The Broken Shore (7 page)

“Why then was probably because Wasson did it and they wanted to keep him out of jail. Why choose Mulvenna to frame is the interesting bit.”

Craig reached into the back seat and lifted Mulvenna’s file, opening it to the charge sheet.

“They charged him with every shooting and bombing they suspected him of when they convicted him for Jarvis.”

“So?”

“Well, the last one before her death had been two years before in ’81. Mulvenna was low profile in ’83, so why suddenly pull his name out of the hat to cover Wasson’s crime?”

“Why was he low profile for two years?”

Craig flicked through the pages until he found a reference in the file to the United States. Mulvenna had been over there fund-raising for the IRA from ’81 to ’83, on and off.

“That’s why he was keeping his head down. He was raising money for ‘the war’. It wouldn’t have done to have him all over the papers here for killing policemen while he was busy glad-handing the yanks.”

“OK, so then why frame him in ‘83? They could have framed him in ’81 before he left.”

Craig closed the file before he spoke. “Because someone wanted him out of the way in 1983 for a specific reason and we need to find out who and what that reason was.”

Chapter Ten

Monday 8 a.m.

“Do you need some money, love? Is that what it is?”

Lucia smiled at her father. He looked so healthy that no-one would ever have believed he’d had a heart attack just seven months before. They were in the kitchen at her parent’s home in Holywood, sitting at the worn trestle table where they’d eaten breakfast since before her feet could reach the floor. Mirella was fussing around her, getting to spoil her baby again and loving it.

Tom Craig smiled at his wife then raised an eyebrow at his daughter. She was as pretty as ever, her face scrubbed clean of make-up and her tawny hair falling heavily down her back, with the year round tan she and her brother had inherited from their Mum. But she looked exhausted, as if she was carrying a heavy weight. She’d spent an hour on the phone the night before with Richard, so that could be part of it, but she looked more tired now than when she’d gone to sleep. He shook his head in sympathy.

Richard was a concert pianist with the prestigious London City Orchestra and that entailed touring for eight months of the year. He knew from experience what that meant for the partner left at home. Mirella had been a pianist when they’d met in Venice over forty years before, and she’d always toured. Less after the children were born, but still… She wasn’t selfish, she just needed to perform the way the rest of the world needed to breathe. He’d been the Lucia left at home, except with two small children to care for.

Mirella had toured for part of every year until she’d retired. It had been lonely and tiring and more than once he’d wondered if it had been worth it for him and the kids. Evenings had been spent on long calls before her concerts, with her nervous and fraught in case her one wrong note spoiled the performance of the whole team. Then late night calls afterwards, on a high if it had gone well, or a low on the rare occasion it fell flat. They’d talked for hours because she needed to, leaving him exhausted at work the next day. Then there were the hours and hours of practice, even when she was home.

He smiled across the kitchen at his vivacious wife, watching as she piled eggs on a plate and placed them in front of her daughter, chiding her to eat. If he hadn’t managed to get through those years he wouldn’t have Mirella now, and he couldn’t imagine life without her. But he sympathised with Lucia; no, more than that, he empathised. Richard wasn’t being deliberately selfish, any more than Mirella had been, music was just his life and there was little room for anything else.

He repeated his question and smiled at his daughter, awaiting her reply. He already knew that whatever emerged from her mouth wouldn’t be the truth, he just hadn’t worked out yet why she was going to lie. They’d been thrilled when she’d asked if she could come home for a few days while a leak in her bedroom ceiling was being repaired. Mirella had started baking immediately. But he knew the ceiling wasn’t the truth. He’d always been able to tell when Lucia was lying, even when she was very young. Her nose wrinkled-up in a particular way, just like it was doing now.

And there was something more. The old Lucia would have camped out in her living room while her bedroom ceiling was being repaired. Anything rather than give up her independence and move home. There were only two reasons she wasn’t doing that. She was broke, or worse, something was frightening her. He prayed it was the first and waited for her reply.

“No, Dad. I’m fine honestly. In fact I got a pay-rise last week.”

He nodded, knowing it was the second reason. She was afraid of something. He thought about how to frame his next question without making her bolt. Lucia had been independent since she was three, or had thought she was. He remembered her stomping around the front garden, railing about not being allowed out into the street. Passers-by had laughed at the angelic looking toddler ranting about the injustice of it all. It explained her urge to march every weekend, righting the wrongs of the world. Marc did it too, but in a different way. He shook his head, wondering how they’d bred two such strong-minded kids. A glance at his fiery wife gave him a clue.

Mirella walked over to the trestle carrying a pile of toast. He knew that his plate of bacon sat on the sideboard, but she knew better than to uncover it while their vegetarian daughter was sitting in the room.

“Lucia, why you not eating?”

She stared at her daughter’s small hand pointedly. “Look how thin you are. Richard will not find you when he returns.”

Lucia laughed at the image and quickly lifted a piece of toast. “Look, Mum, I’m eating. I promise you that by the time I move back to my apartment I’ll be fat. OK?”

Mirella threw her a sceptical look and laughed. Tom Craig watched as his daughter continued to neatly avoid his eyes, confirming his conclusion that something was worrying her. He just couldn’t work out what it was.

***

Craig gazed at the two files in front of him, his eyes shooting back and forth between them as he jotted things down on a list. It was headed ‘similarities 1983/2013’ and so far it was five items long. Woman, strangled, buried, Portstewart beach and Melanie Trainor, first as the senior investigating officer and now as a parent mourning her child’s loss. No matter how he cut it, it was too big a connection to dismiss. He yawned, then took another sip of coffee and glanced at his watch, startled by the time. Eight-fifteen, he promised to meet the others at breakfast fifteen minutes before, although he reckoned Saturday night’s hangover followed by a day’s work might have slowed them down a bit.

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door then stopped and turned back, lifting the page. It was a working breakfast and it was time to gauge their reactions to a few things. Two minutes later he was in the dining room gazing at two bleary faces. John hadn’t arrived yet and when did he’d probably look as rough as the rest. Liam was holding his head moaning.

“Now I know what weekends are for. You don’t notice the benefit until you don’t have one.”

Craig shot him a rueful look. “Sorry Liam. We’ll take time off when this is over, I promise.”

“As long as I can spend my time here. Sleeping. That way I’ll get some rest. I swear our Rory has the best pair of lungs this side of the Irish Sea and he seems to think our bedtime is the signal to try to them out!”

Liam had a three-year-old daughter and a ten-month-old son, so two days sleep in a bed sixty miles from home was a holiday for him.

Andy laughed and slapped him on the back. “We’re planning our first, hey.”

“Well, keep practicing and pray you don’t succeed, that’s my suggestion. ‘Cos when you do your bed will never be your own again.”

Liam gave a martyred look that made them all laugh just as John wandered in with a folder in his hand. He dropped it on the table without preamble and grabbed a seat, turning it round so that his arms were hanging over the back. His hangover seemed to have worn off quicker than theirs had.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I’ve just been for a walk on the Strand.” He cast a look at their grey faces. “By the looks of you, you should all try it. It’s a lovely day out there.”

He took a deep breath as if demonstrating calisthenics and Liam leaped into the gap.

“There’s nothing worse than a preacher, religious or otherwise. Don’t rub it in, Doc.”

John laughed and glanced at the page sitting at Craig’s elbow, pouring a cup of coffee as he talked.

“I see you’ve been making a list, Marc. Well, let me update you first before you start reading it out.”

He opened the folder and turned quickly to the back page, searching for the thing he wanted to report.

“Right. Lissy Trainor wasn’t raped. I said so yesterday but they rushed the forensics for me and it’s confirmed. No bruising, semen or anything. “

“Couldn’t the semen have been washed away by the tide, John?”

“Normally I’d say yes but she was wearing plastic leggings. They were waterproof so that would have stopped the water washing it away. The swabs have confirmed that there was nothing.”

“Pleather.”

They turned to look at Andy. He was nodding knowledgeably. Liam took the bait.

“What?”

“Pleather. It’s a form of fake leather, made of plastic. It’s very fashionable with young girls. Makes the leggings tight.”

Liam gawped at him, astounded. His knowledge of women’s fashion amounted to two things, sexy or his Mum. He was suspicious of men who knew more.

“Here, are you one of those cross-dressers then, Andy?”

Andy coughed so hard that he spat out his toast. “No, I am not! But I have three sisters and a wife; it’d be hard not to pick up some things.”

“Well I managed it and I had sisters too.”

John interjected dryly. “I don’t imagine there was much call for PVC on the farm, Liam.”

“Aye, you’re right, not unless it could be used for growing potatoes.” He gave a loud guffaw. Craig shook his head in mock despair.

“Very funny, Liam, but you can rein in the cracks about cross-dressing. If anyone hears that at work you’ll be in trouble.”

Liam sniffed grudgingly and nodded. “Aye, aye, you’re right, boss.” He turned to Andy with a solemn look on his face. “Andy, if you want to wear PVC leggings, then you go right ahead. It’s perfectly OK with me.”

Andy started to laugh again and Craig tried to stop himself joining in, but Liam’s droll delivery defeated them all. He nodded John on.

“OK, well. Lissy wasn’t raped or beaten, and she was strangled and drowned with all her clothing still intact.”

“So that rules sex out as a motive, unusual in the death of a young woman.”

John nodded, yes it was. “I’ve only seen a handful of cases where it wasn’t a cause. Evie Murray-Hill is the most recent.”

He was referring to the murder of a young pregnant woman they’d investigated seven months before. Thankfully the baby had survived the crime.

“It’s very unusual, and it points to a different motive than the usual rape or robbing. There’s nothing to suggest past violence or domestic abuse. Lissy x-rays are clean for old fractures.”

“So she was targeted and killed for a specific reason?”

John nodded. “Probably. What that reason was is over to you.” He turned to a loose page at the front of the file and started reading. It bore the header of a post-mortem and Craig could read Veronica Jarvis’ name upside down.

“Veronica Jarvis on the other hand was beaten badly and most probably raped before she was strangled and buried on the beach. Although there was no semen found, she did have extensive genital bruising and tears, so I don’t know why rape wasn’t listed as probable on her P.M. They seem to have dismissed it completely, but then forensics weren’t as advanced back then.” He looked at Craig. “If rape had been included they would have ruled it out as a punishment killing immediately.”

Craig nodded. He was right. Most of the reason it had been labelled a punishment killing had been the lack of rape. And because Veronica Jarvis had been friendly to the police who’d patrolled her Catholic street, wanting to keep things peaceful for the sake of her three sons. When she’d been found dead it had been assumed she must have been passing them information as well as cups of tea and that the IRA had killed her in revenge.

The IRA had always denied involvement in her death but Jonno Mulvenna had still been quickly convicted and put away. What if he hadn’t been involved and she’d been the victim of a sadistic rapist instead? A rapist that someone had wanted protected? And Mulvenna had just been a useful stooge? Mulvenna had told them as much.

John continued. “I don’t think we need an exhumation, Marc. There’s enough physical evidence for me to be convinced Veronica Jarvis was raped. So that’s another major difference between your cases.”

Craig nodded then started to outline his thoughts. He saw Liam’s coming objection and raised his hand quickly, stilling him before he jumped in. “Let me finish first, Liam, then everyone can tell me why I’m wrong.” He tapped the list in front of him, reading out the similarities between the cases.

“Two women killed thirty years apart, strangled and buried at the same spot on the same beach. One was raped and beaten but the other wasn’t. OK. It could be a straight copycat for dramatic effect but there’s another major similarity. Melanie Trainor, or Melanie Rogers as she was back in 1983.”

Liam sat back and nodded. He would tell them what he’d found out when Craig finished.

“What if Veronica Jarvis was killed by someone else? A man who someone wanted to protect for some reason, say an informant? A man who might have been supplying Melanie Trainor with information that could help her crack cases and advance her career?”

“God, we know she’s ambitious, Marc, but ambitious enough to let a murderer go free?”

“Let’s say she thought that she could control him, offer him incentives to stop him killing again?” He turned to Liam. “Liam, can you get Davy to widen the search for murders with a similar M.O. to anywhere in Ireland, and get him to search for any and all crimes linked to a man called Declan Wasson.”

Liam’s mouth dropped open.

“You recognise the name?”

“I do indeed. Nasty wee scrote was lifted every other month back in the eighties. We covered his cases at college.”

“Lifted for what?”

“Domestic battery. He used to beat the hell out of his wife, but she wouldn’t press charges, and back then they had to let things drop unless she would.”

“Mulvenna said he was an informant. If he was feeding Trainor useful tips it could explain why she covered his back when Ronni Jarvis’ body was found. I want to know if she succeeded in keeping him clean after that, or if there are any un-attributed rapes or rape-murders after ’83. If Wasson continued to rape until his death in ’89 then someone might have believed that was Melanie Trainor’s fault because she failed to put him away in ‘83. It might have gained her enemies who could have gone after her daughter.”

Liam interjected. “Here, boss. If Lissy Trainor wasn’t sexually assaulted then her killer could have been a woman. What if Wasson raped again after ’83 and Trainor covered it up to keep him as an informant? This could be one of his female rape victims taking revenge on the ACC?”