The kid must have been shopping too, rest looked new. There were three large shopping bags filled up with bolts and six inch nails, six giant canisters of petrol, each looked like it held at least five litres, several fat 30V batteries and rolls of wire. There were also two sturdy nylon back backs and a folded Union Jack flag. The kid said that the flag was part of the plan, though if Fryer had been told one, he could not remember. Fryer saw plastic zip ties and beside them, a set of cuffs, keys in the lock. The only weapons were a .38 Ruger revolver (that was old issue RUC, the Da’s, same as the cuffs) and Fryer’s Armalite rifle, with half a belt of ammunition.
His old piece, God he had loved that gun. The kid said not to but Fryer took it downstairs with him, sat with the lights on all night, one hand on his old piece. The kid had gone to bed and Fryer heard him shout out in his sleep, and was pretty sure he’d heard him crying too. A dim glow now leaked through the living room curtains. His Moley vigil was over, soon he could sleep. The kid was up and he appeared from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs, a bad night’s sleep written under his eyes.
‘Tea,’ he said. Fryer grunted thanks, lifted the chipped mug and helped himself to a good slurp. It was a nice cup of tea; hot and strong. Fryer exhaled a steamy breath, almost scalding his mouth before he released the vapour. He glanced up; the kid was standing there, just looking at him. The line of his jaw, the wisp of hair on his chin and over his lip; in that instance he was the ghost of the boy McKenna, who Fryer had Disappeared in the bog so long ago. Fryer looked away, washed the thought back down with another mouthful of hot tea. He looked up at the kid again, who was still staring at him, but though Christopher looked young he was no longer McKenna. A stupid thought; he must be twice that boy’s age. And his baby face looked strained, drawn. Still, his baggy eyes twinkled and danced over Fryer’s face, a smile playing on his lips. A distant alarm bell sounded in Fryer’s head, warning him to take care, there was something not right here.
‘Pull up a pew,’ said Fryer, and watched the kid sit down. Tea sloshed over the rim of his mug as he set it down heavily. Fryer took another swallow, fire in his throat, eyes on the kid, one hand still on his gun. He registered, peripherally, that his grip had tightened; no longer only resting on the Armalite’s shaft. From the kitchen radio, an oldie: Street Fighting Man by the Stones. The kid was staring at the table. Fryer could feel the vibration of his tapping foot. He hadn’t touched his tea. Like a man waiting for something to happen. Fryer slowly and carefully nudged his chair away from the table using his feet. Making space, should space be needed. Fryer did not recall the kid being this wired when he had visited. But then, there was a lot Fryer could not recall. With the taste of tea lingering in his mouth, John Fryer briefly considered just how much he really knew about this kid, Christopher. The answer, spoken in the mind of a man free from a cell and chemical restraints for the first time in a decade was not a lot.
‘You OK kid?’ said Fryer. Christopher said he was dead on, lifted his mug, and took his first sip. His hand was steady but his eyes danced. He asked Fryer if the tea was alright.
‘Tea’s good,’ said Fryer. They drank their brew without speaking, quiet punctuated by noisy big slurps from Fryer, quieter sips and blows from the kid. Fryer did not take his eye from him, or his hand from the piece. His mug drained, Fryer’s nicotine craving itched, in charge again after so many weeks dormant. He resisted, then lifted his hand off the gun, and reached for his makings, his yellowed finger tips doing their accustomed work.
The kid was up, off his chair, quick as mouse, into the kitchen. Fryer dropped the unrolled tab, tobacco spilled, and closed his fist over the Armalite’s grip. The radio went way up. He slipped his index finger round the trigger guard and watched the kitchen door. Mick Jagger protested that there’s no place for a street fighting man. The song faded, replaced by the start of an hourly news bulletin. The kid appeared at the kitchen door. He wasn’t armed, Fryer let his shoulders drop a little, but his hand stayed on the rifle. The kid was smiling at him, staring, and wringing both hands together. Fryer held his dancing gaze, waiting. He listened to the headlines.
An eighty five year old woman had been found dead in her north Belfast home. The woman has been named locally as Esther Moore, the mother of alleged loyalist Godfather, and former UDA prisoner, Cecil Moore.
The kid exploded into high pitched, jagged laughter, enormous and unannounced. Fryer jumped up, Armalite raised and pointed on reflex, took a step back, finger on the trigger. The kid kept going, he pointed a finger at Fryer’s gun and his laughter increased. It was a God awful sound, in the Heights he’d heard similar, but this was worse. Fryer thought: He’s fucking mental.
‘What the fuck are you playing at kid?’ But Christopher did not answer, he kept laughing, tears streamed down his face, he gasped for breath. Fryer kept the gun on him. At last, he stopped, panting hard.
‘What about that, John, what do you say to that?’ he gasped.
‘That was you?’ said Fryer, nodding at the kitchen. Fryer struggled to remember ever agreeing to this, but drew a blank. ‘Name a fuck? She’s eighty five years old.’
‘Was,’ corrected the kid, still grinning. ‘Me and my Granny had a bit of unfinished business. But it still plays into the bigger plan, John, and let me tell you, I did it in style. I think it was a great opener, personally.’ Fryer let the kid’s words sink in. He had called that woman Granny. Fryer replayed the news report struggling to make sense, then he did.
‘You never said that Cecil Moore is your uncle, kid,’ said Fryer.
‘Never came up, John.’
‘It should have come up. He’s Tiger’s Bay UDA, top boy.’
‘I know, I know,’ said the kid. He shook his head, looked regretful. ‘You can’t choose your family, John, only your friends.’
If Fryer had known he was Moore’s kin, he might have thought twice. Better to cut and run now perhaps, let him manage his own fucking mess? Perhaps, but as he said, you can’t choose your family. And most importantly, the kid had chosen him, after those he had once called kin had left him to rot. Christopher had told him he would get him out, and he had been good as his word. So what if he had Moore’s blood, plus some faulty wiring?
And once upon a terrible night Fryer could have given another kid a second chance and he had not. He could have walked that boy McKenna out of the bog, drove him to the docks in Dublin and given him a one way ticket to England and he would never have come back. Now McKenna, and the Moley, would never go away. Fryer relaxed his grip on the gun, took his finger off the trigger, back to the guard. But he kept it raised.
‘We’re gonna need to be careful, kid. You’re uncle’s a bad boy, he won’t let that lie,’ said Fryer. The kid’s face creased into a smile, but he was calmer now and assured, the same young man who had visited Fryer in the Heights.
‘They need to be careful. Uncle Cecil, and all the peace traitors, they better get ready, they have no clue what’s going to hit them.’ A moment of quiet settled; Christopher smiling, Fryer still thinking. The news reader’s voice spoke; a reported explosion at an NIE electricity substation on the outskirts of Belfast. One NIE employee killed. Much of west Belfast expected to remain in blackout for days. The kid was no longer smiling.
‘You did that too?’ he asked.
Christopher slowly nodded. ‘Now that I’ve turned out the lights, it’s going to be a lot easier to sneak up on your old mucker Jim Dempsey. Daddy told me to kill the lights, but he hasn’t said not how we can get at him,’ said the kid.
Fryer lowered the gun, looked over at the framed portrait of the man in police uniform, then back to the kid. He was taking orders from his dead Da. Jesus help us; first Uncle fucking Cecil, and now this. And they said he was nuts. But these things he would come back to. Dempsey’s name had been spoken, and with it, a craving even more powerful than his need for a smoke.
‘I’ll tell you how we can get to him,’ said Fryer. As his mind cleared these past weeks, he had thou
ght of little else. The blackout would make things a lot easier. It was a great move, the kid done well. Fryer set the Armalite on the table, sat down. ‘You’re gonna have to do a run to the shops for me, kid. I’ll tell you what to buy,’ he said. The kid said he would be happy to. Fryer gathered his spilled tobacco from the table top and rolled one.
‘I’ll make us another brew. You can tell me how we are going to get to Dempsey. Then I can explain the rest of the plan,’ said Christopher. He collected their cups, and walked back into the kitchen. Aye, thought Fryer, he’d have another brew, and then he would put his head down. Because tonight he was going to be busy. He was going to pay a long overdue visit to Jim Judas Dempsey. Rock blared again from the radio, another old one, about the cat in the cradle.
Chapter 8.
Aoife parked beside a large, wooden arch which straddled a street at the entrance to Tiger’s Bay. It depicted William of Orange on horseback, was draped with Union Jack bunting and the command: Remember 1690. She walked the short distance with Sheen until they reached Esther Moore’s street, the way ahead blocked by two white armoured Land Rovers and sectioned off with police tape. She saw a man at the head of a small crowd of young people, remonstrating with one of the uniformed officers standing guard. He had his finger pointed in the police Constable’s face, demanding to be let by. She recognised him even from behind; small man, wide shoulders, that thick mop of hair; Cecil Moore. Aoife pointed him out to Sheen. She had filled him in on what she knew about the crime and about Moore as they drove over.
They stayed on the other side of the street, she showed her warrant card to the other uniform on duty and they ducked under. A swell of noise rose from the crowd, formed into a sectarian football chant:
‘No Surrender!
No Surrender!
No Surrender to the IRA.
Scum!’
Bit late for that, she thought, those dogs are dead and gone.
On the other side she saw the white tent, secured like an alien carbuncle to the side of one of the red brick terrace houses on the right hand side about a quarter of the way down. Two uniformed officers stood guard. At the far end of the street, a similar set up was in place, two white Land Rovers blocked the street. A Tactical Aid Unit was working on their hands and knees, inching along the length of the road. A line of police tape formed a safe passage from where they stood to the entrance of the forensic tent.
DCI Irwin Kirkcaldy emerged from where he had been hidden from view adjacent to the tent. Irwin was farmyard big with a chubby round face, usually a redder shade of the pink he currently sported. He stared at Aoife. His eyes, black and glassy, were hooded behind folds of flesh that gave him a piggy appearance, more boar than porker.
‘You take your time Detective, call mother if you must, this is just a murder investigation,’ he said by way of greeting. The two uniforms on guard started to chortle. She stabbed a glance at them, they shut up.
‘Quick as I could make it sir,’ she said. Irwin grunted, and then looked to Sheen, one eyebrow raised.
‘Sir, this is DI Sheen, from the Metropolitan Police.’ Sheen offered his hand and Irwin pumped it.
‘Irwin Kirkcaldy. We spoke. DC McCusker got you down from the airport in one piece I hope?’ said Irwin. Aoife tensed, ready for what would follow.
‘Please, just call me Sheen sir, everyone does. And yes, she did, sir, and it was most appreciated. Thanks again, Aoife,’ said Sheen. Aoife quietly said not to mention it.
‘You will have your work cut out with the historical stuff, let me tell you, Sheen. It’s a political minefield. But until you begin there, we have you under Serious Crimes. A man like you will understand the necessity of efficient allocation of resources when the clock is ticking on a murder investigation,’ continued Irwin. Aoife shuffled, this was not moving in the direction she had anticipated.
‘Of course, but I have a lot of things that need to be-’ Sheen started, but he was cut short.
‘Good to have you on board. We need another experienced man on deck,’ replied Irwin, and his eyes briefly turned to rest on her. ‘This is DC McCusker’s first murder investigation. I want you to stay with her, like a coach. It will do her good, show her how a murder is solved, but from a safe distance,’ he said. Sheen looked like he was ready to protest, but Aoife got in there first. Her heart throbbed in her throat and she could feel a light shake in her arms as the angry spike of adrenalin jagged through her system.
‘Sir, I really think I have more to offer than that. I know Cecil Moore from my work in Community Relations; I can speak to him, ask the right questions. You do not need to hire some baby sitter to look after me,’ she continued but then Irwin spoke.
‘I am SIO, and I say who does what. Don’t tell me my job, DC McCusker, and never tell me what I need to do,’ he said, a thick fingertip pointed at her. He glanced at the rolled newspaper in her hand.
‘Oh I understand what we are up against and how we are going to deal with it,’ he said, then sighed. ‘I suppose we should probably be grateful that they did not post a beheading video up as well,’ said Irwin. She looked at the red hatched area in the image on the front page, all of a sudden felt no ambition whatsoever, she wanted to turn and walk away from the white tent and get far away from here. But it was too late for such musings. Irwin turned and started inside the tent.
‘Come on. Get yourselves suited and booted,’ he said.
Chapter 9.
Aoife put on the protective suit, shoe covers and mask, signed and timed the scene log. A CSI was dusting the outside of the front door, kneeling on the front step of the house. It was scrubbed and spotless, worn down to a gentle dip in the middle from years of visiting feet.
Irwin waited in the small hallway. White plastic foot markers led a forensically secure path from the front door, and disappeared into a room ahead on the left, probably a parlour and kitchen. Aoife had been in similar homes countless times, Catholic and Protestant, the only thing that differed was the religious icons on the walls and a holy water font by the door; the general layout, ordered cleanliness, and lack of luxuries were usually identical.
‘OK. No sign of breaking and entering, so she must have opened the door and money and jewellery left untouched. No murder weapon, no secretions as yet and I don’t hold my breath. Lots of prints, probably the victim’s or family, we will do the checks. So far, only those shoe prints which are conspicuous enough to have been left purposely I think. There are more inside,’ said Irwin. She looked down at the worn, cream carpet. Boot or shoe prints, the colour of dried blood, emerged from the parlour and stopped at the base of the stairs.
‘Like a signature,’ said Sheen.
‘MacBride’s managing the CSIs, right?’ she asked.
‘He’s in there,’ said Irwin, cocking his thumb towards the parlour room.
A man appeared from the doorway at which Irwin had gestured. He was like a canvas puppet, overalls stretched over a wiry frame. His bushy ginger eyebrows sprouted from behind a pair of glasses, very thick lenses. He eyed Aoife, lifted his dust mask, to reveal a bird’s nest of red goatee beard.
‘If I’d have known you were coming down detective, I would have splashed on a bit of the old Blue Stratos,’ he said and started to smile. Aoife offered a small smile in return, then quickly introduced Sheen.
‘Is this big fella my competition? With that sexy cockney accent, sure that’s hardly fair? Maybe I should have went the whole hog and taken a bath this morning,’ he said.
‘Don’t you spruce yourself up on my account MacBride. It’s the corpse I am interested in, every time,’ she said, though in fairness this would be only the third body she had seen. The other two were during a one month training placement when Irwin had her making tea and filing for nearly three weeks. Paddy Laverty, Irwin’s second in command, had taken pity on her and let her tag along to actual murder scenes. One domestic incident involving a dumbbell and a teenager kicked to death outside a house party.
‘Kinky girl,’ sai
d MacBride, nodding his head, not holding back on the grin in return. Irwin straightened himself to his full agricultural elevation.
‘Have a bit of respect, if you know how,’ he said, looking down at the CSI, but resting the full weight of his eyes on Aoife.
‘I’ll do you better than that for you sir,’ said MacBride. ‘I just found her tongue.’
Chapter 10.
‘Creative, huh?’ said Irwin, his voice muffled behind the thin mask. She turned to him. His eyes were fixed on the horror which lay on the floor before them.
‘Bloody Hell, Irwin,’ she replied, shook her head. This time he did not chastise her for using ungodly expletives. The small room was thick with the heavy, coppery stench of drying blood. Just beneath it was the sharper odour of human excrement; and worst of all, a still present smell of cooked breakfast. The strong coffee of an hour before was suddenly in the frame. She swallowed hard. Concentrate, keep calm, be in control. She forced her eyes back to the remains on the parlour floor.
‘You alright, detective, you look like you have gone a touch pale?’ said Irwin.
‘Fine sir,’ she said. But that was not true, because this was very bad.
The old woman, dressed in a nylon house coat, was positioned in a crouching kneel, with her buttocks raised and pointing towards Aoife and the other observers. Her arms were stretched out at right angles at her sides, like an obscene parody of how little children play at being fighter planes. Her face, which should have been naturally facing to the left or right or buried in the carpet was looking almost vertically straight up. Her neck had been all but severed and her head was attached by a thin hinge of spinal column and tissue. A clean white gleam of bone shone from the exposed gore under her chin. A pool of thick, congealed black blood had spread in a near perfect circle around her head and upper torso.
Blood Will Be Born Page 6
