by David Hough
“They’re dead.”
“Oh, you poor thing. And just look at the state of you.” She helped Sorcha into a chair. “Sit here while I get you a glass of water.” She hurried away into a back room.
Sorcha slumped down. The chair was hard, but the atmosphere was warm. Not cold and unwelcoming like Father O’Hanlon’s church, but warm like a place of peace. And, dear God, she needed peace.
The old lady came back with a filled glass and placed it into Sorcha’s hands. “Drink this. Then you can tell me what happened.” She pulled up another chair and sat beside her.
Sorcha drank greedily. She hadn’t realised just how thirsty she was.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Your dress is a mess,” the old lady replied. “Tell me your name.”
“Sorcha.”
“Ah. A Catholic name, but it’s of no consequence. People of all faiths have been suffering today. We’re Salvation Army, my husband and me, but we believe we’re here to help anyone who needs us. You do need help, don’t you, Sorcha.”
She nodded.
“Good. You can call me Sophie. Tell me what happened to you.”
“I saw me mammy. It was after she died. It was…” The tears came again then, torrents rolling down both cheeks. She couldn’t find any way of halting it. Neither could she find a way of describing how she felt when she saw her mammy dead on the floor.
Sophie took her hand and held it patiently, saying nothing because there was nothing that could be said. She waited until Sorcha’s tears began to abate before she finally spoke again. “You can’t go around in that dress any longer. It’s so badly torn. Why, it’s not even covering your modesty. Let’s see if we can find something else that will fit you.”
“I’ve no money,” Sorcha said, wiping at her face. “I can’t afford…”
“No matter.” The old lady helped her to her feet. “Who would ask for money at a time like this? Come into the back room and take off those rags while I see if I can find something your size.”
The back room was small and untidy. Boxes of used clothes were stacked against a wall. Sorcha took off the dress and waited. What did it matter that she was naked? Naked in the sight of God? Or had God abandoned her? She hung her head in desperation. What did anything matter any longer?
Sophie came back with a skirt, a woollen jersey and a set of underwear. “I think this will be about your size… oh, my, you’ve been bleeding. Just look.” She set down the clothes on a chair and put out a hand to where blood had been tricking down Sorcha’s chest.
“I hadn’t noticed.” Sorcha said.
“Wait until I get a cloth and some warm water to clean you up.” Sophie hurried away again.
Sorcha picked up the clothes and saw that they were almost new. Someone had given them to charity after very little use. And they were being donated to her at no cost. It hit her then that this lady, Sophie, was showing her the sort of kindness she had rarely, if ever, experienced in her own home. When did Bridie show her such compassion? When did her poor dead mammy show such love?
The truth of it hit her hard and she began to weep again.
***
January 1981
The cold, sleety rain was heavier when Susan and I took a taxi back to her flat. We both knew that I had to give Sorcha some free space before I interviewed her again, and we both knew that meant me retreating back to England for a while. Neither of us was keen on the parting; we were getting too close to one another. It was possible, however, that we also needed space while we thought about where our relationship was going.
“What will you do about your investigations now?” Susan asked me that evening as we prepared for bed.
I silently considered my reply before I said, “It’s a toss-up whether I speak to Will Evans again, or Martin Foster. Will is going to be the difficult one, but I really do want to hear more about what he and McIlroy did next. I want to know their thinking about how the evidence was stacking up against Fitzpain and Sorcha. Only Will Evans can tell me that.”
“Why don’t you drive up to Wales and tackle Will? Let me go and talk to Martin.” Susan suggested. “He said he was getting tired of you – that’s what you told me – so let me have a word or two with him. I can say I’m working as your researcher and I can take some detailed notes – I’m used to that – and report it all back to you.”
It was a sensible suggestion, but I had one objection. “That would remove my excuse for coming over here to see you again.”
“It would also give me an excuse to fly over to England and visit you.”
Chapter Nineteen
January 1981
My flat felt lonely when I got home. I had to admit to myself that it wasn’t Annie I was now missing, it was Susan. Was that a step forward or a step backwards into the abyss? Was the new relationship happening too quickly? I couldn’t answer the question and it bothered me.
After a few days I phoned Will Evans and arranged to meet him at a pub in Llandudno. He was reluctant at first, but I told him I was now near the end of my research and would soon be out of his hair.
“Just a little farther to go, Will, and then you can tell Milly you’ve seen the last of me.”
That seemed to clinch the matter.
It was raining when I drove into Wales, but it felt like soft Welsh rain, not the hard sleety rain of Northern Ireland. Or was that my imagination playing havoc with reality? The first thing I did when Will arrived at the pub was to buy him a double whiskey. An Irish whiskey. Then I settled back to hear about the next stage in his investigations.
***
21st July 1972
1540 BST
They returned to their base because they knew there was little they could now do out there in the city. They would likely be a hindrance in the face of the army’s attempts to bring some sort of order to the chaos.
“When we get back we’ll regroup our senses, Will,” McIlroy said. “And I’ll bring our beloved leader up to date with our murder enquiries.”
Chaos filled the RUC barracks at North Castle Street. The sound of raised voices hit Will and McIlroy the moment they entered. Will caught the arm of Maisie O’Hare, the young WPC, and asked her to get them cups of tea.
“No chance, sir,” she replied with a look of disdain. “Sorry. Far too busy.”
“Is that because I rebuffed you earlier, in the canteen?”
“No. It’s because I really am far too busy.” Then she smiled at him with an undertone of malice. “Next time you refuse me I shall pour your tea all over you.”
“Get the tea yourself, Will,” his boss said. He gave the girl a sour look before he headed off in the direction of the superintendent’s office. “Remember that mine’s a McIlroy standard.”
Will nodded in understanding. ‘McIlroy standard’ was milk and two sugars from the canteen, with more than a dash of whiskey from his office drawer. It was a variation on the ‘NATO Standard’ tea he had discovered in his RAF days. Basically the same, but with the addition of the whiskey.
Will had just brought the two mugs of tea down from the canteen to their office and was adding the alcohol when his boss returned with a wry expression.
“Our beloved leader is getting his knickers in a twist again.” He grabbed at one of the mugs and slumped down in the chair behind his desk. He sipped at the drink with a thoughtful expression written large across his face.
“Because of the bombs?” Will pulled out a stack of forms to write up his latest report.
“Mostly. We’ve lost another man, Will. Two uniformed men were sent out to Mafeking Street to speak to Barbara Mulveny about her daughter, the woman that was killed. They never got anywhere near the street, and only man one made it back alive. The other was killed by a Republican mob.”
“Shot?” Will looked up.
“No. Beaten up. Torn apart as if he’d been savaged by a pack of wolves.”
“Shit! Who was he?”
“A youngster. Constable Damian O�
�Sullivan.”
“I know the one. Too young to be killed. They should have sent out some older and tougher guys.”
The B Specials would have handled it better and come out alive!
McIlroy shook his head sadly. “The tough guys are dealing with the bombs. Anyway, it’s too late now.”
“And what about the older Mulveny woman?”
“No idea. I assume she still hasn’t been told her daughter is dead.”
“Wouldn’t want to be the next one who tried to reach her.”
A few minutes of silence followed before the office door opened and Sergeant McRee called to McIlroy.
“Superintendent Boyle asked to see you again, sir.”
“What? Again? I’ve just seen him. Did he say what he wants now?”
“No, sir. Just said to tell you to go along to his office. And bring your sergeant with you.”
McIlroy drained his reinforced tea. “Come along, Will. Let’s find out what our glorious leader wants now.”
When they entered his office, Boyle was studying a sheet of paper. He indicated them to wait until he had finished reading it. Then he looked up.
“A girl was shot in that riot at the end of the street,” he said.
“We know,” McIlroy replied. “We interviewed a man earlier. He witnessed it. Do we know who the girl is… was?”
“Not yet, but this is a copy of a piece of paper that was found in her pocket. It’s only just been passed on to me.” Boyle pushed the paper across his desk. “It seems to be a list of all the bomb targets. This has gone right to the top. The Chief Constable is studying a copy of this right now, and so is the Assistant Chief Constable. They’re both asking why it wasn’t sent up the line earlier.”
“Because it wasn’t found earlier, I guess.”
“Don’t be facetious, McIlroy. That girl was one of them, one of the IRA bombers. She must’ve been. I’ve sent forensics over to the mortuary to see what they can make of her. There should be some forensic evidence.”
“Maybe.” McIlroy didn’t seem convinced.
“She had to be involved.”
“Or... maybe she was killed because she was thought to be involved. She was wearing someone else’s clothes.”
Boyle frowned. “Really? Why was that?”
“We don’t know, but our witness recognised the clothes and they didn’t belong to the girl who was shot. We know who they did belong to: a girl called Sorcha Mulveny. It’s possible the Mulveny girl might have originally had the list.”
Boyle let out a long breath. “I’m not happy with this, McIlroy, and neither is the Chief Constable. This is valuable evidence and we didn’t pick it up soon enough. What about this Mulveny girl? Where is she?”
“We don’t know. We’re still working on it.”
“Well, get back to it and make sure I’m informed as soon as you find her. And find out what the hell is going on.”
“And the bombs?”
“I’ve better men than you dealing with the bombs.”
McIlroy nodded towards the sheet of paper. “Well, good luck to them. At least you now know all the bomb locations.”
“Too bloody late. Too bloody late!”
Back in their own office, Will and McIlroy refilled their mugs. No tea this time, just the whiskey. They needed it. Loose ends were the bane of a detective’s life and they had too many. They created a fog.
McIlroy set down the paper on his desk and studied it. “Let’s see if we can make any sense of this, Will. This list of bomb locations was found on a girl who was wearing Sorcha Mulveny’s clothes, but it seems she wasn’t Sorcha Mulveny. And someone shot her.”
“Thinking she was Sorcha Mulveny?”
“Most likely. Then the other Mulveny girl, Bridie, was murdered and a threatening note was left nearby.”
“An illiterate note.”
“Yes, totally illiterate, but that note threatened Sorcha. So, whoever wrote it thought she was still alive.”
“Maybe they discovered they’d shot the wrong girl?”
“Seems possible. And now they have it in for the rest of the family, including the mother.”
“Why? If only we knew why?”
McIlroy put down the paper and flexed his fingers. “You know what I think? I reckon Sorcha Mulveny was involved in the death of that Protestant lad who had his dick cut off in that alley behind Mafeking Street. Behind the Mulveny’s house. The Loyalist gangs would want revenge for that, and they’d have ways of finding out who did it.”
“You don’t really think Sorcha Mulveny did it?”
“No, it’s unlikely to have been her. It had to be Fitzpain. But the Mulveny girl must have been involved in it in some way, and it would be easier to kill the accomplice than to kill Fitzpain himself. He’s got too many thugs to protect him.”
Will understood the reasoning. “You think Fitzpain actually killed the lad, and the girl helped in some way? And that’s why Loyalists went looking for her?”
“Right. A case of Protestant revenge.” McIlroy took a gulp from his mug and leaned back. “Now let’s look at the killing of Johnny Dunlop. He was a bloody fool to go walking through a Nationalist area, even if he wasn’t in uniform. Jimmy Fish found out who killed him and tried to tell us who did it. A sort of relation, he said.”
“Fitzpain again?”
“Maybe. Let’s assume for the moment that it was him. And let’s assume that Jimmy was killed because he tipped us the nod.”
“And he was killed by…?”
“That’s what we still have to discover. And something has just occurred to me. Let’s look again at that character description on Fitzpain, and compare it with that arrest report. There’s something there …”
The phone rang, interrupting their deliberations. McIlroy picked it up, listened for a few seconds and then said, “Yes, he’s here. A call for you Will. From Sergeant Murphy at Oldpark.”
Will crossed the room and took the receiver.
The voice at the other end was clear and calm. “Will? It’s Mickey Murphy. Look I don’t want to worry you, but I saw your wife at the Liverpool ferry terminal this afternoon. She went there to rebook some ferry tickets, so she said. Got caught up in a bomb scare.”
Will shuddered. The stupid woman. She should have stayed at home.
“She’s okay?” he asked.
“She’s not hurt. Not physically. Neither are the kids, but there was a car bomb explosion. Milly wasn’t hurt by it, but she tried to escape and made a bit of a mess of your own car. Smashed it into a van. I saw it happen.”
“Oh, God, no! Where is she now?”
“On her way home. I twisted the arm of one of our reservists. He’s taking all of them home; Milly and the kids. The car is still down at the docks. It’ll need to be towed away.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Mickey.”
Will had confidence in Mickey Murphy. They were Catholics together in the RUC; men who looked out for one another. Will Evans, Johnny Dunlop and Mickey Murphy; a small tight-knit group within a larger, looser group. And their little group was regarded as traitorous by the IRA.
“Anything else I can do to help, Will?” Murphy asked.
“Not really.” Then a thought came to him. “Wait a moment though. You grew up in Ladysmith Road, didn’t you, Mickey?”
Murphy allowed a few seconds to lapse before he replied. “Past history, Will. All behind me now.”
“Did you know a family called Mulveny?”
“The Mulvenys? Yes, they lived in Mafeking Street.” His voice was hesitant now, as if he was holding back on something.
“What about Sorcha Mulveny? What can you tell me about her?”
A few more seconds lapsed. “Sorcha? Lovely girl. I saw her earlier today, in Anderson and McCauleys. She was being accosted by that Loyalist thug, Mad Mac McKinnon. I had to send him on his way.”
“He was threatening her?”
“As far as you can threaten anyone in the restaurant at Anderson and
McCauleys. But I intervened and she was okay when I last saw her. She was leaving the place on her own.”
“You haven’t seen or spoken to her since?”
“No. She left before we could really get talking. As for me… well, too busy with other things. It’s not all sunshine and light in Belfast right now. I’ve been acting like a one-man flying squad, shuttling around between various bomb locations, sending updates back to base. Doing my bit to help.”
“You and me, Mickey.”
“What’s the problem with Sorcha?”
“Her name came up in one of our investigations. I can’t go into detail, but we need to speak to her.”
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mickey.”
Will put down the phone. He turned to where McIlroy was studying two sheets of paper. A deep frown was paste across his face.
“Reckon you were right, boss,” Will said. “Mickey Murphy saw Sorcha Mulveny earlier in Anderson and McCauleys. She was being threatened by Mad Mac McKinnon. It’s the Loyalists who are after her.”
McIlroy looked up. “Mad Mac? That seems to confirm what we thought. Clever girl, that Sorcha Mulveny. Looks like she swapped clothes with someone else to put McKinnon off the scent.”
“And the other girl was killed. That wasn’t so clever.”
“You’re right. And the Loyalists will still be looking for her.”
“And if they find her…”
“She’s dead meat.”
“So where do we look now?”
McIlroy leapt to his feet. “Where we should have looked right at the start. If she isn’t at her own home, sooner or later she’ll be go to Fitzpain’s place. We should try there.”
“Whooa, boss.” Will raised a hand in protest. “Give me just a couple of minutes first. Milly had some trouble down at the ferry terminal. Damaged our car. I need to phone her to find out if she’s all right. And I need to get a garage to recover the car.”
“She should have stayed at home.”
“You try telling her that.”
