The Girl From the Killing Streets

by David Hough

  “I fuckin’ didn’t!”

  “That’s for someone else to judge. Just come quietly.”

  “Do as he says, Brian,” Sorcha said. “They’ll kill youse fer sure if you don’t put the knife away.”

  Fitzpain let out a long resigned sigh. He snorted at the policeman, “All right. No need fer youse to read the riot act over me. And youse can put yer gun down.” He lowered his weapon arm and turned towards Maggie and Sorcha. “’Tis the work of Jimmy Fish, fer sure. That little runt’ll have to pay for this. I swear to God, he’ll have to pay. D’youse hear me!”

  Sorcha looked towards Maggie and saw her nod almost imperceptibly. The message was clear. Jimmy Fish had crossed a line in the sand, and he had to die. Maggie’s face indicated she would willingly act on the threat. What else could she do but try to avenge Brian Fitzpain’s arrest? Vengeance was in their blood… all of them.

  ***

  October 1980

  I must have interrupted Sorcha too many times in the telling of this incident. I certainly butted in with numerous questions regarding that first meeting with Martin. It was crucial to the book and I wanted as much detail as she could recall. However, my interjections took up time and that was the problem.

  “The old lady… Maggie… she was never called to give evidence in court,” I said.

  “No. After I changed me plea to guilty there was no need. I confessed to both killings and that was the end of it.” She turned her head away as she spoke. It was the only time in that interview when she appeared evasive, as if something was left unsaid. That was my opportunity, my opening into what happened at the time of those murders.

  I was about to question Sorcha when the burly warder stepped forward and tapped at her watch to indicate my interview was at an end. I cursed her under my breath.

  “Just a few minutes more,” I begged her.

  “Not a chance.”

  I stood up slowly, curbing that sense of frustration. “I’ll write to you when I get home, Sorcha, and we’ll fix up another interview.”

  “Soon?” She seemed eager to continue with the process, as if it gave her some sort of emotional release to be able to talk to me.

  “As soon as I can find the time to come back over here. And I’ll want to talk to Martin again, as well as you. I need to know more about your relationship with him. How did things pan out between you and him after this incident?”

  “Badly.” It was the last thing she said before she was led away.

  Chapter Eight

  November 1980

  I spent the next two weeks in my study at home in Wimbledon, working on my manuscript. Some days I spent ten hours at my typewriter, drafting and redrafting until I was satisfied I had created an accurate picture of what I had learned so far. I’m not a fast writer and I try to get as much as possible into a coherent form at that first draft. That took time, and it saw my waste bin often filled with screwed up paper in the course of one day. I am sure my account was accurate, but I worried that it gave such a bad impression of Belfast. Would that impression change as the story progressed? Would I find some saving grace in the two half-cities? Even then, I had little hope, but I was determined to stay true to what I experienced. As a writer I was duty bound to describe the world as I saw it. Anything else was a personal falsehood.

  I wrote to Sorcha, inviting her to write back with an account of her next meeting with Martin. On a whim, I also penned a letter to Martin asking him if he would like to write back, telling me his side of their next meeting. I had a suspicion I might get different versions of the event. I wanted more face-to-face interviews, and I would have to knuckle down to them sooner or later, but flying over to Belfast was expensive and I was living on a small advance from my publisher. My bank account was running down fast, so I planned my next visit to Northern Ireland nearer Christmas.

  At the beginning of November I drove over to North Wales to meet Will Evans. I checked into a hotel in Llandudno and invited Will round for a drink in the bar after dinner. I wanted to know how the police investigations were progressing on that fateful morning. He seemed easier in his mind this time, launching into his account as soon as I bought his first whiskey.

  ***

  Friday 21st July 1972

  1000 BST

  An air of tension had settled over the North Castle Street RUC barracks when Will and McIlroy arrived there. It was due to more than just the killing of Detective Constable Johnny Dunlop. Something big was looming.

  McIlroy went off to brief Detective Superintendent Boyle about the informer’s warnings while Will made his way to their office to write a brief report. It was a working office: untidy enough to show that things happened here, but not so untidy as to impede the business of crime detection. The two desks were set at right angles to each other, giving the two occupants the chance to discuss cases without being confrontational. Will took the seat at his own desk, with his back to the single window. McIlroy’s desk had the advantage of an oblique view of the world outside, but he was the senior man. Will left the office door open and the hubbub of police work added a noisy backdrop to his report-writing.

  Already, stories were coming in about a mutilated body discovered by the army in a Nationalist area; a young man with his penis cut off. A cross cut into his chest told them it was a tribal matter. The incident added little to the general air of expectancy because they all knew it was yet another brutal Provisional IRA punishment. Nothing new. One day they might discover why he was mutilated. They might even discover who did it, and who dreamed up the idea of a cross cut into the chest. Or they might not. There had been so many brutal killings in Northern Ireland this year, and many of those that occurred in Nationalist areas were never reported to the police. Even so, the clear-up rate was nothing to write home about.

  “What did the ‘super’ say about Jimmy Fish’s bomb warnings?” Will asked when McIlroy returned to their office.

  “Not a lot. There’s not enough solid evidence. We know that something is in the air, but we still don’t know what or when. I got a rocket for not giving Jimmy Fish the hard treatment to find out more.”

  “That’s a bit unfair.”

  “Boyle is trying to show me who’s boss around here.”

  “What’s the point? Jimmy Fish wasn’t going to say any more, whatever threats you used.”

  McIlroy scowled. “Probably not, but our beloved leader had to stand up on his hind legs and make his point.”

  Sensing his boss’s growing antagonism towards the Superintendent, Will changed the subject. “Did you tell him that Johnny Dunlop might have been killed by one of Jimmy Fish’s relatives?”

  “Yes. Like me, he thinks it was Fitzpain who did it. He’s got a fixation on that villain.”

  “Haven’t we all?”

  Will was fetching himself and McIlroy a mug of coffee when news came in about the arrest of Brian Fitzpain in Oldpark Road. The IRA man was now on his way to the Castlereagh Holding Centre in east Belfast. It was the most secure police building within the province.

  “Fitzpain in custody? Is that coincidence?” McIlroy said, nodding to the ceiling. “Or is someone up there listening to our prayers?”

  “Just plain old good luck, boss. And the Super will be pleased about it. He may want to do the interview himself.”

  “If the Oldpark guys agree to it.”

  “Superintendent Boyle will get his way. He always does.”

  “I hope not. I want in on this one. And I may even have a lever.” McIlroy avoided Will’s gaze, as if he was hiding something. He took a single sip at his coffee. “In fact, I think it’s time for me to talk to our beloved leader again, Will. You’d better come with me to back me up.”

  “Do you need back-up, boss?”

  “I might need you to hold me in check. You could greet him with a charming Welsh smile and see if it has any effect. It might soften him up a bit.”

  “Iechyd da and hope he opens his whiskey bottle? You’ve got to be joking.”


  “It’s no joking matter.”

  The rest of the coffee was put aside to go cold while Will trailed behind McIlroy to the office of Superintendent Boyle. They were met with a sour expression as they entered the office. Compared with their own, this one had an antiseptic air about it. Apart from the few papers on Boyle’s desk, there was nothing casual on show: no family photographs to remind the Detective Superintendent of his life away from North Castle Street, and no small ornaments to create even an impression of a homely atmosphere. It was, Will thought, almost sterile.

  “What now, McIlroy?” Boyle had been writing, a fountain pen firmly grasped in his podgy hand. He carefully replaced the cap and set down the pen on his blotting pad.

  Will held back while McIlroy came straight to the point. “We heard that Fitzpain has been arrested.”

  There was no ‘sir’ in his opening gambit. That puzzled Will. He knew his boss to be a stickler for protocol in most situations, but something was seriously wrong here.

  “That’s none of your business, McIlroy. What do you want?”

  Boyle looked in no mood for polite conversation. Malice filled his voice. Whatever it was between these two, it was not one-sided. They stared at each other for a few seconds like gladiators in a Roman arena, each weighing up the other.

  Something is very wrong here.

  McIlroy broke the brief silence. “I told you earlier. We think he’s the one who killed Johnny Dunlop.”

  “Of course you do. We all do. It’s got the bastard’s fingerprints all over it. So, have we got any new evidence against him?”

  “No. Nothing new.” McIlroy became insistent. “It’s just as I said before. We had a hint from Jimmy Fish. A sort of relative, he said.”

  “A hint is all you have, McIlroy. Codd gave us no name. Nothing solid.” Boyle sounded sceptical, and more than that. He sounded vexed. “Based on what we have at the moment, no one can charge him with anything. Taking him in was a waste of time and resources.”

  “Fitzpain is related to Jimmy Fish. It has to be him.” McIlroy’s hands were gripped tight. Will saw them clutched together behind the DCI’s back. Something was bugging him and it wasn’t just the matter of Fitzpain. “How did he come to be picked up? Do we know?”

  Boyle ran his tongue across his upper lip while he considered his reply. “There was a tip off. Someone phoned in and said we would find Dunlop’s killer in a hotel in the Oldpark Road. No name was given, but the man the uniforms found was Fitzpain. It didn’t take them more than a couple of seconds to make two and two equal four.”

  “The call came to us and not Oldpark?” McIlroy said. “Why us? Doesn’t that make you suspicious?”

  “No. It would have been one of our own informants, obviously; someone who knows how badly we want to pin a murder on Fitzpain.”

  “Someone like Jimmy Fish.” McIlroy leaned forward over Boyle’s desk and stabbed a forefinger on the blotting pad. The threatening behaviour was getting out of hand.

  Will wanted to intervene, lower the temperature, but he knew well enough he must not. Whatever it was, it wasn’t his fight.

  McIlroy continued in a gravelly voice. “Will you do something for us? Me and Will Evans.”

  “Depends. What exactly do you want?” Boyle gave him an inquisitive look. His underlying anger was poorly hidden.

  “Let me be first to interview him.”

  “Why? This is not your investigation.”

  “Call it professional pride, if you like. We all know he’s in the frame for God-knows-how-many past killings. I might be able to get something on one of our outstanding cases. Can you clear it with the Oldpark CID?”

  “Give me one good reason why I should let you do the interview. Just one good reason, McIlroy.”

  The DCI lowered his voice to a harsh hiss. He stared into Boyle’s face, defying him. “You know damn well why. Still in your bed, is she? Waiting for you to get back in there with her, is she?”

  Boyle jerked back in the swivel chair behind his desk. He didn’t reply immediately, using the time to light a cigarette. His face looked thunderous while he composed his response.

  Will waited, tensed by this sudden revelation. The enormity of the situation shocked him.

  Eventually, Boyle spoke. His manner showed capitulation. “Normally, I’d kick your arse for that, McIlroy, but this time I’m going to let you have your way. I’m going to call in a personal favour with Oldpark CID and ask them to let you and Evans do the interview. And don’t imagine I’m doing this as a sop to you. I don’t do favours to anyone in this place.”

  “We had noticed.” The harshness was still there in McIlroy’s voice, but he stepped back, accepting that he had already won this fight.

  Boyle quickly recovered his composure. “Any more cheek from you and you’ll be out there pounding the beat with the troops. I’m doing this because I think you may be onto something useful.” It was a climb-down pure and simple.

  “Of course we are.”

  “As it happens we’re all up to our eyes in these stories of a major bomb attack and Oldpark will be too.” It was a lame excuse, Will realised. Boyle was still fighting his way out of an embarrassing situation, and losing his grip. “Even the Chief Constable is worried by what may be about to happen. I’m expecting a call from his office any time now.”

  McIlroy nodded towards a thick buff folder lying on the desk. “The background on Fitzpain?”

  “Probably not as up to date as it ought to be. I blame you footsloggers for that.” Boyle pushed it towards the DCI. “Take it with you.”

  At a nod from his boss, Will stepped forward and picked up the file. It was an untidy dossier compiled over many years. The front label was well-worn.

  Boyle ran a hand across his balding scalp. “He’s a hard nut, McIlroy. You really think you can get anything useful out of him?”

  “We’ll have a damn good try.”

  “All right. I’ll speak to Oldpark and then I’ll give them a call at Castlereagh and tell them to hold Fitzpain until you get there.” He stood up and ushered the two detectives to the door. He kept his gaze clear of both of them. “Keep the rough treatment within limits, eh? We don’t want any more hospital admissions.”

  “We’ll try. But sometimes we have to protect ourselves.”

  “You know what I’m saying, McIlroy. Keep within the limits.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We’ll get on with it, then.”

  McIlroy wore a hard expression as he led Will back to their office. He made no attempt to elaborate on the acrimony between himself and Boyle. Instead, he sat behind his desk and took the buff-coloured file from Will. He opened it at the first page, glanced down at the precis of information and took a minute to digest it. He made no attempt to read beyond that one page. Then he passed the file back to Will. The information was brief but telling.

  CHARACTER OUTLINE

  Name:

  Brian Patrick Fitzpain

  Born:

  Ardglass, Co Down. 7th October 1928.

  Parents:

  Margaret O’Driscoll and Seamus Fitzpain. His parents married in March 1927. The child was taken into care July 1940 to November 1944 because of his father’s physical abuse. The father died December 1950.

  Schools:

  St Ignatious Primary School

  Holy Trinity Secondary School

  Expelled aged fifteen when charged with violence and alcohol offences.

  Employment:

  Fishing from Ardglass 1945 to 1951.

  No further recorded employment. Believed to have been engaged in cross-border smuggling.

  Marital status:

  He married Eilish O’Leary in August 1950.

  Separated since 1951.

  He has subsequently lived on-and-off with a prostitute with whom he has five children.

  Criminal record:

  He was accused of raping a married woman, in January 1951.

&nb
sp; The charge was dismissed when the victim refused to testify.

  He was gaoled from February 1951 to February 1953 for a series of violent drunken sexual assaults on young women.

  He was gaoled again from 1958 to 1963 for firearms offences.

  He joined the IRA in May 1963.

  He moved over to the Provisional IRA in December 1969. He is known to lead a small punishment cell known as the Pain Men. The cell consists of Fitzpain, Finn McKenna and Padraig Maginnis.

  While Will scrutinized the information, McIlroy pulled thoughtfully at his chin. “This is a guy who’s in the frame for at least fifteen brutal murders, and yet we can’t pin a single one on him. Alibis pour out of his mouth like spit, and intimidated witnesses obediently line the streets to his house.”

  Will shrugged. “He can’t go on forever.”

  “Wanna bet? You can study the rest of that report later. It’s time we were on our way.”

  “Okay. Tally ho, boss.”

  McIlroy shot him a fierce frown. “This isn’t going to be one of your English fox hunts.”

  “Welsh fox hunts.”

  “Whatever.”

  “One question: what was the favour Boyle owed you? It was pretty clear he owed you something on account. And he was doing his best to hide something.” Will phrased the question as if he hadn’t understood the hidden agenda. In truth, he would have been stupid not to pick up the underlying message. He was curious enough to want to know more, but he didn’t want to embarrass his boss. Well, not too much.

  “Don’t ask.” McIlroy looked away.

  “Personal?”

  “Very personal, so shut up.”

  Will blinked. This was so unlike his boss.

  He said, “Fair enough,” and tried to avoid McIlroy’s stern expression.

  At first, they drove in silence to the Castlereagh Holding Centre in east Belfast. The streets looked normal for a Friday morning. Normal for Belfast. Heavily armed troops manned the barriers protecting the shopping areas. More troops patrolled amongst the shoppers, and the odd military vehicle rumbled past, but there were no big signs saying an unprecedented atrocity was about to happen here. Reality was brought to bear by the number of military helicopters on criss-crossing routes over the city, as well as the occasional distant gunshots.