Dead Girls Dancing

by Graham Masterton

  He wasn’t a stranger to Cork by any means. He had grown up in Gurra, and Niall had known him when he was a small boy. They had both gone to Scoil Padre Pio. But Davy’s family had moved to the North when he was about nine or ten, to the port of Larne, in County Antrim, and he had returned to Cork only seven months ago. All the same, his relatives and friends around Mount Nebo Avenue had welcomed him back as if he had only been away for a two-week holiday.

  ‘So it all went off to plan?’ asked Niall.

  ‘What?’ said Davy, distractedly, checking his iPhone.

  ‘I said, it all went off to plan like?’

  Davy prodded his phone screen and then nodded towards the smoke rising from the city. ‘You can see for yourself, can’t you, sham?’

  ‘But you had no problems? Nobody lamped you?’

  ‘You’re calling me some kind of a fecking amateur, is that it?’

  ‘Go easy, will you? I’m only wanting to know if you had any trouble.’

  ‘If I’d had any trouble I wouldn’t be here, would I? It’s all dealt with, anyway. There won’t be any evidence and we can make a start with planning what we’re going to doing next.’

  They went inside the pub and sat at the round table in the corner next to the mahogany screen with the stained-glass windows. It was gloomy inside and smelled of stale beer, and although it wasn’t particularly crowded it was noisy. Two local boys were playing pool and whooping whenever they potted a ball, and there was loud music playing on the radio from Cork Music Station, Nathan Carter singing ‘Don’t Know Lonely’.

  Two other men were already sitting at the table with half-finished pints in front of them – Murtagh McCourt, a bald, granite-faced character with his four front teeth missing and a tight grey chimp jacket, and Billy Ó Griobhta, who looked like a skeletal Elvis Presley, with sunken-in cheeks and a high pompadour hairstyle combed into a duck’s arse at the back.

  As tough as he appeared to be, however, Murtagh spoke with a cultured Montenotte accent; and although Billy Ó Griobhta barely spoke at all, he nodded meaningfully whenever Davy or Murtagh or Niall was talking, his quiff bobbing up and down, and it was clear that he could follow what they meant.

  ‘We have a clean slate now, lads,’ said Davy. ‘All the loose ends have been tied up and all the babbling tongues have been hushed. We have the business side tidy and ticking over like clockwork and the shades off our backs. Now we can start thinking strategy.’

  Without being asked, the young barman brought over four fresh pints of Murphy’s, but he passed Davy a bottle of apple-and-pear MiWadi, no alcohol and no calories.

  ‘Good man yourself,’ said Davy to the barman, but he offered no money and no money was asked for.

  ‘We can start thinking about strategy, for sure,’ said Niall. ‘But for the time being, I think it would make sense for us to keep our heads down like, do you know what I mean? We could gradually build up our funds and our munitions, and you can’t say that we couldn’t use a few more volunteers. At least a dozen of our fellers in Cork just melted away after Bobby went to higher service, and maybe twice that number in Belfast.’

  Davy swigged at his bottle of MiWadi. ‘They melted away because they were self-serving sublas, only in it for the money, and not at all political.’

  ‘Davy’s right,’ said Murtagh, in a dry voice with a slight whistle to it because of his lack of teeth. It sounded like the wind blowing across the sand at Kinsale Beach. ‘Scummers like that can’t be trusted, especially if the SDU sniffs them out. They never admit it in public like, but the SDU have more than a million euros a year to pay off informants, and what do you think those scummers are going to do if they’re offered the choice between a couple of thousand in their bank account or a couple of years in Rathmore Road? They’d rat you out as soon as spit in your drink.’

  ‘I still think we need to stall the beans,’ said Niall. ‘Whatever we decide to do, we’re going to need more fellows with technical expertise, not to mention transport, and communications, and surveillance, and contingency arrangements if things go arseways. Come on, Davy, it’s not like it used to be, during the seventies. It’s all technomological now. The shades these days can be listening in to your phone calls before you’ve even decided who you’re going to ring.’

  ‘Well, you’re right that it’s not like the seventies,’ said Davy. ‘But technology works both ways, sham. We can use it to our advantage just like the shades can use it to theirs. We don’t need half the personnel that we used to, back then. We can tell when somebody’s tracking us, and we can jam their signals. We can use those untraceable phones. And we can use weapons and chemicals that can’t be identified by forensics. We’re not farm-boys these days, with shotguns and belted raincoats.’

  ‘I never said we were like,’ said Niall. ‘I’m just saying that we need to be doggy wide and not go off at half-cock, like the Doyle twins. They were in your class at school, remember, the Doyle twins? Now one of them’s dead and the other’s been in jail more times than the warden.’

  ‘That’s because each of them was thicker than the other. Eddie Doyle thought that thermometers were invented by Freddie Mercury.’

  ‘But what’s the urgency? We’ve been fighting this fight since 1921. A few more months isn’t going to make much of a difference.’

  Davy swallowed another mouthful of MiWadi and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You don’t get it, do you? When the English voted to leave the European Union, that changed everything. The North voted to stay in the EU, along with us, but now they’re going to be forced to leave even though they don’t want to. That means the border between us won’t just be a line where the road signs change from kilometres to miles, not any more – now it’s going to be a real border again, between the EU and Britain, with customs posts and guards. That makes no fecking sense at all, either politically or economically or any other way.’

  He leaned forward across the table and stared at Niall as if he were talking to a stupid child. ‘Don’t you have any fecking notion what an incredible moment in history this is? This is the time for us to say, North and South, we’re all Irish, and we don’t want that kind of a barrier set up between us. This is the time for us to be united, at long last. A chance like this may never come again in centuries, after you and me are long dead and buried. If the Brits can take their country back, then so the feck can we. But we have to strike now, while the iron is still red-hot and we have the public opinion back with us.’

  ‘C’m’ere, you have some scheme in mind, don’t you, boy?’ said Murtagh, tapping his forehead with his nicotine-stained fingertip and grinning with his gappy teeth.

  Davy nodded emphatically. ‘They said on the news last night that the British defence secretary will be coming over to Dublin next week to discuss how the border’s going to be managed from now on, and then he’s coming down here to Cork to inspect the naval base at Haulbowline and talk about NATO.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I’ve already spoken to Bobby’s old friend Roy McCreesh in Andersonstown. He could send some fellers down that nobody here would recognize.’

  ‘Roy McCreesh?’ said Niall, wrinkling up his nose. ‘That trick-of-the-loop?’

  ‘You can call him what you like, but he has all the contacts, especially in the PSNI.’

  ‘Are you thinking of trying to do what I think you’re thinking of trying to do? You’re out of your fecking senses if you are.’

  ‘What else could unite this country in one single stroke? Tell me, go on, and the answer is nothing else at all, not like this. What do you think the boys of the old brigade would say if we pulled this off? What if we managed to do what Liam Lynch couldn’t do, nor Mary MacSwiney, nor Éamon de Valera, nor Martin McGuinness nor Gerry Adams, nor any Irish patriot, ever?’

  ‘You’re stone-hatchet mad,’ Niall told him. ‘What do you think the security’s going to be like around the British defence secretary? You wouldn’t be able to get within a country mile of him. And eve
n if you did, can you imagine what would happen afterwards? The pigs would be tearing the whole country apart looking for us, sod by sod, and they’d probably make sure we got a bullet in the back of the head before they took us to court.’

  Davy said, ‘There you go again, sham, talking to me like I’m wet behind the ears—’

  But Niall was in full flow now, and angry, and he interrupted him. ‘No! I don’t think you’re wet behind the ears! I think you’re fecking cracked! I can tell you this here and now, Davy: I know how fierce your feelings are, politically, and I’m not saying that I don’t subscribe to them myself. I know your grandfather was standing right next to Liam Lynch on Knockmealdown mountain when your man was shot, and Lynch’s blood was spattered on him. You’ve told me enough fecking times. But this is the twenty-first century, not 1923, and political arguments don’t get solved by orders of frightfulness like they did in the past. You can count me out of this, and I’ll tell you something else: if I get wind that you and McCreesh are trying to set it up between you, I’ll make sure that it’s scotched, one way or another. Trust me.’

  Davy opened his mouth and raised one finger stiffly, as if he were about to snap back at him. Instead, though, he relaxed and sat back in his chair and said, ‘All right, Niall. Fair play to you, sham. If that’s the way you feel. I don’t want to have an argument with you. Fighting among ourselves, that’s not the way we’re going to get what we want.’

  ‘We’re not going to get what we want by blowing up British politicians, either.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me stand you another scoop?’ said Davy. He was smiling, but the look in his eyes was even harder than usual.

  Niall drained the last of his pint and checked his watch. ‘No, I have to drive on. I promised Mairead I’d pick up young Sinead from the nursery school.’

  ‘Ah well, I reckon I’d better be out the gap, too,’ said Davy. ‘I’ll ring you so, and then we can talk about this some more.’

  ‘You won’t change my mind, Davy,’ said Niall. ‘The old days are gone. We have to get what we want with persuasion, not with bullets.’

  ‘Like I say, we can talk about this some other time,’ Davy told him. Both he and Niall stood up, while Murtagh signalled to the barman to bring them another three pints of Murphy’s.

  *

  It was raining hard when Niall climbed into his navy-blue Ford Mondeo, which was parked right outside the pub entrance. Davy saluted him and then ran over to his Mercedes, with his jacket collar turned up. Niall started his engine and backed into Gurranabraher Road, and then headed north. A few seconds later, Davy started his engine, too, and followed him.

  Niall slowed down for the roundabout where Gurranabraher Road ended and carried straight on up Knockfree Avenue. Davy had been keeping fifty or sixty metres behind him, but as he neared the nursery school he flashed his headlights.

  At first Niall didn’t see him, so he flashed his headlights again. Now Niall drew in to the side of the road and Davy pulled in close behind him. On the left side of the road there was nothing but allotments, and on the right side there was nothing but open parkland. It was raining harder than ever now and both the parkland and the allotments were deserted. The grey clouds were hurrying overhead as if they were late for an urgent appointment.

  Davy climbed out of his Mercedes and walked quickly up to Niall’s Mondeo, with his shoulders hunched. He rapped on the window and Niall let it down.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Niall, giving Davy his hard, long-distance look.

  ‘You, sham,’ said Davy. ‘That’s what’s wrong. You yourself.’

  ‘What the feck are you talking about? I’m late picking up Sinead.’

  ‘Let’s put it this way, shall I? Liam Lynch didn’t die so that funky fellows like you could let him down.’

  ‘Oh, go feck a cow, will you? I’ve heard enough about Liam Lynch to bore me into an early grave.’

  Davy stood straight and looked up and down the avenue. When he was sure there was nobody in sight, he tugged a black Glock automatic pistol out of his inside pocket, pointed it at Niall’s forehead, and fired. It was fitted with a silencer, but the bang was still loud. The bullet hit Niall between his eyebrows and the back of his head exploded so that blood and lumps of brain were splattered all over the passenger-side window.

  The long-distance look in Niall’s eyes instantly died out and he looked as if he were staring at nothing at all. He slumped sideways in his seat with one hand still caught in the steering wheel.

  Davy walked back to his own car, climbed in, and drove off. When he reached Fair Hill, he paused for a moment and looked at his eyes in his rear-view mirror. After what he had done today, he knew there was going to be no going back. Even from here, he could see the smoke rising from the Toirneach Damhsa building.

  He drove back to Mount Nebo Avenue, softly whistling ‘The Broad Black Brimmer’, the song about the IRA uniform still hanging up in his father’s room. The only words he whispered from it, though, as he parked outside his rented house, were the last lines of the chorus: a holster that’s been empty for many a day... but not for long!

  4

  It was almost midnight before fire officers and structural engineers were able to declare that the burned-out dance studio was safe enough to enter. It was raining harder than ever, which had helped to cool the building, but now the roof was covered with plastic sheeting to shield the bodies inside and to prevent any further forensic evidence from being washed away. The rain falling on the sheeting set up a ghostly rattling sound, as if the dead dancers were still dancing the ‘Blackthorn Stick’.

  Katie and her team had stayed, taking shelter in the Friary Bar. They sat at a table by the large front window so that they could watch the firefighters, and the landlord brought them cheese and ham baps and mugs of tea.

  Shortly after 12.30, Bill Phinner, the chief technical officer, entered the bar, dressed in his rustling white forensic suit, with the hood up. He looked as thin and miserable as ever, but Katie had learned long ago that misery was Bill Phinner’s default expression.

  ‘What’s the story, Bill?’ she asked him.

  ‘Well, it’s grim up there, I can tell you. Never seen a fire so bad in my whole career.’

  ‘Any ideas yet how it might have started?’

  ‘Far too early to say, ma’am. It could take us weeks to work out the exact sequence of how it combusted. I can say with a fair degree of confidence, though, that it wasn’t accidental. Not faulty wiring – it burned far too fast and far too fierce for that – and so far as we can tell there was nothing stored in the building like propane cylinders or petrol or paint. I would guess that some kind of accelerant was used, and Matt Whalen agrees with me.’

  Detective Sergeant Begley pushed his way in, accompanied by the smell of rain and bitter smoke. ‘The press are nagging for an update, ma’am. The Examiner fellow’s complaining that he’s missed his deadline for tomorrow morning, and Fionnuala Sweeney asked me if there was anything we were keeping under wraps.’

  Katie shook her head. ‘That Fionnuala – she could smell a conspiracy in a game of glassy allies. But the press will have to stall up for a while, I’m afraid. I want to see the scene for myself first, before I give out any kind of a statement.’

  ‘Fair play to you, ma’am,’ said Bill Phinner. ‘We’re taking photographs and videos of course, and infrared images, but I think you need to see the victims in situ. It’ll give you a much clearer picture of what must have happened, and how intense the fire must have been. I’ll have Jamie fetch you some Tyvek suits from out of the van. You don’t want to be getting your clothes all manky dirty.’

  He left the bar, and again Katie could smell that waft of rain and smoke. Meanwhile, Detective Sergeant Begley handed her a clipboard with a printed list of names on it.

  ‘This is all the dancers in Toirneach Damhsa. That’s eighteen altogether. So far, though, we’ve found only seventeen bodies, and we’re presuming that one of those is probably their
coach, Nicholas O’Grady.’

  ‘Have you contacted all of the next of kin?’

  ‘As many as we’ve been able to locate so far. There – you can see the ticks beside their names. The families of two of them are away on their holliers and there was nobody at home at one of their addresses. Five of the dancers are living in digs on their own and so we’ve no way of telling at present which of them was here for the practice and which of them wasn’t. We’ll know, of course, as soon as their bodies have been identified.’

  ‘Did you find out who that young girl belonged to, and what she was doing there?’

  ‘We’re presuming she was a friend or relative of one of the dancers, but none of the families have said that they know her.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be going to see her myself in the morning, when she’s had time to get over the shock. Hopefully she’ll tell me herself who she is.’

  A young technician came in with three Tyvek suits over his arm, one for Katie and one each for Detectives O’Donovan and Markey. Katie took off her high-viz jacket and Detective Sergeant Begley helped her to climb into her suit. As she was zipping up the front of it, Detective Dooley came in, soaked and exhausted. His expression reminded her of Barney, her Irish setter, after she had taken him out for a long walk in the rain to the Passage West ferry.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he told her, running his hand through his dripping-wet hair. ‘I mingled with the crowds all right and I did a whole lot of earwigging, but I never saw nobody who looked like they were getting their rocks off from watching the fire, and I never heard nobody say nothing at all incriminating. Everybody knew that there was people trapped inside and the ones who weren’t biting their lips was bawling.’

  Katie said, ‘All right, Robert, that’s not a bother. We’ll have plenty of video and CCTV anyway. You can start to look through that in the morning and see if you can spot anybody who looks like they’re enjoying it. Why don’t you knock off now and get some sleep? I’ll be tipping off myself after I’ve taken a sconce at the victims.’