Little Bird: a serial killer thriller

by Sharon Dempsey

  ‘This used to be a Victorian church until it became a comedy club and concert hall. I’ve had some great nights in here, back in the day,’ Thomas said, getting himself a pint and Anna a coke.

  ‘I saw Snow Patrol here before they made it big. Great gig. And Ash too – local band. Ever heard of them?’ He led Anna over to a round table with two wonky looking chairs.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of them. Some hit about a girl from Mars? They were cool for about five minutes when I was at uni’

  ‘That’s them. Classic tunage!’

  ‘So, what have you been thinking?’ Anna asked taking her coat off. The rain had soaked right through, leaving her feeling chilled and miserable. It had been that kind of day.

  ‘About the case or Ash?’

  She laughed, ‘The case you muppet. Where are we going with it?’

  ‘Statistically, we both know we should be looking at someone close to the girls – Finnegan fitted that bill with Esme. Young, male and with a possible motive.’

  ‘Motive being they had something going on, or that she had seen or heard something at one of Finnegan’s little exclusive soirées. Except he’s placed at the wedding venue at the supposed time of death – with at least twenty witnesses saying he was on the dance floor giving it his all to ‘Mr Brightside’, followed by a trio of Blur, Oasis and the Libertines.’

  ‘Blur and Oasis? Really?’

  ‘I know criminal, but we can’t arrest him for bad taste in music or dubious dance moves.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’ Anna studied the menu. ‘I’m going for the Cajun chicken.’

  ‘A dirty burger for me, extra onions and fries, thanks.’ The waitress took their orders and Thomas waited a second until she had left their table, ‘Perhaps our lad Rory had someone do his dirty work for him. He’s not the kind to get his hands dirty. I’m still pressing to get a warrant to search his offices.’

  ‘But his new wife’s sister? At his own wedding?’ ‘Not our problem. Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to suggest he could have, and then find the evidence to support the crazy theory.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Anna said taking a sip of the coke. ‘Yes, we know that his business isn’t clean. He’s dodgy for sure, but to take a hit out on his sister-in-law? It’s a bit of stretch. Don’t you think if it was Finnegan then it would be more a crime of a passion and he would have done it himself? Our killer shows evidence of being considered and thought out.’

  ‘Maybe Esme was blackmailing him, threatening to tell her big sister what kind of man she was marrying.’

  ‘What about we take Finnegan out of the murder equation for a second. Our killer could be someone else in attendance at his business parties. Maybe Esme, who we can assume wasn’t all sweetness and light, had seen or heard something and was using it to blackmail them?’

  ‘Phone records and internet searches would have thrown something up to suggest another player involved.’

  ‘It’s an angle we need to explore all the same. And just because she had a crush on Finnegan, and was seen kissing him, according to Carly, doesn’t mean she wasn’t led on by him and seduced into some sort of relationship. He had all the power and control,’ Anna said as the waitress set down her plate of food. She felt defensive of Esme, on behalf of Declan.

  After dinner, they went outside for Thomas to have a smoke. Anna leaned against the cold stonewall, feeling the damp from the earlier rain seep through her coat.

  Thomas blew out a stream of smoke into the chilly night air, ‘We still have the problem of why did both girls willing leave the safety of the two venues? That suggests they knew the killer or were at least familiar with him. If they had been forced to leave with him, someone would have seen something or heard a protest. Could the meetings have been planned?’ he said.

  Anna watched people go past, students on their way out for the night, professionals coming home late from work. ‘Or our guy knew where to find them and got lucky. Could he have been after any girl who fell for his chat-up lines or the promise of drugs?’

  ‘We’ve no proof either girl was into anything stronger than a Bacardi Breezer or vodka. There were only kids, still hoping they can get away with a few drinks.’

  Thomas flicked the ash from his cigarette, ‘Dirty habit Tonto, don’t ever let me see you suck on one of these cancer sticks. I only ever smoke when I’m on a big case that fucks up my mind.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll confiscate them as soon as this case is over.’

  ‘Theories, theories and more damn theories. None of this says they knew him for sure, and we can’t totally rule out a stalker, even without Internet evidence. He could have been watching them from afar.’

  ‘Don’t forget the clean-up – this was strategic. He knew what he was doing, had planned it even.’ Anna paused thinking of the birds – how theatrical it all was. She could still recall the smell at both the scenes of earthiness and damp mildew. She thought of the birds and their delicate, fragile bones.

  She continued, ‘This isn’t some love-struck teenager with an obsession, carrying out a crime of passion. He’s too organised and controlled in what he does. Think of the guillemot bird, left like a sick love token at the scene and then the robin, euugh, I’ll never get that image out of my head. He knows the areas and the venues. We also need to remember the close vicinity of others. He was taking a big risk of someone hearing something in both cases.’

  Her mind turned to Declan. Her instinct was telling her that he was right; whoever was carrying out these crimes had some sort of personal vendetta. While she didn’t want conjecture and theorising to cloud good judgment based on hard evidence, she couldn’t help but think of these girls as the post-troubles generation. To them, the violence of the past was little more than a history lesson.

  Sure, Esme had dealt with her father’s injuries, and had grown up with the outcome of the bomb, but like Grace, she had opportunities and a different way of life without a sense of what it had been like to live in a time of conflict and daily civil unrest. On the surface, life for them was all about Snapchat, Facebook, school, filling out university UCAS forms and nights out. It was a different time. Belfast wasn’t on its knees with regular bombings and execution style shootings.

  There didn’t seem to be anything random about the killings. She thought of the sketch she had done of Esme’s murder scene. The velvet dark depths lurking in the undergrowth, the shade and light of the stream below reflecting from the sun. From the victim to the setting, all appeared staged and theatrical. Last night she had spent hours sketching guillemots and robins, trying to get a handle on the killer and his MO; playing it over in her mind while each feathery stoke of the pencil drew another form, the wing, the legs, the beak.

  But until she had something concrete to offer, she wasn’t going to share her half-baked psychological assessment of the killer. While she didn’t want to tell McKay that she was looking into Declan’s car bomb case, she did tell Thomas. He remembered the case, even though he was barely out of Garnerville Police Training College when it had happened.

  The rain had started back up again as they made their way down the road to another pub. It was good to have this time to kick ideas about the case back and forth. Anna was glad there had been no awkwardness between them. Thomas had proved to be a good partner to work with, and she was relieved that they hadn’t become involved in a relationship together. Life was complicated enough.

  ‘It was just another car bomb, as I remember. They weren’t so rare in those days,’ he said taking a sip from his bottle of beer. They’d moved outside so Thomas could have a smoke. The rain stopped and the sky, inky black, was streaked with ribbons of cloud.

  Anna was trying to get a handle on the timeline of Northern Irish politics, ‘Wasn’t the ceasefire in place then?’

  ‘It was. We’d the Good Friday Agreement in place by 1998 but dissidents were still making their own noise and trying to make sparks fly by targeting police and those connected to them.’

  ‘But for t
he target to be a forensic psychologist, surely that was different?’ Anna asked. She couldn’t imagine a world where she would have to check her car for devices before going to work every morning.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so, but in those days, even those who did building work for the police were considered legitimate targets. We were all under threat one way or another.’

  ‘And Brogan – the DC in charge, did you know him?’

  ‘Nah, before my time but from what I’ve heard about him he was your typical old-school bigot. Red, white and blue through and through. His type don’t exist in the force anymore, well, if they do, they keep their opinions to themselves.’

  ‘So, Brogan was implicated in the enquiry – he didn’t alert Declan Wells to the fact that he was at risk?’

  ‘Appears so,’ Thomas said with his mouth set in a grimace. Anna hadn’t worked with him for long, but she had already ascertained he had a strong sense of justice and a moral imperative to do the right thing.

  He continued, ‘I’ve done a bit of digging and Brogan was pensioned off on ill-health but essentially it was a cover up, to prevent the RUC looking bad. He was a staunch unionist with a penchant for Fenian bashing back in the day. His type are a dying breed, thank God. Holier than thou, while breaking every moral code there is in the name of justice.’

  The notion of a police force divided was an anathema to Anna. Sure, she had encountered racism. One of her Welsh colleagues from Penarth had told her of snide comments and being passed over for the better jobs because of the colour of his skin. She couldn’t imagine a hatred within her colleagues so entrenched, that it would result in someone being almost killed. She thought of Declan and his pain, the way he tried to downplay his injuries.

  She felt a hot flush of rage on his behalf. That Brogan had withheld significant information resulting in such horrific injuries, all because Declan was from an opposing side of the community. It bothered Anna on a deeply personal level.

  22

  The RSPB pointed Anna in the direction of local taxidermists. There weren’t too many taxidermists working in and around Belfast. A few calls helped Anna narrow her choice down to Jude Collins who offered workshops, as well as made-to-order, stuffed wildlife. Manus Magee had been speaking to a few wildlife specialists and had visited one taxidermist in the area, leaving Anna to follow up Jude Collins. Apparently, there were a few disreputable means of catching birds in order to stuff them and place them on a mantelpiece. A piece of carefully placed wire netting, sitting inconspicuously high up in a tree, could trap a bird easily enough. A carefully handled, stuffed and mounted bird like a guillemot, could fetch up to £250 on some of the auction sites. A quick check on EBay showed that there was a market for all sorts of stuffed wildlife. There was no accounting for taste.

  She knew she shouldn’t have told Declan about the birds. It was like throwing him a crumb from the banquet table; he was starved for information about the case. Anything at all that he could use to track the killer. He was certain the killer was using the bird as tag, a marker.

  ‘The insertion of the bird into Grace’s mouth has a ritualistic element. It shows premeditation before the killing and a certain viciousness. I am looking for a pattern of evidence, working out the killer’s modus operandi.’

  ‘Well, we can assume that he selected both of the girls and lured them to their deaths,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but it is significant because that tells us what the killer is like. He must possess a certain attractive charm that the girls find relatable to or attractive even. There is a suggestion that his actions show a cognitive thought process.’

  Anna frowned, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he is showing forensic awareness in the clearing of the scenes. He adapts a ploy approach to lure them away. He is methodical and calculating, and he has shown a unique signature behaviour model.’

  She asked, ‘You mean the birds?’

  ‘Yes. That’s his signature. His calling card. He’s ritualistic, has certain habits and behavioural patterns. He knows the localities, he feels at ease with the girls, confident enough to approach them in public places and is charismatic enough to lure them away.’

  Anna took a breath. ‘What’s the difference between the modus operandi and the signature?’

  ‘The pattern of evidence suggests it is the same killer. The modus operandi is learned behaviour, he has worked out how to approach the girls, what works to remove them from a place of safety. He can adapt his MO according to each killing, adjusting his technique. The signature is his personality stamped on the victim, in this case the wood wool in Esme’s mouth, the mutilated bird left at the scene and with Grace the bird inserted into her mouth.’

  Anna stayed quiet. Declan’s eyelids twitched, ‘It gives us something to work on. We can look into the use of netting to catch birds. Check out wildlife specialists, anyone working with birds.’

  ‘I’m on it Declan. We are already talking to wildlife and bird organisations.’

  ‘Please Anna, let me do this with you,’ he pleaded. His voice was raw with desperation to be doing anything related to the case.

  She knew he needed to move one of the pieces of the chessboard, to feel some sort of control over the chaos of his life. If Richard knew she was considering allowing him to accompany her to speak to the taxidermist she would be in deep shit, but right now she didn’t care. Declan inspired something in her. She could barely think of him without a need she didn’t know previously existed. Being with him felt right even when every molecule of her being told her she was playing with fire. Her career was in jeopardy, but for once she didn’t want to put it first.

  She wasn’t sure what she wanted to get out of the meeting with the taxidermist, but the killer’s calling cards were pointing her in this direction. Like all these fact-finding missions, you never knew what it would throw up. Besides, Thomas was bogged down with chasing leads from the reward phone ins and they were in a cul de sac going nowhere fast.

  Jude Collins worked from her purpose-built workshop at the back of her home in Ballygowan, on the outskirts of Belfast. Her stone house stood at the end of a lane, big and bleak with small picturesque square windows looking how Anna imagined traditional Irish houses would be. The front door was painted a bright canary yellow, cheerful and welcoming. Before they could knock the door opened.

  ‘Hello, DI Cole and my colleague Dr Wells. We spoke on the phone.’

  ‘Yes, of course I was expecting you. Come on through, ignore the mess.’ The slightly built woman, welcoming them into her home, didn’t look like Anna’s idea of a taxidermist. Her blonde hair, curly and long, was pulled back into a messy ponytail. She wore tight, skinny jeans with a green baggy jumper and well-worn trainers.

  ‘Access for yourself is going to be round the back,’ she said to Declan as he directed his chair to where she indicated. Anna followed her inside.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t tidied up,’ Jude said as she led the way down a low-ceilinged hallway through to a large, square kitchen furnished with a black Aga and pale duck egg blue painted wooden cupboards. A terrier dog, lying in a wicker basket by the stove, lifted his head to check them out.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ Jude said, ‘he’s so old I wonder how long it will be before he finds himself in the workshop.’ Anna laughed. A rectangular, oak table stood in the middle of the room flanked by wooden benches. It all looked cozy and homely.

  ‘My workshop is through here, just out the back.’ Anna saw Declan make his way over the courtyard toward them. Outbuildings and a stable block surrounded the courtyard. A black Volvo jeep was parked at one side next to a trailer. Jude unlocked the wooden door and switched on an overhead light. Anna scanned the workshop. A large metal-topped table took up most of the space and was cluttered with tools, fabric and pieces of straw. Shelves lined the walls where various woodland creatures sat staring out with dead, glass eyes like something straight out of a child’s nightmare.

  Jude cleared away a space for them to
sit down.

  ‘So how does this work? Do you get commissions or do you work on your own projects and sell them on?’ asked Anna, looking round the cramped space. Hares, squirrels and birds sat watching with dead, beady eyes on the shelf closest to her.

  ‘A bit of both. Sometimes someone comes across a dead animal that they’d like to keep as a taxidermy item, or a beloved pet dies and they contact me. We have to assess how the animal has met its death. Illegal hunting and killing happens and any suspicion has to be reported to authorities.’ Anna looked at a life-like tortoiseshell cat sitting on the lower shelf. Its fur looked inviting, as if it had been made to be stroked, but the sight of it made Anna squeamish. She didn’t understand the desire to stuff a dead animal.

  ‘So, what happens if you find a dead animal?

  ‘Once you’ve established that the animal has died a natural death, even road kill if it’s not too damaged, you put it in a plastic bag and freeze it until you are ready to work with it. You work to halt the decay. Although it’s often hard to tell how long ago the animal died, the eyes are usually a good indication. If the eyes are still rounded it’s reasonably fresh, but if the eyes have dried out a little and show wrinkling, or worse a complete indent, it’s a bit older. You must decide if the animal is still salvageable or not. No one wants an ugly mutated looking thing. Mind you, there is market for two headed cats and dogs with a head at each end. Some weirdos like that kind of thing though I don’t work like that.’

  ‘Your website mentions workshops. Do you train other taxidermists?’ Declan asked.