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

the letter arrived, it was obvious some woman would die. We had all written someone off, we just didn’t know who it was that we were writing off.
    Perhaps Elliott was just being realistic. He had a job to do, and that letter, this death, gave him a chance of making something better out of it. Indeed, the killer had struck so quickly following my handing the letter over to the police that it had probably saved Elliott’s skin. Any longer and someone would’ve talked, news leaked out, bang would’ve gone his exclusive. This way it didn’t matter any more.
    That was why Elliott was so ready to forgive my handing the letter over to the murder squad – because it hadn’t ultimately stopped him getting the story. He wasn’t going to waste any more energy on being angry with me when fame beckoned.
    ‘Look, here comes your great source,’ I said just to irritate him, seeing Ray Lawlor emerge from the shadows by the path, step under the crime scene tape and make his way back towards his car.
    I was pleased to see Elliott flinch.
    ‘Lawlor’s not my source,’ he said.
    I shrugged dismissively. Everybody in the DMP knew Lawlor had been taking money from crime reporters for passing on information for years, and not just from Elliott. I’d seen the two of them out drinking at various bars round town myself; it wasn’t hard to plot the connection between their nights out and Elliott’s sudden insights into an investigation.
    ‘You surprise me,’ I said. ‘I always thought you couldn’t possibly be as stupid as you looked. Hell, was I wrong.’
    ‘I told you—’
    ‘Yeah, whatever. Better hurry now before you miss him.’
    I shut my eyes to shut him out, and when I opened them again he was gone. I hung around a little while longer after that, but it was obvious I wasn’t going to be able to talk with Fitzgerald again, and there wasn’t much point staying otherwise. Around three I finally set off for home, taking the same streets, emptier than before yet somehow more sentient, more aware. Inside my apartment was almost colder than out, and the central heating wouldn’t switch on automatically for another hour or so. I was weary, worn out. All I wanted was to sleep.
    I was about to climb into bed fully dressed when my clothes reminded me of the scene down by the bridge. I took them off, and tossed them into the basket. Then I climbed into bed, and was asleep immediately. Fagan was waiting for me in the darkness, dead, resurrected Fagan, and the face of Mary Lynch, whoever she was.
    I wasn’t too surprised to see it was my own.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    SECOND DAY

 
     
    Chapter Four
     
     
    I was one drink ahead of Fitzgerald by the time she finally arrived at the bar where we’d arranged to meet for an early lunch.
    The eyes that sought me out in the gloom were blackringed and exhausted. She’d obviously not gotten much sleep last night, if any. I’d not gotten much myself; I’d been up again before six, checking out the news, not liking what I heard.
    ‘You’re not drinking?’ I said after she’d ordered an orange juice from the waiter.
    ‘Better not,’ she replied. ‘Long day ahead.’
    We ordered sandwiches, and whilst we waited for them to come she took a copy of that morning’s Post out from her coat and tossed it on to the table in front of me.
    ‘Have you read this yet?’
    ‘I resisted buying a copy,’ I said, ‘in case the proximity of the words Nick Elliott and exclusive turned my stomach.’
    I glanced down at the front page: Night Hunter Back .
    Fagan had been the Night Hunter since the second killing. Once he’d been arrested, some newspapers tried to make play of his academic background and call him Doctor Death, but it had never caught on.
    Doctor Deaths were two a dime, after all.
    ‘They always have to have a nickname, don’t they?’ I said. ‘Angel of Death, Alligator Man, Candy Man, Red Spider, Ripper.’
    ‘White Monk,’ said