Dance With the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller

‘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, well that’s terribly kind of you, Roger. Bob Hoskins gave me your number and says hello,’ he gushed, giving me a wink.

‘Ha ha yes, dear old Bob. Wonderful. Yes.’

‘Well, it’s a little delicate, Roger. But I’m told I can count on you being discreet. I’m casting for a new film and I’ve heard great things about a young actress called Elizabeth Little.’

Fintan listened for a very long time.

‘Before I do that, Roger, is there any chance I could get hold of a show reel and some quality photos, you know, studio shots.’

‘Excellent. I’ll have an assistant pop round within the hour. Thanks, Roger. Ciao.’

‘Do you think Neil Jordan says “Ciao”?’

‘They all fucking do, don’t they?’

‘Well, what’s she been in?’

‘She had a bit part in The Bill last year.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Well, it’ll be a major part by the time I’m done.’

He was dialling again.

‘Who are you calling now?’

‘The picture desk.’

He held up his hand to shut me up: ‘Jim. I need a VHS of an episode of The Bill from last year featuring an actress called Elizabeth Little.’

‘No idea.’

‘Call them then.’

‘Yes. It’s very fucking important.’

‘Now I’ve got to get our Northern stringer out of the pub,’ he said tapping out another number.

‘Bob, you fat Northern git.’

‘Yeah, not bad. Listen, you and your monkey need to get outside an address in Armley and wait for my call. I’ll text it but start heading there now. And be discreet.’

‘Actress. Murdered.’

‘The Bill. Stage mostly.’

‘It’ll be massive, Bob, trust me.’