For legal reasons, I cannot include everything we discovered about the Nothing Man in the course of our research into this book but know this: there are still several leads that Ed and I are chasing. These threads are small and delicate, filaments really. We’re not sure where they will take us but we’re both hopeful that it will be closer to the truth. One lead in particular is looking very promising.
Books must be finished long before they get stacked on a shelf and, perhaps, by the time this one is finally in print, the Nothing Man’s name will already be known. Perhaps you, dear reader, even know what he looks like. Maybe you’ve already seen his face on the news. Did you get to watch as he was led out of this world and into some dingy, dark cell with his wrists and ankles bound? Was I there? Did I get to watch too? I hope so. It’s the hope that sustains me. It’s what has kept me going all these long months and the painful, lonely years that led up to them. The ending – the real ending – feels tantalisingly close, closer than it ever did before.
But just in case we haven’t found him yet, I must ask of you a favour: help us make this ending the beginning. We have presented as much as we can of what we know about the Nothing Man. This includes almost everything from the original investigation and the fruits of our research over the past couple of years. This, as my editor promised, is an era of armchair sleuths and amateur detectives. I know because I have occasionally lurked in the forums and Facebook groups where they gather. So now, I hand the baton over to you. Please, help us find him.
Someone must know who the Nothing Man is. Perhaps you recognised the sketch back then, or now, or you’ve long held suspicions about where the person you live with went on the nights of the crimes. Maybe you just have a feeling. Please, think of us, the victims’ families. Think of your own. Please pick up the phone and call the Gardaí. They have a confidential tip-line which can be reached on 1800-666-111. There is never a wrong time to do the right thing.
People ask me how I am now. By now they mean, post ‘The Girl Who’, post coming out as a survivor of the Nothing Man, post abandoning all attempts to have a normal life and instead dedicating my time and resources to finding the man who took my family from me. It’s difficult to answer because I feel sure that how things are now is not how they will be for much longer. I’m hopeful that when this book comes out, if not before, we will capture this faceless killer, and he will be charged with his crimes and locked away. That might give me a chance at something resembling closure.
Until then, I can only continue to do what I’ve done all this time, which is to do my best to stay afloat. Keep moving forward. I don’t stop to take stock. I fear doing that. My feelings constantly move and shift and tumble, like the contents of the drum of a washing machine in motion. It’s hard to pin them down and separate one pain from the other but I know that one day, that drum will finally still. So, ask me again later. Ask me when we get him. I’m convinced we won’t have long to wait.
Finally, we may not have his name yet, but we do know these: Alice O’Sullivan. Christine Kiernan. Linda O’Neill. Marie Meara. Martin Connolly.
My father, Ross, and my mother, Deirdre.
My little sister, Anna.
Remember them, please.
Jim was so engulfed in rage that he was only dimly aware of his actions. He heard the thunk of something hitting the wall of the living room and the smashing of glass that followed it, but it sounded like it was coming from far away. He didn’t realise he’d gone outside until he felt the sharp shock of night-time cold. He didn’t know why he was going into the shed until he was lifting the old Goblin hoover out of the tool cabinet, ripping off its cover and pulling out the bag inside.
It had a little bulge to it and felt heavy. He felt for the slit he’d made in its back. Pushed his hand in and touched soft cloth and then, through it, the reassuring hardness of something steel.
Jim sank to the floor, knelt next to the hoover.
He took out the items one by one and laid them gently on the stone floor of the shed in a neat row.
Mask.
Gloves.
Gun.
The knife he’d discarded long ago, off the back of a passenger ferry that Noreen, Katie and him had taken to France on their first – and last – foreign holiday.
But no matter. He’d do Eve Black with his bare hands and enjoy every single second of it.
That fucking bitch. He should’ve killed her when he had the chance.
By the time the sun came up again, he would have.
He wouldn’t need the rope; she wasn’t going to live that long. His old head torch had been thrown out more than a decade ago, but he had a newer one in the tool cabinet somewhere. Jim started rooting—
It’s there.
He stopped.
His name … It’s there.
Eve had said his name was in the book.
But he’d read to the end and hadn’t come across any mention of Jim Doyle or, come to think of it, Eve visiting Togher Garda Station.
He went back out into the night and crossed the garden to the patio door. The book was splayed open, spine-up, on the floor behind the TV. The dust jacket had ripped.
There was glass and spilt whiskey all over the place but cleaning it up could wait. One problem at a time.
Jim picked up The Nothing Man and flipped to the end to check if he’d missed something.
But all that came after the last chapter were the acknowledgements.
Acknowledgements
It would not have been possible for me to write this book without Ed Healy, Jonathan Eglin, Bernadette O’Brien and the entire team at Iveagh Press. For being so giving of their time and assistance, thank you to Maggie Barry, Gerard Byrne, Brendan Byrne, Joan Connor, Aisling Feeney, Peter Fine, Elaine Grady, Graham Harris, Patricia Kearns, Jean Long, Johnnie Murphy, Denis Philips, Kevin Prendergast, Geraldine Roche, Kevin Taylor, David Walsh and Dr Nell Weir. Thanks also to Melisa Broadbent, Rae Broughton, Andy Carter, Kevin G. Conroy, Kent Corlain, Anne Marie Gleeson, Cathy Hanson, Iain Harris, Holger Hasse, Catherine Ryan Howard, Sheelagh Kelly, Christ McDonald, Henrietta McKervey, Henry Molnar, Renee Nash, Marie O’Halloran, Johanna Pérez Vásquez, Sara Pickering, Frances Quinn, Sasha Reeds, Laura J. Roach, J. H. Siess, Sandie Smith, Nikki Telling, Oliver Troy, Heather Webb, Judith Whelan, Valerie Whitford and Crystal Williams. I am especially thankful for the generosity of An Garda Síochána. To Tommy O’Sullivan, Nancy Kerr, Breffany and Elizabeth Kieran, and Linda O’Neill: I can’t thank you enough.
His name wasn’t there.
Jim flipped to the back, where there was an index. He ran a finger down the columns of tiny text, checking for every possibility. He looked under D, for his last name. J, for his first. G, where he found Gardaí and An Gardaí Síochána, members of.
His name wasn’t there.
He tried to recall exactly what Eve had said. I’ll tell her that her husband helped with the book. To keep an eye out for his name. It’s there.
Why would she say that if it wasn’t true?
Jim flipped back through the book, intending to go to the beginning of the bit where Eve commenced her research, and move forward while scanning each page quickly just to double-check he hadn’t missed his name. But he went too far, all the way back to the start, opening it at its title page.