Little Bird: a serial killer thriller

by Sharon Dempsey

  ‘I want to talk to you about Rory,’ Declan said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘His businesses. How much do you know about what he’s involved in?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Where’s this coming from. He isn’t involved in anything he shouldn’t be. I know you don’t like Rory but you need to accept we’re married now. You can’t keep being like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Finding fault with him, making little digs about his work. He works hard and makes sure we have a good lifestyle.’

  ‘We brought you up to be your own woman. You’ve a great career. You don’t need his money.’

  Lara sighed, ‘Dad, please.’

  Her tone was a touch too defensive for Declan’s liking.

  ‘Just be careful. The police mentioned something about his business connections. Watch what you sign, that sort of thing and if you are ever worried, you can come to me, you know that don’t you?’

  ‘Of course, Daddy, but you’re being silly. Rory’s a good businessman, nothing more than that and I trust him so you should too.’

  ‘Ok, pet. Let’s leave it at that then. But be careful, you know your old man can’t help worrying about you.’

  17

  It was Saturday and Anna was lost without the routine of going to the station. They had pulled a double shift the previous day, going through CCTV, pulling phone records and talking to Esme’s school, so she needed a bit of time to clear her head. The day stretched out before her. She had agreed with Thomas to take the morning off and to reconvene in the late afternoon, should anything come up. They were still waiting on the tech people to come back with anything gleaned from Esme’s computer and phone.

  The grey and white cat was back. This time he came up to the back door, meowing for attention.

  ‘Hey puss,’ she stroked his fur and was rewarded by him butting her hand with his head.

  ‘You hungry, boy?’

  She found a tin of tuna in the cupboard, and put it out on a plate, placing it on the back step for the cat to eat. He ate hungrily, rewarding her with a final head butt and full body rub against her legs before she closed the back door.

  It was clear and dry, though cold. She didn’t fancy sitting around all day waiting for Thomas to ring, so with nothing better to do, she decided to take herself off on a walk. She threw on her wool coat, grabbed her backpack with her sketchpad and pencils in it and headed to Shaws Bridge. It was a known scenic spot in South Belfast, and backed on to the hotel grounds where Esme was murdered. The forest edged trail ran around the river Lagan, making it a popular spot for dog walkers, runners, cyclists and families out for a stroll. It was busy. Young families were out in force keen to get the last of the fading autumn sunshine before the rain came. Dog walkers nodded hello in that companionable way of Belfast people.

  She decided to go off track and climbed up the through the bank of trees and hedgerows into the field to the left of the riverbank. A walk without a purpose was a waste of time in her mind so she might as well revisit the scene of Esme Well’s death. The site had been cleared of all evidence of the murder, although she had been told a make shift shrine had been created with a few bunches of flowers wilting at the foot of a tree not far from the crime scene.

  She stumbled over a gnarled root of a tree. Her navy, suede boots were not a great choice for roaming around river banks. She continued on, steadying herself, fearful that one wrong step could see her falling face first into the sludge at the river’s edge. The scene was picture perfect. The autumn sun, though weak, glinted through the just-turning burnished gold leafed trees and reflected off the gently flowing river. It wasn’t wide, little more than a deep stream in parts, but at its centre it could be deep and dark. Why not throw the body in? Why leave her lying to be found? Why was concealment not an issue for the killer? Or was he disturbed?

  They had tracked down all the sex offenders known to them and a good few of those who had managed to escape conviction but were worth keeping an eye on. There was no evidence to suggest the killer was sexually motivated. Esme’s body hadn’t been violated in that way. Everything about the murder, the location, the fact that she had apparently willingly gone with her killer all spoke of a different type of crime.

  A clearing had been made where the body was found. The forensics team had created a defined workspace. Anna looked out across the river. She could see a middle-aged woman walking a spaniel on the path on the far side. A robin flew down and sat close to her. She thought of the victim – young and vulnerable. How easily had she been led away to her death? There was no indication that she had gone against her will. Anna’s mind was sifting through the possibilities, and the questions that kept nagging at her. What was going on with the victim and Finnegan? Was there something Esme knew about him that made her a threat?

  Anna lowered herself down on to the mossy ground, with her back against a huge sycamore tree for support, and took out her sketchpad and pencils from her rucksack. Maybe it was macabre to do this, to sketch the scene of a murder, but it was a habit Anna often relied on to help clarify the details of a case. She needed to methodically look with the clarity of an artist’s eye, to place the soft lead pencil on a blank page and trace out the scene line-by-line, shadow-by-shadow until something beyond the sketch appeared.

  The undergrowth was dense and foreboding, yet almost ethereal. It was a perfect spot to hide away. It would have been very dark under the cathedral-tall canopy of trees. The moonlight would have failed to shine through the overlapping branches. The river, down from her spot, was sluggish and she used a burnt umber watercolour pencil to capture its dankness. The bank, a tangle of brambles and weeds, she scribbled in viridian and Windsor green. She worked fast, wanting to capture the shades in the fading mid-morning light.

  As she directed the pencil over the page, twisting and turning to mimic the branches, gnarled and entwining, each reaching for the other like lovers, she thought of Esme and her last minutes. The choke of fear, the buckle of panic clawing at her insides. She felt edgy thinking of Esme. Not all cases had the same affect. Some you could cope with easier than others. It wasn’t always fair but someone like Esme Wells, pretty, well liked, from a good, loving family, demanded more sympathy than the long-time drug dealer who had his brains bashed in by an associate.

  Esme was at that golden age, about to gain real independence, experience the wider world and begin her adult life. Anna could remember the headiness of it all – the teenage years when you lived with the sense that at any minute, you could take flight. That anything and everything was possible. The monotony of school punctuated with banter, roaring laughter, and delicious flirtations. The love for friends you probably wouldn’t recognise in twenty years. The teachers who inspired you, and the ones who irritated you by simply speaking. The parents who infuriated you and made you feel suffocated and misunderstood. Didn’t they know you were fully formed and ready to take on the world? Or was that only Anna who experienced that particular strain of growing up.

  McKay and some of the others couldn’t see past the fake tan and make up. They thought Esme’s life was all Facebook statuses, selfies and Snapchat. They didn’t know what it costs emotionally to be a girl in the throes of becoming a woman: to be heckled by random men, gizusasmilelove, to be judged by your peers – too fat, too skinny, too smart, too stupid, to open a magazine and see image after image of how the world wanted you to be.

  Her pencil flashed across the page, seeking out light and shadow. Adding detail to the outline, filling in the precise twist of a root, the dangle of a leaf, hanging from a branch. She had almost finished the sketch when she caught sight of something in the undergrowth. The police tape was still flickering in the breeze, outlining the exact spot where Esme had been found. In the middle of the site Anna thought she could see something, lying on the fallen leaves. From where she sat it could be an old black purse or something. Moving closer she realised it was a bird. A dead bird. It was mainly bl
ack with white patches on its wings, distinctive red legs and webbed feet. She supposed it could have died and just happened to end up there. Or a dog or fox could have carried it. But just in case it was of significance, Anna took her phone out of her pocket to photograph the bird in situ. She then reached into her rucksack and grabbed an evidence bag. With her blue latex gloves slipped on, she picked it up, feeling the wing unfold under her fingers. Its head flopped forward as if the neck had been broken, its eyes a dead blackness.

  Up close it was beautiful. Fragile and contained. Hard to imagine it flying high above all of this. It was then that she noticed that the eyes weren’t a dead blackness at all. They were absent. Both sockets were small empty pools. The eyes had been removed. Plucked by another animal? She didn’t think it was likely. The vacant sockets stared blankly creeping her out. She sealed the bag and looked around. The dog walkers were long gone and the low, grey-clouded sky threatened rain. Not many people passed by this part of the path.

  Later, when she came back from the station having handed the bird over to be analysed, she looked at the sketch. She had captured something of the atmosphere of the place, but something about the scene still eluded her. Something was out of reach. That old gnawing feeling of frustration and anger sat in the pit of her stomach. She recognised it like an old friend. The anger that would propel her forward, would help her be relentless in her search for answers.

  That evening Anna walked through Belfast’s Cathedral Quarter on her way to meet Holly, Thomas and a few other colleagues for a drink. A pink bus passed by with the advertising slogan ‘Take Back the City’ blazing out. It was clear that promoting Belfast to its own inhabitants was on the council agenda. At every turn, there was a poster shouting out catchy Belfast propaganda or the grinning face of Belfast’s Lord Mayor declaring Belfast as the place to be. In spite of the weather, there were plenty of pavement cafés and a sense of cloning continental café culture. Obviously, heavy investment had gone on and it was time to cash in on the dividend of the peace process.

  It wasn’t natural for Anna to be sociable, but McKay had made it clear, the little gathering had been in her honour, a belated welcome to the neighbourhood sort of thing. She didn’t think she could get away with declining. She would have preferred to sit at home going over her case notes, finishing the sketch and trying to get a hold on the case. But she had to admit, she didn’t have much else to do on a Saturday night.

  The city streets were lively with early evening revelers. Music spilled out of bars, people chatted animatedly in their smoker’s huddle. It definitely felt that Belfast was full of itself, delighted to be out of the wilderness years of bombs and bullets.

  ‘There she is. What are you having? This rounds on King,’ Holly shouted over the noise. A band was playing Whiskey in the Jar, every man in the place singing along to the guitar riff.

  ‘White wine, thanks,’ Anna replied, raising her voice above the din.

  She shuffled into the leather banquet where the rest of their crowd sat.

  ‘Nice place,’ she said looking round. The bar was kitted out to look like an alternative gothic cathedral. The high arched ceiling, decorated with fallen angels getting up to all sorts of debauchery. The walls were painted blood red and seemed to pulsate under the lighting, while the antiqued style mirrors reflected the girls with made up faces and men with the flush of their second or third pint in them. A couple sat in the corner huddled together. ‘Well what do you make of us so far?’ King asked. His brown eyes merry with the buzz of a few pints.

  ‘You’re a sarcastic lot. Prone to look on the negative side of things and quick to judge.’

  He roared laughing, ‘You got us down to a tee, Cole. Guilty as charged.’

  She looked down at his hands, noticing the absence of a wedding ring. Holly had said he was separated from his wife.

  ‘We’re complicated people, Cole. Nothing is ever as it seems.’

  He had a small scar above his right eyebrow. Anna found herself wanting to trace her finger over it. His eyelashes were dark and surprisingly long.

  ‘C’mon and dance.’ Holly pulled Anna up towards the dance floor in front of the four-piece band, who all looked as if they weren’t long out of school. They were playing Kings of Leon’s ‘Sex on Fire.’ Anna looked back and saw King’s eyes follow her to the dance floor.

  The night seemed to move too fast. Someone suggested another bar. They moved like a pack, swaying drunkenly into each other. Thomas holding her up when she felt she could dance no more. The lights in the bar coming on too bright, the bartender calling ‘time please’. She was drunk and didn’t want to go home to the rented house. Thomas pulled her in close to him, whispering in her ear words she couldn’t distinguish but she had got the gist of it. His flat was close-by in the docks area. They both jumped in the first taxi, which drove past a statue looking out towards the harbour. Thomas told her it was known locally as ‘Nuala with the Hula’.

  ‘It’s made of stainless steel and cast bronze,’ he said, as he rested his arm over her shoulder. Anna looked out at the tall, metal structure standing illuminated against the wet, dark sky, lengths of metal spiralled upwards culminating in outstretched arms holding aloft a ring, symbolising thanksgiving and unity.

  He paid the taxi driver and took Anna’s hand.

  The flat had all the hallmarks of a single man’s abode, sparsely furnished with an oversized flat screen on the wall. A soulless bachelor pad, from the pale grey walls to the Xbox console, it smacked of microwaved dinners, cold beers and loneliness.

  The open plan living room looked out over Belfast lough, the city lights glimmering against the rain soaked night. The only thing giving the place a bit of character was the record player and the pile of vinyl albums stacked beside it. Anna noted he had Blondie’s ‘Parallel Lines’ on top. She approved. Though she’d bet he wouldn’t have anything as cool as the Ramones, preferring something like the Smiths or Kraftwerk or maybe even the Pet Shop Boys. He looked like he’d dig the eighties. She’d have to enlighten him, educate him a bit.

  ‘Can I get you a night cap?’ he asked, holding up the half-full bottle of Bushmills whiskey. There it was, that slow sexy smile enticing Anna to let go of her inhibitions and the nagging doubts of not getting mixed up with a colleague.

  ‘Sure, with ice, please.’

  He stood to the side of the hall, taking in the scene. Clusters of girls had gathered in intimate huddles, admiring each other’s dresses, squawking in that annoying way they had, hugging and posing for endless photographs. They were made up to look like garish versions of themselves, toxic coloured skin, shaded cheekbones, over-thick eyebrows and shimmering eyelids. Their dresses were an array of jewel colours, flashing sequins, silk or satin. They bustled round, checking their phones, taking endless selfies.

  He had trained himself to look slightly disinterested, as if his feelings were buried deep and he was unreachable. People who knew him sometimes thought he was cold, unfeeling even, but the truth was he felt too much. Every emotion was intensified, every touch an exquisite sensation. There was nothing unfeeling about him. He had worked hard at creating a façade, an image that helped him achieve what he wanted. The key was to not give too much away, and to project what they wanted to see. Once you know what they want from you, it is easy to give it to them.

  It helped to have the right look, to have that fresh faced, approachable yet reserved exterior. Attractiveness made all the difference. If you look a certain way you can get away with murder.

  When he saw her his heart leapt. She was perfect. Pale skinned, with a smattering of light freckles, long copper-red hair, kitted out in a beautiful green dress. He could imagine her choosing the dress, dreaming of this night, and the buzz of getting ready. The anticipation of what was to come tasted like nectar in his mouth. Adrenaline surged through him, firing up his muscles, putting every cell of his body on red alert. He felt wired knowing he had found his next kill. Even the colours and sounds in the room became he
ightened. He was jacked up with the thrill of it, and the glorious foreplay of what was to follow. It was a pure, natural high, better than the hum of any speed bought on the street.

  Then there was some sort of altercation between her and one of the boys. Their heads were close together, but their body language suggested that they were fighting. The date, no doubt. He watched it unfold, knowing he could step in at any point and play the bouncer card at any moment; to be her protector. He followed them out to the main hallway, hanging back so that he was out of sight, hidden by the huge palm tree standing in a massive clay pot. The DJ was playing a slow set, Adele followed by Ed Sheeran. It was that time of night when couples pair off in the hope of kissing and more.

  From his vantage point, he could hear snippets of their argument, ‘You said you were …’

  ‘I didn’t mean it …sure you know …’

  It was as if they were kids play-acting. Making a whole drama out of nothing. She would be recounting to her friends, word for word what had happened. Posing with tearful eyes and a dropped bottom lip on Snapchat. The boy would play it cool with his mates, say she was too clingy, too needy.

  Her hand reached up and she pulled her hair round to the side, exposing her pale neck. She turned and he saw that her dress was backless. He took in the devastating nakedness of her back, the pale sun-starved skin like a blank canvas. He could see the small bumps of her spine rising towards her hairline, the tendons stretching as she turned her head away from the boy. How amazing it was - the intricate network of tendons, muscles and veins beneath her pale skin, how the skin contained it all, yet was so vulnerable to a knife’s edge. How easy it was to slice through, to puncture a vein or artery to release the life-giving blood and watch it drain out of her.

  He liked to think she sensed him watching, that some deep primeval part of her knew she was prey. Did the tiny hairs at the back of her neck stand to attention? Did her heart beat a little faster and her pulse quicken? He watched the sinews of her neck move and stretch as she continued to talk to the boy. The gestures, and her expressions told him to get ready. With a final word, she flounced off, ready to run to her friends and be consoled while the boy in the formal suit, stood impassive and fed up.