Free Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller by James Nally Page A

do.’
    She nodded, biting her lip.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
    I could tell, right away, what she hated most about all of this: the fact that she had to ask for help at all. I’d seen it in Marion’s family that morning: these dignified, fiercely independent, proud people were the ones who paid their taxes so that we could exist, but they never wanted to need us.
    Cringingly, Clive wasn’t done yet demeaning our non-victim of crime.
    ‘I’m not being funny, love, but you could get done for wasting police time. We’re not Relate.’
    She put her hand over her face and nodded again: ‘It’s just … there’s no one else I can turn to.’
    ‘Clive, a word,’ I said, heading to the front door.
    ‘Shut the door behind you,’ I told him.
    ‘Are you telling me that there is nothing we can do to help her?’ I asked.
    ‘What can we do?’
    ‘We could go see her ex-boyfriend, have a word.’
    ‘You know the drill with domestics, Donal. He’ll say: “I was only trying to talk to her.” Unless there’s hard evidence of an offence, you end up going round in circles.’
    ‘What, so we’ve got to wait until she’s lying on her landing with forty-nine stab wounds before we get involved?’
    He sighed. ‘She can go to a solicitor, apply for an injunction. We could get him on that later, okay?’
    ‘But this is our patch. We can’t just abandon this woman until he hurts her. What if she ends up like Marion?’
    ‘You’ve got to stop letting your emotions get in the way, Donal. You’ll never survive this business if you don’t. We’re not here to referee relationships.’
    ‘She’s not like the other people we deal with, Clive. You know that. It’s not good enough.’
    He sighed and nodded: ‘I know, son. I know. But we don’t make the laws.’
    I was growing heartily sick of our helpless appeasement of petty criminals. It felt like we were almost taunting them to go one step further, to do something that would make our dealing with them worthwhile.
Make our day, punk, stick a knife in her next time.
    ‘What can we do?’ asked Clive plaintively.
    ‘We can do whatever the fuck we like,’ I muttered, knocking on number 16 again. I knew Clive’s heart was already at the Wimpy. ‘Order me a chicken burger and fries. I’ll see you there in ten.’ Gabby didn’t open the door until he was out of sight.
    Her place was classy; chic but homely. I clocked her graduation photo: she was smart too. Why then had she shacked up with a psycho?
    She didn’t know where her stalker, Dominic Rogan, currently lived. Mutual acquaintances had confirmed that he still worked for Bank of America in the City.
    ‘Is there any pattern to his activities?’
    ‘No. It’s just that he seems to be getting worse. Like I said, he’s never actually come into the garden before.’
    ‘Do you think he’s capable of violence?’
    ‘I know he is,’ she snapped, ‘that’s why I dialled 999.
    ‘Sorry,’ she added quickly, ‘I know you’re just doing your job.’
    ‘What level of violence, Gabby … are you in fear of your life?’
    ‘I know he’s capable of … lashing out. That’s why I broke up with him.’
    ‘What does he want?’
    ‘I’ve tried talking to him, if that’s what you mean. I tried for weeks. He just won’t accept that I don’t love him.’
    ‘I can help you get a court order.’
    ‘I’ve thought about it, but it’d probably just provoke him. I don’t want to make him more angry than he already is. He’d break it, I’m certain. Then what? He gets arrested, charged, a court case? It could drag on for months. All that time, he’d still be in my life. He’d love that.’
    ‘Look Gabby, don’t listen to my colleague. If he comes again, dial 999. I’ll vouch for you.’
    ‘Thank you,’ she said, biting her bottom lip again.
    I took out a piece of paper and a pen. ‘This is my work number, and my home number. I live half a mile away. If you feel in danger, call either.’
    ‘I …