The Broken Shore

by Catriona King

  “Rough morning?”

  John put up his hand to still the exchange. “For God’s sake don’t ask him until I’ve had something to eat. I’ve already had thirty minutes of it.”

  He handed Liam a sandwich and a cup then waved him towards the coffee machine to help himself.

  “Right, I won’t ask then. How’s the D.N.A. testing going on Mulvenna’s relatives, Doc?”

  “All done this morning on the ones that agreed. Of course, you know the fact they agreed makes it very unlikely they’ll be a match.”

  Craig nodded and they sipped their coffee in silence until Liam broke the quiet. “Did anyone ask Mulvenna if he’d ever donated sperm?”

  Craig glanced at him, wrinkling up his face. “Only you could ask that while we’re having lunch.”

  Liam shrugged and they fell silent until the food was eaten. When the wrappers were potted in the nearest bin Craig answered him.

  “Andy asked him after he’d calmed down.”

  “And?”

  “Nope. He wasn’t a starving student like John and me.”

  Liam nodded sagely. “I never met a starving terrorist yet.” He paused and they knew the hunger strikes had popped into his mind. His expression said ‘Oops’.

  “That rules out Mulvenna having a son then.”

  John interjected. “Not at all, Liam. He may have fathered one without realising, from a woman he slept with.”

  “Or he may know he fathered one and not want to tell us. If there is a son if would fit the D.N.A. and the man your witness saw, Liam.”

  Liam frowned. “Aye it would, but then why wouldn’t Mulvenna tell us and get himself off the hook?”

  Craig shrugged. “Wouldn’t you lie to protect your kids?”

  Liam thought of his two small children and nodded. If one of them grew up and killed someone he would happily go to prison in their stead. Craig read his mind.

  “And you’d do time for them, yes? But why?”

  “What do you mean why? They’re my kids, that’s why.”

  Craig kept on pushing.

  “Yes, but why? To protect them? Or because you felt responsible for what they’d done?”

  Liam looked flustered for a moment then his eyes widened in realisation.

  “Because if they grew up to be criminals it must be my fault. Something I did or didn’t do.”

  Craig nodded firmly. “Exactly. Now apply that to Mulvenna.”

  “If Mulvenna knows he has a kid who turned out to be a killer he’ll think it’s because of him. It’s his fault.”

  John and Craig nodded, then John threw a spanner in the works. “Of course, that’s assuming he actually has a kid and knows anything about it. He might not, on both counts.”

  Liam shook his head. “I don’t think he does. Know, I mean. I watched his face when you showed him the sketch, boss. There was no recognition at all. Andy saw nothing either. If he had a son he knew about he’d have given it away somehow. I don’t think he’s covering up for him out of fatherly concern. I think he doesn’t know.”

  Craig squinted in thought. “OK. Either he has a son and doesn’t know, or we’re way off base. Let’s say he has a son. Mulvenna mightn’t know about him but the mother sure as hell does.”

  John jumped in. “Well he must have been born before Mulvenna went down in ’83, or since he came out in ‘98. That would make him either thirty-something or in his teens.”

  Craig shook his head. “Thirty fits with Liam’s witness and you’re nearly right. He didn’t have to be born before Mulvenna was sent away, he just had to have been conceived.”

  “That would explain why Mulvenna knows nothing about him.”

  “What if that’s why he was stitched up, boss? You said that they mightn’t have framed Mulvenna to keep him quiet, but to get him out of the way. If they didn’t want him to know about the pregnancy that would’ve worked.”

  Craig leaned forward, warming to the theme. It was all speculation so far but it felt right.

  “OK, so we’re looking for a woman that Mulvenna had an affair with who didn’t want him to know about the child. Someone who had connections powerful enough to arrange for Mulvenna to be sent away. Someone who he loved enough not to incriminate.”

  They gawped at each other, all having the same thought. John said it first.

  “Melanie Trainor? Having an affair with a known terrorist?”

  “No way, boss. She was too aware of her career even back then. You said as much.”

  Craig thought for a moment. It wasn’t outside the bounds of possibility but there were other fish to fry.

  “A woman in the police, no matter how ambitious, wouldn’t have had the clout back then to frame someone, and Trainor was only an Inspector then. Let’s park that one. Although I’m not dismissing it, it fits on several counts. But let’s look further. Jake and I think Mulvenna’s straight, so let’s say he was having an affair with a woman who got pregnant and she didn’t want him to know. Let’s say she had a powerful husband, someone in a position to get Mulvenna out of the way. Now the son’s found out what happened to his real father and he’s taking revenge on anyone he thinks might have been involved in having Mulvenna sent to prison.”

  John leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in thought. After a minute he leaped up and started writing on the white board, outlining the options that they’d said out loud. He added in another thought.

  “Who, of the officers that were senior back in ’83 has a thirty year old son? It shouldn’t be hard to find out.”

  “Mulvenna was arrested in July ’83 so if she was pregnant it’s odds on she was only starting to show by the time he was sent down in the August.”

  Craig nodded and grabbed the desk phone, tasking Davy to check male births in early to mid-1984. They were still throwing ideas around when he called back.

  “There w…were twenty-nine male births that fitted in Northern Ireland during that time. It was a big year for girls. There’s only one name that lists the father’s occupation as civil servant or government worker, a euphemism often used by the police. But you’re not going to believe it, s...sir.”

  “Who, Davy?”

  “It’s the Chief Constable. Mr Flanagan.”

  Craig fell into stunned silence and the others stared at him, wondering what Davy had just said. Craig was questioning his judgment of everything when Davy broke the silence.

  “S…Sir, I did another check and the Chief Constable’s son died in 1986 of drowning. He fell into a garden pond.”

  Craig nodded, half-relieved and half-sad. His judgement of Flanagan hadn’t been wrong; he was good man. He’d often wondered what his background sadness was and now he knew. There was no way Kathleen Flanagan had had an affair with Jonno Mulvenna thirty years ago. She was the sort of girl who’d worn white gloves and gone to church, not the type to sleep around behind her husband’s back. Flanagan didn’t have a living son who was killing to wreak revenge. He gave Davy another search to run and waited on the line, bringing the others up to date.

  “Phew, that was a near miss, boss. That would have made an episode of Eastenders look tame. ‘Chief Constable’s son in revenge killing spree horror’ The Chronicle would have had a field day.”

  Davy didn’t keep them waiting long. “You w…ere right, boss. There are four baby boys here with no father listed and mother’s occupation down as civil servant or government worker. Two of them were put up for adoption a week after the birth.”

  “What were the mother’s names, Davy?”

  “Mary Wright and Mary Donnelly. But they’re probably false. Do you want me to dig deeper?”

  “Please. One of them could have been an officer’s wife who hid the birth and gave a false name.”

  John interjected. “Or Melanie Trainor, Marc.”

  “Davy, did you hear that?”

  “Yes. Are you s…serious, boss?”

  “Deadly. Add Melanie Trainor into the mix then do every check you can think of. As
quick as you can, please.”

  “OK. Did Jake talk to you, s…sir?”

  Craig frowned and scrolled through his missed calls. “No. What did he want?”

  “I think it was something to do with the charcoal from Mulvenna’s gallery s…show. I’ll tell him to give you a call.”

  Craig cut the line and turned towards the board, borrowing John’s marker and adding Mary Wright, Mary Donnelly and Adoption to the list. The case was going to close itself, and soon. He didn’t know just how soon.

  ***

  Julia dragged the brush through her hair and pulled it back into a knot, then she turned her attention back to the files on her desk. She lifted the top one and turned over the cover, starting to read but not seeing a word. Her mind was on Marc and their last conversation. He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d got angry.

  She shook her head at her own stupidity, but even as she did it she knew she would react the same way again. He hadn’t proposed out of an overwhelming desire to marry her, he’d proposed to solve a problem and that was no way to start married life. It didn’t mean that he didn’t love her but it did mean that his answer to their dilemma was a fait accompli. If we’re married we’ll have to make it work. Or, we’re married so you have to give Julia a transfer. Or, more likely, we’re married so let’s have a family, Julia, that way you can give up work and your career will take a back seat. You can move to Belfast and take a few years out to stay at home with the kids. Problem solved.

  She shook her head again, this time in anger. Anger at the geography that kept them apart. Anger at Terry Harrison, for being an unreasonable bastard who was jealous of Marc and wanted to make him pay for being a better detective than him. Anger at a society that still said a man’s job mattered more, especially when there might be children on the way.

  Angry, angry, angry. But most of all she was angry at herself for what she knew she was going to do.

  ***

  It hadn’t been hard for the man to enter the house by the patio and slip into the kitchen without being heard. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. There were all those nights when he’d waited until it was dark and watched the husband turn off the hall light, signalling to the world that it was too late to call. Too late to drop by for a drink or a conversation. Too late for anything but sleep.

  He’d stood in that hall a dozen times and walked from room to room. Lifting books to read and pictures to peruse, before ascending the stairs to watch them in their sleep.

  He’d watched them all, trying to work out what would hurt her most. How to make her feel the pain he’d felt all his life. Lissy had been the natural choice. An only child, a golden girl. Taking her away would cause the worst pain and put a knife through Melanie Trainor’s heart. So he had.

  It hadn’t been hard. A note left in Lissy’s bag as she’d slept, saying that he’d left it one day when he’d seen her at the law library. Its contents piquing her curiosity sufficiently to meet. Somewhere public at first so that she would feel safe, and what better place to meet than the promenade she’d walked since she could toddle? It had made him smile to see people walk by them; just a handsome young couple having a chat. No idea what they were seeing at all.

  Lissy had been nice. A sweet girl in a slightly old-fashioned way. She had caring eyes, large and brown like his own. He’d made up a story that he was a journalist writing a piece on Human Rights, after that it had been easy to meet her again that evening, and then the next. Until the Sunday night they’d met and he’d suggested a quieter place to have a drink and talk. Where he had the notes for his article within easy reach.

  He’d made it quick, putting her into a pain-free sleep then off to his special place where he felt safe. He kept her there for two days, caring for her like she was family. Until the time came when he had to kill her and bury her in sand so that they couldn’t miss the link. They’d seen the link all right but they hadn’t followed it to the source, the one he was pointing the arrow at. They were too slow, with procedure and evidence cluttering up their thoughts. It was too long to wait. He had to act.

  The man walked towards the study knowing that she would be there, working at something irrelevant again. Hiding from the important things in life. Her husband had gone for good now. He’d watched him pack the suitcases in the boot. Off to a more loving woman to spend his life unconcerned by what people thought. Good for him; he was innocent of everything that she’d done.

  He stared at her uniform hanging-up in the hall, smoothed and pristine, ready for another day. Her career mattered so much to her now and it had mattered so much back then. More than Lissy. More than her child.

  He slipped open the study door unheard and walked towards the high-backed leather chair that she sat in every day. He stared at the nape of her neck then pressed the syringe down hard, watching as she slumped. Then he carried her across the patio to his waiting van, ready for the moment he’d been planning for years.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Friday 8.30 a.m.

  Jake scrolled through the microfiche archives at Belfast’s Chronicle newspaper and high-lighted each frame that matched his needs. He printed them off in A4 then had a closer look. There were plenty of images, but none that matched the angle and clarity he was looking for. He rifled through the sheets, growing more irritated with each one until he stopped at a print near the back. He pulled it out and stared hard. It was from 1980 and it was almost right. But was it enough? It would have to do.

  ***

  “There’s no such person as Mary W…Wright, boss, or Mary Donnelly. At least none that fit with a pregnancy back in 1984.”

  Craig raked his hair then stared down at Davy. “They gave false names.” He thought for a moment then had a fresh idea. “Contact the solicitors and see what we need to get the adoption records unsealed for the two new-born boys on the list.”

  Liam shook his head sceptically. “They’ll ask for a warrant, boss. We’ll need a friendly Judge and they’re still not happy with us for putting Judge Dawson away for the Ackerman murder.”

  “Ask Judge Standish, Liam. He said Dawson brought the legal profession into disrepute.”

  Liam guffawed. “Is that even possible?”

  Craig grinned and motioned Davy on.

  “I’ve checked all the senior officers’ wives at the time and it w…was a bit of a dead end. Either they had baby boys quite openly that everyone was happy about, or they had little girls. S…Some had families that were already grown up. These two cases seem like our best bet.”

  Just then Jake ran onto the floor. Nicky followed more sedately, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

  “Eager to get to work, Jake?”

  Liam grinned. “Here, stop that, son. You’ll have the boss expecting us all to be that keen.”

  Jake ignored them both and rushed over to Davy’s desk, grasping a folder in his hand. He gave Craig a quick nod then cut to the chase.

  “Davy. Do you have that sketch from Mulvenna’s gallery?”

  Davy stared at him blankly, then reached into his top drawer and pulled it out. Jake grabbed it and rushed to his desk with everyone staring curiously after him. Craig smiled; he remembered being that eager once, before cynicism and the years had slowed him down. He turned back to Davy.

  “Davy, try something for me, would you? Melanie Trainor’s maiden name was Ross, find out what her mother’s was please.”

  They watched as Davy’s hands flew across the keys then he pressed print and Craig lifted a sheet. He nodded to himself and passed it to Liam. His hunch had been right.

  Annette walked onto the floor, just in time to be hit by Jake’s “Good God! Come and look.”

  Craig and Liam strode over to see what he had, staring first at his desk and then at the sketch in his hand. The Chronicle’s microfiche print-out was nearly an exact match for the sketch Jonno Mulvenna had done. They were both of Melanie Trainor!

  Jake looked up expecting to see shock on their faces, but instea
d Craig smiled and handed him the sheet in his hand. It held Melanie Trainor’s mother’s maiden name; Wright. Mary Wright was Melanie Trainor. She’d used her mother’s name and kept her first initial the same.

  Craig lifted a chair and sat down, motioning the others to do the same. He glanced at the clock. Melanie Trainor was due for interview at High Street at nine o’clock. She could wait.

  “OK. We need to check a few more things to confirm it but my money’s on Mary Wright being Melanie Trainor. Mary Wright had a baby in February 1984. That would fit with her conceiving in May 1983. Jonno Mulvenna was arrested in July ’83. July was long enough for her to realise she was pregnant but still early enough to conceal her condition from him. She gave birth to a baby boy who she put up for adoption immediately after birth.”

  Nicky pursed her lips disapprovingly as he continued.

  “Melanie Trainor would have been in her mid-twenties then and unmarried. She didn’t marry Hugh Trainor until late 1988. So she was having an illegitimate child.”

  “Hell of a stigma back in ’84.”

  Nicky shot Liam a hostile look and was about to launch into a diatribe about responsibility but Craig halted her with a raised hand.

  “Even more of one if you’re a young female police officer in a chauvinistic time.”

  Jake interjected eagerly. “And the father was Jonno Mulvenna.”

  Nicky and Annette’s gawped at him and Liam snorted sceptically. “Do you really think Trainor gave the boy up because she was worried about being pregnant, boss? More likely she was worried what her career would go down the pan if anyone found out it was Mulvenna’s son.”

  Craig nodded ruefully. “I was giving her the benefit of the doubt.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “OK. The sketch in the gallery wasn’t of Lissy as we thought, but of her mother. It must have been done in the seventies or eighties and she’s changed a bit since then.”

  “Amazing what thirty years will do.”

  “And getting all buttoned up.”

  Annette glared at Liam then looked at her sensible shoes, making a note to buy higher heels.