The Girl From the Killing Streets

by David Hough

  “A cup of hot tea will work wonders,” he said.

  “A whiskey would work better,” she replied.

  “I don’t think so, Sorcha. I want you stone cold sober because I have some bad news for you.” He kept his voice calm. He didn’t want her to panic.

  She gestured to the window. “You think what’s happening out there isn’t bad enough? How can you have any more bad news than that?”

  “A different sort of bad news.”

  “Go on.”

  “We would have come looking for you if you hadn’t turned up here… because of your sister,” he said.

  This wasn’t the way a family member was supposed to be told bad news, but nothing today was as it supposed to be. There should be a female officer here. There should be someone else to back him up. But there wasn’t. It was right that DCI McIlroy went to help the victims of the bus station bomb. That was the main priority. Will now had to tackle this other matter as best he could, and the girl needed to know the truth because she could be the next on the murderer’s list.

  Dammit, there was no one else here to help him.

  “Bridie?” She frowned.

  He tried to capture her gaze. “Yes, Bridie. I’m sorry to tell you she’s been killed.”

  She gaped at him for two full seconds and then she cried out, “Oh, God! A bomb! She’s been killed by a bomb!” She half rose from her seat.

  Will put out a hand to settle her back down again. “No. Not a bomb.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you that your sister has been murdered.”

  She visibly shivered and then a strange expression crept over the girl’s face. Her pale skin grew paler. Her eyes became dilated and unfocussed. He mouth hung open but no more words emerged.

  Will continued speaking slowly. “My boss and I were at the York Road railway station not long ago when Bridie’s body was found in an alley nearby. This is not going to be easy for you, Sorcha. She had been stabbed.”

  “No. It can’t be her. It just can’t. How do you know it was her?”

  “There were letters in her handbag that helped us identify her. Bridie Mulveny of Mafeking Street. I’m very sorry.” He said nothing about the illiterate warning. She didn’t need to know about that.

  “God help us all,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  In the silence that followed, the Chinese waiter came back with two cups of tea and placed them on the table. He still looked to be in fear of his life. Will thanked him, handed him a pound note and told him to keep the change. Outside, a fire vehicle raced past the restaurant, its siren blaring. The noise reverberated inside the room.

  When the waiter had gone back into the kitchen, Will pushed one of the cups closer to the girl. “Drink this, Sorcha. Then I want you to think carefully and tell me if you know of anyone who would want to kill your sister.”

  She sipped at the cup. Her hands were trembling and some of the tea spilled onto the table. Her voice was cracked and hollow. “It must have been a Loyalist gang. You know what they’re like. They’d kill any Catholic, given half a chance. Especially on a day like this. Yes, it would have to be the work of the Prods.”

  “Any one of them in particular?” Will asked.

  “Any one of them would do it,” she said. “You know that. People like Mad Mac McKinnon or Bad Boy Blair. You’re a policeman. You must know them all. There are so many of them making threats against us Catholics.”

  “You’re right, of course. And we shall have to pull them in and question them. But was there anyone else who might want to kill Bridie? This is important, Sorcha, in case the same person tries to kill you or your mother. Do you know any Republican terrorists who might want to do this?”

  “No. No one like that.” She looked away then, and Will saw immediately that she was afraid to give him a straight answer.

  “Have you heard of a man called Brian Fitzpain?” he asked.

  She blinked, and then nodded, still avoiding his gaze. “We’ve all heard of him, so we have.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Why do youse ask?”

  He didn’t answer the question. Instead he asked, “What about Seamus Codd? Do you know him?”

  “Jimmy Fish?” She turned her head back and gave him a querying look.

  “Yes, Jimmy Fish.”

  “Little runt. They say he’s a police informer. He deserved to get killed.”

  Will stared at her. “How did you know he was killed?”

  She looked away again, suddenly caught off guard. “Dunno… someone must have told me.”

  “Who?”

  “Can’t remember.” She sat staring straight ahead. “Best thing for him.”

  “All right. Let’s go back to Brian Fitzpain, shall we? He’s known to your family, isn’t he?”

  “Youse think so?”

  “We know so, Sorcha.” Just a few words of insistence, but they worked. She blinked again and looked down at the floor.

  “Youse got a fag?” she asked. “I don’t normally smoke, but… this news… youse know.”

  “Wait here.” Will found the waiter and bought a packet of filter tips and a box of matches. He gave them to the girl. “Take your time. Do you want another cup of tea?”

  “Hell no. Just need to calm me nerves.” She lit up with shaking hands.

  “Tell me about Brian Fitzpain. What’s his connection with your family?”

  She blew out a long trail of smoke. “Why d’youse want to know?”

  “We’ll need to question anyone in close contact with you, including Fitzpain. He may have information that could lead us to the killer.”

  The girl took a few seconds to think of a reply. “Me mammy and Brian grew up together in Ardglass. But I suppose youse know that already. Youse seem to know a lot already. When was Bridie killed?”

  “We don’t know. She was found about half an hour or more ago.”

  “And yet you already know about me and Brian Fitzpain?” This time she stared into his eyes, visibly demanding some sort of explanation.

  Will kept his cool. He’d enough experience of questioning people. “We’ve been trying to piece together what happened. It’s our job. Tell me more about Fitzpain and your mother. Were they close, do you think, in their younger days?”

  She took another deep draw on the cigarette. “Lived in the same street. Went to the same school. Played together as kids. Youse probably didn’t know that, did youse?”

  Will ignored the taunt. “Anything else?”

  She started to gabble then, as if her inner tension was trying to ease itself with a rush of words. “The usual stuff, so mammy once told me. Went to the Gaelic football in Dublin together. Brian’s a great one for the Gaelic football, so he is. Drank in the same pubs. Acted together in the school plays. Always in and out of each other’s houses.”

  “They acted together?” A memory was jolted back into Will’s mind.

  “He’d have to be a good actor.”

  “Maybe he is.”

  “Youse suspect him, don’t youse?” the girl said. A note of sour accusation had crept into her voice.

  “No one is beyond suspicion at the moment.”

  The girl became angry then. She stabbed the forefinger of her free hand onto the table. “Youse can forget about Brian. He’d never lay a finger on any of us. I know he wouldn’t.”

  “Because he was close to your mother?”

  “Because...”

  “Yes?” Will’s interest intensified. This could be vital. Suspicions were beginning to solidify. “Tell me what Brian Fitzpain really means to you, Sorcha. He means something special, doesn’t he?”

  “I think…” She drew heavily on the cigarette. “No… not think… I’m certain he’s me real daddy. Godsakes, I don’t know why I’m tellin’ youse this. Forget it. It’s not important.”

  “You have evidence of what you say?”

  “They wrote Pat Mulveny on me birth ce
rtificate. But I think t’was Brian.”

  “So why do you think that?”

  “I need a pee,” she said suddenly. She stubbed out her cigarette in the saucer and stood up.

  Will pointed to a ‘toilets’ sign on a door. “Through there.”

  She was gone only a few moments before McIlroy came into the restaurant. He sniffed at the curried air, went to the table and sat down. “Thought I’d find you here, Will. Where’s the girl?”

  “She needed to go to the toilet.”

  “Fair enough. You’ve told her about her sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “How do you think?”

  “You’ve been questioning her?”

  “Yes.” Will looked down at his teacup. He hadn’t even started drinking it. It would be cold by now. “She’s been somewhat evasive, but I did pick up that her mother and Fitzpain were close. Went to the same school. Acted in school plays.”

  “Really?” McIlroy looked surprised.

  “Could have given him the ability to lie convincingly.”

  “Or he might just be a born liar.”

  “There’s something else,” Will said. “She knew Jimmy Fish had been killed. Claimed someone told her, but she wouldn’t say who.”

  “Fitzpain?”

  “That’s my guess, boss.”

  “Looks like she’s caught up in this business more than we thought. And here’s something you’ll want to know. She thinks Fitzpain is her real father.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “We never got round to that before she went off to the toilet.”

  “Pity.”

  It was important information, Will thought, but somehow it didn’t ring true. Something was wrong with Sorcha Mulveny’s assertion, and he couldn’t pinpoint why. He needed time to think about it.

  “What are things like at the bus station, boss?” he asked.

  “Horrific. The building is ablaze. I’m sorry to tell you this, but some of your fellow countrymen, a couple of Welsh Guardsmen, were in the Land Rover which pulled up just before the bomb exploded. Two of them died instantly.”

  Will shrugged. Was he getting complacent in the face of all this killing? “They wouldn’t have been the only casualties.”

  “No. I saw some terrible things in that place, Will.” McIlroy clasped his hands together on the table. “Bits of bodies all over the shop. D’you know, there was a six-foot high wrought-iron railing at the back of the building. Two men were blown through it. Their bodies were torn apart through the bars. Just torn into shreds. I saw the flesh that was left splattered on the metal.”

  “Dear God! So they didn’t get everyone away in time?”

  “No. Some of them were heading into the station because they’d been told there was a bomb in the next street. The police were herding them into the building because they thought they’d be safe there.”

  “Hoaxes. Jimmy Fish was right. We’ve been taken for fools.”

  McIlroy went on, grimacing as he spoke. “A bus driver was killed. His body was left with no head or arms. I saw it. I knew it was a driver because I was able to make out bits of his Ulsterbus uniform. Grey serge with an enamel badge.”

  Will frowned. “I don’t need to hear any more, boss. You want a cup of tea?”

  McIlroy shook his head and looked around. “That girl should have come back by now. Unless she needed more than just a quick pee.”

  “Or…” Will had a sudden premonition.

  McIlroy stood up as the obvious answer occurred to him. “… or you may have been the victim of the oldest trick in the book.”

  They both went through the door marked ‘toilets’. It led to a long corridor. At the far end an outside door hung open. Will yanked open an inside door immediately beside him, marked ‘ladies’.

  There was no sign of Sorcha Mulveny.

  “Damn! Where the hell would she go?” Will said.

  McIlroy drew a deep breath and patted Will’s shoulder. “Don’t get frustrated. At a guess, she’d head for the most obvious place; Mafeking Street. With a bit of luck, she might be safe there amongst her own kind.”

  “You think we should go after her?”

  “After what happened to us last time? No, we don’t go back there without an army escort. Too dangerous. We’ll head back to base and get some updates on what’s happening. I think we both need something to calm us down, and I don’t mean a cup of straight tea.”

  “A McIlroy standard?”

  “Right.”

  ***

  January 1981

  Will stopped abruptly at that point in his account. I heard Milly’s voice in the background. They seemed to be arguing. Eventually, he came back to me and said, “Sorry about that. Milly is worried about me talking to you.”

  “Can I speak to her, Will?”

  “Why?”

  “It may help if she tells me what she saw that day. In her own words.”

  “I doubt it. She wants you out of my hair.”

  “Tell her I’ll get out of her hair when I have the full story of what happened that day. Give her the phone, will you?”

  “If you say so.”

  I put a hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Susan. “Will never really got over his part in what happened that day. The trauma effect. You’ll understand that. That’s why Milly is against me speaking to him. I’m hoping she’ll give me some better insight into things. A better insight into how much he suffered emotionally.”

  Susan pulled her arm tighter around me.

  A woman’s voice came down the telephone line. It was Milly. “If I talk to you, will you put an end to all this questioning?”

  “I’ll put an end to it when I have the full story,” I said. “How did that Friday affect you, Milly?”

  “Badly.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  I was taking a chance, but it worked.

  ***

  21st July 1972

  1450 BST

  Milly was halfway to the Liverpool Ferry Terminal before she regretted leaving home. She started the journey with good reason: telephone calls to the ferry line were not being answered and Milly was determined to get the family rebooked on tomorrow’s sailing. Well, if she couldn’t phone them she would visit them. It wasn’t far to drive, so she bundled the children in the car and set off… and quickly regretted it.

  The city roads were in chaos, busier than she had ever seen them, making the journey frustrating as well as unsafe. Black smoke drifted ominously across the skyline while the shrill sound of fire and police sirens filled the air. She had heard the explosions, but she hadn’t realised the consequences would be as bad as this. The traffic was slow moving, sometimes down to a snail’s crawl, and drivers were impatient. Horns were being blared at every stoppage.

  The girls were arguing in the back of the car, but Milly soldiered on. One way or another, she was determined to get that new booking. And she was determined it would be for all the family, including Will.

  Privately, she understood Will’s willingness to continue working in Belfast. It gave him a sense of satisfaction to be doing a job few other police officers could, or would tackle. The RUC was, as someone once said, a force like no other police force in Europe. It faced greater dangers and it handled far more crimes than any other. And it suffered more casualties than any other. Will lived his working life on adrenalin and he loved it. It was like a drug. He was addicted to it.

  But it had to stop.

  If the killing didn’t stop – and it seemed highly unlikely – then Will’s employment with the RUC would have to stop. She was determined on that because she saw no other option. Northern Ireland was in the grip of a children’s gang mentality, but with adult mobs replacing the children. The same childish thinking, but with guns and bombs instead of sticks and stones. Funerals instead of Elastoplast. The immaturity and ignorance remained the same.r />
  Anger intensified within her. They could not… must not continue living amongst this.

  Maybe it was time to make one final stand… to stop using Irish customs and Irish food in the home. Maybe it was time to wean her husband back onto the sort of Welsh customs he would have known in his youth. She could begin by cutting out the Ulster fry-up, his habitual breakfast over the past ten years. That should be easy enough. She could simply replace the Irish potato farls and soda bread with Welsh laverbread. His mother had shown her how to make laverbread. She had also introduced her daughter-in-law to Welsh cakes and Welsh rarebit, although Milly had never really got down to making it. Well, this could be the moment to begin.

  Anything to get him thinking seriously about returning to Wales.

  She let out a long sigh of relief when she turned towards the Liverpool Ferry Terminus. The traffic was moving freely when she came in sight of the terminal. She pulled into the ferry car park, surprised that it seemed almost empty. She parked in front of a white Ford van, switched off the engine and turned towards the two girls.

  “I’m going into the ferry office for a few minutes. I want you to sit here quietly until I get back. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, mummy.” They replied in unison.

  “No fighting or arguing?”

  “No, mummy.”

  Two identical angelic faces beamed up at her. She knew they had no intention of keeping the peace. They never did.

  Milly turned to the front again at the sound of a tap on her driver’s side window. She wound it down to see a uniformed police sergeant bending to speak to her.

  “You’ll need to get away from here. Quickly.” He pointed to a Mini parked two hundred yards away, near the Liverpool Bar. “There’s a suspicious car over there and we’ve had a warning of a bomb.”

  “But no one stopped me coming in here,” she said.

  “We spotted you too late. Just turn around and drive back out the way you came.” He stood up and tapped the car roof as a signal for her to move forward.