Choosing Mulvenna felt personal and Craig’s mind wandered back to someone wanting to silence him about an affair; gay or straight. He shook his head immediately as if there was someone there to see the gesture. No. Locking Mulvenna up wouldn’t have silenced him, only his own discretion had done that. He’d been locked away for some other reason, to get him offside, to keep something quiet, and someone in his family had been pissed enough about it to kill Lissy Trainor thirty years after the fact.
Craig rubbed his eyes hard then wandered to the fridge to pull out another beer, knowing he’d all but exhausted every train of thought. Lissy Trainor had been killed to punish her mother for her part in framing Mulvenna thirty years before. Now he had to find out why Melanie Trainor had done it and who was avenging Mulvenna now. That was the direction his questions would take tomorrow morning but he didn’t hold out much hope of her answering.
He sat down heavily on the couch and rested his head against its back, turning his thoughts to his other dilemma; Julia. Half of him wished that he’d gone on to Limavady, had the inevitable tearful scene and then ended up in bed. At least he wouldn’t be sitting alone tonight. Except that he would still be sitting alone eventually. Next weekend, and every other weekend and weekday after that, unless one of them transferred.
He’d been here before. A loving relationship pulled apart by two careers, neither of them giving an inch. They were only jobs so why couldn’t any of them let go? Camille with her acting, him with his murder squad, Julia with her role in the North-West. What made them all cling on so hard? Was it money? Status? Power? Or the fear that without their roles and titles they were really no-one at all.
He shook his head. He didn’t know the answer but he knew the impossible decisions that lay ahead. He’d been naïve with Camille, believing that their feelings could weather the distance when she’d first started working in the States. He’d been wrong. The realities of life had broken them up.
He smiled to himself in the dark. Maybe it was his Italian half that made him believe that love could conquer all. Romeo, Romeo, and a balcony in Verona. But it didn’t. Life always intervened. Elderly parents who needed his proximity and care, a team he loved working with, and the chance to put killers away and protect people. He was good at it and he’d get even better, given half a chance. Would he get that sitting in an office in Limavady, working on burglaries or some other crimes? Or would he turn into another Terry Harrison, more worried about politics and protecting his back than anything else?
An image of Julia filled his mind. Her soft blue eyes and cherubic smile widening whenever she saw him walking her way. Her red curls flowed down her back, slim and pale when they were making love. He smiled to himself at the thought of her grumpy little moods, so fierce and defensive when they’d first met, but softer now and more playful. Lasting only a minute or two and then becoming giggles that pushed her frown away. He loved her. Perhaps that was why he’d proposed to her on the phone, the words rushing out before he’d had a chance to think. Did he want to get married right now? No, not really, but he would if it solved their dilemma. But she hadn’t said yes. She’d got angry instead.
As he thought of it he realised that he was hurt. Hurt by her anger and suspicion of his motives, and even more hurt that she rejected his proposal. He’d only asked one woman to marry him before; Camille. She’d said yes and they embraced each other and their secret for months in their little flat, until life had intervened. He remembered her face when he’d asked. Her smile had spread and reached her eyes, making them dance and sparkle until she’d cried. But Julia…
He shrugged off his hurt, refusing to let it cloud the love that had prompted him to ask. He loved Julia. Suddenly another feeling slipped into the mix and he recognised it from the moment before he’d proposed. It was desperation, and it was ugly. Not desperation to get married, God no, not that. He was like most men, postponing the inevitable as long as he could. Marriage was forever, the final step; it could wait a while in his book. This desperation had been different; the desperate desire to solve a problem, but more than that. Desperation born of fear. Fear of reliving the pain he’d felt when he’d split from Camille. That was what he’d felt today and that was why he’d proposed. And it was no basis to marry anyone on, no matter how much you loved them.
He drained his bottle of beer and potted it in the bin, then went to have a shower. Maybe it would clear his head and maybe it would help him sleep, but it wouldn’t answer his questions, he was damn sure of that.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Thursday 10.30 a.m.
Craig sat discretely behind a partition in Sean Flanagan’s outer office, waiting to be called. The Chief Constable had greeted him forty minutes earlier, done up in his finest, shiny buttons and all, then he’d re-entered his office to await Melanie Trainor’s arrival. Craig’s only concession to interviewing a senior officer was the Hugo Boss tie he hadn’t worn for two months. In his book Melanie Trainor was no less special than any other grieving parent, but definitely no more. He knew she would attempt to use her rank in whatever way she could and he wasn’t going to give her any encouragement.
He glanced at his watch. She was thirty minutes late. Passive aggressive behaviour if ever he’d seen it. Sean Flanagan was staring at his watch as well. He didn’t pull rank often and he preferred democracy to hierarchy any day, but the ACC was really pushing it. Donna, Flanagan’s P.A. knocked his door and entered on his ‘yes’, looking harassed. Craig watched her from his vantage point. She’d looked harassed when he’d been there the day before as well. It must be hard for both her and the Chief to deal with every day.
Flanagan asked her to wait and strode out of his office, beckoning Craig to join them inside. Melanie Trainor had lost her right to private time with him. Now she would be interviewed like anyone else. Craig took a seat at the desk and they turned towards the P.A., waiting for her to speak. She was a small woman, somewhere in middle-age, but it was hard to put a number of her years. Her face was creased in a frown and her hands fluttered nervously across her face as she spoke.
“Assistant Chief Constable Trainor is downstairs, sir. Shall I ask her to come up?”
“Not yet, Donna. Bring her up in ten minutes then give her a coffee and a seat. I’ll buzz when we’re ready for her. Can you cancel my eleven o’clock meeting please and we may need to have a working lunch.”
She fluttered out and Flanagan turned to Craig. “It will do Melanie no harm to wait a while. Two can play at her game. Forget the nice introduction we discussed yesterday, Marc, go straight into it. I’ll only intervene if I really think I should.”
Craig nodded. They’d covered his thoughts from the night before when he’d arrived. Lissy Trainor had been killed to punish her mother for her part in framing Jonno Mulvenna in 1983. They knew it had been done to cover Declan Wasson, now they needed the answers to two questions, although Craig didn’t hold out a hope in hell of even getting one. Why had Melanie Trainor chosen Mulvenna to frame? And who was hell-bent on avenging him now? He reminded himself she was grieving mother and she’d done a lot of good work throughout the years. That was why they were here instead of in an interview room. But it was the only concession Craig was prepared to make.
Fifteen minutes later Flanagan pressed the intercom signalling that they were ready and Melanie Trainor entered, dressed in her number ones. Donna hopped from foot to foot behind her gathering orders for drinks. The two men stood and the Chief waved Trainor to a seat across the desk then released Donna from the room like a bird freed from its cage.
Flanagan didn’t mention the time. Instead he smiled kindly at the mother across the desk and launched into his speech, offering his condolences again and saying how sorry he was that they’d had to invite her in. Trainor sat with her hands demurely folded and her eyes locked on her boss’ face, completely ignoring Craig. It was as if he didn’t matter in her world. He wasn’t put out; he didn’t matter, except that he was the one that she would answer to, a
lthough she didn’t know it yet.
Donna entered and left and Flanagan poured drinks for them all. Trainor’s demeanour grew tenser with every sip, until finally she put down her cup and locked her hands together, every muscle taut and ready to snap. The CC spoke first.
“You know Superintendent Craig of course.”
He indicated Craig, inviting her eyes to shift that way. They remained locked straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge Craig was in the room. Craig could feel her shame. He was her inferior in every way that she thought mattered, but she was going to have to answer his questions or be embarrassed in front of her boss.
“Superintendent Craig would like to ask you a few questions regarding your daughter’s death and I’m satisfied it’s essential that he does so.” Flanagan’s tone shifted from soft condolence to ‘this is what you will do’ and the ACC’s hands whitened. She forced her head slowly towards Craig. Her anger was unmistakable but he couldn’t divine its exact cause.
Craig straightened the pile of notes in front of him in a way that gave them weight. They were only rough notes and forensic results but she wasn’t to know that. If she had secrets she would be afraid that they knew them, and that they were hidden in the pile.
“Good morning, ACC Trainor. Before I start I’m going to bring you up to date with where we are on your daughter’s very sad death.”
He outlined their searches and the questions they’d asked so far, watching her face carefully when he mentioned Declan Wasson and MI5. She didn’t flinch, only her increased blink rate saying when he’d hit a nerve. He covered the interviews with rape victims and their interviews of Lissy’s friends, then he reached the statement from Jenna Farrelly. As he described her sighting of the thirty year old version of Mulvenna Melanie Trainor’s hands twitched and gave her away. He was getting close.
He covered her daughter’s contacts with James O’Carolan and her intended re-opening of the Jarvis case and watched as her eyebrows shot up in surprise. She hadn’t known! She hadn’t known that Lissy was working with James O’Carolan to have Mulvenna’s conviction overthrown. It ruled out her killing her daughter to keep her quiet, although she hadn’t been high on his list of suspects anyway.
His final card was the D.N.A. bearing a family link to Mulvenna. He watched as her eyes widened wildly when he mentioned it. Before she’d recovered he rounded up on the lines that he and the Chief had agreed.
“We believe that your daughter was killed to punish you for the conviction of Jonno Mulvenna in 1983 for a crime he didn’t commit. We believe that you framed Mulvenna to protect your informant, Declan Wasson, and for a more personal reason that we don’t yet know, although we will. We also believe that you’re deliberately withholding information that can lead us to your daughter’s murderer.”
They both saw her leg jerk and her knee start to shake. She placed a hand on her knee to still it, giving herself away.
“So I really only have two questions, ACC Trainor. Why did you choose John Mulvenna to frame? And who would be determined to avenge him now?”
Melanie Trainor stilled her shaking leg and pulled her eyes away from Craig’s face, fixing them on the floor. She said nothing so Craig asked the questions again, separately and together, rephrasing them in different ways. When he’d asked them for the last time she opened her mouth to speak.
“I have no knowledge that would enable me to answer your questions. May I go now, Chief Constable?”
Flanagan stared straight at her, his tone much less friendly than before. “Look at me when you speak, ACC Trainor.”
She pulled her large brown eyes towards him and Craig thought they held the glint of un-shed tears. She repeated her request and Flanagan shook his head.
“Assistant Chief Constable Trainor. By refusing to cooperate with our enquiries you leave me no option but to suspend you from duty.”
Trainor nodded and rose sharply. “Will that be all, sir?”
Flanagan’s face flushed with anger and his voice took on a harsh edge.
“For now, ACC Trainor, but Superintendent Craig will see you again tomorrow morning and this time it will be in an interview room at High Street Station.” He paused and shook his head. “You’re a very foolish woman, Melanie. You could be throwing away your career here, not to mention preventing us from finding the man who killed your child. If you’re protecting someone…”
Trainor cut across him. “Thank you, sir. I understand. I’ll present myself at High Street tomorrow morning at nine a.m.” She gave him a sharp salute then turned and left the room. Flanagan sat back heavily and turned to Craig.
“Well, God knows what we’re to make of that. We got nothing at all.”
Craig shook his head. “On the contrary, sir. We got a lot. Enough to know that we’re on the right track. Didn’t you see her reactions when I mentioned Wasson and Mulvenna’s frame-up? And the D.N.A.? We’re spot-on there. But she knew nothing about James O’Carolan working with Lissy to re-open the ‘83 case. She didn’t harm her daughter. I’d lay money on that.”
“You got a lot from her saying nothing, Marc.”
“Only her mouth said nothing, sir. Her body language was screaming at us. The most useful thing was her reaction to Liam’s witness.”
“How so?”
“When I mentioned that a young man looking like Mulvenna had been seen talking to Lissy, her hands twitched. She knows who he is. But for some reason she doesn’t want us to know.”
Flanagan rubbed his chin thoughtfully then smiled at the younger man, knowing that the meeting hadn’t been wasted after all. “So she was Wasson’s handler back in ’83?”
“I think so. It would fit with what Guthrie at MI5 hinted at; he said Mulvenna’s frame was local business. Very local.”
“She wanted Wasson exonerated so she could keep using him as an informant. That much I understand. But why choose Mulvenna to take his place?”
“Perhaps it was personal, or perhaps she was doing a favour for someone in the police who wanted Mulvenna out of the way.” Craig stared intently at Flanagan. “I could speculate on who and why until I’m old and grey, sir, but unless someone’s prepared to talk to us it’s only speculation. It would fit with Mulvenna having a lover who wanted him kept quiet, male or female.”
Flanagan shook his head. “He could still have talked in prison. If they’d wanted to guarantee his silence a bullet to the head would have been more effective. They just wanted him offside and for some reason Mulvenna agreed to keep quiet.”
“Because he really loved them?”
“Yes, maybe. Although they obviously didn’t love him half as much. Or…”
“Or what? If…”
Flanagan interrupted him. “If I dig around, I’m more likely to find answers. Leave it with me.”
It sounded like an order; one that Craig had no intention of obeying. Flanagan stood up and extended his hand.
“Get yourself and D.C.I. Cullen geared up to interview the ACC properly tomorrow. The gloves are off now, Marc, so treat her like a suspect until you get the truth.”
***
The man had been watching her for almost two hours. From the moment she’d emerged through the door of Headquarters, her face tired and drawn, as if what had happened inside had been an awful ordeal. He’d watched as she’d pulled open her Mercedes’ door and thrown her hat angrily on the back seat, loosening her starched collar as she climbed in. She’d driven herself there, her usual bodyguard nowhere to be seen. He’d stared at her as she rested her head against the sporty steering wheel, the whole car a bright red testament to how well she’d done in life. In her career maybe, but how about as a mother, Mrs Trainor?
She’d sat there thinking for ages, a single tear trickling down her cheek. One week bereaved and only one tear. And who was it for? Her daughter or herself? Finally she’d pulled out of the car-park and followed the M2 from Belfast, up the Coleraine Road towards her home on the cliffs. She drove high above the beach until eventually she pulled int
o a private road and stopped outside her large detached house.
The man gazed at the white-stuccoed frontage three storeys high staring down onto the silent street, then he smiled up at Lissy’s room. He’d been in there many times. It was small and warm like she had been and it spoke of a secure and privileged life. Lucky girl.
Now she was safe for good, beyond her mother’s lack of love. Far away from the harm her indifference could do. Perhaps Lissy hadn’t been damaged yet but it had only been a matter of time. He wasn’t sorry that he’d killed her. He knew she was better off, even if no-one else agreed.
Melanie Trainor entered her expensive home, oblivious to the looks and feelings she was drawing from across the street. She walked down the carpeted hallway and closed the study door behind her, to sit alone and think. Her husband’s car was in the driveway so the man waited an hour for him to leave, then he crossed the quiet cul-de-sac and stepped into the world that should have been his.
***
12.30 p.m.
“What’s up, Doc?”
John Winter glanced up from his microscope to see the man who’d announced himself two minutes earlier, in a chorus of banged doors and heavy footsteps approaching the lab. Liam stopped and gazed around him, always fascinated by John’s choice of décor; the Montmartre of Toulouse-Lautrec crossed with the movie set from Moulin Rouge. He never gave up hoping that Nicole Kidman would leap out from a corner. Instead Craig’s tanned face appeared. He beckoned him in.
“Hi, boss. How long have you been here?”
“Since the time we agreed.”
It was said with a wry grin. Liam looked more closely and saw the fatigue behind the smile.
The Broken Shore Page 25
