Read The Dead (The Saxon & Fitzgerald Mysteries Book 1) for Free Online

be throwing him away.
    ‘Forgotten your coat, Ambrose?’ I said.
    ‘Left it in the car. Didn’t want it getting dirty. It’s cashmere, you know. My tailor would never forgive me,’ Lynch replied. ‘What about you, Saxon?’
    ‘I’ve been better. How’s Jean?’
    Ambrose pulled a pained expression.
    ‘My dear wife has left me, Saxon. Three weeks ago. For some reason, she found this life of mine trying. Can’t imagine why. There I am, midnight hour beckoning, finishing a final brandy before blessed sleep after a night at the opera when the phone rings. Message from Fitzgerald. Come down at once, urgent urgent urgent. So down I come. My wife, however, finds life more agreeable at present in London with her redoubtable spinster sister, Miss Alicia King, enthusiastic patron of the Anti-Ambrose Society.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and I meant it. I always liked Lynch. He rarely complained.
    ‘Can’t be helped, can’t be helped,’ he said. ‘What would help is a deputy pathologist to ease the workload, but I’ve been asking for the last five years without success. Still, it seems a trifle irrelevant to be making a fuss about a little thing like that, considering why we’re here.’
    ‘I guess so.’
    Fitzgerald had stepped aside for a moment to whisper to Dalton. They’d found something, I could tell from Fitzgerald’s face. Now they came over and she shook Lynch’s hand.
    Dalton ignored me as usual, chewing gum.
    ‘What is it?’ I said.
    She held up a small transparent plastic bag, sealed at the top. Inside, a note. Typewritten, same face as Elliott’s letter.
    All wickedness is but little to the wickedness of a woman .
    ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong with people?’
    ‘Healy just found it in her bag.’
    ‘I thought her bag was searched?’
    ‘Only quickly, looking for ID,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘This was inside a tear in the lining, folded up tight.’ That was like Julie Feeney too. Our boy was playing out Fagan to the letter. ‘Seems we have a name too. One of the uniformed officers reckons it might be one Mary Lynch. That fits. It should be easy enough to verify. Most of the girls round here have a record.’
    ‘Relative of yours, Ambrose?’ said Dalton.
    ‘Most amusing,’ said Lynch with a tolerant smile. ‘I fancy we moved in rather different social circles. More likely one of your old girlfriends, I should have imagined.’
    ‘Touché.’
    ‘Look, boys, if you don’t mind,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘we’re just about to start a sweep of the scene, see if anything else’s been left, so if you want to get started, Lynch, I’ll take you over.’
    Lynch nodded, and ducked heavily under the tape as Fitzgerald held it up. ‘So much for the shoes,’ he said. ‘Ah well, all in a night’s work.’ He raised a hand at me in farewell.
    ‘I’ll have to get back too,’ Fitzgerald said to me. ‘Catch you later?’
    I understood, offered a smile, then she was gone. Dalton took out his gum and threw it to the ground at my feet, and followed.
    He hadn’t looked at me once.
    I retreated to the other side of the road, every step emphasising my distance. People had gathered now to watch what was happening, distracted on the way home from bars or roused from sleep in nearby apartments. Police work always draws a crowd, like car smashes and lovers’ tiffs. Whispers mingled with the low crackle of police radios, a murmur of excited rumour. Some watched me, wondering what connection I had with the scene, though none dared to ask.
    I leaned against the wall, lit a cigar, creating my own silence, looking at the lights of the city at the edges of the darkness, watching the blue flash in the trees, as Fitzgerald’s unit started their slow circles one way and then the other round the body of the forsaken Mary Lynch.
    I knew the routine. For now it was about sketching, measuring; looking for blood spatters, and taking samples – hair and soil, fibres and leaves; and making notes, there were always