The Broken Shore (3 page)

The ACC was a pretty woman, somewhere in her fifties but looking two decades younger. She was small and dark, with large brown eyes that gazed out sadly from her face. Her hair was black and long, how long was hard to tell when it was wrapped in a chignon every day, but she still caught admiring glances wherever she walked. Craig remembered her from years before, always driven and working hard, but not loathe to using her pretty smile to get her way. He remembered her words from back then.

“Whatever works, Craig. Whatever works.”

He’d wondered then if she was hard or merely smart. She’d done whatever it had taken to succeed in a man’s world and found her own way of evening-up the scales. Some called her a pioneer, carving the way for the women who came in her wake. Others, manipulative and cold, Machiavellian in the extreme. He didn’t know. His jury was still out. But today she was none of that; today she was simply a woman who’d lost her child.

The thoughts took less than a minute to race through his mind, a minute in which John watched her like a hawk. He’d never seen him so shaken by carrying out an I.D. but Melanie Trainor’s wails had chilled them all. Finally Craig broke the silence, his voice soft and kind. It reached across the table while his body remained upright, showing respect.

“Ma’am. Is there anything we can do to help?”

She raised her head and gazed at him, her eyes dry and her thoughts a million miles away. She didn’t answer for so long he wondered if she’d heard him, then she sighed. It was a deep soft sigh, a breath exhaled so slowly that it lingered, revealing everything and nothing and most of all despair. Her eyes were blank with the shock and he saw John nod, knowing that she wasn’t there. She sighed once more then stood and walked silently past them to the door, not seeing anyone but her daughter as her chauffeured car drove away.

Chapter Five

1 p.m.

Liam picked up a lettuce leaf in disgust then set it down at the side of his plate, taking a bite of burger.

“I don’t know why they have to ruin a perfectly good burger with bits of grass.”

“They’re trying to make it healthier.”

Liam snorted and Craig laughed then cut into his steak. No matter how dark the case was or how depressing the mood, Liam could bring them back to earth. Craig glanced at Andy and John, nodding them on to eat, then started talking while they did.

“OK. It’s clear we’re going to get nothing from ACC Trainor, at least for today. So let’s concentrate on other things. John, can you chase up the post-mortem results? Davy’s checking to see if anything similar has showed up before.”

“You mean other than the case in ’83?”

“Yes.”

John nodded and turned his attention to his sausage. He was trying to go vegetarian with little success, but today wasn’t the day to beat himself up about it. Craig was still talking.

“Andy, we need to re-interview anyone major from the case in ’83.”

“Except ACC Trainor.”

Craig nodded ruefully. “Except her. Let’s defer that experience for as long as we can.” He turned towards Liam then noticed something. He’d combed his hair!

“Did you comb your hair, Liam?”

Three pairs of eyes fixed on Liam’s head and he blushed under their scrutiny.

“I did not comb my hair. Have you ever known me to comb my hair? Ever?”

Craig watched as a patina of red covered Liam’s face. Andy joined in.

“Boyso yes, you have too combed your hair. What did you use, hey? A combine harvester?”

Craig and John laughed so loudly they nearly choked on their food. Liam stood up indignantly.

“I’ll have you know I had red curls when I was a boy! Everyone admired them.”

They laughed for so long that Craig saw a waiter approach. He waved Liam to sit down and forced his face into a serious look.

“It looks good Liam, and I’m sure the ACC would have appreciated it.”

“Aye, if she’d ever seen it, hey.”

After a few more jokey comments they fell silent again. The only sound was four men eating and drinking until they’d finished their meal. As coffee was served, Craig started again.

“Liam, find out Lissy Trainor’s movements in the last few days. Does she have a boyfriend? Who does she mix with? Who saw her last and where? You know the form. Ask Davy to chase up background when you have something for him to research. And her e-mail and phone accounts.”

Andy interjected. “You and I can start with the ’83 case, Marc. I’ll get a copy of the file.”

Craig glanced at his watch. “OK, let’s meet at the hotel at five o’clock for a debrief. I’ll be on my mobile till then. And if Melanie Trainor contacts any of you let me know right away. The sooner we can speak to her, the sooner we can find out why someone might have wanted her daughter dead.”

***

Annette looked around the open plan office and smiled. She was in charge and she liked it. Well, not really in charge, but it was a pleasant illusion until Craig or Liam’s phone call shattered it. She yawned, tired of the file in front of her and strolled over to Nicky’s desk, indicating the percolator and switching it on at her nod. She arranged three cups and saucers as she waited for it to boil. Saucers; how long had it been since they’d used them, except for guests? Mugs had become the default when Liam was around. Nicky smiled in approval and reached into her bottom drawer, withdrawing a packet of special biscuits and arranging them daintily on a plate.

Davy smiled at the girly ritual. While the cat’s away, the mice will use napkins. He looked up from his horseshoe of computers and shut down the report he was working on, loping over to join them. Just then a fair-haired young man pushed his way quietly through the floor’s double-doors. Annette recognised him immediately and waved, beckoning him over to Nicky’s desk.

“Hello Jake, you must be psychic, the kettle’s just boiled.”

The others smiled in greeting then Davy pulled up another chair and Jake McLean joined his new team for Saturday afternoon tea.

***

“It was a nasty case in’83, all right. Veronica Jarvis was beaten and strangled, then buried up to her neck in sand. In exactly the same place as Lissy Trainor.”

“The similarities are hard to ignore.”

Andy leaned back against the desk and turned a page in the file. “There are some differences, though.”

“Such as?”

“Lissy Trainor wasn’t beaten and she was completely covered in sand, whereas Jarvis’ head was left exposed. Nothing showed of Lissy until the sand got eroded, and her hand was nearest the surface.”

Craig shook his head. “The Atlantic could have eroded the sand in both cases. I’ll get Davy to check the tides now and in ‘83. But the beating might be significant.”

“The lack of it you mean.”

Craig nodded in acknowledgement then frowned. “Beatings were more usual back then, especially in punishment killings.”

“You mean because Veronica Jarvis was suspected of being an informer she would have been treated worse?”

“Yes. The paramilitaries weren’t known for their gentle ways. But that’s another thing. The IRA didn’t claim it.”

Andy shrugged, puzzled. “Maybe because it was a girl? They thought it would make them look bad?”

Craig smiled at his naiveté. The IRA had killed plenty of women; there was no chivalry in terrorism.

“They weren’t gentlemen, Andy. They killed women as well. No, Ronni Jarvis might have been beaten but I don’t think the IRA committed her murder, no matter what the records say.”

“Who then?”

Craig shook his head. “That’s what we need to find out. But first of all we need to talk to the man the jury blamed.”

***

Melanie Trainor stared unseeing into the fire, lit earlier than usual in an attempt to drive the cold from her bones. It didn’t work so she pulled the heavy mohair throw around her, huddling in further as she blinked back the tears. She stared at the happy picture in her hand, trying to burn the image of Lissy into her mind to replace the one she’d seen earlier that day.

The Lissy in the photograph smiled up at her, her eyes as brown and large as her own, her long dark hair shining and tumbling down her back. Her arms were full. A certificate in one hand, a bouquet in the other; newly degree-ed and ready to take on the world of law. She’d wanted to be a barrister, full of the oratory and wigs inspired by ‘take your daughter to work day’. Watching her from the gallery while she testified in court.

A tear rolled down Melanie Trainor's cheek and she let it fall, watching as it splashed on the costly slate hearth. The room was full of expensive things paid for by hours of study and work. All meaningless now. She would give them all to hear Lissy’s voice again. She listened, trying to recall her youthful tones. They came through loud and clear, but how long would she hear them for? How long before she couldn’t recall her voice or hear her laugh at all? She gulped down her brandy and made herself a vow. Whoever had done this would pay with the rest of their life. It was no comfort at all.

***

Craig raked his hand through his hair in exasperation then closed the file in front of him. He couldn’t believe the sparseness of its contents, but who was he to judge? At a time when there’d been tens of murders each week and a police force under siege, he could understand that things might have been forgotten, and handwritten memos misfiled. It was difficult to imagine a world without computers, but he remembered using an old typewriter in London, twenty years before. Things hadn’t been so efficient then, even there, and they hadn’t been dodging petrol bombs every day. It had been a dark time in Northern Ireland’s history. He glanced again at the thin file in his hand. But even so…

He turned to see where Andy was and found him in a corner of the records room. They were at Headquarters in Belfast and they’d been lucky, the records sergeant had heard of the ACC’s loss and been willing to throw open his archive doors at the weekend. There were plenty who wouldn’t have been so cooperative, especially at half-term.

He watched as Andy’s eyebrows rose as he perused a buff file with a red stripe on the front, signifying it was probably a terrorist offence. Andy had studied law before he’d joined the force, just like he had, and he was fascinated by court reports. It was probably why they were both so hard on Barristers; it felt like they’d sold the law out for the highest price.

Andy had been in fraud and vice before drugs, so the details of terrorist atrocities had been through the spin cycle of the evening news before either of them had heard. The men on the ground through the worst of it had different stories to tell. An image of Liam in uniform flashed into Craig’s mind and he gave him a mental salute.

“What have you got, Andy?”

Andy shook his head and screwed up his face. “Nothing you’d like to read. There were some real bastards running around back then, hey.”

“You’ll get no argument from Liam on that one. Any particular bastard leap out at you?”

“Aye. The one convicted on Ronni Jarvis’ murder. Jonno Mulvenna, a really nasty bit of work.”

“Mmm…”

Andy stared at Craig questioningly. “Was that mmm…yes, or mmm…no?”

“Yes, he’s a nasty bastard, but no, I don’t like him for Jarvis’ death.”

“Why not?”

“Mulvenna’s one of the few from back then that I remember. He targeted the police and army but he wasn’t part of a punishment squad.”

He pulled out his mobile and pressed dial. A moment later the call was answered by a laughing Nicky and he smiled at the sound of her voice.

“Docklands Murder Squad, can I help you?”

Craig smiled again. She hadn’t noticed his number coming up so he decided to have some fun. He made his voice as gruff as possible. “Mrs Morris, it’s ACC Murphy here, what’s so amusing?”

Nicky gave the phone a look of panic and the laughter stopped dead as the others caught the look on her face.

“Good afternoon, ACC Murphy. I’m sorry, sir. One of the men was just cracking a joke.”

“You don’t get paid to tell jokes. Where’s Superintendent Craig?”

She was about to reply when something about the voice seemed familiar. Craig’s mix of Italian and Northern Irish gave his voice a warm quality that was hard to disguise, even behind his mock anger. Nicky squinted at the phone and then spoke.

“Oh him. He’s off gallivanting again, sir. Or in the pub. It’s impossible to get him to do any work at all.”

The others stared at her aghast until she laughed.

Craig joined in. “OK, you’ve caught me, Nick. Glad to hear someone’s having fun. Is Davy there?”

“I’ll transfer you now.” She’d barely covered the handset before she yelled. “Davy, pick up your line. It’s the chief.” Craig pulled the phone back from his ear in pain. Nicky might only be five-feet-three but she had a voice a town crier would envy.

Five seconds later Davy’s softer voice came through. “What can I help with, boss?”

“Davy, could you go back through the archived files on The Troubles and search out everything you can find on a Jonno Mulvenna, please? He might be under John or Jonathan as well, but Jonno was what he was known by.”

“IRA?”

“Yes. Provisionals. His usual targets were police and army officers, but he was probably involved in other things as well. There was a murder case in ’83 that put him inside until the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. See what you can find on that.”

“Is it linked with your case up north, s…sir?”

“Yes, unfortunately. I’ll let you know more when I do.” Craig paused then continued with a note of envy in his voice. “You sound like you’re having fun.”

Davy glanced over at the small group he’d just left. Jake was amusing Nicky and Annette with card tricks. He was good at them but Davy thought he’d better not give Craig the details when they were working so hard up north.

“Jake just told us a joke.”

Craig smiled wryly. “Oh, I thought he might be showing off his magic skills. He’s a champion magician you know, I saw him perform last year. “

Davy said nothing and Craig smiled again.

“Enjoy yourselves. It’s a Saturday, even though we are on call. And tell Annette to send everyone home anytime she likes. There’s no point all your weekends being spoiled as well.”

“Thanks, boss. I’ll check Mulvenna right now and s…send you what I find.”

The phone clicked off and Craig turned back to Andy, tapping the folder in his hand.

“This is the investigation of Veronica Jarvis’ death.”

Andy peered at it; it was thinner than any murder file he’d seen. Craig walked to a table and laid the contents out. Apart from a charge sheet there was only a summary sheet containing details of Mulvenna’s conviction and sentence, and one page from forensics. Andy turned it over. It matched Mulvenna to a partial print from the tape covering Ronni Jarvis’ mouth. His mouth fell open.

“They convicted Mulvenna on that? I know they were under pressure to clear things up quickly back then, but hey!”

Craig nodded. It was exactly what he was thinking but something else was nagging at the back of his mind. He closed the file and sat down, then he put his phone on speaker and dialled Liam.

“Hello, boss. What can I do for you?”

“We’ll meet later for an update, Liam, but I’ve a quick question. You policed during The Troubles, didn’t you?”

“Man and boy. So?”

“In your opinion, how often were ordinary crimes labelled as terrorist offences?”

Liam let out a low whistle before he spoke. “Plenty of times. And vice versa. A lot of unmarked weapons were ‘signed out’ from terrorists on loan to ordinary citizens for a few hundred quid. They’d be dumped after the crime, whatever it was, and they were impossible to trace. We used to joke that The Troubles saved the divorce courts a lot of work. But we were so busy with the bombs and bullets that some things were let slip.”

“OK, thanks. And how easy would it have been back then to frame a terrorist for something they hadn’t done?”

Liam gave a loud laugh. “You mean one of them got banged-up for someone they didn’t kill? Happy days.”