Little Bird: a serial killer thriller

by Sharon Dempsey

  ‘That’s what my mummy says. She texts me all night until I’m back home safe and sound.’

  It was then that he caught sight of her – the Detective. ‘Sorry, I got to go, I’ve seen someone I know.’ He pushed through the crowd, leaving the girl behind, her mouth gawping wide as if in mid-sentence, as he tried to reach the other side of the steps outside the City Hall building. He was sure it was her – Detective Anna Cole. He recognised her from the televised press conference, the curve of her jaw, the swish of her dark hair as she turned her head, scanning the crowd. Looking. There was another detective with her. He could tell from the way he carried himself, that squat ready for anything stance, that he was police. There was something so satisfying about seeing them, of being close enough that he could almost reach out and touch the back of her silky dark head.

  A hush settled over the crowd as Aidan Anderson walked onto the stage, flanked by his minders. His hands out stretched to quiet his audience. He had the swagger and presence of an American Evangelist.

  ‘Total wanker.’ Thomas said. ‘Jumped up wee hood from West Belfast who talked his way into politics and now thinks he owns the city. Loves mixing with the great and the good in America. Probably raising funds for the IRA should they need to start buying arms again.’

  Anna nodded. She had read plenty about Anderson since she met him – it would’ve been hard not to. He seemed to be everywhere, all over the media, bigging-up Belfast and bringing in new business and big events like the MTV awards. He obviously liked the publicity and never shied away from his past, saying that men like him had sacrificed so much to bring about the new Belfast. ‘Keeping ‘er lit for the future’ was his slogan.

  ‘People of Belfast,’ he began, ’it is with great sadness in our hearts that we gather here on this cold autumn night to mark, not one, but two deaths, of young girls in our community.’ A murmur of agreement went around the crowd. Anna watched as the swelling crowd huddled together, hoods up against the sharp biting cold, looking up, transfixed by Anderson.

  ‘We have fought hard to gain peace, and we are not about to give up that fight. Someone must know something about this evil murderer in our mists. I ask you, to search in your hearts, to find the strength, and the courage to speak out.’ The crowd clapped in appreciation. ‘Now I ask you all to bow your heads and hold a minute’s silence as a mark of respect and remembrance.’ The crowd obeyed, united in their mawkish outrage. Heads hung down and a hush fell over the assembled mass.

  After a moment’s silence, he raised his arms to quiet the crowd further.

  ‘On this autumn night, we have come out in force to show that we will not be cowered into the shadows. Two young girls have had their lives taken in sickening violence, and we will not stand by and allow a third to die.’

  The crowd cheered in agreement.

  ‘We will not allow Belfast’s daughters to die in this brutal way. Whoever has caused the death of these two beautiful young girls, we urge you to hand yourself in to the police. If you know anyone who has been acting suspiciously, do not hesitate to call the incident room number.’ The police number flashed up on a screen behind him.

  McKay had asked Aidan Anderson to abandon the idea of the vigil. They didn’t want any more of a media circus than they already had. The Irish News had run with the headline ‘Gate Crasher: Strike Two.’ People were scared. City pubs and restaurants had reported a twenty per cent drop in takings. Dissident republicans had issued a veiled threat that if the police didn’t find the killer soon, they would be prepared to dole out their own kind of justice.

  Anderson had been insistent that the people of Belfast needed to see that the city’s leaders were not sitting back allowing a killer to prowl the streets. They needed to feel safe and what better way to show the killer that he wouldn’t be tolerated than a mass rally. Anna wasn’t so sure of his motives. From what she saw of Anderson, he enjoyed the media attention. He styled himself as some sort of local hero, out to do good for the whole community.

  Anna and Thomas scrutinised the crowd, watching for that imperceptible moment, a flicker of interest to alert them. Anna thought about how some killers often bask in the fallout of their actions. They seek out gravesides, they watch the family. Their killer could be part of the vigil, holding a candle up high, and pretending to pray for the souls of the murdered girls. He could be enjoying the outrage manifested by the people of Belfast. For a second she felt unnerved, as if someone was watching her. She turned but could only see the crowd, which had begun to disperse. There was no one keeping an eye on them. She was rattled by tension. Crowds made her uncomfortable too, there was always that sense that catastrophe could strike, one false move and panic could erupt. She was relieved when Thomas suggested they head back to the car.

  Thomas took the driver’s seat, ‘It feels like we are no further forward Tonto. For fuck’s sake, this one is going to get the better of us,’ he said, banging his palm on the steering wheel. They’d both been there before; cases that failed to give up their secrets easily, dead-ends that wasted precious time and resources.

  ‘McKay is going to start drawing back the extra man power. Before we know it, this one will be consigned to the back burner and we’ll be shifting through paper work and logging boxes of evidence for storage.’

  ‘Surely not?’ Anna asked, ‘there’s too much at stake. Two girls, brutally killed and the threat of further victims.’

  ‘We don’t know for sure we are looking at a serial killer. What if they aren’t related?’

  ‘Copycat, you mean?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No, there’s an undercurrent, I’m sure of it. Something links them.’

  Thomas pulled out on to Chichester Street.

  ‘Well, you better pull something out of the bag soon or we’re both in trouble.’

  They knew that a case like this needed a break. Something to drive the momentum forward, and to keep the powers-that-be happy enough to sign off on the much-needed resources. Anna sighed. She had poured all her energy into this case and she didn’t need distractions like Declan; but yet, she wanted him. The case offered respite from her life, the stuff she didn’t want to deal with. It was all she thought about. This is what she loved about the job – the necessity to let it consume you, emotionally and physically. Until there was nothing left for anyone else.

  26

  ‘DI Cole. Can we speak to Mr Brogan?’ Anna flashed her identity card to the care home manager.

  ‘You can speak to him all you like, but I doubt you’ll get much of a reply.’

  She led Anna down a corridor, which reeked of institutional living.

  ‘This is Mr Brogan’s room.’

  The door was open. Mr Brogan sat in an old faded green armchair looking at a portable television, which had the sound, turned down. A small cupboard sat squat beside the bed and a dark wooden wardrobe lined the far wall. The room, though small, was personalised with furniture that looked as if it may have come from his former home rather than belonging to the care home. The man sat in a wheelchair looking out towards the manicured lawn. He had thick eyebrows, incongruously dark against his ham pink complexion and thinning, steel grey hair. His hair was slicked down with what could be grease or an old-fashioned hair cream. He wore polyester, fawn coloured trousers, with an elasticated waist. A stain of what looked like porridge sat at his crotch.

  ‘Mr Brogan, I am DI Cole. I am here to ask you some questions.’ No response.

  ‘The third stroke left him without speech and his hearing isn’t good at all. You’ll be lucky if you get any kind of response. God love him. Stuck here all day. Doesn’t like the recreation room. Gets agitated easily if the other residents make too much noise I can tell you who comes and goes, we keep a log. Usually, he only sees his son, Robert. People have to sign in and out.’

  ‘Does he have any other visitors?’

  ‘No, that would be his lot.’

  ‘Mr Brogan, your son, Robert, have you seen him lately?’r />
  Anna noticed a slight stiffening of his shoulders, a barely perceptible change in his alertness.

  Still no response.

  ‘The son hasn’t been here for a few weeks. Mr Brogan’s sister used to visit the odd time. I don’t think they’re close; her visits seemed to be more out of duty than anything. She lives in the Glens of Antrim somewhere. I expect the journey is too much for her these days.’

  ‘Would you have a name and contact details for the son and the sister?’

  ‘I’m sure we do. I can check the records in the office.’

  ‘Thank you, that would be great.’ She turned to the old man, noticing his incongruous box-fresh Adidas trainers, ‘Mr Brogan, thank you for your time.’

  Back at the station, Anna found herself cornered by McKay coming out of the canteen. The smell of something meat and tomato-style made Anna realise how hungry she was.

  ‘Update?’ he said, through a mouthful of sandwich. She followed him along the corridor and up the stairs into his office.

  ‘Take a seat. I heard you went looking for Brogan. I thought I made it clear, there isn’t a link.’

  ‘You did, sir, but sometimes you have to explore all avenues just to rule them out,’ she had to appease him or risk getting a bollocking.

  ‘Did you speak with Brogan in person?’

  ‘We tried, but he was no help. Appears to be incapacitated by a stroke. All picture and no sound, but it could have been an act. The staff say he doesn’t communicate, but he flinched when I mentioned the son’s name.’

  ‘I doubt that that means anything of use for now. So you’re still determined to chase this line of enquiry?’

  ‘Sir, we have Brogan’s name on the list as a person of significance. His connection with Declan Wells can’t be ignored. We have to talk to him if only to cross him off our list.’

  ‘No visitors coming and going from the nursing home?’

  ‘Not of late. His son, Robert usually checks in and a sister from Glenarriff used to visit him. Might be worth a chat with both of them.’

  ‘Fine, get on it but keep me in the loop,’ he said, finishing the last of the sandwich.

  Anna had spent the evening at home, tidying up, catching up on chores and just pottering. All the while her mind was mulling over the case. The girls, all too young to remember the bad times in Belfast; now all part of the new nightlife. Days of the city centre shutting down at five had past. No more security searches for explosives going into shops, no ring of steel surrounding the main shopping street of Royal Avenue. No routine shootings, bomb explosions or reign of terror. Instead, that Belfast had been replaced by one trying to assert itself as diverse, culturally rich, with high educational attainment, a country wanting to embrace the endless possibilities of life not dictated by the troubles.

  At one time Belfast was supposedly one of the safest places for a woman to walk the streets at night in the UK, if not in Europe. Sex crimes were not tolerated by the paramilitaries and as long as you didn’t stumble into a riot, you were pretty safe.

  Her phone rang. ‘Hello stranger.’

  ‘Dad I was going to call later,’ her heart lurched at the sound of his voice, all so warm and familiar.

  ‘Yeah I’m sure you were. How are you?’

  ‘Good, busy, you know how it is.’

  ‘I read last week in the Echo that police officers are more likely to develop stomach ulcers.’

  Anna rolled her eyes, ‘Is that right, well no symptoms yet Dad.’

  ‘That job’s brutal for stress. Don’t know why you don’t pack it in and do a nice quiet job like teaching, or working in a library – now there’s a job with no stress.’

  ‘Dada we both know I’d never be happy sitting in an office all day, even if there were lots of books to read.’

  ‘Time you settled down girl. I don’t know why Jon puts up with you.’

  ‘Well maybe he won’t have to for much longer.’

  ‘Why? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  She hadn’t the heart to tell him that she wasn’t in love with Jon any longer. ‘Oh you know I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s time to move on.’

  ‘Anna, don’t be making any rash decisions. Think about it.’

  ‘I will. I have to go.’

  ‘Nos da.’

  ‘Night Dada.’

  Anna set off early. The case was swamping her every thought to the point where she couldn’t think straight. She needed clarity and experience taught her that a break away from the minutiae of the crime work could help her see things better.

  She planned to do some groundwork and knock on some doors in Keoghill to see if she could find any leads on her birth family. It was time to face what she had been putting off for weeks.

  When she woke at seven to a sharp drop in temperature, she considered rolling over and going back to sleep on her Saturday off but she knew that if she did, it might be a few weeks before she would get the opportunity again. Work was crazy busy and she daren’t put this off any longer. Besides she was only making a tentative step to have a look around and maybe ask a few questions. She wasn’t ready to go wading in at the deep end.

  The roads glistened from a light frosting of ice as she eased the car on to the main roads away from the city. She spotted a sign indicating filming going on. Probably, Game of Thrones. The signs were all over the place and Belfast had certainly made sure to cash in on its newfound status as a film production site. Everyone in the office watched it and many knew of someone who had been cast as an extra. Anna never seemed to have time to commit to a series. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open to catch the headlines of News Night.

  Once she had passed the giant canary yellow cranes of Harland and Wolff the city roads gave way to green fields. Belfast was a city of contradictions. Industry snuggled against the dark green hills and bled into the coastline. If it had a better climate, it would probably do all right as a holiday destination. Mind you, she thought, there was no shortage of tourists.

  Anna had put off this visit for long enough. She had instigated the move as a part of her grand plan to make contact with her real family. Not that she could ever call them that in front of her dad. It was just that since she had arrived and taken on her work, the desire and energy needed to track them down had seemed to wane. Now she was living in Belfast and working here, she didn’t feel the same urgency to find them. It was as if being here, in Northern Ireland, was enough.

  Her Saturday morning jaunt to Keoghill was her attempt to start the ball rolling. She knew that these things took time and perseverance. All she wanted, for now, was to see the town where she had been born and to perhaps ask a few questions.

  An hour later Anna pulled into the main street of Keoghill. She hadn’t expected it to look so pretty. A row of ice cream coloured houses edged the main road looking out over Strangford Lough. It was the superficial kind of postcard pretty – beneath the peeling façade she could sense the hardship. Some of the shop fronts were boarded up with ‘to let’ signs buffering the wind, announcing their downfall. It was the type of town dependent on tourism and fishing, and neither seemed to be bringing in big money. She could smell the salt in the air and the undercurrent of fresh fish. A small, grey stone-wall ran along the length of the main road, separating the town from the green-grey lough.

  Anna wanted to get the feel of the place so she decided to head towards the town square. Getting out of the car she felt the bracing wind whip around her. It was bloody freezing. She pulled on a navy wool hat she kept in the car and her thick Barbour jacket, zipping it up to keep the chill out.

  She hadn’t bothered with breakfast before setting off, so her first stop was a cafe situated on the main road.

  ‘That’s some morning,’ the café owner said as he set out pastries and croissants in the glass covered counter.

  ‘Yeah, it’s freezing out there,’ she scanned the blackboard menu behind his head. ‘I’ll have a latte and one of those croissants please.’


  She took a seat beside the window and watched the road come to life. A man was walking his dog, a terrier that didn’t seem to want to be going anywhere. He dragged it along, looking behind every few minutes to give the dog some encouragement. A couple of kids rode bicycles on the footpath followed by their mother. The place was slowly starting the business of Saturday morning. A local newspaper lay on the table and she noticed it carried an article about the reward for information on Grace’s murder. They had been inundated with crackpots as expected. Those wishing to cash in on the money, and those looking for attention. So far, all of them wasting time and manpower.

  Thomas was spending the day at the station. They were well suited in that regard and proved to be a good team. Her initial longing for the easy camaraderie of her old office had been assuaged by Thomas’ supporting role and his easy-going way. They had progressed beyond the awkwardness of the almost sex night and Anna was relieved to find him to be a good partner, conscientious and loyal. When she pushed for the Brogan angle to be investigated he didn’t stand in her way.

  The last few days in the office had been grim. A large percentage of police work is pure drudgery, laborious and time consuming, fuelled on coffee and pre-packed sandwiches. Much of this case had rested on elimination. The spikes of interest threw out connections and possibilities, and helped to propel them onwards.

  ‘Are you here for the farmer’s market?’ the café man asked, setting the latte and croissant down on the table in front of Anna.

  ‘No, I’m trying to track down some family members. Maybe you could help? Would you know where I could find the Keiltys?’ She’d thought about flashing her police ID, but in Northern Ireland that could go against you as easily as it could go for you.

  He looked at her as if to weigh her up. ‘Well as long as you’re not from the Inland Revenue or something equally dodgy?’

  She sipped the hot, creamy latte, and said, ‘I promise you, I am not from the Inland Revenue.’