Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller (25 page)

Clapham Police Station, South London

Sunday, August 18, 1991; 19:00

Terry and Laura Foster were charged with the murder of Marion Ryan. Karen Foster was charged with perverting the course of justice. All three were denied bail.

Shep disappeared into his office for forty minutes, then summoned a briefing. As he outlined the case against the Fosters, he seemed flat, sickened, as if soiled by the words he was delivering.

‘Peter Ryan finally admitted today that both he and Karen Foster have a watertight alibi for the afternoon of Marion’s murder after all: from about four fifteen until six p.m. on July 1st, they were shagging in Bethan Trott’s room at the Pines care home. Of course neither of them wanted to admit it, right until the bitter end. It was only when we told Peter that we’d seized Karen’s pager and worked out all her movements from the transmitters on the day that he finally coughed. That’s not all he coughed to, but we’ll come to that later.

‘I have to be man enough at this point to say I became too focused on Karen Foster and it cost us valuable time and resources. McStay, Barratt, you were right. She didn’t murder Marion Ryan. But there was a reason why Karen kept popping up in the frame. Her own sister was trying to frame her.

‘A couple of days before the murder, Bethan Trott told Laura Foster that she was going to her mother’s after lunch that Monday, July 1st, and planned to be back by six p.m. Laura told Karen this news because Laura knew what Karen would do next: invite Peter to the room for sex that afternoon. Remember, Peter himself has said that, once he and Marion moved out of the halls in January, he and Karen preferred using Bethan’s room for their secret trysts as it was at the end of the corridor and out of sight. Karen’s room was next door to the matron’s.

‘Laura knew that Peter Ryan kept the keys to his flat in his briefcase, which was usually in the shed on the care home grounds. So, let me run through Laura Foster’s actions on the day.

‘She got home at three p.m. and told her dad Terry that Karen was being bullied at work by a woman who she wanted to “sort out”. When Terry refused to get involved, Laura threatened to tell her mum about something Terry had done to either her or one of her sisters. We might never get to the bottom of that, but it must have been pretty damning to give her that kind of leverage.

‘Terry agreed to drive Laura to the Pines in his work van, he thought to confront this woman who’d been bullying Karen. Before they left, Laura grabbed a black gym bag. When they reached the Pines, Laura told Terry to park up on the street outside and wait for her. Laura got out of the van and went inside the home. Ten to fifteen minutes later, she pulled up alongside Terry’s van in Karen’s car, wearing shades and a red top, told him to grab the gym bag and get in.

‘I will argue that Laura Foster went to the shed to retrieve the keys to Peter and Marion’s flat, then went to Karen’s room – remember, she had a key and her sister was with Peter in Bethan’s room – changed into her sister’s clothes, got hold of her sister’s car keys, car park pass and ATM card.

‘She used Karen’s pass to get out of the car park, pulled up next to Terry and told him that Karen wasn’t feeling very well. She said that the bully had already gone home and that Karen had asked them to go speak to her there. Terry got into the car with the gym bag.

‘Here’s where Laura decided to gamble. She parked just up the road from the Pines and used her sister’s bank card to withdraw ten pounds. She knew this would demolish both their alibis but had already decided that both Karen and Marion had to be taken out of the equation, and this was the only way.

‘Laura pulled up outside the Roundhouse pub. She and Terry unlocked both doors into the Ryan flat and waited for Marion, Terry behind a bedroom door, Laura up front on the landing. They must have both been wearing gloves.

‘When Terry heard Laura attack Marion he came out of his hiding place and realised Laura had stabbed her with the metal ruler he used for work. But she was still alive and she knew them both. Fearing a return to prison, he flipped and finished Marion off.

‘Laura had already packed a change of clothes for them both. She changed back into the black top she’d worn earlier, then drove them back to the clinic, dropped Terry off on the street and entered the car park. Right at the entrance, she spotted a woman emerging from reception who knew her and Karen. She stopped the car so that this woman couldn’t get a good look at her. It worked; that witness later assumed she’d seen Karen.

‘After Peter set off to clean the fish tanks, Laura got Karen out of Bethan’s room, greeted Bethan from the balcony and let her in. Laura told Bethan both she and Karen had been in her room since five. She left the gym bag in Bethan’s room because she knew she could bully and control Bethan. She had a two-hour window at that point to get the bank card, car keys, car park pass and shades back to Karen’s room, so that her sister wouldn’t suspect a thing.

‘Laura knew how crucial Bethan’s testimony would be. That’s why she put on such a show of grief when she heard the news about Marion in Bethan’s room. That’s why, the next day, she made sure Karen came with her when she retrieved the bag from Bethan’s room.

‘Laura must have been gutted when Glenn and his team ruled Karen out as a suspect. Five weeks later, when we started sniffing around, asking about Peter and Karen’s relationship, Laura saw her chance. She’d been controlling Bethan all along. Remember, she made Bethan provide the original alibi for both of them. It’s at this point it becomes clear now just how well Laura Foster has played us.

‘On the evening of the murder, Laura made sure she got Karen out of Bethan’s room before Bethan got back. By making sure Bethan didn’t see Karen, she could later prime Bethan about her “suspicions” about Karen’s involvement in the murder. Laura told Bethan about the times she’d caught Karen in her room eavesdropping on Peter and Marion. She told Bethan the hints Karen had dropped about what Peter was up to behind his wife’s back. She told Bethan about the time she saw Peter and Karen going into the shed together to have sex. She told Bethan she couldn’t shop her own sister to the police. Bethan had to pretend to be the one who’d seen and heard these things.

‘Remember the list?’

Shep produced a piece of paper from his inside pocket.

‘Bethan said she found this under her bed. It is a handwritten list of all the presents Peter bought Marion for her birthday in October last year, with the words “sick sick sick” scrawled at the bottom. Remember, this single sheet of paper set us on the trail of Karen and led to us finding out about the affair with Peter and Marion’s plans to move to Ireland. Well, guess what? I’ve had this examined. The list was written by Laura Foster.

‘I’ve just spoken to Bethan Trott. It took me ten minutes to convince her Laura was in custody before she’d open up. She admitted providing the sisters with the original alibi because she was scared of Laura. Once she’d told that lie, Laura had the power to make her tell more. It seems like Laura was especially proficient at playing “good cop, bad cop”. On one hand, she told Bethan that she was doing the right thing by leading the police to Marion’s killer, Karen. On the other hand, she threatened to expose her original lie if she didn’t go along with everything Laura said. Bethan was so scared of being charged with perverting the course of justice, and so scared of Laura, that she did exactly as she was told.’

I thought back to Shep’s bullying of Bethan during her interview: we’d played right into Laura’s hands.

Shep took a breather, pacing about to reflect on the course of events.

‘So why did Karen keep lying? Did Karen know that Laura and Terry were going to Marion’s home to “sort her out” that afternoon? I will argue that she didn’t. Terry only made the decision that day on the spur of the moment. It all comes back to Laura. She wanted Karen out of the way so she could frame her for the murder.

‘Did Laura tell Karen what happened afterwards? How it had all got out of hand? Of course not. She was too busy framing her. Did Karen or Peter suspect that her sister and dad had murdered Marion? Again, I don’t think it’s a line worth pursuing.

‘One thing is certain: Karen never suspected that her own sister was trying to set her up. All Karen feared was the exposure of her affair with Peter and how it might look. That’s why she stuck to the alibi that she and Laura had been shopping that day. Laura would have assured her, over and over: they can’t get you for this because you didn’t do it. But she also drummed into Karen what she’d already used to brainwash Bethan: “All they can get us for now is lying, so we must stick to our stories.” So they did.’

Shep stopped walking, frowned and turned: ‘You know something, if we hadn’t found Laura’s trainer print on the flat door at 21, we never would have cracked this case. When I asked Peter Ryan how Laura’s shoe print might have got there he exhibited, for the first time in this whole sorry episode, a tinsy slither of shame. After six weeks pissing us about, he suddenly came clean: the day before the murder, while Marion was visiting her folks in Enfield, he fucked Laura Foster in their bedroom, in their sitting room, in their kitchen, in their bathroom and, on her way out, against the flat door.’

The Roundhouse Pub, South London

Sunday, August 18, 1991; 20:00

I called Lilian from the Roundhouse pub and told her I had big news. She told me she’d be there in fifteen minutes.

The rest of the team were in the Falcon. I’d join them later, after I tied up my life’s loose ends.

I ordered another pint and thought about everything that had happened over the past seven weeks. I was in no doubt that Marion’s spirit had directed me to two key clues in the case. The first had been Karen’s unwitting admission that she’d parked twice near Marion’s home on the day of the murder. From that point on, I knew Marion had been steering me towards her killers, I’d simply guessed the wrong one.

Had she not persisted in pointing me towards the door to her flat, we never would have made the breakthrough with Laura’s trainer. It was illogical, an affront to science. But it was true.

I thought about poor Samantha and Jazmine Bisset. Why hadn’t they come to me? I resolved to do all I could to help them, even if it meant returning to the scene of their murders and risking the wrath of their restless souls. Whatever I’d suffer would pale in comparison to the warped depravity of their wretched deaths.

My thoughts then turned to Meehan, three long years ago. What the hell had he wanted with me? Would I ever get to the bottom of the event that started this whole thing? Had he somehow opened up this channel to me from the other side?

Lilian turned up, humanised by free-flowing hair and a yellow summer dress. She smiled and threw me a little hand wave, both catching me by surprise.

We got straight down to business. I felt empowered relaying my extraordinary story as she wrote feverishly, obediently recording every detail. When I finished milking the udders of my undoubtedly unique gift, I asked her what she thought.

‘I’ve already written most of the paper,’ she announced breathlessly, ‘the only thing missing is you uncovering hard evidence as a direct result of a sleep paralysis episode. This is the missing link, but I can finish it now. I really think I might be able to get it published.’

‘Can I read it, when you’re done?’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘And just so we’re straight on this, you’re definitely not revealing my identity.’

‘I promised,’ she sighed. ‘I call you The Empathist, because you clearly identify with these victims. It’s like you feel their agony.’

‘The Empathist,’ I said, giving it a good roll around my mouth, ‘I like it.’

Then, adopting film trailer gravitas, I announced: ‘In a world where tormented souls seek justice, one man offers hope.’

Lilian laughed, properly. It felt like my biggest breakthrough yet, so I ploughed on, genetically compelled to spoil a good gag: ‘Paramount pictures presents: The Empathist.’

Cue dead-joke awkward silence. I should have bailed out when I was on top.

‘So what now, Doc?’

She took a deep breath: ‘Well, I’ve done all I can do for you, clinically speaking.’

‘So I am no longer your patient?’

‘I am no longer your psychologist,’ she announced, holding out her hand. I smiled and shook it.

‘My God,’ I thought to myself, ‘this woman knows the real me and doesn’t seem to hate me or find me terrifying. And now, just like that, our relationship is over. I’ve confided in her, spilled my guts. I can’t just let her slip away.’

‘So, you’ve done all you can for me clinically,’ I teased, ‘but I think there’s still work to be done, emotionally. I’m not at all well in that department.’

This silence felt less awkward, more cringing. Finally, Lilian reached for her drink, then changed her mind.

‘I’d really like to get to know you better, Donal,’ she said, choosing her words carefully, ‘I think you’re a really nice guy.’

I stopped myself saying
but
? She’d clearly figured this all out already.

‘There are strict rules about this sort of thing. The Association expressly forbids us from starting any kind of relationship with a patient until at least two years after we’ve finished treating them. Even a friendship.’

My brain recoiled: two years? Two. Whole. Years. ‘But you weren’t treating me. I was helping you,’ I argued, a little too pleadingly.

‘But if my paper gets published, and they find out I’m involved with the patient, no one would take my research seriously. There’s a good chance I’d get struck off before I even qualify. I can’t risk that.’

‘Fine, then. I’m withdrawing my permission.’

That felt good.

‘What?’

‘Listen, Lilian, I’ve made up my mind, I don’t want you to publish anything about me or my condition.’

‘What? Oh my God. So this is the real you, is it, Donal? You try it on with me and when I turn you down you … fuck me over?’

She wanted me to say no. I couldn’t.

‘Well I’m glad I got to see the real you before anything more developed.’

‘Yeah well, you give yourself a big slap on the back for working that much out, Doctor. What a brilliant reader of minds you are. Like I said, I’m expressly forbidding you from publishing anything about me and my condition.’

‘It’s too late for that, Donal,’ she said, quietly but firmly, holding my glare.

‘What?’

‘That day you first came to me, you signed a waiver which permits me to publish anything about your treatment, providing I don’t identify you.’

My mind rewound to that first appointment, those papers.

‘You can’t do that … I have rights.’

‘Oh I can, Donal,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘and I will. Here.’

She snatched a file out of her bag, slung it on the table and stomped off.

‘Hang on, Lilian,’ I called, leaping to my feet and scaring the shit out of the Roundhouse regulars.

‘Lilian?’ I roared, as the final person who cared about me left the building.

I opened the file and found her cover note. In psychotically neat handwriting, Lilian explained how she’d failed to get hold of my medical records but, remembering that Mum is insomniac, applied and received hers from Tullamore General Hospital. She warned that the file contains a lot of information about my traumatic birth. Her conclusion: ‘I really think you should get a CT scan on your skull AT ONCE, to check for intracranial pressure which is a common cause of severe insomnia.’

She’d added pink Post-it notes in the relevant areas, helpfully explaining the content. This exercise must have taken her at least a couple of hours. I started to feel bad.

The headlines: I came out of my mother too quickly, too early. She’d suffered perineum and rectal tearing (no explanation given, nor sought) and life-threatening blood loss. She was found unconscious on the kitchen floor and required intensive care treatment. A surgeon had to re-open her cervix by hand to release the placenta.

Had I finally found the root of my dad’s contempt for me? I’d almost killed his wife, probably killed their love life and killed stone dead the chance of more children. In all likelihood, Martin had to explain himself to the local priest, who’d be wondering why there wasn’t a conveyor belt of Lynches.

Because of the speed of my exit, I suffered a suspected diastatic fracture to my lambdoid suture. Lilian’s microscopic, precise notes explained that the skull is made up of eight cranial bones, separated by fibrous joints called sutures that fully close at different stages of your life. The lambdoid suture is the one that runs horizontally around the back of your skull – about halfway – and should fully close by the time you reach forty. Lilian explained that a diastatic fracture may have caused a widening of the lambdoid suture, and that I should get this checked out.

Through the pub chatter wafted those words from my youth.

If you stand between the window and the body during this time, then God help you.

Had this spider-web fault line in my skull acted as some sort of spirit catcher for restless souls seeking peace? Was my brain a living purgatory for the pilgrim spirits of the recent dead?

Another Post-it explained that I’d suffered craniosynostosis, caused when other sutures close too quickly. This causes pressure in the skull, which can lead to extreme headaches and sleeping problems.

Another typed column showed that Mum was first prescribed benzodiazepine sleeping tablets four months after my birth. And since then she’d been prescribed a Latin phrasebook of pharmaceuticals – which she still took to this day. I’d read how over-prescription of these pills in the Seventies and Eighties led to thousands of middle-aged addicts suffering depression, painful withdrawal and, ironically, insomnia.

The horror sank in quickly. I had been the root cause of Mum’s insomnia and need for drugs, drugs that exacerbated her insomnia so that it was now killing her. No wonder Dad hated me.

Poor Mum had never told me any of this, or ever blamed me. I managed not to burst out crying until I got to the loo.

I paged Shep and told him to meet me at the Roundhouse, right now.

I leaned forward and felt the reassuring weight of the bar pushing back, my hands enjoying its cool smoothness. I was ready.

‘That was a masterstroke about the trainers, Lynch. How did you even think of that?’ said Shep, clambering upon a stool beside me.

For once, I didn’t feel myself redden.

‘I’ve been really impressed with your work, son. Stick with me and you could go far.’

My drained, streaked-white Guinness glass needed no cue. He ordered another and a double Glenfiddich for himself. Again, he eschewed anything that might give his drink a leisurely twist. Water, say, or a cube of ice. I doubted that Shep ever did anything simply for pleasure: every action had to somehow reinforce his image of himself. Shep was basically a socially-adjusted psychopath, like Fintan.

He raised his drink: ‘Here’s to a very important pair of collars,’ he said, and I clinked.

He took a sip. I took a long draw, relishing the burnt-barley taste, toasting my burnt ties.

As we sat there side-by-side, Shep intertwined his fingers and started twirling his thumbs. I imagined the cogs in his brain grinding hard, working out his next play.

‘We have a problem,’ Shep finally said, glancing over to me.

‘If this is about Fintan’s story,’ I started, but Shep put his hand on my arm, indicating that I should shut up.

He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. He laid it out on the bar in front of me.

‘What’s this?’ I asked.

‘Phone records,’ said Shep, ‘from the incident room. The records show you rang the
Sunday News
at 4.23 p.m. yesterday.’

My mind flashed back: getting the note to call Fintan, his insistence that he hadn’t left any such message.

‘How do you know it was me?’

‘Because the receptionist has confirmed that you were the only member of the team who stayed behind. She watched you making the call. She heard you say Fintan’s name.’

Round one to Shep.

I suppressed my swelling rage. I had to box clever here, play Shep at his own game. I picked up the records and scoured them. There it was, in black and white, the record of my call to Fintan’s direct line.

I stuck to the facts: ‘It says the call lasted less than a minute, hardly enough time for me to pass on a thoroughly detailed story. Not to mention copies of her statement and a wedding video.’

Shep had already thought of this, of course: ‘But enough time to arrange a meeting. Did you meet Fintan on Saturday evening?’

I said nothing, but realised he’d trapped me.

‘If you did, then it doesn’t look very good for you, does it, Lynch?’

Shep was now doing to me what he’d done to the Fosters. He was building a case piecemeal, skilfully creating a comprehensive picture out of fragments of truth and supposition. Jigsaw Justice.

He likes to own people. All of the guys in his team owe him in some way.

‘I got a message to call him, Guv. I didn’t speak to him about this case. I’ve never spoken to him about any case. And I didn’t leak him Karen’s statement or the wedding video. I’ve never had access to the exhibits cupboard.’

‘Everyone knows where the key to that cupboard is,’ spat Shep.

Shep scooped up the phone record sheet and presented it to me: ‘There is only one other copy, which I’ve put in a very safe place. Feel free to destroy this.’

‘Why would you do this for me, Guv?’

‘Let’s just say you owe me a favour,’ he said.

Shep picks up waifs and strays and turns them into his bitches.

I had two choices. I could take the phone record sheet, keep the peace and learn a vital lesson about how Shep operated. Or I could show him that I wasn’t prepared to be anybody’s bitch. I had plenty of dirt on him now. When I had pinned Fintan against his bachelor pad earlier today, he finally coughed about how the racket at the Feathers worked. How he and Shep worked.

Fintan admitted that Seamus – the pub manager – had been acting as a middle man between him and his police sources for about four months, passing messages and money. It soon transpired that Seamus was a double agent, also working for Shep, who knew about every single officer on Fintan’s payroll.

Fintan had expected Shep to put an end to the racket, maybe even press charges. Instead, Shep approached each officer on the take and let them know he could destroy their careers. Before long, Shep was in control of the whole racket, deciding what these officers would and wouldn’t leak. Shep never made a penny out of it. But he took down a few rivals and ducked a few scandals.

Shep owned their arses. Now he thought he could own mine.

‘I know you leaked the story to Fintan,’ I said.

Shep’s reflex turn gave him away.

‘I’d be very careful, making unsubstantiated claims like that, Lynch,’ Shep said slowly, menacingly.

‘I followed you yesterday. I saw you meeting Fintan, here.’

‘Lynch, I’d strongly advise you to stop right there. That is an outrageous allegation.’

‘Do you remember when you walked out of here? You saw a taxi over there, to your left? You started to hail it, then stopped when you realised he didn’t have his light on. I was in the back of that taxi.’