her “lumpen and pasty”, can we? She is the victim, after all. I tell you what though, photos of her make me want to stand on my head while chewing a sack of raw vegetables …’
‘Jesus, Fintan! Have some respect …’ I stop myself, but not quickly enough for old Donkey Ears.
‘You were gonna say “for the dead”, weren’t you?’ he says, turning towards me, nostrils almost winking. ‘What do you know? Have they found her body?’
‘No. I mean we don’t even know she’s dead. I’m just assuming the worst, now he’s had his money. What use is she to him now?’
My voice cracks, straining to contain that geyser of inner terror. What if my stupidity last night led to Julie’s murder? How am I supposed to cope with that? Live with that? I screw the lid down tighter. I know she’s dead because she came to me last night. That’s how this cursed bloody condition works. But I don’t know how or when she died. There’s still a chance he killed her before the ransom drop. That would mean her death is not my fault. It makes no sense at all but, for now, I’ve got to cling to that flimsy hope …
I scold my emotions for running ahead of the facts. All I know for sure is I must have got close to her dead body at some point either before, during or after last night’s ransom drop. That’s the only time the dead play their games with me … when I’ve been physically close to their recently slain cadavers. Poor, poor Julie …
Fintan recognises my pain and changes tack. ‘I heard you got a lot of stick. Don’t feel bad. Crossley should never have put you in that situation, not with your lack of experience.’
‘Gee thanks, Fint, for such a typically back-handed show of, er, support.’
‘It’s not just your fault, Donal. The kidnapper outsmarted you all.’
‘The worst thing is, Crossley just stood there and let them slag me off. After I’d risked my neck for him. Then he told me not to bother turning up for work until he tells me otherwise.’
‘That’s the British upper classes for you, Donal. They see the rest of us as grateful Sherpas, bred to do the heavy lifting that carries them to glory. Now hose yourself down or something so I can take you out in public. Then I’m going to make you eat a solid before flies start circling your eyes.’
‘Don’t spend the day trying to wheedle info out of me, Fintan.’
‘You affront me, Donal. You really do. I come here to offer nothing more than comfort and cheer after your latest dismal and abject humiliation, and this is the thanks I get. Why do you always assume there’s an angle? Jeez. I’ll be outside having a fag.’
With Fintan, there is always an angle. Having arrived here in London from the Irish Midlands a few years before me, he sees himself as my protector, especially now Mam is dead. But Fintan is always a journalist first, my brother second and would sell my arse for a scoop without even realising he’s done wrong. Zoe thinks he’s warped, manipulative and amoral, which, most of the time, is hard to dispute.
I shower, dress and catch up with him at the garden gate, where he wheels around theatrically to present a sporty black Porsche convertible, roof down.
‘Where in the name of God did you get that?’
‘There’s a new rich kid on trial on the showbiz desk, son of an earl or a duke or something. Nice enough fella, but thick as pig shit, of course, and hopeless. But the editor thinks he’ll get us into places we’ve never managed to penetrate before, and he’s usually right about these things.
‘Anyway, young Jamie Benson-Smythe finds it all frightfully exciting, especially crime and investigations. The fucker had the gall to march over and announce that he plans to get my job! Any other newbie would be thrown out on his ear for a stunt like that, but not Jamie.’
I’ve had my fair share of toffs at work and nod. ‘They just have this unshakeable self-belief.’
‘Wouldn’t we all, if we never had to worry about paying the rent? Anyway, I don’t blame them for making the most of their advantages. What really bugs me is the way the English middle classes unquestioningly defer to them, bowing and fucking scraping. It makes me almost like the French.
‘So, yesterday morning, I bump into the jumped-up little fucker while he’s parking this up at work. I tell him I need a smart motor for a big undercover job, and he just hands me the keys.’
‘Poor guy. You commandeered his car.’
‘Hey, Jamie’s thrilled, feels like he’s already contributing,’ says Fintan, getting into the driver’s seat.
‘What if it rains?’
‘What if it rains?’ he whines, mimicking me. ‘We put up the bloody roof.’
In heaving North London traffic, we barely make it above ten miles per hour. Each gossamer graze of pedal elicits a thunderous roar, earning us looks ranging from mild irritation to unabashed hatred.
‘We need to get out of town,’ I say, suddenly seeing an opportunity to act on last night’s encounter with Julie. When the dead come to me, I can’t just ignore them. Julie needs me. And, after my schoolboy error last night, I owe her. ‘Why don’t we head to the South Downs? I know some great pubs around there.’
Fintan grins. ‘First we’ve got to pick up our smoking-hot dates.’
I groan.
‘Models, Donal. And I’m not talking unemployed nail bar assistants here. Real models. I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Fintan, I’m in a relationship.’
‘Yeah I saw her note on the kitchen table this morning. Good old Zoe, if she can’t dump Matt on you, she dumps him on her mum.’
‘She doesn’t dump him on anyone. It’s a long day looking after a kid. She craves a bit of adult company in the evening. What’s wrong with that? You’ll see one day.’
‘From what I see, Donal, you’re in a job share. From what you sometimes let slip, I sense it’s now a sexless, joyless job share at that. You told me yourself that even her mum labelled it a failed relationship.’
‘That doesn’t give me a licence to go running around with other women.’
‘We’re just having a bit of craic, Donal. To quote Loaded magazine, “life, liberty, the pursuit of sex, drinking, football and less serious matters”. The thing is, bro, she’s turning you into one of those lonely married men. You know, first you don’t have time for friends, then you can’t find time for hobbies. Next thing you know, you’re a bonded slave reduced to work and childcare. The irony of it all is that your women end up hating you for it. And you’re not even married.’
I turn to him, shaking my head in disbelief.
He grins: ‘You can be my wingman then, okay?’
‘I don’t see that I’ve got any choice. So where did you meet two models?’
‘Sandra’s photo casebook. You must have seen it? Tania and Ellen are the paper’s biggest stars now.’
‘I must never have made it that far through your esteemed rag.’
‘Every week, it features a letter from the problem page, but told as a picture story. It’s always a raunchy storyline about threesomes and secret affairs so that Tania and Ellen can act their little hearts out in their undies. As Sandra herself puts it, something for the girls to read, and the boys to look at.’
‘Never underestimate the intelligence of your readers eh? I can’t believe any woman would actually read your newspaper.’
‘Don’t be such a snob, Donal. And a killjoy. What harm is it doing anyone?’
He pulls up at a smart art-deco block near Angel tube station and beeps