James Nally - Dance With the Dead - A PC Donal Lynch Thriller

We’ll find our way

We’re sailing blind

But it’s certain, nothing’s certain

‘Turn off that shite,’ roared Fintan from his room. I knew he’d have to surface for a piss now too. He’d been in a worse state than me, having spent all day with his cop contacts, slumped over some bar like slugs in a saucer of booze.

We’d wordlessly devised a morning routine that kept us apart, leaving our hangovers free to fester in peace. But my older brother’s success as a crime reporter owed much to his unabashed familiarity with London’s carnal underbelly. ‘Vice Admiral Lynch’ they called him. And worse.

So, as he staggered out of the gloom, squinting like Barabbas and scratching his expense-account gut, I seized my chance; ‘I suppose you know that Finsbury Park has its very own red-light district around Brownswood Road?’

‘Well, I thought it best not to tell you –’ he yawned ‘– I’ve seen your patter with the ladies. I didn’t want you getting knocked back by a Skeeger. That could push you over the edge.’

‘A Skeeger?’

‘Yeah, you know, a raspberry. A toss-up. A rock star.’

‘Sorry, Fintan, I don’t speak Snoop Dogg. What are you on about?’

‘Crack hoe?’

‘What, the city in Poland?’

‘No, ya fucking eejit. Crack whores. That’s what they are down there. They sell sex for rocks of crack. Desperate skanks really.’

‘Ooh.’ I heard myself blanche.

‘It’s small scale, probably about a dozen girls. I can’t believe you don’t know about it.’

‘I’m not a vice cop,’ I protested. ‘It’s never been mentioned in any of my cases.’

‘All I know is it’s the scrag end of the game. Guess what the going rate for full sex is?’ he asked, hosing down the porcelain.

‘I wouldn’t have the first idea,’ I said. ‘Hey, this is like a sordid version of The Price is Right , you know, higher, higher …’

‘Or “The Vice is Right”, except my advice would be lower, lower. Fifteen quid for full sex. Fiver for a blow job. Ten without a johnny. I mean, sweet Jesus, most of them don’t have any teeth left. Can you imagine?’

I couldn’t but, as he vigorously shook his cock, Fintan seemed to be having no trouble at all …

‘Putting your unbagged member into one of those scabby gobs? Jesus, you’d have to be one sick pup. Or desperate.’

‘At least the men have a choice,’ I said.

‘Ah, don’t give me that old liberal shit,’ he harrumphed, rinsing his hands. ‘Why slave on your feet in McDonald’s or a factory all day when you can earn a fortune lying on your back? They know the dangers. No one forces them to do it.’

‘Violent pimps?’ I felt tempted to say but I knew it’d be pointless. Fintan’s binary outlook on life was crucial to his job. In a world where everything had to be explained in 300 words or less, black and white barely had space to tangle, leaving no room for tedious grey.

‘Are they all crack heads then?’ I asked.

‘Jesus, you’d hope so. What else would reduce them to that? Anyway, why are you asking?’

‘They’ve found a body near Brownswood. They want me to take a look, see if it tallies with any of the unsolved cases I’ve been looking at.’

‘What, you mean the other whacked hookers?’

I bristled. ‘The women who were murdered who happened to be on the game, yes. They’re still human beings, Fintan, you know … somebody’s sister, somebody’s daughter.’

‘Yeah, but let’s not idealise these girls. None of them were in the running for Nobel Prizes, were they? Or doing charity work? Most of them ended up on the streets because they got kicked out of even the scuzziest massage parlours for stealing from the other girls, or punters or taking drugs.’

‘Jeez, maybe you could say a few words at this girl’s funeral.’

‘Well, at least it’s a fresh body for you, Donal. At last …’

‘Yep,’ I said dismissively.

‘Your first since …’

‘Yes,’ I cut in again.

‘Wow,’ he said, his tone of false wonder mocking me, ‘I wonder if you still have the gift ?’

‘That stuff’s all in the past,’ I snapped at his hatefully-curled top lip. ‘I had the treatment. I got the all-clear. End of.’

But Fintan could never resist twisting a well-anchored knife: ‘But what if she comes to you, you know, after you see her body this morning? What will you do then?’

‘Well, I won’t be telling you or anyone else about it,’ I spat.

‘God, you still believe in it, don’t you?’ he laughed. Then, all serious: ‘Just make sure you don’t start spouting off about spirits again. That whole thing was a real fucking embarrassment. For all of us.’

‘Like I said, nothing to see here.’

‘Good. Give me two minutes and I’ll drive you over. I haven’t had a decent show in weeks and, as it’s on our doorstep, well … you never know.’

‘Don’t worry Fint, I could use the walk …’

‘Two minutes …’

That was Fintan these days, walking, talking, plotting faster than ever. No time to take ‘no’ for an answer; feeling real heat. God knows what he’d promised to secure promotion to Chief Crime Reporter at the Sunday News . But now he had to deliver, scoop after scoop. ‘Exclusives’ were his crack fix. The pimps on his news desk knew just how to keep him hooked, hungry and hounded so that he’d do anything for the next hit.

What a time to suffer his first barren patch. I sensed every fibre of him rattling, like a desperate junkie. Random parts of his body had taken to pulsating, hinting at imminent combustion; that vein on his left temple, his cheek muscles, a restless right foot.

‘You’re only as good as your next story,’ he’d started to joke, which is why I felt confused right now. The murder of a street hooker – no matter how spectacularly blood-curdling – would never make it into Britain’s bestselling weekly. The Sunday News revelled in its own cheerful, saucy-seaside-postcard venality, boasting a weekly roll call of randy vicars, love-rat footballers, showbiz/royal tittle-tattle, and bingo. Had this victim been a high-class call girl with a black book of celebrity clients, I’d understand his enthusiasm.

I had to assume he was sizing it up purely on spec, out of sheer desperation. And a desperate Fintan spelt atrocious tabloid capers. Last time, it nearly cost me my job. And my life.

‘Come on,’ he barked from the front door of our little rented house in North London. His pallid head protruded from an oversized, crumpled brown mac, bringing to mind a bottle sticking out of a drunk’s paper bag. He smelled like one too.

‘Jesus, you look rougher than a knacker’s arse crack,’ I said.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he frowned, aggrieved that such a thing could ever bedevil his conscience-light mind.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ he snapped, so I backed off.

He aimed a key at a spanking new red car, which shot back a wink and a robotic whistle.

‘Woah, what is this?’

‘Chief Crime gets a company car. The new Mondeo. Two litre. Sixteen clicks. Fresh off the forecourt.’

‘Wow, did you pick the colour?’

‘Yeah. Hot Rod red. Pretty striking, eh?’

‘Had they ran out of Baboon Arse scarlet then? Jesus, they’ll be able to spot you from space. How will you go incognito on some council estate in this? You’ll stand out like a London bus.’

‘Why are you so begrudging … Jesus. Get in, it’s unlocked.’

He beamed, his restless hands unsure what to show off next.

‘It’s got a built-in car phone. A CD player. Airbags.’

‘And you drove home in this last night?’