The Tribes

by Catriona King

  ****

  High Street Station

  Annette yawned loudly as she scribbled in Jack Harris’ custody book, writing ‘Reported as requested. January 31st’ against Mara McAllister’s and Mitchell Purvis’ names. Jack appeared through the door from the cells and peered over her shoulder as she wrote.

  “You’re the only person I allow to write in my book except me.”

  He opened the door to the back office as she looked up.

  “Why’s that, Jack? Although I’m flattered, of course.”

  “Because you’re the only copper I know whose handwriting doesn’t look like a spider’s on speed. You can’t read a word from the rest of them. God knows how they decipher their notes in court.”

  She set down the pen and closed the heavy book. “They have brilliant P.A.s like Nicky who type things up for them.”

  The desk sergeant smiled. “What are you here for anyway?”

  “I’d heard that Liam and chief were here doing something, but they’ve gone. I met our two bail-ees on the way in.” She lifted her handbag and turned to leave. “See you soon, Jack. And get some rest; you look like you haven’t slept all night.” Something about the way he nodded made her stop in her tracks. “What?”

  The sergeant tried to look innocent. “What do you mean what?”

  There was definitely something up. Annette moved in closer and squinted at his face.

  “You’re hiding something.”

  As Jack opened his mouth to reply the front door opened, and Constable Sandi Masters clocked on for the day. In the flurry of greetings that followed Annette lost the advantage, and she left with only a nod from the desk sergeant to confirm her feeling that something was happening in their team.

  Annette’s curiosity was soon buried under the mound of work she was looking at that day. She pulled out her phone on the way to the car and called Jake.

  “Jake. Meet me at this address, please.” As she recited the detail Davy had found from a call on Calum Fox’s phone she remembered something else. “And bring Rhonda. I want her to shadow us today. I’ll meet you both there in ten.”

  Ten minutes later the three cops were staring at a shopfront that had seen better days. Annette knew she should have anticipated it when she’d heard the address; Belfast’s Smithfield was an area that had, if not exactly a black reputation then one that was a murky shade of grey. She scanned the shop’s peeling paintwork and half pink, half ebony façade. It really didn’t need the sign that read ‘Jenny’s Services’ to indicate that it was a knocking shop.

  She took a deep breath and pushed open the door, dreading what she would find inside. She’d seen places like this before. Lino floors and a reception desk, usually with an overweight middle-aged man behind, and a group of tired, ill-kept girls dressed in lingerie whatever the hour or weather, seated along the walls on uncomfortable chairs. Most disturbing of all was the pile of thin, worn towels that they selected from once they’d acquired a punter; rarely washed well enough to conceal past stains. Perhaps it was her nursing past that drew her eyes to them, but she couldn’t help wondering what diseases they might spread.

  Jake noticed something else entirely; the man at the desk had a baseball bat by his feet. He signalled Annette quickly with his eyes then positioned himself by an inner door, ready to prevent the entry of more troops. As Annette showed her warrant card the girls scattered like nervous flamingos, leaving Rhonda to reassure them that it wasn’t a raid. The man rose, to reveal a ten gallon gut that had been hidden beneath the desk. He was unlikely to try and outrun them at least.

  “We’d like to speak to the owner.”

  The man shrugged then emitted a yell that could have been heard streets away.

  “VERA. THE COPS WANT YOU.”

  It probably saved money on an intercom.

  Two minutes later Jake felt a push at his back as the inner door opened, to reveal a tiny, seventy-something woman with candy floss hair and a cigarette hanging precariously from her lips. The rest of her was incongruously demure, clothed in an expensive tweed suit and a string of pearls that might have been worn by his gran.

  The madam stepped past him and held out a hand to Annette, spotting her as the boss in a blink.

  “Vera McAteer. How can I help you, officer?”

  Annette let the hand hang in the air, her good manners beaten down by disgust.

  “We’re interested in a client who used your service yesterday.”

  The gaggle of girls made relieved noises and sat back down in their chairs, while the baseball player relaxed and wriggled further into his seat. Annette was tempted to bust him for something, even though that wasn’t why they were there that day. The idea of walking away and leaving the girls to such a seedy existence really bothered her and she made up her mind to call Vice as soon as they left. She knew they would close the place down only for it to open again somewhere else, but she just couldn’t leave it as it was.

  Vera McAteer dropped her hand and stood quite still in front of her.

  “Can I ask why?”

  “You can, but we’re not obliged to tell you.”

  Annette could hear her voice tremble as she spoke. She was furious with the elderly woman. In her book she should be motherly and protective of younger women, not living off their bodies in this dump. Vera McAteer knew when she was hitting a brick wall, so she nodded slightly and opened the door she’d entered by, leading them down a corridor towards a small back room. Rhonda gawped at the other doors leading off the corridor, knowing instantly what they concealed. She’d never been in a brothel although she’d seen them in the movies, but then she’d always thought that they were hyped up for effect. As Jake followed the three women he shuddered. He had a cousin the girls’ age and it would kill him to see her in a cesspit like this.

  The madam took a seat behind a small desk, waving the others vaguely to some seats. They declined and Annette got straight to business.

  “Your number was found on the mobile phone of a crime victim.” Amongst other dodgy numbers on Calum Fox’s phone, but none of the rest had been houses of ill repute. “He called it three hours before the crime was committed against him.”

  Vera McAteer didn’t react so Annette carried on.

  “We believe that he hired the services of one of your young ladies and we need your help in finding her name.”

  McAteer swivelled her chair to face an old-fashioned computer, tapping on it at a snail’s pace. After a moment she paused.

  “Yesterday you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  Annette thought for a moment. Calum Fox had died between one and two p.m. the day before. She counted back, working out how long it would have taken him to drive to the brothel from his home in Armagh, collect the girl and then drive to the field where he’d died. She wondered why Fox had driven north for a prostitute when he could just have gone for a local girl but she parked the query for later and settled for eleven o’clock.

  “He would have collected her around twelve.”

  “From where?”

  The question underlined her doubts. The madam elaborated.

  “Lots of our girls are home-based and work part-time. The ones out front are the permanent ones. Others just work when it suits them.”

  Jake was curious about the logistics. “So how do you get paid?”

  McAteer pursed her lips. “If we got paid, and I’m not saying we do, mind you, the girl might pay us in cash after the job. That’s if we trusted her.” She gestured towards the door. “You couldn’t trust that lot as far as you could throw them, so they pay us a monthly rental up front.” She added hastily. “That’s if anyone paid us at all, and-”

  Jake finished the sentence for her. “You’re not saying that they do.”

  Annette wasn’t interested in how the business worked. She just wanted to get out of the place.

  “OK, so which girls were working yesterday morning? We’ll need all their names and addresses, i
ncluding the girls out front. Photographs too, if you have them.”

  She could sense the madam’s reluctance but she didn’t care. Fox could have met a free-lancer near Armagh or driven to Belfast and picked up a girl from the shop; they had to check them all. Thankfully Vera McAteer’s records were as fastidious as her clothing, and in five minutes she’d collated a list and pressed print.

  Annette issued a warning as she left. “This list had better be accurate, Ms McAteer. If it isn’t then we’ll be back.”

  But Vice would be there first.

  Chapter Eleven

  Garvan’s Bookies.

  Off you go, McCrae. Get out there, McCrae. Find out who’s stamping on west Belfast’s turf and let me know.

  In other words, you stick your neck on the line asking awkward questions, while I sit on my ass in Pleasantville drinking a cup of tea. Except finding things out nowadays wasn’t as easy as Tommy thought; they weren’t living in his heyday during The Troubles any more. Back then the cops were too busy worrying about bombs and bullets to care about someone passing info in a bookies or a pub. Back then gangs had sorted out their grievances with a shooting or punch up and no-one had even blinked. What was one more dead paramilitary if it cleaned the streets? All it did was save the peelers a job. But not nowadays. Now the cops took a dim view of gang warfare, no matter which tatts you wore on your arms.

  Rory McCrae stared at his cigarette ruefully, picturing its burning ash as a fuse counting down to the end of his life. If he asked the wrong question of the wrong man it might well be, then he’d either be dead or back inside The Mag for years.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock so loud that it was either a raid or someone with more confidence than they deserved. McCrae’s hand was on the handle before the third knock fell, his other around the neck of the teenager who’d generated the disturbing sounds. The UKUF boss leaned in, the cigarette in his mouth burning perilously close to the shocked youth’s face. He wasn’t normally so aggressive but Tommy’s demands had done nothing to improve his mood.

  The identity of his visitor added an extra edge to his annoyance. Zac Greer, once heir apparent to the UKUF crown, before his father Davy had been executed by rival paramilitaries and his mother, Sharpy, had been killed by a bomb. Greer’s ambition to rule still gave McCrae sleepless nights.

  “What’d ye want, Greer?”

  The darkening colour of the face above his hand said that if he wanted an answer then he had better loosen his grip. He did so, so abruptly that the shocked boy dropped at his feet. By the time he was upright again McCrae was back in his chair with his feet up on his desk.

  Zac Greer coughed loud and long until finally a hoarse voice emerged. It had an unfortunately broken timbre that was less to do with youth and more to do with his father’s legacy.

  “McIlveen wants to know if ye want the money held in the safe till tomara?”

  McCrae reminded himself again why he kept the boy around. It was partly because it was better to keep your enemies close, and partly because it amused him to humiliate the boy who had thought to be king by giving him menial tasks. He lit a fresh cig from the butt of his last one.

  “What dee I normally dee?”

  It had the sound of a trick question but Greer didn’t hesitate.

  “Keep it in the safe.”

  “So why wud I change this time?”

  Greer’s reply was a shrug and McCrae felt a grudging admiration for the lad’s arrogance. It also gave him an idea. He scanned the youth’s face for a moment and then unexpectedly gestured him to sit. The only chair except his sat against the far wall, so with a literal sense that might have been amusing on another day the young man sat down exactly where it was.

  The gang leader was less amused than he was certain that Greer was taking the piss. His gesture was sharper this time.

  “Bring it here. I’m nat yellin’ fer miles.”

  A moment later the boy and the man were staring at each other, neither of them willing to blink. McCrae broke the silence.

  “I’ve a jab fer ye.”

  Greer didn’t move.

  “Tap secret. I need ye to ask around and get me sum info.”

  The teenager angled his head and continued to stare. Combined with his narrowed gaze it said curiosity. It also said he was about to ask for cash.

  “Hye much?”

  McCrae lurched forward across his desk. “Wat did ye say?”

  Greer held his ground. “Hye much? If this info’s that important to ye, ye’ll be prepared to pay.”

  The old lag was torn between giving Greer’s throat another squeeze and giving him a pat on the back. Cheeky wee skitter Zac Greer might be, but he admired his nerve. After a full minute’s silence, McCrae gave a slight nod. OK, he would give him a reward, but one that lined his pockets as well when Greer lost it on a horse.

  “A ton behind the wire fer ye to bet with.”

  The monarch in waiting shook his head. “I don’t bet. It’s a mugs’ game. It’s cash or no way.”

  He had McCrae over a barrel and another, angrier nod finally gave him what he’d asked.

  “OK. Shoot.”

  As McCrae laid out his desired end result, or rather Tommy’s, two other themes were running through his mind. One was self-congratulation at getting the job done without risking his own skin, the other was schadenfreude, if he could have spelt it, because if Greer got killed or lifted doing the job then he’d be out of his hair at last. He would still hold that night’s meeting on the off-chance of some information coming out, but his money was on the little prince to find out what he needed to know.

  ****

  The C.C.U. 11.30 a.m.

  When Craig and Liam arrived back at the squad-room it was with a long list of things still to check. Davy rose immediately they entered and raced across to the men. “You’re going to w…want to see this.” He indicated the smart-pad beneath his arm. Craig led the way into his office and mimicked dying of thirst as he passed Nicky’s desk. His pleas were answered and as Davy set up what he wanted to show them, she appeared with three cups and some biscuits on a tray. Liam glanced over her shoulder.

  “Is that a doily?”

  “It’s the weekend. We always use doilies at the weekend at our house. Our Jonny’s not growing up a savage.”

  How a lace paper circle could prevent her son’s descent into anarchy was a question for another day.

  As soon as she’d left Craig turned to the analyst. “Sorry to involve you in this, Davy”

  Davy shook his head. “I just hope that I can help.”

  He tapped on his screen and they watched as Andy Angel clambered out of a cab on the Lisburn Road.

  “I’ve checked with Inspector Lindsay and everything w…was just as Andy said. He cancelled Andy at the last minute.”

  Craig leaned in and pointed at the cab, making Davy press pause.

  “OK, the cab came from a firm called Centre Cabs and I’ve checked with their office. They have a record of the driver collecting Andy at eight-thirty and dropping him at the bar at a quarter to nine.”

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Yep. He s…sounded straight-up. Apparently Andy uses the firm all the time. Couldn’t whoever planned this just have w…waited outside Andy’s place and followed them?”

  Craig nodded. It was the simplest explanation.

  Liam lifted a biscuit and waved it over the analyst’s head, prompting a shower of crumbs to fall into his lap.

  “Andy doesn’t look drunk there, boss.”

  Davy brushed the crumbs away in disgust as Craig nodded.

  “I agree. So Andy had arranged to meet Lindsay as he said, he got the cab as he said, and he was sober when he entered the bar, just as he said.” He glanced at Davy. “What about footage from inside?”

  Davy made a face. “You’re not going to like it.”

  Craig gave a resigned sigh and motioned him on. He’d already guessed what the cameras would show. Over the next five
minutes they watched Andy walk to the bar, order a drink and take a call.

  “Bob Lindsay?”

  “Yes. I matched the time from his mobile. It lasted forty s…seconds.”

  Andy ended the call and slipped his phone back into his coat. They watched as his drink arrived and Craig signalled to press pause.

  “I want that barman’s I.D. He almost pushed the barmaid out of the way to serve Andy.”

  Davy nodded. “Already on it, chief. The bar manager is checking the rotas and he’ll call me back once he has the name.”

  Just then Nicky knocked on the door and entered, giving Davy a note.

  He read aloud. “The barman’s called Jeremy S…Scott.” He turned just as Nicky was exiting and handed the note back. “Ask Ash to run him through the computer, please. We need criminal records and his address and phone details. Thanks.”

  Craig smiled at his request being pre-empted and wished again that Davy would join the force. The analyst had already restarted the tape.

  “OK, this is where Andy said he s…stopped remembering, but he also said he’d intended just to drink the beer he’d already ordered and then go home.”

  Liam nodded. “And?”

  “Watch.”

  They were still watching ten minutes later as Andy had a second beer and then a third and a fourth. Davy paused the tape.

  “Doctor Marsham phoned through with Andy’s full tox-screen. It shows high levels of Ketamine and Rohypnol-”

  Liam gasped. “He was roofied!”

  Davy nodded. “He was also s…slammed. His blood alcohol was still twice the legal limit this morning.”

  Craig was peering at the screen as they’d talked. “Davy, scroll back to Andy’s first drink, please.”

  They watched as Scott handed him a glass.

  “OK, now take us to the other drinks.”

  Liam frowned. “What are we looking for?”

  “Watch…OK, stop there and zoom in on the server.”

  It wasn’t a man this time but a girl.