Dance With the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller

‘I’ve asked Zoe here to page you as soon as she gets a confirmed ID for the victim and to keep you abreast of any forensic developments. That way, you can crack on right away linking the MO here with these other unsolved cases you’ve studied, which could save a lot of time. And let’s face it, we’re in a race against the clock here to find this maniac before he strikes again. I hope that’s okay with you both?’

I thought about asking him outright, there and then: ‘What angle are you playing here, Fintan, because this murder still doesn’t seem newsworthy to me?’ But Zoe had my pager number now, her smile toasting me like a marshmallow. So I defied my gut and rolled with it. Whatever ‘it’ might turn out to be …

When Zoe’s smile turned quizzical, I realised I’d been frowning all this time. That’s what trying to keep up with a Machiavellian brother does to you; like playing speed chess against Gary Kasparov. So I released all my anxieties in one multi-coloured party balloon by declaring: ‘I think that’s a great idea.’

Zoe turned serious then, almost solemn. ‘Fintan tells me you’ve come down here of your own accord, just to see if you can find any connections.’

‘Well … not exactly,’ I reddened again. ‘I got paged and …’

Fintan interjected: ‘I told you he’d be mortified.’

Zoe put her hand on my arm, stopping my heart stone dead: ‘Well, I think that’s so admirable, and on your first weekend off in months … amazing.’

‘Er … thanks, Zoe,’ I flustered, the feel of her name tingling my tongue.

Fintan hoisted up the police tape: ‘It’s the low road for you this time, Dickie.’

Before I had time to utter another word, he bundled me under the tape and away in a virtual headlock.

‘Don’t forget to stay in touch,’ he called back over an impressively executed mobile half-nelson.

‘What the fuck was that all about?’ I muttered.

‘Can you just button it until we get round the corner?’

Fintan led me into the fake wood-panelled Star café on Blackstock Road: ‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift to work. You’ve got plenty of time.’

‘What’s going on?’ I asked as he lit a cigarette and took an enormous drag.

‘Well?’ I demanded.

‘Donal, you haven’t been on a proper date in months. I could tell she took a shine to you. So I decided to take the initiative and intervene.’

‘And, thanks to you, the first thing I tell her is a pack of lies.’

‘Did the trick though, didn’t it? She thinks you’re some tortured soul in solitary pursuit of the baddies that hurt fallen women. She’s got your pager details now so even you can’t bottle out of it.’

I cast my most disapproving look.

‘She’s cute though, right?’ He smiled. ‘She reminds me of Holly Hunter. I was almost going to ask her “why the long face?” but she didn’t look in the mood.’

His aloft eyebrows demanded a reply.

‘If she’s so cute, why didn’t you stake a claim?’ I said. ‘You’re not normally slow in flinging yourself forward.’

‘She seemed a bit emotional to me. Or highly strung … definitely brittle.’

‘Maybe she just cares, you know, possesses normal human feelings?’

‘Well, there’s something not quite right there,’ he sniffed, ‘so, hey, you two should be perfect together.’

‘I knew you couldn’t do it,’ I smiled.

‘What?’

‘Just do something nice for me. I knew you’d have to ruin it. It’s in your DNA.’

The waiter arrived, his apron suffused in disturbing red stains that had clearly defied repeated washing.

‘It’s Sweeney Todd,’ muttered Fintan under his breath. ‘Imagine the fucking DNA in that.’

I couldn’t face flesh after what I’d just seen, so opted for fried eggs, toast and tea. As ever, Fintan had to both top me and go off-piste, ordering scrambled eggs, baked potato and tomato ‘not out of a can’. He then flummoxed the waiter further by saying no to tea OR coffee.

‘You off the hard stuff then, Fintan?’

‘Have you ever looked at the mugs in cafés? I mean really looked? Or at the knives and forks for that matter? I’ll only eat somewhere like this now if I’ve got these.’

He leaned into his satchel and produced a packet of wipes.

‘Jesus, you’re turning into Howard Hughes.’ I laughed. ‘Shall I order some peas for you to arrange in size order?’

The tea, knives, forks and paper napkins crash-landed.

‘Go on,’ he urged, ‘take a really close look.’

‘Later,’ I said, ‘tell me first the real reason why you went to all that trouble back there with Zoe.’

He put out his cigarette, plucked a wipe from the packet and set to work on a fork.

‘Well, you’re always complaining that the press never covers any of these prostitute murders,’ he said, polishing away, ‘that the cases are, how do you always put it, “starved of the oxygen of publicity”. Where did you get that by the way? On one of your training courses in Bramshill?’

‘Where else?’

He lifted the fork to his eye to examine it: ‘This time I’m really going to try.’

‘Why?’

‘Zoe told me how this girl had been cut in two and had her face disfigured.’ He placed the fork carefully on one of the napkins and looked up at me. ‘I’ve got a feeling about this story. There’s more to it.’

I couldn’t believe Zoe had been so indiscreet.

‘You didn’t tell her you’re a hack, did you?’

He shook his head. ‘She didn’t ask. If there’s one thing this job has taught me, it’s to act like you should be there. People presume the rest.’

‘Christ, wait ’til she finds out. That’ll fuck everything up.’

Fintan set to work on the knife.