The Keeper

by Catriona King

  “Blue hair?”

  Craig cut the tonsorial discussion short. “OK, so we’re covering the gun and you’re sure all the bullets came from the same weapon. Yes?”

  “Of course. I’d have said otherwise.”

  “Just checking. OK, times of death and times of being found. What’s the gap with Eilish Murnaghan and is it consistent?”

  John decided he needed an aide memoire and went to the cabinet to withdraw the file. He flicked back and forth through the pages and then carried it back to his desk.

  “OK. Hart’s time of death was three a.m. and he was found at eight o’clock; a five hour gap. Lindsay’s TOD was earlier-”

  Liam cut in. “That makes sense if Hart had to drive back from Newcastle. He left the pub at ten-thirty Saturday night and it would’ve taken at least an hour, so allowing for him being in Belfast when he was abducted, for him to be tortured and killed would have to have taken a few hours.”

  John reclaimed his report. “Twenty-seven and a half hours to be precise if he arrived back at eleven-thirty on Saturday night, but that bears absolutely no relevance to TOD versus TOF.”

  “TOF?”

  “Time of being found.”

  Craig sat forward and John rolled his eyes.

  “Are you going to interrupt me now, Marc, or can you wait until I’ve covered them all?”

  Craig turned to Liam. “Now that’s sarcasm. He’s better at it than me.”

  John didn’t stoop to debating the topic. “OK, so Lindsay’s TOD was one a.m. and TOF was seven o’clock. Six hours gap. Your third victim Mulvenna also died at one a.m. and was found at ten a.m. Nine hours. And finally Eilish Murnaghan was killed around three a.m. and she was found almost right away at five, so it was only two hours for her. I’d say TODs to TOF was fairly consistent.”

  He closed the file and sat back, as if to say now you can speak.

  Craig nodded. “Other than he didn’t hide them in the woods where it would have taken months to find them. He left them all in the city somewhere so he wanted them found quickly. Two to nine hours after death is pretty quick.”

  John shrugged in agreement. “And your point is?”

  “That it was important to him that people knew that they were dead, and not just us. He could have tipped us off with a phone call, but he wanted members of the public to find them, which means-”

  “He wants publicity.”

  Liam gave a cynical laugh. “He might want it, but so far he hasn’t got it. The media is totally in the dark.”

  “The C.C. managed to shut them down but it won’t last.” Craig turned back to their first victim. “OK, if Hart drove from Newcastle back to Belfast, where in Belfast? Did he go home or to meet whoever had called him?”

  Liam shrugged. “Maybe both. CCTV might tell us.”

  “You mean whoever called him might have arranged to meet him at his home.”

  “It would make sense.”

  “So would meeting him anywhere else.”

  John interrupted them, curious. “Hart was in Newcastle? Why?”

  While Liam brought him up to date Craig made some coffees, retaking his seat as the D.C.I. finished and picking up the lead.

  “OK, so Hart drove back to Belfast, like a bat out of hell if his lady friend is correct, and met his death just over a day after returning. What are the odds that the person calling him wasn’t his killer?”

  Liam shook his head, scattering the foam from his upper lip all over John’s desk. He brushed it away in disgust.

  “It would’ve been a hell of a coincidence if he hadn’t been.” His eyes lit up. “The lad might have his phone number by now.”

  Before Craig could ask he was on to Davy chasing it up. It was too good to be true and the other men said so as Liam ended the call, despite him waving a scribbled note.

  Craig shook his head. “If that’s a mobile number then there’s no way it will trace back to our killer. He’ll have used a burn phone.”

  Liam wasn’t deterred. “The number was withheld but Ash is chasing the phone providers now. Either way we might still get the location the perp called from, and CCTV.”

  “My guess is the call will have come from right outside Hart’s house, so probably no CCTV, or somewhere in the city centre and our man will have covered his face. But I live to be proved wrong.”

  John snorted rudely. “You hate being proved wrong.”

  Liam nodded. “He was being sarky again, Doc. I think he’s practicing.”

  Craig ignored them and continued. “OK, victim three. John Mulvenna. He was killed at one and found at ten. Nine hours gap. That’s the longest of all of them. Why?”

  There was silence while they all thought. Mulvenna’s body had been found on wasteland at the back of Divis Street. It was an area as busy or as quiet as any of the others.

  John was the first to speak. “Maybe the question should be, why not? You could be making something out of nothing.”

  Craig made a face. “Possibly, but I’m not prepared to say that just yet.” He turned to Liam. He had a better knowledge of Belfast’s streets than any of them. “Anything?”

  Liam scratched his chin. It was still smooth ten hours after he’d shaved but that was normal for him. Craig had to shave twice as day and it served him right, there had to be some downside to having tanned skin.

  “Well?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  They watched him think for another minute before he eventually spoke.

  “OK, how’s this for a theory. All of the other victims were found in the city centre and the Shankill. Yes?”

  “Yes, so?”

  “And would it be fair to say that those areas are considered either neutral, or majority Protestant in the Shankill’s case?”

  “Again yes. So what?”

  John saw where Liam was heading and nodded. “You’re saying that the Falls Road is a Catholic area and the killer didn’t know it as well, so he misjudged the time it would have taken for Mulvenna’s body to be found.”

  Liam nodded vigorously. “Yes. And why didn’t he know that area?”

  Craig shook his head. “There could be a thousand reasons. He might be from the country; he might have lived in the other areas-”

  Liam shook his head, interrupting. “If he was from the country then why know anywhere in Belfast? And if he does, then why only the areas that a Protestant would feel comfortable visiting? He didn’t know the Falls because he wasn’t comfortable there, which means he’s not a Catholic.”

  Craig considered for a moment but he could only agree part way. “OK. Maybe he isn’t Catholic, or maybe it’s just an area that he doesn’t know so he misjudged things. But even if he’s Protestant, it doesn’t get us very far.”

  “It’s something else to add to the mix, like the possibility that he’s a victim, a victim’s relative and all the rest.”

  Craig conceded the point. “Fair enough. OK, good work.” He stood up. “Finish your coffee and let’s go.”

  As Liam hastily drained his cup John lifted a medical journal. Craig remembered his manners and turned back just before he reached the door.

  “Thanks John. What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

  John settled further into his chair. “Reading for as long as I can, because once Natalie gets here I’ll be dragged to some supermarket to admire the fruit.”

  ****

  3.45 p.m.

  Jake re-entered the squad-room with a list of gangland contacts. He was just handing them to Davy when Andy walked onto the floor.

  “Greetings, people. What’s been happening?”

  Nicky glanced up from her desk. “You’ve only been gone a few hours so how much do you think has happened? And how come you were called to your son’s school on a Saturday?”

  “He’s in the junior orchestra and they’re rehearsing for a wee show.”

  “What was wrong?”

  She knew she was being nosy but she didn’t care. Everyone’s business was
hers until they said butt out, and sometimes even then.

  “Nothing much. He cut his hand on his triangle. Bowie’s a bit accident prone.”

  Nicky was about to recount one of her son Jonny’s mishaps when the D.C.I. turned away and scanned the room, earning him a scowl, while Davy stifled a laugh at the boy’s name, biting his lip to prevent asking ‘the singer or the knife?’

  “Where are Liam and the boss?”

  “Out.”

  If Andy had had the energy he would have asked ‘out where?’ but he was conserving what he had for a date that night so instead he turned to look for Annette. She wasn’t at her desk so Jake was next.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Just getting a list of the local hoodlums for Davy.” He rose and slipped on his jacket. “But now you’re back we can get going.”

  Andy waved him down. “Going where?”

  “We’re on the Murnaghan murder.”

  The D.C.I. turned towards the kitchen. “At least let me have a cup of tea and a biscuit before we leave.”

  Jake shook his head firmly. “Can’t. We have to be back for the briefing at five.”

  There was no briefing planned but Jake was a man on a mission; the sooner they got to work the sooner he could get home and sort out his personal life. He strode towards the exit trailing his senior officer in his wake and ignoring every plea for tea and sympathy.

  ****

  The Antrim Road.

  Plan B required a solid story and The Keeper had come with one ready prepared and with a proven track record of success. He’d used it on Billy Hart and he hadn’t questioned it, so there was no reason why Gerry Murnaghan should.

  He stood in the bay window of the empty bungalow that he’d camped in, watching the armoured car disgorge two uniformed men from the back. After twenty minutes to check the cottage’s perimeter was secure the men returned to their vehicle and clambered back inside. He knew what came next, the same things that happened whenever men gathered in a group. They would play poker, listen to the radio, or watch the match on a laptop, if there was a good one on. They’d do another reccy in forty-five minutes and at intervals after that. It would give him plenty of time to execute his plan.

  For an hour he watched, waiting until the time was right to go. Then he slipped a new SIM into his mobile, declining the texted offers to sign up for services or give his details to the provider for free. Marketing tricks, they happened every day, and every day people gave their personal details to ‘the man’. It was how criminals got caught and it wasn’t going to be him.

  He checked the number and pressed dial, waiting for the man at the other end to take the bait. He didn’t get nervous and he didn’t sweat; he’d seen too much in life to worry now. On the third ring the phone at the other end was answered and a voice that The Keeper remembered from decades before came on the line. He followed the script that had worked with Billy Hart.

  “Gerry. It’s me. I need you to listen.”

  “My God! They said you were long gone.”

  “I was but now I’m back. Listen, this has to be quick.”

  Gerry Murnaghan leaned against his kitchen wall, listening as the familiar voice gave instructions and outlined a plan to lead him to the man who’d killed his wife.

  “We’ll find the bastard, Gerry. Just do as I say.”

  “I’ll be out the back in ten and meet you wherever you want.”

  True, it would lead him to Eilish’s killer, but it would also lead to his own demise.

  ****

  6.25 p.m.

  Gerry Murnaghan was out the back door and inside his silver Toyota ten minutes before the police rechecked the perimeter, and forty before their replacements arrived and knocked the door to check that the man inside was safe and well, only to find him gone and the house cold. Five minutes later Craig was called. Twenty after that he and Liam were standing in the cottage’s small hall.

  Craig gazed around him, looking for signs of abduction. “The stupid bugger. He didn’t even put up a fight.”

  A uniformed officer walked by only to be halted by Craig’s glance.

  “Are there any signs of forced entry?”

  “Nothing, sir. The back door was unlocked with a key and locked again from the outside.”

  Craig waved the man on and Liam shook his head.

  “The dozy prat went willingly. How stupid can you get?”

  Craig sat on a chair the C.S.I.s had finished with, beckoning Liam to do the same with the settee. He sighed heavily before speaking.

  “Murnaghan knew his caller. Just like Hart. It has to have been the same man.”

  “Not necessarily. They could just have had the same idea.”

  Craig arched an eyebrow. “Another copycat?”

  Liam laughed. Neither of them was that credulous.

  “OK. So it was the same man.”

  “And if the same man took Hart and Gerry, then the same man killed them all.”

  Craig thought for a moment. “They both agreed to meet their killer.”

  “They weren’t scared of him. A friend maybe?”

  “Some friend. And you really think the IRA and UKUF keep company with the same people?”

  Liam shot him a huffy look. “OK, who then?”

  Crag shrugged. “Maybe someone they were too afraid to say no to. I don’t know yet but I think it’s clear that it wasn’t one of their victims or their relatives. They had completely different victims so a single man couldn’t have been common to both sides. And neither of them would have agreed to meet someone from a rival paramilitary gang-”

  Liam offered a more optimistic perspective. “But that’s good. Take victims, their relatives and rival paramilitaries off the table and it means we can delete most of our suspect list.”

  “True, but that still leaves us with finding the something or someone else that they had in common.”

  “Money? Drugs? Someone they both knew from the bad old days?”

  Craig stood up. “Or someone who’s in a position to blackmail them now. We’ll know soon enough. Davy will find it if it’s there to find.” He glanced at his watch; it was almost seven o’clock. “Go home and see your kids, Liam. We’ll get called again in a few hours.”

  Liam looked at him quizzically. “Why?”

  “Because Gerry Murnaghan will be found somewhere in Belfast, shot in the head just like his wife.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dunmurry. 9 p.m.

  It was nine o’clock before Jake got home, courtesy of Andy’s every action taking twice as long as a normal man’s and a detour to his granny’s to make sure that she was fine with him moving in; not just as an overnight guest, but a fixture for an unforeseeable length of time. As he slipped his key quietly into the Venetian glass front door, he prayed fervently that Aaron wasn’t home. All he needed was some toiletries and enough suits and shirts to do him for the week. The rest he could send a courier for.

  Saturday had always been their party night; before his grandad’s illness had rarely seen him get home before one a.m. As he slipped down the hall, wondering why it was in darkness, Jake recalled their good-time routine for ten years. Drinks at home and then more drinks with friends, before heading somewhere dark and bluesy to dance the night away. Now he barely had the energy to change the channel and he fell asleep on drink number two.

  A small dart of guilt stilled his steps. It couldn’t have been easy for Aaron coping with such drastic changes, and what did it say about him that Aaron’s jealousy had so quickly killed his love? He corrected himself. No, not killed it, just changed it into something else; something that he knew now wouldn’t survive the years. He picked up his steps and began to climb the stairs. As he reached the landing he thought he heard a noise and stopped. Nothing. It must have been the wind; it had been blustery all day. Another few steps, wondering why he hadn’t switched the light on as he walked. He knew the answer already; if Aaron was at home and napping, as he sometimes did before going out, th
e last thing he wanted was to waken him for another row.

  Jake seized the bedroom door handle and opened it slightly, just enough to peek in. Holding his breath as he scanned the bed’s outline in the moonlight, he was relieved to see that no-one was there. Five minutes of packing and two minutes of remorse later he was back on the landing and heading for the stairs. It was then that he saw the man on the top step, dark and still but still unmistakeably the person with whom he’d once hoped to spend his life. Jake stopped dead, wondering again why they hadn’t turned on the lights. It was as if illumination would have made everything too real. He spoke first.

  “Aaron, I-”

  They were his only words because one second later his jacket was grasped and five later he was spread-eagled on the bone-breakingly hard tiles in the hall with Aaron staring at him from above. As Jake’s blood-stained the mosaics they’d chosen together on holiday two years earlier, Aaron Foster stepped calmly over his lover’s immobile body and exited through their tasteful glass front door.

  ****

  Sunday, 8 a.m.

  Craig was surprised to be woken. Not because it was a Sunday; years of working strange shifts had long before blurred his days of the week. And not because it was by his mobile, instead of by the pretty blonde in his bed. No, he was surprised because his phone said that it was eight o’clock and he’d fully expected to be up by five. Thanking heaven for small mercies he groped at the handset until he heard Liam’s voice yell “BOSS!”

  “What?”

  It was a croak that said ‘I need coffee’. Katy needed one as well so she hopped out of bed to oblige. Liam however wasn’t so sympathetic.

  “Are you never up yet? Get out of your pit, man. We’ve found Murnaghan.”

  Craig had a fleeting thought that maybe one day someone would get killed at a reasonable hour of the day then he croaked again. “Where?”

  “Lisburn Road. Near one of his greatest hits.”

  Craig knew instantly where he was. Eglantine Avenue, the site of an IRA bomb in ninety-one. Katy thrust a coffee into his hand and wandered back into the living room as Craig took a deep swig and recovered his normal voice.