by David Hough
“Maybe he was using his natural cunning,” he argued.
“He’d have to be a good actor.”
“Maybe he is. Maybe that’s his strong point.”
“No, Will. To charge him right now would be a waste of police resources, and we ain’t got much of that left.”
“If he’s not guilty, why would Jimmy Fish lie to us?” Will said. He still wasn’t convinced.
McIlroy shrugged as he opened up the throttle and swerved in front of a black taxi. “Maybe Jimmy hates Fitzpain for some reason we know nothing about. Maybe he wants him taken down in revenge for something personal. I reckon we need to speak to Jimmy Fish again.”
“A hard bit of talking?”
“Something like that.”
***
November 1980
“Did they really use that sort of rough stuff at Castlereagh?” I asked. I knew the answer but it was worth asking to get Will’s take on it.
“Of course. It was the only thing that worked. But some people won’t like to hear that. And they won’t like me for telling you.”
“You’re out of Belfast now, Will, but I take your point. I’ll need DCI McIlroy’s say-so before it goes in the final draft.”
“And my say-so as well. Whistleblowers are bad news anywhere.”
“Do you care?”
He sniffed and grinned. “S’pose not. Not nowadays. Aw shit! Put it in the book anyway. Are you going to buy me another drink, or am I going to go home cold sober?”
I bought him another Irish whiskey. He was making no effort to end the interview and I figured I still had a lot to learn. “What happened when you got back to North Castle Street?” I asked.
“We had a bit of thinking to do, me and McIlroy.”
“What about Sorcha Mulveny? Did she enter into your thinking?”
“No. She wasn’t yet on our radar.”
***
Friday 21st July 1972
1030 BST
It had been a disappointing end to the interview at Castlereagh, Will thought, as he and McIlroy drove through the city traffic. They lapsed into in silence. Nothing more was discussed until they got back to North Castle Street.
“Coffee upstairs, Will,” McIlroy said firmly as they walked into the building.
“I could make us a coffee in the office, boss.”
“No. Too easy for us to be summoned to the presence of our beloved leader. We’ll pop upstairs.”
They sat at a small table in the canteen with their hot drinks in front of them. A hum of voices filled the room as they each quietly thought about the interview. Will had grown used to those periods of silence when they ran through what they might, or might not have learned. He saw it as a way of locking their brains into isolation cells for a while. Usually it was productive, but not today. For the moment, no one took any notice of them. It was a day when the other peelers had their own problems.
Eventually, McIlroy drained the dregs his coffee in one gulp. “Any new thoughts, Will?”
“Nothing we haven’t already been over.”
“Right. In that case it’s time for me to see our beloved leader again and let him know the score so far. But first there’s something I have to do. And you know what that is? I’m going to clear it with Oldpark and then I’m going to tell the boys at Castlereagh they can release Fitzpain.”
Will sniffed loudly. He had been expecting it, but he felt a need to add one last word of dissent. “Do you really need to? He threatened us, both of us, and our families. We could keep him a bit longer on the grounds of those threats.”
“They were empty words. They meant very little. He knows well enough that any physical attack on our families will lead us directly to him. And then I’d really get rough with him and so would a few other coppers. He probably wouldn’t come out of it in one piece. He knows that.”
“He had a knife when he was arrested.”
“So? If we locked up every dickhead in Belfast with a knife we’d run out of cells within the hour.” McIlroy jerked his heavy bulk upright and drew a deep breath. “Go and get yourself another coffee, Will.”
While his boss was gone, Will bought a doughnut as well as a second coffee and nibbled at it alone at the small table beside a window covered with wire mesh. Outside, the rest of Belfast life drifted by in a haze of unreality. It was a city that did not rightly belong inside the United Kingdom. It belonged in some distant world of crazy people who had yet to learn the meaning of growing up.
Will’s thoughts drifted away to Milly and the children. In the light of Fitzpain’s threats, would they be safe? Did he not have a duty now to see his family protected from Republican violence? And… the thought loomed large in his mind… was Milly unquestionably right? The best defence against any personal attack was the width of the Irish Sea between Northern Ireland and Wales.
“I thought you were on annual leave.” A young female constable sat down opposite him. Artificially blonde, with a slim waist and breasts like melons, Maisie O’Hare had a grin like a wolf about to devour a lamb. She rattled her teacup on the table between them.
“Pulled in for duty at the last minute,” Will said.
“Instead of…?”
“Instead of taking the wife and family to Wales for a week.”
“What does your wife say about that?” Her voice had that musical lilt that said she was born south of the border. A Protestant born in a Catholic country. Was religion the reason she had migrated north? She leaned towards him so that her breasts hung over the table, tantalisingly close.
“She isn’t amused,” Will said.
The girl’s grin widened. “Let her go on her own. I could easily warm the cockles of your heart while she’s away.”
“It’s not my heart you’re after, is it, Maisie?”
“Not unless you keep your heart in your underpants.” She wrapped her hands around her teacup and stared at him across the rim.
“I’d be dead if Milly found out.”
“If you died in my bed, you’d go with a smile on your face.”
“Thanks for the offer, but…”
“But the answer is no?”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not sorry at all. At least your boss didn’t refuse me.”
“DCI McIlroy?” Will blinked in surprise.
“DCI McIlroy. Who else do you work for? And why do you think his wife has walked out on him?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You’re too naïve, Will Evans.” She stood up, gathered up her cup and saucer and shook her head. “And you’re too honest for your own good. In this life it doesn’t do to be honest.” She walked away, wiggling her bottom as she went.
Maybe she was right, he thought, but he would never do it, whatever the rights or wrongs. Milly might walk away from him, but he would never be the first to break the marital bond. It just wasn’t in him. Nothing to do with Catholic dogma. He loved her too much.
He was still brooding over his problems when McIlroy came hurrying back. “Get your coat on Will. It’s time to go. Jimmy Fish wants to see us again.”
“Why?”
“Not sure. He phoned the front desk. Wouldn’t give a name, but who else would ask for us in person? It’s Jimmy. He said he had something important for us. Something about us barking up the wrong tree, but it was still worth a few extra pounds.”
“Barking up the wrong tree? That doesn’t make sense.”
“So we must talk to him. He said he’ll be at the usual café until we get there.”
“Having a meal at our expense.”
“He’ll get no more money from me until he gives us the truth. And I mean the real truth.” McIlroy looked puzzled. “I wonder what he meant about us barking up the wrong tree.”
Will downed the last of his coffee. “Something to do with Fitzpain?”
“Most likely. The sooner we confront him the better. If he does have something important for us, something about Fitzpain, it may turn out that I’v
e made a mistake.”
“Mistake?”
“I told Castlereagh to release Fitzpain before I went in to see Boyle. If Jimmy Fish has fresh information, I may have been a bit premature. Fitzpain will be out there on the streets right now, and he’ll be hopping mad because of that interview. He’ll be wondering who put the finger on him being at that hotel. He may even know who it was. You know what, Will? I think we need to get to Jimmy Fish before he does.”
***
Friday 21st July 1972
1050 BST
The Royal Victoria Hospital fronted onto the both the Falls Road and the Grosvenor Road. The small Corner Cafe habitually used by Jimmy Fish was on the Falls Road, fifty yards down from the RVH. McIlroy parked in the hospital grounds knowing it would be safer there than on the main road. He signed in at the hospital reception desk and then the two men crossed over to the far side of the road. An armed soldier watched them approach.
“Something’s up,” Will said. He scanned around, looking for signs of trouble. The Falls area was a notorious hotbed of Republican activity. No policeman or soldier ever came here alone.
An army Land Rover stood at the roadside outside the café, its lights flashing. A grey Land Rover, a police vehicle, was parked beyond it. Another young soldier blocked their way as they came closer. McIlroy flashed his warrant card and Will followed suit.
“What’s happened here, Soldier?” McIlroy asked.
“A murder, sir. One of the customers has been killed.” He looked unsure of himself, as well he might, Will thought. What would any young Englishman make of the complexities of the Irish Troubles? No wonder they made so many mistakes.
“We need to see this.” The DCI shook his head as he moved on. “You thinking what I’m thinking, Will?”
“Jimmy Fish?”
“Could be. Maybe he’s ratted on the IRA just once too often.” He turned back to the soldier. “A male customer, was it?”
“Yes, sir. On the floor in there.” He pointed to the café.
“How was he killed?”
“Knife through the heart, sir.”
McIlroy gave Will a knowing look. “Just like Johnny Dunlop. Could be significant.”
Inside the café a lot was happening. A uniformed sergeant and a female constable were talking to an elderly and distraught woman seated in a plastic chair beside a plastic-covered table. A cup of hot tea steamed in front of her. A man in civilian clothes was examining the body on the floor; forensics looking for fingerprints. Another uniform was taking photographs. The body of Jimmy Fish was sprawled in a pool of blood.
Will felt no sense of surprise.
The uniformed sergeant spoke to McIlroy. He indicated the elderly woman. “This is the owner. She’s in a bit of a state. Never had any trouble like this before now, so she says.”
“Maybe not a murder like this, but trouble around here is common enough.” McIlroy cut in with a curt reply.
“Nothing at all, she says.”
“Take that with a pinch of salt, Sergeant. In this part of Belfast no one gets away with a peaceful life. You should know that.”
“Just going by what she’s told me. She looks genuine to me, sir.” The uniform kept his attention focussed on the Detective Chief Inspector.
“Looks can be deceptive. Let me speak to her. What’s her name?”
“Mrs Moira Mullins. A widow lady.”
McIlroy waved aside the female officer and knelt beside the café owner. “Mrs Mullins, I am Detective Chief Inspector McIlroy. I’d be grateful if you could go over again exactly what happened here.”
The woman put a handkerchief to her nose and blew hard. “I told them already.”
“Tell me.”
“I was in the kitchen when I heard someone come in. Then I heard a crash. When I came out here I saw the body. Him…” she pointed at the figure on the floor.
“A crash? That was all you heard?”
“A crash and then… then a voice and… and a cry of pain.”
“A man’s voice?”
She nodded. “It was him what spoke. The one what died. He said some name, then he said, ‘Not you too. Not you too.’ That’s what he said.” She wiped again at her nose. “It didn’t sound right, though.”
“What didn’t sound right?”
“I don’t know. But it didn’t sound right.”
“What name did he say?”
“I’m not sure. Couldn’t really make it out properly. Fitz… something maybe.”
McIlroy looked up at Will. “Not you too? Why would he say that? Who do you think he saw?”
Will replied with a positive note. “Fitzpain, boss. He must have come straight here after he was released. He’d have had time. It’s gotta be him. Jimmy Fish must have known his killer and who else could it be but Fitzpain?”
“Did you say Fitzpain?” Mrs Mullins interrupted. “Now I come to think of it, there was some mention of that name: Fitzpain. At least, I think so. I may be wrong, of course.”
McIlroy nodded and spoke again to the café owner. “Mrs Mullins, did you see anyone else? Anyone at all.”
“No. No one. Whoever did it was gone when I came in here.”
“I see. Did you speak to the victim before the killing? Did he say anything to you?”
She sniffed and wiped at her nose. “Nothing important. Just sat there with his cup of tea saying he’d done some sort of bad thing and he needed some money. He said someone would give him some money when they got here. But that was all.”
“He did a bad thing? What did he do?” Will asked.
“He didn’t say.”
“That was all? He’d done something bad and someone would give him some money?”
“When they got here.”
McIlroy grabbed Will’s arm and drew him away from the woman. “He got money from me this morning. What else could he tell us and expect yet more money?”
Will shrugged. “Barking up the wrong tree. That’s what you said earlier, boss. Jimmy reckons we’re barking up the wrong tree. That must be what he wanted to explain to us. He was waiting for you to arrive and give him some more money in return for him explaining why we’ve got things wrong.”
“What was he going to tell us? That’s the big question, isn’t it?”
“Or maybe he’s already given the police some valuable information and he wanted paid for it. But he wouldn’t have expected to be paid like this.” Will looked around the room and tried to imagine what happened here. “But let’s not forget the one name Mrs Mullins heard, boss. Fitzpain.”
“A name she thought she heard, Will. Thought she heard.”
“And what about that, boss?” Will pointed to a clear plastic bag lying on the table beside the body. It contained money. “What do you make of that?”
“Thirty sixpences,” McIlroy said. “The murderer will have left it. Thirty pieces of silver. The payment for betrayal.”
***
November 1980
Will glanced at his watch and stood up suddenly. “Shit. It’s after eleven. Milly will be getting herself in a mood by now. Better be going.”
“She worries about you?”
“More than you’d imagine. She’s got reason, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I finished my drink and stood up beside him. “I appreciate what you’ve told me, Will. It puts a lot of things in perspective.”
He tapped me on the arm. “Remember what I said. Be careful about what you write in your book. I still have a career in the police.”
“You’ll just have to trust me.”
“Maybe. But I’d like to see your manuscript before you go into print.”
“Fair enough. When can we meet again?”
He thought for a moment. “Leave it a while. Milly doesn’t like me doing this. She says it leaves me drained for days afterwards. I tell her it’s the memory of that Belfast experience that gets to me, not you, but she isn’t convinced. I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to talk again.”
/>
Chapter Nine
November 1980
It was late in the month when two important letters arrived on the same day. The coincidence made me wonder if someone in the ‘other life’ was manipulating my investigation. One letter was from Sorcha and the other was from Martin Foster.
Sorcha wrote in a semi-literate scrawl which left me feeling frustrated. There was something important in it, but the inner truth was elusive. I couldn’t be certain of the meaning behind the scrappily-written words. I replied to her the same day, asking for more detail as well as an explanation for some of her unintelligible comments.
In contrast, Martin’s letter was immediately fluent and revealing. It was relatively short, but it explained how he and Sorcha came to disagreement. I put aside Sorcha’s letter and began to make my own notes based upon Martin’s account of what happened that fateful morning. I was keen to draw the story back to Sorcha, and Martin’s skill with words helped enormously. It didn’t take me long to turn the written words into a vivid mental image of what happened next. I could picture the two of them inside my head.
***
Friday 21st July 1972
1045 BST
The phone rang ten minutes after Martin got home. It was Sorcha. She sounded breathless, as if she had been running. He was glad Emily and Aunt Judy were out in the garden, unable to overhear the conversation.
“Martin, I’m sorry I had to make youse leave like that. I’ll explain if youse’ll let me. Will youse meet me somewhere?”
He didn’t immediately answer the question. Doubts were forming and growing inside his head. After a moment or two he replied, “What have you been doing? Why are you out of breath?”
“Something I had to do. Nothing youse need worry about. Will youse meet me?”
He thought about it for a few more seconds. “Where are you calling from?”
“The City centre. The only place I could find a phone that works.”
“All right, Sorcha. Meet me outside the library in Royal Avenue. We’ll go for a walk. And if we stop for coffee, I’ll choose the location this time.”
