suspicious.’

‘Tony’ll be round.’

She meant the boyfriend who’d been waiting for her the night after Mary Lynch’s death, when I’d picked her up in the Jeep.

‘To hell with Tony, Tony can look after himself for once. It might even do him some good. Anything you want in the mean time, just ask.’

‘There is something I want,’ she said. ‘Two things.’

‘Shoot.’

She glanced at Fitzgerald, half defiance again, half uncertainty at what she was about to say.

‘I’ll need some gear. I’m not staying here without it.’

‘Fitzgerald?’

‘What you’re suggesting is illegal,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘I couldn’t sanction it. But if you need to go out later to pick up anything, fettuccine, olives, whatever, no one will be searching your bags when you come back in. It’s your house.’

Jackie frowned, but I think she understood.

‘What else?’ I said.

‘I want you to stay with me,’ she said to me.

‘Me?’

‘I don’t know any of these people,’ she said. ‘Please, Saxon. This is bad enough without being left alone. I want someone here that I know, that I can trust.’

‘You OK with that, Chief Superintendent?’ I said.

I could see in Fitzgerald’s eyes that she’d rather I wasn’t there if the killer came calling, and Jackie must have sensed something too.

‘I’ll not do it otherwise,’ she said quickly.

‘Your decision,’ Fitzgerald said to me.

‘Then,’ I said, ‘the Yankee bitch stays. But only at night, Jackie. There are things I have to take care of during the day.’

‘It’s the nights I’m afraid of,’ she said.

A Volvo pulled up a couple of hundred yards down the street about ten minutes later, and a man got out, jeans, sneakers, baseball cap, baggy jacket, carrying a parcel and a clipboard like he was making a delivery. He came to the door and rang the bell.

‘That’s the Armed Response Unit,’ said Fitzgerald.

‘Jackie, go answer the door and let him in. Try to act normally.’

Jackie had put on some clothes in the mean time, splashed some water on her face. You could tell she’d been crying, but she was trying hard to stay calm. Doing what she was told was part of that.

She got to her feet and went to the door.

‘John,’ said Fitzgerald when the new arrival walked in. ‘Good to see you here so fast.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ he replied.

Fitzgerald introduced everyone quickly. This was John Haran, only about thirty but already one of the DMP’s most experienced Armed Response Unit officers. He was going to be staying in Jackie’s house whilst the stakeout continued. The Volvo in the street, he explained, contained another officer by the name of Dean Welling, and others would be moving quietly into position around the house over the next few hours. A derelict house across the street had already been checked out and given over to the ARU as well. There were signs inside that it was used by drug addicts, though not recently; it would do. Plus they’d have people in the entryway out the back. In all, there’d be between ten and fifteen armed police guarding Jackie at any one time, and others cruising the streets around. It was a small enough number that they wouldn’t make themselves known to the offender, unless he knew what to look for, but large enough to make Haran pretty confident that no one would be able to get through to Jackie without being picked up.

‘Just pretty confident?’ I said.

‘No one will get through,’ Haran said firmly, but there was a smile there too. He was enjoying this. He looked younger than his thirty years in that moment; I only hoped his reputation was earned.

In a city where so few police went armed, it was always a matter of trust, and I’d never trusted anyone but myself.

When he’d finished explaining the arrangements outside, Haran checked over the interior quickly, entrances and exits, windows. It was only a small house and it already felt crowded.

He seemed satisfied with what he saw. Upstairs he glanced out of the window at the front to the derelict house across the street that the ARU would be taking over. The windows were boarded up, but they’d drill holes for looking through.

People walked by on the street below like nothing was more awry than the weather. For them, nothing was.

Haran left a few minutes later, started the car and drove away. Five minutes after that, he was knocking at the rear kitchen window and stepping back inside, the charade of leaving complete. He was now in place for the night. Then it was our turn to leave. I managed to slip Jackie some money before we went, for later when she went to get what she needed; there wasn’t much point worrying about her health or her lifestyle right now. She didn’t say thanks, just put it in the pocket of her jeans, but that was her way of showing defiance and I didn’t begrudge her it.

She didn’t have much else.