Static Cling

by Gerald Hansen

  “From Final Spinz.”

  “I-I'll check, sir,” the PC said, rushing off, anguish on his face.

  “Hurry, man! Hurry!” McLaughlin called at his back, then turned and his fingers flew over his keyboard as quickly as they could. Around him, officers raced through the aisles around the desks, barked out to one other in high-pitched speedy voices, cartoon-like, as everyone was all too aware of the time flying by. Three hours to do everything they had to do. And there was so much.

  One might well ask why all these many witnesses/suspects had to converge on the police station at the same time. It was going to be as packed as the Top-Yer-Trolley on the first day of the January sales. There was a reason for this, and a reason for everyone in the station running around like lunatics, and it had nothing to do with McLaughlin's secret plan for the witnesses. They couldn't stagger the times of the interrogations, or the taking of fingerprints for either elimination or conviction because, just the week before, PSNI budget cuts had shortened the Moorside police station opening hours from the shocking six hours a day to the unbelievable three. And this being the crime-ridden Moorside, there were many, many other on-going investigations besides the hold up of the dry cleaners and Mrs. Ming's manslaughter (as it was now officially being termed) to deal with, many more witnesses to interview or interrogate, many more fingerprints to take, mug shots to take, drunks to shove into the drunk tanks. Everything had to be done with great haste and under incredible pressure during those all-important three hours. The harried police officers, feeling like Kebabalicious workers during the lunch rush, did the best they could in the limited time now afforded them.

  McLaughlin feared for the future of Derry or, more specifically, the most crime-infested neighborhood of the city, the Moorside. Just what had the commissioners of the PSNI and their number crunchers been thinking of? This was his precinct, and over the past few years, he had seen the opening hours of his police station cut from 24 to 18, then from 18 to 12. At the beginning of the year, the powers that be had reduced them to six. And now it was three. And, if one thought about it historically, they were the lucky ones nationwide. At least they hadn't been closed down altogether.

  Ten years before, there had been 140 police stations in Northern Ireland, and all of them had been open twenty-four hours. A year ago, there were only 61, and only two of those had been open all day and night. One in Belfast, and one here in Derry, on the Strand Road. McLaughlin had been annoyed, as a simple glance around the streets of his neighborhood, at the broken windows, the remnants of burnt out vehicles and buildings, the graffiti and pools of vomit and urine and sometimes even piles of feces which seemed to indicate rampant alcohol and drug abuse, showed that the Moorside was more crime-ridden than even the city center, where the Strand Road precinct was located. McLaughlin knew the average wage earned by those who lived in the Moorside, however, so he understood why the decision had been taken. Those higher up wanted to protect the greatest number of richer people. The poor could murder one other, rob one other blind, and who really cared? McLaughlin did.

  But it got even worse. Further PSNI budget cuts a few months ago had made even the Strand precinct house hours 8 AM to 8 PM. Belfast was now the only city in Northern Ireland to have a full-time police station. And now McLaughlin's station, on Twilling Road next to the abandoned shirt factory, was open hours that resembled those of banks in the 1980s: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays from 3:15 PM to 6:15 PM, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays from 10:45 AM to 1:45 PM. It was closed on Sundays. Apparently, the higher ups thought the good citizens of the Moorside were all in church on Sundays, not committing crimes. How wrong they were.

  While one part of McLaughlin was proud that the combined efforts of his team, and those who had gone before them, had led to a city almost unrecognizable from the state it had been twenty years ago—bombs, tear gas, riots, post office torchings, casual beatings and murder—and another part of him thanked the Lord that Derry was no longer under siege as it had been, the biggest part of him, the one that included his stomach, thought the closing of Derry's police stations and the reduction of hours of those few remaining total madness. True, most people nowadays called a police station instead of visiting it to report a crime, but what message did it send? And a reduction of hours didn't mean a reduction of forces. Well, actually, it did, because budget cuts had gouged into the numbers of police on the beat. Crime was starting to run rampant in the Moorside again. But at least the latest Starbucks to open in Derry was open twenty-four hours.

  Outside, Fionnuala was staring in marvel at the newly-posted opening hours. She turned to whoever was closest to her in her excitement, and was shocked to see it was Agnieszka. They had history. Agnieszka had been after Paddy when they had worked together at the fish packing plant. Fionnuala thought Maureen had paid her off, or blackmailed her or something, to leave Paddy alone and leave Derry full stop. Agnieszka must have left the city, but then snuck back, because there she was now, standing next to her with her straw-like hair and her hideous orange cardigan with a face on her that could dissolve iron. Fionnuala thought about screaming some abuse at her, but she was too tired from the bus journey, and with her new plan, the world was a different place, and Paddy had never wanted the skanky alien bitch in the first place. She turned to her left, and was equally annoyed to see it was Nurse Scadden, but she couldn't control her excitement at the new opening hours any longer.

  “C'mere,” Fionnuala said, as Agnieszka, apparently realizing who Fionnuala was, hurried away to the door of the police station, “have ye seen these new hours of the cop shop?”

  “What about them?” Nurse Scadden asked, eying Fionnuala suspiciously.

  “Does this not mean we're free to commit whatever crimes we want outside them hours?”

  “Och...!” The initial anger on Nurse Scadden's face and in her voice faltered. “I see what ye're on about. If ones are caught committing crimes during them hours—”

  “But how are they meant to bang us up? Us? Pardon me. Them, I mean, of course.”

  “Of course ye do.”

  Fionnuala didn't like her tone, but continued anyway, such was her confused excitement. “If a person did a crime, and then the Filth caught them, were can they take u—them? They can hardly haul the perpetrators away to take them to a cop shop what's closed for the evening. And what happens to them in the drunk tank? Are they left to fend for themselves in a locked up building? Without even a morning or evening meal?”

  “If ye're so interested in it, why don't ye ask yer man himself? That McLaughlin?”

  And reveal her cards? Fionnuala looked eagerly at the hours for Sunday, the day she was going to put her plan into action. Closed on Sundays. She looked up towards Heaven, there beyond the lamp post with the broken glass, and she thanked the Lord. It was a sign that what she was doing was being sanctioned by Him. Such was her delight, she turned in a flush of wantonness to Nurse Scadden, now having totally disregarded the fact that she couldn't stand her, and bubbled, one hand clutching the woman's elbow as the nurse inched against the bricks of the wall away from Fionnuala's swinging ponytails and farm-well-water breath, “C'mere, let me tell ye what I read in the paper yesterday. Scandalous, so it is. And I wanny know if ye'd be interested in—”

  But just then Siofra rushed up to her mother, and Fionnuala let it drop. Nurse Scadden seemed relieved. And then the Mings came, Ealga bawling out of her, elderly Keeva close to collapse, the stench of alcohol off of them overpowering, and as Nurse Scadden was offering her condolences to the Mings for their loss, Anne Marie came, followed by Bridie and Damien, and then a BMW pulled up to the curb and Zoë disembarked.

  As if the police had been especially awaiting the arrival of Derry's Second Best Businesswoman of the Year, the door of the cop shop flew open and a pimply, teen-looking PC stepped out and, with a quick look at his watch, called out: “Single file, everyone. All your fingerprints will be taken first. For elimination purposes, you understand. And then you will proceed
to the interview room. Inspectors McLaughlin and D'Arcy will greet you there. It will be a short meeting. I'm sure you'll all be happy to hear that. Come on, now. Single file, single file. In you go, in you go. Calmly, now...”

  In they went. Patronized, but in. Fingerprint after fingerprint was taken, even Ealga's. Fionnuala was surprised to see there was no ink involved. All they did was roll her hand, each of the tips of her fingers, over some screen. Siofra was impressed.

  “State of the art! Here in the Moorside!” she gasped to her mother. “Isn't it exciting, Mammy?”

  “Naw.”

  Then they were herded at fire-drill speed down a hallway lined with crime prevention posters and ushered into an interrogation room that should really only fit four. They thronged together, and the stench of sweat soon overpowered them all.

  McLaughlin and D'Arcy sat at the rickety table. The group parted as much as they could to allow Keeva to sit on one of the chairs opposite. Three-year old Ealga clambered onto the other. The little girl wiped drool from her chin as she stared with wide eyes at the officers before her. She clutched her threadbare lamb to her little chest.

  “Silence!” D'Arcy barked. The chattering stopped and various looks of outrage passed over the faces of the assembled throng. McLaughlin threw D'Arcy a dark look.

  “Ta, all of youse,” McLaughlin said, much more kindly, to the group. “Thank youse all for making the journey down here and for helping us with our inquiries. Perhaps youse all know I am Inspector McLaughlin. And this is my partner DI D'Arcy.”

  “Bonjour. Ça va?” D'Arcy said, apparently to see if there was a glimmer of recognition of the French language on anyone's face. McLaughlin threw her another dark look. She folded her arms and glowered. Sulked.

  “As all of youse know, we are interested in finding the perpetrators of the robbery at Final Spinz yesterday. And, more importantly, we are of the opinion that whoever committed this crime is responsible for the much more heinous crime of the death of poor Eibhleann Ming.”

  “The slaughter, ye mean!” Bill called out.

  “Great-granny!” called out Ealga. “Where's me great-granny?” Her lower lip trembled. She gnawed on the tail of her lamb.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  McLaughlin cast a sorrowful look at the Ming contingent, except for the little girl, as she was sitting in a different area and his eyes couldn't include her in his look. “It causes me no end of grief, Bill, Greta, and...er, youse others, that yer mother, yer, er, relative, met her maker in such a violent way. Please believe me, all of youse, that I, we, will do everything in our power to ferret out and apprehend the fiendish hooligans, the heartless thugs, responsible for this vulgar affront to decency and, dare I say, the Catholic way of living.”

  “Here, here!” called out Bill, eyes tearing up, as did the rest of the clan shoved together there in that fetid room. The Mings reached out their hands and clung to one other, a sobbing mass.

  McLaughlin let them keen for a few moments, then, all too aware precious time was ticking away, continued.

  “I know this has been stressful for so many of youse. Mrs. Riddell, Ms. McFee, as I understand it, both of youse were even hospitalized after the event. And I appreciate it must have been especially stressful for those at the crime scene as events unfolded. This includes Ms. Flood and her mother Mrs. Flood and of course Nurse Scadden. I don't wish to compound that stress, and the grief of the Mings, any longer, by adding insult to injury. We've already had preliminary interviews with those at the scene, and I thank youse for the information youse've given us.”

  Siofra, Fionnuala and Nurse Scadden exchanged a glance, as best they could considering where they were in relation to one other in the room. A right sarky bastard? Fionnuala wondered.

  “Those of youse who I haven't had a chance to interview...” Here he looked down at a paper on the table before him. “The cleaner, Agnieszka....er, em...”

  “That me,” scowled Agnieszka, holding up her hand. “Czerwinska. You call me Aggie. Aggie.”

  “Er, aye, and the other employee, Anne Marie O'Dell—”

  “That's me!” called out Anne Marie. She seemed excited to be there.

  “Aye, so ye are,” McLaughlin said. He seemed to have forgotten his train of thought. “Anyroad, as I said, I want to make this as painless as I can. We are currently following a variety of leads as to who might have committed this crime. So we can punish those responsible for Mrs. Ming's death. The fingerprints youse've all supplied today with help us no end as far as that's concerned. Now, but, I'd like to let youse know that we've decided that the best for youse all would be some, er, help and guidance from, and I must stress this, a source not affiliated in any way whatsoever with the PSNI. Someone youse can all, well, with the possible exception of Mrs. Riddell, relate to, feel safe and secure with. But I'm sure, Mrs. Riddell, it will be helpful for you as well. As it will be for youse all. To help relieve yer stress. To help youse get over the grieving process.”

  “Spit it out, man!” yelled Bill. “What are ye on about?”

  “I'm getting there,” McLaughlin said. “Believe me, I've me own reasons for wanting this meeting to go more swiftly than slowly. I know this is wile unorthodox, but it all has to do with care in the community. I'm sure youse've all heard about that. I've arranged for youse all to attend three sessions with...” He looked down at his paper again. “Father Steele. From St. Fintan's. He's trained in stress counseling. Group therapy. He's agreed to counsel youse all. And, I'm afraid to say, this group therapy is compulsory. Mandatory. I've a contract here,” he waved another paper, “I want all youse to sign. This will commit youse to attending the sessions. And in return, I, we,” he finally acknowledged D'Arcy's presence, “agree not to haul any of youse in for any more questioning. Youse are all busy, and so are we. No use wasting time, ours and yers.”

  There was a babble of relief from them all. McLaughlin held up his hand.

  “Unless, of course, our other trails of investigation seem to be pointing to one of youse being responsible for the robbery and, of course, Mrs. Ming's death.”

  “Great-granny!” Ealga wailed. “I wanny see me great-granny! Where is she?”

  Keeva, who had been quietly sobbing into a Youghal point handkerchief, reached out an arthritic hand to the girl as Ealga squirmed around on her chair with wide, fearful eyes and sought out her parents Nollaig and Viona in the crowd at the door.

  “Has she gone on her trip? Has she? Has she?”

  And she threw down her lamb, jumped on the seat of the chair and did the screwing-two-lightbulbs-in-opposite-directions Bollywood dance movement with her hands. Apparently, the girl thought her great-grandmother was in India, for whatever six-year-old reason.

  As Keeva grabbed the girl and whispered, “Aye, wee girl, she be's on her trip. To, er, there. Forever,” Fionnuala suppressed a guffaw.

  “So, quickly, quickly now,” McLaughlin said. “I want youse to line up and sign the contract. The first PTSD counseling session is at 7 PM tomorrow. As I've explained, you must sign. And must attend.”

  To the surprise of many, Fionnuala pushed her way through the elbows and was the first to wrench the pen out of McLaughlin's hand. As she scribbled her signature, then trailed Siofra's hand to sign as well, a part of her brain was excited about the thought of a session with Father Steele. Surely 'the most handsomest' priest she had met in her life. And...she was now more confident than ever that the Lord was looking out for her, guiding events in His mysterious way to ensure she would be successful as His vessel here on Earth. Father Steele was the person she had arranged to meet later that day to help her with her plan! It was fate! Destiny!

  Little did Fionnuala realize, she was playing right into McLaughlin's hands. But she had other things on her mind. Before Siofra skipped away, she grabbed the girl's arm.

  “C'mere you,” she said. “Ye've to help me. Now.”

  At first it seemed Siofra was going to protest, but then the girl looked at
her with something that resembled...Fionnuala couldn't believe it!...pity?! Fionnuala's hand twitched at her side. How she longed to smack the look off the girl's face. But she couldn't there in the cop shop. How many hidden cameras were there, and where? It was all a moot point, though, for Siofra nodded her head and did as she was told.

  It was 6:07 PM. The station was due to close in eight minutes. McLaughlin was delighted when a PC handed him the results of the fingerprinting. As they had only just taken the prints of the suspects, he wasn't really expecting much until the next day. But one name jumped out at him from the list. His jaw dropped.

  “D'Arcy!” he roared across the office. “We've a hit on those fingerprints! On Mrs. Ming's walker, of all places!”

  She was at his desk sharpish, beaming down at him eagerly. She seemed to have gotten over her sulk.

  “Who is it, sir?” she asked.

  “Ye're never gonny believe it!” McLaughlin said. “Sure, I kyanny believe it meself!”

  “Who, sir, who?”

  “I dunno if ye know him...but...Henry O'Toole!”

  “Yes, of course I know him. The manager of the Top-Yer-Trolley! But...how...why?” Many emotions were crossing her face as she struggled to make sense of this surprising find. “Why would he...what possible motive could he have for...?”

  “That,” McLaughlin said, wrenching himself from his chair, “is what we are gonny find out. Right now.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 19

  Siofra glided out the revolving doors of the Top-Yer-Trolley just as McLaughlin and D'Arcy were clomping in. The Filthette cast Siofra a suspicious look, and as well she should've, considering the contraband-like bulges in Siofra's bag. But Siofra just smiled sweetly at them through the glass and hurried off down the street and around the corner next to the butcher's where her mother was waiting and sweating for her.

  “I got it all,” the girl said. “The Filth almost nabbed me, but.”