Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller. James Nally
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Название: Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller
Автор: James Nally
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Триллеры
isbn: 9780008139513
isbn:
From somewhere deep, deep inside me spewed a hideous, cackling, panto-laugh. She did it. She nailed that fucker. My Viking!
The cop looked at me in shock, then disgust. ‘What’s so fucking funny, son?’ he spat. ‘There’s a young man downstairs in the basement on a slab.’
‘No, God, no, sorry,’ I said, ‘it’s just the shock.’
He turned to Mum and the nurse: ‘I’m not sure he’s in a fit state to hear any more,’ he said, pocketing his fancy notebook.
He turned back to me with a scowl: ‘I’ll be back to ask you more questions later.’ He flicked his top coat, matador-style, off the back of the bedside chair.
My mind flailed, trying to make sense of it all. Somehow she’d fought back. But how? She must have stabbed him with the Viking prop dagger. Self-defence of course. I’d seen him attack her. I’d seen the preamble to Meehan’s murder!
Or was that what I had seen? My mind recoiled at the insanity of the idea. Surely it must have been some sort of bad trip? A drug-induced nightmare out of the dark corners of my twisted, paranoid mind? Or maybe, while I was lying here out of it, I’d heard them talking about the crime. My brain had supplied pictures to what I’d unconsciously learned.
Yet I knew what I’d seen. I saw Meehan attack Eve.
But if Meehan was dead, then who had tried to kill me later, when I was already in the hospital? Surely not …
I had to ask the question.
‘Sir?’
He turned, surprised.
‘What time did you get the call, you know, about Tony?’
Lieutenant Dumbo looked at me, frowned and sighed. He reached back into his breast pocket.
‘Ah let’s see,’ he said, his agricultural thumb dwarfing the notebook’s inky pages.
‘We got that call at … 1.17 a.m.’
My brain flashed back to the scene, to the clock radio turning 1.13. Watching Meehan forcing himself upon Eve. Witnessing the preamble to Meehan’s murder. But that made no sense. ‘And when did he die?’ I croaked.
The cop took a long hard look at me: ‘He was pronounced dead at the scene, son. Why do you ask?’
I told myself there must be a logical explanation – must be … must be. My head swooned. ‘Donal, love, are you okay?’ sounded Mum’s voice as last night’s blinding lights returned, slashing at my vision.
I ignored the panic because I couldn’t take any more: I let myself sink down, down until all those hot white needles of hospital light went away.
Clapham Junction
Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 08:15
I marched back to Sangora Road, unable to banish the squalid thought that Marion Ryan’s murder represented a gilt-edged career opportunity.
My two-year probation as a beat Constable was almost complete. In a few weeks, I’d be eligible for promotion to Acting Detective Constable. There were more beat officers than Acting DC positions: competition was fierce.
Later today, I was due to make a statement to the investigating team. By re-examining the murder scene, perhaps I could offer up a few fresh insights or theories; make a good impression. I needed a senior officer to spot me and think that I was worthy of championing; to take me under his or her wing.
I took a short cut across Wandsworth Common, ignoring the tarmac pathways. London’s green spaces seemed so orderly and controlled to me: the opposite of nature. It’s a wonder there weren’t signs saying, ‘Keep Off The Grass’. As I trod the dewy sward, I let my mind drift off-road too. After this morning’s chilling encounter, I needed to open myself up to all possibilities. It was time for a logic amnesty.
One fact felt indisputable: Marion’s attack on me hadn’t been a dream. When she came to me in the flat, I’d been wide awake, albeit a bit pissed. I could see and hear everything around her in the streetlight orange tinge – the furniture, the traffic outside, the slamming door. I’d felt her breath on my face.
And, three years earlier, I’d felt Meehan’s cold, gloved hands strangling my throat.
I didn’t believe in ghosts, spirits, religion, the supernatural or any of that stuff. But the most obvious explanation for what happened last night – however crazy – was that the spirit or ghost of Marion Ryan had come to me. A few hours earlier, I’d been physically close to her recently murdered body. Three years ago, Meehan came to me at Tullamore General Hospital as I slept upstairs from the basement morgue hosting his fresh corpse. I had to ask the question: did my proximity to a body that had just met a violent death somehow open up a telepathic pathway between us? And if so, what were their spirits trying to tell me? And how could they get inside me?
The naked malevolence of Meehan’s assault didn’t seem to say much, apart from he wished me harm. But while Marion’s attack felt every bit as threatening, there was something about the encounter that made me think she had been trying to tell me something. That slamming door. What did it mean? I had to get to Sangora Road and see if something snagged on my mind.
As the grass of the Common gave way to concrete, a rancid stench invaded my senses. I checked both soles, located the soft wet dog shit wedged between the grips of my left shoe and declared the logic amnesty over.
As I rubbed my shoe against a grass verge, I tried to come up with a more believable solution. Meehan throttling me had been a graphic hallucination. After all, I’d just ingested enough tranquilliser to poleaxe a sadhu. Marion’s apparition was a result of post-traumatic stress – or post-traumatic Shiraz, as Aidan put it. Seeing her wound-covered body last night had obviously affected me more than I’d realised.
Sangora Road had already recovered its leafy, anonymous poise. On one side, a road sweeper clanked along grudgingly. On the other, a couple of suits made breakneck progress towards Clapham Junction train station. Ahead of them, a racket of rotund school kids swore loudly, smoked and spat. I wondered what Tullamore’s own Jesuit terrorist Father Devlin would give for ten minutes in a locked room with that lot, and how much I’d pay to watch.
Across the road from number 21, the press pack swarmed, keen as hyenas. I counted nine still camera lenses, presumably all jostling for the same shot. I couldn’t help thinking: what a waste.
As I cast them my most contemptuous glare, a morose Northern voice stopped me in my tracks.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Clive ‘Overtime’ Hunt was one of the less offensive nicknames earned by my beat partner over the years. Colleagues would plead with me: ‘Find out what he does with all the money?’ He simply couldn’t say no to overtime and must have worked at least seventy hours a week, every week.
‘You did go home at some stage, Clive?’
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