‘I know a fair few Keiltys,’ he answered, as he wiped down the counter top. ‘Don’t know if I want to go giving out information to strangers, no offence like.’
She hesitated, ‘Honestly I’m not after them for anything. They are long lost family. I’m over visiting from Cardiff and I would like to meet up with some of them.’
He smiled, ‘Ok, then. Martin Keilty runs a bric-a-brac shop up on the Shore Road, you might want to start with him.’
She finished her breakfast, paid her bill and dropped a generous tip into the jar at the counter and headed off. The Shore Road was short walk away. Anna pulled her hood up over her hat and braced herself against the bitter sting of the cold air. She had no idea if Martin Keilty could help her. But it was worth a shot. In a place as small as this, there was bound to be a connection.
The shop turned out to be off the Shore Road, down a little entryway. The signage looked freshly painted, gold lettering against a sage green background - Keilty Refound. The bay window was full of bric-a-brac, an old typewriter, a brass trombone, ornaments and a few depressing looking prints depicting hunt scenes. She pushed the heavy door open and an old-fashioned bell jangled overhead. Inside the floor space was limited as heavy dark furniture took up most of the room. Sideboards, occasion tables, bookcases. The tick of a tall grandfather clock punctuated the silence. Anna almost tripped over a stack of paintings waiting to be hung, lying cluttered against the wall.
At the back of the shop, a man was working on a faded gold wingback chair.
‘That’s a lovely chair,’ Anna said.
’Victorian, walnut and velvet but threadbare and coming apart at the seams. Not beyond repair though,’ he said looking up at Anna for the first time.
‘What can I do for you? Would you like to make me an offer? It’s a great wee find.’
Anna hesitated, ‘Sorry, I’m not buying. I’m trying to track someone down and I believe her name was Keilty, though she could have married. Would you know where I could find Kathleen Keilty?’
‘Who’s looking for her?’
Could it be so easy? A quick computer search, an hour’s drive, and few inquiries? Anna paused. ‘I’m a relative.’
Her phone rang with McKay flashing up on the screen.
‘Sorry, work,’ she mouthed to Martin, before turning away.
It was Thomas, ‘Anna, I need you back in today. A twenty-year-old girl’s gone missing. A student called Emma Casey, friends say she should’ve returned home last night and her phone just goes to answer machine. The parents are in a bad way; terrified she’s been taken by the killer. McKay’s here, ready to smash heads.’
Anna hung up. Her family reunion would have to be stalled for another day. She hastily scribbled her contact details down for Martin, ‘Please, would you pass this on to Kathleen Keilty? Tell her Anna Cole is trying to track her down.’
27
Declan knew that his involvement could cost Anna her career, but he was convinced that given the opportunity, the killer would attack again. He couldn’t afford to be principled and play by the rules. It was time to do something other than grieve.
He moved a pile of papers from the table. During the day, when Anna was at the station, he developed his own working pattern. He had forgotten how satisfying it felt to be working a case. If only it wasn’t the killer of his daughter and another young girl he was investigating.
The odd evening, he headed to Anna’s house and ate a hastily made supper, usually something easy like cheese on toast or if they had time, a chilli.
The night before, Anna had draped herself across his sawn-off legs. ‘You look tired,’ she said, kissing him lightly, her lips dry and soft.
‘I could say the same to you.’ She had that drawn look of a detective knee deep in a case. Over-worked, and unable to take her foot of the pedal, for fear of missing something. He’d seen it in others and knew what it cost them – relationships, family, friendships. This job came with a price.
Part of his work on the force had been rebuilding damaged police officers, wounded on duty. Long after physical injuries healed, the mental scars would weep and fester. There had been some who’d, while never injured in the line of duty, simply lost their nerve and found themselves paralysed with a stomach-churning fear of what could happen.
Anna was the type who would keep going. Case after case, losing a little bit of herself, with each conviction. It would be the unsolved ones that would steal her sleep; the ones who were out of reach, in the shadows of her dreams, slowly sucking on her soul, until one day she’d wake up and find she’d nothing left to give.
He read through his notes: charting time lines, aerial site maps, Venn diagrams of possible connections and then trawled through his knowledge of criminal theory. Rational choice theory is grounded in free will – the man who discovers his wife is cheating on him with his business partner, shoots them both – he has made a rational choice to do so and after weighing up the consequences of the deaths, decides the risk is worth taking. This theory emerged during the eighteenth century and asserted that people have free will; Declan didn’t buy into this for Esme and Grace’s deaths. He was sure that the killer’s upbringing had to have an impact.
His mind flitted to something he remembered reading – the idea of definitions of success, Albert Cohen, the great American criminologist’s argument, that gangland culture emerges in economically deprived areas of cities because working-class males, frustrated by their inability to compete successfully with middle-class youngsters, set up their own norms. They, in effect, redefine ‘success’ in ways that to them seem attainable, creating their own rules of morality.
He’d seen this in Belfast. Communities living in bleak poverty, with low educational attainment, no hope of jobs, and no vision to see a different kind of life. They inverted the moral norms and began policing their own communities. Racketeering - seeking so-called ‘protection money’ from local businesses in the promise that they wouldn’t be burnt down, by the same individuals collecting the pay off. Punishment beatings for anti-social behaviour, like joyriding, had to make Cohen’s definition laughably accurate.
Anna feared the long drive to Glenariff with Thomas would be a wild goose chase. She couldn’t help feeling that they were missing something. There was more information coming in than they could handle, yet not enough substantial leads.
‘Aww wait till you see Glenariff Forest Park, it’s a pretty special place. Lots of riverside walks and three spectacular waterfalls. Glenariff – Queen of the Glens – is the most beautiful of the nine Antrim Glens.’
She let him keep chattering away to give her mind time to reflect.
‘It has a waterfall walkway that opened eighty years ago and has been upgraded all along the three-mile stretch that passes through the National Nature Reserve,’ he went on.
‘Give it a rest you,’ she finally joked. ‘You sound like the bloody tourist board.’ They were both tired. The case was taking its toll on everyone. The past forty-eight hours had been a mass of interviews and following up leads of sightings of the missing girl, Emma Casey. Anna was frustrated. They were still hoping she would turn up of her own accord, surprised at all the fuss, but they couldn’t take any chances. She had Declan on the phone, desperately seeking answers she didn’t have. He’d begged to see her last night but she’d told him it was too dangerous. She needed to concentrate on her job. Now she feared this road trip to check out Robert Brogan’s aunt’s house was taking her off track.
‘Well it’s pretty special. You’ll see what I mean.’
They drove on up the M2 leaving behind the grey mist surrounding the hills of Belfast.
‘So, Tonto, you’ve definitely given me the blow off then,’ he said switching lanes.
‘Sorry?’
‘Ahh the old lingo problem – blow off, kicked to the kerb, all hope lost.’
Anna sighed. She’d hoped that Thomas had decided to forget about their near encounter and her misjudged night.
&n
bsp; ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea – technically you’re my boss. The lead detective on this case.’
‘Us Ulster men not good enough for you, then?’
‘That’s not fair. It would be awkward. We were both hammered and I’m sure you can see that it definitely doesn’t make sense to mix business with pleasure.’ She dreaded to think of how he would view the hypocrisy of her involvement with Declan.
‘Don’t worry, I’m only pulling your leg. Last thing I want is another bloody relationship.’
Anna took the opportunity to change the conversation, ‘So, what do you know about Nelson Brogan and the son Robert?’
‘Brogan senior’s reputation went before him. Back in the day he was one of the old brigade. Not the type of man you’d want to cross, if you know what I mean. There were plenty who feared and hated him but he got results and in those days, that was all that mattered.’
They pulled off the motorway onto a slip road.
‘And the son, Robert? Do you really think he could be a person of interest?’
‘Who knows, you wanted the Nelson Brogan angle checked out and as old man Brogan isn’t capable of wiping his own ass, let alone hunting two girls and killing them, then it makes sense to check out his son. Plus, he’s proved tricky to track down so that in itself creates an itch that needs scratched. Maybe he’s our Luke Nead fella.’
The address they had been given at the care home had been found to be empty. Neighbours hadn’t seen him around and the telephone number he had left with the care home wasn’t being answered.
‘What about Declan Wells, did you know him when he was working?’
‘Not really, before my time. It was a travesty what happened to him then, and now. Bad times to live through.’
The sky hung bleak and low as they passed along roads of hedgerows, fields and scattered houses. A road sign announced a nearby pub was being auctioned off. They drove past a sign for Tor Head and a friary named Bonamargy. The radio station lost signal and Thomas, impatient with the need to reach their destination, turned it off. An hour later the satnav instructed them to make a U-turn. They were lost, when suddenly Anna caught sight of an opening in a hedge.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘go back.’
The road they were looking for was little more than a dirt track. They were driving through a valley, the Glens rolling up and onwards on either side of the road. Hedgerows scored along the sides of the car until they reached a clearing. Gnarled trees flagged the opening to the main driveway giving way to a view of the old stone house. It stood surrounded on three sides with run down outbuildings looking inward onto a courtyard. She imagined the setting would have been pretty in its day, cobbled stones and a central well, with a view across the deep green swaths of the Glens. At first glance it was dilapidated, but there was evidence that work had been done to start fixing it up; fresh pointing outlined the windows which bowed in places, looking like they were in danger of sagging under the weight of the stonework. Part of the yard was run over with weeds and the remains of old farm tools – a wheelbarrow rested on its side, and a scythe stood rusted against the cable wall. The overall impression was one of piecemeal work. Someone had tried to keep on top of the repairs. Potted plants were gathered around the stone steps leading up to the forest green front door.
‘Here we go then,’ Thomas said, snapping off his seatbelt. ‘You take the lead and I’ll try to get a look around.’
The woman opened the door before they had time to knock. ‘Yes, can I help ye?’
‘DI Cole and DI King. We would like to have chat with you, about your nephew, Robert Brogan,’ Anna said as she reached the front door.
‘Rabbie? What do you want with him? He’s done nothing wrong.’
‘We need to eliminate him from our enquires.’
Maude Briers looked directly at Anna with a touch of arrogance. Age hadn’t withered or weakened her. She was a broad woman with a tight, contained bust. Her hair, steel grey and wiry. Anna doubted she had ever dyed it or indulged in anything so flippant as a blow dry.
‘You better come in. But I’ve nothing to tell you. He’s a good boy, so he is.’ They stepped into the small hallway. Coats were hanging from wooden pegs and an assortment of boots sat below. Two pairs were men’s boots. Anna noticed a framed tapestry handing on the wall: Happy shall he be who taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones. Psalms 137:9.
Christ, and religion was supposed to be about love, she thought.
They followed the woman into the living room. It was dark, yet cosy with a low ceiling and a small window looking out over the green swath of the Glen. A fire glowed in the hearth, flames licking through the turf stacks, filling the room with a peaty scent. The furniture, although dated looking, was well polished. As well as the turf, Anna could smell beeswax, and something else, maybe lavender. Maude Briers appeared to be house proud, everything in the room looked cherished and well cared for. A dark oak table gleamed, surrounded by four upholstered chairs, while two comfortable looking armchairs sat at angles by the fireplace. On the far wall of the room stood a dresser, which held an assortment of crockery, an ornate soup tureen and an old Victorian-looking doll. A religious scripture plague sat in the middle of the first shelf. Anna wasn’t close enough to read the verse this time. A door leading into the kitchen was open, showing an old range and fitted cupboards.
Thomas sat at the oak table without waiting to be asked. ‘We need to speak to your nephew as a matter of urgency. When was the last time you saw him?’ he said getting straight to it.
‘Last week sometime. Maybe Thursday. The days roll into one another, I don’t always keep track.’
‘You don’t have any children yourself Mrs Briers?’ Anna asked, touching the doll. Its face was bisque, the surface covered in small hairline cracks, the painted features faded to a dull grey. Anna’s fingers stroked the matted thatch of golden brown hair, which felt strangely human. She couldn’t imagine any child wanting to play with something so creepy.
‘No. Not that it is any of your business and if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t touch that. It’s precious to me and very delicate,’ was the terse reply. Anna removed her hand from the doll at once. She resisted the urge to wipe her hand on her trousers.
‘You must be very fond of Robert. Spoil him as a child, did you?’ Anna asked, watching the woman’s tight mouth soften ever so slightly.
‘Rabbie was a good boy. Still is. He always goes to church with me when he is staying here. Whatever you want to speak to him about, I’m sure he has nothing to do with it.’
‘Would you say you’re close to your nephew, Mrs Briers?’ Thomas asked. Anna could see the arrogance wane a little. Maude Briers obviously had a soft spot for Brogan. ‘As close as an aunt should be. What is this all about?’
‘How long have you lived here?’ Anna was keen to press on; keep her talking in the hope that they could glean something that would help them.
‘Going on forty odd years. It was my husbands’ family home before we took it over. Originally an old school house.’
‘So, you never moved up to Belfast like your brother then?’
‘No, I’m from the Glens and I’ll stay in the Glens till they carry me out in a box.’
Anna noticed a framed photograph of an angelic looking child sitting on the stone well in the courtyard. On a side table near the fire she noticed another photograph. This one was more recent. In it stood a young man, with his arm raised, holding a dead hare. He was smiling, as if delighted with his kill. Anna couldn’t be certain but the young man in the photograph fitted Genevieve’s description. Could Robert Brogan be Luke Nead?
Anna turned away from the photographs. ‘How was your relationship with your brother Nelson?’
‘It’s no secret we didn’t get on, but I fail to see what business it is of yours.’ Her jaw tightened and Anna sensed she was close to telling them to leave.
‘Mrs Briers, is this Robert in the photograph?’
&
nbsp; ‘Yes, that was taken a few years ago. The place was near run over with rabbits, we had to cull a brave few of them.’
Anna gave Thomas a look. ‘I know you care for Robert, so I need you to know that by helping us find him, you are helping him.’
‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ Thomas asked. Anna knew he was trying to buy them time before they were told to leave.
‘If you want.’ She went into the kitchen and they could hear her fill the kettle and arrange the cups.
‘As I said, Rabbie was a good boy. I don’t know how you think he could be involved in any trouble.’
She returned with the teacups, saucers and a jug of milk, waiting on the kettle to boil.
‘Thank you,’ Anna said, taking a cup and opening her notebook. ‘Did Robert stay with you when he was little?’
‘Yes, he used to spend the summers here. Got him out of Belfast, away from the troubles and all that. His father was always busy over the twelfth so he was better off here with me.’
‘You didn’t get on with Nelson and his wife Bridie?’
‘Nelson was a hard man to get on with and Bridie was a mouse of a woman, just let him do what he pleased. Never stood up to him. She didn’t go to church either, if she’d had a better relationship with the Lord then maybe her marriage would have been better.’
‘Had she reason to need to stand up to him?’ Thomas asked.
‘Oh, I’m not saying he beat her if that’s what you’re getting at. He was a bully. Liked things his way. But then pressures of the job probably took their toll. The police force wasn’t the easy ride it is today,’ she added looking at them with contempt. Anna let the last remark pass without comment as the older women returned to the kitchen to finish making the tea.
When she returned, Thomas asked, ‘What was Nelson’s relationship like with his son?’
‘As I said, Nelson was a bully.’ she set the teapot on the table and offered to pour for them.
‘Rabbie took the brunt of his father’s temper. That’s why I loved to take him down here. Spoil him a bit and let him have some fun. Loved the animals he did. Always finding some half dead creature and bringing it back to look after it.’
Little Bird: a serial killer thriller Page 19
