Games with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller. James Nally

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      He grins: ‘You can be my wingman then, okay?’

      ‘I don’t see that I’ve got any choice. So where did you meet two models?’

      ‘Sandra’s photo casebook. You must have seen it? Tania and Ellen are the paper’s biggest stars now.’

      ‘I must never have made it that far through your esteemed rag.’

      ‘Every week, it features a letter from the problem page, but told as a picture story. It’s always a raunchy storyline about threesomes and secret affairs so that Tania and Ellen can act their little hearts out in their undies. As Sandra herself puts it, something for the girls to read, and the boys to look at.’

      ‘Never underestimate the intelligence of your readers eh? I can’t believe any woman would actually read your newspaper.’

      ‘Don’t be such a snob, Donal. And a killjoy. What harm is it doing anyone?’

      He pulls up at a smart art-deco block near Angel tube station and beeps the horn. Two skinny women dodder out, all big shades, fake tits and tan, and real attitude. Even from this distance, I can tell they are way out of our league.

      ‘And I suppose these cardboard cut-outs are now eyeing Hollywood stardom?’

      Fintan waves to them, muttering under his breath: ‘Funny you should say that. They can’t wait to meet a heavyweight TV drama producer. Like you.’

      I groan loudly. ‘There’s no way I can pull that off …’

      ‘It’s the only way I could get them to come. Just use words like “rushes” and “the cutting room”, you’ll be fine.’

      ‘Jesus.’

      ‘What do you think of the wheels, ladies?’ he bawls.

      ‘Like, what if it rains?’ says Ellen.

      ‘Like, we put up the roof,’ snaps Fintan. ‘God that’s exactly what my brother Donal here said. Talk about glass half-empty.’

      ‘What you mean he’s a pessimist?’ says Tania.

      ‘No,’ says Fintan. ‘I mean he’s a roaring alcoholic.’

      That gets a good laugh.

      ‘Donal knows a nice pub near Brighton and he’s going to treat us to lunch. You good with that, girls?’

      ‘Yay,’ they coo as I give Fintan the eyeball and mouth: ‘You’re fucking paying.’

      We roar off for all of 50 yards before getting snarled up in yet more traffic. Fintan somehow manages to trump the awkward silence with a truly cringeworthy question. ‘So, ladies, what do you look for in a man?’

      ‘Vingt-cinq,’ purrs Ellen and they cackle hard.

      Schoolboy horrors come flooding back; the wink-and-elbow language of cruel-girl delight.

      Ellen finally composes herself. ‘We were at this party in Paris a few years back, this really sexy guy sidles up to me and whispers “Vingt-cinq” in my ear. I’m thinking twenty-five? Well he might be talking about his age …’

      More cackling.

      ‘Then he says in the sexiest French accent I’ve ever heard, “Not ma age. My size. You don believe me?” And I say, frankly, no. I mean a twenty-five inch penis would be some sort of world record. So, he gets his friend over …’

      Tania butts in: ‘Who’s even sexier.’

      ‘And he says: “Oui, it is true. And I too am twenty-five.” He can tell we’re not buying it, so he says, “You wan me to pull down my pants and show you?” and I say …’

      They might now actually expire out of sheer mirth.

      Tania finally comes up for air: ‘Ellen says, “If you’re twenty-five, you don’t need to drop your trousers, just lift them up at the ankles!”’

      We all laugh now.

      ‘I’d forgotten about metric!’ says Ellen. ‘Mind you, once you’ve had twenty-five centimetres, you don’t want less,’ she adds quietly.

      Fintan and I share glances of mild horror.

      ‘Right, so physique is your thing, Ellen,’ editorialises anchorman. ‘What about you, Tania?’

      ‘Money,’ says Tania, refreshingly unashamed. ‘The love peters out, the sex peters out, so you might as well be with someone who’s loaded, make your life easier.’

      ‘And you’ve found someone, haven’t you darling?’ says Ellen. ‘Show ’em what he bought you yesterday?’

      A spindly orange arm appears between the front seats. Perched on the tiny wrist, a green-faced vintage Rolex with a brown leather strap.

      ‘Men who wear a certain brand of watch guide destinies,’ announces Fintan to confused looks all round. ‘It’s their slogan,’ he adds impatiently.

      ‘Very understated. Classy,’ I say.

      ‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ says Tania, holding my eye for a second, then smiling bashfully.

      ‘Yeah and then you got it valued, you shallow bitch,’ cackles Ellen. ‘Eight grand. Can you believe it? Wear it? I wouldn’t let it out of my house.’

      As we speed along ‘Sunset Boulevard’, wind noise renders conversation mercifully impossible, so that I can turn my thoughts back to last night. If we retrace my journey from yesterday, maybe something will click and lead me to Julie’s body. That must have been what last night’s macabre, raven-based cabaret had been all about. I’ve just got to get down there and follow my gut.

      It starts to rain just outside Croydon. Fintan pulls up at a lay-by but, of course, the convertible roof won’t go up. Something is stuck or maybe he’s pressing the wrong buttons. The girls moan, so Fintan guns it until we see a covered petrol station. As we shelter in eye-watering fumes, he sets to work on the roof mechanics until they’re well and truly butchered.

      ‘Like, what if it rains all day,’ says Ellen.

      ‘Like, we do something indoors,’ snaps Fintan, and we sit in glum silence for twenty minutes.

      The shower mercifully clears. Even with the girls along, I’m sticking to my plan and direct Fintan to Underhill Lane. As the track narrows and branches start scouring the paintwork, I call halt.

      ‘Poor car,’ I say. ‘Shall we walk?’

      ‘There’s a pub down here?’ squints Fintan.

      ‘Just around the corner,’ I say, setting off before anyone has time to object.

      I lead the way towards the bridge, Fintan just behind. The girls are way back, heels floundering in mud.

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