by Chris Petit
‘And what does that do to your theory?’ asked Nesbitt nastily.
Cross had no answer.
The next day he came downstairs and found Deidre in the hall with a letter in her hand.
‘What’s this?’ she asked tersely, holding out a pink envelope addressed to him. It was scented, the writing feminine. Deidre had opened it and he felt a stab of guilt, thinking it was from Miranda Ramsay.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
He looked again at the envelope and saw this time that the writing was uneducated. Embarrassment gave way to anger that Deidre had opened his mail.
‘What business is it of yours, anyway?’
He stared at Deidre. She seemed brittle and defensive.
‘The children need their breakfast,’ she said, handing him the contents of the envelope and turning away.
Cross looked at the folded piece of pink paper. He opened it and his hand trembled as he read:
They know not, neither will they understand; they walk on in darkness: all the foundations of the earth are out of course.
It was written in the same hand as the envelope. He checked the post mark. It had been posted the previous evening, after Willcox’s release. Coincidence? Maybe he’d made his girlfriend write it.
He was still brooding on the matter several hours later in his office and staring at the note when he realized whose writing it reminded him of. He picked up the phone to Westerby.
She came back several hours later with the copy of Mary Ryan’s Catherine Cookson novel. Mary had written her name on the fly leaf. That’s what Cross had remembered.
‘Would you say her writing matches the letter?’ asked Cross.
Westerby agreed that they looked similar.
Which meant that Mary’s killer had forced her at some point before she died to write the letter. Which meant that the killer knew Cross would be the investigating officer before the murder. And, most unsettling, knew where he lived.
37
BETWEEN themselves they had started calling him the Psalm Killer. It was Westerby’s name, first used in Cross’s office while discussing the advertisement sent to him and the ones that had appeared so far in the newspaper. The latest one puzzled them. There was still no sign of it in the paper.
‘Why the Psalms, do you think?’
‘Because he’s the Psalm Killer,’ Westerby had said in a voice that didn’t sound like her. She looked nonplussed and added, ‘I don’t know why I said that.’
She was puzzled that this latest quotation had been sent to Cross first. She checked herself, reluctant to go on.
‘What?’ asked Cross.
She appeared annoyingly reticent, and eventually said, ‘It’s just a wild guess, sir. It’s not fair to say.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, come on.’
‘It occurred to me that he might not need to send them to the paper any more. This latest is his way of saying he knows where you live.’
‘I know, but where does that get us?’
Whichever way they looked at the problem it was like beating their heads against a brick wall. Westerby had been tense and fractious from the start of the meeting and Cross felt he’d caught her mood.
‘I’d say it’s his idea of a sick joke. He’s saying he knows you now. He’s also saying he knows more than you.’
‘And what do I know?’ he snapped.
Westerby rode out his angry silence, studying her papers.
‘I’m sorry,’ he finally said. ‘Go on.’
‘Until now,’ she said coolly, ‘the advertisements have appeared seven days before the body, with the exception of Niall Warren. The pattern holds for the deaths of Arnold and Wheen.’
She passed over copies of the advertisements relating to them. For Wheen it was the one she had found earlier: For dogs have compassed me; the assembly of the wicked have inclosed me: they pierced my hands and feet.
‘It’s from Psalm 22. The other one is Psalm 69,’ said Westerby.
Arnold’s read: Let not the waterflood overflow me, neither let the deep swallow me up, and let not the pit shut her mouth upon me.
The Wheen killing was straightforward enough. The man appeared to have been abducted by one of his fares, shot and his body left in the boot of his car. The Arnold murder was harder to unravel because of the silence surrounding the case. Cross had tried Blair, who said he’d ask around as a favour – in return for what? Cross wondered – and came back with the fact that Arnold had been off duty at the time of his death and not on any undercover assignment.
‘What’s your angle on this?’ Blair had asked, on the phone.
‘His death might connect to another case.’
‘Well, good luck,’ Blair announced breezily. ‘The army are as paranoid as hell about this one.’
Cross asked what Special Branch’s involvement was.
‘Nothing, really,’ said Blair disingenuously. ‘We were just asked to cast an eye over it. Few irregularities. I can tell you his death was personal not business.’
After getting the necessary clearance, Cross had driven out to Arnold’s barracks to interview his commanding officer, Colonel Greenfield, who blandly confirmed that Arnold had been off duty at the time of his death and not undertaking military work.
On the parade ground outside the colonel’s window Cross could see a squad being drilled by an NCO with a theatrical roar. Greenfield by contrast spoke so softly that he had to strain to hear. Compared to the sharply creased and starched soldier who had authorized his entry, Greenfield looked casual, even scruffy in his khaki jumper. A scrap of dried tissue was stuck to his jaw where he’d cut himself shaving.
‘Sarn’t Arnold was a first-rate soldier, Inspector,’ said Colonel Greenfield. ‘First rate and a man of great bravery. I can’t see how the sarn’t’s death could connect with anything you’re investigating.’
‘Nevertheless, perhaps you could tell me the facts.’
‘Frankly, Inspector, they are a mystery to us. The sergeant was off duty when he was set upon.’
‘And off limits.’
Greenfield shrugged. ‘Like I say, a mystery.’
Cross inspected the regimental lists behind the colonel’s head, a careful roll of honour for fallen heroes to which Sergeant Arnold would no doubt be added, killed on active service. Arnold was one of the regiment’s star soldiers, Greenfield told Cross and, with a look of warning, added that he was keen to preserve that reputation, for its own sake and for that of his mother and father.
The truth of the matter was somewhat less glorious, as Cross found out that afternoon from Ricks’ autopsy.
‘For a start,’ said Ricks, ‘Sergeant Arnold was stocious when he died, having drunk something in excess of ten pints.’
Ricks made it clear that he did not care for Sergeant Arnold. It was one of his quirks that he had likes and dislikes among the dead he cut up. Reminded of past cases, he would say, ‘I remember him. Rather disagreeable, I thought,’ or, ‘She was nice.’
Over the usual ritual of fussily served tea in china cups, Ricks explained that Arnold had been beaten and kicked around the head. His spleen was ruptured, several ribs cracked, the left collarbone smashed. One tooth had been dislodged (and swallowed).
‘The skull was a tracery of multiple fractures and death was caused by one or several blows to the head by an assailant or assailants unknown, as you people say. Have another bikky.’
Ricks was in an unusually flippant mood and quite unconcerned speaking about a Special Branch case to Cross after making it clear that he didn’t care for the officer he was dealing with. Cross wondered if it was Blair and glanced again at Ricks’ report. At least it cleared up why Special Branch had been involved and why Sergeant Arnold’s commanding officer was so keen on discretion.
‘That sort of dilation you’d expect from regular anal intercourse over a period of years,’ said Ricks. ‘So yon Tommy was as queer as a coot. Of course, it’s still illegal in the forces. Hence your chums in SB, I su
ppose. There’s a lot of squaddies shitting themselves, no doubt.’
Westerby was always aware of having too little time to follow up matters properly. Most of her work for Cross was being done out of hours at home. She went to bed dog tired and woke up feeling the same. She found herself thinking up ways of not seeing Martin. Her period was late, too.
Cross, looking for an excuse not to go home, phoned Niall Warren’s colleague, Ronnie Stevens. The Warren case had been nagging away in the back of his mind. He was aware of neglecting Miranda Ramsay’s doubts about his death.
Stevens was evasive on the phone but finally relented and agreed to meet in a bar close to his newspaper. He was already waiting when Cross arrived, sitting alone – in forlorn contrast to the earlier sociable picture he had painted of himself – and several drinks to the good.
Cross was shocked at how rough Stevens looked. The smug, purposeful air was gone, replaced by a puffy face and bloodshot eyes. He sat down and decided to skip the pleasantries.
‘Did you know that someone killed Niall Warren?’
Stevens’ eyes flickered suspiciously around the room. He shook his head as he dragged on his cigarette. Cross thought he seemed scared.
‘Because of the story he was working on,’ Cross added.
Stevens shrugged sceptically, his poise recovered.
‘Who told you this?’
‘When did you last see Warren?’
‘A couple of weeks before he died.’
‘At the office?’
‘No, at his flat, as a matter of fact. He asked me to go round.’
‘Why?’
‘I never found out. He was pissed as a fart when I got there and so out of it that I left.’
‘Was he scared?’
‘He was dead drunk.’ Stevens giggled and held up his glass. ‘And now he’s a dead drunk, end of story.’
‘What was he afraid of?’
Stevens emptied his glass, looked at it ruefully, and announced that he needed another. Cross leaned forward, taking hold of his wrist, and told him to answer the question. Stevens’ gaze swam. He was drunker than Cross had thought.
‘Niall was scared because he had scared himself. It was a way of getting attention.’
‘How had he scared himself?’
‘When you can’t find out the truth it’s very easy to start imagining it,’ Stevens mumbled.
Cross let go of his wrist and told him to get his drink. He appeared more collected when he returned.
‘Off the record, Inspector?’
Cross shrugged and agreed.
‘What do you remember about Kincora?’
Just what he’d read, Cross said. Boys were abused by the staff and the staff had paramilitary connections and that had given rise to gossip about boys being provided for a vice ring that involved loyalist politicians.
Stevens looked bored, like he’d heard it before and started waving his hand like a conductor, in time to what Cross was saying. Cross waited for him to stop.
‘Yeah, I know, not funny,’ said Stevens. ‘Except sometimes you have to know when to laugh and walk away. I told Niall, forget it, but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘Warren said his phone was tapped and his flat had been searched.’
Stevens gave a harsh bark of laughter.
‘Inspector, we’ve all had that. It comes with the job.’
‘What did he tell you about Kincora? Specifically.’
Stevens sighed. ‘That people had been killed because of it. He named John McKeague. McKeague knew where a lot of skeletons were buried and was about to blow the whistle. He was also a puppet of the Brits.’
‘How would the security forces react to Warren trying to get to the bottom of such a story?’
‘Simply deny it. That’s what they’re best at. They wouldn’t have to go as far as killing him. All it needed was a word in the right ear and the story would have been buried and Niall given the push.’
‘When was McKeague killed?’
‘January 1982. Shot in his shop. What amazes me about these guys is how they make out they’re such big potatoes and it turns out they run some fucking electrical store in the Shankill Road.’
Cross asked if Stevens had any idea what angle Warren had been pursuing. Stevens lazily flicked ash at the ashtray and missed.
‘McKeague was a fucking fanatic and a queer to boot. If he was such an embarrassment that the security forces wanted to shut him up they might have subcontracted the job to the UVF. That’s your conspiracy, if you’re looking for one. Anyway, it’s all hogwash. Knocking off a washedup drunk like Niall wasn’t going to be on anyone’s list of things to do, whatever Niall thought.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Inspector, the security forces daren’t fart at the moment for fear of getting into trouble, what with your British copper’s inquiry. Surveillance ops are almost at a standstill and the message we’re getting is that your lot and everyone else are sitting on their fannies. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a date.’
Stevens stood unsteadily, said goodbye and wandered off to the toilets. Cross decided the man was scared, for all his bluff.
He stayed for a second beer and was debating whether to have another when Westerby walked in. He had left a message without knowing quite why, saying where he was.
‘It’s turned up, sir!’ she said.
‘What? ’
‘The advertisement.’
The advertisement had arrived at the newspaper in the afternoon post. Westerby had been monitoring forthcoming classifieds as they arrived at the paper. The message was identical to the letter sent to Cross.
‘When’s it due?’ asked Cross.
Westerby pointed to the box where the date of publication was written in. Cross counted off the days on his fingers. Westerby looked tensely expectant and Cross found himself vaguely irritated. He would far rather be sitting drinking his beer in peace, feeling the evening slide away. He reluctantly pushed his glass aside.
He offered Westerby a lift home. It was a pleasant evening. The sky was a perfect blue and as there was at least another hour of daylight he asked if it was all right just to drive around a bit and headed out towards Carrickfergus, along the coast road, the light-flecked sea to their right.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked slowly. ‘About the next one being fourteen.’
Westerby was silent. She eventually nodded. They drove in silence. The atmosphere in the car had turned strange because of something unspoken between them. He decided the drive was a mistake and turned back.
Westerby looked out of her window, shading her eyes so that he could not read her expression. Cross was still shocked by his initial indifference to her news and how he’d wanted her to leave him alone, except that was not quite true. What he’d really wanted was to enjoy a drink with her without having to talk about work.
He found her idea of the killer moving on to teenagers hard to accept, which was probably why they ended up quarrelling over the date of the next murder. The advertisement was due on the fourteenth, which meant that the body ought to be found a week later.
‘It’s too soon,’ said Westerby. ‘All the others have been in the last week of the month or on the first day of the new month. The twenty-first is wrong, I’m sure of it.’
‘What should it be?’
‘The twenty-eighth.’
‘Then why isn’t the ad being placed later?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said defensively.
‘And I’m sure I don’t,’ he added caustically.
They drove in angry silence until Cross said, ‘Until now the advertisements have appeared a week before the murder. There’s no point in trying to double-guess him.’
‘No, sir.’
‘And anyway, if we’re so fucking clever, why was Mary Ryan dumped on a Monday not the Friday?’
Westerby seemed to shrink in her seat. Cross hadn’t meant to sound so nasty.
‘It was a bank holiday,’ she eventually sai
d.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘That weekend was a holiday weekend.’ She sounded fed up and sarcastic. ‘Maybe something prevented him from dumping the body on the Friday. Maybe his fucking mother came to stay, I don’t know. Maybe he had to wait until the Monday. As it was a holiday he probably hadn’t been working that day.’
Cross wanted to apologize, but pressed on.
‘So the body should have appeared on, what, the twenty-fourth?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed warily.
‘Which is not in the last week of the month.’
‘If you say, so, sir.’
He said sorry eventually and she accepted his apology with better grace than it had been given.
‘It’s either the twenty-first or the twenty-eighth. We are at least agreed on that?’ he said, sounding better tempered, he hoped.
Westerby nodded.
‘In that case we put out a full alert for both days.’
He pulled up outside her house and left the motor idling.
‘We’ve ten days. We know the age. We know the surname probably begins with an E, or maybe an N. And we know the date.’
‘One way or the other,’ Westerby said drily.
‘Phone all the schools with Catholic pupils in the greater Belfast area and check those with the relevant names and ages. At least that way we’ll have an idea of how many we’re talking about.’
On the strength of this latest discovery Cross got his meeting with Nesbitt. Nesbitt always responded well to a deadline.
‘How many days to catch this bugger?’
‘Eight, sir.’
It had taken two days of bureaucratic nonsense to sort out an initial audience with Nesbitt, who had been away at another of his country house hotel conferences, and a further twenty-four hours to organize a larger meeting involving other departments.
Cross recognized a couple of the faces among the dozen or so in the room. Cummings, for a start, and a Special Branch officer. There was a plainclothes Brit who was introduced as Peter Moffat. Fat faced, thirtyish and very public school, thought Cross, as he watched him standing at the trolley pouring himself a coffee from a silver thermos jug. He helped himself to a biscuit, a shortbread sandwich with a diamond of jam.
