The Keeper

by Catriona King

  “Nice. Nat many of them about.”

  “What do you know about them? Specifically the underground trade.”

  Bonner shrugged, waving his hands around to indicate where he was. “I’m lacked up in here. What wud I know?”

  Craig gritted his teeth, forcing himself to be polite. He’d hold his other side in reserve in the likelihood it didn’t work out.

  “We hear that you recommission weapons.”

  The old lag smiled sarcastically. “Me? No, officer. That wud be a crime.” He sniffed again then noticed that Andy was fixing him with a glare. He jerked a thumb at the D.C.I.

  “Wat’s his problem?”

  “He doesn’t like criminals.”

  “He’s in the wrong job then, isn’t he.” He laughed at his own joke then noticed that neither of the others had. “Ach, lighten up lads. Yer nat the one lacked up.”

  Craig lurched forward so fast that Bonner’s reflex move backwards tipped his chair and he landed on the floor. The detective moved round to stand above him, ostensibly offering a hand. That’s what the cameras would see anyway; Craig had positioned himself deliberately to block their line of sight. Andy saw what was happening and moved round for support, then Craig fixed Bonner with a look that had made grown men cry and hissed. “Stop messing about. Who recommissioned the Magnum?”

  Gerdy Bonner was a feral creature, raised on the cold, hard streets of East Belfast, with all the self-preservative instincts that that brought. Add in his crimes and years in prison and he knew exactly what he had to do to survive. He assessed the situation quickly, saw the camera was blind and knew that his choices were down to three: hope he could crawl to the door fast enough to alert the warder before Craig touched him; yell, on the off chance that he would hear and rush into the room, or tell Craig exactly what he wanted to know.

  If Bonner had been smart he would have known that he had a fourth option; just tell Craig to step back. The policemen were bluffing; they would never have laid a hand on him. But Gerdy wasn’t smart enough to call their bluff so he gave them exactly what they wanted before Craig helped him off the floor. They drove away from the prison ten minutes later with Andy still slightly puzzled by what they’d heard.

  “So…Bonner knew who’d recommissioned the gun but not what for.”

  Craig shrugged. “So he says. My guess is he knows more than he told us but that’s all he was going to give up without a fight.” He nodded at the carphone. “Get Liam for me.”

  Liam was sitting opposite Rory McCrae when his mobile rang. He gestured Carmen to watch their interviewee and walked to the street outside to take the call. Craig yelled down the line.

  “Bonner said McCrae had the gun recommissioned in August, but he didn’t say by whom or what for.”

  “Bonner didn’t do it himself?”

  “No. Much to the Governor’s relief. I think he was picturing prisoners knocking out weapons behind his back like Santa’s elves. What’s McCrae giving you?”

  Liam glanced back at the shop. “A load of old lip, that’s what. But I can have another go at him with this.”

  “Have at it, and if you find out who did the gun call me. Jack can let the others go and we’ll only have one to interview.”

  The D.C.I. signed off and slipped his phone back in his pocket, with renewed hope that he’d get home in time for the match. As he re-entered the room rubbing his hands gleefully, Rory McCrae’s heart dropped into his boots. He shook his head pre-emptively.

  “I want my lawyer.”

  Liam tutted gently, like a man calming a wild horse. “Now there’s no need for that; no need at all. I just need you to answer a few questions.” McCrae glanced at Liam’s ham-like hands and shook his head.

  “If ye touch me, I’ll have the-”

  “Now, now, now.” Liam retook his seat. “I’m not going to touch you, just tell you what I know and then you can fill in the gaps.”

  McCrae narrowed his eyes, waiting to hear what came next.

  “Now…my boss paid a little visit to a friend of yours. Gerdy Bonner. As you know he’s in the nick, so he was a bit of a captive audience, but still-”

  “Gerdy wouldn’t have told him nathin’.”

  “If by that double negative you mean that Gerdy would have told him something, then you’re quite correct.” He leaned forward, smiling menacingly. “He told him that you had a Magnum recommissioned recently and we’d like to know why and who by. Just two little answers then we’ll leave you in peace to continue fleecing the natives. OK?”

  McCrae considered his options in the way that Bonner had considered his, although not on his back and without a friendly warder nearby to call on for help. He didn’t even have an escape route; there were two cops between him and the door and he really didn’t like the look of the red-haired girl. Besides, what harm did it do to tell them? The man who’d bought the gun had snuffed it now and the one who’d recommissioned it could watch his own back. So Rory McCrae, self-professed Belfast hard man and wannabee gangster, did what legions of hard men had done before him to save their own skins. He collaborated.

  He shrugged before answering. “There’s no harm tellin’ ye because it’ll do ye no good.”

  Liam didn’t like the sound of that.

  “The gun was recommissioned fer Billy Hart. One of yer Vics. Aye, I heered Billy was dead but I’m nat sayin’ where. ”

  Liam dismissed the attempt at mystery; knowing that McCrae hitting on Hart as a victim was probably a lucky guess after their first visit; he and Tommy had put two and two together and counted right for once. But he frowned at the idea of Hart owning the gun; it didn’t make any sense that he’d bought the gun that had killed him. Then Liam realised; their killer had been one step ahead of them all along. He’d stolen his first victim’s gun and used it on all five! Damn. Their trail was running colder than a Cavehill stream. Pissed off, he renewed his glare.

  “I want the name of whoever commissioned it.” If they’d dealt with Hart directly they might know something that could help.

  McCrae thought for several seconds as Carmen deliberately fingered the gun at her waist, alternating her gaze between it and the gang boss. She’d never carried hers in her bag like other female officers; far too girly and it took too long to get out, plus you never knew when a quick reveal might have the desired effect.

  When McCrae spilled the name of Rat Sutherland five seconds later Liam thought that his glare had done the trick; only Carmen and Rory McCrae knew what really had. The investigators left the gloomy shop immediately and Liam called Craig as they belted across the Albert Bridge.

  “You’re not going to believe this. Billy Hart paid to have the gun recommissioned and Rat Sutherland did the job. Jack’s let the others go. I’m dropping Carmen at the ranch and I’ll meet you in High Street in ten.”

  Craig grunted assent and hung up. He was already in High Street’s coffee room so he rang through to the front desk.

  “Jack. Have you got a moment?”

  He re-boiled the kettle and handed the sergeant a brew as he entered the room. Jack gazed around him.

  “Where’s Angel gone?”

  “Walked back to the office. I told him he needed the exercise.”

  “He needs something to wake him up, that’s for sure.” He took a seat, sipping at his tea. “What’s up? Sandi can only cover the desk for half-an-hour.”

  Craig frowned, puzzled. “Liam’s just phoned.”

  “Aye. He phoned me as well. Told me to let everybody but Sutherland go.”

  Craig nodded. “He recommissioned the gun involved in our murders.”

  “Oh, aye. Who for?”

  “That’s the strange part. For our first victim, Billy Hart. The killer must have turned Hart’s own gun on him and then used it for the other four.”

  Jack’s eyes widened in alarm and then he gave a slow nod. “I’ve seen this before.”

  Craig sat forward urgently. “Where?”

  “When would be a better qu
estion. It was here, back in the seventies. I can’t remember the exact date but it was one of the few cases back then that wasn’t Troubles related.” He stared straight ahead, trying to recall. The account emerged in fits and starts. “It was a man…no, no I’m wrong; a man was killed… the Demesne. Yes, that was it; he lived on the Demesne and he’d signed a gun out from the UKF, as it was back then.”

  Signing a gun out had been a well-known practice back in the day. Some enterprising paramilitaries had set up a lending library of weapons with the serial numbers filed off, and with every barrel worn smooth so that the bullets that they fired couldn’t be traced. They’d ‘lent’ them to anyone who’d asked, just as long as they’d had three hundred pounds, never asking what they wanted them for, and if they were told definitely not giving a damn. Craig wondered how many costly divorces had been avoided by people murdering their spouse, at a time when the police were too stretched to solve ‘normal’ crime?

  Jack continued.

  “Anyway, this guy got hold of an unmarked weapon, to kill his wife as far as I remember-”

  Craig cut in caustically. “Romantic.”

  The sergeant gave a small laugh. “Not so much, especially not when she found the gun and turned it on him before he got the chance. If she’d been smart enough to wear gloves and ditch the weapon she would probably never have been caught.”

  “How long did she get?”

  “Three years for manslaughter provocation. She got out in two.”

  “Two years!”

  “Aye well, the judge ruled that as hubbie had probably been planning to kill her she could have been in fear for her life. To be honest he treated it like self-defence.”

  Craig pulled out his phone and called Davy. “Davy, forget the gun for a while; we’ve found out who recommissioned it. I need you to dig out an old case for me. Nineteen-seventies, Belfast, a woman who shot her husband dead but only got manslaughter because of the extenuating circumstances. Short sentence; just three years, out in two. If I’m not back before you leave, leave the file on my desk please.”

  He hung up to see Jack looking puzzled.

  “How does that case relate to yours?”

  Craig shook his head. It was too fragile a lead to jinx by saying it out loud. He was saved from another question by Liam walking in and after a minute’s banter they headed in to interview the delightfully named Rat Sutherland.

  ****

  3 p.m.

  The Keeper stared at the man lying on the mud covered floor, wondering how his uniform still looked pristine despite a night in a car boot, and the same time again unconscious on the grime encrusted stone of his barn. But then Major Stephen James was army through and through; he probably slept in khaki pyjamas.

  It was the first time that he’d ever brought one of them home, but the Major’s crimes were too global to site his interrogation in one area of Belfast. Nothing as simple as a republican or loyalist this time; imperialism had ruled everyone in Northern Ireland back in the day. He gave a quiet chuckle. Imperialism; the word sounded strange, even inside his head, like something that belonged to the Russian Tsars; white gloves and diamond tiaras as everyday wear.

  It sounded even more strange considering which side of the fence he was from. A dyed in the wool Unionist before he could toddle, it had been a short step to the secret handshake brigade and a seat at the table as one of the ruling elite in the land. He was as British as the Union Flag so why did he hate this man so much? The same reason he hated all of them and only his private guilt could explain.

  He got bored waiting for the old soldier to wake and gave his leg an angry kick. As Stephen James opened his eyes and tried to focus, his captor rearranged the furniture in preparation for his trial.

  ****

  Rat Sutherland’s rotund face and body belied the image conjured by his name, so they assumed that the moniker was a reference to his personality. Ten minutes into the interview and Craig knew that they’d been right; a sneakier, nastier piece of excrement he’d rarely encountered in his career. He scanned the room for something that might make the gun runner talk. He’d never assaulted a prisoner in his life, but didn’t underestimate the effect of a menacing prop in the right person’s hand. He was just wondering where the thumbscrews and bright lights were when you needed them when Liam’s fist connected with the table top.

  It was a hard blow, hard enough to rattle the tape machine, conveniently on pause, and hard enough to shake the grin off the face of the man opposite and make him start to whine.

  “I want my lawyer.” Sutherland gestured at the D.C I. “He assaulted me.”

  Craig’s response was dry. “Trust me; if he’d assaulted you, you’d know about it. His hand accidently dropped onto the desk.”

  “In a fist?”

  Liam leaned forward, making the rodent rear back in his chair and whine again.

  “Look! Now he’s threatening me!”

  Craig shrugged. “It looked to me like he was just adjusting his position.” His lips twisted into a small smile. “Of course, if you’d like to leave, all you need to do is tell us about the gun.”

  Sutherland folded his arms defiantly. “I want a lawyer.”

  Liam lifted a sausage like finger and wiggled it in one of his ears, as if trying to clear it. “Sorry. I didn’t hear that.”

  Sutherland’s gaze turned to Craig. He was shaking his head and pointing at a vent high on the wall. “That air conditioning’s too loud. It really needs to be fixed.”

  Liam lifted his right hand and made a motion like a gun being fired. To a camera it might have looked menacing; fortunately the camera was off, just like the tape. Sutherland got the message loud and clear; his only way out was to give the policemen what they wanted. He shrugged as if it was a formality and then he’d be free. Craig gave Liam a slight nod. The gun trader was so certain he wasn’t being recorded that he talked right through the buzz of the tape being turned on.

  “OK. Billy alays liked Magnums; they was his favourite shooter back in the day. He wanted one to protect himself. Said he was in debt to Dusty Wilson and he didn’t fancy his chances in a fight.”

  Craig suddenly regained his hearing. “So why come to you? He must have been able to pick one up in a bar, and a damn sight cheaper I’d bet.”

  Rat shook his head firmly. “Not the Research BFR, and he said he was fond of it from the past. Besides, in a bar you’re risking some eejit blackmailing you, with me they know my neck’s on the line same as theirs.” He smiled proudly. “Plus, my guns are completely unmarked. I file off the serial numbers and core out the barrels till they’re as smooth as a baby’s bum.”

  Not so unmarked that Des hadn’t been able to narrow the gun’s make and model from the type of bullets it had fired, even if he couldn’t match them to anything. But neither detective pointed out the fact; if Sutherland was careless it was a good thing, the last thing they wanted was him upping his game in future to make his weapons really untraceable.

  Craig nodded. “OK, so Hart wanted a gun in case Dusty came after him. How much?”

  It wasn’t relevant to their case but knowledge was always a valuable thing.

  Sutherland sniffed. “A grand for that model.” He saw their eyes widen and rushed to defend his craft. “It’s a lot of work to make an old gun live again. Its parts was all rusted up.”

  “Have you recommissioned any other Magnums?”

  “Nah.” He gave a satisfied smile. “I might do more in the future though. They’re a lovely little shooter.”

  To his surprise Liam suddenly rose. Craig nodded him to do the honours.

  “You’ll not be recommissioning anything in the future, mate, because you’re being charged with illegal possession of firearms and anything else we can think of.”

  Sutherland jumped to his feet indignantly. “You’ve no proof!”

  Liam’s sideways glance at the tape told him that they most definitely had.

  “I didn’t consent to that and I wasn’t rea
d my rights.”

  “Well A, you consented at the start and B, you were read your rights when we had you picked up.”

  Craig crossed his fingers that it was true but he’d never known Jack to detain someone without covering his ass. The gunrunner slumped back into his seat.

  “I want my lawyer.”

  Craig smiled pleasantly. “Certainly. Why didn’t you say so before? The desk sergeant will call them once you’re back in your cell.” He opened the door and yelled for Jack to join them. Then the free men waved goodbye to the captive and left to tend to other things. When they’d reached the cars Craig nodded in the direction of South Belfast.

  “I’m off to see Kyle Spence about Major James.”

  Liam nodded and opened the door of his Ford. “Grand. I’ll see you back at base. I’ve something to attend to myself.”

  He didn’t say what and Craig didn’t ask; they both had their hunches to pursue.

  ****

  Stephen James glared up at his captor, wishing that his hands were free. He could snap the man’s neck easily if they were; his special forces training had seen to that. He was disgusted, but not only with the man standing in front of him. How the hell had he let himself be kidnapped, and from a bloody army base? Another question followed. How had this man got past the base guards? He’d give them hell when he returned. Even as he thought it he knew that his chances of returning to Craigantlet alive were slim.

  He’d been racking his brains for his captor’s identity since he’d been conscious, trying to recall if they’d met before to no avail. But whoever the man was, he was someone who could get past armed guards and a barbed wire fence without raising a single alarm. Not only him, but his car! He’d driven to the officers’ mess, marched into his room to abduct him at gunpoint and no-one had noticed a sodding thing.

  The Major’s thoughts were interrupted by a slap across his face that drew blood. It flowed from his lips and gums until he gagged and spat it out, regretfully missing his kidnapper as he did.

  “Pay attention, Major!”