I didn’t know what to do. If I stayed still, she would trap me, but if I ran, I might become more lost. Again, I had the feeling that what was happening was happening to someone else, that I was detached, broken. I began humming, loud and clear, trying to convince myself that I hadn’t vanished, that I was still alive. I willed the clouds to clear, and the road home to reappear. Even when I heard louder noises coming from behind, leaves swishing, twigs snapping, I kept a steady pace until the rain came, fast and furious. I ran to the rhythm of Nature’s wrath until finally the landscape altered again and small things became familiar.
When I looked back, all I could see was a dark mass, towering high. For a split second, I wondered if I’d imagined it all, until I saw her, the hunched shadowy figure, like an old bear. There have been times recently when I’ve wondered if I’ve become that dark shadow. Has she become part of me? I follow people too, meddling in their lives. And now my new lover has become the most promising of them all, and one way or another, we will play out our merry dance together.
HARCOURT STREET STATION, SPECIAL DETECTIVE UNIT
MATCHING THE CURRENT investigation to a similar murder across Europe had initially felt to Mark Lynch like trawling through an entire telephone directory armed with only part of a contact name. Certainly, the concentration on a female killer, the type of weapon used and the hotel-room location had reduced the odds considerably, but although he was still dubious about the Tarot connection, it had been the linchpin for the shift in focus to the Parisian killing.
With that cold case unfolding, another commonality was obvious. Both Rick Shevlin and Pierre Laurent had been killed in capital cities, and the hotel rooms were distinctly opulent. If there were other unsolved cases, narrowing the remit mightn’t be enough due to the population density of capital cities. It was only when he had finished talking to Kate earlier that morning that news of another potential international connection came in. This time it was nothing to do with her analysis but, rather, something Rick Shevlin’s wife had omitted when she was first interviewed. She had been slow to tell the family liaison officer, Claire Boyd, about it, but with three weeks of trust under her belt, Anita Shevlin finally confided her suspicion that she thought she was being stalked prior to her husband’s death. Initially, she told herself she was being ridiculous, underestimating the relevance. The potential stalking added a new dimension: it led him to another case on the Europol database, of a murdered Italian businessman, this time in Rome. Again, it was a hotel-room location, but the wife of the victim, who was present during the attack, had survived, and she, too, suspected she was being stalked. Nothing was carved in stone at this point, but coming three weeks after practically nothing in the investigation, Lynch wasn’t going to stall in contacting Alfredo Masciarelli of the Polizia di Stato in Rome. Thankfully, Masciarelli spoke excellent English, cutting down potential language barriers. Having talked through the Dublin and Paris murder investigations, Lynch asked, ‘Can we rely on your full co-operation?’
‘But of course. However, the senior investigating officer on the case you mention retired a year ago. His name is Andrea Giordano. He is a man with an insatiable memory. You can certainly view the full police report, but Andrea was an old style of investigator, and his nose was usually extremely close to whatever case he was involved with. It would be good if you spoke with him, but I will need to track him down. In the meantime, we can run through the standard procedures and I will forward whatever we have here.’
Before Lynch could respond, Masciarelli had disconnected. Round one to the Italian, he thought. The next call he made was to Chief Superintendent Gary Egan. The daily briefings were one thing, but Lynch liked the personal, direct approach, rather than sharing key information in a crowded room.
‘It’s still early days, Mark, but if these cases are solidly connected, we have a major international investigation on our hands.’
‘I realise that, Boss, and I plan to talk to Andrea Giordano sooner rather than later.’
‘Steady on. You can’t be everywhere at the one time. You do know O’Connor is due back tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’ The detective’s imminent return didn’t fill Lynch with joy, but he held back, not wanting the chief super to think he was threatened by it.
‘Listen, O’Connor has a lot of experience in this area, especially from his involvement a few years back in that European paedophile ring. He’s a good, solid man to have in your corner.’
He wondered if Egan had sensed his reluctance. ‘I realise that. He’s a bit raw, though, having been out for months.’
‘That might be a good thing, Mark. A fresh pair of eyes.’
He wasn’t keen on the chief superintendent’s request for O’Connor to follow through on the Europol cases, but if O’Connor went to either Rome or Paris, he would do so under Lynch’s command. A wry smile came to his face as he wondered how his ex-boss would take instructions from him. O’Connor knew better than most not to challenge the line of authority, a roadmap within the Irish police force that only the ignorant or the plain stupid openly questioned. The next phone call he made was to Kate. Egan had pissed him off, and he would feed him information on a controlled basis from now on. Kate picked up his call on the second ring.
‘Kate, we may have another connection.’