Little Bird: a serial killer thriller

by Sharon Dempsey

  It was the journalist, Ivan McGonigle. She recognised him from his by-line photograph. With a shock of red hair and his geek boy glasses he was easily identifiable.

  She stilled the engine and got out of her car, grabbing her bag from the passenger seat as he approached her. She noted his easy way of striding across the road to her, ducking in and out of the traffic backing up from the still busy Lisburn Road. She caught a glimpse of his AC/DC T-shirt beneath his jacket.

  ‘Can I have word DI Cole?’ He flashed his press card at her, as if it would somehow make her more likely to stop for him, and grabbed her car door.

  ‘No, I don’t talk to journalists. Go through the press office like everyone else.’

  Anna tried to push her car door closed, but he had placed himself neatly between her and the car, blocking her arm from the door.

  ‘Plenty are saying the PSNI serious crime unit are out of their depth and have enlisted you from across the water for your expertise. Care to comment?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Maybe you would be more interested if I ran with the story about your mother’s death. Tragic really. You nursed her through her cancer, didn’t you?’ He spoke quietly, scanning Anna for a reaction. She didn’t miss a blink.

  ‘My mother’s death is none of your business,’ she hissed.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not running it, but I think you deserve a head’s up on an even bigger story. I’ve been told by a reliable source that you and Declan Wells are having an affair. He’s been seen leaving your house. Feel free to respond with a quote on the record, like,’ he pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose.

  Anna felt as if he had knocked the wind right out of her. She hadn’t time to react, to compose her features.

  ‘Get the fuck away from my car, or I’ll charge you with harassment.’

  He stepped back, smirking, ‘I’ll take that as another no comment, shall I?’

  Anna jumped back in her car, slammed the door shut and floored the accelerator. She sped off, thumping the steering wheel with her right hand. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She should have seen it coming. Every instinct of her being told her that being involved with Declan was a time bomb waiting to detonate. She’d lose her job, and destroy the entire case. Rage at herself, rage at McGonigle rippled through her body. She had no choice but to face McKay with the story herself before it broke in the paper. It was only a matter of time before the inquest into her mother’s death had caught up with her. McKay would have two reasons to sack her. She almost went through a red light and a car horn lambasted her.

  That little shit of a hack had no business prying into her life. Camille was gone, and no one could be sadder and more regretful about that than Anna. If she were faced with the same choices again, the outcome would be the same.

  As for Declan, while she knew the risks and the sense of not being involved with him, she couldn’t deny that part of her was glad it was out in the open. The fear of being found out had hung over them. She thought of all the reasons she had used to convince herself that their affair was not compromising the investigation. She doubted McKay would buy into any of them.

  They had spent months going from one hospital appointment to the next. Sitting in dreary NHS waiting rooms waiting to be told what they already knew – that the cancer was back and this time there would be no remission. The options were limited -intensive chemotherapy to buy time, but spend her last weeks in pain and sickness. Initially Camille had thought she had a choice – to say no to the treatment, to bow out gracefully in the comfort of her own home and to slip away without causing too much fuss. Of course, it wasn’t so straightforward. The consultant had patiently explained that sometimes the chemo was to keep the symptoms of the cancer at bay, to make the last few weeks more tolerable.

  ‘Sometimes the chemotherapy in end stage is to help ease your passage. We will do everything possible to make you comfortable, but you have to realise that rejecting treatment isn’t always the best option.’

  So, they found themselves back in the cycle of IV drips, hospital stays, low blood counts and infections. Camille endured as much as she could with good grace, as was her character, but Jimmy struggled to cope, and Anna watched him turn away more than once rather than face watching her mother suffer.

  Anna let herself in and threw the keys on the hall table. She unzipped her boots and padded into the living room. The move to Belfast had seemed reactive. It was a knee jerk decision. She hadn’t brought over any personal items, except for one – a framed photograph of Camille taken last year. She lifted it down from the mantelpiece and looked at the face smiling out at her. The thick ash blonde hair had gone; wisps of fine baby-like hair were all that remained. She had her make up on, eyes expertly lined and a smudge of grey powder on her eyelids, and as always finished off with her favourite coral lipstick. Anna had taken the photograph in the garden at home. She could see the pearly white magnolia blossoms in the background, and knew from memory that her father was in the kitchen trying to sort out some drinks. Even such a small job as pouring a few drinks seemed to flummox him. They were all wore out with stress and worry, but there amongst it all sat Camille, looking radiant.

  Within two weeks they had had the news that the cancer had spread to her thoracic spine. She was riddled with it, paralysed by it, and in such pain and suffering that her anguished cries could be heard throughout the house. Morphine was pumped in through the dreaded syringe driver, doing little more than inducing fitful sleeps, during which she whimpered and begged to be helped. Hospice nurses, always well meaning, came and went according to a pattern of shifts yet no one could help her, not really. Every time a new face would appear at the door, full of concern and goodliness, they hoped this would be the one, the one guardian angel to help them all work this out. Anna came to realise that sometimes the answer lies within. You have to do the unthinkable and live with the consequences.

  44

  Anna hadn’t thought about getting drunk during the day since university. Drinking was still new to her then, the buzz of a night out, the banter with friends, the talking shite until 4.00 a.m. when she’d fall asleep on Cerys’ bed or in some boy’s arms. She missed those days.

  ‘So, what are you drinking?’

  ‘Thomas!’ she exclaimed, delighted to see him.

  ‘Don’t act all surprised, you called me twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘I know, but you came!’

  She moved over on the leather sofa to give him room. The bar was fairly empty; a couple sat close together, head’s touching, over by the window, and two women perched on bar stools were studying the cocktail menu deep in debate about the merits of a Woo Woo over a French Connection.

  ‘So, what’s the occasion?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘I fucked up. Big time.’

  ‘Ah so, we’re drowning our sorrows, are we?’

  ‘Yep, that’s about the sum of it,’ she knocked back the last of her glass of vodka and tonic.

  ‘I’ll get you glass of water and you can tell your uncle Thomas all about it.’

  Anna screwed up her nose, ‘Who made you school prefect?’

  ‘I’m sure you’d do the same for me if I was two sheets to the wind.’

  ‘Fine, water it is, but first, I have to pee.’

  ‘Off you go then and don’t be falling asleep on the bog. I’m not going in there to carry you out.’

  She smiled at him. He was cute in that over-grown boy sort of way. Why couldn’t she have fallen for him instead of Declan?

  Thomas was back with the drinks on the table when Anna returned.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what you’ve done that’s so terrible to need us to be plastered this early in the evening?’

  She took a long drink of the iced water. ‘It’s Declan Wells.’

  ‘Declan Wells. What about him?’

  ‘Well he and I …’ she let the sentence trail off and saw wheels turning and then the shock register on Thomas’ gormless face.

&nbs
p; ‘What? You are shagging Declan Wells?’ he hissed low, as if afraid that someone would hear them.

  Anna nodded. She didn’t intend to cry or expect to, but the tears came anyway.

  ‘Fuck, you’ve went and done it now Tonto. Does McKay know?’

  ‘Not yet, but Ivan McGonigle has got wind of it and he’s threatening to run with it,’ she sniffed back her tears.

  ‘Here, blow your nose,’ he gave her a crumpled hanky retrieved from his jacket pocket.

  ‘I’m sorry, Thomas. I know McKay will say I’ve jeopardised the case but honest to God, I haven’t. Declan’s desperate to know who killed Esme and the others. He and I have been working together, profiling and well, I didn’t pass on anything which would be of risk from prosecuting Rory Finnegan or anyone else.’

  ‘Shit Anna, you can’t know that for sure.’

  She put her face in her hands feeling pure despair.

  Thomas paused and then said, ‘We need to get on top of this before it breaks. Can McGonigle prove you two have been at it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. So, what if someone has seen him leave my house? We weren’t exactly snogging on the door step.’

  ‘We go for denial then.’

  Anna was silent for a moment.

  ‘I’m not sure that will work. I’ve fucked up big time. I don’t want to do anything more to compromise the investigation, or myself. Maybe it’s better to come clean.’

  Thomas took a sip of his pint. The froth stayed on his upper lip, making Anna think of milk moustaches. ‘Are you going to tell McKay?’ he asked. She loved his loyalty to her, the fact that he asked if she was going to McKay rather than forcing her to.

  He had every right to tell her to resign immediately. It was reassuring to know he was in her corner.

  ‘My judgment of late has been off course. I can’t trust myself to deal with this alone. I don’t want to be off the case but I can’t walk away from this either.’

  ‘You won’t have to,’ he took her hand.

  ‘There’s a very good chance I’ll be sacked. If I’m lucky, I’ll be sent back to uniform and probably back to Cardiff.’ She could hear her voice breaking. Thomas squeezed her hand.

  ‘Nah, it won’t come to that. McKay’s all right. He’ll stand by you. He’ll throw a complete hissy fit first though, so be warned.’

  ‘What about the case? We’re getting somewhere I can feel it. He has slipped up with Aisling. It didn’t go as planned and that’s how we are going to get him. The soil sample, the car plates, the CCTV and the photo-fit – it’s all falling into place. We know he’s a watcher. He plans everything and waits for his moment.’

  She saw a flicker of something pass over Thomas’ face. ‘I don’t want to jump to conclusions and scare you, but had you considered that the killer has been watching Declan, and by extension you?’

  ‘But I wouldn’t fit with his type. I’m not on the shelf yet, but I’m not a young girl either.’ She thought of the cat and knew that he had been watching her.

  ‘We don’t know his motivation, so we can’t rule anything out, and if grease bags like McGonigle know about you and Declan, then the chances are others might know too, especially someone keeping an eye on Declan Wells.’

  ‘So, you’re saying you think Esme was picked out and targeted because of her dad?’

  ‘We can’t rule it out, not for sure. All we know is that Brogan junior has been moonlighting for the security firm, probably working under the name Luke Nead and we can’t trace him. He’s hiding something. Finnegan is a low life in a sharp suit, but I don’t think he is our murderer.’

  Anna felt icy cold. She took another drink of the water and felt sick.

  ‘Come on now, dry your tears Tonto. We need to sober you up and go see McKay before McGonigle writes up his copy.’

  He didn’t always live like this; alone and bitter. There was a time when he had plans, friends and a life of expectation. By his fifth year at grammar school he had found his gang, Glenn, Vincie and Dan. They played video games in Vincie’s house, his mother always welcoming, too much make up and dressed like she was eighteen, but they loved her. She’d buy them Chinese takeaway and give them a can of Harp larger each. He loved those easy moments when he could forget about home. The banter, talk of girls they couldn’t get off with, finding a stash of porno mags behind the row of shops, giving each other dead arms in jest, the heady thrill of it all – it was all he lived for. They kept to themselves, not venturing into the main social life of school.

  It wasn’t to last, though. By the Easter of fifth year, when he should have been working for his GCSEs, his mother had become sick. Really sick.

  After school, he should have gone to university, that was the plan. He would’ve liked to have studied history maybe or even philosophy. He liked reading about Descartes, Kant and Nietzsche. The thinkers. He wasn’t stupid, far from it. But that path wasn’t to be. When his mum became ill he gave up, school didn’t seem so important. He stayed home to help her hide her illness, to have the dinner on the table for his Da coming home, to keep the place tidy, just the way his Da liked it. Military neatness, that served no purpose beyond an exertion of his power. The Big Man barked his orders and they both jumped.

  They concealed the illness for a while. Letters from the hospital kept hidden, appointments attended when they knew he would be at work. But gradually, the weaknesses showed, the shaking hand, the limp leg. By the time she told his Da what was going on, she was past the point of no return. Those months of looking after her, cooking for her, feeding her and even on a few occasions bathing her, were precious to him. He didn’t resent her or the illness, and accepted it as part of his lot. There was never any suggestion that it was his Da’s place to do it all. That would never have occurred to them. It was afterwards, when she was dead and buried that he looked back and felt the resentment gather like a low wind feeding a fire. It developed in to a sour anger that kept rising and falling, breaking against him like a wave hitting the shore line. Each time it retreated, he was left with the debris, shards of broken conversations, unexplained grievances, hurts that cut so deep that they were beyond healing.

  45

  There had been other bad days when she’d been called before a Super to answer for bad judgment. Yet nothing could have prepared her for McKay’s apoplectic rage. Her face burned with the shame of being balled out like a child in a classroom. She had no defense, no excuses. Yet she felt totally crushed by her own stupid actions. While she didn’t regret a second of being with Declan, she regretted the impact it had on the case and how she had risked everything. She felt it all rain down around her, while McKay continued to rage.

  ‘You have called this force into question… Risked our reputation and harmed our case, should we ever get as far as the crown prosecution…’ A nerve, near his temple, fluttered and pulsed, like a butterfly trapped under his skin.

  ‘Unavoidable… evidence… protocol.’ Spittle flew from his contorted mouth and landed on her cheek. She didn’t dare wipe it off. It went on and on, all the while she could hear the tumbling rush of blood surge in her ears, as she tried to hold it together. She thought of her mum, Camille, and the papery soft feel of her hands, the loosening of her skin, the intricate map of violet veins running across her head, the bald, baby soft skull.

  ‘Fucked up, big time. Come in here, to our force and cause havoc. What do you have to say for yourself?’

  She snapped back into the moment.

  ‘Nothing sir, I’ve nothing to offer in my defence I was wrong, totally out of line, and I’m sorry.’

  ‘Have you considered what a good defence lawyer would do to a case like this? Have you given any fucking thought as to how this will look to the families of the other girls? We have let them all down!’ his voice was thundering. The whole station must be listening in, she thought. She was aware of Thomas’ presence shift beside her. He had kept quiet, knowing he couldn’t offer anything to help her but now she could feel him ge
tting ready to intervene.

  ‘Sir, if I can interrupt.’

  ‘You better not have known this was going on King,’ McKay focused his savage stare on to Thomas.

  ‘No, sir I didn’t but I would like you to consider your actions before you take Cole, us, off this case.’

  ‘You don’t get to advise me on how we proceed,’ McKay snapped.

  ‘No sir, I wouldn’t assume to advise you, but please hear me out.’

  ‘You’ve two minutes to convince me that I shouldn’t sack Cole on the spot and hand this whole fucking debacle over to HR in Wales to sort out. She’s still under their jurisdiction.’

  Thomas cleared his throat, ‘We are getting close. I can feel it. Nead, the name we have for the rogue security guard, has been as an alias used by Robert Brogan, son of Nelson Brogan. Initially we ruled him out. He wasn’t scheduled to work that night so we took him out of the equation.’

  ‘Go on,’ McKay said.

  ‘But what if he had actually turned up as if he was supposed to be working. If the other security staff saw him they would just assume he had been on the rota. He has the perfect cover to blend in.’

  Anna continued, ‘He knows the venue, he has worked there before, and he has possibly met Esme at one of Finnegan’s soirées. She wouldn’t feel threatened by him because he’s familiar.’

  Thomas took over, ‘If Robert Brogan is acting on some sort of grudge against Declan Wells, then this story breaking would put Cole in danger. He could see Cole as his next target.’

  ‘What about the other two girls, how do they fit into your theory?’