Little Bird: a serial killer thriller

by Sharon Dempsey

  ‘Correct,’ Declan sipped at his cider.

  ‘And in your earlier call to me, you implied you wanted me to keep an eye on Richard McKay while I am working on this case?’

  ‘Correct again.’

  ‘So why do you think Richard McKay needs watching? And why should I second guess my superior and report back to you?’ she leaned back on the chair as if assessing him.

  ‘McKay is barking up the wrong tree, he sent King and Magee round asking all sorts of questions. McKay has Esme marked down as a teenage tearaway. He is implicating my son-in-law, trying to say they were having some sort of affair. It’s all bullshit.’ His couldn’t help his face contort in disgust. The idea of Rory touching Esme made him so angry he wanted to rip someone apart. If there was any truth in it, then … He couldn’t go there, not yet.

  ‘According to you it’s bullshit. What if he’s right?’

  ‘If you examine the case and come to the same conclusion then fire away and pull Rory in for questioning. Besides McKay will be all over the shooting on the Ormeau Road. He is under pressure to keep the assholes up at Stormont all sitting round the same table. If the dissidents start playing up, the shit ricochets all over the place. McKay has been part of the transformation of the PSNI and he has too much to lose by not looking after his own interests. There is talk of a new wave of trouble starting up. New weapons on the street and new power struggles on both sides. Turf wars mean body bags and no one wants to see the return to the old days. McKay will be too occupied with licking the balls of ministers and keeping the peace on the street to properly investigate Esme’s murder. I don’t trust his methods and I don’t trust his motives. Implicating Rory and suggesting they had a thing together is a convenient move on McKay’s part,’ he stopped to take a sip of his drink. He didn’t want to admit to Anna that he had misgivings about his son-in-law. Misgivings that had caused him many an argument with Izzy.

  ‘But I don’t think you’ll be so quick to jump to the same conclusion. Esme isn’t who they think she is.’

  ‘So, tell me who is she?’

  Declan was taken aback. He thought of Magee’s question. How could he describe Esme? That girl, like all teenagers, was an enigma. Surely no father could claim to really know his teenage daughter?

  ‘She is, was, my daughter.’

  He paused looking into his glass trying to find the words to convey the ball of light and energy that he knew Esme to be as a child. They may have grown apart in recent years. But that was to be expected, surely all parents experienced that rebellion, that pulling away. It was only natural, he kept telling himself.

  ‘She was a great girl. Beautiful, smart. I know I can’t bring her back, but the least I can do is to see that whoever did this is behind bars. You are all treating me like I shouldn’t have a say in how this investigation is carried out. But don’t you see, I can bring my expertise to this? Let me work with you. Let me find who did this to my daughter.’

  She looked straight at him. ‘Apart from a conflict of interest and a million regulations barring you from investigating your daughter’s murder, I am sure you can see that your professional involvement is not productive.’

  ‘I know the rules DC Cole. The PSNI may have pensioned me off and made me redundant, but I have made it my life’s work to read and understand murder, to work out the patterns and see where it takes us.’

  ‘But you are still involved in the field of forensic psychology?’

  ‘After this,’ he gestured towards his chair, ‘I moved into academia. I’m a guest lecturer at Queen’s, provide teaching hours when it suits me, and I research criminal behaviour, the causes and effects. So yes, I’m still involved.’

  ‘What makes you so sure there will be a pattern?’

  ‘There is always a pattern emerging from a tumble of chaos if you know how to look at it. Have you ever heard of complexity theory?’

  She shook her head, the light catching the soft curve of her cheek.

  ‘It is the study of how complicated patterns can result from simple behaviours of individuals within a system. Chaos is the study of how simple patterns can be generated from complicated underlying behaviour. Chaos theory is really about finding the underlying patterns in apparently random data.

  ‘It is unfortunate that science has chosen the word chaos to describe this form of order, because the word chaos is at odds with common usage, which suggests complete disorder. So, you see, science defines chaos as a form of order that lacks predictability.’

  ‘The killer wasn’t chaotic, he was methodical, precise and kept the scene clean. That doesn’t help your little chaos and pattern theory.’

  ‘From where you are sitting it looks clean and methodical, but from my viewpoint I am in a storm of chaos. Can you imagine how it feels to lose a child? To have them harmed in this way?’

  Anna sipped her wine.

  ‘Why don’t I tell you what I know about the killer?’ Declan asked, looking up from his glass, seemingly changing tack.

  ‘All right, go ahead.’

  ‘As I told Thomas King, the killing has all the hallmarks of someone who may well do so again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There is a marked prevalence of strangulation in relation to serial killers. In one of my research papers on serial murderers, I suggested that ligature strangulation represents the killer’s animated rage with a specific concentration on the victim.’

  He paused to make sure she was taking this in and not merely humouring him as a bereaved father.

  ‘That is not to say that the absence of ligature underestimates the rage. In fact, there’s also an association of strangulation in serial killings with the need of psychopathic sexual sadists to have greater intimacy with the victim than a weapon would give. She may have been hit on the head initially to stun her, but he wanted that close proximity of having his hands on her when she actually died.’

  ‘Go on,’ Anna said.

  ‘Esme was taken and murdered close to the scene of a family wedding. The killer was risking immediate exposure. There was no sexual assault, so we can assume he was getting off on the risk of being found out. He liked the immediacy and risk factor.’

  ‘Being in plain sight?’

  ‘Exactly. He wanted to rub our noses in it and it hasn’t escaped me that he may well have known Esme was my daughter and that there were PSNI people at the wedding.’

  ‘You think there is some sort of revenge connection?’

  ‘Not exactly. Nothing as direct as that but we could be dealing with someone who wants to make a point, who wants to prove himself.’

  ‘Esme may have willingly accompanied her killer to the scene of her murder. Do you think she knew him?’ Anna asked.

  ‘It’s possible, but we can’t rule out that she met him on the night and voluntarily went with him.’

  ‘So, someone her age possibly?’

  He shook his head, ‘No, I can’t make that leap yet.’

  ‘You said he may have done this before and may strike again. Why?’

  ‘There was planning involved. I’m sure you already know the CCTV was tampered with.’

  ‘We’ve no evidence it was deliberately not working. The fault had been reported the previous week so it may be coincidence. We are trawling through staff lists and seeing who had access to the cameras.’

  He paused, ‘I know that the scene was clean; he left no footprints. No fabric snagged on the branches. That tells us he knows what he is doing. That he has knowledge acquired either through his diligent study or even someone with police knowledge.’

  Anna swallowed more wine. ‘Declan, you need to go home. Be with your wife. Leave this to us.’

  He put his hand through his hair, desperation etched on his face. ‘I can’t leave it. Don’t you see how hard this is for me?’

  ‘Of course. It must be difficult to process and handle such a death.’

  ‘It’s bad enough to lose my daughter like this. Can’t you see I have insight, some u
nderstanding of what is going on, yet I’m being kept out of the inner circle. It’s fucking killing me! I can’t sit on the side-lines waiting for your lot to mess up.’

  ‘Who says we’ll mess up?’

  Declan hesitated before he replied, ‘We both know it happens all the time. Let me in. That all I’m asking. Please?’

  12

  Anna arrived at the City Hall Belfast council office and looked up at the building’s pale Portland stone exterior, noticing its almost fairy-tale design in its grandeur, with towers at each of its four corners and a huge copper dome tarnished to a Tiffany blue colour in the centre. The Victorian buildings throughout the city centre echoed the city hall and also shared in the distinctive blue green-topped domes.

  The phone call had taken Anna by surprise. The Lord Mayor’s secretary wished to set up an appointment for Anna to meet the Mayor, Aidan Anderson. She flashed her identification to the security guard in the green painted hut and was directed to the office of the Lord Mayor.

  Anna made her way into the grand entrance which was dominated by a huge red-carpeted staircase. Marble statues stood placed around the hall and stained-glass windows cast colourful pools of light on the black and white tiled floor.

  ‘DI Cole, an honour to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you,’ the Mayor said, taking her hand.

  Anderson was taller than Anna expected. Younger than he appeared in photographs. Anna guessed he was around her age – early thirties. He had an athletic build, lean and sculpted. He was known for his park run campaigns – trying to encourage local people to take part in weekend runs through the city’s parks. He logged his running times on Twitter and posted selfies with kids and mums and dads out to get fit and take in the fresh air. He styled himself as a man of the people, but with a contradictory air of statesman-like superiority.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Anna replied. She could see what all the fuss was. He was good looking – dark hair cut close to his head and a rough covering of stubble as if he was in the throes of deciding to grow beard but hadn’t fully committed. He wore a navy suit with a fine blue pinstripe that accentuated his board shoulders. The white shirt provided a crisp stark contrast to his lightly tanned skin. He put her in mind of someone who had been up-styled, had taken advice on how he was perceived and had acted on it to the final letter.

  ‘I felt it was time to meet you. I believe you are one of the officers leading this terrible case concerning Esme Wells?’

  Anna nodded. ‘Yes, I am. We have a good team working on it.’

  They entered his office. Anna noticed the thick piled carpet underfoot and the large mahogany desk at the centre of the room. Photographs of Anderson meeting British and US dignitaries were displayed on a low mantle table. This was a man who enjoyed the trappings of his office and position.

  Anna sat in the chair he pulled out for her. ‘I believe you are a good friend and business associate of Rory Finnegan?’

  ‘Yes indeed, Rory and I have been friends for years. I trust you will find whoever did this to his sister-in-law.’ His slate grey eyes full of concern, held Anna’s for a few seconds too long, making her think he was a skilled manipulator. His every gesture felt contrived and polished.

  ‘We do things a little differently over here. This type of murder doesn’t belong on our streets,’ he said patronizingly.

  Anna almost smirked at his comment. His dubious republican past was squared off in his mind as being rightful violence for the end result. She could imagine him holding court in some American conference talking of his childhood, fully blighted by British soldiers on the streets of his homeland and British occupation.

  She noted the framed photographs on his desk, an attractive young woman and a small child. ‘Your family?’ she asked, nodding towards the photographs.

  ‘Yes, my wife Joanne and our daughter Edie. When I look at them I can’t imagine what the Wells family are going through. I wouldn’t want something so evil to touch a hair on Edie’s head. I’d do anything to protect them.’ He stared intently at Anna. She felt that his words were almost a threat.

  ‘You knew Esme, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, a lovely girl. Full of promise. She would have had a bright future ahead of her. We need more young people like Esme to take this country forward.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy growing up during the troubles,’ Anna said.

  ‘No, there were difficult times. My own family was deeply affected.’

  Anna had heard that his father had been one of the Hunger Strikers.

  ‘I wanted a different future, a better one, but I learnt that I couldn’t achieve it alone, I had to bring certain fractions along with me. You can’t just wake up one morning and declare everything your family and community has stood for is pig’s swill. I needed to give them a new narrative, to let them feel that they paved the way for me and those of my generation to take a stand and benefit from a new type of politics.

  ‘It wasn’t easy to get here.’ He looked around the room, the Lord Mayoral chains sitting on display. This was his seat of power. ‘But there is still much to be done.’

  ‘It’s good to see that Belfast is thriving,’ Anna said, ‘The interest from the film industry and the Titanic Centre has really made an impact.’

  ‘Yes, they have been hard won successes. I was always impatient for a better Belfast. I knew what we could do if only the will was realised in practical action.’

  He stood and walked over to the floor length window looking directly up Donegall Place, the main shopping street in the city centre. ‘We had a problem of confidence. We needed to believe in ourselves and to visualise a different type of place.’

  He turned to Anna, ‘When I was a teenager, Belfast city centre was a no-go area at nighttime. We were barricaded into our homes by fear, British soldiers on foot patrol on our streets, a ring of steel around the city centre, bags searched every time you went into a shop. All of that is in recent memory.’ He leaned in close to Anna,

  ‘So, you see, we can’t allow the likes of this murderer to stalk our young people. They deserve better.’

  A diminutive secretary interrupted them with a reminder that he had another meeting to attend.

  ‘Apologies for such a short meeting, but it was a chance to touch base,’ he said, walking Anna to his office door. She left feeling he had been assessing her. Deciding whether or not she was up to the job. She was still unsure of what to make of him. He was full of charm but with enough edge to make you respect his power. The women on the street loved him, teenagers and grannies too. He was known for his entertaining tweets and was active on social media, making him a more accessible politician for young people.

  But there was something about Aidan Anderson that bothered Anna. His face was all over Belfast promoting a peaceful and prosperous city. Thomas had said he was thick with Finnegan. They had a history of dealings and although nothing had ever stuck, talk had it that Finnegan kept Anderson in his back pocket. Sweeteners were assumed to have been passed on to ensure planning permission was granted when required for Finnegan’s property deals.

  He had been a guest at the wedding, but had left early to deal with official city hall business. His alibi was tight – witnesses said he left the wedding venue at 8.00 p.m. and he was clocked by CCTV arriving at the City Hall offices at 8.25 p.m., where he was in meetings until late that night.

  Every time she tried to get an angle on Rory Finnegan’s relationship with Esme, Aidan Anderson came up. Esme had applied to do work experience at the council offices and Finnegan had set it up via Anderson. There was a link but not enough to make anything of at this stage.

  Anna left the Lord Mayor’s office and called Thomas to pick her up. He wanted to show her something, he had said that morning and it wouldn’t be far from the city hall.

  The car came to a stop at the dockside. The dark, cold water stretched out before them.

  ‘So, this is where the Titanic was built?’ she said by way of starting up the conver
sation.

  ‘Yep, it only took us a hundred years to be able to cash in on that particular disaster. Come to Belfast to see our peace line, our bigoted murals and the dock that built the biggest shipping disaster ever.’ He mimicked in a good impersonation of Aidan Anderson’s voice.

  ‘What do you make of Anderson?’ she asked.

  ‘Jumped up wee shite from Beechmount. Got himself an education at Queen’s and decided he was going to exchange his petrol bombs for votes and back-handers.’

  ‘He seems to be popular on the street.’

  ‘Yeah, everyone wants to hear that Belfast is booming in the economic sense. The people are fed up with the rhetoric of old, so Anderson represents a new breed of politician for these parts. He’s selling them success, a peaceful prosperous Northern Ireland.’

  The wind cut through them when they got out of the car. ‘Where are we going? asked Anna.

  ‘Over there,’ King pointed towards a huge disused red brick building. ‘We are going to have a look around to see Finnegan’s most recent purchase and I’ll bet Anderson is in on a cut.’

  Anna looked up at the three-storey sandstone and red brick office block. There was nothing special about it. It stood on Queens Road in the heart of the Belfast docks, in the recently developed Titanic quarter.

  King pushed through the door at the back of the block. It gave way. ‘An old acquaintance is on Finnegan’s security, he accidently left this open for us.’

  Anna followed him through the metal door.

  ‘This is where all the office work and drawing went on for Harland and Wolff shipyard. My grandfather, and his father worked here. The only qualification you needed to get in was Protestant birth. Right here was the control centre for the shipping empire.’

  Anna looked around the old building. It was dilapidated and run down. The premises had obviously been vacated a long time ago, but the grandeur and craftsmanship of the panelling, the sashed windows and wooden parquet flooring spoke of a time long gone; of a time when the grand liner ships were dreamt up, and the walls echoed what they produced.