Games with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller

‘Where in the name of God did you get that?’

‘There’s a new rich kid on trial on the showbiz desk, son of an earl or a duke or something. Nice enough fella, but thick as pig shit, of course, and hopeless. But the editor thinks he’ll get us into places we’ve never managed to penetrate before, and he’s usually right about these things.

‘Anyway, young Jamie Benson-Smythe finds it all frightfully exciting, especially crime and investigations. The fucker had the gall to march over and announce that he plans to get my job! Any other newbie would be thrown out on his ear for a stunt like that, but not Jamie.’

I’ve had my fair share of toffs at work and nod. ‘They just have this unshakeable self-belief.’

‘Wouldn’t we all, if we never had to worry about paying the rent? Anyway, I don’t blame them for making the most of their advantages. What really bugs me is the way the English middle classes unquestioningly defer to them, bowing and fucking scraping. It makes me almost like the French.

‘So, yesterday morning, I bump into the jumped-up little fucker while he’s parking this up at work. I tell him I need a smart motor for a big undercover job, and he just hands me the keys.’

‘Poor guy. You commandeered his car.’

‘Hey, Jamie’s thrilled, feels like he’s already contributing,’ says Fintan, getting into the driver’s seat.

‘What if it rains?’

‘What if it rains?’ he whines, mimicking me. ‘We put up the bloody roof.’

In heaving North London traffic, we barely make it above ten miles per hour. Each gossamer graze of pedal elicits a thunderous roar, earning us looks ranging from mild irritation to unabashed hatred.

‘We need to get out of town,’ I say, suddenly seeing an opportunity to act on last night’s encounter with Julie. When the dead come to me, I can’t just ignore them. Julie needs me. And, after my schoolboy error last night, I owe her. ‘Why don’t we head to the South Downs? I know some great pubs around there.’

Fintan grins. ‘First we’ve got to pick up our smoking-hot dates.’

I groan.

‘Models, Donal. And I’m not talking unemployed nail bar assistants here. Real models. I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you.’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Fintan, I’m in a relationship.’

‘Yeah I saw her note on the kitchen table this morning. Good old Zoe, if she can’t dump Matt on you, she dumps him on her mum.’

‘She doesn’t dump him on anyone. It’s a long day looking after a kid. She craves a bit of adult company in the evening. What’s wrong with that? You’ll see one day.’

‘From what I see, Donal, you’re in a job share. From what you sometimes let slip, I sense it’s now a sexless, joyless job share at that. You told me yourself that even her mum labelled it a failed relationship.’

‘That doesn’t give me a licence to go running around with other women.’

‘We’re just having a bit of craic, Donal. To quote Loaded magazine, “life, liberty, the pursuit of sex, drinking, football and less serious matters”. The thing is, bro, she’s turning you into one of those lonely married men. You know, first you don’t have time for friends, then you can’t find time for hobbies. Next thing you know, you’re a bonded slave reduced to work and childcare. The irony of it all is that your women end up hating you for it. And you’re not even married.’

I turn to him, shaking my head in disbelief.

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.’