The Keeper

by Catriona King

James scrutinised his abductor, assessing his looks and clothes. He was tall, as tall as him and he was six-feet-five. Not fat and not thin; slim was probably the word. His outfit was unremarkable; a dark, long sleeved shirt and jeans, a bit trendy for his taste but their fabric and cut said that they’d cost a fair few bob. Middle class, definitely. He closed his eyes and listened hard to the man’s voice, searching for clues as to who he was. Middle class, yes, and born in Northern Ireland, but he hadn’t lived there his whole life. People who’d lived away for any time lost some of their native twang and rarely regained it, and this man’s accent bore a strong edge from somewhere else. Wherever he’d been born it had been urban. This was definitely a city man. He listened again as the man threatened, telling him that his days were numbered and that he had better make peace with his God. A process of elimination narrowed the accent to Ireland’s North-East; Belfast or its Antrim hinterland. The words were educated. So an educated man from around Belfast hated him enough to do this.

  Why? He opened his eyes and looked again, this time scanning his abductor’s face. It was worryingly uncovered, as if he wasn’t planning to allow him to live to make an I.D. It was a stereotypically masculine face; a square jaw in an oblong head. A warrior, the sort he would probably have wanted beside him in a fight. But his expression… his expression said something else. It was troubled, pained. Emotional. Whoever this man was he wasn’t happy with his life.

  James turned away from psychology and back to the hard facts. His captor was fifty? No, nearer sixty; around the same age as him. A sixty-year-old Belfast man who hated him this much, it was a long list so he needed to narrow down why.

  He’d been in the army since he was twenty-two, at home and abroad, and it had been his life. He hadn’t had time to steal anyone’s money or property and he definitely hadn’t stolen their wife; in fact women had always puzzled him, enough to have given them a wide berth. That had ruled out children and with it the possibility that one of them had done something to the man. So what the hell was his motive for kidnap, and what looked like it was going to be his trial and execution? And why now? Thirty years before he might have understood it; his uniform had been unpopular with quite a few locals back then. But now? Only the dissidents wanted to kill them now, and Islamic terrorists, and his captor didn’t look like he belonged to either group.

  James looked again, this time meeting his kidnapper’s eyes. It was a mistake. The eyes themselves were unremarkable: brown, deep set, shadowed by greying black brows that matched the man’s thick head of hair. But what James read in them wasn’t unremarkable. He’d expected anger, even hatred; people didn’t kidnap and imprison people that they really liked. But he hadn’t expected the sadness; he hadn’t been prepared for the profound anguish that he saw there. It burnt through him as they locked eyes, until he could almost touch the pathos behind it; the empty, hollow despair of which the gaze was only the faintest sign. The man was despairing, but before Stephen James could work out why his captor gave him a clue. He removed an official looking document from a briefcase and held it up to read.

  “Major Stephen Paul James, you are hereby charged as follows. That in nineteen-eighty you did collude with members of T Branch of MI5 and the security forces in the following crimes.”

  Realisation dawned on the old soldier. This grudge wasn’t current; it was based on things that had happened over three decades before, during The Troubles. His mind raced back through the years until he’d reached the one that the man was referring to. At the risk of another slap he closed his eyes tight, picturing life thirty-five years before, in the Belfast of his youth. Barbed wire and checkpoints, where nervous young soldiers had searched Northern Ireland’s civilians for bombs. Men, women, pensioners and children, just going about their daily lives; UK citizens stopped in a UK street. Some of them had been angry, others grateful, seeing the military presence as protection; with the terrified teenage soldiers never knowing from one person to the next who might have pulled out a gun. Lives had been saved and others lost. There had been good and bad conduct, and fatal errors in a terrible time.

  He shuddered at the memories, only half listening to the words being read as his mind shifted to another scene. A dimly lit room in Belfast where ideas had formed and plans had been made, and people on society’s fringes had traded on what they’d known. He nodded to himself and opened his eyes. They’d supped with the devil to get the upper hand and he wasn’t proud of everything that they’d done, but in the end Northern Ireland had had an uneasy peace for almost two decades now, so if he died for his historic choices then he could think of far worse ways to go.

  But it wasn’t going to be that easy. His captor was smiling straight at him with a look that said he wanted retribution before he died. The sight of a generator in the corner told Stephen James that the wish for a swift end that he had held all this life was unlikely to be fulfilled.

  ****

  St Mary’s Hospital, Intensive Care Unit. 4.30 p.m.

  Annette reached across for Jake’s pale hand and took it in her own. He looked so young lying in the hospital bed, with plastic tubes in his mouth and arms. She couldn’t believe that Aaron might have done this, but then she still couldn’t believe what Pete had done to her. The case seemed cut and dried. Jake had been intending to leave him so Aaron had pushed him down the stairs, and if he didn’t show up soon with a viable alibi what else could they possibly think?

  She rose to leave just as a nurse appeared, supporting an elderly woman by the arm. Annette recognised her as Jake’s grandmother. Meredith McLean shook her head sadly at her grandson’s still, pale form.

  “He called on me that evening, you know. To ask if he could move back in.” She shook her head again, more vehemently, and sat on the chair that Annette had moved into place. “I can’t believe that Aaron did this, but that’s what the officer said.” She gazed at Annette pleadingly. “Do you believe it?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “No, Aaron wouldn’t do this. He’s always loved Jake.”

  Annette shook her head, not knowing what to say; far too many murders were committed in the name of love. Tears formed in the older woman’s eyes and she rushed to comfort her.

  “We don’t know for sure what happened, Mrs McLean. It’s much too soon to say.”

  The tears became a cry. “But Aaron’s nowhere to be seen, so what else can the police believe?”

  They were interrupted by the nurse reappearing with a man in a pristine white coat. He stretched out a hand.

  “Mrs McLean, I’m Doctor Cairns, the Head of Intensive Care. Can we speak?”

  Annette stepped outside to wait and was staring absentmindedly out of a window when she heard a scream and the nurse rushed out to fetch her. Meredith McLean’s threatened tears were now flowing freely and she grabbed desperately for the detective’s hand.

  “They say Jake may not wake up, and if he does he might never walk again.” She let out a howl that chilled Annette to the bone.

  Annette turned to the doctor questioningly. “Perhaps you could give me some medical detail, Doctor? I’m a nurse as well as a police officer.”

  A look of relief appeared on the consultant’s long, thin face; hiding behind medical jargon was far more comfortable than dealing with emotional pain.

  “Mr McLean suffered a fractured skull and a subdural haematoma. He also had a fracture of one cervical vertebrae and hypothermia from lying on the ground all night. We’ve managed to deal with the haematoma and warm him up, but as to when he’ll regain consciousness, that’s dependent upon his reserves of strength -”

  Annette cut in. “He’s very fit. He goes running every morning and he’s on a rowing team.”

  Cairns nodded. “Good. That will stand him in good stead, so we’re hopeful that he’ll waken soon…” He paused and she knew that the worst was yet to come. “Unfortunately his spinal fracture was at a level that can…”

  She nodded. He didn’t need to finish. A cervical spine fracture could lead to paralysis. She
saw Meredith McLean’s desperation and grasped at straws.

  “But sometimes the spinal cord isn’t torn, just bruised. Isn’t that right?”

  She was surprised to see the consultant nod hesitantly and knew that his next words would be caveated to prevent false expectations. “Sometimes, but bruising can also be severe. We know Sergeant McLean’s cord wasn’t torn and we’ve done everything we can do to relieve any build-up of pressure, but we won’t know for quite a while if it was permanently damaged or not.” He turned to the older woman. “Please don’t get your hopes up, Mrs McLean. It’s very much wait and see.”

  It was a faint hope but it was a hope all the same, and with the perspective of age and experience Meredith McLean allowed herself the luxury of optimism.

  ****

  When Craig arrived at the Intelligence section on the Malone Road he wasn’t surprised to have to park his gun at the desk and sign three separate books. To say that the branch was cautious was an understatement, but then they did a difficult job. When he reached Kyle Spence’s office the atmosphere of guardedness gave way to bonhomie. Spence yanked open the door on Craig’s first knock and waved him in pumping his hand for several seconds while they looked each other up and down. They were like black and white; both in their forties and tall, and both good looking enough to irritate some men, but where Craig’s looks were dark Italian Irish, Spence was so white blond and grey-eyed that he looked Scandinavian.

  “Good to see you, Marc. It must be…”

  “Over six years. At an inspectors’ promotion course.”

  Spence chuckled. “You’re above all of that now.”

  “Don’t let Liam hear you say that. He’s very proud of his rank.”

  Spence grinned. “I can imagine. Sit down and I’ll make some coffee.”

  The D. I. lifted a pile of files off a chair and relocated them to the floor, then he pushed the mass of paperclips and crisp packets on his desk into a corner, to clear enough space for Craig to sit and lean. Spence waved him to the chair and turned to make the coffee, giving Craig a moment to peruse the room. Every shelf in the small office was filled with papers and books. They’d spilled onto every square foot of the floor, apart from the few occupied by Spence’s desk and chair. At least that was ‘clean’ detritus; Craig couldn’t say the same for the blue-mold sandwich on the windowsill or the musty smell from the unwashed cups filling up the sink.

  He smiled as everything came back to him. He’d shared a room briefly with Spence at university, until his messiness had finally made him call it a day. Spence’s office was proof that some people never got past the student phase.

  The inspector made two coffees in his last cleanish mugs and handed one to Craig. “How is the jolly green giant these days? He’s quite a character.”

  “And with more street experience than I’ll ever have.” Craig sipped his coffee politely and then set the cup aside. “Actually that’s what I’m here about, Kyle.”

  Spence’s grey eyes widened. “Liam? What’s he been up to?”

  Craig shook his head. “No, not Liam. His experience. Namely that he gained a lot of it during The Troubles.”

  Spence’s eyes narrowed again. “You know I can’t talk about what we do here, Marc.”

  Craig wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Then let me tell you what I know.”

  The inspector lounged back in his chair.

  “OK. We’re working a case at the moment that’s been held back from the press, although the C.C.’s doing a controlled media briefing at five o’clock-”

  Spence interrupted. “Why so secretive?”

  “For the same reason you won’t talk about what you do here.”

  He waved Craig on.

  “We’ve had five murders in a week. That in itself isn’t unusual; we often deal with serial killers. But it’s who, or rather what, the victims were, that’s the problem. You’ll recognise their names.”

  He rhymed off the names of their victims watching Spence’s mouth open wider with each one. When he reached the Murnaghans the D. I. cut in.

  “Both of them!”

  “Yep. Eilish first and then Gerry. And we’re pretty sure that Gerry and Billy Hart both knew the killer. Murnaghan went to meet him voluntarily, slipping past our armed guard, so he obviously didn’t see the man as a threat.” Craig pushed aside some CDs with his foot and stretched out his long legs. “OK, so five paramilitaries, and please don’t say ex-paramilitaries. It’s semantics and the evidence points towards their terrorist pasts being the reason for their deaths.”

  Spence gave a low whistle. “I can see why it’s been kept quiet. The Assembly’s unstable enough at the moment. Any further mention of paramilitary killings could bring it crashing down.”

  Craig nodded. “Which brings me to what you’ve been keeping quiet.”

  Spence shook his head firmly. “Oh no. This isn’t ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ time. I can’t discuss-”

  Craig cut across him rudely. “Look, Kyle, I don’t have time to mess about. I know Stephen James was taken from the army base at Craigantlet-”

  Spence lurched forward in his seat. “How the hell do you know that?”

  “One of his Captains has been seconded to my team for the past year. All I need to know from you is was Major James involved with Special Branch or MI5 during The Troubles? More specifically was he working on paramilitary issues? A straight yes or no will suffice.”

  Spence’s eyes clouded and he shook his head, but Craig sensed reluctance in the gesture. “I can’t tell you anything, Marc. It’s more than-”

  “OK. Don’t tell me anything then, just nod or shake your head in response to two questions. In exchange I’ll share everything we have on the deaths with you, but you’ll have to keep it under wraps.”

  Spence thought for a moment then gave a sharp nod.

  “Just to be clear. You’re nodding in answer to my question; did Stephen James work on paramilitarism during The Troubles?”

  Another nod.

  “OK. Second question. Will the army give you access to the notes?”

  A shake of Spence’s head and Craig stood up and headed for the door.

  “Nice to see you again, Kyle. My office will be in touch. And I’ll tell the green giant that you said hello.”

  Chapter Ten

  6 p.m.

  The briefing was perfunctory. They all had things to do so Craig updated the group quickly on Rat Sutherland and the gun, plus his meeting with Kyle Spence.

  “Get a summary over to Inspector Spence tomorrow, Nicky. Just the bare bones of our case.” He turned towards Ken. He was fingering something metal and Craig recognised it as his army cap badge. When it came to it Ken was a soldier through and through.

  “Spence couldn’t give me anything more, but at least we know that Major James worked with Special Branch or MI5 on terrorism during The Troubles and the records of his involvement are sealed.”

  Liam made a face. “Not both sets, surely.”

  “What?”

  “Both sets of records. The army’s and ours. They can’t both be sealed. The army may not cough up but your mate Kyle has to have the Special Branch copy; he’s just not telling you what’s inside.”

  Damn. He was right. Spence had known far more than he’d said and he could have found a way to tell him more if he’d wanted to. Craig’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like being played, especially not by his own side. Liam grinned; he knew what was coming next and he wanted in on the trip.

  “Ken and Liam, come into my office. The rest of you keep going for a few hours and then go home. Nicky, on second thoughts, there’s no hurry for that summary.”

  Annette coughed loudly, attracting his gaze. “Haven’t you forgotten something, sir?”

  Craig looked blank so she gave him a hint.

  “Jake?”

  He stopped in his tracks, shooting her an apologetic smile.

  “I saw him a couple of hours ago and spoke to the doctor. It’s not
looking good. He had fractures of his skull and spine and hypothermia when he came in. They’re hopeful he’ll wake up but not so sure that he’ll walk again.”

  A gasp went round the room and Craig felt instantly ashamed. He should have been to see Jake again but he’d got caught up in the case. Annette pushed on.

  “So can I ask what’s happening with Aaron? Has there been any sign of him? Jake’s granny needs to know. Although I have to say that she doesn’t seem to believe he could have harmed Jake.” She shook her head. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her about the old bruises.”

  Craig nodded; glad that he could contribute something. “Uniform are at the house and Aaron’s office, but he told them he was going to see a private client in Derry on Saturday and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. They’ve tried to contact him there but no joy. The client said he dropped in for a few hours on Saturday morning but they haven’t seen him since.” He shook his head. “It sounds weak. Even if his mobile’s out of range they’ve left messages with his client and he hasn’t got back in touch, so Limavady was sending a car up there this afternoon.”

  She nodded. “Then if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to liaise with Limavady on the case. We’ve got as much detail as we can on the murders until something breaks, and it’s pretty much Ash, Davy and Carmen mopping up now, plus you and Liam doing whatever it is that you’re doing.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the sarcastic edge to her last few words, but said nothing.

  “So I’d like to concentrate on Jake.” Her subtext said ‘because someone here should give a damn about him’.

  She was right. They’d been preoccupied with the case. Saying that Stephen James might be their next victim was true but it wasn’t an excuse for neglecting Jake, so Craig nodded.

  “Please do that, Annette, and thank you. I’ll get back to see Jake as soon as I can.”

  Meanwhile he knew that Katy would drop in; it was a cop out on his part but one of the perks of coupledom. He turned to the other men and waved them into his office, noticing a file lying on his desk. It would have to wait ten minutes.