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

Clive and I had hit on just one mutual interest: food. And even then we rarely saw eye-to-eye. That evening, we pounded the streets of South London discussing which confectionery fridges best, and which shouldn’t be subjected to cooling at all.
    As he launched a passionate defence for keeping the toffee in Rolos soft – thus, unfridged – I realised that the drama of the last twenty-four hours had made me desperate to make the jump to murder squad. I’d grown frustrated wasting time mooching about in a comedy uniform, not quite knowing what we were trying to achieve. ‘Catching baddies,’ I’d initially assumed, ‘gangsters, rapists and people who mug old ladies.’ If only it were like that …
    The training at Hendon College should have given me a clue. I spent most of the six-week course learning about multiculturalism, hate crimes, best practices, paperwork and adopting multi-agency strategies. There was nothing about gathering evidence, hoofing down doors or bitch-slapping villains – surely the job’s only real attractions.
    Since then, I’d spent lots of time taking statements from battered wives who later withdrew them and from gang members who didn’t show up for court. I spent even more time taking statements from victims of vandalism / theft / assault whose complaints against known perpetrators never even made it to court. But I spent the vast majority of my time filling in a mountain of mandatory paperwork that accompanied every single recorded crime, no matter how petty. In other words, I was a uniformed response officer who spent eighty per cent of my time at a desk.
    Occasionally, we’d be knee-jerked into an initiative on the back of media pressure. Last year’s big campaign: Nike Crime. There’d been a worrying spate of young trendies getting mugged at knifepoint for their £120 Nike Air Jordan trainers. Of course, the more the media publicised Nike Crime, the worse it got, which in turn gave the media and politicians licence to grow ever more hysterical. It was a vicious cycle, or a self-fulfilling prophecy, depending on how you made your living. Before long, teenagers began to actually get knifed for their Nikes, vindicating the media frenzy and turning the spotlight directly onto the police’s failure to prevent it. The Commissioner ordered every beat officer in the capital to attend a day-long seminar on how to identify Nike-wearing trendies and defend them from knife-wielding envy. The majority of cops who turned up looked too bloated to catch a pensioner wearing flippers, let alone a lithe young shoe-jacker enhanced by recently acquired air-cushioned soles.
    I resented being dragged away from my soothing, pointless paperwork to protect spoiled teenagers. As far as I was concerned, anyone dumb enough to wear £120 trainers had it coming. I wanted to solve proper crimes, like who murdered Marion Ryan.
    After I caught Marion’s killer, I wanted to ask him: why? Why did you savagely take the life of a completely innocent woman?
Look me in the eye and explain it to me. I need to understand.
    ‘Well?’ said Clive.
    ‘What?’ I said.
    ‘Have you ever actually seen someone eating a Milky Way? You know, on the tube, or the bus?’
    I was racking my brains when the disembodied fuzz of the radio buzzed in. It was a T call to a house on Salcott Road. A suspected intruder. I realised right away – Salcott was just a stone’s throw from Sangora. Maybe Fintan was right. What if there
was
a maniac on the loose?
    ‘Fuck, it’s him,’ I said.
    ‘You what?’
    ‘Marion’s killer. I bet that’s him.’
    ‘Don’t be soft. Probably some kids …’
    ‘We’re three streets away.’
    Clive sagged petulantly, so I took off. But I kept it to a jog: I’d need some puff left if I was going to disarm any deranged psycho.
    Images of Marion flashed through my mind: the shock in her cold, dead eyes, her partially ripped-off fingernail.
    As I turned into Salcott I checked back. Good old Clive was