Alex Barclay - Darkhouse

‘Fuck you,’ said Duke. ‘You know nothin’.’

‘You’re wrong. Here’s one thing I know for sure: Mrs Duke Rawlins is with the Stinger’s Creek police department right now making some pretty serious allegations against you.’

Duke snorted. ‘BullSHIT. Now I KNOW you’re talkin’ bullshit.’

‘You might remember some murders a while back,’ said Joe, slipping into the same patterns of speech as Duke, using the same trick he used with junkies and hookers.

‘Turns out,’ said Joe, ‘your wife’s telling whoever’s gonna listen that you’re the guy they should be looking for. The Crosscut Killer. One guy. Just you. That she covered your ass for too long.’

Duke said nothing.

‘Now, why would your wife suddenly want you locked up when you’ve just gotten out?’ said Joe. ‘Maybe so’s you won’t come after her and kill her for banging your friend.’ He waited a beat. ‘It was Donnie, Duke. Your wife was fucking Donnie.’

Duke laughed loud and hard.

‘I’ve got proof,’ said Joe quickly. When Duke didn’t stop him, he continued, ‘The name Rawlins was familiar to me because your wife was there the day Donnie died. She was a witness at the wrong side of a police cordon. She had to give her name. She was searched. She had a passport. Bet you didn’t know your wife had a passport. She was there to help Donnie—’

‘What proof?’

‘The case file. Her name is on it. I have it here.’

‘Show me a look at that,’ said Duke.

‘Show me a look at my wife.’

As soon as he put down the phone, Joe sensed something behind him in the room. He turned his head slowly. Shaun stood, shaken and pale, in the doorway.

Joe stared at him. ‘How long...’

‘How long what? Could you keep lying to me?’

‘What did you hear?’

‘Where’s Mom? Who were you talking to?’ He fought back tears.

‘I’m taking care of this.’

‘What? Who’s got her? Who’s taken her? Where is she?’

‘You don’t need to know the details.’

‘Did you call the cops?’

Joe waited. ‘No.’

‘Please tell me you are kidding me,’ said Shaun.

‘Of course I’m not,’ snapped Joe. ‘I can’t bring the police into this.’

‘You’re such a hypocrite,’ said Shaun, his voice rising. ‘What’s that rule? If you don’t find them in the first twenty-four hours, forty-eight hours, whatever, it’s a recovery operation, not a rescue?’

Joe shook his head. ‘For Christ’s sake, Shaun.’

‘You make people call the cops all the time.’

‘Maybe that’s not always for the best.’

‘Yeah, if it’s Detective Joe Lucchesi who shows up at your door.’

Joe didn’t rise to it.

‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

‘I know you are.’

A stream of steady tears rolled down Shaun’s cheeks.

‘I’m tired of crying,’ he said. ‘I’m so tired. You pick up that phone, Dad. Pick it up. Pick it up!’ He lunged for it. Joe stepped forward, fighting him for it, holding it high in the air, trying to push him away.

Shaun stumbled back, horrified.

‘I can’t do it,’ said Joe. ‘I’m sorry. I cannot make that call.’

‘How are we going to get her back? What’s going to happen to her? Why Mom? What’s Mom...?’

Joe waited for what was next.

‘Oh my God. This is because of you, isn’t it?’ said Shaun. ‘Someone’s taken her and it’s because of you. No-one would be interested in a mom, but they’d be interested in a cop’s wife, wouldn’t they?’ He stopped. ‘Has this got something to do with Katie?’ He grabbed at Joe’s arm, jerking it back and forth.

‘No, no,’ said Joe. ‘Please calm down, Shaun. Please. I still have things to find out. For now, we can’t let anyone know anything about this, the cops or anyone else. Are you listening to me? It’s very important that we say nothing.’

Marcus Canney sat with his knees pulled to his chest on the floor of the cell in Waterford garda station. His legs were skinny in a pair of black nylon track pants and his white trainers were caked in mud. A green bomber jacket hung from his shoulders.

‘Mind yourself going into your bedroom,’ said O’Connor, walking in to the cell holding a neat white package. Canney looked up at him, frowning.

‘There seems to be a hole in your floorboard,’ said O’Connor. ‘Did you know you had,’ he looked at the coke, ‘about thirty grand stashed under there?’

Canney paled. ‘Go fuck yourself,’ he said.

‘I’m too busy fucking you,’ said O’Connor.

‘I’ve never seen that before in my life.’

O’Connor rolled his eyes. ‘Just tell me where you’re getting it. And why you weren’t sitting in here twelve months ago.’

Canney flashed him a look.

‘Yeah, I know,’ said O’Connor. ‘That there’s a very good reason why we haven’t caught up with you until now. So that’s what we’ll be waiting for here this morning.’

Duke turned to Anna and laughed. ‘Your husband thinks I’m some kinda retard.’ He punched his home number into Anna’s mobile. It clicked straight onto the machine and he was about to leave a message when he realised he was listening to a voice he didn’t know. ‘This number is no longer in service. Please contact...’ Duke hung up, checked the number and dialled again. He got the same message. He patted his jacket pockets, then his jeans pockets. Then he looked around the room, settling on Anna.

‘Now, where did I put my knife?’

Victor Nicotero walked up the path through the late Police Chief Ogden Parnum’s tidy garden, shrugging his shoulders so his suit jacket would hang just right. An empty folder was lodged under his left arm, his free hand aimed for the doorbell. Before he could touch it, the door swung open and a striking blonde in her late forties stood before him.

‘Who are you?’

‘Delroy Finch,’ he said, ‘FOP, Fraternal Order of Police.’

‘Oh,’ she said, her eyes downcast. ‘Come in, Mr Finch.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She led him into an old-fashioned living room, gestured to the sofa, then sat opposite him on a high-backed wicker chair.

‘First of all, Mrs Parnum, I would like to express my condolences on the loss of your husband.’

‘He wasn’t lost, Mr Finch. He shot himself in the head with a high calibre rifle. There’s no need to spare me from horrors I already know.’

‘I apologise,’ said Victor. ‘Let me get straight to the point, here. The reason for my visit is to ask you in what way you would like the Fraternal Order of Police to commemorate your husband, Mrs Parnum. We can offer you a memorial plaque...’

‘Allow me to stop you there, Mr Finch. My husband was a son of a bitch. He has left me quite a few reminders of his existence as it is and each and every one of them is a bad memory. I appreciate what you’re trying to do and I know your organisation does fine work, but some of its finest work could be done by forgetting that Chief of Police Ogden Parnum ever existed.’

‘Ma’am, again, I apologise if I’ve dredged up anything painful for you, but—’

‘No, you absolutely have not, Mr Finch. You are not the guilty party here.’

‘Tell me, Mrs Parnum. Why do you think your husband committed suicide?’

‘Because he was miserable. Because he was depressed. Because he hated himself. Because his life was unbearable. Why does anyone commit suicide?’

Victor waited.

‘There I go again,’ said Mrs Parnum. ‘Can’t help myself.’ She gave a short, nervous laugh. ‘Specifically, I don’t know why he committed suicide. He didn’t leave a note if that’s what you mean, but—’ She stopped, then looked up abruptly. ‘Why do you want to know?’