by David Hough
“In what way?”
“Well, there’s long been a story going around about how it’s Fitzpain’s men who sometimes carve a cross on their victims. Nothing we can positively pin on them, of course. But, if there’s anything in it, Fitzpain and the girl may be linked in more ways than one.”
Will nodded. It was a tenuous connection, but a connection nonetheless. “Thanks, mate. I owe you one. Can I take the report on the killing?”
“Sure. It’s a Xerox copy.”
McIlroy was in the office when Will returned. He was seated at his desk, quietly smoking. A nicotine-infused cloud hung over him like a portent of gloom. Somewhere outside, a car backfired… or was it a gunshot? Whatever it was, it didn’t draw the DCI from his deep thoughts.
Will went to the window. “Must’ve been a car backfiring. No sign of shooting out there.”
McIlroy ignored the comment. “I think I should tell you, Will, that I’ve been talking to Boyle about your domestic problem. Trying to get your leave reinstated.”
“And?” Will turned away from the window and stood by his boss’s desk.
“No joy yet. He’s a hard bastard, is that man. Doesn’t back down easily. But you can leave it with me. I’ll keep on trying.” He suddenly sat up straight and stubbed out his cigarette. “Wales, you were going to, wasn’t it?”
“Conwy. Visiting my sister. I grew up there, you know.” He cast his thoughts back to those idyllic days of his childhood. They seemed so remote now.
“So how come you married a Belfast girl?”
“We met at Swansea University. We were both studying law.”
“She could have studied that in Belfast.”
“She preferred not to. Safer in Wales.”
McIlroy waved a forefinger at him. “You should have stayed in Wales, Will. It would have been a lot healthier for you. Both of you.”
He shrugged. “Would have done, but when we decided to get married her mother was widowed, unwell and living alone over here. Milly felt responsible for her, so I looked for a job in Belfast. She’s dead now, but we’re still here. At first the RUC was all I could get into. Jobs don’t grow on trees over here. Not if you’re a left footer.”
“And now you’re stuck with it.”
“Maybe.”
“A Catholic in the RUC is not exactly a healthy job placement, but I’m sure you’ve worked that one out already.”
“And been warned about it many times, boss. But where I come from a man’s religion is nothing to do with his job. Unless he’s a priest. Besides, I’m a Welsh Catholic, not an Irish one.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Like shamrocks and leeks. They’re both plants but you’d not normally cook shamrocks with your dinner.”
McIlroy gave him a wry grin. “An astute observation. Why do you stick it here, Will? Why don’t you do as your missus says and go back to Wales?”
Will took a moment to compose his reply, wondering how far to take the subject. “Look around you, boss. It seems to me that your tiny bit of planet earth is dying on its feet. I figure you need people like me to help cut out the bad bits.”
“Like a butcher carving up a disease-ridden cow?”
“Like a dying man needs a surgical team to cut out the cancers that are killing him.”
“So you have a sense of purpose. Is that all there is to it?”
“Cutting out the bad bits requires an element of skill. That makes me feel useful. I reckon I’m doing something good here.”
“Why do we need a Welshman to help us? We’ve got our own butchers on the force.”
Will laughed; a dull lifeless laugh that had no heart. “Because you Irish peelers are not getting the results you need. You cut out one bad bit and two more spring up in its place.”
“Cheeky bastard! I’ll write that into your annual report.”
It was time, Will decided, to change the subject. He put the arresting officer’s report on his boss’s desk, directly in front of him. “Look at this, boss. See this name, Sorcha Mulveny.”
“Mulveny?” McIlroy gave Will a curious look. “I’ve heard that name before. Not Sorcha. The name I heard was Barbara Mulveny. Never met her, or had cause to bring her in, but the name sticks in my memory because it was associated with Fitzpain somewhere or other. Can’t remember where.”
“What was the connection?” Will asked.
“No idea. It wasn’t important at the time, but the name stuck in my mind. You know how these things happen. Anyway, Sorcha is a common enough Catholic name.”
“Well, I think we now have some evidence that the young Sorcha Mulveny is linked in with Fitzpain.”
“Why do you say that?”
Will counted off on his fingers. “First of all, she was there at the hotel when Fitzpain was lifted. Why? What was she doing there? No one thought to ask her. A stupid oversight. Like forgetting to ask the hotel manager’s name. Secondly, look at her address: Mafeking Street. I spoke to Sergeant McRee and he got out this report on the boy who had his dick cut off.”
He placed that report in front of McIlroy.
“The lad was found in an alley right behind that same street: Mafeking Street. And the people who did that dirty deed cut a cross in the boy’s chest. It seems that’s an indication it might have been Fitzpain’s thugs. Or even Fitzpain himself. I definitely think there’s a connection.”
McIlroy scratched at his cheek. “Interesting, but it doesn’t actually prove anything.”
“No, but I have this intuition about the whole set-up.”
“Intuition?”
“Yes. The first time I joined forces with you, you told me always to trust my intuition. Well, it’s rattling my doorknob now. I reckon it might be worth speaking to the girl.”
“You think she might be able to tell us something?”
“It’s possible. At the very least I think we ought to take a sniff around that address, boss. You never know; we might come across a nasty smell.”
“Nasty smells are common in that area.” McIlroy stood up and walked to a large map on the far wall. “Mafeking Street? Isn’t that just off Ladysmith Road?” He stabbed a finger at it. “Yes, just as I thought.”
“Is that significant?”
“I don’t know, Will. Maybe not, but then again… I overheard the uniforms talking about a ready-made car bomb found in Ladysmith Road this morning.”
“It was defused, I hope.”
“I’m sure the army did their job.”
“Those boys don’t get paid enough. One other thing, boss.”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember? When Fitzpain was lifted, he was armed with a knife.”
“He’s always armed with a knife. His sort go nowhere without a knife. Or a gun.”
“It should have been confiscated. Maybe it’s still at Castlereagh. Has it been compared with Johnny Dunlop’s knife wounds? Or the marks on the lad who had his dick cut off.”
McIlroy frowned. “I don’t know. I’ll make a note to check on it when we get back.”
“Back from?”
“Mafeking Street.”
***
Friday 21st July 1972
1145 BST
“We’ll take a Land Rover,” McIlroy said as they walked out of the barracks building. “I don’t want to risk the Cortina being knocked about. You know what those Republican areas are like. They can smell a cop car a mile off.”
“The Land Rover could be even more conspicuous,” Will pointed out.
“Yeah, but the RUC can foot the bill for any damage, and I’ll still have a car to drive home in. If you can call it a home now.”
Will risked asking, “She’s really gone, is she, boss?”
“Like I said, moved out two days ago. Shacked up with Boyle.” His voice trembled. “Let’s not talk about it.”
The vehicle they were allocated was an older Land Rover with only very basic protection. Will looked at it with a feeling of discomfort. “We should have been give
n one of the newer ones,” he said as he made the routine check underneath for a mercury tilt switch bomb. “They’re much safer, and they’re made in Wales.”
McIlroy didn’t seem concerned. “I don’t plan on driving into a riot. This will do.”
Will made no reply, but he was hesitant as he climbed aboard. The rear was lined with nothing more than hardboard. His sense of unease began to grow.
The overlying atmosphere worried him as they drove into the Republican ghetto in the vicinity of Mafeking Street. It wasn’t just the physical evidence of the everyday sectarian divisions; the graffiti and the boarded-up houses. He was used to that. Something more sinister held sway here, but his intuition wasn’t sharp enough to pinpoint the source of the problem. He pulled out his pistol and checked it was fully loaded, something he hated doing because he could never sure whether he could bring himself to shoot someone with it. The vital test had never arisen.
McIlroy stopped the Land Rover in Ladysmith Road at the junction with Mafeking Street. Nearby, a battered old Ford was being loaded onto a trailer. Armed police and troops held a tight cordon around the operation while a mob of sullen youths watched from a distance.
“The hostile Apaches are surrounding the wagon train,” Will noted.
McIlroy sniffed. “Or is it Baden-Powell being besieged at Mafeking?”
“I reckon Baden-Powell would have had us scouting around the edges before venturing too far into these streets.” Will laughed. “How do you want to play this, boss?”
“Cautiously. I’ll start by talking to that uniform sergeant.” He pointed to a tall policeman standing in the company of an army officer. “If nothing else, they can keep an eye on the Land Rover while we scout around.”
Will waited with the vehicle while McIlroy spoke to the uniformed sergeant. He came back with a serious expression.
“Five hundred pounds of ANFO in the boot of that car. Would have spoiled the day for some unlucky people. They’ve got the car’s owner so maybe they’ll get some clues about today’s campaign.”
“One bomb accounted for, but how many to go?”
“God knows.”
“Remember what Jimmy Fish told us. Bombs. Plural.”
“Plural can mean anything from two to dozens, Will. Fancy a game of guess the number?” There was nothing light-hearted in his tone of voice.
They walked along Mafeking Street, picking their way along a pavement strewn with bricks from a previous riot. A corrugated iron copy of the Berlin wall blocked off the far end of the street. Will shook his head sadly. They called it a ‘peace line’ but peace was a misnomer here. It was a battle line in a civil war.
At number 23, halfway along the street, McIlroy rapped loudly on a battered wooden front door. A thin, dowdily-dressed woman in her mid-fifties eased it open and peered out at them. She wore a wrap-around apron and her straggly hair was tied up in a dirty headscarf.
“Waddya want?” Her voice was coarse and prickly.
“Mrs Mulveny?”
“Yeah.”
“Barbara Mulveny?”
“So what?”
McIlroy gave Will a knowing look and Will guessed what was going through his mind. If this woman was Sorcha’s mother, and if she was the Barbara Mulveny he had once heard about, there had to be a common connection with Fitzpain.
He held up his warrant card. “DCI McIlroy. North Castle Street CID. And this is DS Evans. May we speak with you?”
“Piss off.” The woman leaned further out and peered up and down the street, as if frightened someone might see the police on her doorstep.
McIlroy put his foot in the door as she made to close it. “We need to ask you about your daughter, Sorcha.”
“What about ’er?” She did not deny being Sorcha’s mother. Will mentally filed away the clue.
“Is she at home?”
“No.”
“Where was she last night?”
The woman looked away. “Here. Where the hell d’youse think she was?”
“Was she here all night?”
“Of course she was.”
“You would swear to that?”
“Of course. So would any mother. Youse think I don’t care about ’er? Well, I do care!” She stabbed a finger at him, anger oozing from every pore. Or was it guilt?
“Why do you say that Mrs Mulveny?” McIlroy took a step back in the face of the woman’s aggression.
“Why don’t youse piss off.” This time the woman managed to slam the door shut.
McIlroy was quick to react. He banged on the door and shouted, “Open up, Mrs Mulveny or I shall be forced to bring in some people who will break it down. They’d follow up with a full house search. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
The door opened again, a little wider this time.
“What the hell d’youse want now?” The voice was less belligerent this time. Aggression replaced by fear. What did she fear? A broken door or a house search?
“We want to talk to you, Mrs Mulveny. Do you mind if we come inside?” McIlroy was already halfway through the door opening as he spoke. Will followed in his wake.
The old lady backed away from McIlroy as if he was a bulldozer and she was a mound of earth in its way. She seemed to have got the message that nothing was going to stop him.
“In here, shall we?” He ushered her into a tiny parlour room off the narrow hallway. The room was typical of the Belfast terraces: damp, claustrophobic, with the same wallpaper Noah used to line the ark. Even the dank smell could have come from the biblical times. The front window let in a minimal amount of light, making Barbara Mulveny seem no more than a shadowy outline.
She made no effort to stop McIlroy. All her reserves of bluster and resentment seemed to have been washed away. The DCI had her just where he wanted her.
“Now, let’s repeat the formalities. I am DCI McIlroy and this is DS Evans. You’re not going to offer us a cup of tea, are you?”
“No.”
“I thought not. We want to talk to you about your daughter, Sorcha.” McIlroy stood in the middle of the room squeezed between a small, sunken-seated sofa and a battered armchair. Nevertheless, he dominated the dismal scene with his presence.
“What about Sorcha?” the woman asked, her gaze darting between the two policemen.
“Where was she last night?”
Barbara Mulveny hunched her back and wrapped her spindly arms about herself. “Dunno. I wasn’t here. Didn’t get home ’till this mornin’.”
Will noted that McIlroy didn’t follow up on the change in the woman’s story. Instead, the DCI laughed coldly and said, “Really? A night on the tiles at your age, Mrs Mulveny?”
“Piss off.”
“Where were you?”
“Visitin’ relatives in Ardglass. What’s that got to do with you?”
“You know that a boy was killed in your back alley?” Will said. He knew by experience when to join in with his boss’s enquiries.
“Youse’re not Irish,” the woman snorted. Some of her hostility made a brief comeback. Will didn’t expect it to last, but he countered it by thrusting out his jaw.
“Welsh,” he said.
“Get back to yer own country.”
“I might just do that. Now, about the lad who was killed…”
“Filthy Prod.”
“Murder is murder, Mrs Mulveny, whatever the religion. And we have to investigate it.”
“So piss off and investigate.”
McIlroy nodded to Will and took back the lead in the questioning. “That’s exactly why we’re here, Mrs Mulveny. Tell me what you know about a man called Brian Fitzpain. You do know him, don’t you?”
“Him? What about him?”
“When did you last see him?”
“Dunno.” She looked down at her feet, as if the answer might be floating on the linoleum floor.
“How long have you known him?”
“Since we was kids.”
“So, you’ve known him most of your life? We
ll, well?” McIlroy canted his head to one side. Will recognised it as his boss’s way of letting her know he was taking careful note of her answers.
“So what?” She took a step back and looked up. Her face began to pale.
“He was seen at a hotel in Oldpark Road this morning. Your daughter, Sorcha was also there. So tell me what the connection is between them.”
“Connection? Ain’t no connection between them two.”
“Really? Who else lives here, Mrs Mulveny? Apart from you and Sorcha,” McIlroy asked.
“Just Bridie. She’s me eldest.”
“I see. So let’s see what we have so far. You live here with your two daughters. And we have ascertained that you know Brian Fitzpain. What about Seamus Codd? What do you know of him?”
“Jimmy Fish?”
“Yes. Him.”
“Don’t know nothin’.”
Even as she spoke, a strange look appeared in her face. Will noted it and gave McIlroy a brief nod. Once again, the woman was frightened of something. Why? What was it about the mention of Jimmy Fish that brought on her anxiety?
“Let’s get back to your daughter, Bridie. Where is she now?” McIlroy asked.
“She’s off visitin’. Youse can’t talk to her ’cos she’s off to Derry for a few days.”
“Very well. But we shall need to speak to her. Maybe we should come back when both of your daughters are at home.”
“Why? What d’youse want with ’em?”
Will watched her intently. There it was again, that look of fear. Fear of what the two daughters might say, maybe? Or was there a series of connections here somewhere? Sorcha and Bridie, Fitzpain and Fish.
McIlroy didn’t answer the question. He turned to leave. “We’ll be in touch again, Mrs Mulveny. Tell your daughters we’ll be wanting to speak to them, will you? Both of them.”
He led the way from the house while the old lady remained in the parlour room.
Will pulled the front door shut behind them.
Standing on the pavement, McIlroy paused and asked, “Well? What do you make of that, Will?”
“Not exactly mother love, is it? Despite what she says. I think we may be wasting our time here. We’ll get nothing from her. It’s the girl, Sorcha, we need to speak to, and maybe the other one as well. Do you think either of them is here, hiding from us?”
