Rain Dogs

by Adrian McKinty

  I introduced myself, McCrabban and Lawson. She invited us to sit down on the comfortable red leather sofa. Unasked, Louise brought us tea, milk, cups, saucers and Rich Tea biscuits.

  Betty Anderson spoke a little bit like Lady Penelope, too. Lady Penelope crossed with Fenella Fielding. She was clearly English, posh and the only explanation why someone of her class could possibly be in Northern Ireland running a prison was missionary zeal.

  ‘So what can I do for you, gentlemen?’

  ‘We’re investigating the possible murder of a reporter in Carrick Castle last week. Lily Bigelow? It’s been on the news.’

  ‘Sorry, I try not to watch the news. It’s so upsetting.’

  ‘Following an anonymous tip, Miss Bigelow appears to have been working on a story about the abuse of young people. This institution’s name came up in her inquiries,’ I said, circumspectly.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve checked your files and you’ll have discovered that we have an exemplary record here. Not one complaint since the pilot scheme began last summer. Not one complaint. Not one abscondee. If that’s not proof of our method, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘What is your method, if I may ask?’

  ‘We run the Nils Christie Scandinavian prison model, where, as I’m sure you know, recidivism rates are substantially lower than in the UK. The young men we have here under our care are treated with dignity and respect. We encourage them to read and play sports and games. We teach them woodworking and metal working and car mechanics. They leave here with a skill set, confidence and, that most elusive of things in Belfast, hope for the future. We only have seventy-five boys here, but every single one of them is taking at least one O-level or CSE. Some are taking A-levels. We even have one boy who goes down to the University of Ulster every morning.’

  ‘And not one complaint of bullying, or harassment or ill-treatment?’

  ‘Not one.’

  ‘I didn’t see any prison officers on the grounds,’ I said.

  ‘That’s because I don’t employ any prison officers. I employ only teachers, gardeners and social workers. Oh and two nurses.’

  ‘The prison officers’ union can’t have been happy about that.’

  She laughed. ‘That might be the understatement of the year. In fact, if I was to hazard a guess where poor Miss Bigelow’s anonymous tip about impropriety came from, I would guess the Prison Officers Union of Northern Ireland, who have had it in for us from the start.’

  ‘They don’t approve of your methods?’

  ‘No. Beat them, bully them, lock them up, that’s their approach and you can see around you the society that that has created.’

  ‘Seventy-five boys. What ages?’ I asked.

  ‘13 to 19. You won’t find seventy-five boys on the premises today, however.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Twenty of them are outward-bounding in Scotland with the Prince’s Trust.’

  ‘Prince Charles’s organisation?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I’ve read that Jimmy Savile is on the board of governors?’

  ‘The board of advisors. “Governor” is a prison term we don’t like to use. Here, take a look at this,’ she said, giving me a colourful brochure which began with a foreword written by Savile and Lord Longford.

  ‘Mr Savile helped raise nearly a million pounds for us and a sister institution we are building outside Dublin,’ Mrs Anderson said.

  ‘What’s your background, if you don’t mind me asking?’ I said.

  ‘I took an MPhil in criminology at Cambridge and I actually did my PhD with Dr Christie at the University of Oslo.’

  ‘How did you get interested in this business in the first place?’

  ‘My father is Lord Desmond … Chairman of the Howard League for Penal Reform.’

  ‘Chip off the old block, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see you don’t have walls or fences,’ McCrabban said, still trying to take it all in.

  ‘That’s correct. Anyone who wants to leave can just walk out of the door,’ Mrs Anderson said.

  ‘And anyone who wants to can just walk right in,’ I said.

  ‘Why would anyone want to walk into a prison?’ Mrs Anderson asked.

  ‘What happens at night after the teachers and the gardeners and the social workers go home?’

  ‘Oh, we have a skeleton night staff. We’re not silly. We know boys will be boys. Mr Jones makes sure they’re all in bed by lights out.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to this Mr Jones and I’d like to talk to some of the boys, if I may.’

  ‘You can certainly talk to Colin Jones, but I won’t allow you to talk to any of the boys. I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal. No policemen, no prison officers – it’s just our rule. We want them to trust us and they won’t if we allow bullying by policemen and prison officers. Like I say, no offence,’ she said, smiling sweetly.

  ‘None taken. What if I got a warrant to talk to your boys?’ I replied, smiling equally sweetly.

  ‘You’ll have to get your warrant from the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. We’ve been set up under a special order of the Privy Council and are not subject to the ordinary judicial procedures. I was quite insistent on that. We can’t have our young men being harassed by the RUC at all hours of the day and night.’

  ‘Tell me a little more about them. Where do they come from? How long are they here for?’

  ‘They’re all category three, low-supervision inmates. The youngest inmate we have is thirteen. The oldest is nineteen. We have three dorms, segregated by age. Although we call ourselves a YOI we’re more like an STC – a secure training centre.’

  She was telling me about the place, not about the prisoners.

  ‘Violent offenders? Thieves? Sex offenders? What?’

  ‘Category three, Inspector Duffy, so that only includes one or two violent offenders. Mostly drug, robbery, burglary cases. Quite a few so-called joyriders.’

  ‘What about the paramilitary element?’

  ‘Oh, we don’t allow gangs in here. That sort of thing is strictly forbidden.’

  ‘And by forbidding it, it just goes away, does it?’

  ‘Our methods have proved very successful,’ she said …

  She gave us fifteen minutes more of this stuff before our time was up. She was a busy woman. We thanked Ms Anderson and went to see Mr Jones in his rather less impressive office in one of the prison dormitories.

  We caught a few glimpses here and there of industrious, serious youths, walking to and from various classes. They were wearing their own clothes, chatting, seemingly at ease but they stiffened when they saw us: outsiders, adults, authority … danger.

  ‘Hello,’ I said to one of them.

  ‘Arright,’ he said back.

  Colin Jones was an amiable, grey-haired 60-year-old with a doleful white moustache. He was an ex-prison officer who had been disillusioned by the system, retired, written a book about prison reform and been recruited by Ms Anderson.

  ‘How long have you been working here?’

  ‘Since the beginning. Since August.’

  ‘And how have you found it?’

  ‘It’s met and matched all our expectations. The place is running beautifully.’

  ‘No trouble?’

  ‘No trouble of any kind.’

  ‘Tell me about the night-time arrangements.’

  ‘Betty and the day staff are all usually out by six or seven o’clock, unless there’s a special event on like a play or a performance. I stay in the dorm until midnight. Lights out is at 10.30 pm, but I stay for another half hour or so, to make sure there’s no shenanigans.’

  ‘And then what?’ I asked.

  ‘Then I go home. I have a wee cottage on the grounds.’

  ‘Who watches the kids?’

  ‘That’s the beauty of the Christie model. The kids watch themselves. We train them in fire drills and other emergencies. Give them the responsibility. Works wonders. But they can always wake me u
p if there are any problems.’

  ‘Have there been any problems on any of your shifts?’ I asked him.

  ‘No. The kids are very well behaved here. The older ones know how lucky they have it. Keep the younger ones in line. And they know I don’t stand for any nonsense. As I say, I turn the lights off in the dormitories at 10.30 pm and I generally don’t hear a peep out of them until morning, when some of them get up for an early morning run.’

  ‘Where do they go for the run?’

  ‘Oh, some of them go up the Knockagh.’

  ‘They’re allowed to leave the prison to go for a run?’

  ‘Oh yes. Treat people with respect and they’ll treat you with respect. Don’t you find that, Inspector Duffy?’

  ‘That hasn’t been my experience. Not one of them has ever absconded?’

  ‘Not a one. Not yet. The method works.’

  He was generous with his time and we all took turns asking him questions, and if Mr Jones was to be believed they had built paradise on Earth here up the Antrim Road.

  On the way out of Mr Jones’s office we walked through one of the rec-rooms where they had books and newspapers. Improving newspapers only. No Sun or Daily Star. Just the Guardian, The Times, the Daily Telegraph.

  And there, on a coffee table, an old copy of the Financial Times. Three weeks old.

  Back into Jones’s office, Columbo style. ‘One more thing, Mr Jones. Do you not get the FT any more?’

  ‘The FT? Nah, we only got that for Lenny. One of our gardeners. He liked to keep track of his BT shares. And now he’s left there’s no point. Nobody reads it. Nobody can do the crossword.’

  ‘How old was Lenny? Twenties? Thirties?’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘Where would I find this Lenny?’

  He looked out Lenny Dummigan’s file. His address was a flat in a tower block in Rathcoole Estate, but of course when we got there, Lenny had gone. The flat was empty and he’d scarpered with a couple of suitcases.

  ‘Moved to England or Scotland,’ his next door neighbour said. ‘Closed down his bank account, cashed out and moved.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Had enough of it over here, I suppose. Don’t blame him.’

  Lenny’s only relative, his sister, hadn’t even known he was out of the country.

  We drove back to the station.

  Interesting, that. Lenny vanishing. Head gardener at Kinkaid. Good money. But then he quits and moves and decides to live on cash. Lenny, who reads the FT to check his shares.

  Could this bizarre Scandinavian model really work in a society like war-torn Ulster? Norway, sure, where everyone was rich and there was virtually no crime. But here? Here, now? In the terrible midnight of the Troubles? Was it too good to be true, or were we just too cynical to believe it? Was Lenny a shit-stirrer or a whistle-blower?

  When we got back to the incident room, Lawson, McCrabban and I did a zealous search through the police files and the court records. Betty Anderson and Colin Jones both had clean records. Jones had gotten commendations for his work in the formal prison service. Still, everyone could be corrupted in Ulster, and prison officers in particular were vulnerable to threats against their families. Lenny Dummigan had only worked there for eight weeks before jacking it in.

  ‘Do me a favour, Lawson. Put an alert out for Lenny Dummigan. I’d very much like to talk to him.’

  ‘If he’s using cash and lying low in Scotland I don’t think he’ll attract too much attention,’ Crabbie said.

  ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘Something spooked our Lenny though, didn’t it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Let’s see if there’s anything on the Interpol records on either Mr Laakso, Mr Ek or the Lennätin boys.’

  We did the research and came up with nothing.

  The sun had sunk behind the Antrim Plateau and the station was clearing out. Chief Inspector McArthur came into the incident room to see what we were up to. I told him about the tip on Lily’s computer and our experience of Kinkaid YOI.

  ‘I’d like to see this anonymous tip you’ve all been so excited about,’ McArthur said.

  I showed him the printout from Lily Bigelow’s computer.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he said and pushed the printout back across the desk.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed.

  ‘Who have you shown that to?’

  ‘Only you.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Jimmy Savile? Cyril Smith? The Home Secretary? It must be a load of nonsense, mustn’t it?’

  ‘Savile in particular seems an unlikely suspect in this kind of inquiry, sir. Apparently he’s a personal favourite of the Prime Minister, so I imagine Special Branch have given him the old third degree.’

  ‘You talked to him, I gather?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Rather an eccentric, sir. Abrasive. Not really his telly persona.’

  ‘But that doesn’t prove he’s a pervert.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Tell me about Kinkaid.’

  ‘Odd place. Modern. Been running for six months. Some sort of pilot scheme. Only has seventy-five inmates, but it seems to be working. Mrs Anderson believes it will end recidivism among the young offender population and turn Belfast into a kind of Oslo on the Lagan.’

  ‘What’s that extraordinary noise coming from your office, Duffy?’

  ‘It’s Lily Bigelow’s cat. It was sort of foisted upon us. Are you a cat person, sir?’

  ‘No. I’m not. Get it out of here, Duffy. We’re not going to have a station cat. It’s bad luck.’

  ‘It’s a domestic short hair, tabby, sir, no bad luck in that.’

  ‘Take it home with you, Duffy, or take it to the RSPCA. Your choice.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  And with that I said my goodnights, dismissed the lads, and took the cat to its new abode on Coronation Road.

  15: TONY MCILROY’S DETECTIVE AGENCY

  Morning. A cat climbing on to my head and meowing. Shower, shave, skip breakfast, leave some tuna for the cat, check under the BMW for bombs. No bombs.

  No bombs, but was that somebody watching the house from the bend at the bottom of the street? Guy in a parka?

  No. My imagination. Why would anybody want to watch me? He was just a loiterer. Keep my eye open, though.

  Inside the Beemer. Culture Club on Radio 1. Vivaldi on Radio 3. Dolly Parton on Downtown Radio. Downtown it is.

  Up to the incident room. ‘Case conference, lads,’ I said. ‘Let’s have it in Ownies,’ I said. ‘Breakfast there. My shout.’

  Ownies pub, just down the street. As I’ve said many times: the best pint of Guinness in Carrickfergus – almost as good as 1950s slow-pour, sawdust-floor, Dublin-pub-Guinness.

  Ulster fry, Irish coffee – nice little hits of sugar, booze, caffeine and fat.

  We were in the upstairs snug overlooking the Marine Gardens, the lough and the castle. Rain streaks in the window, white caps on the sea.

  ‘Well gentlemen?’ I said after my second coffee.

  ‘It looks like we’ve more or less run this fox to ground,’ McCrabban said.

  ‘Lawson?’

  Lawson wasn’t sure what the fox-hunting metaphor meant, but his sentiments were the same as Sergeant McCrabban’s: ‘Sir, I think the tip Lily got was a load of rubbish. There’s no evidence at all of any kind of impropriety. Kinkaid YOI hasn’t had a single complaint.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the files,’ I agreed.

  ‘The paramilitaries don’t seem to be involved. Your woman seemed extremely respectable, and on its board of governors are Richard Coulter and Jimmy Savile – two people with impeccable records. I know Savile rubbed us the wrong way, but he can’t be involved in anything sinister. Lily is a smart lass, she realises this whole thing is a wild goose chase, is depressed already because of her meds and decides to top herself,’ Lawson suggested.

  ‘And the claustrophobia and the fear of heights?’

  ‘The meds helped her get over those fears. That’s what they’re for.’
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  ‘And the timeline and the movement of the body?’ Crabbie asked.

  ‘Underhill lied about doing a meticulous inspection of the castle because he was drunk,’ Lawson suggested.

  ‘And the livor mortis? Moving the body?’

  ‘Either the doctor was wrong about that, or Underhill moved the body when he was drunk and moved it back again when he sobered up.’

  ‘It’s not a very elegant solution,’ I said.

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Crabbie said.

  ‘But stuff elegance, Crabbie, we’re talking about Belfast here.’ We sank into silence and thought about it.

  ‘I’ll type up a report for the DPP suggesting all these various scenarios,’ I said. ‘Maybe if they lean on Underhill, he’ll crack.’ I made an imaginary scale with my hands. ‘Interfering with a body and wasting police time versus second-degree murder. I’d kop to it,’ I said.

  ‘He might kop to it even if he didn’t do it,’ Crabbie said.

  ‘Aye but if he didn’t move the body and he didn’t kill her, what did bloody happen, exactly?’ I said.

  ‘I dunno,’ Lawson said.

  I finished my Guinness and stood up. ‘But we’re agreeing that the Kinkaid angle is bogus?’

  Lawson nodded. Crabbie did not.

  ‘Come on, Sergeant McCrabban, sir, you know as well as we do that although paedophile conspiracies get all the ink, they’re always, always, always bullshit. News of the World bullshit,’ Lawson said.

  ‘First of all, watch your language,’ Crabbie said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Secondly, you know who would know if anyone from the Finnish delegation was visiting the Kinkaid YOI – or anywhere else for that matter – for immoral purposes?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He’d have their full itinerary. He’d know their movements for every second that they were in Ireland.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your friend, Tony McIlroy, Sean.’

  I grinned. ‘You’re right. Let’s go have a wee chat with him and attempt to close the book on this case.’

  Back to the station. BMW instead of Land Rover.

  The Chief Inspector summoning me to his office.