“Davy’s getting some summary sheets for me and background on about twenty people. I don’t want to have to interview them all so I wonder if you could find out if they were in the country between last Sunday the 27th and Thursday the 31st when Lissy Trainor was found. And check their alibis for me? Anyone without a strong one I need to see.”
“No problem. I’ll get on to it tomorrow. Look, it’s just a suggestion and I’ll need to check it with the boss, but Jake and I are happy to help with interviews or anything we can. We can do it from here or go to you.”
“That’s very kind of you, but check with Marc before you go offering yourself. He may have other plans. Mr Craig works in mysterious ways.”
She laughed, knowing it was true, and signed off.
Andy stared at his list of victims’ relatives and then lifted the phone again, this time to Jim O’Neill.
“Jim, do we have anything on a local lad called James O’Carolan. Son of Bronagh O’Carolan who committed suicide in ’86.”
“I’ll check and get back to you.”
While he waited Andy read the last letter James O’Carolan had sent Melanie Trainor. It was dated the 6th of October that year and it was unambiguous in its tone. He hated her and the final paragraph of the neatly typed page said just how much.
“I hope that someday you get to feel the pain we’ve felt for years, and I hope that it’s soon.”
Three weeks later her only daughter was dead. Wish, threat or promise? When he interviewed James O’Carolan tomorrow he’d find out.
***
“The uniforms have found someone who saw Conor Ryland, boss, or someone very like him, at the pier on Sunday night. They were in the bar of a nearby guesthouse and they said half the bar was watching him ‘cos he was sitting there for so long they were sure he’d been stood up.”
“Good. Any sightings of Mary-Ann Eakin?”
Liam smiled. Once Craig had ticked one box, he was onto the next thing.
“Not yet, but they’ll keep asking. But here, there’s another thing.”
“Yes.”
Craig picked absentmindedly at the edge of the desk they allocated him in the station, waiting to hear what else Liam had found. Whatever it was it would be useful to the case. Liam wouldn’t mention it otherwise.
“Someone called the tip line and they transferred the call to me.” Craig could hear him flicking a page of his notebook. “A Mrs Jenna Farrelly. She says she saw Lissy on Sunday night standing in front of a shop on the promenade, talking to a dark-haired man. It was about seven-forty-five, which would make sense if she was on her way to meet Ryland at eight-thirty.”
Craig sat forward urgently. “Description?”
“Around thirty, tall with thick dark hair.”
“Were they talking or arguing?”
“Talking. She didn’t think anything of it until she saw Lissy’s picture on the news and remembered.”
Craig’s could feel himself tense. This was something, he was sure of it. But what? Would a killer who’d mocked up such an elaborate crime-scene really be stupid enough to stand on a crowded street with his victim just before he took her? He didn’t think so, but there were a lot of stupid criminals out there. It was something that surprised most cops who’d been weaned on the criminal masterminds portrayed on TV.
Something else occurred to him. Arrogance. Arrogance could have made their killer want to be seen with Lissy, especially if he’d thought they’d never find him. Or if he wanted them to.
“OK, Liam. This is important. I’m sure of it. I want you to interview Mrs Farrelly now. Get everything you can from her, you know what to ask. I’ve a couple of calls to make then let’s meet back at the hotel at six.”
He cut the call then dialled Nicky at the C.C.U..
“Any joy with Wasson’s handler, Nick?”
Nicky raised her eyes to heaven at Craig’s expectations of her speed. Just as well he was right.
“Yes, sir. Declan Wasson was a big fish apparently.”
It would explain why he’d been so protected.
“He’d been a paid confidential informant since 1975, and by all accounts he passed tips on the IRA as often as every other week. Helped crack a lot of crime.”
At what cost?
“Who ran him, Nicky?”
“Well it was hard to get through the usual secrecy and muttering about sealed files.”
“But you did.”
“Yes I did but I don’t want it taken for granted. You owe me big time, sir. I had to call in several favours on this one. Seems it was mainly MI5 who ran him, but the army and police both borrowed him occasionally as well.”
“How about in ’83? Who was his main handler then?”
“A spook called Roger Lowry out of Thames House in London. He was over here between 1980 and ’89.”
“Wasson died in ’89.”
“So maybe that’s why Lowry went back to London. If Wasson was his main man, then perhaps he chose that time to transfer.”
“That’s if MI5 had nothing to do with Wasson’s death.”
Nicky smiled at his suspicious mind, it was exactly what she’d thought. Craig continued.
“OK. So Lowry was handling Wasson for MI5 in ’83. Where is he now?”
“Retired. He’s living in a place called Lowestoft up the Suffolk coast. Do you know it?”
Craig smiled to himself. It was a place that he and Camille had week-ended many times. A beautiful port town whose recorded history went back as far as the Doomsday survey of 1086. Not that they’d seen much of the local history, bed had had much more to offer them back then.
“Yes. It’s very pretty. Worth a trip. Who’s in charge of that section at Thames House now? “
“Someone called Peter Guthrie. I called but they insisted he needed to speak to you on a secure line. I’ve arranged it for tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
She’d anticipated everything.
“Nicky, you’re a wonder.”
“I am. I’m glad you noticed, I have to remind Gary once a week at least.”
She laughed her loud navvy’s laugh and Craig started to laugh as well. Craig imagined her husband Gary doing exactly what he was told, and knowing just how lucky he was to have her. The noise drew Annette over to Nicky’s desk and she signalled that she wanted to speak to Craig.
“Where would you like me to take the call with Guthrie, Nick?”
“Portstewart station please, in a meeting room. It’ll be the most secure.”
“Fine. Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome. Before you go, Annette’s hovering. She’d like a word.”
She handed the phone to Annette and shooed her as far from her desk as the line would stretch. She had work to do and she didn’t need people cluttering up her space.
“Hi Annette. What’s up?”
“We’re not busy here, sir, apart from doing background stuff for you and D.C.I. White. So I suggested that Jake and I could help him with his interviews, once he’s sure who he’d like them with. He said to check with you.”
“Good idea. Andy will have all the rape case interviews and Liam will generate a fair few as well. They’re mostly going to be to rule people out, but unfortunately they still have to be done. We have uniforms out canvassing the locals at the moment so if you could start interviewing it would be a great help.”
“Great. There or here?”
“Base it on where the interviewees live. You can get Nicky to arrange rooms in the local stations or interview them in their homes, whichever suits the mood. You’ll know when you speak to them whether they need a formal setting or not.”
“Great. I hear you and Jake are doing your art critic bit at Mulvenna’s show tomorrow night?”
Craig startled, realising the time. “Yes, thanks for mentioning that. I have to go. I want to catch Mulvenna again if I can. Bye.”
He dropped the call suddenly, leaving Annette staring at the line. She turned back to her desk and lifted the p
ile of paper Davy had handed her an hour before. Lucia’s e-mail traffic and phone dumps. Lucia’d said she hadn’t had any e-mails from ‘Watching U’, but there could be clues in there nevertheless.
She’d drawn a blank trying to think up a shortlist of men who could possibly be stalking her, but Annette had never held out much hope there. Lucia liked everyone; she wouldn’t spot a pervert unless he hit her over the head.
She glanced at the clock. Four p.m. She would give herself two hours to see if there were any patterns, then tomorrow she’d turn her full attention to Lissy Trainor’s case.
***
Lucia pulled down the shop’s shutter hurriedly and cast a glance around the deserted Belfast street. There was nothing to be seen except for the undercover police car parked on the corner, with a female officer at the wheel. She shuddered. Was this how some people lived their whole lives, followed and watched? Protected for their own good? She’d only had it for two days and already the lack of freedom made her want to scream, or jump on a plane and run away. No wonder some famous people went mad.
She shook herself for being selfish, knowing that she was very lucky someone cared. How many women had to deal with stalking alone? The small charity shop stood impassively, as if it was listening to her mental rant. Its cancer logo reminded her not to be such a child. That was real suffering; not this.
She turned and walked towards the city centre, with the car following close behind. Annette had told her to drive door-to-door, but it was a lovely autumn day so she’d parked a mile away. She smiled at the scene. It must have looked ridiculous, a woman with a car crawling after her down the early evening street. She felt like the star of some bad hooker movie.
She reached her car and threw her baggage into the boot, gunning its elderly engine and heading for the M3 and home. Not home now, but home back when she was a child. Whoever her stalker was had succeeded in making her one again.
***
Craig was driving to Mulvenna’s for another chat when a tearful call from Julia stopped him in his tracks. He sat in the car deciding what to do, then turned back towards the hotel. His heart had gone out to her as she’d sobbed down the line. She wasn’t a crier so he knew how badly it meant she felt. The Chief Constable had been kind, she’d said, but there was nothing that he could do, not without giving Harrison a direct order. That would guarantee ruining all their careers if it got out, and they all knew that Harrison would make sure it would.
Craig had leapt in then, saying “Sod our careers. I can’t bear to see you this unhappy.”
He’d meant it. If a job was making you miserable then no matter how much you loved it, it had to go. They could both start again. There were plenty of other things they could do. Her reply had been more sensible. “In Northern Ireland, Marc? Really?”
As soon as she’d said it he’d known that she was right. Jobs were few and far between in such a small place. Jobs you loved even fewer. They could go to London, but the whole reason he’d left there was to be close to his parents as they grew old; well, most of the reason anyhow. The fact that his and Camille’s relationship had ended messily had helped him decide as well. But he still loved London and Julia’s mother lived there so it was a definite option. Perhaps they could both transfer to The Met? Julia had been mollified by the suggestion and it had stopped her sobbing at least, but even as Craig said it he knew he was lying, not to her but to himself.
A vision of his father’s face when he’d suffered his heart attack filled his mind. He’d recovered well from it, but how could he leave them after that? He restarted the conversation slowly, meandering back to her moving to Belfast and changing jobs, at least for a while, just until something came up in the force down there. Her tone had changed from sad to angry and defiant; reminding him of when he’d first met her, during the Jessica Adams case. She’d been hostile and prickly then, with a wall around her fifty-feet thick. He could hear it being rebuilt.
“So it’s OK for me to give up my job, Marc, but not you? God forbid that you should ever make a sacrifice.”
“I didn’t mean that, it’s just, my parents live here and they’re elderly. They’re the reason I moved back from London. To be close-by to help. And I can’t move anywhere without a job.”
“But I can? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? I’m the little woman so I can. My career doesn’t matter! I made a big change when I left the army, Marc. I’m not making another to be unemployed.”
She’d slammed down the phone and he’d been left staring into space, knowing that she’d be crying at the other end, but not knowing what to say to stem her tears.
***
At six-thirty Liam and Andy were waiting in the bar, bantering and competing to see who could catch the most peanuts in their mouths. Liam glanced at the clock, the boss was late. It wasn’t like him, he would normally phone. He’d give him another five minutes and then send out the dogs. Just then Craig walked in and one glance at him told Liam everything he needed to know. He beckoned the waiter over.
“Three beers, please. And make them big ones.”
Craig slumped down at the table and threw his jacket onto an empty chair. His tie was halfway down his chest and his top two buttons were undone, it was as close to out of uniform as Liam had seen him in a while. There were only two things that could have caused it; too much beer or a woman. He dismissed the first because of the time of day and pondered the second for a moment, arriving at girlfriend, sister or Mum in order of descending grief. He plumped for the first. Detective Inspector Julia McNulty; she could generate enough grief for ten men.
He’d met her before Craig had and while he’d thought she was bonny, even beautiful, she was headstrong and brittle; not his type at all. He thought of his tiny wife Danni at home with their two kids and smiled to himself. She gave him hell plenty of times, but there was nothing brittle about her, no matter how hard she tried. McNulty lived up to every fiery stereotype her red hair implied and she tried to keep Craig on a short leash. Tried, being the operative word.
He glanced at his boss sympathetically. Even he had to admit that when good looks and brains had been handed out Craig had been top of the queue. If he’d been born with that combination he’d have broken a new heart every week but Craig was a one woman romantic and his heart was playing havoc with his brain.
“Rough day, boss?”
Craig nodded at the waiter as he set down their drinks, then nodded again at Liam when he left.
“You could say that.”
He slipped into silence for a moment, listening while Liam and Andy bantered their way through the gap. Finally after ten minutes of beer and craic he started to join in. They talked about nothing serious for almost an hour while Craig listened as Liam and Andy recalled the outrageous exploits they’d got up to during The Troubles to let off steam.
“Do you mind that time we hung the Chief Constable’s bed out the window by its legs after the Rugby match? He was looking for it for hours.”
He gave a loud guffaw.
“I’m not as old as you Liam, but I heard about it during training, hey. Plenty of people had done it before but never to the Chief. Did he ever find out who it was?”
Liam shook his head slowly. “Suspected, but never charged.”
They entered the restaurant and started of a dinner of jokes and drinks, until finally after two hours they retired to Craig’s room for a debrief of the day’s work. By eleven o’clock they all knew the plan for the next day.
“Andy. Annette and Jake McLean, our new sergeant, will help you and Liam with any interviews you need. The big ones and anything that uniform can’t do. They’re keen to get involved, so call Annette when you have them arranged and they’ll go to whichever station is closest to the interviewee.”
“That’s grand. We should get through them in no time at that rate.”
“Aye. Andy’s taking James O’Carolan tomorrow morning and I’ve the eye witness, Mrs Farrelly, and the Eakin girl.”
“I�
��ve a call with MI5 at ten in the morning then I’m all yours until five. Whoever you want me to interview just say.”
“MI5? You really think the spooks will tell you the time of day?”
“Yes, I think they will. It’s not every day a senior officer’s child gets killed. It terrible that Lissy matters to them more than anyone else’s daughter, but if it gets us our killer I’ll work with whatever I can get.”
He paused then restarted, waiting for Liam to make a crack. “Can you let Jake go at five tomorrow please, Andy. Mulvenna’s having an exhibition of his paintings in Belfast and Jake’s coming along with me.”
“Art lover is he? I knew that from his floppy hair. I bet he has a black polo-neck in his cupboard just dying to be worn.”
Craig laughed despite himself. “Hardly. He wrote part of his degree about the reform of terrorists and Mulvenna was one of his case studies. He knows a lot about him and I’d like his help.”
He glanced at the clock, it was nearly midnight. He stood, signalling he was heading for bed and grinned at the other men, feeling much better than he had five hours before.
“I’m not your Dad so raid your mini-bars and stay up as late as you like. But there’ll be no sympathy for hangovers tomorrow morning, that’s all I’m going to say.”
***
Tuesday. 9.30 a.m.
Breakfast came and went in a flurry of moans about sore heads, and phone calls arranging interviews. By nine-thirty Craig was on his way to the station. Jim O’Neill showed him into a small board room, with a screen at one end and a conference-call spider sitting in the centre of the table. He’d expected the call to be audio alone so he was surprised when at ten o’clock exactly the screen flickered into life and the faint image of a man appeared. For a moment he thought that an outline was all he was going to get, like in cold-war spy movies, then a cheerful round face smiled out at him and motioned him to hit the speakerphone. Craig was impressed. They didn’t have this in the C.C.U., something that he’d rectify soon.
“Hello, Superintendent Craig. Peter Guthrie here. Good morning.”
The Broken Shore Page 13
