Dead Men (25 page)

‘And where would you get a gun?’

‘Gun, knife – I’d strangle them with my bare hands. I don’t know. I’m sure I’d do something, but I guess it’s all hypothetical.’

‘For you,’ she said. ‘For me . . .’ She sighed. ‘The anger and the hatred eat away at you, so you have to deal with them as best you can. I know some women who lost their men who have forgiven and moved on with their lives, but there’s no way I can forgive the men who killed Robbie. They killed him as if they were killing a dog, Jamie. They forced their way into our house and shot him in front of me, then walked out as if it was the most natural thing in the world. How can men act like that? How can they sit down and plan to kill a husband and father? Killing in a war I can understand, or losing your temper and lashing out, but planning to murder a man in front of his wife and child? How can a human being do it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And then the British Government lets them go. They say it’s okay to let the evil bastards back on to the streets because the IRA has given up violence. But what about Robbie and Timmy? Am I going to get them back?’

‘It’s a nightmare, I know.’

‘No, you wake up from a nightmare. This is my life, Jamie. You know Noel Kinsella, the one who ran off to the United States? He came back and pleaded guilty to murdering my husband and served not one day in prison. Not one day. Even the judge said that was wrong. Tell me, Jamie, what sort of world do we live in where you can murder a man and not be punished?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You and me both,’ she said. She gulped some more wine and refilled her glass. ‘You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?’ she asked.

‘Now, why would I want to do that?’

‘To have your wicked way with me.’ She laughed.

‘Great! So I’d have to get you drunk to stand a chance with you, would I?’

Elaine stopped laughing. ‘Are you flirting with me, Jamie?’

Shepherd held her eyes for a few seconds, then grinned and shook his head.

‘I like your sister,’ said Elaine.

‘Yeah, she’s a sweetie,’ said Shepherd.

‘She doesn’t look much like you.’

‘She takes after our mum. I’m like Dad.’

A face flashed up on the television screen. Shepherd recognised it immediately. Gerry Lynn. Elaine saw his reaction and looked at the screen. ‘That’s Lynn, one of the bastards who shot Robbie,’ she said.

Shepherd reached for the remote control and turned up the sound.

The picture of Lynn was replaced by a video shot of forensic investigators in disposable white suits on a rutted track standing round a Lexus. The back window had been shot out. The camera panned to the right where more white-suited figures were working in a muddy field.

A female reporter with a Scottish accent was explaining that three men had been shot dead on a farm outside Dublin and that the killings followed a series of sectarian shootings, but that sources within the Police Service of Northern Ireland did not believe that the Peace Process was breaking down.

Elaine listened intently. ‘Good riddance,’ she said quietly. She was staring at the screen with undiluted hatred.

The video was replaced with a studio set. The female presenter was a pale-faced blonde with straight hair and penetrating eyes. She was interviewing a senior police officer. She grilled him as if she believed he personally had pulled the trigger and barely gave him the opportunity to answer her rapid-fire questions. She suggested that the police had been slow to investigate the previous killings and that some members of the Republican movement believed the police were unconcerned about the murders because the victims were convicted killers. The officer explained patiently that the killings were being investigated but that without witnesses or forensic evidence there would be no quick resolution. The presenter interrupted him to ask if he thought there was a connection with the death of Joseph McFee. The officer started to tell her that it was one avenue being investigated but before he could finish she was saying she had spoken to Republicans who feared that the police were involved in some way with the killings. At this the officer was lost for words.

The camera cut away to another presenter who read out the latest crime figures from an autocue. Shepherd muted the sound again.

Elaine gulped more wine, then refilled her glass again. ‘They didn’t even mention Robbie,’ she said. ‘Lynn murdered Robbie and they didn’t even mention it.’

‘I guess they think Lynn’s the story now,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s what journalists do, they look for the angle.’

‘It’s like they don’t care about the real victims. They want to make it look as if Lynn’s the hero in this.’

‘They weren’t making him out to be a hero,’ said Shepherd. ‘But his murder is the news story.’

Elaine pointed at the screen. ‘You heard what that silly cow was suggesting,’ she said. ‘She was making it sound like the police killed Lynn.’

‘Maybe they did,’ said Shepherd. ‘Maybe there are cops who resent the fact that so many of the men they put away are back on the streets.’

‘That’s crazy,’ said Elaine. ‘The police don’t do that.’ Her eyes blazed and Shepherd stayed quiet. He didn’t want to antagonise her. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like to be a cop, Jamie. Living with Robbie, I got to see just how their hands are tied. Everything’s geared to protect the criminals.’ She waved her glass at the television. ‘The media too – they’re always on the side of the villains. Do they care that Lynn shot my husband in front of me and my little boy? That Lynn and his IRA bastard friends blew Robbie’s brains out for no other reason than that he worked for the RUC?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd again.

‘You don’t have to keep saying you’re sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not your problem. It’s never been your problem.’

Shepherd sipped some wine.

‘I’m glad Lynn’s dead,’ she said. ‘And I’m glad McFee’s dead. Whoever killed them should get a medal.’

‘What about the others?’ asked Shepherd.

‘The others?’

‘The ones with Lynn and McFee? How many were there?’

‘Three,’ said Elaine. ‘Adrian Dunne, Willie McEvoy and Noel Kinsella.’

‘Has anything happened to them?’

‘Nothing they didn’t deserve,’ she said.

‘They’re dead?’

‘Adrian Dunne was shot a couple of months ago, Willie McEvoy too. Kinsella’s still around. He ran away to the States and the Americans refused to extradite him. He came back last month but because of the Belfast Agreement he didn’t serve a day.’

‘What are the odds of that?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Odds of what?’

‘Elaine, come on. Out of the five men who killed your husband, four are dead.’

‘The killings are still going on, Peace Process or not,’ said Elaine. ‘Now it’s old scores being settled or gangsters fighting over drugs.’

‘But four out of five? Haven’t the police questioned you?’

Elaine laughed. ‘You think I’ve been behaving like some crazed vigilante?’

‘Of course not,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I would have thought the police might wonder if there’s a connection.’

Elaine was astonished. ‘I can’t believe you’d say that, Jamie.’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, I’m just saying, cops are cops, wouldn’t they think that you might be involved?’

‘Involved in what way?’ she said defensively.

‘I don’t know. But you above all people would want them dead, wouldn’t you?’

‘There’s a world of difference between wanting someone dead and killing them.’

‘Of course there is. If it was me, I’d want the men responsible dead.’ He thought of Amar Singh and Charlotte Button listening to this. And recording everything that was said.

Elaine’s eyes were brimming with tears. ‘I lost my husband,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘I lost my husband and I lost my son. Yes, the men who ruined my family deserve to suffer and die. But do you think I want to spend the rest of my life behind bars?’

‘Elaine, I didn’t say
I
thought you did anything. I said the police might think that.’

She put down her glass and got to her feet, a little unsteadily. ‘I’m going home.’

‘Elaine, please, don’t be angry.’

She glared at him. ‘Why? Are you frightened I might shoot you?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Shepherd.

‘Oh – so first I’m a vigilante, and now I’m silly, am I?’ She swayed a little. ‘I’m going home.’

‘Elaine, come on, let me make you a coffee.’

‘Now you’re saying I’m drunk? I’m not drunk, Jamie. I’m not drunk, I’m not silly and I’m not a murderer.’ She brushed past him and hurried down the hallway, keeping her left hand on the wall to help her balance. Shepherd hurried after her but she got to the front door ahead of him and let herself out.

‘Elaine!’ he called, but she was already running across the lawn to her house.

Shepherd closed the front door and swore under his breath. He went into the sitting room and peered through the window. Elaine was trying to insert her key into the lock. It took her several attempts and then she was stumbling inside and slamming the door behind her.

His mobile phone rang. It was Button. ‘You pushed too hard, Spider,’ she said.

‘I know. It got away from me, I’m sorry.’

‘Is it retrievable?’

‘I think so. She was a bit drunk, and that’s probably why she reacted the way she did. I’ll let her sleep on it and see how she feels tomorrow. I don’t think it’s her, Charlie. I really don’t.’

‘You found bullets in her attic. And, from what I heard, there’s a lot of anger there. Anger and hatred.’

‘But she’s not a killer.’

‘And you say that based on what?’

Shepherd rubbed the back of his neck. ‘On the basis that it takes one to know one,’ he said quietly.

‘Elizabeth, you’re worrying about nothing,’ said Kinsella. ‘And keep your voice down. I don’t want the Rottweilers to think we’re arguing.’

‘We
are
arguing, honey,’ said Elizabeth, frostily. ‘A friend of yours has been killed and you don’t seem the least bit concerned.’

‘I hardly knew the guy,’ said Kinsella.

‘Concerned about us,’ snapped his wife. ‘Us! You and me! I don’t give a shit about him, it’s you and me I’m worried about.’

‘That’s what we’ve got the Rottweilers for,’ said Kinsella. ‘They’re not going to let anything happen to me. To us. They can’t afford to.’

‘Your friend Lynn had bodyguards, too, remember?’

‘He had a couple of IRA heavies, nothing like the protection we’ve got.’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I can’t live like this, Noel. I’m sorry, but I can’t.’

‘Your family has always had bodyguards. And with good reason. Don’t give me grief over this.’

‘Look, it doesn’t matter how many bodyguards you have or how good the security is. If someone wants to kill you . . .’ She trailed off.

Kinsella put his arms around her and kissed her on the top of the head. ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know it would be like this,’ she said.

‘Neither did I,’ said Kinsella.

‘I thought we could settle down, have children, make a life here.’

‘We can, baby. We can.’

‘But not like this.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I just want them to catch whoever it is.’

‘You and me both,’ said Kinsella. He kissed her again. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

‘I want to go home.’

‘This is home,’ said Kinsella.

‘My home,’ she said. ‘I want to go back to the States.’

Hassan Salih parked his hire car in the King Edward Court car park in the centre of Windsor. He locked it and headed for Windsor’s main shopping street. The sun was shining and it seemed that every second person was a tourist holding a street map or guidebook. Peascod Street was pedestrianised, lined with shops and building-society offices. Large black tubs containing well-tended trees were dotted along the pavement and baskets of brightly coloured flowers hung from the street-lamps. A group of Etonians sat on a curved metal bench eating ice-cream, their black tailcoats and pinstriped trousers a throwback to an earlier age when the British had an empire and the school’s alumni ran it. An American woman in stretch trousers pointed a digital camera at them and asked if she could take their photograph. They agreed and posed good-naturedly, and before long half a dozen tourists were clustered in front of them, clicking cameras.

At the top of Peascod Street a black statue of Queen Victoria, holding an orb, gazed severely at the throngs. The sweeping castle,for which Windsor was famous,lowered over her. The royal standard was flying from the solitary flagpole at the top of the main tower, indicating that the sovereign was in residence.

The estate agent’s was between a coffee shop and a bookstore, glossy photographs of properties for sale and rent in the window. Salih was wearing a dark grey suit he’d bought from a tailor in London’s Savile Row, with a white cotton shirt and nondescript tie. He was carrying a leather briefcase he’d found in Harrods. He had paid for all his purchases with cash.

There were six desks in the office. Two were unoccupied and a middle-aged woman sat at the one by the door. Salih assumed she was the secretary. A glossy magazine was propped up on her keyboard and she was talking into a headset. Young women sat at two more desks, a blonde with a ponytail and a dyed blonde with pink streaks. Both wore heavy mascara, blue eye-shadow and garish nail polish. The only man in the office was in his early forties with black hair that was greying at the temples. He was wearing a blue pinstriped suit but had hung the jacket over the back of his chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves. There was a small brass plaque on his desk with his name – Graham Pickering. He was talking animatedly into his phone, his left hand jabbing the air.

Salih waited until Pickering had replaced the receiver, then pushed open the door and went in. The secretary was still talking on her headset and pointed at a chair by the window. Salih ignored her and strode over to Pickering. ‘How do you do?’ he said, and extended his hand. Pickering shook it. ‘I’m looking to buy a house in the area, ideally detached with a garden. I have a twelve-year-old son who likes cricket.’ Salih sat down and put the briefcase on his lap.