She began gathering her drawings and paintings together, away from him.
‘I can’t bear the thought of you casually painting the scene where she died. It’s not right.’
She wanted to say, it’s nothing to do with you, it’s the investigation, how she worked, but how could she?
He mumbled something and then Anna saw he was crying.
‘Sorry, Declan I shouldn’t have left those drawings lying around,’ she said sitting on the chair near him.
‘It’s not the drawings. I need to know – did she suffer? Was it quick?’ He hadn’t asked her that before. She had expected him to; loved ones nearly always do.
‘Declan, I can’t know for sure, you know that,’ she reached for him, her arms reaching around him, pulling him into her embrace, and all thoughts of ending it drained from her mind. His fingers reached for a photograph sitting on the pile of documents. His fingers lingered over it – Esme, at an end of term party. Her face aglow with fun and optimism. The coffee table held the newspaper clippings, pictures of the girls and an assortment of post-its marked out a time frame. A map spread out showing a dark blue line outlining each of the places the girls were found. Anna lowered herself on to the floor beside Declan’s chair, ‘There has to be something in the localities – why does he choose these places? What is his knowledge of the areas he operates in?’
‘We have to assume he is working in some capacity that brings him into contact with the venues. Doorman, barman, waiter.’
‘We’re still chasing the elusive security guard. He could just be someone doing the double, claiming benefits and getting cash-in-hand for working the odd shift but we need to rule him out,’ Anna said.
‘And then there’s me,’ Declan said.
‘You, what about you? We don’t have you down as a possible suspect if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘No, that’s not what I was getting at. My case. My history,’ he looked down at his stumps. ‘I’ve tried not to bring this up but could there be any link between what happened to me and Esme’s murder?’
Anna sighed. She didn’t want to tell him that they had been digging. That they were already considering this angle. ‘It doesn’t fit any possible motive. If someone has a vendetta against you, why kill the other girls?’
‘Copycat? Maybe he’s had a taste of it and wants more? I’m not saying this makes sense, but I don’t want you to exclude anything.’
She thought about the crates of catalogued evidence they had rummaged through, the evidence boxes pertaining to his case. Four boxes labelled with a reference code: EA/454 737 8. Evidence sheets, statements, photographs of the wreckage and of Declan’s mutilated body.
He placed his head in his hands as if despairing, ‘Anna, in this country, it’s always about politics and religion. That’s the beginning and the end of everything here.’
In the boxes, there was nothing to hint at wrong doing on the part of Brogan. Conveniently, three months later he retired on medical grounds, as Thomas had told her. According to an old station hand, that Thomas had tracked down, Brogan was asked to go quietly.
Later on, Anna lay in bed alone. Declan had gone home. Something had soured between them when he’d see the sketches. She considered their future. Could they possibly have one? The spectre of Esme’s murder always lay between them. Could they survive beyond it? Declan had recognised something in Anna. Being with him was like looking into a fairground mirror, reflecting back a warped image of each other, each damaged. But she knew the risks; she was jeopardising her entire career. Everything she had worked for. If she didn’t have this job, what would she have left?
The cat came easily enough. Stupid, trusting creature. All it took was a piece of fish, fresh and meaty, the scent pungent enough to give off a whiff. The fur was grey and white, a good coat. It rubbed against his legs as if to thank him for the morsel of fish, looking for more. He lifted it and placed the sack over its body, holding it close to him as it began to cry in protest. Its body arched and wriggled, while its sharp claws pierced through the sackcloth. It meowed, a howl of despair.
The light went on at the back of the house, illuminating all for him to see, like a cinema screen coming to life. He watched her through the kitchen window, filling the kettle at the sink, turning to reach for a cup from a cupboard. He stood, cloaked in the darkness of the garden. He liked that, the feeling of being in plain sight, if only she knew where to look. The moon, shrouded in cloud, spilled no light. He had learned that it is important to always pay attention, to watch and see what is in front of you. She was as dumb as the cat. He felt the animal begin to settle against his chest, giving up its idle fight. He thought of his work, out capturing wildlife, the stealth required, the slow patient prowl. Yet often nothing is gained in waiting. If you hesitate the creature will inevitably take flight. Sometimes you have to act in the moment, take what is in front of you.
39
‘This is it, the break we need,’ Thomas said to Anna, pleased with himself. Forensics had picked up a soil sample from a boot print in the alleyway where Aisling’s body had been found, and the results of their analysis had come in. Anna allowed herself a smile.
‘At last,’ she said, ‘but is this enough to give us the link back to Brogan?’
Thomas placed his hands on her shoulders, ‘Yes, it does. We can’t trace Luke Nead and we now have a positive ID of the photo-fit Genevieve gave us. The care assistant at the home says it’s a good enough resemblance to Robert Brogan, so this soil sample places Aisling’s murderer as having been in the Glen’s area, which brings us to Maude Briers and Brogan’s connection.’
Anna nodded, ‘Yes, and the CCTV captured inside Saffron shows Aisling interacting with two men. One of them has to be our guy.’
Holly approached the desk, ‘We’ve got a license plate match. A camera, attached to a garage near to the restaurant, clocked a small white Ford van. The plates match those seen on ANPR cameras on the night of Grace Dowds’ murder, travelling from Holywood to Belfast passing by George Best airport – the same small white van.’
‘Who is it registered to?’ Anna asked.
‘The previous owner – a Jason McAuley. He sold it on a few months ago. Didn’t have the fella’s name or number. Paid a grand in cash.’
Thomas smashed his fist into his palm, ‘Looks like we are getting somewhere. Right, let’s keep this moving.’
For all the divorce drama Thomas seemed to be dealing with, Anna noticed that he was never far from the case. He lived and breathed it just like she did. They had put in another long day, and now, before heading home, they were making sure everyone was up to speed.
Thomas suppressed a yawn, glanced at the screen set up in the room and took to the floor. ‘Right, you lot. Let’s recap where we are to date.’
They were all tired. The entire team had been pulling long days, but Aisling’s death had made everyone extra edgy. Thomas shushed the group of uniforms, and a few detectives.
‘We have failed to locate Luke Nead, and now believe Nead is an alias being used by Robert Brogan.’ A murmur went around the room.
‘Going with Genevieve’s description and the photo-fit image, we have managed to get a positive ID from the care home assistant. She says that the image does indeed look like Nelson Brogan’s son Robert.’ He paused to let Anna come in. She stood and held up the photo-fit image.
‘We are working with the theory that Robert Brogan, working as a security guard under the pseudonym, Luke Nead, had the opportunity to know the venues where the two girls were killed.’
Manus Magee shifted in his seat, ‘What’s the bird angle? Have we anything to link that back to Brogan and to the murder scenes?’
Anna sighed, ‘Up to this point our only link has been that we know from the payroll clerk, Genevieve, that Luke Nead talked of hiking, that he enjoyed wildlife. The aunt of Robert Brogan said something similar. It’s tenuous, but we went with it and now with Aisling’s murder we’ve had a lucky break.’
>
Thomas turned the screen on the wall and opened up the computer file on his iPad. ‘With this we have something more substantial tying it all together. At the scene where Aisling Mackin’s body was found in East Belfast, forensics picked up an interesting soil sample.’ He tapped on his iPad and part of a shoe print flashed on the screen. ‘We have secondary transfer of a small amount of soil that was likely to have been lodged in the assailant’s boot. Soil material on the suspect’s shoe can have material coming from many locations.’
Anna took over, ‘But we sent the sample to forensic geologist, Hannah Burton, and she believes that the soil composition, pH levels, texture and chemical make-up, along with traces of sheep feaces, all suggest that it came from the Glens of Antrim area.’
‘So, Brogan has been using his aunt’s house as a base?’ Russell asked.
‘We have eyes on the house and there has been no sign of Brogan but he knows the area well. It looked like Aisling’s body was being moved and he was disturbed; was he taking her to another location to stage it and leave us another calling card or was he taking her somewhere in the Glens?’
Declan woke with a jolt. His body was slick with sweat. His muscles, sore and tight. Sleep wasn’t worth the turmoil. He reached for his bottle of codeine tablets, found it lying empty beside his bed. In frustration, he threw it towards the wall where it landed with nothing more than a soft thud and rolled mockingly away.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He couldn’t take any more. Sleep was lost to him now. He thought about the paintings he’d seen in Anna’s house. The crime scene rendered to a palate of colour, greens, browns, purples, all depicting something he couldn’t respond to. Yet, he could see that the formation of the scene, the examining of the light and shadow, the choices that Anna made in deciding where to place the brush, could help sort through the murkiness. When he looked at the drawings he felt angry, hurt even, that she would be able to take the scene of such evil and turn it into a piece of art.
He thought of the previous night’s dinner. Izzy had instructed him to be present. Lara and Rory were visiting and he had to behave, she’d said.
‘They need our support too. Lara says the police are hassling Rory over his business and finances, using the pretext of Esme’s death to dig into his companies. It isn’t right. You should have a word with Richard McKay or someone higher up,’ Izzy said, setting the table. She went about putting together the meal; the smells of garlic, lemon, and roast chicken making him feel nauseous. The idea of having to sit through the farce of a family meal made him want to heave. How could they play at being some sort of family unit? But deep in his bones he knew whatever Rory had been up to, it couldn’t have anything to do with Esme’s, or the other girls’, deaths.
He had failed to get much out of Anna regarding Rory. He knew she was keeping something from him, and part of him didn’t want to know. Whatever it was it wasn’t likely to be good for Lara, or any of them.
‘Set the table, would you?’ Izzy said, her voice low and strained. He couldn’t think why she was putting them through this bloody charade. He dutifully did as he was told, maneuvering the chair around the table, setting cutlery at each of the place settings. There were plenty of things he loved about the life he had created with Izzy and her family dinners had been one of them. He grew up in a household where you ate as and when it suited. Usually sitting with your plate on your lap watching Star Trek. Izzy’s way was more refined. Nice napkins, good crockery and proper conversation. Now, though, he was sickened by the pretense of it all. There was something false about it. He could barely manage to eat these days let alone talk about world affairs while passing the gravy boat.
And then there was Rory. He’d been avoiding him. Lara tended to call in while Rory was at work. She kept her own hours at the laboratory but like Declan, she couldn’t focus on anything other than Esme.
They arrived on time. Lara went straight into the kitchen to help her mother finish the cooking, leaving Declan and Rory alone.
‘So, any updates from the police?’ Rory asked, sitting down on the wingback chair opposite Declan.
‘Nothing new as such,’ Declan struggled to keep his feelings in check. He didn’t want to be discussing Esme with Rory. Flashes of the wedding video, Rory grabbing Esme’s arm, haunted him.
‘Lara said they were looking into the bouncers, thinking Esme might have known one of them?’
‘Or she may have felt safe enough to go off with the killer. Trusted him because they had a mutual connection.’
‘Right,’ said Rory. He was uneasy. For all his buster and cockiness, he had never been at ease around Declan and Declan liked that. Call it respect or a simple awareness that Declan wasn’t ever going to fall for his big man act. He wasn’t going to be impressed by Rory’s fancy car or the cut of his designer suit and they were never going to be best buddies who head down the pub for a pint while their women folk cook the dinner.
‘There’s talk about you and Esme. What’s it all about?’ Declan’s voice was low.
‘What? Declan, you know me. You know Esme was like a sister to me. There was nothing going on, I swear to God.’
Declan shifted his chair so that he was closer to Rory. ‘If I thought for one fucking minute that there was something going on, do you think you’d be here now?’
Rory had the good sense to look uncomfortable, ‘Ah Declan, come on, Jesus it’s a tough time for the whole family.’
‘Watch your step, lad. If I find out you had any hand in Esme’s death or that you implicate Lara in any of your dirty business dealings, I’ll haul you from one end of the street to the next, chair or no chair. Got it?’
Just then, Lara called out from the kitchen, ‘It’s ready, come on you two.’
Declan found his days punctuated by the countdown of time it took for him to see Anna. He tried to hold back, to not appear too needy. But if he went a day without seeing her, he craved her. He missed the physical contact, the warmth of her against him. Missed the insights into the case, she threw his way. Always watchful, never saying too much but still enough to let him feel involved on some level. He knew there was plenty she was keeping to herself. Nelson Brogan and the car bomb was one area of concern she had hinted at. She had responded to him telling her about that time as if she was merely enquiring about something tragic that had happened long ago. Concerned for him, and the huge impact it had had on his life. But he’d watched her and read the signals, the looking down as she phrased her questions, the slight air of contrived distractedness.
But he knew Nelson Brogan was laid up in a nursing home. Besides, the car bomb and Brogan’s apparent non-disclosure was of that time. He doubted Brogan even felt his hands were sullied with the bomb. A mercury tilt device was remote from the bomber and further again from the Brogan sitting in his office reading a hit list and deciding to simply let it go unnoticed. His elk were no longer wanted in the new PSNI.
Declan felt that old familiar tightness in his chest, and a cold shiver firing down his spine.
He’d followed Brogan once. He wasn’t long out of his rehabilitation. Newly mobile with the chair and the specially adapted car, he was at a loss as to what to do with his days. Ian Devlin, his old boss, had visited him the day before to inform him of their ‘concerns’, as he put it. That there was likely to be some press intrusion, that rumours were circulating concerning a senior member, who had supposedly withheld information, which could have possibly helped prevent the car bomb. Devlin had spoken in carefully measured language, Declan was sure he’d rehearsed and had probably been prepped by the legal team.
Brogan wasn’t named but Declan was certain if anyone had deliberately risked the life of a Catholic colleague it would be him. The following morning, a Saturday, he found himself driving around East Belfast, the moneyed part. He knew where Brogan lived since he’d dropped him off once after a golf tournament. Brogan had been surly and ill-tempered due to too much drink and sun, but Declan had been gracious enough to offer him a lift home si
nce it was on his way.
That Saturday morning, not long used to driving in the car converted to help with his disability, Declan followed Brogan from his house in Kingsland Park, all the way to Cushendun. He knew enough to keep a distance of at least three cars, to try to anticipate where he was going to turn off. Eventually they had come to a house in a glen, the old family home no doubt. He didn’t get close enough to see him go in, instead he circled the area, looking for what, he couldn’t say, like a demented two-timed lover, he sought him out. He had driven around the area, looking at all the run-down outbuildings, contrasted with the newly built bungalows with their fresh paint and neat gardens. Afterwards he did a little research, discovered that the house was registered to a family member of Nelson Brogan. That he had grown up in Cushendun. For a while it preoccupied him. Kept him busy like a strange hobby. Eventually he bored himself and let the matter die, knowing he would find no resolution in confronting Brogan.
He placed the cat on the prepared workbench, belly upward, humming to himself, a stupid song he couldn’t get out of his head. Some dance beat that was on the radio all the time. He chose his instruments, a scalpel and bone shears, to begin with, from the neatly lined up selection before commencing to loosen the skin. He had given the creature time for the rigor to relax, there was little point rushing it and trying to work with a stiff animal, he had learnt early on that this was not to be advised. Mistakes were there for learning from. He bent the legs apart to relax the joints, and then cut an opening running from the forelegs down through the middle of the breastbone. He worked his fingers in under the skin and massaged the flesh away until the first leg bone was free of the skin, taking care not to break it. Then, by taking hold of each hind leg, and pulling it to release it from the skin, he was able to push the skin back and in effect turn the legs inside out, right down to the scrawny bone of the ankle joint. Just like removing a piece of clothing.
Little Bird: a serial killer thriller Page 26
