O’Donnell waved him on and a minute later they were staring at an image of a rain sodden country road.
“This is the main road that runs along the end of the track your killer would have been on, after she’d climbed the fence. There are no cameras on the track itself.” He pressed pause and turned to Annette pointedly, indicating that their animosity was now running both ways. “That’s if she did climb over. How do you know she didn’t just run in the other direction on your side?”
Jake had the answer. “Because there was a clear blood trail from the car to the fence, and more blood on the other side.”
O’Shea responded like someone had just invaded his country. “You were on our side?”
O’Donnell stepped in quickly to prevent the onset of war. “We have a common travel area, remember? The team just stepped across to have a look, that’s how we knew we had to liaise with you. The girl definitely went into the south.”
O’Shea continued, unappeased. “If she was smart she could have left the blood there deliberately to throw you off track. It doesn’t mean that she didn’t hop right back into the north.”
He pressed the play button forcefully, and they watched for five more minutes as the rain pelted relentlessly on the road’s tarmac at its junction with the rough farm track. Finally O’Shea stopped the tape and stared directly at Annette. She was his real audience. If he could win her over then all would be right with his world.
“There’s hours of tape here, all of it like this; cars driving past on the road but none approaching it from the direction of the track. We had our lab look at it, but this is your copy if you’d like to do the same.”
Annette thought for a moment. “What about the other end of the track? Are there any cameras there?”
O’Shea shook his head. “None. It’s a mud track that leads to other mud tracks across the fields. The nearest CCTV is at a village shop ten miles away. It’s a very rural part of the world.”
Their killer had planned things perfectly. Not only had she chosen a remote field in which to kill Calum Fox, but she’d chosen one that backed onto a track accessible only by blind back roads. If they were going to find out their girl’s name then it would have to be through legwork in the north.
Annette stood up. “Thank you, Inspector O’Shea. Sergeant O’Donnell, could you furnish me with Mr Fox’s phone logs before I leave, please? It’s clear we have a lot more work to do on our side.” She glanced at O’Shea and added “first”, then pushed back her chair and turned towards the door, finishing with. “Once we have her name we’ll let you know and the Gardaí can hopefully locate her in the south.”
If Magnus O’Shea was taken aback by her abrupt exit he didn’t show it and as Fred O’Donnell walked him to his car the Garda’s mind was already on what Mary would be cooking him for lunch.
****
High Street Station. Viewing Room One. 12 p.m.
Craig had never believed in stereotypes, if he had done then he would have been a trench-coat wearing alcoholic living a sad, lonely life. Come to think of it… Nope. He shook his head as if the conversation was with someone else instead of in his mind. He didn’t even own a trench-coat.
So anyway, he didn’t believe in stereotypes; that brainy kids always wore glasses and that skinny people were neurotic. He stopped for a moment, thinking of Martin Grant. No, not neurotic, just a bit twitchy.
But not all Italians loved pasta and ice cream, just most of his cousins, and not all villains looked as if they were. He thought back to some of the people that they’d put away over the years: a property magnate, a judge, a senior cop; not one of them had dragged their knuckles along the ground or had ‘thug’ tattooed on their cheek.
But Xavier Rey had just blown his disdain for stereotypes right out of the water, and as if Liam could read his mind he nudged his elbow and pointed through the viewing room glass.
“Now that’s a wrong un if ever I saw one.”
Craig couldn’t argue with him. Xavier Rey looked like every cartoon villain rolled into one, with his low-browed, swarthy, folded face, set in a scowl that looked as if it had taken root years before, and his brawny, tattooed arms resting, fists clenched, on the table in front of him. Rey hadn’t moved in the ten minutes they’d been watching him and Craig would have laid a bet that if they’d watched for ten more his position would have remained the same. Except that he didn’t have the time to watch so instead he nodded Liam towards the door and psyched himself up for the interviewing fray. He was surprised when Liam didn’t budge; instead he leaned in closer to the glass, tilting his head this way and that as if Rey would reveal a different side of himself if viewed in a different light.
Craig was curious. “What are you thinking?”
It wasn’t a question he asked often of his deputy, or at least not in such a pointed tone. What are you thinking was a question for briefings, to be thrown out to the team in the hope that a gem or two might come back in return, or it was a question for quiet moments with someone you loved, hoping that their answer might reveal more of them or prompt an affirmation of their love. Suddenly an image of Katy filled his mind, making him catch his breath. He shook his head hard to erase it; it took all his energy to keep his feelings for her at bay and he didn’t need them sneaking up on him at work. Thankfully Liam had missed his moment of introspection and was still staring through the glass. Finally he obliged with an answer.
“Two things. Why didn’t Andy tell us Rey looked like a mass murderer?”
“Maybe he thought it was irrelevant. He was dealing with a bereaved relative, after all.”
Liam continued as if he hadn’t heard. “And how come Rey’s never pinged our radar before? If looks mean anything that scrote has put his fair share of men in the ground.”
Craig couldn’t argue with his logic. Why hadn’t they at least heard about Rey and his son, or The Rock for that matter? He covered his puzzlement with a shrug.
“Geoff seems adamant the gang isn’t linked with any deaths.” He pulled out his phone. “But let’s check again.”
As Geoff Hamill answered he knocked the phone onto speaker.
“The Rock don’t kill, at least that hasn’t been our experience-”
Liam’s scepticism was noisy. “Get away out of that. Rey looks like Bluto from a Popeye cartoon!”
Hamill’s voice took on a huff. “He might well do but I’d have hoped the Murder Squad would have been beyond stereotypes.” Craig had the good grace to blush. “People cooperate with The Rock because of their reputation, but they only deal in fraud and the like and any serious gang violence I’ve seen has always happened over drugs and girls.”
Craig thanked him and ended the call quickly; just as Liam’s “That you know of” emerged.
The D.C.I. added a derisive snort. “That just means they haven’t found the bodies. Rey must have buried them bloody deep.”
Craig shrugged. “Or it might actually be true, and if they don’t kill it would certainly explain why another gang has risked encroaching on their turf.” He opened the door and right on cue Jack Harris appeared. “Either way we’ll find out. Hi, Jack.”
The usually amiable sergeant looked decidedly pissed off. “Are you two going to be long? Only I’m getting no work done babysitting all these interviews.”
Craig knew that something was up in Jack World.
“I can call someone down from Docklands to do it if you’re busy, Jack.”
Harris shook his head, irritated. “Ach no, sure by the time they got here you could be through.”
Craig realised immediately what had happened. “Roger Litton’s giving you grief about us, isn’t he?”
The sergeant’s silence said yes.
Superintendent Roger Litton was the force’s undisputed number one pain in the ass. People like Gabe Ronson in Traffic were rule obsessed, anal idiots, and prats like Terry Harrison were the sort that you watched your back around, but for sheer vicious, climb over your granny to get to the top ambi
tion, Litton was the one who took the prize.
Craig had known officers like him at The Met, where ambition had been like a smell that tinged the air; men so desperate to get to the top they probably brought a knife to work, just for the ease of stabbing their rivals in the back. It had been a competitive, toxic atmosphere, not least because it had made everyone second guess themselves and had got in the way of solving crimes. He’d hated it by the end but had only realised just how much when he’d returned home in two thousand and eight and had found a more easy going approach.
He’d never been ambitious, always driven more by his heart than his head and wallet, although people who knew of his friendship with the Chief Constable would probably disagree. But he would have liked Sean Flanagan whatever job he had done, and if they thought that Flanagan did him any favours then they would have been very wrong. But that didn’t stop ambitious men like Litton disliking him because of it and as far as he was concerned he didn’t give a damn, but if Litton was targeting Jack because of his squad’s use of interview rooms, then they would be having words very soon.
He smiled at the veteran desk sergeant, who probably knew more about policing than ten Littons rolled into one.
“When did you start reporting to him, Jack?”
Harris’s expression was glum. “Three weeks ago and it’s been tote that barge and lift that bale ever since.” He shrugged. “Ach, I’ll just have to cope till retirement.”
Liam’s eyebrows shot up. He and the sergeant were the same age.
“Can you afford to retire, Jack? I’ll have to work till I die.”
Jack’s retort was instant. “That’s what you get for having sex.”
“I don’t have sex, I make luuvvv…”
The sergeant gave a scornful laugh. “I wonder if your wife would say the same. Anyway, whatever you call it, you have two young kids. Mine are all grown up. But in answer to your question, no, I can’t afford to retire, but I can’t put up with Litton’s carryon for another ten years.”
Craig intervened. “You can’t leave because of him either, so I’m going to have a word.” He waved Jack’s objections away. “Now, we’ve an interview to do, so grab yourself a ringside seat.”
****
West Belfast.
Andy trudged away from the small terraced house little better informed than when he’d arrived. Matias Rey and his two mates, Ryan Phelan and Niall Henderson, had met at eight o’clock Tuesday night on the Andersonstown Road, outside the Pyramid Burger Bar. He wondered what the link was between Egypt and hamburgers but googling their dubious historical associations would have to wait.
Davy’s research that the three boys had attended school and church together had turned out to be correct. They’d been three little angels as well, if the photograph he’d just seen on Phelan’s living room wall was any evidence. Along the line they’d swopped football cards, DVDs and girlfriends, and for ten years the three musketeers had remained a team, so when they’d left school it hadn’t been a huge leap for them all to join The Rock and another generation of Belfast gangsters had been born.
Phelan had confirmed they’d had the burgers, lining their stomachs before a big night out on the town, then they’d grabbed a taxi from Rey’s firm and headed to The Pit Club. By eleven the gig was over and Niall Henderson had left with some girl. Andy would get her name when he interviewed him next. It had left the other two boys to dander off in search of more drink.
They’d found it at one of Belfast’s late night shibeens, where the pure alcohol in the poteen had seen Ryan Phelan throwing up in a gutter after midnight, then being carted off in an ambulance to the emergency department of St Mary’s Trust. Andy believed the story; the lad had lain on the settee during his entire interview, clutching his still sore stomach from being pumped out days before. It had left Matias Rey to find his way home alone at one o’clock on Wednesday morning. It was an eight mile walk so how better would the son of a taxi firm owner get home except to call a cab.
Except that if Matias Rey had made the call, he had never reached home. That left three possibilities: either he’d been followed and they’d lifted him before he’d called the taxi; or after he’d called but before the cab arrived; or whoever had collected him was working with his killers and had driven Matias to his death. The phone records would soon tell.
He took out his mobile and called the office, to be answered by a young man.
“Hello.”
“Oh, hi, Davy.”
“It’s Ash actually, but all us analysts sound alike. Do you want Davy?”
“No. You’ll do.”
Ash answered with a grunt that told Andy just how flattered he was.
“Matias Rey’s phone. Have you got the call log yet?”
Ash was still huffing. “Oh yes, in between chasing up on Miskimmon, and sticking a broom up my-”
“Very funny. Well, have you?”
The analyst made a show of rustling through some papers, deliberately making the D.C.I. wait. If Andy was stupid enough to believe that he kept information on anything more primitive than a smart-pad then he deserved to wait all day. When he got fed up rustling he read aloud in a bored voice.
“Rey’s last call was on Wednesday the twenty-seventh, at one-ten a.m. It was made from the city centre and the receiving number was Rey’s cab firm.” He signed off brightly with. “Have a nice day now”.
Andy didn’t waste time wondering why Ash was in a snit. Matias Rey’s killers had abducted him just after that call. He thought of something and raced back up the path to knock on the front door. It was answered by a very wan looking Phelan.
“One last question. How would Matias usually have got home after a night out?”
The youth’s expression said that the answer was obvious. “He’d have called one of his dad’s drivers.”
Andy was insistent. “He definitely wouldn’t have walked?”
Phelan scoffed. “Are you kiddin’? It’s miles and Matias’d had a skin full. He would have called a cab.” He turned to go back in, his greying face saying that it was probably to throw up.
Andy waved his thanks and headed to the car and his next interview, wondering if Matias Rey’s killers had been prepared to collect and kill all three youths, or if getting the other two out of the way beforehand had been part of their masterplan.
****
High Street Station. 12.05 p.m.
The previous five minutes of silence had been broken only by Xavier Rey’s noisy tears of grief. After a few strained moments of implacability it had made his folded face redden and crease as he’d struggled for control, only to return to its original state until the grief overcame him again. Craig watched and waited, ignoring Liam’s obvious impatience and resting calmly back in his chair; the man had lost his son and whatever he might have done in his past they had to respect that. Plus, Rey had agreed to talk to them without a lawyer or anything forcing him to.
The detective asked himself why. OK, he wanted to catch his son’s killer, but most gangsters would have done that by putting the word out on the street. And Rey was obviously devastated, so the last place he needed to be now was sitting in a cold, bright room. He was just about to ask why he was there when the gang boss fixed his gaze.
“You’re wonderin’ why I’m here.”
His voice was low and surprisingly soft, with an accent that lay closer to Spain than Belfast. Forty odd years in Northern Ireland, just like Craig’s own mother, and yet both still sounded more of their Mediterranean origins than the place they now called home.
Craig nodded, with a sympathetic look that earned him a silent ‘huh’ from Liam.
“Why are you here, Mr Rey? There must be a lot for you to do at home.”
The gang master’s eyes took on a faraway look and its message was clear. He wanted to be as far from his son’s funeral arrangements as possible, as if the trappings of death would drive home a fact that he couldn’t yet accept. Clear as it was to Craig, Rey’s next words attempt
ed to hide the truth behind a macho façade.
“I help you catch the man.”
If it made the father feel better, Craig was happy to take any help that he could get. It was only then that he realised Liam was tapping the table. It continued irritatingly until he was about to tell him to stop then he realised he was tapping out a word in their shorthand. Guilt.
Of course. Rey felt guilty over his son’s death and he’d missed it behind his grief. And guilt meant that he believed the death had something to do with the world that he’d involved his son in, which meant that to help them find Matias’ killer he would have to tell them about The Rock. Craig glanced towards the glass, hoping that Geoff Hamill had joined Jack as he’d said he might. What Rey said next might crack more than just this case.
****
Stockmans Lane, Belfast. 12.30 p.m.
Maureen Stevens was surprised by the brisk knock on her front door and then her surprise changed into hope. Only the police knocked that briskly; Marc must have had enough of sending Katy flowers to no reply, so he’d turned up in person to sweep her reticence away. Her hope returned to surprise when she entered the hall and saw a small outline through the glass front door. Marc was tall, in fact she didn’t know anyone that small except her friend Rose, and she was in Norway on her first cruise of the year.
When she’d decided that staring and guessing wasn’t going to give her an answer, she walked down the hall and opened the door, drawing it back just as far as the security chain would stretch. Marc had fitted it for her, along with a smoke alarm, adding a lecture on how to stay safe in your own home. She missed seeing him but she couldn’t interfere. Katy might be gentle but she had a huge stubborn streak, and the more that she advocated for her relationship with Marc the more she was likely to turn her back on him for good.
As the thoughts ran through her head she registered who her visitor was and slid off the chain, smiling and waving her in.
The Tribes Page 19
