Craig stared at the ground and John recognised the signs. He was about to say something completely left of field. He didn’t disappoint him.
“What if Mulvenna’s frame-up had a personal motive?”
Liam and Andy frowned and John smiled. It was just what he’d been thinking.
“You mean someone who hated him, hey?”
“Well, there were plenty back then who fitted that description. He’d killed sixteen of us.”
“Had he killed anyone else, Liam?”
“Who do you mean? Civilians?”
“Yes.”
Liam thought for a minute and then slowly shook his head. “Nope. All his kills wore a uniform. He probably regarded them as fair game.” He drew his hand despairingly down his face. “Oh hell. That opens the door to all the peelers’ kids taking revenge. It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack!”
“I agree. If Mulvenna was framed because of hatred we could have a list of suspects a mile long, but…”
“But now you don’t think he was framed, Marc? Make your mind up. I’m getting wild confused here, hey.”
“He was framed all right, but maybe not because someone hated him.”
“Expedience, Marc?” Then John saw where he was heading. “Love? You think he was framed because someone loved him?”
“Andy, you’ve seen him. Even as a man I could tell that he was handsome, couldn’t you?”
Andy shot Liam a wary glance and then nodded. “At the risk of Cullen here starting on about cross-dressing and scented candles again, yes, I could. He looked like that actor, Richard Gere, when he was young.” He took Mulvenna’s photograph out of the file so they could all see what he meant. “He looks the same now, only a bit greyer around the gills.”
Liam grinned and Andy put the photo away hastily as Craig restarted.
“And if charm could be bottled he’d make a fortune. I think he was framed in 1983 by someone who loved him.”
“Because he’d rejected them?”
“Possibly, or because they wanted rid of him and he wouldn’t let go.”
“Male or female?”
Craig was momentarily surprised by John’s question. He hadn’t thought any further than women but John was right. In the Northern Ireland of 1983 being gay would have been seen as something to hide. A weakness in a chauvinistic country full of hard men. Maybe Mulvenna was gay. He hadn’t specified if the person he’d been in love with had been a man or woman, just referred to ‘them’. What if he’d been having a gay relationship with someone who didn’t want to be found out? Homosexual acts had been illegal in the province until 1982 so it made sense. But so did his other theory.
“Maybe gay, or maybe a woman who had too much to lose.”
“Married? An angry husband who caught her out?”
“Anything’s possible. But what if whoever it was saw an opportunity to get Mulvenna out of their life and frame a terrorist at the same time. It’s a win, win all round and no-one was going to cry for Mulvenna. Let’s take the simple route and say he was framed by a man or woman who was his lover in ’83. That should narrow the field for us as bit. Add in that it’s someone with a vested interest in protecting an MI5 informant and what does that leave us?”
He looked at them all expectantly, knowing that John had leapfrogged his train of thought and hit the answer in one. Craig shook his head imperceptibly at him; he wanted to see what conclusion Liam and Andy reached on their own. Liam gawped openly as realisation dawned and he blurted it out.
“A cop! You’re saying that Mulvenna was shagging one of us, or one of our wives? No way, boss, not back in ’83. He was a wanted terrorist who specialised in killing police officers. No-one linked to the force would have been stupid enough to go near him. It would have been career suicide if it had ever come out.” He paused and a look of anger crossed his face. “It would have been suicide, literally.”
Andy nodded rigorously. “I agree with Liam, Marc. You’re wrong. You went away to London to work so you missed the worse of the hatred back here then. Any peeler who’d been found fraternising with the enemy would have been ostracised by their own. Like those women in France after the war. Tarred and feathered. How many Catholic girls had that done to them during The Troubles for sleeping with army lads? That’s how it was back then.”
“I agree. But that’s even more reason someone might try to hide it.”
“But if Mulvenna knew he was being framed then why didn’t he say? He could have named and shamed his lover and taken them down with him. They were taking a hell of a risk that he’d keep quiet.”
“Maybe he did say it in the interviews when he was arrested, but it was ignored.” He glanced at Andy, remembering what Mulvenna had said. “Or maybe he kept quiet because he really loved them and he thought he’d hurt them enough. Who knows?” He paused and took a drink of his espresso. “OK, if not the police, then who? Army? Someone working with them? Someone who also knew about Wasson being an informant?”
“Maybe, but not a cop. Army. Or an MI5 handler maybe, they were twisted enough bastards to think sex with a terrorist was a thrill. Or maybe someone on the legal side.”
Craig glanced at John and he knew they were both thinking the same thing, but it would fall on deaf ears so he played it Liam’s way. It didn’t matter, they would get there eventually and he needed to do some digging behind the scenes before he was sure. He shrugged, conceding.
“OK, let’s add MI5 handlers and crown solicitors to the list to be ruled out for framing Mulvenna. I’ll ask around and see if I can find out if he’s straight or gay; at least that would narrow the field a bit. We already have a list of people to speak to on Lissy Trainor’s murder, including her boyfriend and the people who could have hated her Mum. The Jarvis’ kids, the women Wasson might have abused and the men who loved them. That’s plenty to be getting on with for now.”
He stood up to leave. “Right, I’m heading upstairs to make a few calls then I’m going back to see Mulvenna. Liam, make a list of everyone we need to interview and Andy will OK the interview rooms with the station sergeant, for anyone we need to bring in. We’ll split your list in three and use today to eliminate anyone we can.”
“What about the ACC, boss?”
“I’m going to speak to the Chief Constable now about the best way to deal with her. He may want to speak to her himself initially, given the sensitivity of the case. I’ll let you know. John, unless you need to be up here, I would go back to Belfast and get on with your life. I’ll pick up your hotel tab. I’ll call you tonight.”
John nodded his thanks and Craig left, making the list of the calls he had to make. Number One was the Chief Constable and not just to ask for his help on diplomacy with a grieving Mum.
Chapter Eleven
Melanie Trainor sat on Lissy’s bed and lifted her small blue jumper. She held it to her face, inhaling deeply to smell her daughter’s perfume. It was a floral one she’d first given her on her eighteenth birthday. She always wore it, that and the small silver heart pendant her father had given her when she was ten. She’d lengthened the chain many times through the years, determined not to consign it to ‘things that used to fit’ until finally he’d had it made into a bracelet and it never left her wrist. They’d bury it with her now that she was dead.
She inhaled again, her tears soaking into the soft angora wool. Dead. It was such an old word, reminiscent of grey hair and fragile skin, not the vibrant dark waves and healthy tanned plumpness of her child. It felt wrong, more wrong that it had ever felt before. She’d seen too much death through the years. Quiet deaths and noisy deaths. Tidy, and messy beyond belief. All different but they shared one thing; the loss of the sound and touch and look of someone who was loved. And now it was her turn, her child. Her child.
She howled with a suddenness that tore the air and made Lissy’s small dog bolt to cower in the corner, unable to escape through the closed bedroom door. It went on and on sounding like a wild thing caught in a tra
p, clawing and biting to escape the pain. Finally hoarseness forced her into silence and she curled up on the bed, clutching the jumper so close that it became a misshapen mass, not to be worn by anyone now. That was what she wanted. It was all she wanted now. Not revenge, not conviction, not punishment, just this. The peace to mourn her child and count the things she’d done to bring this about.
***
Craig took the seat that he was waved to and glanced quickly around the large study. It was dark and wood-lined, warm with the smoke from the cigars its owner puffed, hiding them from his wife by declaring the room off bounds. His empire and his alone. The furnishings were old and frayed, chairs worn from the long debates of age and chess games played until their bitter end. Hard-backed books were piled on dark oak shelves and stacked precariously around them in towers of random height, some of them so high that they were angled, frozen pre-teeter in mid-air.
The Chief Constable smiled and took the armchair across from Craig. It was leather and old and cracked, worn into comfort just like his Dad’s at home. When Craig had phoned he’d expected a brief chat by phone or an office appointment at best, not this. But the CC had been insistent he visit him at his Portrush home. It was near the famous Royal Portrush Golf Course and every bit as grand as the proximity implied.
“We bought the place years ago for weekends. I like to play a bit of golf when I can. Now we spend most of our time there, when I can get away from the press. Come up. We’ll have an informal chat. It will be better in my study, away from my staff officer’s prying eyes, and I can have a cigar as well!”
He’s laughed as he’d said it. A loud, round laugh that suited his personality and his shape. Craig gazed at the man opposite and smiled to himself. Sean Flanagan was definitely larger than life. At six-feet-five, the only man taller than him on the force was Liam and they had more in common than their height. Flanagan had been a GAA and Rugby star in his youth and Liam had been the same. He could imagine them both shunting their way around the pitch, brute force the order of the day, then into the bar at night full of songs and bonhomie. Larger than life in every way.
Flanagan tapped a cigar from its holder and glanced surreptitiously at the door, then snipped its end defiantly.
“She’ll be here in a minute, once she smells the smoke, but with an open window and a good west wind I can get five minutes out of it at least. Five minutes of smoke for the hour long lecture from hell about my health.” He gave a wide grin. “It’ll be worth it.”
He puffed at the corona until its end glowed then he waved Craig to pour the coffee and sat back, waiting to hear what he had to say. Craig took a deep breath and started the update. After a five minute monologue he stopped and waited for Flanagan to speak.
Flanagan puffed his cigar thoughtfully and Craig saw a fleeting look of sadness cross his face. He seen it before but it had never lasted long enough for him to work out what it was. It passed again as quickly as it came. Flanagan’s cigar was nearly at its end and his glance at the door said that he knew he was pushing his luck; even Craig’s presence wouldn’t protect him much longer. He stubbed it out and carried the ashtray to the window, tipping it into the flower bed below. He answered Craig’s raised eyebrow casually.
“It’s good for them”
Whether it was or not, he’d done it and they were safe from Mrs Flanagan’s angry raid. Unless they were her flowers he’d just killed. Flanagan sat back down and linked his hands against his chest, deep in thought. Then he spoke. He had a deep, sonorous voice, its strength and volume softened by a Derry drawl.
“The question is… do we believe that ACC Trainor is the link between these cases? That has yet to be proved. At the moment she’s first and foremost a grieving mother and our hearts must go out to her.”
He paused and looked at Craig, nodding. Craig nodded in return and they fell silent for a moment, thinking of her daughter, then Flanagan spoke again.
“Let’s take it that our respect for her loss is a given, then if or when we rule out other links, or when her lack of cooperation obstructs that process of ruling out, she must be treated like everyone else. A crime has been committed and our role is to solve it. Agreed?”
“Agreed, sir.”
Flanagan stared into the unlit fireplace for a moment, deep in thought and Craig knew what was coming next. However. He was right.
“However, Marc, I’d like to hear what your feelings are. Tell me what your gut says, not the evidence.”
Craig hesitated for a moment. He liked the Sean Flanagan, but he was still the Chief Constable. He was the sort of man he’d like to meet for a drink someday when they’d both left rank behind. But no matter how informal the setting he knew that whatever he said now would be heard through his boss’ ears. He thought for a moment and then shrugged. He’d never played political games before and he was too damn old to start them now. He wasn’t going to sugar-coat it.
“I think the murders of Lissy Trainor and Veronica Jarvis are inextricably linked. I think Jonno Mulvenna was framed to protect a police informer in 1983, probably by his handler.”
Flanagan raised his hand to pause him. “Mulvenna was innocent of the murder? You’re sure?”
Craig nodded. “You said to give you my instinct and it says yes. He was set-up to protect Declan Wasson.”
Flanagan nodded slowly and waved him on.
“But it’s more than that. I think Mulvenna was chosen to be framed for a reason. He’d been out of the country most of the previous two years, fund-raising for the IRA, then suddenly his name’s picked out of the hat for a type of crime he’d never committed before? No. I’m not buying it. This was personal. Whoever framed him did so for a reason.”
Flanagan interrupted.
“You won’t remember, Marc, but he was enemy number one back then for the police. He killed a lot of our lads. Plenty of people wanted him put away.”
Craig nodded. “Yes, sir, I agree. But with all due respect, why then? Why not when he was most active? Why wait until two years later when he was essentially a politician to do it? It doesn’t make sense.”
He took a deep drink of coffee and watched as Flanagan’s thoughts ran across his face. He was taking what he’d said seriously! Craig felt relieved. He hoped he’d listen as easily to the next part. He restarted tentatively, outlining their theory about a romantic relationship between Mulvenna and someone in the police.
Flanagan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and he shook his head, but not with a no. It was a nod of disbelief that someone could be so foolish. He believed him. Flanagan sipped his coffee for a moment then started to speak. His tone was confiding, as if he was afraid someone would overhear his words; perhaps himself.
“It’s not as far-fetched as you might think, Marc.” He stared into the distance and Craig thought he caught a wistful look. “Back then feelings were running high. People were dying all around us; civilians, police, the terrorists themselves. People were young and it felt like wartime, when no-one knew how long they had to live.”
War; there was that word again. He’d thought Mulvenna was using it in self-justification, now Flanagan was using it as well. He was still talking.
“We were under siege and everyone was afraid.” He caught Craig’s quick glance. “Yes, me as well. No-one wanted to die, but we all knew that we could any day. It heightened people’s feelings.” He looked at him pointedly. “All sorts of feelings.”
Craig nodded, trying to imagine Sean Flanagan thirty years before. He’d have only been in his thirties, leaving home for work each day, never knowing if he was coming back. Northern Ireland was a powder keg in more ways than one.
“The police and army socialised together, drank together…sometimes even slept together. It wasn’t behaviour to be proud of but it happened all the same. Affairs were rife between officers, but divorces were few and far between, because of the traditional times. There were unexpected shootings in Northern Ireland that had nothing to do with The Troubles but were probably lab
elled that way just the same.”
“Amongst the police?”
Flanagan shook his head. “Not that I know of, but then I don’t know everything. I do know that there were a lot of babies produced that maybe shouldn’t have been. Or weren’t wanted” He smiled. “But I’m old fashioned, I think every baby was meant to be here whether people asked it to come or not.”
Craig swallowed, pushing forward with his idea. “Relationships between police and terrorists? MI5? Army as well? How likely was that?”
Flanagan shrugged. “Who knows and who’s to judge? Not me, I’ll tell you that. Love is love.” He looked at Craig wisely. “Have you ever heard of a coup de foudre, Craig?”
It was French for ‘a stroke of lightening’, an unexpected event. It was usually applied to love at first sight.
Craig nodded. He’d felt it when he’d first seen Camille.
“When you see someone who takes your breath away so much that you fall in love at once. Where you can’t imagine life without them and you have to have them.” Flanagan gazed into the distance again and smiled. “That’s how I felt when I met my wife. Still do.” He grinned. “Even when she stubs out my cigar.” He turned to Craig seriously. “Now imagine that feeling in wartime, when you don’t know if you’ll ever see them again. Imagine the heightened tension. Add in the Romeo and Juliet effect of being on opposite sides of the fence, and, well…”
Craig nodded. It could happen. Jew and Muslim, Sunni and Shi’a, Police and terrorist. Some loves would last beyond the war and some were only ever that, a love just for that time. He took it one step further.
“And what if they were gay, sir? What about two men? Mulvenna and someone in the police, army or MI5? Someone hurt or rejected who wanted to take revenge?”
Flanagan paused in his reverie, frowning in thought. There’d been plenty of gay officers in the force, even back then. They’d kept it quiet but everyone had known. So what? People were people and love was love, but in 1983 it could have added another reason into the frame.
The Broken Shore Page 9
