The Game Changer (2 page)

He gripped the envelope that contained the tightly bundled cash in his pocket, ten thousand pounds in large notes, and the term
guilt money
came to mind. He stopped walking, retreating instead under the town-hall archway. Out of sight, his eyes fixed on Leinster Road, opposite him, second-guessing the direction from which his late rendezvous would come. The wrought-iron amber streetlamps created circular pockets of light on the ground.

He heard the man’s footsteps before he saw him, disappearing
and reappearing within the circles of orange light, the encounter getting closer with each step. It would be over soon, he told himself. Give him the money and that would be it. He recognised his co-conspirator before he saw his face, crossing Rathmines Road with apparent arrogance as Valentine pulled further into the dark. The man was barely half his age, early twenties, with the swagger that younger males possess, a confidence born of ignorance and too much testosterone. Still, he thought, any port in a storm. He clenched his fists, part of him wanting to hit out at someone, anyone. He hated feeling vulnerable, and the sense that the power was in the hands of another.

As the men came face to face, they kept their silence for a couple of seconds, the younger man waiting as the older one finally stepped out from the darkness onto the smog-filled street.

‘Lovely night,’ the younger man said, with too much vigour for Valentine’s liking.

Valentine pulled the scarf down from his face. ‘You took your time,’ he said, sounding cold and indignant.

‘I told you I’d be here, and here I am.’

‘You told me a lot of things.’ ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’ The young man coughed, covering his mouth with his hand.

‘Is that what you are now, Malcolm, a messenger?’

‘Do you have the cash?’

‘I do.’

‘If you want things sorted, you’ll need to pay.’

‘Can we trust them?’

‘To stay quiet, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you prefer to run the risk of not paying?’

‘No.’ Valentine took out the envelope of cash and handed it to his collaborator. ‘We won’t be discussing this again. Do you understand?’

‘I do.’

May 2015
NEW YORK

GLITTERING MOONLIGHT CAUGHT A FERRYBOAT travelling along the East River, the light cutting through nightfall as the streetlights of the Lower East Side and the interconnecting city exit roads and highways danced in the remaining darkness.

It had been a killing like no other, Detective Lee Fisher had reflected for the umpteenth time. The bloodied room holding the chopped-up remains of Tom Mason was one of the worst crime scenes he had ever witnessed. He used to think he had seen too many goddam killings for any of them to be extraordinary, but he had been wrong-footed this time, nothing surer.

He liked to walk at night. The exercise always helped him to think during a difficult investigation, when the city felt like an extension of his mind, pensive, partly mysterious, full of urban mutterings and capable of surprising itself. Soon, he would take the thirty-minute subway ride home to Brooklyn, but for now, he breathed in deep, the smell of nicotine lingering in the air. Smoking was one of his guilty pleasures, but he only ever lit up at night and outdoors. More than once, people had referred to him as bohemian: he was tall and slender, with near-shoulder-length curly dark-chestnut hair, a tight-cut beard, and the air of a wise rebel.

Two months earlier, when he had arrived at the corner of Orchard and Rivington Street, he was unaware that the 911 call would result in something more horrific than he had ever witnessed. The building he had stood in front of was six storeys high with a red stone façade and an upscale trendy boutique at the bottom. Access to the upper floors had been via a communal hallway to the side, with a fire exit at the back on each floor. He remembered a time when that part of the Lower East Side was filled with immigrants, a working-class neighbourhood. Rapid gentrification in the mid-2000s meant the place had changed, with inhabitants possessing far bigger bank balances.

The victim was male, Irish, late sixties, unmarried and retired. He had lived in the US since ’92, an ex-small-time local politician who had stayed well away from politics in Manhattan, from what Lee could gather. Instead, he had concentrated on working as a financial adviser and part-owner of a chain of boutiques, including the one located on the ground floor of the building. There was nothing particularly interesting about Tom Mason, described as a quiet man who kept himself to himself. The official cause of death was heart failure, brought on by loss of blood and shock, but the attacker had wanted more than the victim’s death: they had wanted to ensure maximum pain by chopping him to pieces. According to the medical examiner, the killer had started with the victim’s fingers, then severed both arms. The toes were next, the heart finally packing in before both legs were amputated from the upper thigh.

The term ‘in bits’ seemed to fall short of an accurate description, but ‘in bits’ was how Lee saw the investigation, a chaotic cocktail of anger, determination and the ability to administer pain with clinical and methodical application, necessitating a calm head on the part of whoever had butchered the man’s body. The victim had been gagged, but other than some neighbours reporting a loud version of what Lee had later discovered to be Beethoven’s Symphony No 5, Op. 67 (first movement), playing and replaying from the music centre in the apartment, nobody had noticed anything unusual. The vast array of blood, guts and body parts found at the scene, coupled with the putrid smell of death – Tom Mason’s body had been discovered two days after he was slaughtered – was like an ocean in comparison to the tiny droplets of forensic evidence they had found. Everything at the scene had been traced back to the victim, or the home help, who had discovered the body after the weekend – everything, that was, except one tiny unidentified swab taken from the tip of a pen used to create the incision lines.

Lee had been long enough in the game to realise that some investigations had the hallmark of being unsolved right from the
beginning, although on this occasion the killer had left a note. Scrawled in blood on the bathroom mirror, using the severed index finger of the deceased, were the words: ‘HE SAW THE LIGHT’. A religious fanatic, they had surmised, but either way, as Lee inhaled the last of his cigarette, there was one thing he was sure of. Solving this crime would take another killing or killings. It was simply a question of who the next victim would be, and where and when the crime would take place.

Part One

September 2015
DUBLIN

KATE AWOKE AS SOON AS SHE HEARD ADAM’S MOBILE phone ringing. It was a few hours since the two of them had made love, and it still felt good lying close to him. As he reached out to take the call, coldness set in between them: she watched his body turn away from her, the room dark except for the light from the streetlamp outside. As he moved, she saw shadows bounce from one side of the room to the other, and for the briefest moment, he reminded her of her late father, Valentine. Both were complicated men, but poles apart in so many ways.

The next sound she heard was the creaking of branches, the tentacles of the whitethorn tree, sporadically tipping the apartment window. She checked her own phone – 2 a.m. The time could mean only one thing: an emergency call from Harcourt Street Special Detective Unit. She didn’t say anything, at least not at first, observing Adam as he got dressed on autopilot, pulling his white shirt over his head. He only ever opened the cuff and top two front buttons – all shortcuts to save time. With his back hunched, he pulled up his trousers, closing the belt tight as he straightened before attaching the gun belt across his chest, like a silent shadow in the dark. She couldn’t even hear him breathe.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, sitting up in the bed. ‘I’m already awake.’ Her voice was low and croaky from sleep.

His shadow shifted, and the streetlamp caught his smile. He whispered in her ear, ‘Two light sleepers living together may not be the best of plans.’

She had already switched on the bedside light. ‘You’re the one who told me planning was overrated.’ It was her turn to smile.

‘What’s up?’ She’d kept her voice low, not wanting to wake seven-year-old Charlie, in the other room.

‘Some guy has topped himself.’ He said it so matter-of-factly that she wondered if, after years in the police force, death was eventually diluted for everyone. Standing at the end of the bed, he raised his shirt collar to wrap his tie around his neck, still going through the motions, like a fireman putting on his uniform with no time to waste.

‘What else do you know?’ She was now curious.

‘He isn’t any guy.’ He pulled the tie tight. ‘It’s the chief super’s brother-in-law – or, rather, late brother-in-law.’

‘Do they think it’s suspicious?’

‘Too early to tell, but one way or another, Kate, it means trouble.’ He kissed her softly on the lips.

‘Be careful,’ she murmured. ‘Try to get some sleep. I won’t be long.’ His words sounded reassuring as he pulled the bedroom door closed.

Turning off the light, she listened to his car pull away from the kerb, the rest of the quiet Ranelagh suburb long since fast asleep. She thought about the other partners of police officers out there, especially those with families. What a different life it was from any other.

A few moments later, when she heard the low whimper, she thought it was a stray cat outside, but as it got louder, she sat up again: it was coming from Charlie’s bedroom. She bounded down the hallway and opened his door, her voice gentle as she entered. He was still half asleep. ‘It’s okay, honey. Mum’s here.’

She didn’t switch on his light, hoping he would settle. Even in the darkness she could make out his small shape, his knees raised to his chest. He was wearing his favourite Spider-Man pyjamas.

‘Shush, honey.’ Her right hand touched his hot cheek. The other rubbed his shoulder in the familiar motion she used to lull him back to sleep. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart, you were only dreaming.’

She climbed into his bed, her words seeming to ease whatever
had frightened him. His face became less troubled, turning into her, the way children do. All she could think of was him as a baby, round and soft, with wisps of hair, and that intoxicating baby smell, the one that grabbed you like no other and never let you go. Examining the contours of his face, his small hands, the fingers clenched in sleep, she felt as if she was reliving every day of the last seven years – she’d never known she could love anyone so much.

Within the stillness, she also knew she would stay awake now, listening out for Adam coming home. At first, she’d been hesitant about him moving in, apprehensive about taking that next step. They had agreed to try it one day at a time. Four months in, she wondered where the time had gone. It had started with him staying over only at weekends, then towards the end of the summer, with Charlie taking it so well, it had made sense to create a more permanent living arrangement. So far it had worked out, and even Declan, Charlie’s father, had accepted that she and Adam were now on a more permanent footing.

She also thought about her decision to take a step back from work, partly wanting to spend more time with Charlie. It had been one of the best choices she had made. She’d known she would enjoy being at home, even for a short while, but another part of her was surprised by it. Ocean House, where she operated her psychology practice, understood her reducing her hours, although it hadn’t been her work there that had put her life at risk. That had been down to Adam, and the Special Detective Unit. Kate had spent three years profiling killers for the police, which had opened up a world that previously she couldn’t have imagined. The scars of the last case were still there, and the biggest one, how close she had come to losing her life and leaving Charlie without a mother, still played on her mind. Adam had encouraged her decision to step back, both of them knowing she needed this time.

The main players at Harcourt Street were fine about it too, and with Adam working there, she was still in touch with things, even if it was at arm’s length. The officers who had finished their profiling
training were doing well – at least, as far as she had heard from Adam. She was suspicious that he was telling her what she wanted to hear, but for now, she was happy to go with the flow.

She stroked Charlie’s hair, the only sound in the bedroom the ticking of his Mickey Mouse alarm clock. Not working with Adam, she thought, had probably made it easier for their relationship to move forward. But it was good that they both understood the pressure of two or three critical investigations landing on your desk at once. She looked at the clock: 3 a.m. Hopefully, Adam would be back soon and able to grab some sleep.

The last few months had been hectic for him too, and the long nights hadn’t helped his erratic relationship with his estranged teenage son. He had the same first name as his father, initially confusing when he and Charlie were first introduced. But young Adam didn’t show the same hostility towards Charlie that he displayed towards his father, instead telling Charlie to call him Addy, like his friends did.

Adam was so different from her ex-husband, Declan, and even though some of her friends thought Declan was more in tune with his emotions, and that Adam was like the proverbial bull in a china shop, Kate knew otherwise. After all, it was Adam who had supported her decision to take things easier. Declan’s reaction had surprised her, until she understood that, the more time she spent with their son, the more Declan fretted that his relationship with Charlie would lessen, especially with him working permanently in Birmingham.