Darkhouse (33 page)

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.