The Shankill Butchers

by Martin Dillon

  While Moore, Bates and McAllister planned their next move, Jimmy Nesbitt and his team were convinced they had the cut-throat killer behind bars. Their only concern was that he would be back on the streets in six years, but this was a matter to be faced in the future, or so they thought.

  Friday 29 October was a miserable day in Belfast, cold and showery. It was an important day for two young lovers who, with the way of the young, appeared equally unconcerned about the increasing violence in their city or the inclement weather marking the onset of winter. Early that morning twenty-one-year-old Stephen McCann dressed and ate his breakfast at his home in Victoria Gardens off the Cavehill Road in the north of the city. His thoughts were centred on the meeting later that morning with his seventeen-year-old girlfriend, Frances Tohill. They planned to spend the day together. Stephen was a student and had left school before completing his ‘A’ levels but had now returned to studying. His return to school was in many ways a consequence of meeting Frances, who was studying for her ‘A’ levels at Fortwilliam Grammar School. Stephen had always harboured an ambition to attend university, but had waited longer than most to begin to realize his dream. There was, however, a rebellious side to his nature and his commitment to study was not always as serious as it might have been. As a result, for several years he worked in his father’s carpet shop in Belfast city centre and then resumed his studies at St Patrick’s School which was the only school in Belfast prepared to accept mature students for ‘A’ level studies. He enjoyed being a student and hoped that if he were successful in finding a university place it would enable him to leave Northern Ireland. His real love in life, apart from his girlfriend, was writing songs and playing a twelve-string guitar. On occasions he would take his guitar into St Patrick’s Secondary School on the Antrim Road and play some of his songs for fellow students during breaks between lectures. He enjoyed being regarded, within his own family, as the ‘black sheep’ because of his nonconformist approach to life. In a family of four brothers and four sisters, Stephen was the third-born, and his unorthodox behaviour, by family standards, was tolerated by his parents. His family was lower middle-class and regarded as respectable and hardworking. His father was finding running the family business difficult after suffering a heart attack. His mother was quiet and devoted to her family and, it seemed, reserved a special affection for Stephen. He, for his part, attended school only when it suited him and often remained at home writing songs and playing his favourite records. Among those which he played at full volume on the stereo in his bedroom were songs by Gallagher and Lyle and Kris Kristofferson. One song which he played constantly in October 1976 was Kristofferson’s ‘Me and Bobby McGee’. The lyrics reflected his own, often morbid, preoccupation with freedom and self-image.

  Frances was from a middle-class family and lived in a large detached house in the Somerton district of Belfast’s upper Antrim Road. Her father was a general practitioner, well known in North Belfast. She was deeply in love with Stephen McCann but believed that her affection was not reciprocated. She felt that Stephen was always dreaming of travel and leaving Northern Ireland. During the year she had known him their relationship had gone through stormy periods when they would separate for short intervals and Frances believed that during these separations Stephen would see other girls. However, on Friday 29 October 1976 they were together again and enjoying each other’s company.

  Frances had first met Stephen in the students’ union bar at Queen’s University. She was with friends and Stephen, by chance, was seated beside her. He joined her group and became the life and soul of the gathering that evening. ‘He was always like that. What appealed to me were those big green eyes of his which were so full of life,’ says Frances. From that night in the bar they became boyfriend and girlfriend and Frances soon began to observe a darker side to Stephen’s character. He constantly talked about the violence in Northern Ireland and particularly in Belfast. When he sank into a dark mood, she says, he talked of people ‘being out to get him’ and of people who ‘were going to shoot him’. During the week of the 29th Frances noticed that Stephen played his records for her but did not produce his beloved guitar. In fact, for reasons which have never been known, he had placed an advertisement that week in the Belfast Telegraph and sold the guitar on Thursday the 28th. Frances only learned of the sale of the guitar when she called at his home on the morning of the 29th and was told by Stephen that he had sold the guitar because he needed money. Looking back, Frances still finds this puzzling because the guitar had been so precious to Stephen.

  While Frances and Stephen were waiting for a bus on the Cavehill Road that Friday morning, Stephen was unaware that one of his school lecturers had finally lost patience with him and had delivered an angry tirade about his absence. The lecturer had asked Stephen’s school-friends to convey to him that if he did not appear the following Monday he would be thrown out of school. No one was ever able to pass this message to him.

  Frances and Stephen spent the morning wandering round Belfast city centre shops, laughing and joking about their lives and their hopes. Frances remembers running hand in hand along a pavement in the main thoroughfare, Royal Avenue, when their attention was drawn to a jeweller’s shop. ‘We both stopped and turned to each other and at the same time said: “Let’s get engaged now.” We had just enough money for lunch and that bought us a hamburger each,’ says Frances.

  In the afternoon Stephen produced money from a wallet, more than enough for several dozen hamburgers. It was probably the money from the sale of his guitar, and with it he bought himself a jacket. Frances, however, remains convinced that it was not the proceeds from the sale of the guitar, though I have been told by a friend that Stephen did intend to buy clothes that day because of a party scheduled for the Friday night and a Hallowe’en function the following day. Frances recalls questioning him a second time about the guitar and being told by Stephen that she ‘talked too much’.

  Late in the afternoon they both returned to Stephen’s house where they played his favourite records and ate a light tea. At 7.00 P.M. they made their way across Belfast to one of their regular haunts, Queen’s students’ union bar, where they met many of their friends, including Stephen’s youngest sister and her boyfriend. Stephen was never one to drink much and that evening he sat for most of the time sipping one pint of lager, but he entertained those round him with his sharp wit and conversation. However, Frances says he left the bar at one stage and returned a short time later in quite a different mood. ‘He walked into the bar and sat down beside me and said, “They’re gonna get me”. He wasn’t drunk and I did not know who he was referring to and so I just put it down to other comments of a similar nature which he had made in my company in the past.’

  What Frances Tohill did not appreciate at the time was the extent of Stephen McCann’s preoccupation with the violence taking place around him. His writing is revelatory and shows the intensity of his feelings and his secret fears, which at times seemed to border on paranoia. The song below was written at this time:

  Chorus:

  What price peace, will it cost us all our lives?

  And when there’s no one left to die,

  Will peace come then?

  What price peace? Is it coming, is it gone?

  Have we had our share or is it still to come?

  Verse 1:

  It seems that because peace is very rare, the price is soaring

  We can’t afford to live in friendship but in hatred of this thing men call war;

  Children come unnoticed among sounds of death and vengeance.

  Chorus: What price peace . . .

  Verse 2:

  If the people who are fighting would consider for a moment

  How their fathers fought before them in wars long ago

  Then they would discover that these people had a cause to fight for

  Seeing in the dark a spark of light to show there wasn’t far to go.

  Chorus: What price peace . . .

  Vers
e 3:

  But these brave men are long since dead, their memories now

  Are only crude excuses which are drawn on gable walls to signify their creed or race;

  The cruel men today can’t see a spark to show the way

  To make a daytime of this nightmare of suffering and bravery of innocent and dead.

  Before the students’ union bar closed, Stephen met friends who told him they were having a party in a house in Jerusalem Street, less than half a mile from the university. They offered to let him spend the night there to avoid having to travel across the city to his home. Stephen did not take up the offer because seventeen-year-old Frances was required by her parents to be home shortly after midnight. Nevertheless, he and Frances decided to go to the party and spend an hour there before setting out for home. They arrived in Jerusalem Street after midnight and eventually left the party at 2.00 A.M. . Considering Stephen’s appreciation of the dangers abroad at this time, it is difficult to fathom why he took the risk of walking home. He was not drunk and must have been aware of the chance he was taking. Frances Tohill was later to regret that she had been with him that night and says that if she had not been there, Stephen would probably have spent the night at the party with his friends.

  Unfortunately, neither Stephen nor Frances had enough cash to take a taxi ride to their respective homes. They were left with a choice of two routes home, and both placed them in equal jeopardy. Firstly, they were obliged to walk into Belfast city centre. From there they could either walk up Donegall Street towards Carlisle Circus and the Antrim Road to the neighbourhood where Murphy had kidnapped three cut-throat victims, or they could travel by way of Millfield where the two women had been killed in Casey’s wine store. Anyone taking the latter route would undoubtedly have been presumed to be Catholic because of the proximity to the Falls Road. Stephen McCann and Frances Tohill walked towards Millfield.

  As they walked into Millfield they faced Unity Flats, 150 yards away. Stephen walked with his left arm around Frances’s shoulder and she with her right hand buried deep in the pocket of his jacket. Frances recalls that they chatted about the party and the Hallowe’en function to be held in the students’ union the following night. Neither mentioned to the other the lateness of the hour, or the fact that they were the only people in the vicinity. Millfield is today as it was then. There are no houses and it is a drab and lonely place, particularly after dark. It has two side streets which lead into the Shankill area and two that lead into Smithfield shopping precinct. Frances recalls:

  As we walked past the corner of Brown Street we were both aware of men standing on the corner with Millfield. We did not look at them directly and simply walked on. Something was shouted after us but I did not hear the exact words. We both turned to look round and at that moment Stephen was dragged from me. One man grabbed me from behind with his hand held across my mouth. I will never forget the feeling. I inclined my head so that I was looking into his eyes. I will never forget those eyes. It was a look of evil. I thought to myself, ‘Should I pretend to faint?’ I decided it was the best thing and slumped to the ground. My attacker said, ‘Don’t move, don’t scream.’ It all happened so quickly. I was terrified and confused. I did not know what to think. Stephen made no noise. I didn’t hear him scream or shout. I lay on the ground. I heard nothing, not the sound of a car or the attackers escaping. After a few minutes I got to my feet and ran in the direction of home. On the Antrim Road I screamed at passing cars in the hope that someone would stop and help me but all the drivers ignored me. I ran to a friend’s house in Lincoln Avenue and hammered incessantly on the door. When the door was opened I just shouted and shouted, ‘They’ve taken Stephen’.

  The four men who abducted Stephen McCann were Moore, McAllister, William Townsley and Artie McClay. They had spent most of Friday night in the Lawnbrook Social Club drinking and planning a murder. They left the club in Moore’s new, beige-coloured Cortina Mark 2, drove down the Shankill Road, turned into Millfield and then right into Brown Street where they parked the car out of sight of the main thoroughfare. Townsley remained in the car while the others walked to the junction of Brown Street with Millfield and waited for a victim to appear. It was almost 2.30 A.M. when Moore saw the lovers walking towards them. He told McAllister and McClay to wait until they passed Brown Street. He said he would apprehend the girl and McClay and McAllister should drag the boy to the waiting car. He added that two victims would be too much to deal with and that ‘the boy would do’.

  Frances Tohill’s recollection of events differs from Moore’s. He later admitted that he forced her to the pavement and told her that if she moved he would shoot her boyfriend. Stephen McCann did not resist as he was dragged to the waiting car. Moore released his grip on Frances and ran to the Cortina. He eased himself into the driving seat and Townsley sat alongside him. Stephen McCann was bundled into the rear of the car and placed between McClay and McAllister. Moore made for Brookmount Street but on the way McAllister and McClay questioned McCann about his religion and beat him. He neither screamed nor protested; he just admitted he was a Catholic.

  At Brookmount Street Moore stopped the car and left the others while he went to a house in the neighbourhood. Meanwhile, McCann was subjected to an horrific beating by the others. Moore’s journey on foot took him to Mr A.’s house where he collected a butchery knife and a .22 pistol. Mr A., the go-between, insisted that the method of killing be throat-cutting, but at Moore’s request he provided him with a pistol. The reason Moore asked for a gun was because he was not sure that he could carry out Lenny’s order for a further ‘cut-throat job’.

  When Moore returned to the car he handed the knife to McAllister who taunted Stephen McCann with it and ran it across each side of his neck several times, leaving long superficial cuts in the shape of symmetrical rings. Moore drove to Glencairn almost to the spot close to the community centre where Murphy killed Quinn, then Moore, McClay and Townsley dragged their victim from the car and marched him behind the community building. Moore ordered Stephen McCann to sit down but McCann knelt down with his head slightly bowed. At this point Moore shot him once through the top of the head with the .22 pistol, sending him sprawling sideways to the ground. Moore was handed the butchery knife by McClay and knelt down beside the body of Stephen McCann, and in view of the others, cut his throat back to the spine. When Moore had completed this gruesome act, he returned to his car with the others, still armed with the pistol and the bloody knife. He drove to Mr A.’s house, reported what he had done and returned the gun and the knife. He then drove his accomplices to their respective homes.

  By the time police were informed about the abduction of Stephen McCann he was undoubtedly dead. They were first alerted about the kidnapping at 3.10 A.M. when Frances Tohill and her friend drove towards North Queen Street Police Station and flagged down a passing RUC patrol. The patrol circulated details of the incident to all police radios. This alerted personnel in Tennent Street and their record shows that at 3.25 A.M. Constable Alexander Rainey went to the Community Centre at Glencairn and found the body of Stephen McCann. When I at first read the documentation which indicated that a constable was able to go directly to the exact spot of the murder based on brief information about a kidnapping in D Division, I was somewhat puzzled. Jimmy Nesbitt explains that, together with information on a kidnapping, a report had been made to Tennent Street that a shot had been heard in the Glencairn area after 3.00 A.M.

  At 3.45 A.M. the Deputy Police Surgeon arrived on the murder scene to find the body ‘kneeling on the ground and rotated to the right’. The head was lying backwards almost severed from the body. The position of the body revealed an added sadistic dimension to this particular murder. When Stephen McCann was shot, he would have sprawled sideways. Moore’s evidence supports this as does that of the forensic department. The body had, in fact, been rearranged before Moore and the others left the scene. When later Constable Andrew Flemming arrived on the scene he prepared a report, supported by other polic
e witnesses and photographs, stating that the body ‘was lying on its back with the legs bent back underneath; the head was lying back and the hands were drawn upwards to the chest’. Moore in other words had arranged the body so as to present as grotesque a sight as possible, with the throat wounds immediately visible to police arriving at the scene.

  The pathologist’s report concluded that death was due principally to the bullet wound to the head. The major wounds to the throat were not made by one single action, as Moore was later to claim in a statement to police. There were other injuries to the body which were consistent with a beating, including a laceration to the back of the scalp which could have been caused by a wheel brace or by the butt of the .22 pistol.

  As the story unfolded later that morning Nesbitt suddenly realized that his belief that Murphy was the cutthroat killer was now in question; and he began to feel that Murphy could not have committed the other unsolved cut-throat killings.

  The killing of Stephen McCann had a profound effect on all the men in C Division’s Murder Squad. When I was researching this book I found that one detective still had in his possession copies of ‘What Price Peace?’, together with another Stephen McCann lyric which had been given to him by a member of the McCann family some time after the murder. Jimmy Nesbitt, when he spoke to me of the killing, was also deeply moved, almost to the point of tears: ‘It struck all of us who were married that it could have been one of our kids. I also felt impotent to stop this but I was more determined than ever. I don’t think any of us forgot that particular killing. It was not that it was worse than the others. It was simply that innocence had been wiped away in one ghastly moment.’