Cold Steel (24 page)

'Watch that bastard, Michael. He's not one of the regulars.'

The paranoia returned. The voice inside Kelly's head surged forward. He stood up and began walking agitatedly around the bench, stopping and listening. He rubbed at his stubbly hair with the open palms of both hands. The bizarre movements continued for almost five minutes.

'Michael,' Dillon began. Kelly had returned to the bench. 'I need to talk with you. This man,' he gestured towards Clarke, 'is here to help.'

Kelly stared at the gravel.

'Something terrible happened before you came in here. You're being blamed for it.' Dillon leaned across on the
bench, both elbows on his knees. He rested his chin on his upturned palms and tried to engage eye contact. 'We're not sure about this. We don't know if you did anything. But you were there, you were definitely there. We need you to tell us what happened.'

Kelly continued to stare at the gravel. He jumped up and stumbled agitatedly around the bench, then sat down abruptly. He looked across at Dillon. 'Fuck off.' There was little strength in the voice, little conviction in the bravado. He sounded uncertain.

Dillon crossed his legs and leaned back on the bench. In the distance a tractor engine started up, scaring crows into the air. From the cells above insane men and women stared down.

'Can you remember anything before you came in here?' Dillon pressed. 'A young girl was murdered. An eighteen-year-old girl was stabbed to death in a park.'

Kelly started shaking.

'You were in the park at the same time. Everyone's blaming you. We need you to help us. We need to make sense of this.' Dillon edged along the bench. 'What happened that night?' He leaned closer. 'What happened to Jennifer Marks?'

'Jennifer, Jennifer. The screamer.'

Sweat began to bead on Kelly's forehead, his limbs shook. He grabbed both legs, trying desperately to control his agitation.

'Who stabbed her? Who else was there? You've got to remember. It's your only hope of getting out of here.' Dillon looked around. 'You'll be stuck in this hospital for ever. You'll never get out.'

Kelly circled the wooden bench. He began talking to himself, a mixture of nervous laughs and angry growls. His eyes darted from side to side. Dillon forced him back onto the bench.

'What happened that night?' He gripped his shoulders tightly. 'Who was with you? Who killed Jennifer Marks?'

Kelly looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood. The blood dripped from each finger and he rubbed at his clothes furiously in an attempt to clean them. But his mind would not allow relief.

'Who killed Jennifer Marks?' Clarke was shouting.

Kelly's mind was in turmoil, his body shook violently.

'Who killed Jennifer Marks?' The shouts echoed along the granite walls and more inmates crowded to their windows to listen. 'Who was with you?'

'Gimme the fuckin' knife, you scumbag!'
For a fleeting second Micko Kelly remembered everything. He saw a face, heard the screams of a young girl. He heard the angry roars of a man's voice.
'Gimme the fuckin' knife, you scumbag!'
He saw a knife flash in the night sky. Then he ran. He ran from one end of the garden enclosure to the other. At the end of the lawn where granite stone marked the boundary walls, he tried scrambling to safety. It took the warders thirty minutes to catch and subdue him.

It took Clarke a lot less to recognise he had problems. Big problems.

12.27 pm

Fifteen miles away in her apartment near Dublin's Mercy Hospital, Linda Speer had her bags packed and set aside in one corner. She checked her flight tickets, made out in a false name, Dublin to Amsterdam. The money transfer had been arranged once the target of $22.50 was reached. Sell, sell, sell. Cynx shares would be traded like confetti. She had everything worked out to the final detail. Except for Frank Clancy. He couldn't be traced. That worried her. He knew too much. But they were working on it, had a lead. Speer checked her watch, then lit her sixth menthol-tipped in an hour. Seven o'clock tomorrow evening. It would all be over by then. Goodbye Dublin. And fuck you. Frank Clancy, you'll soon be dead meat.

2.32 pm

'We've narrowed it down to this man.'

Back at the incident room in Sandymount police station Tony Molloy was explaining developments. Kavanagh and Clarke sat on two chairs. They had the room to themselves and were studying three enlarged glossy photographs stuck with pins to a wall. The blow-ups were of the group of spectators gathered at the park railings the morning Jennifer Marks' body had been discovered.

'We've checked names against faces twice. This man,' the tip of a biro pointed to a shadowy figure, 'is the only one unaccounted for.' Molloy picked up an A4 sheet lying beside him and scanned it quickly. 'Two people, a thirty-three-year-old male schoolteacher and an eighteen-year-old female office worker, were standing beside and behind him at the time. They're sure he was wearing a black hairpiece and sunglasses. No one else was wearing shades, it wasn't that bright.'

'We've got to find him,' said Clarke. He poked at the side of a chair with his crutch. 'Put the word about. Print another fifty photographs and have them handed out. We must track him down.' He tapped Kavanagh on the shoulder. 'Who's your friend in the
Post,
the crime, reporter?'

'Barry Nolan.'

'Ring him. Say we're looking for a second man. Let him know Kelly's not the only suspect.'

'Jesus, boss,' warned Kavanagh, 'that'll stir up a right hornet's nest. The papers will go mad.'

Clarke dismissed the other man's alarm. He hobbled over and stared intently at the unidentified man in the three blow-ups. With enlargement the paper had become grainy, but there was still enough detail. He picked up a magnifying lens and peered through it, moving from print to print, squinting at each angle of the same small group. Molloy watched, an amused smile on his face.

Clarke beckoned him closer.

'Do you see how tall he is compared to the others?'

Molloy looked. 'Yeah.'

'See that straight stare.' An index finger moved from print to print. 'Look at the other faces. Notice how they've moved, they're looking around.'

Molloy scrutinised the prints with a different eye. Each photograph captured a single time frame, reflecting movement of the onlookers, position, head turn, hand up to face. Except one. In all of the photographs the unidentified man with the hairpiece and sunglasses had not moved. His gaze was straight and unwavering.

'Let's flush that bastard out.'

32

10.00
am, local time,

Boston, Massachusetts.

Frank Clancy waited for Dr Harry Walters on level six of Springton Hospital. The floor was devoted to haematology disorders and Clancy recognised the familiar set-up as soon as he arrived. There was a large laboratory adjoining treatment wards. Ill patients conversed in hushed tones, some wandered aimlessly while others pushed drip-stands holding blood transfusion bags. He immediately envied the same-level facility, he hated having to chase up and down to the laboratory in the basement of the Mercy Hospital.

'Dr Walters will be with you in a minute.' A petite, dark-haired secretary offered him a seat. 'Coffee?'

'No thanks, I'm not long after breakfast. Maybe some iced water.' Clancy felt underdressed in his jeans, T-shirt and trainers.

Springton came as a shock to a man who thought he knew all about hospitals. It was very different to what he remembered in Chicago. The complex was massive, three ten-storey steel-and-glass blocks cramped tightly on a two-acre site. The energy of the staff and their constant activity was almost unsettling. Nobody walked, they either hurried or ran. Emergency vehicles screeched. Trousers were standard and worn by all female staff with long white tunics over them. Everyone had a laminated identity card dangling around the neck. Faces were grim and set rigid as
if everybody had heard bad news. Security guards patrolled and Clancy noticed two spot checks within five minutes. The security staff wore dark grey uniforms, black peaked caps and dark glasses. Those with red stripes on sleeve edges carried handguns.

His attempts to stop these worker ants and ask directions were greeted with surprise and hurried replies. He got lost twice and arrived on the haematology level three minutes before ten o'clock, out of breath and perspiring heavily. He clutched a large brown envelope. While he waited to introduce himself, the dark-haired receptionist was on the phone warning Dr Walters wouldn't have any windows in his diary until late the following week. Clancy sensed his visit might be rushed.

'Good morning, Dr Clancy. Nice to meet you.'

Harry Walters, chief of the haematology department at Springton, was an impressive-looking man. Tall and business-like, he had steel-grey hair and equally steel-grey bobbing, bushy eyebrows over deep blue eyes. His nose was bulbous and red-veined. He was dressed in a lightweight navy suit with red pin-stripe shirt and navy bow tie. In his jacket pocket a crisp white handkerchief peeped out. Like everyone else he carried a laminated identity card around his neck. Clancy estimated he was in his early sixties, though the ID suggested younger. He was all teeth and smiles but his eyes roamed restlessly as he shook hands.

'Did you get my fax?' Clancy asked immediately.

'I did. Can't say it made a lot of sense though.'

The accent reminded Clancy of Dan Marks. Deep voice, New England twang. Heavy emphasis on the T. Walters sat in a high-backed chair behind a wide desk. The office was tastefully furnished, quiet and discreet, pale greens and yellows. A small bunch of dark red roses inside a fluted vase contrasted nicely. Clancy sat opposite in a smaller, maroon cloth seat.

'No, I'm suppose it didn't,' he said. He laid the brown
envelope on the desk and began pulling documents out. Walters looked on, his toothy smile replaced by a puzzled frown.

'First of all,' said Clancy, 'let me confirm my identity.'

Walters' frown deepened.

'This is my registration certificate with the Irish medical council.' A heavily embossed document was passed across the table. Walters inspected briefly. 'This is my medical defence licence, confirming I am currently insured against malpractice claims.' A laminated credit card-type identity was offered. 'This is verification of my contract with Dublin's Mercy Hospital confirming full-time consultant haematologist status.' Two A4 size pages with Mercy Hospital heading and official stamp were laid down beside the others. 'This is my passport.'

Walters scrutinised, then flicked to the photograph. He glanced at Clancy's hair and did a double-take on the passport.

'Finally,' concluded Clancy, noticing for the first time the other man's bewilderment, 'my registration with the American Board of Haematologists and Oncologists.' He stopped, then added for good measure, 'I sat the exams in Chicago.'

Walters held up a hand. He rocked his chair from side to side. 'Dr Clancy, you're not looking for a job. What takes you all this way in such a hurry?'

Frank Clancy had been rehearsing his lines all morning. He didn't want to give too much away immediately, yet wanted to get to the point as soon as possible. He especially didn't want to go in up to his neck without sounding Walters' reactions first.

'Could you tell me if your department noticed an unusual cluster of patients presenting with agranulocytosis in the past few years?'

Walters leaned back in his chair and studied the younger man opposite. 'You came all this way to ask me that?'

'That and a whole lot more.'

'And this couldn't have been dealt with in the usual way? Telephone, fax, e-mail? A search through the medical literature?' Walters began pushing himself from side to side again. 'If I wanted to discuss medical conditions at your hospital in Dublin, do you think I'd turn up on your doorstep on a working day and expect you to open your case files?'

'No,' said Clancy, 'but this is no ordinary request.'

'I'm with you all the way on that,' agreed Walters.

'I couldn't risk anyone else knowing,' Clancy tried explaining, immediately aware he sounded ridiculous. 'And I must have the information back in Dublin before six o'clock tomorrow evening.'

The intercom buzzed and Walters picked up the telephone and listened. 'Tell Dr Goldstein I shouldn't be much longer. Offer him a coffee. Thanks, Marlene.' He hung up and forced a smile. 'You've got five minutes to make sense of this.'

'Okay,' said Clancy, eyes half-closed, lids fluttering with intense concentration. Please God, don't tell me I'm wrong. Don't let me make a complete fool of myself. 'In my department I see maybe one case of agranulocytosis every year. I've always identified a cause. You know the trigger factors in this disease, I'm not going to call them out.'

'Thank you for sparing me that,' said Walters. His fingers were toying with the intercom button.

'In the past few months I've had three new cases. I've lost all three patients. I haven't been able to figure out why. That's why I'm here.'

Walters looked across sharply. 'You've come to Boston for a discussion on the management of agranulocytosis?'

'No,' said Clancy evenly. 'I've come to Boston to see whether you've had a similar cluster.' He leaned on the table and held the other man's stare. 'And I want to know whether that unusual clustering has ceased.'

Walters crossed both hands and rubbed his knuckles
under his chin. He adjusted his bow tie, then buzzed the intercom. 'Marlene, another five minutes. Sorry.' He turned back. 'Dr Clancy,' he said, 'I don't know the protocol in Ireland, I've never worked there. But you trained in the US and must be aware of the standard methods of sharing confidential information.'

Clancy came back immediately. 'I do. But I'm breaking with tradition, I'm prepared to bend the rules to get the facts. I need to know whether this hospital has had an unusual cluster of cases of agranulocytosis and whether that cluster has ceased as mysteriously as it appeared.'

'Why Boston?' asked Walters. His dismissive tone had softened. He was sitting more upright in the chair. 'Why not Chicago since you worked there? Why not New York, LA or even Denver?' He adjusted his bow tie again. 'Why Boston?'

Okay, thought Clancy, here it comes. In at the deep end. Jump. 'I'm trying to establish a possible link between my cases of agranulocytosis and the arrival in my hospital of Dan Marks, Linda Speer and Stone Colman.'

Walters' features suddenly darkened. 'You're way out of line on this, Dr Clancy. Way out of line.' He flicked the intercom button. 'I'm coming out now, Marlene. Apologise to Dr Goldstein for the delay. Give Dr Clancy a coffee and order him a cab.' He paused, 'Where are you staying? Maybe you'd prefer to use public transport?'

Frank Clancy stretched across the table and flicked the intercom button off. Walters looked up, stunned. His face turned puce with anger. He tried forcing the button down again but found Clancy's grip restraining.

'Dr Clancy,' he spluttered indignantly, 'would you let go…'

Clancy pushed Walters back in his chair. It spun to one side. 'If I don't leave this office with the information I need I'm going public on this. I've got until this afternoon before my flight leaves. I could give a lot of interviews in that time.'

Walters glared at him angrily. 'What the hell are you talking about? I could have you charged with assault for what you just did.'

'I don't give a damn,' Clancy was leaning across the desk, trying hard not to lose control. 'I haven't come this far to go home empty-handed. I need answers.'

Walters continued glaring. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Maybe this will shake your memory.' Clancy upended his brown envelope and onto the desk dropped a small blue tablet. 'Recognise that?' he asked.

Walters straightened his clothing, picked up the tablet and inspected. He noticed the lettering
cyn
on one side,
xp
on the other. He slid it back. 'No. You've got one minute to get out of here or I'm calling security.'

Clancy had decided earlier how any possible confrontation would run. He'd rehearsed all options. He was now in scenario number three. Walters' denial. Time to open up.

'Dr Walters,' he said as he sat down again, 'don't treat me like some fool. Do you think I've flown from Dublin on a wild impulse? I'm as aware as you of the implications of what I'm suggesting. But I have a lot more information, hard facts, more than I've divulged so far.' He didn't. That's why he was in Boston. Bluff time. 'And someone's been following me, ransacked my house, stole important documents. I think my life is in danger. I'm not talking medical mistakes, bad judgement or poor clinical standards. I'm talking murder.' He stopped, suddenly aware he was shouting.

Walters rested chin on upturned palms. His lips moved slightly but nothing came out. He reached for the intercom, then stopped halfway. 'What time are you due to fly back?' he asked abruptly.

Clancy frowned, uncertain what was coming. He glanced at his watch. It was now eleven thirty. 'I'm on a Delta direct to Dublin at three exactly.'

'Go for a later flight,' advised Walters. He picked up a
phone and started dialling. 'If you want answers I'd suggest you come back this afternoon.' At the other end of the line a voice answered. 'Put me through to Ken Foss, please. Tell him it's Dr Harry Walters at Springton. Tell him it's urgent.' He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece as he waited. 'Kenneth, how are you? Good. Look, Ken, something very interesting has come in about our mutual medical problem… yeah, the same one… exactly, exactly.' He glanced across the table. 'There's a gentleman here in my office right now I'd like you to talk with.' Pause. 'Five this afternoon, that okay?' Walters hung up and immediately buzzed the intercom. 'Marlene, Dr Clancy is booked on Delta out of Logan direct to Dublin at three o'clock exactly this afternoon.' He checked for Clancy's confirmation. 'Find him a flight later this evening, okay? Don't make it any earlier than, say, eight o'clock.' Angry mutterings came across the intercom. Walters ignored them. 'And Marlene, cancel the whole afternoon. Yes, the whole afternoon. Then get me Sam Bawden on the line as soon as possible. Thank you, Marlene.' He flicked the
off
button and stood up. 'I've got a lot of work to do and this discussion has delayed me considerably.' He turned the handle on the door, then paused. 'Your threats disturb me, Dr Clancy. Before we speak again I'll need to take legal advice.' The door was pulled open. 'I'd recommend you do too.'

33

7.10 pm

Dublin

It was Barry Nolan's exclusive in the
Evening Post
that precipitated a crisis in the Jennifer Marks' investigation. The front-page report was accompanied by photographs and background briefings from police and hospital sources, with further 'startling new revelations' offered on pages five, six and seven. There were a number of 'off-the-record' quotes. The banner headline guaranteed bumper sales. JENNY: SECOND MAN INVOLVED?

Nolan recounted how the police investigation into the 'teen schoolgirl's murder' had taken a dramatic twist. There were insider accounts on Micko Kelly's continuing mental instability accompanied by an old mugshot-style photograph. Unnamed warders at Rockdale confirmed he was being questioned about a 'second man'. Another source added fuel to the fire with 'a definite sighting' of someone other than Kelly running from Sandymount Park. The tabloid had its readers worked up with a final, possible conclusion: IS KELLY INNOCENT?

Nolan added that news bureaux from around the world were following the story closely. TV crews from Sky, CNN and two major US networks had based themselves in Dublin, filing regular updates while they awaited developments. The
Boston Globe
had three reporters walking the streets looking for new angles. 'America demands justice', was how one cable TV journalist began his account.

Jim Clarke was summoned to an urgent meeting with the police commissioner.

Stuck in a long line of traffic near the city centre, he stared sullenly out a smeared back window, observing his fellow citizens. People were eating hamburgers, improving their cosmetics or fighting with boisterous children. Being driven around allowed him to inspect society at his leisure and the more he saw the less he liked. He had been aware for some time that the constant pain from his damaged leg was making him bitter and easily angered. He'd always said he wouldn't retire early on health grounds, that would only have given the criminal underworld a sense of victory. Recently he'd begun to have second thoughts. When this case is over, he promised, as the car sped into the quadrangle at headquarters, I'll pack it in for good. Spend some time with the family, with Katy in particular. I hardly see her nowadays. She's growing so quickly. That's what I'll do, I'll pack it in after this. I'll tell them this evening.

Commissioner Murphy was in no mood for discussion.

'Sit down, Jim. I'd like to get this over with quickly.'

Clarke was directed to a chair around a wide, dark wood circular table in room eleven. Already waiting and glaring was Minister for Health, John Regan, and his cabinet colleague, Paddy Dempsey, the Minister for Justice. Donal Murphy was in navy slacks with open-neck, short-sleeved shirt. He appeared preoccupied and studiously avoided eye contact. Dempsey was dressed in ill-fitting tweeds, his bull neck straining at a shirt collar an inch too small. By contrast John Regan's physique made the most of his loose-fitting slacks and yellow jumper over dark blue shirt.

'I've had a complaint about the handling of the Jennifer Marks' murder investigation,' Murphy began. He raised an index finger to stifle any interruption. 'After your questioning of Annie Marks she apparently became very agitated and her husband had to be called from the
operating theatre. She is now under sedation.'

Clarke sensed trouble.

'Dan Marks was so angered he made an official protest to the department.' Murphy finally looked over. 'Minister Dempsey contacted me this morning and was most forthright in his criticisms.'

Clarke glimpsed a smug, satisfied smile flicker at the other side of the table. He found John Regan staring at him.

'I agreed to this meeting to review the situation,' continued Murphy, ignoring the look of dismay on Clarke's face. He shuffled paperwork on the desk in front. 'And,' he added, 'I have reassured the ministers the investigation is proceeding apace. Michael Leo Kelly is still our main suspect and we plan to charge him as soon as the medical team in Rockdale give permission.'

Clarke listened with suppressed fury. He gripped at the sides of the table, his nails digging into wood. He wanted to shout to stop the words he was hearing.

'Since the investigation is more or less complete I feel it would be wiser, Jim, if you took a break.' Murphy looked directly at him. 'I have explained how difficult life has been for you since the bombing and Minister Dempsey has agreed to fund a month's paid holiday over and above your standard leave.'

Dempsey spoke for the first time. He leaned heavily on the table and glanced across, avoiding eye contact. His thick lips mumbled the words.

'I think this inquiry is getting the better of your judgement. The report in tonight's
Post
is ridiculous. Who's leaking that information? This second man theory is no more than the ramblings of some mentally retarded youngster. We've got our man.' He sat back in his chair. It slid on the highly polished floor from his weight. 'Dublin's full of reporters standing beside satellite dishes shooting their mouths off. If this goes on much longer we'll be made to look like fools. Kelly was seen running from the scene,
Kelly was covered in the girl's blood. That's it, full stop.'

John Regan interrupted. 'And I'm not impressed with his so-called insanity. That angle came up very quickly. There'll be no pleas of diminished responsibility when he comes to court if I can help it.' He glared at Clarke. 'And no bleeding-heart psychiatrist supporting him.' He stopped, then leaned across the table, the picture of sudden concern. 'Are you using regular painkillers? Maybe you're taking something that's clouding your judgement?'

Clarke almost erupted but was saved by the timely interruption of the commissioner. 'Thank you, gentlemen, I think you've said enough. Superintendent Clarke doesn't have to put up with cheap jibes.'

Regan snarled. 'Superintendent Clarke has nearly brought the Heart Foundation to its knees. The staff were incensed at Annie Marks' interrogation.' He eyeballed Clarke. 'I have a crucial press conference tomorrow night. A twenty-million-pound EEC grant is due to be handed over for the Mercy Hospital project. And in full view of the world press. I will not lose that because of the actions of some small-time knifeman. I plan to disclose formal charges will be laid against that junkie.' He stood up. 'This investigation is finished, the file is closed.' He stormed out of the room, slamming the door after him. A mumbling Dempsey followed.

Donal Murphy started packing paperwork into a briefcase.

Clarke spoke at last. He'd held silence long enough and his anger finally surfaced. 'Commissioner, I'm tendering my resignation as from now. I'll put this in writing and have it on your desk within half an hour.' He was white-faced, his emotions crumbling. He'd been humiliated without an opportunity to reply. He felt betrayed, disgraced. His superior's last-minute support had been feeble. He wanted to be out of the room, away somewhere on his own.

Murphy laid his briefcase on the floor. 'I don't want your
resignation. I want this girl's killer. If you think there was someone else involved you better prove it before Regan's press conference.' He stood up to leave. 'Kelly is the only one who knows what happened that night. You're off the case, so get on to that psychiatrist Dillon, it's time he produced results.'

8.12 pm

At Rockdale Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Patrick Dillon was trying to get results. He'd been rung from police headquarters and warned about John Regan's press conference. That had disturbed him. 'Most unhelpful,' he'd commented. Equally he recognised how volatile the media reporting had become. The murder investigation was still the lead story on most bulletins. And international interest was intensifying. His own involvement was being analysed over the airways by armchair psychiatrists offering informed opinion. He was now as important as his charge. PSYCHO JUNKIE'S SHRINK was how one US tabloid had described him. He'd laughed at that. He hadn't laughed when a TV lawyer suggested his sole involvement was to get Kelly off the murder charge on grounds of diminished responsibility. Worse was to come. An American forensic psychiatrist previously involved in a high-profile murder was paraded on primetime television. He suggested Dillon could be keeping Kelly in hospital longer than necessary with a view to writing a bestselling book about the case later. 'Just like I did,' he openly confessed. That had rankled. Dillon disliked the media spotlight intensely, hated TV pundits trying to second guess his management. He decided to try to move things along faster.

He faced Micko Kelly across a five-foot-square oak-veneer table in a small 'time-out' room. Outside in the corridor of the maximum security ward halogen lights
glared. The 'time-out' room, barely ten feet long and twelve feet wide, was reserved for interviews and management of aggressive outbursts. It was a cooling-off area, strategically situated beside the padded cell. The room was poorly lit by a single central forty-watt bulb and a swivel lamp had been set on the table for better light. Dillon had spread out a range of newspaper cuttings on top of the table. Each was a report of the Jennifer Marks' murder, many with photographs. He slid a cutting across and pointed.
'
That's Sandymount Park. Do you remember being there?'

Kelly studied the clipping then shook his head. He ran a tattooed hand across the spiky growth on his head, then against the stubble on his chin. 'Nah.'

Dillon sorted through the collection and pushed another over. It was a front page of the tabloid
Daily Post
with a close-up of Jennifer Marks. The banner headline had been cut away. Kelly looked at the photograph with a seeming disinterest, then squinted closer.

'Gimme the fuckin' knife, you scumbag.'
The voice flashed and disappeared. Kelly seemed momentarily stunned. Then he lifted the page and scanned each detail closely.

'Do you know who she is?' asked Dillon.

Kelly dropped the page back on the table. 'Nah.'

Dillon mentally recorded the other man's reaction.
'
Think. It's important for you. Try and remember. She was in that park with you that night. Something terrible happened to her.'

Kelly shook his head violently from side to side. 'Nah, nah. I can't remember. I'm tellin' ya, I just can't remember. Stop torturin' me. I can't remember.' He pushed the chair away with the back of his legs and began pacing around the room.

Dillon watched closely.

'You all think I'm mad,' Kelly shouted angrily. 'Well, I'm tellin' ya I'm not.' He pointed a nicotine-stained index
finger at his right temple. 'I was all right 'til I came into this dump. Now I'm surrounded by crazies.' His hand movements were jerky, eyes rolling. His lips moved furiously but not always with words. He sat down at the table staccato-like. 'Get me outa this fuckin' place,' he snarled.

Dillon leaned back in his chair and began humming quietly. 'I'd have you out tonight if I thought you weren't a danger.'

'I didn't do fuck all.' Kelly had slumped into a dark corner. 'D'ye hear me? I shouldn't be in here with these fuckin' lunatics.'

Later Dillon recorded his observations in the hospital chart. 'Michael Kelly improving slowly,' he wrote, 'hallucinations abating, physical appearance reflects better nutrition and lack of hard drugs. While his long-term recall is good, memory for recent events is still poor. This confuses him greatly. He is prone to bursts of aggressive agitation. Still exhibiting paranoid schizoid-type symptoms. Impression: progress not sufficiently established to justify discharge to secure unit.'

When he'd finished Dillon sat at the desk thinking. Kelly's disorganised thought pattern could persist for weeks. The loss of short-term recall was the biggest problem, it frustrated him most. If we jog his memory, Dillon reasoned, the truth might come out. Is he a psychotic murderer or a madman being set up as a stooge? There's one way to find out. It's risky. It could destroy my reputation if it backfires. He heard an angry shout. Micko Kelly was being closed in for the night.

I'll do it. Tomorrow. In time for that press conference.