by Dave Duggan
Her account was as comprehensive as her street clearing.
I called Mick over.
‘This officer will take your statement. She’ll sort things out. Talk to her. And you know where I am if you need me.’
He surprised me by taking my hand and shaking it. I felt the firm roughness of his palm and the sense that he was trusting me not to let him down.
‘This will be grand. There’s no bother for you here. And the cyclist is conscious.’
‘Let me know how he gets on.’
‘Constable McLaren, here, will take your statement. And she’ll keep you informed on the state of the cyclist.’
Hetherington waved to me and I joined him in the middle of the street.
‘I see you got rid of the Travellers.’
‘Easy, now Kenneth. They moved off themselves. Traffic have this in hand now.’
‘I thought the bus men were going to get into it. They were livid. They kept saying the cyclist was crazy. Then, when they saw the Travellers arriving, I thought …’
‘You handled it well, Ken. You’re still pumped up after Chill Express. You can calm it.’
‘What the fuck do you mean? You treated me like a lackey back there.’
‘Shut it, Hetherington. Last thing this fuck up needs is two cops rowing in the middle of the street. We’ve done what we can here. Let’s get back to the station. And see the silent treatment you were giving me before we got this call? Switch it on again for the journey home.’
EIGHT
Soon afterwards, Hetherington drew away from me. It started with a ping from Hammy to both our phones.
‘Tuesday 8.30. Conference Room. Anderson case. Notes in advance.’
Hetherington and I worked up the notes and he bulletted them through. Things were icy between us and I knew we’d need a session to clear the air. Events took over and, as always happens, change came, but not the way it was expected.
Hammy was in place well before us, the air con in the Conference Room plunged to minus. The bullets, judiciously formed by Hetherington, pulsed on the main screen and on three touch screen pads, on the desk in front of us. The near-vacancy of the room turned the temperature down even further.
‘Progress, men. Progress. And the lack of it. Anderson, dead and gone. Me too. Not far off it. Got a bit of a grilling from the CC late last week. You get it this week. She’s voracious, men. A top-loading incinerator. We’ve got to keep her filled.’
‘Even if it is rubbish, sir.’
Hetherington had been growing narkier since the incident at Chill Express. I thought it was me he disliked. Seemed he’d shifted his aim to the boss. Hammy didn’t rise to him.
‘Yes, Detective Constable Hetherington, you and Slevin here are experts in the stuff. Let’s for once assume you may possibly have unearthed a jewel from the brock. Known female associates?’
‘Three.’
‘Interviews?’
I let Hetherington continue.
‘Annexe 4, sir.’
Hetherington thumb-swiped his pad and all screens changed to show a list of Anderson’s 3 girlfriends, with 2-line summaries of their interviews. We scanned silently.
‘Nothing. He was as good as a monk. Not like a footballer at all, even with his looks, physique, money, opportunity, fame. You say he wasn’t gay?’
‘No known male associates. No talk of him on the scene.’
Hammy looked at Hetherington and arched an eyebrow grandly.
‘A bloody altar-boy. Who abuses an altar-boy?’
I let that freeze in the chilly air.
‘Let’s go the classic route. Motive. Nil. Opportunity. Plenty, but nothing leading. M.O.? Slightly crazy, especially with Slevin’s theory that he was kept on ice for a spell.’
‘Those notes are in annexe 2, sir.’
It was my turn to thumb my screen. I continued.
‘No need to go through them in detail again. If I highlight the key lines at 790 you’ll read “The shoe is confirmed as the second of the pair worn by Todd Anderson. Fabric, hair and tissue samples found are inconclusive. Further corroboration needed before confirmation could be given to the theory that a body, Todd Anderson’s or any other, was stored there.”’
‘Nul points yet again. Bit of a fiasco. No one noticed him missing? Last seen?’
‘In the gym, doing his own work. Then having dinner at La Toscana.’
‘Date?’
‘Alone. He liked Italian and ate there often. The owner described him as a good customer, quiet and polite. They talked football.’
‘The bloody altar-boy again. Bit of a Billy-no-mates, too. By “date” I meant “when”, Slevin.’
‘Oh, the night before his body was found. The time-line is in annexe 1.’
‘Annexe this and annexe that. Is there nothing in the actual report?’
Another question I reckoned best left to cool in mid-air.
‘You got nothing from the wee girl either? Nothing you could follow up?’
I thumbed once more and brought up Teresa Bradley’s note, just as she’d emailed it to me within an hour of completing the interview at her home.
We read in silence once more, then Hammy said,
‘I took a penalty. The man was there. Strange child. What about the father?’
‘Straight as a die. I interviewed him at his work. Mother too. Nothing linked them to Anderson. They’re struggling a bit with Teresa.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘The father’s a bit of a property magnate, alongside his brother. They used to lay carpets, now they rent flats and houses. They’re late-arrival golfers.’
‘Enough of the crap socio-economic analysis, Slevin. The football club – players, officials, staff?’
Hetherington took over and began whizzing us along.
‘More blanks, sir. That’s annexe 3. A large section, as you can see. The club, including supporters, were all shocked, sir. Couldn’t make sense of it. A couple of his team-mates I interviewed broke down in tears. The club organised a testimonial game against a League Select. Players came from Dublin, Belfast, Limerick, Cork. A couple of ex-players came back from England and Scotland.’
Hetherington was whirring through the screens now. He used a red triangle pointer, tidy as a rowing punt, to signal and highlight sections as he spoke. I admired his work and wondered if we might develop into a team. Hetherington, the analyst. Me, the what? Mythologist?
‘A cheque, towards expenses, went over to the family in Manchester. Some people – club officials, players, supporters – wanted to travel for the funeral, but the Anderson family solicitor advised against it. The arrangements were strictly private. Family only.’
‘I assume we had someone at it.’
Again, no response. Hammy fixed his sternest gaze on me.
‘The two ice-queens of the north, PS (North) that is, remain mute on that one too.’
‘Sir, if I may raise a slightly troubling note …’
‘Fire away, Slevin. Fire away.’
‘Anderson’s remains went back to Manchester very quickly. Very early. And now they’re cremated. I wondered at that decision at the time, but it was already in train when Goss and Doherty passed me – passed us – the murder book and files.’
DI Hamilton stood up and walked round behind us. A buzzing I hadn’t noticed, until it stopped, told me he’d turned off the air con.
‘Blasted yoke. A folly, man. A folly. Like much of what we do and see here.’
He sat down again, in the jagged arc formed by the three chairs we occupied in front of the big screen and he thumbed his own pad to the very brief page marked ‘Summary’, dated with the day’s date. I knew we were almost finished.
But Hetherington wasn’t.
‘If I may, sir …’ – emphasising the ‘I’ – ‘
The decision to release the body to the family was, is, surprising, but we’re past that. What troubles me sir’ – again the personal emphasis – ‘is that we have no knowledge of the weapon.’
There’s a gun.
A gun?
A .357 Magnum.
That’s a gun, right enough.
One of ours. Yours.
Ours? We don’t have guns.
It was returned.
Like to the library. They said it was overdue?
Not to the library. To a judge. To the cops.
Should have gone to the library.
Forget the library.
You went to the library. You’re the man for the books.
You know anything about the gun?
Ask the cops. They have all the guns.
‘Yes, the weapon. Good, Hetherington. Good. I see Annexe 6 has all the ballistics. It’s thinner than the chiller report.’
Hammy was thumbing as he spoke, gathering control.
‘Vacuous. Speculative. Worse even, for men in our game, absolutely aspirational and no more. We need more than “if only”.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Hetherington. ‘I wonder if now might be the time to ask, you know, the CC if necessary, for more resources.’
I was seeing a new side to Hetherington. The Empire Builder.
‘Bring in some specific scientific resources. There’s a lab I visited in Dublin and they’re doing …’
I saw a spark of interest illuminate Hammy’s eyes. I needed to quell it or at least deflect it away from the lab in Dublin.
‘Hetherington’s right, sir. About resources. We need to draw in some more. And we need to be seen to be doing something, of our own, if you understand me. I’m not convinced forensic evidence will do us much good at this point. Perhaps later. We need, as you said yourself, opportunity, motive, witnesses, perpetrators. The classics, as you said.’
‘What are you suggesting, Slevin?’
‘A trip to Manchester. Family background. There’s nothing gripping here.’
‘You? To Manchester? You forget you’re our special vintage wine. You don’t travel away from the sunny side of the home vineyard.’
‘Not me, sir. Detective Constable Hetherington.’
If my colleague could have levitated off his seat, he would have. If Hammy had sheets of paper in front of him, he would have gathered them, shuffled them, tapped them on his knee and built them into a pile. Instead he hit ‘home’ on his pad, so that the main screen went to the PS(N) corporate logo. He beckoned to us to return our machines to him and he stood up.
‘A wee run to Manchester? Time it so you could catch a game, eh Hetherington?’
And that’s how I pushed Hetherington away from me, away from the gun, and how DI Hamilton could tell the Chief Constable that progress was being made.
NINE
I was tired most nights. I thought taking a bath would help. Night by night, I climbed out of tepid water, dried off and put on a dressing gown. I shaved and doused myself with cheap eau-de-toilette. I sat at my desk in front of the open window, overlooking the river. I thought about closing it, sensing a slight shiver. The clock on the Guildhall sounded 11. The small desk light, a replica of the one in my prison cell, spread a magnolia halo on my books and pages. A matt black fountain pen my sister Ruby gave me, lay open in two parts on a sheet of tissue paper. I returned to the books. Lying across each other, like open sheets of ribs, lay Thoms’ Lays and Legends of Ireland (1834), Wood-Martin’s Traces of the Elder Faiths in Ireland (1933), Jeremiah Curtin’s Myths and Folk-lore of Ireland (1890) and Carl Jung’s Symbols of Transformation (1956).
I was engrossed in thoughts on my dreams, when my phone sounded. I rooted for it among my papers.
‘Is this Edmund Slevin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. This is Rail Service North. You left a parcel on the train. The Belfast train. The 22.23. A file sort of thing.’
I tried to remember the last time I’d been on the train.
‘Your name and this phone number was on the outside. The cover. I didn’t open it. That’s how I tracked you down. Your number, like.’
Everyone’s a detective.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Eh. Jake.’
‘And you’re there now? At the station?’
‘Yeh. Eh, I’m on ‘til 23.30, but you know, if I can … Last man out, like.’
‘And you have the file?’
‘‘Course. That’s why I’m phoning you.’
‘Thank you, Jake. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
I dressed quickly and left the apartment. I thought of returning to get a coat but decided the wind-cheater and the brisk walk would be enough to keep me warm on a late August night. I took the path beside the river and headed briskly for the Peace Bridge. There was a smell of stale turpentine from the river, as if a painter had washed his brushes there. The water was as tarry as sump oil, heaving back and forth like the scaly abdomen of a sleeping dinosaur. There was more light when I reached the bridge, which I crossed alone and at pace, flashing through the photo-blasts of the beaming lights on the spars. The wind sharpened itself between the struts of the bridge and cut into my face. August played hard October. By the time I crossed the bridge and descended the final path to the railway station, I regretted not taking a winter coat, a pair of gloves and a wooly hat.
A dim light took me to the office, where I saw Jake hunched at a computer, playing solitaire. I rapped on the glass window and he looked up, surprised. He came over and we spoke via the connecting microphones and speakers. His voice sounded mechanical. I guessed mine sounded like a buzz-saw. My teeth were chattering by then.
‘You phoned and said you had a package of mine.’
‘Eh, sorry.’
‘I’m the fella you phoned. The file. Edmund Slevin.’
‘I gave it to you.’
‘No, you didn’t. I only just arrived.’
‘Eh, yeh. No. I gave it to the other fella. Edmund Slevin.’
I had to clench and unclench my cold hand to get it to work properly before retrieving my ID from my inside pocket.
‘That’s me. Edmund Slevin. See?’
‘Jes … You’re a cop too.’
‘Yes. Who’s this “other fella”?’
‘Eh, I don’t know. I mean. Edmund Slevin. He had ID. Same as that.’
‘The other fella was a cop?’
‘Yeh, he had the same ID. Different photo. But same name and all that. Edmund Slevin. Serious Crime something. Detective, like.’
‘Did he look like me?’
‘No.’ Jake was adamant about that. ‘He didn’t look like you. He was older and bigger. Taller. He looked like a detective. He had a detective’s coat on, with the collar turned up.’
‘I bet he had a hat too.’
‘Yeh, yeh. That’s right. He had a hat, a black one, like in an old film. Like Sean Penn.’
‘Show me the video.’
‘The video? With Sean Penn? I don’t think …’
‘No, the security video for the ticket booth. The foyer area, here.’
‘Eh, I don’t … You’d have to ask the station manager to see that.’
‘Jake, you want to get away as close to half eleven as you can, right? Show me the video.’
Jake left the window and walked out of my sight. Almost immediately a section of the wall to my left opened and Jake’s head appeared. He beckoned to me and I followed him into the office, which was much bigger than it seemed from the sales’ window. He took me to an alcove, where a bank of monitors stared images of the platforms, the entrances, the railings by the river and the entrance foyer, directly at us.
‘Talk me through what happened, from when the 22.23 arrived.’
Jake sat in front of the screens and
began to search for the sequence by inserting the time code 22.23. He could move between the recordings of a number of cameras. It was like watching a film edit, with Jake doing a voice-over as the hesitant, debutant actor.
‘Eh, the Belfast train came in and a handy crowd got off, just like any night and then, after, the conductor gave me the folder with your name, Edmund Slevin’s name, eh, written on it. I’m supposed to put it in a box for Lost Property, but I saw the phone number and I phoned, eh … you, yeh … There, see.’
He showed me an image of him phoning at 22.37.
‘Show me the entrance. The car park.’
We watched an empty screen for a few minutes until, at 22.40, a black car came into view, drove past the main entrance and out of sight.
‘They shouldn’t go round there. They’re supposed to park in front.’
‘Let me guess, Jake. There’s no camera round there.’
‘Eh, no. Why would there be a camera? No one parks round there. Unless you …’
‘Stay on the entrance camera. Here we go.’
At 22.43 a man wearing a long coat and a black trilby pulled low over his eyes entered the building almost at a run and presented an ID card he already had in his hand. Jake, obviously delighted to be clear of an inconvenience, slipped the folder under the plate glass separators. The man turned and left. By 22.50 the car, a black four-door saloon, was pulling away.
‘Keep going with the camera here. Find me arriving.’
And there I was, at 22.57. If I had arrived within the ten minutes I said I would, I’d have stood next to Edmund Slevin, the one in the natty hat.
‘Okay, Jake. Let’s have a look at the man again. And the car coming and going. Clip the images and stick them on this as you go along.’
I handed him my phone.
‘Eh, I don’t think …’
‘Either that or you punch in your manager’s call-out number and then I call him and a carful of uniformed cops to detain you for failing to assist a police officer in the performance of his legitimate duties.’
Jake plugged my phone into a port on the side of the server running the security cameras and monitors. He selected the clips I wanted and we watched them, as he made the transfers.