You'll Get Yours, page 26
“Sir?” D’Arcy asked.
“Och, as you were,” McLaughlin said. “No need to stand at attention. Not in my office.”
The women took the chairs they had earlier, Lyons posed against the door frame, hands in his pockets, Cahill against the file cabinet.
“What is it, boss?” Lyons asked.
“It’s those damn strands of hair!” McLaughlin bellowed.
They perked up.
“The ones from the crime scene?” Cahill asked.
“Yes, the bloody hair from the crime scene. From Lily’s body. Your man Keedy’s just gone and told me...they’re not human hairs!”
They stared.
“If they’re not human, what are they?” Cahill asked.
“They’re not from a flimmin alien,” Lyons said. “It must be an animal.”
“Aye,” McLaughlin said. “But not a dog or a cat. Apparently there are tests forensics can put those through, or those are hairs that are easy to identify, I didn’t listen as he blathered on.”
Hawkins said, “There are a variety of microscopic and analytical techniques available.”
D’Arcy shifted. “Now that you mention it, I did wonder about that hair, and Lyons, I can see your look and yes, I did think it was strange at the time. It was coarse and wiry. Not like typical human hair.”
“So we’ve got no DNA from the killer, then,” Hawkins said. “Forensics compared the characteristics of the hair to reference samples of cats and dogs. For other, less common animals, there might not be such a reference sample. Or at least, our forensics don’t have them or access to them.”
“But do you?” McLaughlin asked, suddenly hopeful.
All eyes turned to Hawkins.
“If I could have the sample delivered to me,” Hawkins said, “I’ll see what I can uncover.”
“That hair, boss, but,” Lyons said, “I know we were resting all our hopes on it, but it could equally have come from the wheelie bin when the body was placed there. It might not even come from the perp at all. I mean, we know it’s not the perp’s. His pet, I guess we’re thinking. But, come to that, if it’s animal hair, maybe it was some scavenger that went through the rubbish in the bin?”
McLaughlin eyed the lad coolly. “Don’t strike us down before we’ve even begun, son. It’s disheartening as it is.”
“Don’t worry, boss,” Hawkins said. “I believe there are reference samples of wild animals and those of domestic pets. If we can discount a wild animal, perhaps we will discover what type of pet the perp has. And as it’s not a cat or a dog, that might be easier to track down. That might help us.”
“And the dear Lord and all,” McLaughlin said, looking up at the ceiling.
“So...” D’Arcy shifted in her chair. “What sorts of wild animals are there in Derry? Foxes, I suppose. And...?”
Hawkins cleared her throat. “There’s the Irish hare, hedgehogs, bats, stoats, badgers. Oh, and otters and gray squirrels. And bank voles.”
“Your talents are wasted here, Fern,” McLaughlin said. “You should apply for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.”
“I’ve been contemplating it, boss. Considering what we’re paid.”
There was laughter.
“Aren’t foxes red?” Lyons asked. “It can’t be a fox.”
He shrank back from D’Arcy’s look. “I’m only saying, like. The hair was black, sure.”
“Do hedgehogs have hair?” Cahill wondered. “Or is it fur I mean?”
“They have quills,” Hawkins said. “Made of keratin, the same as hair and, indeed, fingernails are made of.”
“But those strands of hair weren’t quills,” D’Arcy said. “They were flexible and soft.”
“And not red,” Lyons said.
“Too bad it’s not our perp’s,” Hawkins said. “Fingers crossed, it’s a domestic animal. On a more positive note but, boss, I’ve identified the alleged stalker Eddy Skivvins. He lives at 31 Swilley Gardens in the Moorside. Flat 5.”
McLaughlin did a fake double-take.
“Sure, you were out of my office and at your computers for three minutes, Fern!”
“You’re flattering me, boss. It was ten minutes at the very least.”
“Right!” McLaughlin grabbed for his wrinkled anorak. “Lyons! Come with me! Over to your man’s gaff now!”
Just as D’Arcy was looking miffed, McLaughlin’s phone rang.
“For the love of...” He looked at it. “Hmm, London area code. Must be that manager of the group, that Eric whatever, ringing. D’Arcy, you go with Lyons to the stalker’s.”
“Sir.” She beamed, a spring in her step toward the door as Lyons fought to hide his scowl.
“Hawkins, do a quick search online and send me over any offenses against the group you can find.”
“You’ve got it, boss.”
They left.
McLaughlin held his hand up for Cahill and Hawkins to wait as he answered the call.
“DI McLaughlin. Och, aye. We were waiting for your call, Mister...”
“Alexander,” Cahill mouthed.
“Alexander. Thank you for calling. One moment, please.” McLaughlin placed his hand over the phone. “Cahill, you continue going through those lyrics, and Hawkins, I’ll get that hair sent over as soon as.”
“Boss.”
They left the office. McLaughlin went back to the call.
CHAPTER 29
EXCERPT FROM JOURNAL ENTERED INTO POLICE EVIDENCE
I keep going over it, mayby even wrote about it before I don’t know anymore. Its about her laugh. She threw back her head and laughed, her laugh wasn’t a pleasant one, a nasty laugh coarse and nasally like not a human. I was frozen. It was the laugh that did it. It all came back. There the laugh was coming out of that old face with its terrible perm. But I had heard that exact same laugh before. Directed at me. It had rung out in my nightmares, soundtracked my nightmares throughout the years. What she, they had forced me to do was terrible, but the laughter was the worst. Not just hers but hers was worse a filthy laugh The drunken, unhinged laughter. The pointing fingers, the arms around the shoulders. Pointing, laughing
DC LYONS SAT RAMROD straight, teeth clenched, hands balled into fists in his lap as he said prayers to the Lord. But he had refused to drive his own car to the Moorside. Who knew what shape it might be in when left unattended. And the thought of getting in and out of the police station gates with all the journalists pressing against the car with their mics and cameras filled him with dread. One scratch on his Porsche and he would be devastated. So this was his penance: prisoner in D’Arcy’s passenger seat.
At least it wasn’t raining.
The wheels squealed and Lyons’ quiff thrust against the windshield as D’Arcy pulled up on Swilley Gardens in front of Eddy Skivvins' run-down apartment building.
“Steady on there, boss,” he said, flinging off the seat belt and making his escape.
The building was a dingy, two-story red brick structure. Graffiti covered the walls, and litter was strewn on the pavements.
The detectives took a quick look around, but there was no sign of yobs on bikes that might set to D’Arcy’s Renault with bricks or what have you.
“Leave the interview with me,” Lyons said. “I know how to handle odd fellas like this.”
“Lyons, don’t,” D’Arcy said.
“You can play good cop all you want, boss,” he said. “I’m going to play bad cop and love every minute of it. Don’t worry, I know how to do it. There won’t be any complaints.”
As they climbed the stairs to Eddy's flat, D’Arcy grew increasingly uneasy. She couldn’t erase the O’Toole interview from her memory, no matter how hard she tried. She knew she was Lyons’ commanding officer and could demand he behave himself, but she had to admit...for all Lyons’ unorthodox ways, sometimes he got results when others perhaps wouldn’t. She would reserve judgment... Who knew what this stalker man might be like, after all? Perhaps strong-arm tactics would be best.
When they reached Eddy's door, Lyons knocked so hard on the door it rattled on its hinges.
“Open up, Skivvins! Police!”
D’Arcy’s phone pinged. She looked down. A text from DC Hawkins.
“Hawkins has come up with the goods,” D’Arcy said, eyes scanning the text. “Eddy Skivvin’s arrest history.”
“She’s a marvel, our Fern. Good. We’ll need some facts to confront your man with.”
After a few moments, they heard shuffling footsteps and the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door opened a crack, and they saw Eddy Skivvins’ face peering out at them. He was in his mid-fifties with greasy, shoulder-length hair and a thick beard. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw the two detectives. Like everyone in the Moorside, he could tell at a glance.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Skivvins,” Lyons said, flashing his ID. “I’m DC Lyons, and this is...”
“DS D’Arcy. We'd like to ask you a few questions about an incident. May we come in?”
But unlike most of the Moorside, Eddy threw open the door, his face lighting up. “Oh my word, it's the police! Please, come in, come in!” He gestured toward his living room, where all four members of the Sparklettes smiled down from the walls. No surprise there.
The place reeked of stale cigarette smoke and cheap booze, with piles of newspapers and empty beer cans littered across the living room.
Lyons drew himself up to his full height, shoulders squared, hands balled into fists and stared the man down with a threatening look as he stepped inside. D’Arcy followed. Eddy’s eyes ran up and down her as she passed, and his tongue darted out of his mouth and ran over his lips. Not in a sexual manner, more out of excited nervousness. She nevertheless felt a chill running up her spine and thought of her sanitizing wipes. She took in the cluttered and dingy interior of Eddy's flat in dismay. In addition to the posters of the Sparklettes, the walls of the sitting room were covered with brash, colorful photos of other girl groups, Girls Aloud, B*Witched, Atomic Kitten even and, of course, the Spice Girls. Skivvins also seemed to have found a place in his heart for Steps. Hundreds of CDs and albums were arranged neatly on a bookcase, with a special shelf reserved just for the Sparklettes, according to a hand-drawn sign. Apparently, they were his favorites. Instead of the sitting room of a middle-aged man, it looked like a schoolgirl’s bedroom. It was all so...sad, D’Arcy decided.
Eddy sat down heavily in a threadbare armchair, gesturing for the detectives to take seats on his sagging sofa.
“I’m so excited to have you here,” he said, eyes shining.
“Be careful what you wish for, mate,” Lyons grunted. D’Arcy sat gingerly on the sofa, hands in her lap, but Lyons remained standing, towering over the man looking up eagerly at him from the armchair.
“Oh!” Eddy’s hand shot up to his mouth. “Where are my manners? Would you like some tea? Biscuits? I’ve some Hobnobs around her somewhere. How rude of me!”
“Enough with the chatter, mate,” Lyons barked. “We don’t want bloody tea, we want answers.”
“Answers?” Eddy asked, still squirming with excitement. “Answers to what? Sit down. Please do. You’re my guests, after all. I’ve been expecting you to come calling. I suppose you have questions about Lily Feagins? Oh, such a terrible tragedy! I’m still reeling from the shock of it all. And the grief. The nights are the worst. Sobbing every night, so I am, my pillow sopping in the morning. Lily was always so kind to everyone. She was the heart of the Sparklettes. No doubt you’ve heard somewhere I’m somewhat of an expert on the Sparklettes? Oh, I know everything about them, so I do. Ask me anything you want, I’ll be delighted to assist the PSNI with their inquiries. Shoot!”
He beamed eagerly, his eyes dancing from one detective to the other.
“Please do sit,” he urged Lyons again.
Though outraged at her partner’s tactics, D’Arcy was fascinated. It was taking this Eddy Skivvins some time to gauge the hostility from DC Lyons, which D’Arcy thought should be patently clear to most normal-thinking people. Maybe that was the problem with stalkers, she decided. They were unable to read their victims’ physical or emotional cues, or misread them or, worse, disregarded them to fit their own irrational take on a situation.
Lyons was still glaring down at Skivvins. “And enough with this twittering, innocent act. You can act as harmless as you like, but we know the truth. An expert on the Sparklettes? My hole!”
Eddy’s enthusiasm was beginning to falter. His somewhat demented grin dissolved slowly from his face. Understanding began to rise in his eyes. He shrank back slightly in the armchair as Lyons continued berating him.
“Their tormentor, more like! We know all about it, the relentless harassment, the obsession, the threats. Against defenseless women young enough to be your daughters. Read it out, boss. Tell this sad, sorry excuse for a human being all he’s done.”
D’Arcy pulled out her phone and began to read. “May I996, London Odeon, attempted to climb on stage at a Sparklettes concert, May 1996, physically removed from the lobby of their hotel in Birmingham, June 1996, given a caution after being caught taking photos of Gerarda Donovan as she lay sunbathing in her back garden.” D’Arcy raised an eyebrow. “It gets worse and worse, an escalation of stalking behavior that ultimately led the band’s management to appeal to the Met for a Non-Molestation order in early 1997.”
“B-but they misunderstood!” Eddy whined, bewilderment now turning to frustration. “I wasn’t any danger to them. Look at me. How could I be a danger to anyone? I just wanted to show my love for them. I wanted to give them joy the way they gave me joy. The way their music filled me with happiness. I wanted to show my appreciation. Oh, you really have no idea how delightful their music is and how it makes me feel to this very day.”
To their alarm, he leaped from the armchair, maneuvered his way around Lyons and shuffled over to the sound system in the corner.
“Let me show you why they are the best group in the world. Have you ever heard their music? Their wonderful music? I’ve got everything, even the CD and cassette singles of that second album.” He grabbed a CD and slipped it into the CD player with fingers that trembled with excitement. “Just let me play you ‘You’ll Get Yours.’ I know the critics poo-poohed it, but...oh, it’s marvelous, so it is! And, no, far from tormenting them, I supported them! Tried to give them comfort when the world turned against them. I bombarded the Eurovision panel with emails and letters and I don’t know what after that disgrace of giving my girls nul points. And the residents of Derry! Turning their backs on them all. They were Derry’s pride and joy, and then they turned on them like that!” He clicked his fingers. “Built them up to knock them down. Four Derry girls, but! Where did all that pride go? Och, sure, there was a period there where I couldn’t look any of my neighbors in the eye, so full of fury was I that they’d abandoned Derry’s queens of pop. A disgrace, so it was. A flimmin disgrace! Shame on them! I—”
“Cut the crap,” Lyons said. He marched over to Eddy, who shrank back, and wrenched the CD out of his hand. “Back in the chair!” he barked as the man was a disobedient dog.
“DC Lyons,” D’Arcy warned.
But Skivvins scurried back to his armchair, staring nervously at the CD in Lyons’ hand.
“Don’t scratch it!” Skivvins begged. “It’s a Japanese import. Cost me seventy quid on the internet.”
“I’ll do more than scratch it if you don’t tell us what we want to know,” Lyons said, holding the CD up threateningly. “I’ll break every CD and vinyl and cassette you own if you don’t start speaking now!”
“No! No!” Skivvins wailed, eyes wide with terror. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Wouldn’t I?” Lyons grabbed the ends of the bookcase and gave it a little shake. “Just watch me! ‘Your girls?’ They weren’t your girls! They were their own women.”
Eddy, and D’Arcy as well, watched in horror as Lyons shook the bookcase a little more. The CDs juddered, the albums wobbled and a few cassettes tumbled to the floor. Lyons lifted the heel of his patent leather lace up and made as if he would crush the cassettes underfoot.
“Nooooo!” Eddy wailed. “Anything but that! You talk of harassment, but this...this..!”
“You better start talking then!”
“B-but what do you want to know?”
“Why did you kill Lily Feagins? We know you did it. We just need to know why.”
The shock was evident on the man’s face.
“B-but I...I...” He placed his head in his hands and, to the shock of them both, began to weep silently. D’Arcy shot Lyons a steely glare as the man’s shoulders shook. Skivvins raised his head and implored in a cracking, weak voice, “But Lily was my favorite Sparklette. I’d never hurt her. Never.”
“That’s as may be,” Lyons said. “Many people have killed for love, but. We just want to know why you did it. Answer. Now!”
The man’s head shot down and the silent weeping continued anew.
D’Arcy could stand it no longer. To hell with the appearance of unity before the public.
“Lyons. That’s enough,” she tutted, and now the look she shot Lyons was thunderous. “Mr. Skivvins, I apologize for my partner’s behavior.” She leaned forward, trying for a look of sympathy for this pathetic man before her. Her mind raced, trying to think of a way to do damage control and avoid a complaint from this witness. He’d certainly have grounds to file one. The only thing she could come up with was, “DC Lyons is behaving this way because, well, he too is a fan of the Sparklettes.” There was no way in hell she could meet Lyons’ eyes. “He is devastated by the loss of Lily Feagins and all. I’m sure you can understand. His grief is making him behave in this manner. I’m sure you’d behave the same way if you were investigating the murder of your beloved Lily. And I do believe you, Mr. Skivvins. Of course I believe you. I believe you loved Lily and would never want to do her harm. I believe you loved her just as much as DC Lyons still does.”
Skivvins looked up, eyes reddened, and inspected Lyons anew. He gave him a special look, now he had learned they were they part of the fraternity, secret brothers in arms.
