The Keeper

by Catriona King

  “Good. That could be a workmate or someone they’d done a deal with. Someone in their community even.”

  “Could all be one and the same. But it’s unlikely to be the same man for all three Vics, unless he was a cross-community loan shark.”

  Craig suddenly walked to the door. “Hang on to that thought.” He disappeared for a moment, only to reappear with Davy in tow.

  “Davy; Liam and I are trying to think of the three victims as just ordinary middle-aged men whom someone has killed. Forget that they were paramilitaries. This is what we have in the way of motives so far. They each angered someone: wife, kids, someone they’d worked or done business with, or someone in their community. Or they’d borrowed money from someone and hadn’t paid it back.” He gazed at the analyst expectantly.

  Davy stared at the two men in turn and then out the window for so long that Liam was readying to nudge him just as he spoke.

  “It could have been a deal gone bad; drugs or something like that. Or it’s s…someone their kids have upset, or someone who’d hurt one of our victims’ families so they killed our victims before they got killed themselves. Pre-emptively. ”

  He stopped abruptly, inclining his head to say that he was done. Liam wasn’t convinced.

  “Except how likely is it that the same man had family motives for all three Vics?”

  Craig shook his head. “Let’s get all the possible motives on the table before we rule them out.”

  It was Davy’s signal to restart his speculations.

  “Unless of course none of those reasons apply and they really were killed just for being old paramilitaries. Or maybe their activities now were the ones that got them killed and they were part of the paramilitary legacy.”

  “Such as?”

  “W…Well, we all know that some ex-paramilitaries got involved in drugs and money laundering scams after ninety-eight. It’s like retirement – when you can’t do the job you’ve been doing for thirty years any more, you need to do s…something else to pay the bills.”

  “You make it sound like working in Tesco.”

  Liam nodded. “They probably think it is. Maybe the lad’s right. Let’s face it; I can’t see any of them having a pension plan, can you?”

  Craig conceded the point. “OK, we need to rule it out. Davy, check their bank accounts for big deposits or withdrawals, and see if any of their close family members have been in hospital or in trouble recently. Anything that they might have needed an injection of funds for.”

  Davy’s eyebrows shot up. “W…Would you like me to wash your car as well?”

  Liam was gulping down coffee to help him stay awake and his sudden guffaw almost made him choke. “Man, you’re a cheeky pup these days.”

  Craig smiled. “You’re just noticing? But he’s right. Sorry, Davy, I know I’m giving you a lot to do, even with Carmen helping out.” He waved vaguely towards the door. “What about that analyst girl who gave us a hand on the trafficking case? Karen, wasn’t it? Maybe she could spare some time to help?”

  “That was in twenty-thirteen! She’s married now and on maternity leave.”

  Craig shook his head. Had that case really been two years ago? “Well… someone else then?”

  The analyst thought for a moment and then his face lit up. Liam shook his head at Craig in warning; he’d seen that look before. But Davy was already on his feet.

  “Leave it with me, chief. I’ve got the perfect person.”

  He exited with Liam staring after him. He didn’t like new team members, not even temporary ones. The last recruit they’d had was Carmen and she’d been a pain in the ass from the start. Last bar Andy that was, but he didn’t really count because he was a D.C.I., although even in his case Liam’s jury was still out.

  Craig was already onto other things.

  “OK, Davy and whoever will rule out all the normal motives for us. Ask Jake to lead that side when he gets in.”

  Liam went to say something about Jake but Craig brushed it aside.

  “Let’s look at the paramilitary stuff. What useful snouts do you have?”

  Liam made a face and Craig knew exactly what he was going to say. “Tommy.”

  “Sorry, but yes. He and his cronies know everyone on the loyalist side and remember that McCrae’s heading up the UKUF now.”

  “And why exactly would Rory McCrae help us?”

  “Because I’ll crawl up his business’ ass if he doesn’t, and you can bet your life he won’t want the taxman looking at his books.”

  Craig nodded. “OK. So, Tommy for background and McCrae for detailed info on Lindsay and Hart. Any snouts on the republican side?”

  The room fell silent. Republican snouts were tricky, not only because there’d been a long history of them getting ‘disappeared’ by the IRA and no-one with any sense would volunteer for that fate, but also because nowadays the old ’RA had gone legitimate, and any potentially useful sources were sitting in Stormont wearing the badge of MLA. Liam was the first to speak.

  “OK, let’s just say it. The old snouts are all dead or they’ve emigrated for the sake of their health. The boyos themselves are wearing nice suits in parliament, so that only leaves us with the dissidents, and they’re more likely to kill us than help us solve a crime.”

  Craig rubbed his chin. He needed a shave. His Italian half gave him a black stubble that was hard to keep at bay.

  “Care to share your thoughts when you’ve finished rubbing your face?”

  Craig shrugged. “They’re not very exciting. If Mulvenna hadn’t been one of the victims we could have turned to him but -”

  Liam cut in noisily. “That’s it! Mulvenna might be dead but he had family and I doubt that they were all squeaky clean in the armed struggle. They might know something and they’ve a vested interest in helping us solve his murder.”

  Craig sat forward eagerly. “The same applies on the loyalist side. Their families might know something, especially if they live in the same areas as our victims. Good thinking.”

  He headed for the door, cutting another phone call as he did.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see Reggie Boyd. Grab the victims’ details from Davy and I’ll meet you with the car on Pilot Street.”

  ****

  The Fernwood Shelter

  Annette gazed in her rear view mirror, then sighed and reached across for her handbag. She looked like a ghost nowadays and it wasn’t attractive. After a half hearted attack with some blusher and a slick of ‘Summer Joy’ she gave up the fight and exited the car, entering the friendly looking red brick building and approaching its low front desk. The man behind the glass gave her a cheerful smile.

  “Can I help you?”

  The smile dropped when she flashed her badge. “Can I see the manager, please?”

  The smile picked up again and Annette had a fleeting thought that the receptionist might have been on the wrong side of the law and thought she was there to arrest him. It was his lucky day; he’d been pleasant and she didn’t have the time to dig. One minute later a careworn woman appeared beside him and Annette flashed her I.D. again.

  “Detective Inspector Eakin. Could I have a word, please?”

  A hasty nod was followed by the equally hasty unlocking of the side door and she was ushered through to a small magnolia painted room. One day an office would be painted bright purple and she would die of shock.

  The woman urged her to a seat then perched nervously on her own. A second later she leapt up and sprinted out the door, returning with two mugs of hot tea.

  “Is tea all right? I can make coffee if you’d rather? It’s no trouble, no trouble at all, Officer. Honestly.”

  She was readying to leave again when Annette called her back forcefully and urged her to retake her seat. She studied the woman for a moment. She wore no makeup so her age was hard to tell; women without makeup could look younger or older than they were, come to think of it so could women with. Thirtyish, or maybe forty; it didn’t matter
; either way she was the manager. Annette opened her mouth to address her and a glance at the woman’s ring free hands made her opt for Ms.

  “Ms…” Her pause left space for a name but the woman didn’t seem to know her cue so she asked her straight out.

  “I’m sorry; I don’t know your name. Could you tell me?”

  It sparked another round of nervousness. The woman shifted excitedly in her seat, her hands fluttering around her lightly tanned face. The tan was more weathering than a month in St Tropez, but Annette would have settled for half of her hue.

  “Sheila, Sheila Payne. I’m the manager.”

  “Ms Payne. How long have you been manager here?”

  Payne tugged nervously at her long floral skirt. “Let me see. Three years…no, no that’s not right. It’s not quite three. Two years and eleven months.” She smiled, pleased with herself. “We’re having a little party here next month.”

  Annette watched fascinated as Payne counted down the precise number of days on her hands. How did a woman this nervous ever cope with a bunch of homeless men? They must run rings around her. Finally Payne nodded triumphantly.

  “Twenty-four days. Twenty-four days until the party.” Her forehead creased and Annette saw another bout of fluttering about to start. “I must start planning. I hadn’t realised it was so close-”

  There was no choice but to interrupt her.

  “Ms Payne. I’m trying to find out if you know of any homeless men, or women, who might frequent the following three areas at night. The Shankill Road, especially the area near the leisure centre. York Street, mainly the area near Dock and Nelson Streets, and the Lower Falls Road, particularly the area around the rear of Divis Street.”

  Payne looked startled at being interrupted but she gathered herself with surprising speed, sitting bolt upright in her chair. When she spoke this time she wasn’t nervous but indignant.

  “Our clients like their privacy, Inspector.”

  Annette punctured her bravado. “This is a murder inquiry.”

  “Oh.”

  The manager concertinaed into her seat, all resistance spent. “Well, in that case… could you tell me the list again?”

  “The Shankill Road.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “James McAdam and Eric McCausland.”

  “The Lower Falls. Around the rear of Divis Street.”

  “Eamonn Brewer.”

  “And finally York Street.”

  Payne’s tired eyes widened and she shook her head hard. “No-one. Richard Schofield used to go there but the council have banned the homeless from that site permanently now. They said it gave the area a bad look.” She sniffed with a hint of defiance. “Didn’t look right in front of their shiny new condos I suppose.”

  Annette made a note to speak to the street patrols. As she finished writing she saw that Sheila Payne was on her feet opening a second door she hadn’t noticed before. She was surprised to see that it led to the street. She shook her head.

  “I’m not leaving just yet, Ms Payne. I’ll need to speak to the clients whose names you just gave me.”

  Payne held her ground but Annette could see it was a struggle and that at any moment she might break into her fluttering dance again.

  “They’re not here.”

  “Where are they?”

  The manager’s voice wavered as she spoke. “I’m sure I don’t know. Clients don’t stay in the shelter during the day.” She attempted a sneer that failed and became a quiver. “Perhaps they’re taking tea at one of the condominiums. After all, we have such an equal society.”

  Annette wanted to say that she agreed with her socialist views, after all she’d been a nurse for years and had seen the effects of poverty at first hand, but instead she nodded kindly and said “I may be back tonight” then she cast a final envious look at Sheila Payne’s tan.

  Chapter Four

  Reggie Boyd, or Sergeant Reginald Telfer Boyd to give him his full title, was a fiftyish Donegal man who, although almost the same height as the six-feet-six Liam, was so softly spoken that everyone strained to hear his words. Combined with his lilting accent and quaint language it made people pay close attention to everything that he said, and even his arrestees reported feeling soothed, after being read their rights.

  Boyd was a damn good local bobby who presided over the Demesne Estate, one of East Belfast’s most striking architectural failures. High rise, low spec and as soul destroying as concrete knew how to be, the Demesne was eighty per cent Protestant, twenty per cent Catholic, or Prods and Taigs as the neighbours sometimes called each other over a borrowed cup of milk. Friendly banter or barbed jibes, it was hard to tell, but you had to integrate sometime, although no-one envied the intrepid pioneers.

  With segregation came bigotry and the graffiti bearing testament to it on the walls. They’d spotted some seminal efforts on the journey in, with Liam jotting them down for humorous use at a future time. He was particularly fond of the sketch showing what the lovechild of the First and Deputy First Ministers might look like, although he doubted they’d get many dates when they grew up.

  The Crossgar man was first out of the car, grateful that they’d brought Craig’s ancient Audi in place of his marginally younger Ford; he fancied holding on to his wheels. He nodded back at their chariot as the two men strode up the path.

  “When are you getting a new motor, boss?”

  Craig hit back cheerfully. “When you buy a new suit.” But he knew that Liam was right. His car had broken down once too often lately; if it did that on a shout then there’d be hell to pay. Besides, the repair bills were in four digits now; they would soon cost more than the car.

  Just then the broad figure of Reggie Boyd appeared at the station’s reinforced steel door. Liam greeted him first.

  “’Bout ye, Reggie. How’s it going?”

  “Peaceful till you arrived.” He nodded at Craig. “Nice to see you, sir.” Ignoring Liam’s suck-up sounds as he led the way to the staff room. Three drinks and a plate of biscuits later Craig nodded Liam to start.

  “We’re looking for paramilitaries.”

  Reggie waved an arm expansively. “Knock on any door round here and you’ll find one. Which particular acronym would you like? UKUF, UFU or UKRA?”

  “UKRA? That’s new.”

  “UK Resistance Army. I’m not sure what they’re resisting but they’re the same old eejits-”

  Craig cut in. “Do you have current or past paramilitaries living here?”

  “It’s a mixture. We’ve a few pensioners who were very bad boys in their youths.”

  Liam winced. “Ouch. That dates me.”

  “Me and you both. Then we’ve the wannabees of course; they’re mostly in their twenties. They grew up hearing about the ‘struggle’ and think they missed something, so they’re trying to start a wee war of their own.”

  Craig set down his mug. “Are they succeeding?”

  Boyd thought for a moment. “In starting a war, no. In setting up rival gangs, yes. It’s like Gangs of New York around here at the weekend.” He smiled. “Thank goodness I usually do a five day week.”

  Liam gawped. “Do they have tatts and bandanas, like the LA gangs?”

  “Pretty much, except the Northern Irish version. They’re not interested in identity or culture like their fathers and they don’t only pick on Catholics; they pretty much hate anyone with a different acronym or skin.”

  “Equal opportunity bigotry. Good to know.”

  Reggie lifted a biscuit, talking with it in his hand.

  “It’s all about making money on drugs and prostitution nowadays. Whoever can pay them is their new best friend.” The gentle giant sneered. “I’d hate to tar any paramilitary with honour, but even the old guard are disgusted by them.”

  Craig stared at the floor for so long, thinking, that Liam began telling Reggie a joke. Craig wrecked his punchline by starting to speak.

  “OK, the youngsters are probably no use to us, but it might be useful to
speak to an old hand or two.”

  Reggie nodded. “Sure. Can I ask what it’s about?”

  Craig filled him in and Boyd whistled. “There’s been nothing about paramilitary deaths on the news. I would have noticed, especially during the current Stormont talks.”

  “We’re keeping it quiet at the moment. The last thing we need is a spate of revenge killings kicking off.”

  “Are any of your Vics from here?”

  Liam nodded and Reggie’s face dropped. He was picturing the irate punters coming his way once word got out.

  “Rowan Lindsay. Ex-UKUF.”

  Reggie shook his head. “Damn. He was one of the better ones. Used to keep the others in line.”

  Craig winced at the thought of someone like Lindsay being the best around. “So he hadn’t been up to anything naughty lately?”

  The sergeant shook his head emphatically. “Definitely not. If anything he’s been doing a lot of community work.”

  Liam snorted rudely. “Don’t they all.”

  Community worker as a title had been tainted in some areas, being considered by locals as interchangeable with ex-paramilitary.

  “Loath as I am to defend any of them, Lindsay was genuine and he was working unpaid. He used to try to talk to the youngsters out of gangs.”

  Craig leaned forward, interested. It wasn’t often that people genuinely reformed. “Did it ever work?”

  “Aye, it did. I think because he’d reformed he managed to get them to listen.” He shook his head glumly. “Has anyone told his family yet?”

  “John will inform them when the relatives do the formal I.Ds. So far we’ve just been working off their prints.” Craig made a face. “I should warn you. Lindsay didn’t die pretty. He was kneecapped and shot in the head, up near the Shankill.”

  Reggie’s eyes widened. “My God! I haven’t seen that since-”

  Liam interjected. “The eighties. That’s what I said.”

  Craig shook his head. “It might mean nothing. Everyone knows about those methods now so it doesn’t have to be someone linked with that time. Someone young with a completely different motive could have done it deliberately to throw us off.”