“What do you want, Roger? Don’t tell me that you’ve managed to forget them again!”
A female voice responded, taking her aback. It sounded vaguely familiar. A cool, soft voice, with inflections that said she might have originated from Northern Ireland but at least some of her life had been spent somewhere far away. As the woman spoke the location narrowed to South Africa.
“It’s not your husband, Mrs Connolly. My name is Jennifer Somerville.”
As Helen Connolly squinted at the handset, trying to recall if she’d heard the name before, it occurred to her that few people even knew that she was married; she preferred to project an air of authoritative mystery at work. As she pondered the point Somerville continued.
“We met yesterday, at the Victims’ League. I was your visitor.”
Rose Matheson. She knew she’d heard the voice before, although she hadn’t noticed her accent when they’d met. Her second thought was more apposite. Rose Matheson had been an alias! Connolly toyed with asking why she’d used one but decided that to do so would have made her look ill-informed, so instead she attempted nonchalance.
“Goodness me, the Department of Law does make its civil servants work late. What can I do for you?”
There was a pause followed by a strengthening of Somerville’s tone.
“I wonder if you could spare me ten minutes?”
Connolly frowned. It sounded more like an order than a request and she didn’t like being ordered about.
“It’s a little inconvenient; my husband will be back very soon.”
“I think you’ll find that he’s been delayed for half-an-hour.”
Connolly’s eyes widened. “What? How do you-”
“I’m outside your back door, Helen. Could you possibly let me in?”
With that a sharp rap at the kitchen window made Helen Connolly swivel round, to see the woman who’d sat beside her for hours the day before pressing what appeared to be an I.D. photo against the glass. She walked hesitantly towards it, wondering if her end had come. She’d read about things like this in The Troubles’ archives. Officials’ doors being knocked late at night, only for them to be found face down in a ditch six months down the line. She probably counted as an official these days and victimhood from The Troubles was certainly an emotive subject. Perhaps emotive enough for someone to kill?
With all of those thoughts running through her head she wondered why her legs were still moving towards the door. It was like one of those clichéd teen horror movies, where the girl sees her killer coming but still doesn’t run away. She’d always thought that women like that were idiots and yelled “move, you stupid bimbo” at the screen, thinking that such behaviour was only ever real in some scriptwriter’s mind. Now she knew differently because she was doing the same thing. Worse, she was actually walking towards her fate.
Two feet from the door her doubts finally halted her, even though deep down she knew that twenty-four inches would be no challenge for a gun. She squinted, trying to read the I.D., then tutted and retrieved her glasses from the top of her head, saying the words aloud as she read.
“Jennifer Somerville. NCA.”
She glanced at the woman’s face and then back down at her badge. “What’s NCA?”
“The National Crime Agency” came clearly through the glass.
Connolly was puzzled. Since when was a civil servant from the Department of Law part of a crime agency? Civil servants were paper shufflers and obfuscators, put on this earth to thwart progress and fulfil their minister’s every whim, not to have exciting titles like agent and turn up at people’s houses late at night. She looked back at Somerville’s face and saw barely disguised exasperation. It had the effect of accelerating her steps and making her undo the latch. She’d attended a strict school and disapproval still always made her want to please.
Jennifer Somerville entered the house with a smile and did a scan of the kitchen that had nothing to do with security; she was re-doing her own and was always looking for hints. She turned towards the VLNI Chair.
“Thank you for letting me in, Mrs Connolly. I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about.”
Connolly nodded mutely, wondering where the agent kept her gun. Somerville read her mind.
“Waist holster; but I rarely use it.” Her face became solemn. “I wonder if we could speak for a few minutes. The agency would very much like your help.”
****
The Craigs’ House. Holywood, County Down. 9.30 p.m.
The Craigs had a full house for Friday night dinner. Not only was Katy there with all four Craigs, but Ken had joined Lucia for the very first time. After an hour of the soldier impressing Tom Craig with his army stories and spoiling Mirella with flowers and chocolates, Lucia had finally exhaled and started to enjoy her meal. Craig leaned over to Katy.
“Thank God for that. Mum likes him, Dad likes him and for once Lucia seems to have found someone who can keep her in line.”
It was unexpected but true. Ken had morphed from being so passive that Carmen had had him under her thumb to what he’d really always been; an easy going bloke whose reasoned approach to life would defeat Lucia’s high spirited excesses every time. It seemed he was better suited to her excitable approach to life than to Carmen’s angry defensiveness. Some people just brought out the best in each other. Or the worst.
Katy smiled and whispered back. “They’re like you and me in reverse.”
Craig was startled. He was reluctant to admit it but she was right. Of the three couples in the room Mirella, Lucia and he were the moody ones and his Dad, Ken and Katy were their stabilisers in life. If he was willing to admit it to himself he certainly wasn’t willing to say it out loud so he changed the subject quickly to other things.
“When do you go back to base, Ken?”
The young Captain glanced up from his plate. “A fortnight, but I’m due some leave so I could defer starting until the second week of November.” He smiled shyly in Lucia’s direction, only to end up smiling at her hair; her eyes were fixed very firmly on her food. “I’m hoping that we can manage a few days away.”
If he was expecting a romantic response from his girlfriend he’d reckoned without her having bigger news. She turned excitedly to Craig.
“Hey, I’ve just seen Davy’s photo shoot. It’s really cool.”
“Davy?” The question was asked by three people but only Ken added “Photo shoot? No way.”
Lucia nodded her tawny mane. “Yes, way.” She disappeared quickly into the living room, only to reappear with a recent high-end Dublin magazine. She turned to a page near the front and pushed it in front of Craig, watching first as his jaw dropped and then as he started laughing in disbelief. There in front of them was a picture of a muscular young man in a vest top, half turned away from the camera, but his tattoo and newly shorn hair made him unmistakably Davy Walsh.
“My God, it is him. Liam will have a field day!”
Ken rose to look over his shoulder and soon all of the dinner attendees were gawping at the page. Tom Craig shook his steel grey head.
“Is that your young analyst? The clever one? What’s he doing posing like a girl?”
Katy and Lucia rounded on him. “Women do it all the time, so why shouldn’t men? Besides, he’s just wearing a T-shirt; you see plenty of guys wearing those on the street.”
Craig turned the page, to see their newest team member smouldering back. He jabbed a finger at the image. “That’s Ash. He’s an analyst helping Davy out for a while.”
Ken retook his seat, blushing slightly. “We made a calendar once, to raise money for war widows.”
Lucia’s grin said that she was looking forward to seeing a copy soon. Katy leaned towards Craig, whispering.
“Have you ever done anything like that?”
His decisive “no” was interrupted by Ken, who’d been squinting at the small print on the page.
“‘Geek chic.’ So that’s what it’s about.”
Lucia nod
ded. “There’s an article in there as well. It mentions them both by name. Something about how scientists are the new cool.”
Craig snorted. “Well, I hope they paid him well, because he’ll never live this down if Liam-”
Ken jumped in. “And Nicky.”
“Agreed. If they find out he’ll be hearing about it for months. That must have been why he got the Na-Nu tattoo.”
“Robin Williams?”
“Yep.”
Katy thought for a moment. “Maybe he needed extra money for something?”
Craig smiled in realisation. It fitted with what Davy had been viewing on his screen the day before.
“OK, no-one say a word about this, please. He can’t know that anyone from work saw it.”
Just then Mirella walked up behind her son and peered down at the magazine. What she said next made everyone laugh.
“He wear only vest in September! He will catch the cold.”
It was very definitely a mother’s view of the world.
****
10.30 p.m.
After two more gin and tonics Helen Connolly had heard all that she needed to hear. She stood up unsteadily and pointed towards the back door.
“You’d better leave, Ms Somerville, if that’s even your name. I’m not doing the NCA’s dirty work.”
Jennifer Somerville merely reclined further in her seat and watched as Connolly’s chubby finger prodded the air.
“And how did you know my husband’s name was Roger anyway? Where is he now? In the back of some police van?”
“Your husband’s perfectly all right, Helen. He’s been invited to take part in an impromptu wine tasting at the supermarket. It will end as soon I give them a call. As far as us knowing his name, you said it when you answered the phone, but we have access to everyone’s details anyway.”
She waved Connolly back to her seat and continued in a mollifying tone.
“We really wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t essential, but I can’t explain why it’s necessary just yet. Just that if there was anyone better placed to observe this man then we wouldn’t involve you; but there isn’t at present, so will you do this to help your country’s security or not? All you’re required to do is reconvene the League early and follow my instructions.”
She was answered by a whine. “But I’m on holiday next week.”
It was a feeble excuse and Helen Connolly knew it so she puffed out her alcohol-flushed cheeks and thought for a moment. She had access to the man and the power to gain far more, and she’d never liked him. It seemed like a win win situation; help your country and pay back a grudge, except…
“He’s dangerous. You know that, don’t you?”
Somerville nodded. “That’s exactly why we want him off the streets.” She held her breath expectantly. She hated involving civilians in operations but they’d lost a valuable asset recently, and sometimes civvies were actually the people best placed to help. Criminals rarely suspected them. She added a sweetener. “We’ll have a protection detail following you at all times. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
It depended on funding cuts, but it sounded good.
It tipped the balance. Helen Connolly gave a barely perceptible nod, wondering why the hell she was doing so as she did. But she knew why really; because beneath her respectable twin-set beat the heart of a leather wearing warrior princess.
****
Belfast City Centre. Saturday, 3 a.m.
The Keeper stared at the small body at his feet. The Keeper; it was a strange title but one that they’d adopted many years before. Keepers of what? Secrets? Souls? Guilt? Sin eaters for evil men. He shook his head hard, dispelling the introspective thoughts. There was no time for them right now.
He really didn’t care if he was captured, in some ways he longed for the catharsis of confession and punishment. But he did care when; and the right time would be when he had no more work to do. There were still two more scum to dispatch, then he would save the police the effort of a trial and admit his culpability in a way that was impossible to miss. Or to conceal.
He slipped the small torch back into his pocket and scanned the deserted yard. Come tomorrow it would be swarming with uniforms; Dictaphones and crime scene tape in their eager hands. He frowned slightly. Would it, or had he chosen somewhere too deserted? He’d made that mistake before.
It was certainly off the beaten track. He glanced through the gates at the alleyway behind, used by courting couples late nights and weekends and teenagers at every other time of day. Yes, it would be OK; someone would find her soon, he’d charted the footfall at all his dump sites and although this was one of the lowest she wouldn’t lie undiscovered for very long.
He gazed at the body again, the woman’s smart trousers now bloodied at both knees, her neat bob sweat sodden and stained with bone and brain. He felt no remorse. Eilish Murnaghan had sung her song and it had been full of death. Now she’d joined the people that she’d killed and paid the price that she always should have paid.
In a strange way he envied her; free of all the memories and guilt. But then if any of them had felt guilt in the first place could they ever have done the things that they had.
****
Katy’s apartment. St John’s Harbour, Laganbank. 5 a.m.
It was reflex that made Katy answer the phone; years of being on-call and years of reacting even when she wasn’t. Drilled into her from the day she’d qualified as a doctor; answer your bleep immediately; the patient always comes first. She was older now, a consultant and even more responsible. They carried mobile phones nowadays not bleeps, and she slept at home not in a narrow on-call bed, but the reflex was still the same. Pick up by the third ring or someone could have died.
The response was so deeply engrained in her that she’d answered Craig’s phone by mistake, even though it was five feet away on the other side of the bed.
“Doctor Stevens. How can I help you?”
Katy’s telephone manner was far more polite than Craig’s, even when she was half asleep, so when the man on the other end heard it he let out a loud guffaw.
“You wouldn’t half know you were a doctor. Is his lordship there?”
She fell back against her pillow, waving the phone at the still sleeping Craig. “It’s for you.” When there was no response she tried again, adding a small dig in his ribs. “Marc, wake up. It’s Liam.” She’d never know if the dig did its job or whether Liam’s guldered “WAKE UP, BOSS” had been the magic trick. Whichever it was Craig suddenly sprang bolt upright, head-butting the mobile in Katy’s hand.
“Ow! Why are you hitting me with a phone?”
“I’m not, I…” Her voice faded away as she couldn’t be bothered explaining. She pushed the phone into his hand and turned over to go back to sleep.
“Who is this?”
“It’s me, boss. You need to get down to May Street. We’ve got another one.”
Chapter Seven
May Street, Belfast City Centre. Saturday, 5.45 a.m.
Craig hunkered beside the woman’s body for almost five minutes, although he wasn’t quite sure why; her injuries were nothing new. Two shots to the knees and one to the head; John would tell them later if she’d been electrocuted as well.
“She looks like someone’s grandmother.”
Liam shook his head. “Well, she isn’t.”
Craig glanced up at him. “How can you be so sure?”
The D.C.I. blew out his cheeks. “Because I know her. Eilish Murnaghan. A very, very bad girl in her time.” He pointed towards Oxford Street. They could just make out the roof of the Laganside Courts. “She was rumoured to have been involved in a bomb blast at the courthouse. Nothing was ever proved but it looks like our killer was convinced if he dumped her here.”
Craig leapt up and took a last look at the crime scene then he motioned Liam towards the cars. “OK, spill.”
Liam leaned back on his Ford and folded his arms. “Eilish Small was her name, then she married Gerry Mu
rnaghan, a real thug. They were serious IRA, and I do mean serious. Membership since way before The Troubles, but mostly sporadic sniper attacks against the police back then. Then Bloody Sunday happened in seventy-two and the pair of them were in terrorist paradise.”
“In what way?”
“Every way. Eilish was the brains of the pair; in fact she was one of the biggest brains that the ’RA had ever had.”
“Didn’t being a woman inhibit her progress?”
Liam gave a grim laugh. “Not so you’d have noticed. Terrorism was an equal opportunity job, especially behind the scenes. Mind you, Eilish never got her hands dirty; she was the strategist who told everyone else what to do. She went on protest marches when she was at Uni. Studied political science if I remember.”
“I bet that came in handy.”
“Aye, and so did her sadistic streak.” He shook his head slowly. “The things she made them do -”
Craig cut in. “So you’re saying she started off as a political activist, moved into IRA strategy and then got involved in killings?”
“Never hands on, but she was on the planning council organising bombs and raids, and she definitely supervised the torture of prisoners first hand. There was a rumour that she actually wrote a torture manual, long before anyone else did. Electrocution, white noise, stress positions, etcetera.”
Craig shook his head. He was still shocked at how brutal things had been in his own country only decades before. “Was there really such a manual?”
Liam shrugged. “Well, I don’t know about there being one literally, but she certainly told them what to do and how to do it. Anyway, she was lifted in ninety-six and sentenced to twenty years. But she only served two because of-”
“The Good Friday Agreement.”
“Yup.”
Craig considered what it meant. Eilish Murnaghan had only served two years for torture and murder, so how many victims’ relatives out there had wanted her dead? He stared up at the sky; it was streaked with red and orange, heralding morning. Such a beautiful backdrop for such a disgusting scene. He turned his gaze back to the street and spotted a café rolling up its shutters.
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