Read Online The Dead (The Saxon & Fitzgerald Mysteries Book 1) by Ingrid Black - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ingrid Black
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why, isn’t that what they say? Ours is but to do and die? And I won’t always be the department dogsbody. They say it’s only till I find my feet in Murder. Besides, you’re not just any interfering outsider. From what I hear, you used to be FBI.’
‘Seven years. Not that long. I’ve spent longer out of it than in, but yeah, that’s what I did. Plus I used to know Ed Fagan, knew him well, that’s why I’ve been roped into looking through this lot.’
As if they could’ve stopped me.
‘Looking for clues,’ he said. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.
‘Looking for patterns,’ I said. ‘There’s always patterns, always connections. It’s only a question of sorting out what’s important from what’s not. Let’s hope it’s here.’
I mustn’t have sounded very hopeful, because he immediately asked: ‘Is this not what you wanted? I brought copies of everything that was there.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Just wondering where to start is all. What about you? What’ve they got you doing?’
‘Me?’ said Boland. ‘I’m tagging along with the Chief Super in half an hour to talk to the man who found the body.’
‘The dog-walker.’
‘That’s the boy. Stephens, you call him. Matt Stephens.’
‘I thought he was already interviewed.’
‘He was taken down last night to make a formal statement. Now it turns out that he hangs out with some group who patrol the streets round there at nights trying to reform prostitutes, bring them back to Jesus, only he didn’t mention that in his statement. A uniform came through with the information a couple of hours ago. He recognised the name, put two and two together. The Chief Super wants to follow it up straightaway.’
‘Sounds promising.’
‘Detective Dalton reckons they just like hanging round red-light districts,’ Boland said. ‘He thinks they get off on it.’
‘He’s probably right. They could bring anybody back to Jesus if they wanted. Gamblers, shoplifters, even lawyers if they fancied a real challenge.’ Boland smiled at that. Cops always appreciated a joke at the expense of the enemy. ‘But it’s hookers every time. Next best thing to picking one up, maybe. Cheaper too.’
‘They even have an office in one of the streets backing on to the canal,’ Boland said. ‘Registered charity, if you can credit it. That’s where he’s arranged to be interviewed again. I think he was hoping there’d be safety in numbers. What’re they called now?’
He struggled for a name.
‘The Blessed Order of Mary,’ I helped him out. ‘I’ve heard of them.’
As I spoke, a thought flashed into my mind. Blessed Order of Mary . . . Mary Lynch . . . I wondered if that was significant.
Another hidden message, like the bottle?
I’d bring it up with Fitzgerald next time we spoke.
‘You’d better be on your way,’ was all I said to Boland. ‘You don’t want to be late.’
Once Boland had gone, I sat down with the boxes and started going through them, slowly, methodically, file by file, page by page.
Basically I was looking for any evidence there might be of Mary Lynch’s killer having struck before. Premeditated, ritualistic murder was rarely the first act. Rather it was the culmination of a process which might have taken years to come into shape, moving inexorably through increasing levels of brutality, audacity, cunning, to its final flowering. Mary Lynch’s killer was unlikely to be any different. He’d be in here somewhere, I was sure of it, refining the fantasy, rehearsing for Mary, waiting his chance. I started with murders all the same. It seemed the obvious place.
Only three prostitutes, I soon learned, had been murdered since Ed Fagan’s day (only three? What was I saying? Three was a universe), and two of those could be quickly discounted.
The first, Susan Levy, had died, along with her two-year old son, in a fire at her high-rise on the Northside of the city. Petrol had been poured through the letterbox and
‘Seven years. Not that long. I’ve spent longer out of it than in, but yeah, that’s what I did. Plus I used to know Ed Fagan, knew him well, that’s why I’ve been roped into looking through this lot.’
As if they could’ve stopped me.
‘Looking for clues,’ he said. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.
‘Looking for patterns,’ I said. ‘There’s always patterns, always connections. It’s only a question of sorting out what’s important from what’s not. Let’s hope it’s here.’
I mustn’t have sounded very hopeful, because he immediately asked: ‘Is this not what you wanted? I brought copies of everything that was there.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Just wondering where to start is all. What about you? What’ve they got you doing?’
‘Me?’ said Boland. ‘I’m tagging along with the Chief Super in half an hour to talk to the man who found the body.’
‘The dog-walker.’
‘That’s the boy. Stephens, you call him. Matt Stephens.’
‘I thought he was already interviewed.’
‘He was taken down last night to make a formal statement. Now it turns out that he hangs out with some group who patrol the streets round there at nights trying to reform prostitutes, bring them back to Jesus, only he didn’t mention that in his statement. A uniform came through with the information a couple of hours ago. He recognised the name, put two and two together. The Chief Super wants to follow it up straightaway.’
‘Sounds promising.’
‘Detective Dalton reckons they just like hanging round red-light districts,’ Boland said. ‘He thinks they get off on it.’
‘He’s probably right. They could bring anybody back to Jesus if they wanted. Gamblers, shoplifters, even lawyers if they fancied a real challenge.’ Boland smiled at that. Cops always appreciated a joke at the expense of the enemy. ‘But it’s hookers every time. Next best thing to picking one up, maybe. Cheaper too.’
‘They even have an office in one of the streets backing on to the canal,’ Boland said. ‘Registered charity, if you can credit it. That’s where he’s arranged to be interviewed again. I think he was hoping there’d be safety in numbers. What’re they called now?’
He struggled for a name.
‘The Blessed Order of Mary,’ I helped him out. ‘I’ve heard of them.’
As I spoke, a thought flashed into my mind. Blessed Order of Mary . . . Mary Lynch . . . I wondered if that was significant.
Another hidden message, like the bottle?
I’d bring it up with Fitzgerald next time we spoke.
‘You’d better be on your way,’ was all I said to Boland. ‘You don’t want to be late.’
Once Boland had gone, I sat down with the boxes and started going through them, slowly, methodically, file by file, page by page.
Basically I was looking for any evidence there might be of Mary Lynch’s killer having struck before. Premeditated, ritualistic murder was rarely the first act. Rather it was the culmination of a process which might have taken years to come into shape, moving inexorably through increasing levels of brutality, audacity, cunning, to its final flowering. Mary Lynch’s killer was unlikely to be any different. He’d be in here somewhere, I was sure of it, refining the fantasy, rehearsing for Mary, waiting his chance. I started with murders all the same. It seemed the obvious place.
Only three prostitutes, I soon learned, had been murdered since Ed Fagan’s day (only three? What was I saying? Three was a universe), and two of those could be quickly discounted.
The first, Susan Levy, had died, along with her two-year old son, in a fire at her high-rise on the Northside of the city. Petrol had been poured through the letterbox and
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