Read Online Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller by James Nally - Free Book Online Page A

who’s just landed in Tullamore?’ he smiled, mincing into the screwed-down plastic seat opposite mine before answering his own riddle.
    ‘Only Larry fucking King!’
    I frowned.
    ‘Legendary CNN anchor man? Biggest name in American current affairs?’
    ‘What’s he doing in Tullamore?’
    ‘You heard about Mike Tyson, right?’
    Who hadn’t? Police had arrested the self-proclaimed ‘Baddest Man on the Planet’ in Connecticut that week and charged him with rape.
    Fintan took a violent slurp of his tea and continued: ‘And you know one of the Kennedys was charged with rape earlier this year? Well, CNN has picked up on Eve’s story. They’re saying it’s a landmark case for a woman’s right to say no.’
    ‘Will this help Eve?’
    ‘Christ, no. Her best hope was that it would all peter out. Now it’s an international news story, Ireland’s politicians must be seen to be doing the right thing.’
    ‘And that is?’
    ‘Bush and the Republicans are in power, Donal. They’d have fried her by now! She’ll get a stretch for sure. It’s just a question of how long.’
    Fintan seemed delighted with this development, the twisted fuck.
    ‘It’s ridiculous,’ I snapped, ‘she so obviously acted in self-defence. In any civilised country she’d have been given a medal for getting rid of that menace.’
    ‘You need to forget about her now anyway, Donal, once and for all. There’s a good chance you’ll never clap eyes on her again.’
    I refused to believe that. My heart knew, somehow, that Eve Daly was unfinished business.
    My pork-based bribe landed. Fintan tore into it ravenously.
    ‘So what’s so interesting about this case?’ I asked.
    Half his fry-up already savaged, Fintan turned his attention to the open-spouted sugar jar, emptying the equivalent of five or six teaspoons into his muddy brew. He then lit another cigarette.
    ‘There’s two murders a week in London,’ I pointed out, ‘what makes Marion Ryan good copy?’
    Fintan smiled and shook his head in disbelief at my obvious stupidity.
    ‘She’s white, she’s pretty, she’s a newlywed, she lives on a respectable street. Truth is, if Marion had been black, or Asian, or a single mum in a council block in, I dunno, Deptford, with a little brown baby, I wouldn’t be here.’
    ‘Christ, so class and social status dictate whether or not your murder merits coverage,’ I sighed, suddenly feeling hot and tired.
    ‘Don’t blame me. This is who the readership identifies with, and the fact she was butchered in her own home by a crazed maniac, well, that just about ticks all our boxes.’
    ‘Why do you say it was a crazed maniac?’
    ‘Forty-nine stab wounds. Speak to any pathologist, they’ll tell you the most stab wounds they’ve ever seen in a domestic is ten or twelve. And, if it’s domestic, why was she killed in a frenzy like that? There are a hundred more efficient ways he could have done it. It’s got to be a nutter. Hey, you’re supposed to be the copper.’
    I tried not to visibly bristle as Fintan pressed on.
    ‘Maybe he charged through the door, forced her upstairs at knifepoint?’
    ‘That’s ridiculous. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Fint, but there is no Bride Ripper out there on the loose, roaming the streets in search of his next pretty ABC1 target.’
    ‘How can you be so certain, Donal?’
    ‘Well, she opened the door and let this
nutter
in,’ I pointed out, ‘we found her on the landing with her mail, her keys, her handbag all untouched. So where does that leave your ripper theory?’
    He stubbed out his cigarette, leaned back and took a notebook and pen out of his inside pocket. ‘Post, keys and handbag,’ he said, busily writing.
    He stood and put on his coat: ‘Breakfast and privileged crime scene information from an impeccable source, all for free. Thanks, bro. Now, I better go and rewrite some of that copy.’

Chapter 5
    South London
    Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 20:05
    After several months on the beat together,