Little Bird: a serial killer thriller

by Sharon Dempsey

  ‘Come in,’ she said, opening the door wide enough to usher them into the black and white tiled hallway. A huge display of flowers sat on a highly polished console table, the scent, slightly cloying, wafted around them as they followed Lara into the kitchen. It was large, with designer, painted cupboards finished in pale grey. A ginger cat slept on floral cushions crammed into a deep window seat. The double patio doors looked out over a neat square patio area, leading to a circular lawn edged with shrubs. Lara indicated for them to take a stool at the oversized, marble topped island.

  ‘Coffee, tea?’

  ‘Coffee would be good please,’ Anna answered shrugging off her charcoal wool coat.

  ‘Sorry, give me your coats and I’ll hang them up,’ Lara took both of their coats and disappeared off into a back hallway. Thomas raised his eyebrows to Anna as if to say, would you look at this place.

  Lara returned and busied herself with a coffee machine, recessed into the one of the cupboards.

  ‘So, how have you been doing?’ Anna asked.

  ‘You know, not good. How can any of us get over this? Esme was my wee sister. I loved her to bits.’

  ‘None of this can be easy,’ said Thomas.

  ‘I still can’t take it in. It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, and look how it has all turned out. Esme was so excited about it all. She helped me sort everything, she went with me to pick out my wedding dress, and she couldn’t wait for it to happen. There were times I thought she was more excited about it all than me.’

  She handed them their coffee and placed a jug of milk on the marble island worktop.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Anna, taking the cup. ‘You work for Norcott Laboratories, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a PhD research candidate part of a team looking at equestrian drugs. Rory and I are supposed to be on our honeymoon,’ she sighed, ‘So I’m not worrying about work at the minute. Besides, the lab can wait. Esme’s more important. I keep wrecking my brain trying to think who could it have been. Who could have done this to her?

  ‘You hear things about murderers being known to the family. It makes it worse to think it could be someone we know, someone who was a guest at the wedding, even.’

  ‘We know you spoke to our colleagues last week, but we would like to talk to you about Esme. Get a sense of who she was and what her interests were, who she hung out with, that kind of thing. The kinds of things sisters tend to tell each other. Would that be ok?’ Anna asked.

  She nodded, ‘It’s awful. The thought of someone doing that to Esme. I can’t get my head around it. I keep going over it. Who would want to hurt her?’

  Thomas set his coffee cup down onto a coaster, mindful of Lara’s marble work surface, ‘I know this can’t be easy, but anything you can tell us about Esme helps. It allows us to piece together her character, work out her interests, who she might have come into contact with on a day-to-day basis. Or even online. You might think something’s not relevant but honest to God you’d be surprised how many cases are cracked with a throw away remark that somehow lets us piece it all together.’

  ‘Sure,’ Lara said, taking a sip of her coffee as she sat down. ‘Esme was the princess of the family. We all spoilt her. She loved her clothes and makeup. Getting her hair done, shopping with her friends, all the usual for a teenager, you know. But there was more to her. She was caring too. She would do anything for you.’ She cried softly, taking a tissue from her sleeve to blow her nose.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Anna, ‘Could she have had a boyfriend on the quiet? Someone that she wouldn’t want your parents to know about?’

  Lara sniffed and dropped the used tissue into a stainless-steel bin beneath the worktop.

  ‘No. Honestly, I think Esme would have told me. She wasn’t one for secrets. She was an open book with me. If something had been going on, I think I’d know.’

  ‘What about school, was she happy at school, any issues there?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘She could have worked harder for sure.’ Anna and Thomas both turned to see Rory Finnegan standing in the doorway. He was wearing an expensive looking grey pinstripe suit with a pale blue shirt, open at the neck. His hair, thick and dark, was slicked back. He looked like the type of man who spent time at the gym; caring about the impression he left on others.

  ‘She was doing her AS levels – English, history, French. She wanted to go to Uni to study French and business. She was a smart one, our Esme.’

  ‘This is my husband, Rory,’ Lara said. He strode in, his hand outstretched to shake first Anna’s and then Thomas’s. His clasp was over firm and hard, as Anna knew it would be. He held her hand for a few seconds too long, and gave her a once over glance, as if assessing her. Anna was suddenly conscious of the top two buttons opened on her blouse.

  ‘Some house you got here. Not many newly married couples get a starter home like this,’ Thomas said.

  ‘We like it. It’s a good area. Great neighbours too.’ Rory helped himself to coffee.

  ‘Lucky for some. Mr Finnegan, we believe you and Esme got on well.’

  ‘Yes, she was the wee sister I never had.’

  ‘Rory was always spoiling her. He doted on her.’ Lara offered, looking to her husband.

  ‘Well, what can I say? We liked to treat her from time to time.’

  Anna saw a look pass between them. Just a moment of something acknowledged.

  ‘We believe Esme did a bit of waitressing for you at private parties. Can you tell us who attended these little get-togethers? We’re going to need dates, locations, names of those attending.’

  ‘Parties? No, I think you’ve been misled. Esme helped serve food and drinks at business meetings, maybe on a couple of occasions.’

  ‘Well, like I said, we need details.’

  ‘I’d need to check with the office, see the files.’

  Thomas leaned across the island, ‘You do that Mr Finnegan. In the meantime, we might have to get a warrant and help ourselves to your files.’

  He glared at them, obviously rattled, ‘I don’t like your attitude. We are trying to come to terms with Esme’s death.’ Finnegan said, his voice low and quiet, moving towards Thomas.

  Anna stood, ‘We’ll be going now, but if you can think of anything at all you think we should be aware of, you know where to find us.’

  Lara showed them to the door. ‘I’m sorry that Rory is a bit off. He’s as upset as I am about Esme. You will let me know if there is anything I can do, any news …’ her voice trailed off.

  ‘Of course,’ Anna replied, ‘Take care. We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Well, what did you make of Finnegan?’ Thomas asked as he manoeuvred the car out of the driveway.

  Anna frowned, ‘Smarmy, arrogant, and a bit too sure of himself. What’s the story with his business?’

  ‘Not sure of the full picture yet, but we might be able to link Finnegan to a couple of brothels operating out of the Holylands area. His da built half of the new homes in Belfast in the eighties and nineties. He saw off plenty of racketeering, boys with guns looking for protection money, that kind of thing.

  ‘Finnegan junior got to hold the reins as the property bubble burst, which we think may have led him to diversify. Then a few months back, a young Lithuanian girl got a bad battering from a client. Except when it came to charges, she wouldn’t press, saying he was her boyfriend. The address she gave was one of the houses linked to one of Finnegan’s companies. It appears he may have even brought the girls over from Lithuania. Magee is running the data through this morning. The house isn’t in his name, registered under a company called Acorn Management, but Magee thinks it might be a front.’

  ‘Finnegan was definitely at the reception when the alarm was raised. Several witnesses placed him at the bar with his best man. We don’t believe he murdered Esme but what was going on between them?’

  ‘If we can get to the bottom of that, then maybe we can get the full picture of what Esme was up to.’

  ‘What makes you so
sure she was up to anything?’

  ‘Teenage girls are always up to something Cole, trust me.’

  That evening Anna looked out over the small patch of garden stretching out from behind her house. The grass had been recently mowed, probably the last cut of the season, and a lone blackbird was pecking for worms in the dusk. The bird took off as soon as the grey and white cat made an appearance. He was back for a prowl around. She assumed he came from next door. He didn’t look like a stray, but she like to throw him the odd scrap of leftover chicken or ham.

  She sighed, thinking about home. It was scary how easily she had packed up and left. The sense of belonging she had looked for upon arriving hadn’t come, but she did feel comfortable and at ease. As expected, she hadn’t missed Jon. In fact, she had been so busy settling into work and getting to grips with her new surroundings, she barely gave him a second thought.

  Her dad was another matter. She couldn’t help feeling bad about leaving him. The thought of him bumbling along at home trying to sort out the laundry and making his ‘frozen meals for one’ broke her heart. She knew he had friends and neighbours who would rally round him, but for how long?

  Camille’s death had been a long time coming, and the support which had been so plentiful in the first months of her diagnosis, soon waned as people got on with their own lives. Jimmy said he didn’t need anyone, and that his own company suited him fine, but Anna knew he would be lonely and had a tendency to fall melancholic, playing his old vinyl records while sitting staring into the burning fire. She couldn’t afford to think about it - to let her mind return her mum’s last days. The searing guilt, which she tried so hard to keep suppressed, would bubble up, threatening to overwhelm her. It was just too painful, too raw.

  Anna pulled out her manila folder of notes. There wasn’t much to it. A birth certificate, some doctor’s notes detailing the birth and that was about it. The research she had gathered on her birth mother was patchy at best. Anna had been born in a convent home for unmarried mothers. It was ridiculous to think that even in the late seventies such shame and banishment was still part of the norm in Ireland. She knew her mother was seventeen, and part of a large Catholic family originally from Keoghill, a market town outside Newry. Anna, while only weeks old, was transported to a sister convent in Dublin, and then on to Wales. She was four months old when her adopted parents, Jimmy and Camille Cole had been presented with the bundle of a screaming infant. All red faced and indignant, her dad had always said. Furious at the world, for no good reason.

  They had cared and nurtured her, never denying the adoption, so that Anna had been brought up knowing she had been specially picked by them and for them. That her life with them wasn’t a biological lottery but instead one they had worked hard to fashion. Anna was never in any doubt of their love.

  It was thick and smothering.

  She was watched carefully her whole life. Protected and cared for in ways she could see her peers didn’t have to put up with. It was as if Camille and Jimmy had been desperately aware that she wasn’t truly theirs, and that one wrong step would mean that fate would snatch her back.

  Watching Camille fade away to skin and bone, eaten up by the cancer had been hard. The sense of frustration that they couldn’t help her more, couldn’t ease her suffering, was what haunted Anna most. The well-meaning hospice nurses and the GPs were all well and good up to a point, but really when all was said and done, none of them had the balls to do what was the kindest thing – to help her on her way. Anna squeezed her eyes shut trying to preempt the tears. She couldn’t cry about it; couldn’t allow herself to think about what she had done.

  It was time to start looking. To instigate what she had come here to do. Camille’s death, at the age of sixty-eight, had awoken something in Anna. She knew the time was right to search out the mother who had given birth to her, and handed her over to the nuns in dark habits, only to be ferried away to another country, and a different life. Jimmy understood. Said he knew the time would always come when she would go haring off to Ireland. They both knew that Camille wouldn’t have approved; that she would have found the process too hurtful, too tremulous.

  But here Anna was, miles away from home, and everyone she knew and loved, seeking out a mother who had given her away, and a family who might not know she existed.

  16

  He liked running at nighttime in the rain. The feel of the wetness against his face, the squelch of each foot as it pounded the muddy ground. The moon gave enough light to illuminate his way. He continued on down the steep bank, slowing, each footfall taken with care, bringing him closer and closer to the special place. The distant rumble of traffic mingled with the sounds of the forest around him. Twitches of animals, lurking in hidden dens, a call of a bird, definitely not an owl, something else he couldn’t identify.

  He adjusted his backpack, releasing the light pressure of the straps sitting on his shoulders. The gentle weight inside felt good. He liked the thump of it against his back, now slick with sweat. It was important to stay fit and strong. To be ready to run, at any given moment. To be agile and alert. He had trained himself over a period of six months. Tracking his speed, knowing the area, reading the weather and being prepared. He knew that his physique helped him in other ways too. The girls liked to see his hard shoulders, his well-defined arms; to caress his chest and taut stomach. They liked how he looked, always commenting on his eyes and his cute mouth, teasing him about his hair, which curls if he lets it get too long. All bullshit. He was expected to respond in kind, to admire their beauty, to talk of gorgeous skin and amazing hair. They were easily pleased.

  He hadn’t always got the girls. When he was younger, at school, he was the outsider. The one on the edge of everything. Never invited to the big parties with the good-looking girls. He was too quiet, too reserved. Never quite getting the joke. He knew he was partly to blame. His tight little gang of three was enough for him. Dan, Vincie and Glenn. It was easier to be the watcher, than to be watched.

  The earthy ground gave way to the footpath. He slowed his speed to a jog. Took a swift look around to make sure there were no late-night dog walkers, or cyclists knocking about. All clear. The break in the hedgerow was coming up. If you didn’t know where to look you would easily miss it. He stopped, took a breath and looked around again.

  The copse of trees had provided the perfect spot. Malone House Manor was built on the site of a seventeenth century fort at the edge of the copse. Now it was a National Trust property, maintained by the council. The surrounding footpaths, and river walks all open to the public. Access to the copse was easy from the back of the hotel grounds. His exit had been through the copse onto the path running adjacent to the river Lagan – the path he was now on. He slivered through the hedgerow opening, trying not to damage the bushes any more than he had to, ensuring that he adjusted the branches and brambles so that they didn’t look altered. He clambered up the bank on the other side and reached his destination. The area had been cleared. A remnant of police tape still flickered in the rain, but other than that, there was no evidence to suggest what had occurred. He liked that.

  Amongst the trees the rain was reduced to the odd splat, the ground beneath his feet almost dry. He breathed in deeply, feeling the night air fill up his lungs, clean and pure, despite being so close to the city. It was darker in here with the trees covering the moon but he could see enough. He took his backpack from his shoulders and took out the package. It felt cold through the plastic bag. Gently he unwrapped it. The feathers were slick and wet, its bill slim and pointed. He placed the little bird on the place where she had laid. The eye sockets now rendered to blind, black holes. It would watch no more.

  ‘Daddy? Are you home?’ Declan heard Lara call out from the hallway. For a split second, he allowed himself to think it was Esme. His mind was treacherous, waiting to catch him out and to floor him with the full force of his grief.

  ‘I’m in here,’ he called out. Lara came in looking drawn. She usually had her s
hiny blonde hair tied back, neat and preppy, but today she wore it loose, reminding him of when she was little. It didn’t seem that long ago that she was playing dress up as Cinderella and insisting Esme take the part of the ugly sister. Esme, only too pleased to be included in her older sister’s game, always went along with it. There was a photograph somewhere of her dressed in an old silk blouse of Izzy’s, her hair piled high on her head, red blotches of lipstick staining her cheeks and a scowl to make her look ugly. God, he’d have to find that photograph. That was a good time. When they were a young family, with life’s possibilities stretched out before them like a promise of summer in springtime.

  ‘Dad? Are you all right?’

  ‘Sorry love. I was thinking of Esme. Remembering when you two were little.’

  She looked stricken, ‘It’s so awful. Can you believe this has happened?’

  ‘I know sweetheart. It’s impossible to wrap your head around. Should’ve been your special day and now we’re left with nothing but heartbreak.’

  ‘Rory said they’ll catch whoever did it. They will, won’t they?’ her voice was breaking, wanting him to reassure her, make it all better. Except he couldn’t. Life would never be the same again.

  ‘They better. If I have anything to do with it, they bloody will.’ He saw a flicker of something pass over her face, that old look of pity, or maybe it was disbelief. He paused, feeling embarrassed that in front of his daughter that he appeared so incapacitated. He knew what she was thinking, that he was fuck all use to any of them.

  ‘Your mother’s gone into the university for a couple of hours. She didn’t want to leave her students high and dry.’

  ‘For God’s sake, she should be here, not going to work. I told Rory the same thing, but he said the business won’t wait for him to pick himself up, that he’s no choice but to get on with it.’