“The ‘H’ is a local historic thing,” Hugo smiled broadly. “During the Troubles, when the Maze Prison housed quite a number of the local male population, the republican political prisoners were housed in an area known as the ‘H’ Block. It was called that because of the shape of the building and you’ll see lots of aerial photos that show that. There was a big emphasis on education and making use of the time inside to catch up on missed learning opportunities. The Open University delivered degree modules in Sociology and Women’s Studies and such like and many of the local men, including my da, were educated there.” He chuckled again. “There are a lot of hard men on this road who are committed feminists and not many working class areas in the world can boast that one. Anyway, my hideaway is known here as the ‘H’ Block. Obviously ‘H’ for Hugo but also, I hope, for the emphasis here on self and community development rather than the connection with incarceration. We are trying to avoid that.”
He stopped and turned to face her.
“I’m gabbling on because I’m a bit nervous. I’ve read what you sent me about your work and it’s not the same showing someone round who knows what they’re at. We have done our fair share of tours with EU funders and such like but they just want the short version of everything and no detail. They want to meet the obvious success story and go away feeling virtuous for having funded us in the first place. It’s rare to be hosting someone who actually cares about the work so, as I say, it makes me a bit antsy. You know, like ‘ants in your pants’ antsy. Does that translate?” He mimed a bit of a jitterbug hop and laughed heartily at himself.
She immediately appreciated his honesty and returned the open smile. She liked when people could allow themselves to be silly. It demonstrated a certain easy self-assurance that was easy be around.
“I’m here to learn too, Hugo. We can ditch the pressures on that score right off. No place for performances in this line of work. We can agree on that one from the outset.”
She saw his shoulders drop and his movements become looser. She noted that he had a strange gracefulness that hinted at a man who liked to dance.
She took in the familiar set-up and inhaled the lingering smell of youth. “Actually, it’s the first time I’ve felt at home since I arrived in Ireland over three weeks ago today.”
She followed him to an alcove with two armchairs and a small table that held a box of paper handkerchiefs. She could sense the remnants of the heart-to-heart conversations that had happened there and the revelations about family life that didn’t match any of the manuals.
“I think we can do the abbreviated version of the niceties.” Hugo sounded very pleased about that. “We clearly speak the same shorthand and God knows that doesn’t happen too often. Let’s get straight to work, Alice Fox!”
The young people arrived around seven and the group session opened with the young people accounting for their presence in EXIT. Some were excluded from school at an earlier age and had filled their days with petty crimes. These were mostly robberies in the local area and some shoplifting to order that took place in the city centre and suburban shopping complexes further from home. In one case this had been a family business, which further complicated the process of withdrawal from that lifestyle. There was some previous involvement with drug-taking and distribution but EXIT members had to be clean to attend the centre and so these references were all in the past.
Both the young woman and a few of the young men had spent time in a young offenders’ centre and had a history of violence. Hugo had made contact with them when he went to speak about alternative ways ahead to individuals and groups ready for release. Almost everyone was now involved in further education and two were apprenticed to local craftspeople. One young man, Jed, talked freely about his literacy issues and the support he was getting from another person in the group. Another revealed his family involvement in dissident republicanism and the hazardous position this placed him in both with his family and the authorities. It became increasingly clear why the confidentiality clause in the group contract was so important.
Alice already felt a connection to the EXIT group and relished the idea of hearing more of the detail of their restorative work. She knew from her discussion with Hugo before the session that he facilitated some direct sessions between victims and perpetrators. They had both agreed to discuss the detail of these sessions further whether or not their collaboration proceeded.
Hugo had taken his turn in the circle and repeated some of the detail he had mentioned when they had talked earlier. He came from a local republican family and had been born at the beginning of the Troubles and lived in the area throughout the worst of things. Much of his childhood had involved travelling with his mother, in a crowded minibus, on weekly visits to his father in the Maze Prison.
“As I said, my da was educated inside and so maybe I learned about the importance of learning and freedom at the same time. I didn’t follow in his footsteps in terms of ending up incarcerated but I did inherit his sense of justice and that there are many ways to work at changing what you don’t like in your life. I went to college in Belfast and witnessed the beginnings of the Peace Process. There were a lot of conversations going on in this area that never reached the media but we learned a lot about reflection and consultation and being an agent in your own future. That’s what I’m interested in here today … avoiding violent conflict, avoiding prison, deciding what needs to change and talking to everybody involved in making that change happen.”
The respect of the young people for Hugo’s honesty was clear in the faces of those listening and nodding as he spoke. Alice felt the parallels in their two lives. Their realities were poles apart in many ways but they both traced their major life choices to elements of their fathers’ legacy that had led them to taking on the challenges of life in a very particular way.
She had been relieved when she had received a call from Hugo some days after that first visit. He had told her that the group were pleased at the idea that she would join in their work. He added that he too was happy about the prospect of no longer working alone. She had suggested that they might take on the idea of ‘self-defence’ not just in terms of learning some martial arts but also from looking at how to make their relationships with others less confrontational. Now, several months later, that learning journey was proving interesting for all involved and enhancing Alice’s data collection on the benefits of all aspects of restorative justice work. She resolved, perhaps with too little conviction, not to let the business of murder derail her main focus and to make sure to keep her work on track.
22
Later that Thursday afternoon, at the first available opportunity between her interviews with staff, Caroline Paton printed off three copies of Dr Cynthia Boylan’s autopsy report and passed copies on to her colleagues. They would have a better conversation later on, when they reviewed progress, if they had all absorbed the detail. No surprises in the cause of death. They had been very abundantly clear. They were also hopefully a little closer to finding the scene of the crime but very much at the beginning of identifying the killer. Boylan’s paperwork confirmed that the process of freezing the remains had muddied the waters about the time of death but hopefully there were other ways of coming at that puzzle. She had asked for a report from college security for the period from the Thursday before the end of term until the body was discovered. If that could tell her which personnel had been in both the Human Sciences and the Shipbuilders campus it might give them something useful. Of course not every visitor to the buildings signed or swiped in as was required, particularly if their absolute intent was anonymity. Another complication would be the inevitable slackness that accompanied the holiday period when people could desert their post to attend impromptu celebrations or even do the odd spot of Christmas shopping.
Ralph Wilson was Burrows and McVeigh’s last interview of the day. He arrived promptly at five and appeared anxious from the outset. Ralph and his ex had spent a lot of time walking in the Scottish Highlan
ds and years later his appearance still reflected this. He wore collarless shirts and tweed waistcoats in which he stored his pipe and smoking accoutrements. He exuded a pleasant aroma of aromatic tobacco. His shoulder-length curly hair was grey with just a hint of the original dark-brown showing through. He was unkempt and consistently trying to subdue the streeling locks that fell across his face as he talked and moved with characteristic exuberance.
“Tell us about your relationship with Helen Breen, Dr Wilson.” Burrows launched his question almost before Wilson had time to sit down.
Ralph spluttered and tossed his head agitatedly from side to side.
“I wouldn’t be known as her greatest fan ever.” He looked directly at Burrows, almost as if he were issuing a challenge as he said this.
His mind had been in turmoil since Bell’s announcement as he tried to come to terms with Helen Breen’s murder and the position in which that placed him. He had been nothing but vitriolic about her to most of his colleagues and had not made any secret that he despised her. He tried to remember if he had ever, even euphemistically, said he would harm her but couldn’t be certain. Phrases ran through his head like ‘butchering would be too gentle for her’ and ‘I wouldn’t be seen crying over her coffin’. He was prone to such exaggerated pronouncements and he could imagine some of his typical colourful utterances coming back to haunt him.
Burrows raised a questioning eyebrow and Ralph continued.
“I have made it plain repeatedly, both privately in conversation with colleagues and publicly in meetings that will be on record, that I did not hold my deceased colleague in high esteem.” He paused for breath. “My dislike was both ideological and personal. She epitomised everything I hate about educational trends at the moment. She lacked conviction and commitment and shirked work whenever she could find someone else to do it for her.” Wilson realised that he was warming too enthusiastically to his subject and paused suddenly. “Anyway, you will hear that from many colleagues but hopefully you will also hear that I am not the murdering type.” He looked nervously at Burrows, aware that his dislike of Breen had placed him pretty high up the line of suspects.
“Have you ever visited Dr Breen’s home?” Burrows asked. He was asking all interviewees that question in an attempt to find out about her life outside work.
Wilson looked aghast at the question.
“I barely spoke to her in work and I certainly never met her outside of it.” He shuddered as if the idea was repulsive.
“Tell us about your application for the new post of professor in DePRec. I believe Helen Breen would have been your only adversary in that competition.”
Burrows watched closely as Wilson felt the evidence against him accumulate. He flushed red and his temper flared.
“I have never concealed my dislike of the woman. We were as different as chalk and cheese in terms of how we would fill the new position. I want to make things better, more just. Her only concern has ever been her own aggrandisement.” He flung his arms about as he spoke. “I am under no illusion that I was not the favourite for the post – in fact, there are those who would say I was wasting my time even applying and I was mad to contemplate putting myself through the charade. There is no way they would choose me over Breen. She toadies up to Bell and Hartnett and anyone with any influence. I speak my mind and people don’t respect that anymore. It’s all about being businesslike and helping Belfast City College up the university league tables.” Saliva flew from Wilson’s mouth as his anger took hold. Burrow’s lack of reaction eventually led him to stop in his tracks and realise he was making matters worse for himself.
“Would it be fair to say that your colleague, Helen Breen, provoked you to anger, Dr Wilson?”
“Probably more like rage,” he admitted, “but I am not a violent person. I lose my temper and rant on about things but I am harmless. I wouldn’t hurt someone.” He was almost pleading by this stage.
Burrows asked Wilson about the end-of-term drinks at Professor Hartnett’s. He was baffled by the question until he realised that he had been rather drunk leaving and might well have said some unfortunate things that could come back to bite him.
“I don’t think it was anything other than the usual exercise in showing some scant appreciation to the masses … an opportunity to mix with colleagues … and probably drink too much free wine.” He laughed feebly and tried to cover his tracks as best he could.
Burrows nodded and the younger fellow just kept writing and eyeing the screen of his mobile phone He was recording everything.
Wilson gathered himself together and added, “I know I don’t come out of any of this smelling of roses but I swear I am not a murderer. The idea is preposterous. When was she killed anyway? I am sure that I will be able to show I wasn’t even anywhere near where it happened.”
“Thank you for being so frank with us,” said Burrows. He was as calm as Wilson was distraught. “We are obviously just in the early stages of gathering evidence. I am sure as we piece together the details surrounding the death of Dr Breen we will indeed be coming back to people to verify where they stand. We will no doubt be speaking to you again, Dr Wilson. Thank you for your time.”
With that he stood and made it clear that it was time for Wilson to leave. Wilson did this hesitantly and without any grace.
Burrows and McVeigh exchanged knowing looks but said nothing. There would be time later to give voice to their impressions.
DePRec staff who overheard the six o’clock radio news would have recognised the details that had become all too familiar to them during the course of the day.
“The PSNI have begun a murder inquiry following the discovery yesterday of the body of a woman in a building of the Belfast City College. For operational reasons the precise details of the discovery are not being disclosed. The body is believed to be that of Dr Helen Breen, a legal scholar and a senior lecturer in the Department of Peace and Reconciliation, known locally as DePRec. Dr Breen’s family was informed of her death early this morning. A PSNI press conference is scheduled for tomorrow morning when it is hoped further detail of this killing will be made public. Anyone with information should contact the PSNI …”
Radio and television news bulletins also carried a recording of Professor Giles Thompson making a statement on behalf of the university. He spoke of immense sadness at the demise of a valued colleague. He stressed how eager the college authorities were for the PSNI to rapidly identify whoever had committed this odious crime so that the normal, nonviolent business of learning could be continued.
23
That evening, pushing her bicycle, Alice walked home from the Titanic Quarter to Botanic to give herself additional thinking time. The clashing of her previous and present worlds was niggling at her and she needed to have some serious words with herself. Detective or scholar? Was it possible to be both? Was that even the right question? Why was she now so drawn back towards the role she had consciously separated herself from all those years back?
She had already crossed the Lagan Bridge and passed by the Waterfront Hall before she became conscious of her environment. On her right was a well-restored Victorian covered market that promised a host of interesting things to eat and see over the weekend. Even now, when closed, St George’s Market had an air of vitality and history that suggested it had strong, lasting community roots. Alice liked such places a lot. They suited her very well. It was possible to wander anonymously and glean indispensable cultural data unavailable in any other form. She liked this way of absorbing information and trusted her intuition about such things. She had been a savvy detective who tried hard to recognise the context of crimes as well as their perpetrators. Neighbourhoods needed to be understood in police work and that had become even more pertinent as she had moved from crime detection into the field of restorative justice.
In the Markets area through which she now passed and, in fact, every time she made her way around Belfast, she was constantly brought face to face with evidence of the legacy of
the Troubles and the sectarianism of a still-divided community. The colour scheme here was the green, white and orange of the Irish flag signifying unity between South and North, orange being the colour associated with the Protestant North for centuries. There were also signs displaying a language that she now knew to be the marker of a nationalist area – there was nothing in it that she could recognise or make any meaning of and, because of that, it was a little intriguing. The modest houses were relatively recently built and surrounded by commercial streets and fading industrial development. It was a tight, residential enclave with stone bollards positioned across roads to restrict movement. She recognised these as a security force mechanism with which she was familiar in the poorer areas of Lowell, where police wanted to limit potential rat-runs and easy escape routes. Noticing such detail, she told herself now was congruent with both Alice the detective and Alice the academic scholar. Both needed to be alert to the detail and track it back to the structures where it was generated. She was a blend of both of these things for which there was no label as far as she knew.
She weaved in and around people on the busy pavement and soon turned right along the less populated Donegall Pass. In the space of a hundred yards, the landscape shifted sharply to become dominated by building-size paintings unequivocally claiming the territory for those with pro-British politics. An entire gable wall held a painting of a lifeless Union Jack flag and declared Donegall Pass as the terrain of the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) 1913-2013. Red, white and blue paint daubed the kerbstones and bedraggled flags flew from lampposts. On the external wall of a pub called ‘The Hideout’ a mural featuring a lone piper commemorated members of the ‘2nd battalion’ of the Ulster Volunteer Force who were killed during the ‘Troubles’. In some side streets Alice glimpsed smaller murals of masked men carrying machine guns and a longhaired man in archaic dress astride a white horse rearing up on its hind legs. She recognised the form of the seventeenth-century King William of Orange, colloquially known as King Billy, from the research she had done to prepare for her time in Ireland. At first, being in such close proximity to these robust cultural declarations had caused a chilling effect on her and her more blasé response today was a sign that she was no longer such a stranger in this place. She was beginning to settle into her surroundings.
Murder In The Academy : A chilling murder mystery set in Belfast (Alice Fox Murder Mysteries Book 1) Page 10
