Darkhouse

TWENTY-NINE

‘Rumour has it that Sammi Rawlins has been having a few jobs done around the house…’

Joe let it hang there.

‘What do you mean jobs?’ said Duke.

‘Oh you know, hand jobs, blow jobs…’

‘If you’re tryin’ to tell me my wife’s a ho, I know you’re bullshittin’ me.’

‘Who said anything about ho? Your wife has been one hundred per cent faithful to one man since you’ve been in jail. It’s just a shame it wasn’t you.’

‘You’re talkin’ shit.’

‘Aw, I haven’t even come to the best part yet,’ said Joe. ‘Don’t you want to know who the guy is? Come on, I’d wanna know, if it was me. Have you seen your wife since you’ve been out?’

‘She’s at her mother’s…look why am I talkin’ to you? Why am I listenin’ to you and your bullshit?’

‘Face it, Rawlins. Your wife’s been bending over for another man while you’ve been in prison, one hand on your—

‘Are you fuckin’ de-ranged?’ Duke suddenly roared. ‘You think I believe a single shit-drippin’ word out of your mouth? You’re a cop! And you’re a cop who can shut the fuck up right now. One more word and I’ll kill your wife. Are you nuts?’

Joe’s heart pounded. All he had succeeded in doing was rattling this psycho off his hinges.

D.I. O’Connor stood in front of the room.

‘I’m fed up,’ he said. ‘For some reason, these dealers are a step ahead of us. We show up, they don’t. They don’t show up, we do.’ He looked around the room and saw a group of bored and tired guards.

‘Wake fucking up!’ he roared. Some of the men jumped. O’Connor shook his head.

‘Jesus Christ, lads! What are you like?’ The men shifted in their seats.

‘What happens,’ said O’Connor, ‘when your plan doesn’t work? What do people do? Owens?’

‘Uh, change the plan?’

‘Scrap the whole thing and come up with a new plan,’ came a voice from the back.

‘Or?’ said O’Connor, smiling, ‘just don’t have a plan.’ They looked at him blankly.

‘I want you all to think for a minute about surprises. In the next ten minutes I want three places in town that each team is going to go to at some stage today in the hope of catching one of these scumbags at work. No major plan here, just the name of a place and two of you in a car outside it. Butler, you’re with Twomey.’ There was a clatter of chairs on tiles as the men got up and headed outside to their cars.

As he put down the phone to Duke Rawlins, Joe heard the rumble of voices downstairs.

‘Hello? Who’s down there?’ he said, walking into the hall, leaning into the door of Shaun’s bedroom.

He could hear Shaun jogging up the steps. He opened the door a crack.

‘Me,’ said Shaun, irritated. ‘And Ali. Why?’

‘I didn’t tell you you could bring anyone home.’

‘I haven’t told her about Mom, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Send her home now.’

‘What is wrong with you?’

‘Just get her out of here,’ hissed Joe.

Shaun gave a start. ‘OK, OK.’

He ran back down the steps. Joe paced up and down the living room. He heard Ali walk through the hall.

‘Hey, Mr Lucchesi,’ she shouted in.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Joe.

Shaun stood behind Ali and stared at his dad as if he had lost his mind.

‘She’s going home?’ he said.

‘On your own?’ said Joe, turning to Ali.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’m a big girl now.’ She smiled.

‘Shaun, come here a minute,’ said Joe.

‘Hold on,’ said Shaun, leaving Ali in the hall.

Joe grabbed Shaun’s elbow, then felt him jerk hard from his grip. His voice was low and urgent as he handed Shaun the phone. ‘You put her on this phone to her father and get him to pick her up right outside that door. And you wait until he does that.’

‘What’s going on?’ said Shaun, panic creeping in to his voice.

‘Just do it,’ said Joe.

Ali made the call and stuck her head into the living room.

‘Frank Deegan was on his way here,’ she said. ‘So Dad asked him to take me home. He’ll be here any minute.’

Joe wanted to explode. The last thing he needed anyone to see outside his house was a garda car.

He stood up quickly. ‘I’ll give you a ride.’

‘No, you’re grand,’ said Ali. ‘I couldn’t drag you out of your way. Honest to God, Frank’s on his way. I’ll be fine.’

‘It’s not a problem.’

‘I want to play her one more track on my CD,’ said Shaun, pulling her towards the basement.

Joe sat back down and put his head in his hands. He stayed that way until the doorbell rang.

‘Hello, Joe,’ said Frank. He handed him a card in a blue envelope. ‘I met the postman on the way in.’ Joe recognised Danny’s writing.

‘Could I come in for a chat?’ said Frank.

‘Uh, not really. I haven’t got the time right now. I’ve got a lot on.’ His eyes flicked around, past Frank into the trees.

‘You don’t really have much of a choice, Joe. It’s about the fax you brought to Dr McClatchie.’

Joe felt a wave of anger at the betrayal.

‘It’s not a problem, the fact that you did that,’ said Frank. ‘I just need to see it. Dr McClatchie has some concerns.’ Joe could see that Frank had a police sketch in his hand and the mug shot of Duke.

‘I don’t have it. It’s in the garbage.’

‘Sorry. I think you do. Can I come in?’

‘All right,’ snapped Joe, hustling Frank into the hall and closing the door quickly behind him.

‘I don’t have time for this.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Frank. ‘I’m on my way to a meeting in Limerick and I need to see it. I’ve doubted you before about this Rawlins man. I’m letting you know now that I’ve changed my mind. I’m going out on a limb, here. I haven’t run this by my superiors, because I need to make sure I’ve everything tied up before I do.’

Joe felt the urge to shake Frank by his shoulders and roar at him, ‘It’s too little, too late.’ He went to the den and got the fax. He folded it up and put it in a brown envelope. He steadied himself on the desk as a sharp pain sliced a path between his temples. He pulled open the desk drawer and saw an empty bottle of Advil. He shut the drawer quickly. Even if there had been twenty tablets in there, he had promised himself that until this was over, he wouldn’t take any medication…unless the pain was extreme.

He saw Danny’s card on the desk and ripped it open in case it was important. It was a print of The Scream by Munch. Joe shook his head and tried to smile. Inside it said, ‘Remind you of anyone? Happy fortieth, partner. Have a good one.’ Joe wished he could.

‘Here,’ he said when he came down, handing Frank the fax. ‘Put it in your inside pocket now.’

Frank frowned. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Is that everything?’

‘No. I need to speak with Anna.’

‘Oh. She’s in Paris, sorry.’

Frank shook his head. ‘Do you have a number where I could contact her?’

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Her parents don’t have a phone.’

‘Really? Well, I might as well tell you that she saw this mug shot. She was in the house with Nora the other day. She had a very bad reaction. It was as if—’

Joe’s heart pounded. ‘I hadn’t told her I was checking things out,’ he said quickly. ‘She was annoyed with me for not telling her. That’s why she’s gone to Paris.’

‘Tell me why you phoned me about Siobhán Fallon,’ Frank said suddenly. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘No. But I thought I might have the other day.’

‘Where?’

‘In town. But it wasn’t her. Frank, I really can’t hang around talking.’ He pressed his hand to his jaw. Frank turned around and opened the front door.

‘I’ll send Ali out to you.’

‘Right, so. Thanks for the fax, Joe. I appreciate that.’ He stepped outside, then looked back. ‘What I don’t appreciate is being lied to.’

Oran Butler and Keith Twomey sat in their Ford Mondeo in the car park of Tobin’s Supermarket. It was a grim, red-brick building in a bad neighbourhood. Two fat butchers in bloodied aprons stood at a corner, gunning cigarettes. A group of longhaired boys in baggy pants and big sweatshirts skateboarded by them along the smooth concrete.

‘How long have we been here?’ asked Oran, picking toffee out of his teeth. A pile of empty wrappers were gathered between his legs.

‘Two hours,’ said Keith.

‘Have you seen one of them actually complete a trick?’

‘Nope,’ said Keith as they watched another skateboarder try to jump onto a railing. He stumbled down the steps instead, his board smacking onto the tarmac.

‘The fucking noise is going through me,’ said Keith.

Oran swept the sweet wrappers onto the floor and started on a new pile. Keith glanced down.

‘Of all the people to be sharing a place with Richie Bates, it’s the messiest fucker around. I don’t know which one of you to feel sorrier for.’

Another skateboarder flipped his board halfway over, then landed with his feet on the ground at either side.

The two men looked at each other and shook their heads. When they looked back, a man was walking past the boys towards the entrance. He moved jerkily, like his joints were popping in and out of their sockets with each step. He led with his chin, his narrow mouth downturned, his eyes like slits. He smoothed his greasy red Caesar forward onto his zitty forehead and slowed as he approached the eldest of the boys.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Keith, sitting up. ‘Let’s see what happens here. That’s Marcus Canney, total scumbag.’

They watched as Canney spoke, then reached into his pocket, pulling something out, extending his arm towards the boy, giving him more than a handshake. Oran and Keith bolted and were on the pair in seconds.

Joe spoke before Duke could – as soon as he hit the green button to answer the call.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘You know why,’ said Duke.

‘OK, yeah, I do. But you’ve got it all wrong, buddy. I need you to take in some new information, see if you still want to do what you came all this way to do.’

‘This is not a dialogue situation.’

‘But two people work better for you, Rawlins, don’t they?’

‘What the fuck are you talkin’ about?’

‘Two on one makes it a bit easier?’

He could hear Duke’s breathing, slow and laboured.

‘I notice things,’ said Joe. ‘I have eyes…like a hawk.’

Duke said nothing.

‘I know what you were doing today,’ said Joe, ‘and I pity that girl you’ve found to shovel your shit. But, then you wouldn’t be able to do it on your own…’ He paused. ‘You think you’re a man? You’re nothing but a piece of shit, a cowardly piece of shit.’

‘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?’

‘It happens with the job sometimes and I’m always interested, you know, what can be done to stop it happening again, to save someone else.’ He was groping. ‘Sorry, what were you about to say? You said “but”?’

‘But…that morning, a woman called to our house to speak with Ogden. I had never seen her before in my life. She was blonde, late thirties, tailored suit. And the strangest expression passed over her face when she saw me.’ She paused. ‘I guess it could best be described as pity.’

‘Pity?’

‘Well, that was the thing. Why would this stranger pity me? Hell, to the people who know me, I have a charmed life. But it was like this woman showed up on my doorstep and saw right through my soul.’

Victor nodded slowly.

‘Ogden’s face when he saw her. It turns out it was Marcy Winbaum, the DA. I hadn’t recognised her. She used to work with Ogden years ago. She’s changed a lot since then. And she definitely had a bee in her bonnet that day. Anyhow, she insisted on speaking to Ogden in private. He brought her out back to his study. Well, I was curious, so I put my ear to the door after they were in there quite a while and this woman’s voice was raised, which kinda struck me as unusual. I heard her saying something about “burying” things and “live with yourself”. She said she had found someone who would swear something in a court of law and that he had two choices. Then the timer went on my cooker and I had to go back into the kitchen to take out a pie.’

‘Did you ask your husband afterwards what it was all about?’

‘I didn’t like to ask. And it seemed apparent to me the next night that he’d created a third choice for himself and that was to blow his brains out.’

‘Can I ask you? Your husband worked on the Crosscut case. Those murders remained unsolved up until his death. Do you think that may have affected him—’

‘Those poor girls. Ogden took it real bad. But it was quite some time ago.’ She frowned. ‘Isn’t your organisation supposed to gloss over the failings of a dead cop?’ Victor frowned, then remembered his role.

‘I guess I was asking out of personal curiosity,’ he said. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything we could do for you to commemorate your husband’s life?’

‘Let me tell you about Ogden Parnum,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I would see scratches on his back, tiny little scratches and little crescent moons from hungry nails. And on his face. I would catch glimpses of them, only glimpses, because I was never in a position to do otherwise. And look at me.’ Her hand traced the curves to her slender hips.

‘I am not a woman content to let herself go.’ She stopped. ‘And what I don’t understand is that there is nothing I would not have done for him, if you get my meaning. I’ve been around the block, Mr Finch. He wasn’t marrying a sweet and innocent young thing.’ She looked up. ‘What was wrong with me?’ she said, tears suddenly flowing from her eyes. ‘What was wrong with me?’

Marcus Canney bit and picked at his filthy nails.

‘This isn’t a rap on the knuckles in the District Court,’ said O’Connor, pointing at him. ‘You’ll be standing in your cheap little shiny suit with your hair all flat like your mammy does it, that thick look on your face…and it won’t matter a damn. Because it’ll be Delaney.’ He smiled. ‘The judge with the grudge. And you’ll be pissing in the wind.’

Canney twitched.

‘I’ll get no pleasure sending you down,’ said O’Connor. ‘But your suppliers…’

Silence.

‘Come on, Canney. You’re not playing Cowboys and Indians now. This is big time and you’ll go down for five to seven. You’re on your own then.’

Canney twitched.

‘And where will the big players be? Busy training in the new guy. They might do a better job this time, though. And after that, they’ll be wondering what’s the best way to get you off the scene. Will they take care of it inside or will they wait ’til you’re free and easy and thinking your whole life is ahead of you?’

Canney stared straight ahead.

‘Look,’ said O’Connor. ‘You can walk out of here and they’ll never have to know a thing. I can promise you that.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘You’re in it up to your neck, Canney. I don’t know what other way I can say it to you. But you have a way out. We’ll forget all about this. Off you go. No-one’s any the wiser. And we’re all happy.’

‘There’s no fucking way I’m going to fall for that.’

‘Why do you think I’m sitting here and not in an interview room with the tapes rolling?’

Canney stared past him, frowning. ‘Yeah, well…’

‘Well, what? Tell me. Who’s supplying you?’

‘Look, I’m saying nothing. Are you fucking stupid?’

‘Your call,’ said O’Connor, standing up. ‘I’ve done what I can. See you in the interview room.’ He walked towards the door. ‘Seven years, though. Even five. That’s the absolute minimum with this guy. I don’t think that’s registering,’ he said, tapping his forehead. He held the door handle longer than he needed to.

Canney finally spoke. ‘What if I knew something about that Mountcannon girl that was murdered?’

O’Connor spun around. Canney was smiling, nodding his head slowly.

‘You’re the lowest of the low, Canney…’

‘What if I’m serious?’

O’Connor turned back towards the door, shaking his head.

Canney shrugged. ‘What if I was one of the last people to see her alive?’

Old Nic went into the Stinger’s Creek diner and swapped twenty dollars for a handful of coins. He went outside to a payphone and dialled Joe’s number.

‘I can’t talk right now,’ said Joe quickly.

‘Yeah, but you can listen. And I mean it. I know you called off my trip, but here I am, North Central Texas. My bells told me to come. I spoke to the widow and let me tell you, Mrs Parnum is one foxy lady. But she’s a bitter one. Hated the husband, seems he was cheating on her, blah, blah—’

‘Did she say anything about why he killed himself? Or anything about the case?’

‘Just that he took it real bad. As to why her husband killed himself, she could care less, rattled off the standard reasons. Ice cold. But I think we have a very big reason why. You know who you might want to talk to? The last person who paid a visit to Ogden Parnum before he played Russian Roulette with a full chamber. Marcy Winbaum, the DA, used to work under Parnum, went back to college, yada yada, now she’s ordered the case reopened in the “someone has stepped forward with new information” kinda way. No-one has told Dorothy Parnum yet, because it seems her late husband is – or was – in very deep shit. Marcy Winbaum’s keeping her cards close to her chest, but rumour has it that’s because she’s about to throw down a killer hand.’

Anna had watched Duke Rawlins search the cottage and from a damp and filthy corner pull the sack that now covered her head. With every breath she took, the rank odour of wet cats and spoiled milk filled her nostrils. She had retched through the entire journey, curled helplessly on the cramped floor of the van. Now she was outside again, dimly aware of a freshness fighting through the stench.

‘OK, here,’ whispered Duke, jerking on her arm. Anna stopped. But she could hear the heaviest set of footsteps continue on ahead.

‘Sheba,’ hissed Duke. ‘Sheba, back here, you fat—’

Siobhán Fallon spun around, her face unable to hide her hurt. She walked slowly back toward him as he tied Anna’s legs at the ankles.

‘Please stop calling me Sheba,’ said Siobhán quietly. ‘It’s not that hard to say. Shiv-awn. It’s easy.’

‘Let me see,’ said Duke. ‘Sh…Sh…She. Bah. Right?’ His smile was fixed.

‘Why are you…what did I do?’ She reached a hand to his cheek. He stopped it halfway, squeezing her wrist too tight.

‘Oh, you did good work,’ he said. ‘You did. Think of your best burger order with fries on the side and a milkshake and a hold-the-mayo and a hold-the-pickle and an extra barbecue sauce, all written down in your little notebook, spelled right, times ten.’

She smiled nervously. Her pulse pumped under his grip. She tried to pull away. He moved closer.

‘Take that big ol’ sweater of yours off,’ he said.

‘Why?’ she said, her voice catching.

‘Because I have this.’ He let go of her wrist and pulled a curved blade from his back pocket and held it up to her face. She froze. Duke stared through her. She slowly pulled her arm from the right sleeve, keeping her elbow close to her body. She did the same with her left arm until the sweater hung around her neck. The sleeves fell loose, barely covering her faded grey cotton bra. Goosebumps rose on her pale skin. She started to shiver. Duke leaned over and untied the rope around Anna’s neck, lifting the hood free. Anna turned her head away. Duke grabbed her face, forcing her to look.

‘You don’t wanna miss this,’ he said. He raised the knife to his mouth, biting down on the handle to keep his hands free.

‘Now, let me see if I remember how to do this,’ he said, reaching around Siobhán’s back and unhooking her bra. Her broad, flat breasts fell to the rolls of flesh at her waist. A look of disgust flashed across Duke’s face. Suddenly, Siobhán thrust out her hand, grabbing the handle of the knife, pulling it towards her sharply so the blade sliced through the side of Duke’s mouth. She turned to run, but he was on her, quickly throwing her down, pinning her arms above her head.

‘Son of a bitch,’ he hissed, spitting onto the grass beside her. Then he held his face over hers, letting long, slow drops of blood fall onto her lips and run gently down her cheeks with her tears.

‘Stand up. Get up! And take off your jeans—’

‘Leave her alone,’ spat Anna. ‘Leave her.’ Duke grabbed her face and shook it with a force that silenced her.

He turned back to Siobhán. ‘Take them off, everything. You’ve seen what this knife can do,’ he smiled, raising a hand to the gash in his face.

She did as he asked, desperately trying to cover her body with her hands. Anna’s stomach was heaving. She hoped Siobhán would catch her eye and maybe she could let her know that everything would be OK, that she would never tell anyone what she had to go through. Then when she saw what Duke pulled out of his bag, she knew the girl was going to die. And nothing would matter.

‘Don’t look back, now.’

Siobhán got up, but she instinctively turned around. And screamed when she saw the bow.

‘Run, rabbit, run!’ he yelled, raising the bow to his shoulder. Siobhán ran from him, stumbling through the low gorse, her bare feet twisting over sharp rocks. She made it thirty metres when the first arrow hit.

Joe picked up the phone to Marcy Winbaum, the first person he had to tell the truth to since Anna had been taken. She spoke with the confidence of a woman who had worked hard to get where she was. Every word she said quickened his heart beat, weakened his body, but strengthened his resolve. He had never experienced this before – a raw panic that coursed through him, starting in his chest, moving downwards, throbbing simultaneously in his head. He tried hard to slow his breathing. Flashes of the fax came into his mind, the victims discarded like broken dolls. The images were replaced with the mug shot of Duke Rawlins, the dead body of Donald Riggs. And then Anna. Joe felt something rip inside. He had led his wife into the path of this maniac. His only hope was that now, he had a bargaining chip.

Victor Nicotero walked away from the phone booth, thinking about Dorothy Parnum, thinking about how people can be so strong, yet so weak at the same time. He liked that. He pulled out his phony FOP folder to write that down for his memoirs. He reached into his inside jacket pocket for his retirement pen. It wasn’t there. He checked his folder. He patted his other pockets.

‘Goddammit,’ he said and turned around.

Duke knelt by the body of Siobhán Fallon, working on it with the curved blade. Anna, free from the bindings on her ankles, but bound to a narrow tree trunk, jerked forward and vomited between her legs. With the force, she felt the slightest slip of the knot that tied her wrists.

‘Keep watchin’,’ Duke said to her, ‘or I’ll make you do something you might regret.’ Anna looked up at him through watery eyes.

‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Duke. ‘This is on account of you and your husband. Blame the both of you while you’re at it.’ He smiled and completed each step of his ritual, all the while looking back over his shoulder to Anna whose beautiful horrified face sent pleasant shivers down his spine. When he turned away again, she ran.

Frank Deegan fanned out the pages of the fax on the passenger seat, thinking he could glance at them on the drive. By the second page, he had to pull over. He studied the photos and read the detached descriptions of young skin and bones and hair and limbs and the hideous wounds that defiled them all. He never understood how men would want to shatter these delicate creatures.

He looked again at the photos. He could connect the dots between the American victims’ injuries and those suffered by Mary Casey in Doon. But there was an extra dot, that bit further out that he couldn’t quite draw a line to – Joe Lucchesi. Then another dot right beside it – the small, delicate Anna.

Dorothy Parnum was dabbing the corner of her eyes with a balled-up handkerchief when she answered the door. Her mascara had run and her frosted lipstick had disappeared, leaving an ugly pink trail of lip liner around her mouth.

‘I forgot my pen,’ he said, but she was already holding it out to him.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I apologise for my behaviour earlier. I don’t know why I was telling you all that.’ Fresh tears welled in her eyes. ‘But you look like the kindest man a grieving widow could hope to meet.’ She squeezed his arm, but it only made her cry harder. Finally, she took in a deep breath and tried to smile.

‘No more boo-hoos,’ she said. ‘That’s what Ogden used to say to me. No more boo-hoos…but there were always more.’