The Broken Shore (13 page)

Craig had leapt in then, saying “Sod our careers. I can’t bear to see you this unhappy.”

He’d meant it. If a job was making you miserable then no matter how much you loved it, it had to go. They could both start again. There were plenty of other things they could do. Her reply had been more sensible. “In Northern Ireland, Marc? Really?”

As soon as she’d said it he’d known that she was right. Jobs were few and far between in such a small place. Jobs you loved even fewer. They could go to London, but the whole reason he’d left there was to be close to his parents as they grew old; well, most of the reason anyhow. The fact that his and Camille’s relationship had ended messily had helped him decide as well. But he still loved London and Julia’s mother lived there so it was a definite option. Perhaps they could both transfer to The Met? Julia had been mollified by the suggestion and it had stopped her sobbing at least, but even as Craig said it he knew he was lying, not to her but to himself.

A vision of his father’s face when he’d suffered his heart attack filled his mind. He’d recovered well from it, but how could he leave them after that? He restarted the conversation slowly, meandering back to her moving to Belfast and changing jobs, at least for a while, just until something came up in the force down there. Her tone had changed from sad to angry and defiant; reminding him of when he’d first met her, during the Jessica Adams case. She’d been hostile and prickly then, with a wall around her fifty-feet thick. He could hear it being rebuilt.

“So it’s OK for me to give up my job, Marc, but not you? God forbid that you should ever make a sacrifice.”

“I didn’t mean that, it’s just, my parents live here and they’re elderly. They’re the reason I moved back from London. To be close-by to help. And I can’t move anywhere without a job.”

“But I can? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? I’m the little woman so I can. My career doesn’t matter! I made a big change when I left the army, Marc. I’m not making another to be unemployed.”

She’d slammed down the phone and he’d been left staring into space, knowing that she’d be crying at the other end, but not knowing what to say to stem her tears.

*
**

At six-thirty Liam and Andy were waiting in the bar, bantering and competing to see who could catch the most peanuts in their mouths. Liam glanced at the clock, the boss was late. It wasn’t like him, he would normally phone. He’d give him another five minutes and then send out the dogs. Just then Craig walked in and one glance at him told Liam everything he needed to know. He beckoned the waiter over.

“Three beers, please. And make them big ones.”

Craig slumped down at the table and threw his jacket onto an empty chair. His tie was halfway down his chest and his top two buttons were undone, it was as close to out of uniform as Liam had seen him in a while. There were only two things that could
have caused it; too much beer or a woman. He dismissed the first because of the time of day and pondered the second for a moment, arriving at girlfriend, sister or Mum in order of descending grief. He plumped for the first. Detective Inspector Julia McNulty; she could generate enough grief for ten men.

He’d met her before Craig had and while he’d thought she was bonny, even beautiful, she was headstrong and brittle; not his type at all. He thought of his tiny wife Danni at home with their two kids and smiled to himself. She gave him hell plenty of times, but there was nothing brittle about her, no matter how hard she tried. McNulty lived up to every fiery stereotype her red hair implied and she tried to keep Craig on a short leash. Tried, being the operative word.

He glanced at his boss sympathetically. Even he had to admit that when good looks and brains had been handed out Craig had been top of the queue. If he’d been born with that combination he’d have broken a new heart every week but Craig was a one woman romantic and his heart was playing havoc with his brain.

“Rough day, boss?”

Craig nodded at the waiter as he set down their drinks, then nodded again at Liam when he left.

“You could say that.”

He slipped into silence for a moment, listening while Liam and Andy bantered their way through the gap. Finally after ten minutes of beer and craic he started to join in. They talked about nothing serious for almost an hour while Craig listened as Liam and Andy recalled the outrageous exploits they’d got up to during The Troubles to let off steam.

“Do you mind that time we hung the Chief Constable’s bed out the window by its legs after the Rugby match? He was looking for it for hours.”

He gave a loud guffaw.

“I’m not as old as you Liam, but I heard about it during training, hey. Plenty of people had done it before but never to the Chief. Did he ever find out who it was?”

Liam shook his head slowly. “Suspected, but never charged.”

They entered the restaurant and started of a dinner of jokes and drinks, until finally after two hours they retired to Craig’s room for a debrief of the day’s work. By eleven o’clock they all knew the plan for the next day.

“Andy. Annette and Jake McLean, our new sergeant, will help you and Liam with any interviews you need. The big ones and anything that uniform can’t do. They’re keen to get involved, so call Annette when you have them arranged and they’ll go to whichever station is closest to the interviewee.”

“That’s grand. We should get through them in no time at that rate.”

“Aye. Andy’s taking James O’Carolan tomorrow morning and I’ve the eye witness, Mrs Farrelly, and the Eakin girl.”

“I’ve a call with MI5 at ten in the morning then I’m all yours until five. Whoever you want me to interview just say.”

“MI5? You really think the spooks will tell you the time of day?”

“Yes, I think they will. It’s not every day a senior officer’s child gets killed. It terrible that Lissy matters to them more than anyone else’s daughter, but if it gets us our killer I’ll work with whatever I can get.”

He paused then restarted, waiting for Liam to make a crack. “Can you let Jake go at five tomorrow please, Andy. Mulvenna’s having an exhibition of his paintings in Belfast and Jake’s coming along with me.”

“Art lover is he? I knew that from his floppy hair. I bet he has a black polo-neck in his cupboard just dying to be worn.”

Craig laughed despite himself. “Hardly. He wrote part of his degree about the reform of terrorists and Mulvenna was one of his case studies. He knows a lot about him and I’d like his help.”

He glanced at the clock, it was nearly midnight. He stood, signalling he was heading for bed and grinned at the other men, feeling much better than he had five hours before.

“I’m not your Dad so raid your mini-bars and stay up as late as you like. But there’ll be no sympathy for hangovers tomorrow morning, that’s all I’m going to say.”

*
**

Tuesday. 9.30 a.m.

Breakfast came and went in a flurry of moans about sore heads, and phone calls arranging interviews. By nine-thirty Craig was on his way to the station. Jim O’Neill showed him into a small board room, with a screen at one end and a conference-call spider sitting in the centre of the table. He’d expected the call to be audio alone so he was surprised when at ten o’clock exactly the screen flickered into life and the faint image of a man appeared. For a moment he thought that an outline was all he was going to get, like in cold-war spy movies, then a cheerful round face smiled out at him and motioned him to hit the speakerphone. Craig was impressed. They didn’t have this in the C.C.U., something that he’d rectify soon.

“Hello, Superintendent Craig. Peter Guthrie here. Good morning.”

“Good morning Mr Guthrie. Thanks for agreeing to this call; I know this was Roger Lowry’s case. Are you up to speed on it?”

Guthrie grinned and nodded, wobbling the ample fat around his neck. He wasn’t like any spook Craig had ever met. They always looked thin and pale, as if they’d spent too many years hiding in darkened rooms. Maybe today’s terrorists did their business in restaurants instead.

“Ah ha, I can tell what you’re thinking, Craig. That man looks too healthy to be a spy.”

Craig laughed. “You’ve got it in one.”

“Yes well, I’m mostly Whitehall based.” He patted his ample stomach. “Most of my spying is done in gentlemen’s clubs.”

They both laughed then Guthrie turned over a page of the file in front of him and nodded.

“Declan Wasson, mmm…”

“Nasty bit of work by everything I’ve heard.”

Guthrie nodded while he read. “Yes. I can see nothing here to contradict you. OK, I’ll tell you what I can, although even my file has whole paragraphs redacted. Wasson approached the police in 1975 offering his services as a C.I. It was purely financial on his part, no altruism involved.”

“Is that normal?”

“No, not really. To be fair, most of the people who offered to inform on the IRA or loyalist paramilitaries back then were doing it because they wanted the bloodshed to end.” He gazed at Craig solemnly. “And a lot of them lost their lives when they were found out. It was a thankless task, informing. Yes, they got a small amount of money, but for the risks they took… Well, let’s just say there were a lot of brave people around who weren’t wearing uniforms back then, and we wouldn’t have peace now without them.”

Craig was surprised. He’d never heard an MI5 officer sound so sympathetic about The Troubles and he said so.

“Ah well, yes. You’re right. Some of my colleagues were a bit jaded, as you’d expect after thirty years of listening to the same old guff. But we know there were some brave people amongst the chaff like Wasson. Pity they’ll never be recognised.”

Recognition would mean exposure and even now, fifteen years after The Troubles had ended, there were people who would reward informants with death.

“Anyway, Declan Wasson. Petty thief, ABH, domestic battery; all in all a real charmer. But he was well known in west Belfast circles. He grew up there and drank with all of them. IRA of all sorts; Officials, Provos, Real IRA, the ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter, IRA.’ His contacts were invaluable to us and he gave us a lot of good leads. Saved quite a few lives through the years, not that that mattered to him. As long as he got his fifty quid a week he was happy.”

Craig let out a low whistle. Fifty pounds in the seventies was worth around three hundred now. It was a fortune back then and it must have been noticed.

“How come the IRA didn’t twig if he was flashing all that money about?”

Guthrie shook his head, smiling. “He only got ten pounds of it in cash. The rest went into a bank account. We’d lost C.I.s before when they’d flashed too much money around. Anyway, because Wasson was so well positioned he was a valuable asset.”

Craig cut in. “And that meant you covered his ass on other things.” He paused and Guthrie saw the look of disgust on his face. He knew what was coming next. “You let Wasson rape and kill women, to keep him as a C.I.”

Guthrie sighed and closed the file, staring at Craig. Craig stared back and for a moment nothing was said. Then Guthrie spoke again, his cultured tones reverberating around the room.

“It was a dirty business, there’s no question about that, but you have to understand something, Superintendent Craig. Back then we were fighting a war and information was sometimes all we had. Wasson didn’t get off scot-free. Each time he was suspected of a rape some of our men took him away and beat him to a pulp, to warn him to stop. Sometimes we let him go as far as a trial, to scare the living daylights out of him, but we had to let him off at the last minute. He’d have been no use to us locked up in Crumlin Road Jail.”

“Your tactics didn’t work. He wasn’t scared enough to stop.”

He shook his head sadly. “No, they didn’t. You’re right. It happened and it happened far too often, but it was a strategic decision, taken right at the top. There was nothing MI5 on the ground could have done except shoot him, and then we’d have lost his information.”

“And Veronica Jarvis? Was her murder covered up by a strategic decision too?”

Guthrie re-opened the file and flicked to the middle then he ran his finger silently down a page. He read for a moment then looked at Craig, swallowing hard.

“Wasson confessed to his handler that he’d killed her and asked for help covering it up. His handler refused so Wasson appealed higher up and they sanctioned it.”

“Why frame John Mulvenna?”

Guthrie said nothing and stared out of the screen. His face contorted, as if he was struggling with a decision. Finally he leaned forward confidingly.

“I didn’t tell you this and if it comes out then I’ll deny it. Do you understand?”

Craig gave a terse nod.

“We didn’t.”

Craig was confused. “You didn’t what? Frame Mulvenna?”

“Yes. We didn’t frame John Mulvenna. He’d been out of the front line for two years, off in America pressing the flesh. There were others much higher on the list of who we wanted off the streets in 1983.”

“So who did frame him?”

“I can’t give you their name, but I can tell you that it was a local decision.
Very
local.”

He closed the file and straightened up, preparing to end the call. When he spoke again there was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice.

“I’ve no sympathy for Mulvenna, Superintendent, but I hope you get the person who framed him, I really do. For all sorts of reasons, of which Lissy Trainor is only the latest one.”

“Can you give me something, anything, to point me in the right direction? Please.”

Guthrie nodded. “An English expression then. What goes around comes around, Mr Craig. Goodbye.”

The screen darkened and the line went dead, leaving Craig staring into space, knowing that he’d been right from the start. What goes around comes around. He knew the expression well. Revenge.

Lissy Trainor’s death was revenge for Mulvenna being framed, but revenge by whom? Not Mulvenna that was for sure. Who else had a score to even over Ronni Jarvis’ death? He was thinking on the right path but it wasn’t going to lead him where he thought.

Chapter Sixteen

P.C. Ian Flood pushed back his cap and stared along the promenade, shielding his eyes from the late autumn sun. He’d only interviewed six shopkeepers so far, and his reception had ranged from ‘do you think I’ve nothing better to do than stand here and watch who comes and goes?’ through to ‘I’ve a business to run’ and ‘would you like a cup of tea, constable?’ from the lady running the tourist shop.

He’d been so tired asking the same questions by then that he’d taken her up on the offer, and spent ten minutes drinking tea and eating cake while she turned every man in Portstewart into a possible suspect for the crime. He’d smiled as she’d delved into particular detail about the man in the bookshop three doors down; saying he never spoke to the rest of them and had a shifty look. If looking shifty was all it took to be a criminal then half of his mates would be locked up in the nick.

He laughed then pulled his cap back down and turned towards the south end of the parade of shops, plastering on a smile and ignoring his aching feet. He couldn’t imagine the Chief Constable ever pounding the beat like this, but he supposed he must have done, back when there were horses and carts. He laughed again more loudly and a young woman walking past shot him a shy smile, putting a fresh spring into his step. He pushed open the door of the butcher’s shop with renewed energy and got ready to ask his questions again.

***

Andy was waiting in the interview room when they showed in James O’Carolan. He stood up, extending his hand to shake. After a few seconds pause O’Carolan took it suspiciously, as if it was some sort of trick. Suddenly Andy thought of something.

“Excuse me for one minute, Mr O’Carolan.”

He walked into the corridor looking quickly up and down then lifted the wall phone to the front desk.

“Is Superintendent Craig still here?”

“Yes, sir. He was on a video call. It ended ten minutes ago but his car’s still outside.”

“Could you find him and ask him to join me in interview room two. I’ve someone he might like to meet.”

He re-entered the room and poured water into two paper cups then he took the seat across from O’Carolan and scrutinised him. He was in his early thirties; thirty-three to be precise. They knew he’d graduated from Queens with first in Physics and IT, now he was climbing the greasy pole. Judging by his air of confidence he was doing well. A discrete Armani symbol on his jeans said he was doing better than that.

Andy scanned his face while O’Carolan scanned his in return. He was dark-haired and handsome in an open, healthy way. No matinee idol, but Andy couldn’t imagine him being short of dates. It was hard to picture him as the bereaved six-year-old standing by the grave in Bronagh O’Carolan’s funeral photograph. He’d stood there solemnly holding his little sister’s hand, while their father had sobbed and buried his face in the blanket covering the baby in his arms. It was a pitiful image and hard to reconcile with the confident man opposite. Maybe he had nothing to do with Lissy Trainor’s death but he fitted the description of the man Jenna Farrelly had seen her with on the promenade, and he’d written threatening letters to her Mum.

They sat in silence waiting for Craig until O’Carolan broke the vacuum.

“What is it you want from me, Chief Inspector? “

“I’ll get to that in a moment, Mr O’Carolan. I’m just waiting for my colleague Superintendent Craig to join us.”

At that moment the door opened and Craig entered. He shook hands with O’Carolan then pulled a chair from the wall and sat at an angle at the table’s end, waiting for Andy to start.

Andy nodded towards the tape recorder and O’Carolan shrugged his assent. He switched it on and started speaking.

“This is an informal interview on Tuesday the 5th of November at eleven-ten a.m., with Mr James O’Carolan of Mountsandel Road, Coleraine. Also present are Superintendent Marc Craig and D.C.I. Andy White. Mr O’Carolan has refused council or companion. Could you confirm that for the tape please, Mr O’Carolan.”

“Confirmed.”

Andy reached into his briefcase and removed the typed letters spreading them out. O’Carolan didn’t blink and Craig already thought they were dealing with an innocent man. An arrogant one, but an innocent one nonetheless.

“Do you know what these are, Mr O’Carolan?”

“Let’s cut through the bullshit. These are letters I wrote to Assistant Chief Constable Melanie Trainor blaming her for my mother’s death and asking her to re-open the Mulvenna case.”

“And threatening her.”

O’Carolan shrugged. “That’s one interpretation. I prefer to think of it as making my feelings known.”

“And those feelings were that you wished her harm.”

O’Carolan shook his head. “Not physically. I wanted her to suffer the way we had suffered from my mother’s loss, emotionally. Nowhere in those letters did I ever threaten her with physical harm.”

“And yet her only daughter is now dead.”

He nodded assent. “Yes, she is. And I’m very sad for the girl, but not for her mother. Trainor had the power to put Declan Wasson away in 1983 and if she had done he would never have been free to rape my mother one year later.”

He leaned forward angrily and Craig could see Andy tense. He didn’t move, sure that O’Carolan wouldn’t raise a hand.

“My mother was a gentle, kind woman, D.C.I. White. A writer and musician, a sensitive soul, and what Wasson did to her completely destroyed her. He may not have put a bullet in her but he killed her just the same, and that bitch Melanie Trainor is responsible.”

He stared at Craig and then back at Andy, his eyes full of hate. “So am I sorry that she’s lost her daughter? No. Not one iota. Now she’ll have to feel what we’ve felt for years, knowing every day that she could have prevented our mother’s death.”

He banged his fist hard on the desk then leaned into the tape, saying sarcastically. “For the benefit of the tape than was James O’Carolan banging his fucking fist against the table. OK?”

He lounged back in his chair and Andy leaned forward until he was nearly in his face.

“Did you kill Lissy Trainor?”

O’Carolan half-laughed then shook his head. “No, but I’ll tell you this, I bet she was killed because of something her mother did to someone. I bet some other poor bastard out there had their life ruined by your precious ACC Trainor and they took their revenge.”

“Where were you on Sunday the 27th of October?”

O’Carolan stared at them both in turn then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a phone, starting to read out some numbers and names. After each one he listed the time he’d been with them from the 27th to that day. He finished and then stood to go. “You know where you can find me.”

Andy stood to stop him but Craig shook his head, waving O’Carolan on. When he’d left the room Andy pressed off the tape and paced around the room muttering, until he managed to irritate Craig.

“Sit down, Andy. You’re giving me a sore head.”

Andy sat down but kept muttering until Craig stilled him with a look. Then he raked his hand through his hair and laughed.

“Well, that has to rank up there with one of the most interesting interviews I’ve ever heard.”

“Controlling bastard.”

“As opposed to us? Because of course we’re never controlling, are we?” He laughed and Andy joined in. “He’s lying about something, for sure. But he didn’t do it, Andy, you do know that?”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Telling he was lying was easy. He didn’t blink but his feet were tapping like Fred Astaire’s when you asked him about Sunday the 27th. He saw Lissy then, I’m sure of it. But he doesn’t feel right for murder. Too ‘in your face’. Our man’s going to be a much darker proposition. Quieter.”

Andy nodded grudgingly. “There’s not much love around for the ACC, is there?”

Instead of answering him Craig thought for a moment. “I wonder if that lack of love extends as far as her husband?”

“The MLA? Do you think he’d talk to us?”

“Perhaps not in front of the ACC, but if I kept it informal, maybe…” He stood up quickly, formulating a plan.

“Andy, you keep going with the rape victims’ families and work with Liam on the Jarvis’ kids. You’ve got Annette and Jake to help you, don’t forget. I’m going to see what I can get from Hugh Trainor.

***

“Davy, have you finished looking at Lucia’s phone dump and e-mails yet? I’ve been through them, but most of them seem to be work, or her boyfriend, Richard.”

Davy looked up from his computer and peered across the office at Annette. She was slightly blurred. He was getting short-sighted from staring at his screens. It was only a matter of time before he would need glasses. He didn’t mind, he quite liked the way they looked. Maggie wore a blue Elvis Costello pair and they made her look sexy. Maybe they would do the same for him.

He grabbed the papers he’d set on one side and loped across to Annette’s desk.

“There’s nothing in her e-mails, Annette. Her pervy texts we already know about, but it’s a dead end there as w…well. Unless a pay-as-you-go phone is registered there’s no way of tracing who it belongs to, beyond hoping they bought it using a credit card.”

“Did they?”

He shook his head. “No s…such luck. It was bought in Royal Avenue with cash, six weeks ago.”

“Any chance the store kept its CCTV?”

He shook his head again. “Already asked. It’s a small shop. They wipe their tapes after a week.”

Annette frowned. Whoever ‘Watching U’ was, he was lucky. Or clever. He might have shopped in a small store deliberately, guessing they would try to keep costs down by re-using their tapes. Davy was still talking.

“Her incoming calls check out, except for the number I’ve highlighted.” He pointed at a number starting in 001212. It was an unusual prefix and Annette said so.

“That’s because the call’s been routed through another line. In New York”

“How does that work?”

Davy pulled over a chair and sat down, glad to have a chance to display his expertise. Computer forensics were a special interest of his and he wanted to specialise in them someday. He pulled up a website offering virtual phone numbers.

“For a fee you can arrange for your calls to be routed as if they’re coming from anywhere in the w…world. It’s basically a marketing ploy. Companies use it to make it look like they have offices in lots of cities. But there’s nothing to stop someone doing it to hide who they are.”

“Ah, I understand.” She didn’t of course, she didn’t have a clue, but it never did to show your ignorance to someone half your age. “Is it deliberate, do you think?”

Davy nodded and his silky hair fell across his face, reminding Annette of an elegant horse. She reached over and pushed it back so she could see his face and he smiled at the maternal gesture.

“For s…sure.
This could be our mystery man.”

“So they were calling her at home as well as using the pay-as-you-go?”

“The pay-as-you-go was for the texts, because you can’t hide a number on a text and you can’t re-route them. But they obviously needed more cover for phone-calls. What did Lucia say they’d said?”

“Nothing. She said they’d texted and written letters but she didn’t say anything about any calls. I don’t think she knows.”

He gave her a knowing look. “Or she’s too embarrassed to tell you about them because of what they said. Leave it with me. I’ll dig deeper and see if we can trace them back.”

“Great, thanks. I’ll see if I can get her to tell me what they said.” She made a note to call Lucia then turned back to their murder case. “How are you getting on with Lissy Trainor’s stuff?”

“W…well, there’s nothing much on her phone so far but I’ve only done the day she disappeared. It’s just the usual girly stuff. She texted reams to her friends about the boyfriend, Conor Ryland. It’s mostly nice, although there were a few recent exchanges where she wasn’t quite so fond of him. Everything stopped at eight o’clock on Sunday night. The last thing was a text to Ryland saying she’d meet him in thirty minutes, then nothing.”

“Ryland told Liam about their recent spat, something to do with a holiday in Turkey that she wasn’t on. “

“Lads’ trip?”

She nodded. “Something like that, but they’d made it up when he got back.”

“Is Liam s…sure?”

“Positive. He says the boy’s clean and I would trust his gut over gossip any day. What does that leave us with?”

“I’m halfway through listening to her phone messages then I’ll start on her e-mails.”

She glanced at him and her question was clear. He nodded.

“By close of play today, I s…swear.”

Just then Nicky’s phone rang. It was Craig. They had a brief conversation then she transferred him to Annette, signing that she wanted him back before he cut off.

“Hello, sir. How are things up North?”

“Cold. How are you getting on?”

She updated him on Lissy’s last text, then read out the alibi’s of some of Andy’s suspect list.

“Good, then if you’re on top of everything, how do you fancy a road trip to Parliament Buildings this afternoon?”

“To meet Hugh Trainor?”

“Exactly. If he’s there today. Has Nicky managed to check on his whereabouts yet? “

Annette smiled. Nicky had had thirty seconds since he’d asked her. She put Craig on hold and went over to her desk. Nicky was on the phone and jotting something on a pad. She said. “Yes, yes, thank you” to someone at the other end then hung up.

She ripped off the page triumphantly and handed it to Annette, then glanced at her watch. “Tell him, one hundred seconds. He’ll know what it means.”

Annette went back and picked-up Craig’s call, giving him the message. He laughed loudly.

“What’s that about?”

“Nicky and I are running a competition. Every time I give her a query to deal with she times it. When she gets the answer in under ninety seconds I’ll pay for her and Gary to have an evening out.”

“All that motivation training worked then. OK, I’ve got a time for the meeting with Hugh Trainor. Three-fifty this afternoon, at his office in Parliament Buildings. Shall I meet you there?”

Craig glanced at his watch remembering the cryptic clue Guthrie had given him that morning, What comes around … If Lissy had died because of something Melanie Trainor had done then maybe the answer to her death was closer to home than he thought. They needed to ask the questions and if they couldn’t ask them of the ACC her husband was the next best thing.