Dance With the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller. James Nally

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СКАЧАТЬ in some clerical bin like the others, do you? Or was that all just talk?’

      As he re-appropriated his sparkling cutlery and – when it finally arrived – picked at his bespoke meal, I unloaded everything that Edwina had told me. Well, almost everything.

      I held back the detail about the strands of human hair found between her thumb and finger. I didn’t want this to become common knowledge; it could yet prove our secret insurance policy, our suspect-clincher.

      I concluded with the pathologist’s certainty that the victim hadn’t worked as a street hooker, news he greeted with unbearable self-satisfaction. I could tell the rest didn’t really matter to him now. So long as she wasn’t ‘a desperate skank’, he could ‘get the story away’.

      As he put it: ‘If she’s a looker and not a hooker, it’s a double-page spread.’

      ‘So her murder now merits a story?’

      He frowned, genuinely perplexed that I didn’t view the world through the twisted scope of his news desk.

      ‘The thing is, when a prostitute is murdered, no one is surprised. None of our readers relate to it because it’s happened to a prossie, not to a normal woman. Prostitutes and pimps and crack are not part of our readership’s world. It’s different when a “good” woman is murdered … that creates a threat to all women. That sells papers. All I need now is a sit-down with the parents and selects.’

      ‘Selects?’

      ‘That’s the trade term for family photos. Some less scrupulous hacks have been known to swipe them from the mantelpieces of grieving relatives. I know one woman who always asks to use the upstairs loo so she can perform a quick sweep of the bedrooms.’

      I sighed. ‘And now I’m aiding and abetting the same scurrilous press.’

      ‘Hey, I don’t do stuff like that.’ He glared at me, wounded. ‘Jesus, give me some credit.’

      He pushed his virtually untouched meal away and lit another cigarette. I cringed: ‘You are aware that Sweeney Todd has access to sharp implements from the kitchen?’

      He didn’t even hear me. ‘The question now is, why did they dump her body here? Clearly they’re sending a message to someone. But to who? There’s a bigger play here. Much bigger.’

      My pager buzzed.

      Below a mobile number, the message read: Hi Donal. Victim ID confirmed. Please call, Zoe.

      I grabbed Fintan’s fat mobile and dialled.

      ‘Hi Zoe, Donal Lynch, we just met at the crime scene.’

      ‘Hi Donal. Turns out this girl was on the Met’s Missing Person file. We’re pretty certain we know who she is.’

      ‘Wow, that was quick.’

      Fintan’s eyebrows shot skyward.

      ‘We haven’t confirmed it yet but she has a very distinctive rose tattoo on the back of her shoulder with her initials beneath it. And there’s a scar that matches too. The height, weight, it all tallies. You got a pen?’

      Fintan’s notebook and biro stood to attention.

      ‘Yes. Shoot.’

      ‘Elizabeth Phoebe Little, Date of Birth 29/7/70. Single. Originally from Armley in Leeds,’ I repeated after her as Fintan whipped out his laptop and inserted a floppy disc.

      ‘The most recent address we have for her is 14a Princess Road, Richmond. No previous convictions. Profession: Actress.’

      ‘Actress eh?’ I said, as Fintan’s smugometer almost exploded.

      ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of her,’ I added, in an attempt to puncture his euphoria.

      ‘Me neither. That’s all we’ve got so far.’

      ‘That’s so helpful, Zoe. I can’t thank you enough.’

      ‘Not a problem. If it helps catch the bastard who did this to her, I’ll feel a little better about today.’

      ‘I’ll do what I can.’

      ‘Good, and you’ve got my number now. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything else.’

      ‘I will, Zoe. Thanks.’

      ‘Oh, and Donal?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I hope it’s okay to ask, but can you let me know when you catch him?’

      ‘Of course I will,’ I said, as long-dead butterflies rose and fluttered about my chest, tickling the edges of my hopeful heart.

      I couldn’t decide which was wilder, Fintan’s driving or his underhand journalistic techniques. As his Mondeo sped us away from Brownswood Road, he made six calls in a row. The first, to his office, went like this:

      ‘John, I’ve got a phone number here for a Rodney and Jean Little in Armley. I want you to call them, say you’re Phil Blackman from the Mirror, tell them you’re contacting them because their daughter Elizabeth has just landed a role in Eastenders. Fillet them for all you can. Don’t give them your number at the end. Got it?’

      ‘What the hell?’ I asked. ‘How did you get their phone number?’

      ‘I’ve got a floppy disc with electoral roll and phone numbers, all perfectly legal and above board.’

      ‘What if they’ve already heard the news?’

      ‘That’ll be John’s problem. He’s work experience so it’ll do him good.’

      ‘Jesus.’

      ‘Look, the cops won’t call them until they have something concrete like dental records. At least I’m not making him break the news.’

      ‘Why did you tell him to say he was from the Mirror?’

      ‘They’ll be Northern working-class stock, won’t they? So they’re bound to be Union members and lefties who read the Mirror. When they get the bad news and realise that the Mirror behaved so appallingly, they’ll be putty in my hands. Oldest trick in the book.’

      ‘You’re despicable,’ I spat.

      He dialled another number.

      ‘Yes, hello showbiz desk. Fintan Lynch here. Listen, grab your red pages and tell me who the agent is for an actress called Elizabeth Little.’

      He memorised the number, hung up and dialled again while tackling a roundabout.

      ‘Hello, Roger Alsop please?’

      ‘Hi Roger. My name is Neil Jordan. I’m an Irish film director. You may have heard of me,’ he said in a ridiculously posh Dublin accent.’

      ‘Ha ha, СКАЧАТЬ