The Keeper

by Catriona King

  Liam joined in. “You have to do the voice.” He demonstrated just as Nicky exploded.

  “I am NOT a dork. And… and it’s a geeky tattoo and a geeky haircut.”

  A blush began to colour the analyst’s neck. It was just hitting his cheeks when Craig summoned them back to work.

  “Stop behaving like children and get back to the case.” He tapped the whiteboard hard. “Three dead men, all with paramilitary pasts. Billy Hart, fifty-one, a member of UKUF. Rowan Lindsay, sixty-two, a member of the same group, and John, Jonno, Mulvenna, sixty, IRA; all three were killed in the same way. Comments, anyone?”

  Annette was the first to speak. “Two loyalists and one republican. That must rule out revenge from one side or the other.”

  Liam shook his head. “Not necessarily. They might be equal opportunity killers. Or they might have particular grudges against these three.”

  Craig sighed. “OK, let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”

  Andy had been reclining in his chair, just awake enough not to be called asleep but expending as little energy as possible to still stay alive. Suddenly he sprang forward, waving the KitKat melting in his hand. “What elephant?”

  Liam rolled his eyes. “It’s a turn of phrase.”

  Craig added. “Which you’d have known from the context if you’d been awake.” He didn’t have time to bollock him right now. “OK, the elephant in the room – does anyone know what I’m referring to?” Liam went to raise his hand. “Anyone but Liam, please.”

  Davy was the first to answer. “Do you mean that s…some people won’t care that our victims were killed, because they were killers themselves? Like they deserved it.”

  “Exactly. Some people, like Liam, will say that they were public service murders.”

  A murmur went around the room and he waved it down.

  “Just as some people will say the same about Joanne Greer’s killer. Why bother pursuing them when she was responsible for two people’s deaths. The answer is that even if you can’t muster any sympathy for the victims here we still need to put their killer away, because they’re very unlikely to stop killing, or they’ll have killed others before. We need them off the streets.”

  Annette raised her hand. “Killer, sir? Are we saying that one person definitely did all three?”

  “Yes, and let’s discuss why.”

  He dragged the whiteboard front and centre just as Nicky returned with the drinks. After writing up the victims’ names, ages, addresses, political affiliations and places of death he sat down again on the desk.

  “OK. First, it’s too easy to say that these men were killed because of their pasts, so we work these as normal murders and if we find things that point that way then well and good. For all we know they might all have dated the same woman and we’re looking for a jealous ex-”

  Liam cut in. “Flip me, that’s pathological jealousy.”

  “Maybe.” Craig sipped his hot coffee for a moment before restarting. “On the other hand we can’t ignore what they did in the past so that means, what?”

  Carmen chipped in. “Paramilitary rivals or their relatives could have killed them.”

  Andy sprang forward in his chair. “But they could have hundreds of those between them! What with infighting and gang hits and -”

  Liam yanked him back so hard that he almost landed in his lap. “Calm down, son. You’ll give yourself an ulcer.” If Andy’s bouts of energy became frequent he feared that the natural order would be disturbed. He needn’t have worried; it was only the D.C.I.’s love of gangsters that was keeping him awake at all.

  “Mind you, he’s got a point, boss; these three will have killed a fair few comrades between them.”

  Annette chipped in. “But they won’t have killed people from the same groups, so why would one man be after all of them?”

  “All good points but I’m sorry, we still need every detail we can get. Carmen, you’ll be leading on that. Davy will find any files that you need.”

  He was surprised to hear no objection from the small redhead so he pushed his luck.

  “Any similarities at all, or anything new that stands out in any of the dead men’s families, report it to Annette ASAP.” It was dicing with death to imply that she was subordinate to Annette, but if Carmen still couldn’t handle authority he needed to know before she was back on the street.

  The constable didn’t murmur so he turned back to the board and wrote ‘TORTURE’ in block capitals.

  “OK. So let’s look at what else we know. Each man was tortured using electrical current.”

  “Paramilitaries used to do that to their victims, especially the IRA.”

  “Agreed. It was used on all three victims. That tells us the killer had somewhere quiet so no-one could hear the victims scream, and they had a power source.”

  Davy glanced up from picking at his nails. “Wouldn’t a car battery have w…worked?”

  Liam shook his head. “It’s not brilliant. Not enough juice. To get a good jolt you need High voltage AC and a pair of jump leads.”

  Annette looked like she was going to be sick. “God Liam, do you have to relish the details quite so much?”

  He shrugged. “Just telling it like it is, was. Remember, when you lot were tucked up at Uni or nursing school I was picking remains off the ground. I’ve seen all this before.”

  She rolled her eyes. If Liam thought policing during The Troubles gave him a monopoly on gore, he should have tried being a nurse for thirteen years.

  Craig nodded grimly. “And it’s useful that you have, Liam. I saw something similar in London once; a gang in the East End, but nothing like on the scale of over here.” He tapped the board with his marker. “OK, so they were tortured somewhere private and isolated, but I doubt that we’re talking outside town. They were all dumped pretty centrally and travelling a big distance with a half dead victim is dicey-”

  Liam interjected. “They would’ve been in the car boot.”

  “Even so, the further they drove the more likely that they might have been stopped and I doubt if the car was entirely legal. Besides, why make things difficult for yourself?”

  “Fair point. You’d torture them near the kill site.”

  “So that means we need uniform patrols out there searching. You organise that, Liam. We’re looking for somewhere in Belfast like a warehouse or an abandoned office building, with a working generator. It won’t be near residential homes in case someone heard the screams, so that rules out suburban streets or anywhere near apartments. Somewhere in the city centre is likely, but don’t forget the Titanic Quarter; there’s a lot of disused land around the docks. Everyone needs to contact their snouts to see what they know, and if you find anywhere likely Davy can check out power providers, owners, etcetera. I doubt we’ll get a name on an electricity bill but you never know.”

  He turned and wrote ‘EXECUTION’ and then set the marker down on the desk.

  “Comments?”

  Andy perked up, interested again. “They were each shot three times, weren’t they?”

  Craig nodded. “Two shots to the knees and one to the head. Why?”

  The D.C.I. shrugged. “Just interested. Kneecapping was an old IRA trick, wasn’t it?”

  Craig nodded at Liam. “Liam can tell you.”

  But Liam’s face said that he was miles away, or rather decades. He was back in the nineteen-eighties when men wore masks and were maniacs and everyone was scared. He shook his head to erase the memories before speaking.

  “I visited one of the scenes this morning. York Street, where Billy Hart was found. I won’t bore you with the details but he was definitely marched onto the waste ground, shot in the left knee first, side on would be my guess, then he crawled forward three feet and was shot again in the right. That’s where his journey stopped. Four feet ahead was a pile of brains and blood-”

  “From falling forward when he was shot in the back of the skull.”

  “Aye. Anyhow, uniform found a ciga
rette butt a way back. It’s gone to forensics just in case it belonged to our perp, and I’ve C.S.I.s back working all three scenes.” He pulled out his notebook and flicked to the back page. “I’d a few thoughts while I was there.”

  “Such as?”

  “The killer had to be strong and probably tall, to control a grown man with one hand while he shot him.”

  “Unless there were two of them.”

  “Aye, I thought of that as well.” He ripped out the page and handed it to Davy. “Just a few ideas about street lights, cameras, joggers, tramps and other stuff. Someone might have seen something, even at that time of night.”

  Craig nodded thoughtfully. “We don’t know exactly what time of night it was yet, but best guess is soon after midnight. Which reminds me, we still need accurate times of death from John. Liam, ask Jack Harris for some lads to canvas the areas around the three scenes. Jake’s old station Stranmillis Road can help as well -”

  Annette interrupted. “I can visit the local homeless shelters, sir.”

  “Fine.”

  She smiled winningly. “Any chance we could offer them a reward for information?”

  Typical Annette, always thinking of everyone else. Craig nodded.

  “Fifty pounds if it leads to anything. If we can’t get it authorised I’ll give you the cash.” He turned to see Andy whispering in Liam’s ear and being swatted away.

  “Get off! Not even my wife gets that close.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  While Liam was working out what he’d meant Craig motioned Andy to repeat what he’d just said.

  “I was just wondering. Will we just be looking at rival paramilitaries and their families, or will we be looking at all our victims’ civilian or forces’ victims during The Troubles as well?”

  Everyone’s expressions matched Craig’s sudden frown. Andy had just voiced what had been gnawing at his gut; who had more motive to kill paramilitaries than the families of the innocent people that they’d killed? Especially when, almost twenty years after the conflict had ended, some of them still hadn’t had the justice that they deserved.

  It was a topic for another meeting but the question couldn’t be ignored, so Craig answered in a few words, standing up from the desk. “We’ll be looking into anyone with a possible motive. And we’re on-call so please be ready to stay very late for the next few nights.” He ignored the chorus of groans and signalled the end of the meeting with a sharp nod. Then he entered his office with Liam close behind and closed the door.

  Chapter Three

  Jake McLean winced as he stepped out of the shower, the cool room air brutal after the warm steam. The towel’s roughness was even more brutal, but then he’d bought it for brisk rub downs on normal days, not to wrap around bruises the size of a fist. Aaron’s fist to be precise.

  They’d grown apart during his grandfather’s final illness and fought so much after his death that he’d taken to online gambling. The fights over credit card bills and his subsequent decamp to his grandmother’s had continued for months. If he’d stayed there then they could never have fought, or never at close enough quarters to result in him being bruised; text and phone fighting was far safer. It was his own stupid fault for moving back in but then arm’s length was no way to make up, so after months of estrangement he’d finally returned home in September and it had been fine for the first few weeks. Lots of “how have you been?” and both of them making an effort, not to mention the make-up sex. Then the bank statement had arrived and he hadn’t reached it first, and the initial tetchy words about his online poker losses had been replaced by harsh truths and punches being thrown.

  He moved to the mirror above the sink, wiping away the condensation with his hand, and what he saw was even worse than he’d expected. He stepped back in shock, letting the steam obscure the image again. How the hell could he explain this at work? Bruises on his torso were one thing, but a split lip and a black eye could only mean one thing. Everyone in the squad would know that he’d been in a fight, and by the look of it that he’d come off worst. Why the hell couldn’t he have fallen in love with a nine stone weakling instead of the hooker from a rugby team?

  He turned towards the bedroom ignoring every mirror that he passed; they would all tell the same grubby tale. He desperately needed some explanation for his face that didn’t tell his teammates what a mess his life was in. As he dressed he concocted one and then braced himself to cope with the incredulous looks that he knew would be heading his way.

  ****

  The VLNI. 4.45 p.m.

  Helen Connolly rapped the Board table, signalling the end of the first half of the meeting and the start of the coffee break. She rose to her feet, waving away the offers of drink in favour of escape through the fire exit and a sneaky cig. Nicotine was as close to mind altering substances as she got, apart from a gin and tonic, but it calmed her down like Valium and she knew she would need to be composed for the next few hours. She’d seen the name of the person due to come in at five. Ivor Watson: victim’s relative, ex-loyalist paramilitary, and a highly vocal critic of everything that had happened since the GFA in ninety-eight.

  Watson had lost his son during The Troubles, a boy of only twelve killed by an IRA sniper during a riot. She felt for the man, she really did, but all the listening and compassion in the world couldn’t bring back his young son. Financial compensation had been offered long before, but how could money ever replace a child’s future or ease a parent’s pain? All they could do now was listen and support Ivor Watson in his search for peace.

  She shook her head, imagining his son. The boy was too young to have been considered a combatant, in Northern Ireland anyway. Kids that age might have been given a stone or a bottle to throw, but the unwritten rules of combat had said that the real fighting was reserved for the bigger boys. She shook her head, thinking of the young children involved in wars elsewhere in the world; who would ever have thought of The Troubles as a less disgusting conflict in some ways?

  Her thoughts returned to Ivor Watson. He’d been in the UFU, a breakaway group from the main UKUF, their tactics too disgusting even for that group. At least he was even handed in his spite. He hated the republicans of course, but not them alone; the police, the army and the judiciary, plus the UFU’s many rivals, had all been targets of his ire twenty years before and now. Add in Stormont, the Flags and Parades bodies and the Police Ombudsman, and there was hardly a group in their small country that he didn’t hate.

  She sucked hard on her cigarette, smoking it inelegantly down to the butt and then eyeing another one longingly before glancing at her watch. No time; she’d have to face him on just one Valium today. After a brief trip to the washroom to check that her lipstick was intact, she straightened her jacket, pulled back her bulky shoulders and re-entered the hell that was to be the rest of her afternoon.

  ****

  Craig cut his phone for the tenth time that day and shot Liam a look that said ‘not one word’. But the D.C.I. wasn’t a man to be easily silenced so he decided to give Craig the benefit of several.

  “You’re asking for trouble, boss.”

  Craig rolled his eyes and then decided he might as well get all of Liam’s wisdom out of the way at once.

  “Go on then. Tell me how to live my life.”

  The Crossgar man gave a sarcastic grunt. “Well, someone needs to! That woman’s bonkers and all you’re doing is cutting her calls.”

  “As opposed to what? I’ve spoken to her and asked her to stop contacting me but she won’t. And she already knows that I’m with Katy.” He raised a hand quickly. “And before you say it, being stalked isn’t a good reason to get engaged.”

  Liam grunted again; this one was tinged with pathos. “What is? Danni trapped me into it. She was like a ninja.”

  “Don’t give me that! And if you’re expecting any sympathy you can give up. Danni’s the best thing that ever happened to you.” He picked up his earlier thread. “And if I change my number she’ll
just find the new one somehow.”

  Liam screwed up his face. “Danni? What would she want your number for?”

  Craig rolled his eyes. “Not Danni, Sophia. Keep up. She’ll find my new number through some app or website. So tell me, what else can I do but refuse to answer her calls and hope that she’ll get bored eventually?”

  Liam sat back; adopting a low-lidded expression that he thought made him look like a sage. “I’ve already told you. Get a restraining order.”

  Craig shook his head. “It would ruin her career. There has to be another way.”

  After thinking for a moment both men drew a blank. Liam shook his head.

  “Then I repeat. If you insist on being such a bloody gentleman you’re asking for trouble.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll think about that and get back to you.” He gestured at the file in front of Craig. “Meanwhile, we need to find a suspect before some other scrote gets shot.”

  Craig stood up and stared out the window. Liam watched him for a full minute before making a crack.

  “I’m growing a beard here, boss. Say what’s on your mind.”

  Craig turned, not retaking his seat. “OK. Let’s pretend that the victims weren’t paramilitaries.” Liam went to interrupt but he waved him down. “Just for a minute. What, if any, difference would it make to our case?”

  The D.C.I. frowned for a moment and then gave a small nod. “OK, three men aged between fifty-one and sixty-two-”

  “So, three middle-aged men.”

  “Right. All from Belfast-”

  “Mulvenna lived on the North Coast-”

  “But he was from Belfast originally.”

  Craig nodded, conceding the point.

  “OK, so why do middle-aged men usually get killed?”

  Craig thought for a moment. “They’ve hacked someone off. Wife, kids, someone they’ve crossed at work-”

  Liam jumped in. “Someone they’ve borrowed money from.”