The Broken Shore

by Catriona King

  Annette nodded, thinking about what she’d just heard. It made sense. There’d been times over the years when she’d seen Craig holding something back. Keeping his emotions just a bit too tightly under control, almost as if he let go he’d never get the genie back into the bottle. Or the beast back into its cage... It was a side of him that they’d never seen, but now she knew about it she wasn’t at all surprised.

  She nodded at the pages, back in Inspector mode. “Do you have any idea who might have sent them?”

  Lucia shook her head, throwing her long hair across her face. She pushed it back with a half-smile, relieved that Annette was going to help, without Marc or her parents being told. She was a thirty-two-year-old woman but they still treated her as if she was five.

  “None. I called the phone provider but the number’s an unregistered pay-as-you-go. I’ve racked my brains for old boyfriends, or men who’ve made me feel creepy, but there’s no-one who stands out.”

  “Has anyone been hanging around your work or outside your flat?”

  “I haven’t noticed anyone, but I’ll keep a look out.”

  “I need to see the rest of the texts.”

  “There have been letters as well.”

  “Posted to your home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any e-mails?”

  Lucia shook her head. “They probably think they’d be too easy to trace.”

  Annette thought quickly. “Right, I need to see everything you’ve received and I want you to take taxis or drive everywhere until we sort this out. Develop a leak in the ceiling of your bedroom, bad enough so that you have to stay with your folks for a week or so while it’s repaired.”

  “But, I…”

  “But nothing, Lucia. Those are my terms for keeping this under the radar. Tell me now if you can’t go along with them and I’ll hand the case over to Marc.”

  Annette folded her arms stubbornly and Lucia could see from her expression that she wasn’t playing games. She nodded reluctantly.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll get Davy to do his thing with the texts and letters and get patrols to drive past your flat and see what they pick up. Don’t tell anyone at your work about this, or that you’re staying with your folks.”

  Lucia smiled, relieved. Annette made a good Inspector and she trusted her. She just hoped that Marc didn’t find out. Keeping this from him could put them both in his bad books for a long, long time.

  Chapter Eight

  Sunday Morning

  Craig slumped down to breakfast nursing the hangover from hell, to see three other men feeling exactly the same. The only comfort was that Andy looked worse than all of them and he’d had the least to drink. They’d poured him into bed at three a.m. and continued their session in Liam’s room, trying to persuade John that he wasn’t in love with the barmaid and that death at Natalie’s hands would be far more painful than his imagined loss.

  “How come none of you look as rough as me, hey? You drank the Bann dry last night.”

  Liam nodded sagely. “Aye well, that’ll explain it then. We’re used to drinking the Lagan and it’s powerful stuff. The Bann’s like diet soda to us.”

  Andy made a weak attempt at laughter then held his head and stared out at the sea. The hotel had views of the Donegal Peninsula and glimpses of Scotland as well. The whole area was stunning, including the beach where they’d found Lissy. It was known locally as the Strand, but whatever you called it, it was beautiful. Miles of pale clean sand dotted with people taking an early morning stroll. In the distance a few adventurous surfers were braving the North Atlantic’s unpredictable moods.

  John was staring out the window as well, but he wasn’t admiring the shoreline. He was thinking of any forensics the C.S.I.s might have missed. Craig contrasted his focus with Liam and Andy’s morning craic, wondering who had it right. After ten minutes of coffee, toast and banter, he pulled them all back to work.

  “OK. Liam, did you get anywhere with Lissy Trainor’s movements yesterday.”

  Liam pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flicked to a page near the back. He shook his head slowly as he spoke.

  “Saturday was a hard one to pin people down. All her classmates went home after they graduated from Uni in July, so that only left the local ones. I also went to the street where she lives with her Mum and Dad.”

  He gave a long whistle and Andy covered his ears, wincing. “It’s up on the cliff near the convent, and man, you should see the house. Big as a barracks. That cost a fortune, you can bet on it. There was a boat in the drive and all.”

  Craig interjected. “Did you knock at the Trainor’s house or just the neighbours?”

  He already knew the answer. Liam was too long in the tooth to foul the path this soon.

  Liam shot him a wry look. “Neighbours. I’ll leave the Mr and Mrs for another day. Anyway… the girl next door is called Billy Munroe, and...”

  “Billy?” Andy was staring at him confused.

  “God, you’re as old fashioned as Davy.” He ignored their questioning looks and carried on with a superior tone. “Billy’s her nickname. It’s cool for girls to take boys name these days, apparently. Mind you, her real name is Wilhelmina so you can understand why.”

  Craig waved him on, as amused as Andy now. Liam could turn a simple report into an episode of Have I Got News For You. Sometimes it drove him mad but it was just what they needed today in their hung-over haze.

  “Well, Billy says that Lissy hated her Mum but loved her dad and he was the only reason she stayed living at home. But she was planning to move in with her boyfriend in a couple of weeks. Excited about it too, then all of a sudden it was all off and there were tears every day. Billy had no idea why but she did say the boyfriend had been a bit of player at school.”

  “Isn’t everyone a player at sixteen?”

  They turned towards the question and saw John with a smile on his face. Craig had been to school with him and John was the sort who’d worshipped girls from afar, but if he wanted to pretend he’d been a player, who was he to ‘out’ him? Andy was staring wistfully into space, remembering.

  Liam sniffed and moved on. He’d been too busy working on his parent’s farm at sixteen to play around, then he’d put on the suit and started getting shot at, met Danni and that was the end of that. Although he liked to practice flirting with Nicky to prevent rusting up.

  Craig interjected. “OK Liam, keep going with the friends and get the boyfriend in for a chat. Let’s have him in at the station, it’ll focus his mind. John, anything more on the ’83 case?”

  John shook his head. “The M.O. was slightly different. Ronni Jarvis was beaten then strangled before she was buried in the sand. I’ve a call out for any hair and sand fibres they had back then, but as you said yesterday, the case was thin. The bruises led them towards a punishment killing, but if they hadn’t been there it could have been put down as an ordinary murder. She wasn’t a small woman and she was fit. She used to play camogie for Antrim, and that’s not a game for the weak. There were no blows to her head and she wasn’t knocked out, so the strength required to bruise and then strangle her could only have been a pretty strong man.”

  “Or men?”

  John nodded. “Maybe. But there was only one set of hand prints on her throat. As you know, the IRA never claimed it and they usually did, unless they ‘disappeared’ the person. And leaving her on Strand knowing the tide was going to come in was never going to disappear her for long.”

  He looked thoughtfully at Liam. He had the most experience of them all of The Troubles. “Liam, what’s your feel on this: terrorism or domestic murder?”

  “By domestic you don’t necessarily mean husband or partner Doc, do you?”

  John shook his head. “No. I mean anything non-terrorist. An ‘ordinary’ murder, if there is such a thing.”

  Liam rubbed his chin and paused. He liked being asked for his opinion.

  “Ordinary, definitely. The IRA claimed their kills. That was the whole po
int. ‘Look at what we can do and be very scared.’ Especially with people they thought might be informers. And they used bullets, not strangulation. With people they wanted to kill, like women, who they knew there might be a backlash against, they usually ‘disappeared’ them. My money’s on this being nothing to do with the ‘RA, but it made for a quick answer back then.”

  “Or a handy cover.”

  They looked at Craig questioningly. He took a sip of coffee and started to explain.

  “OK. Let’s say that someone wanted to kill a woman, any woman.” He suddenly thought of something and turned to John. “John, Ronni Jarvis wasn’t sexually assaulted, was she?”

  John shook his head, but it wasn’t a firm ‘no’. “The report says not, but…”

  “What?”

  “Forensics back then weren’t what they are now. Unless there was obvious semen a lot of rapes were missed. Add to that the fact she was given a bath every time the tide came in. Well, let’s just say that I wouldn’t be sure that she wasn’t sexually assaulted, no matter what forensics they couldn’t find. I’d like to go back and take another look.”

  “At the samples or the body?”

  “Samples and reports first, but body if I’m not convinced. We might be looking at an exhumation.”

  Craig rubbed his eyes tiredly. “OK. Let’s just say that she might have been raped. If we add that in with Liam’s feelings about the IRA, then it makes Ronni Jarvis’s death much more likely to have been a sexually motivated killing than a terrorist punishment murder. That leads me on to my next question.”

  He turned to Liam and Andy. “Jonno Mulvenna?”

  Andy answered first. “What about him, hey? He’s a nasty bastard, have no illusions about that, Marc. If he wasn’t guilty of this, he just paid for something else.” His voice rose agitatedly and Liam reinforced his sentiments with a nod. “Overturning his conviction will do no-one any favours.”

  “Except maybe Lissy Trainor.” John nodded in agreement and Craig waved Andy down.

  “Look, as I said before I have no sympathy for Mulvenna but if he was framed for Ronni Jarvis’ murder, then why? And if someone wanted him banged up and out the way, why again? It might just have been because they thought he deserved it. OK, that’s the simple explanation. But what if it served another end? To get the real killer off? And if there is someone else out there who killed Ronni Jarvis, then did they kill Lissy Trainor? And if they did, then why her? Is it linked to her mother in some way? Or even her father’s job? There are a lot of unanswered questions here.”

  John nodded more furiously with each question Craig asked and gradually Liam and Andy joined in.

  “OK. Was there anyone else in ‘83 who was a suspect in Ronni Jarvis’ death? And if so why were they just a suspect; why did they drop out of the loop? Did someone want them protected who also wanted Jonno Mulvenna banged up? If we find the answers to those questions then we’ll be halfway there.”

  Liam tapped his chin thoughtfully with his pen. “Of course there are two other things to consider.”

  “What?”

  “If it is the same killer then why not kill for over thirty years?”

  “Yes, and?”

  “If it’s a straight copycat, then why no beating this time? And you’re definite Lissy wasn’t raped, aren’t you Doc?”

  “Yes. Positive.”

  “OK, then why copy the strangulation and burial, but not the beating and possible rape, if it’s the same man? And if it’s not the same man then why just copy the most dramatic bits?”

  Of course…

  “To ensure the crime caught our attention.”

  “And the media’s, boss.”

  “The fact that it’s Lissy Trainor would catch the force’s attention at the highest level too, Marc.”

  “And ACC Trainor’s in particular.”

  Craig nodded thoughtfully. Liam was right, there were dimensions to this case way beyond the obvious. He smiled at the newly minted D.C.I. and tipped him a small salute.

  “Well done, Liam. Now everyone knows how you passed the board.”

  Liam blushed faintly and covered his embarrassment with a deep gulp of tea.

  “OK. That leaves us with a lot of interviews. John, dig as deep as you can on the forensics on both cases.”

  “Even if it means exhuming Ronni Jarvis’ body?”

  Craig winced then nodded. It might have to be done.

  “Andy, you and I are going to pay Mr Mulvenna a visit. I need to speak to the Chief Constable at some point as well. I don’t think Melanie Trainor will talk to us, unless she’s instructed to.”

  “That’s interesting, hey. You’d think she’d be desperate to find out who killed her daughter.”

  “Yes, you would. But remember the Jarvis case was hers and she can’t have missed the similarities. She may not want anyone digging around too much.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Tough. We’ll do what we have to do.” He turned to Liam. “Liam, chase up those interviews and ask Davy to find out anything he can about Ronni Jarvis’ life and if there were any other viable suspects on the case. If there were, then who had a vested interest in keeping them out of the nick?”

  He beckoned over the waitress but instead of asking for the bill as expected he ordered them all another round of drinks and scones.

  “This is going to be a long day. We need coffee and fortification before we start.” He scanned their pale faces. “And more than one of us needs our blood-alcohol to drop before we go anywhere near the street.”

  Chapter Nine

  Annette put down the phone to Davy and glanced at the file. It was Sunday and even though she was on duty, making the phone calls about Lucia’s case from home seemed more appropriate somehow. This wasn’t a murder, and going behind Craig’s back was one thing, going behind it in full view of his glass office, even when he wasn’t in there, felt like quite another.

  Davy was on board to help Lucia, and Nicky too. She’d felt bad about asking them but she’d explained Lucia’s reasons for by-passing Craig under the heading of ‘over-protective big brother’ leaving out all mention of the assault when Craig was seventeen. That was Lucia’s business. They’d been eager to help and Davy had started tracing the texts and letters already. Meanwhile Lucia had kept her part of the deal, telling her parents a small white lie and moving back home. The unmarked patrols would keep an eye on her apartment for a few days and report back. Now she just had to come up with a list of possible suspects and they could start to eliminate them one by one.

  A cup of hot tea was placed in her hand, breaking into her thoughts. She looked up at her benefactor and smiled. Pete was making a real effort nowadays; he had been since they’d had their traumatic almost-split five months before. The jury was still out on whether they could make their marriage work, but he was trying hard and she was willing to let him. Whether it worked or not she knew she would survive now, with or without him. She loved her job and making Inspector wasn’t bad but she wasn’t stopping there. After all, if Melanie Trainor could be an ACC then there was nothing to stop her from reaching the top. She smiled across the room at her husband, grateful that he couldn’t read her thoughts. Inspector was high enough at the moment, but whatever she decided in the future, Pete wouldn’t be allowed to stand in her way.

  ***

  Craig parked his black Audi in front of a row of modern terraced houses near the Coleraine Road. They looked about five years old. Children’s toys and bikes were scattered in front of two of them, indicating that they were family homes. A battered car and a gleaming BMW motor bike were parked in front of another. Even if he hadn’t known which number Jonno Mulvenna lived at, the bike would have given it away. Once an adrenalin junkie, always one. Anyone who’d taken planted bombs to kill high value targets like the army and police wouldn’t have any problem with a bit of speed.

  Craig climbed out and joined Andy beside the boot, holding the file photo of their interviewee in his hand. They’d called in advance and
instead of Mulvenna being reluctant to speak to them as they’d feared, he’d been positively welcoming. Craig had no idea why but they’d soon find out. He glanced at the black and white headshot and grudgingly admitted Mulvenna had been good looking in his youth. Or a ‘big honey’ as Nicky had described him.

  With his jet-black hair and bright blue eyes he had the ‘black Irish’ look of many born in the North-West. Some said it was a legacy of the Spanish Armada’s sailors washing up on the West coast, others of the American’s stationed in Derry during the war. Wherever it came from it was the stuff of matinee idols and the favoured portrayal of terrorists by Hollywood, romanticising their murderers to make the reality more palatable.

  But there was nothing palatable about Jonno Mulvenna’s record. Four successful car bombs planted in six years with the deaths of sixteen police and soldiers to his name, not to mention the prison officers he’d picked off through his sights. Only fifteen years prison for all those deaths. Mulvenna was a bad, bad man and Craig could understand why someone had thought framing him for Jarvis’ murder was justice. But it was a rough justice that had just come back to bite them on the ass.

  Andy slipped on his jacket and they walked to the door of number fourteen, then knocked and waited, their reflection warping back at them in the BMW’s shining chrome. The door was opened a minute later by a man whose only concession to the years was some greying at his temples that made Craig think of Richard Gere. He was shocked. If this man’s evil was written anywhere it wasn’t on his face. Dorian Gray must be missing a portrait. Mulvenna was in his fifties but he looked almost as young and fit as he had in ’83. He smiled at them and Craig stared back unyieldingly. He flashed his badge and Mulvenna shrugged, waving them into a neat front room with a series of oil paintings on the walls.

  The paintings subjects were varied. A bird, a man who resembled Mulvenna and a stunning woman caught Craig’s eye. He glanced at Mulvenna’s hand but there was no ring. That meant nothing nowadays. Men like him didn’t wear them, always free in their minds. He turned to look at the other wall where a painting of Portstewart Strand held pride of place. An aide-mémoire of Jarvis’ murder? No, he doubted it; there was nothing dark about the image. The painting was just like the others: beautiful. Whoever had painted them had real talent, and Craig said so. He was surprised by the faint blush that coloured Mulvenna’s face.