‘No nothin from my side. Yer a good kid Billy and in due time yer gonna be a very important figure in the organisation, if ye listen te the boss’ advice. Congratulations on yer early retirement.’ As they stood to leave, Cairns placed a hand on Clements’ shoulder. ‘Just hang on for a wee while Billy. Here have a cup of tea on us,’ he added, dropping a thick envelope on the table. Watching them leave Clements shook his head studiously before summoning the young waitress back to the table. He requested a cup of coffee. The girl smiled flirtatiously giving Clements a boost, his mood had improved immensely. Work at the shipyard was becoming a bore and was looking forward to the free time that he would have on his hands. Fifty percent of it would be utilised honing his fighting skills, he decided. Billy tentatively agreed with John’s words regarding Fairchilds but a sixth sense warned him to be on his guard. Deep down he knew that their argument was far from finished. Their paths were sure to cross sooner or later, of that Clements had no doubt and he was determined to be at his peak on the day. An expansive smile distorted his face as the vision of the big man encroached. He was under Billy’s foot begging for mercy, as the smaller man was about to apply the coup de grace. Observing the change in his mood the girl asked if she could share in the joke. Clements informed her that she would have more fun sharing his bed. ‘Jasus but yer a right cheeky bugger aren’t ye,’ she chided, in her unmistakable, Belfast accent but her admonishment was accompanied by an even broader smile. He scrutinised a plastic nametag perched unevenly on the girl’s ample breast. ‘Naw I’m a cheeky fucker Jean. I’ve never been into yon kinky stuff,’ he replied, with a wink. Rising from the table he handed her a twenty-pound note. ‘See ye in the Manhattan at eleven eh.’ He smiled and without waiting for her reply, headed for the door. Jean smirked as she thought of her boyfriend, ‘Agh fuck him. I never fancied him that much anyway,’ she chuckled.
CHAPTER 23
A full week had expired since Black’s departure from Ireland. The slopes of St. Moritz were a pleasant diversion but he hungered for news. As he strolled through the local mall, a sign, denoting newsagent, attracted him to the premises. Being fluent in French he had no problem deciphering the headline. ‘Tragedy in Belfast,’ Passively reading through the article, which the French paper described as another night of mindless violence, he smirked at the Gallic sense of drama as the article went on to describe the event in graphic detail. ‘You Frenchies certainly have a way with words. Nothing squeamish in your representation of the facts,’ he commented aloud. Leering avidly, he recalled his interlude with the boy. A familiar stirring resulted as he recounted the mother’s futile struggles to free herself, presumably to come to the boy’s aid. Enthralled he read on attaining a sensual high as the writer described the message inscribed with the blood of his victims. An almost concise account of the fateful evening’s events was reported, omitting nothing, save for the actual text of the gory graffiti. He was slightly disappointed with the omission, after all, had he not left the message as a warning to others. He sneered at the assumption that an attack such as his must be the act of a criminally insane person. Police are so predictable, just as poor Maurice had said. He smiled, picturing their amateur bumbling and felt absolutely marvellous. The murderer continued reading, absorbing every detail, with each word his ego soared but what was this?
‘Fuck,’ he screamed, causing a young mother to gather her fledgling to her side. He was made aware of his indiscretion by the vision of sheer horror on the young mother’s face, ‘Sorry,’ the apology was barely audible. Placing a note on the counter paying for his purchase he quickly fled the premises. Bile was rising; he could taste its bitterness as he reread the offending portion of the article. He had to get away, find a place where he could be alone with his thoughts. The urge to scream was almost beyond control. No one on the planet should hear him for they would recognise his despair, be a party to his failure. In agitation he flustered fumbling with his car keys. They spilled from his gloved hand. With growing anger and frustration he watched as they hit the snow’s surface only to disappear from view. Why was this happening? Nathan venomously glared at the spot before falling to his knees. Scrambling around in the freezing whiteness his frustration expanded. ‘Where the hell are you?’ he growled, as if expecting an answer from the errant key ring. At last his fingers made contact. Snapping them up he rose to his full height looking vehemently skyward. Realising for the first time what an idiotic display he was presenting he glanced, left and right, to see if anyone was observing the performance. In an effort to compose himself he gulped in a deep breath of alpine air. It was useless; Nathan was closer to panic that he had ever been in his entire life. Turning the key in the lock he wrenched open the Renault’s door. Thankfully he was at last inside. Much better. Slightly more in control he attempted to start the vehicle. The engine turned and spluttered but refused to start. Over and over, several times, he tried but the stupid contraption seemed to be challenging him, no it was laughing at him. Anxiety rising, he made another attempt but the damn thing refused to ignite. Black was beside himself. In desperation and now seething, he thumped the dashboard injuring his hand in the process. Pain shot up his arm causing him to swear as he glared at the point of impact but the self-inflicted agony did have a calming affect. He took another deep breath, sat quite still for a few moments before retrying to start the car. ‘Choke,’ he murmured, as if aiding a third party. With a sigh he tugged at the small knob withdrawing the implement halfway. ‘Steady now Nathan, you are acting highly irrationally,’ he advised himself. Pulling the car’s visor down he examined himself in the vanity mirror. ‘Flushed,’ he muttered, ‘Have to get out of here. His imagination was running riot; he could feel people’s eyes boring into his back. Peering into his soul as if they were privy to his innermost secrets. Staring straight ahead he tried again to start the car. Two turns of the key and miraculously the thing burst into life. Foot to the board he screamed away from the kerb. The rear-end of the vehicle slewed toward the centre of the road causing a motor cyclist to swerve and lose control. ‘Fuck,’ he yelled, expertly fighting the skid. He glanced in the rear-view mirror; to see the motor cyclist gingerly picking himself from the ice covered surface. The sight brought a smile as he distanced himself from the scene. Several seconds had elapsed before he allowed himself another peek in the mirror. The town had faded into the distance. An icy roar attacked his hearing as he opened the window and in an instant the car’s interior dropped to below freezing. He felt invigorated as the chilling wind’s sub-zero temperature achieved the desired effect. Satisfied that no one had given chase he eased back on the accelerator and began his search for a suitable place to stop. A few miles further along the road he rounded a bend and was past it before his brain had time to register. The perfect spot, a picnic area for passing campers was totally deserted, as it should be considering the time of year. Decelerating he made a U-turn before making his way back to the lay-by. Hardly allowing the vehicle time to come to a halt he snatched up the newspaper. Snapping on the interior light, Nathan scanned down the article until he came to the offending paragraph. ‘Tragically the husband of Clara and father of the two innocents, George Blackmore, could not live with the horror of his family’s tragic end. Who can tell what goes through a man’s psyche when confronting trauma such as this? Perhaps he felt guilty because of his absence and therefore unable to defend his loved ones. Or more likely he decided that his life was worthless without them. We shall never know because the bereaved father took his own life in the most horrific way possible.’ The article went on to describe in detail how the heart-broken father had brought about his own tragic demise but Black had ceased reading long before that. ‘Fuck you!’ howled the murderer, flying into an uncontrollable rage. His body was close to convulsion as he ripped and tore at the paper. ‘You horrible cowardly bastard Blackmore,’ he ranted. ‘You cheated me, you were meant to suffer.’ Tears of hatred and frustration gushed over his florid cheeks. Nathan Black sat in the Renau
lt for three hours awaiting darkness. His sense of failure was, in his sick mind, a tangible advertisement to others. He did not want strangers to observe a useless figure who had fallen at the first hurdle. And what of Jason? What must he be thinking as he looks down from on high? Thankfully darkness finally cast it’s comforting cape upon him. Having gained most of his self-control he drove sedately back to the hotel, where he settled his account before making his way to the airport. There was only one way to restore his self-esteem and that was to kill again. The sooner the better. ‘I’m so sorry my beloved,’ he uttered, speaking to Jason. ‘I swear that I shall make them pay even if it takes a thousand of the bastards.’
CHAPTER 24
An unsettling period of inactivity permeated Detective Inspector James Keiver’s department. His mood was foul and he was getting headaches from a superior whom, to quote Keiver, ‘Did not know his bloody arse from his elbow.’ Subordinates of the big man were well aware of his mood swings and prudent enough to give him a wide berth on days such as this. Unfortunately this ploy afforded only temporary respite as inactivity brought out the worst in their superior. ‘Collins,’ his booming voice shattered the brooding silence like the thunderous wrath of an Olympian god. ‘Where in bloody hell’s name are you?’ came the growl from the boss’s lair. The unfortunate detective sergeant had almost fallen from his chair, startled at the vehement summons. A second ear-splitting rapport brought him scuttling at high speed toward the inspector’s door. Sadly he picked up an injury on the way having collided with the corner of a desk which protruded into the aisle leading to Keiv-er’s office. ‘What took you so bloody long? Stop bloody fidgeting man and pay attention. The sergeant reluctantly complied, terminating the ministrations to his bruised thigh mid rub. ‘What the devil’s wrong with you man? Stand up straight wont you.’ commanded Keiver. Taking his mind off the source of his discomfort the young man uttered an apology, assuring his superior of his undivided attention. ‘That’s bloody better. Now when we were first called to the scene the other night, that wee glipe Dane told us that he had heard a tape compiled from the voices of Ulster politicians, correct?’ ‘Yes sir,’ affirmed the sergeant, studying his notebook.
‘Why do you think the killer would do that?’
‘To disguise his voice perhaps sir,’ offered the younger man.
‘Of course it was to disguise his bloody voice Collins but he could have used countless methods to achieve that end. Why go to the trouble of making a bloody tape recording.’ Inspector Keiver is fond of that bloody expletive, thought the nervous underling, uses it a bloody lot. ‘Perhaps he’s not from the province sir, maybe he has an accent.’
‘Now you’re using your head Collins but what draws you to that conclusion?’
‘Well,’ continued the sergeant, heartened by the inspector’s encouraging remarks. ‘The victims had just recently returned from England. Clara may have had an English friend, a lover even. It was a strange thing for her to do, just up and leave after her husband gets locked up sir.’
‘Yes Collins, it certainly was and by all accounts she knew not a living soul over there. No relatives from either side of the family, so she obviously didn’t go there looking for a shoulder to cry on. No sergeant, she went to meet someone just as you say, question is who? I want you to go over there. Try to find out as much as you can about her wee trip. Secondly I’m not convinced about our friend’s motive for making that tape. Politicians, Dane said, Ulster politicians, why? Why in particular did he use their voices and not Americans or any type of celebrity for that matter? What we need is one of those psychological profiles; we are going to have to call in a psychiatrist. That way we may find out what drove the demented bastard to do what he did. I believe that he is going to strike again before long and I bet that he contacts the bold Walter Dane when he does.’ The inspector gave a huge sigh. ‘In the meantime we have our work cut out for us. Some of the mainland papers are suggesting that the attack was committed to stir up sectarian hatred. Christ do they not know by now that we’ve got that already. For what it’s worth I don’t believe a bit of it. The RA are political animals. If word were to get out that they stooped to those depths, they would lose all credibility. Christ there would be wholesale slaughter, no we have a loner with a taste for blood in our midst Collins and I fear the worst. Let’s hope he makes a mistake before he can kill again. By the way,’ whispered the inspector conspiratorially, ‘if we do find the bugger, I don’t want the public to shoulder the burden of a long drawn out trial, know what I mean?’ Collins nodded, only too aware of what his superior was suggesting. ‘When do you want me to leave for England sir?’ he asked, quickly brushing over the subject.
‘As soon as bloody possible man. Clear your desk and be ready to leave tomorrow. I’ll expect you to fax me a full report every day mind. No swanning around chasing bloody snatch eh!’
‘No sir,’ said the young man indignantly.
‘I’ll get in touch with the yard, let them know of your arrival time. I dare say there will be someone to meet you at Heathrow. The Brits will see to your digs and the like but don’t be expecting the Hilton though. The Met’s bloody tighter than Sofie Tucker’s stays.’
‘Who’s Sofie Tucker?’ asked Collins.
‘Ach never mind, suffice to say that a boy like yourself would not have survived a clinch with the lady.’ The inspector’s frame of mind had improved considerably he was actually smiling. ‘Well on you go then and don’t forget…’
‘Daily reports,’ interrupted the sergeant.
‘Bloody smart arse,’ chuckled Keiver. As the young detective retreated through the office door Keiver reviewed the case file. ‘Can’t help thinking there’s something I’ve missed,’ he mused aloud. ‘Dane is a crafty wee bastard, I wonder did that wee prick keep something back. Think I’ll pay him a visit. Dutton!’ came the familiar growl. ‘Get the car ready, you and I have a few errands to run.’ Obediently the female
detective complied with his request, muttering under her breath as she sped to fetch the Sierra.
CHAPTER 25
An ordinary semi with an unkempt garden stood forlornly completing the row of fourteen similar residences. Clements hesitated for a brief moment surveying the structure. He studied the lawn, which had all the attributes of a wilderness playground. It became apparent that the occupants were reasonably young, as the evidence of toddlers lay half-hidden in the grass. Thoroughly unimpressed by the scene he morosely strolled to the front door, which bore witness to the dwelling’s lack of maintenance. Steeling himself he stepped up to the portal, the paint-work of which was blistered and faded in places. He pressed the bell and was not surprised to hear the electronic tone of a Taiwanese chime. Clements cocked an ear trying to decipher the familiar refrain. He was humming in unison as the door slowly opened to reveal a slightly overweight Sadie Stitt. ‘Come into the parlour,’ beamed Billy.
‘What?’ asked the bemused woman.
‘Come into the parlour now and make yerself at home,’ sang the stranger by way of explanation.
‘Are ye a fuckin singin salesman or somethin, cause if ye are, yer howlin up the wrong tree,’ she informed him through a wide grin.
‘Agh now, don’t ye be tryin te tell me that ye don’t know the tune yer own door bell’s playin.’
‘Shit aye, I must have that neutered one of these days. But in the meantime, I’ll start again, who are ye and what do ye want? Hope yer not one of yon Mormons, cause if ye are I’ve bin short changed. They’re usually big good lookin fellas,’ she chuckled.
‘Is that yer pleasure then Mrs., John Wayne we a beggin box?’ retorted Billy.
‘Do I have te stand here all day in me bare feet, or are ye gonna tell me what the fuck it is ye want?’
‘Okay Mrs., hold yer horses. I’ve come about a mutual friend and I don’t think she’d want us discussin her business on the doorstep. Know what I mean?’
>
Seeds of Evil Page 16
