‘This is Jim Hobbs, goes by the nickname Fitter. So called because that was his trade when he worked in the shipyard, years ago.’
Tara didn’t need to study the picture. A tall, muscular man with shaven head. Aged about fifty, she guessed, and the man she’d first seen on the Treadwater Estate and then in the city on the night she’d been out with her friends. Fitter Hobbs was the man who’d been watching her, and, of course, it was now confirmed that he was not one of DCI Weir’s undercover officers.
Another image replaced that of Fitter, filling the screen. An older male, a broad and sturdy build, dressed in a red, green and black football shirt that she didn’t recognise. He also had a shaven head — and a cocky smile.
‘And this is Rab McHugh. Father of Carly. You’ll meet her later on. Do you recognise either of these men?’
‘Yes, both of them.’
‘The guys you came across in Liverpool?’
Tara nodded her head. DCI Weir, she noted, had passed on that piece of information.
‘What do these men do?’ she asked.
‘Ah, that is the question. Or rather, what do they not do? These chaps are at the head of a gang, supposedly an off-shoot of a loyalist paramilitary group, although there is a suspicion that they operate well inside the main organisation under the guise of community workers. The ‘gang with no name’ as we call it, runs drugs, they extort money, they run money lending scams, betting scams, prostitutes, illegal fuel, booze and ciggies and they own a couple of nice drinking establishments.’
At that point a young man, smartly dressed in grey shirt and striped tie, carried a tray of coffee and scones into the room, and Ferguson paused his briefing. He poured coffee into two mugs and invited Tara to help herself regarding the scones. After an early morning start, she was feeling hungry.
‘And how does Carly McHugh feature in this gang?’ she asked.
‘Daddy’s little helper.’
‘Any idea why she was living in Sunderland?’
‘Malcolm didn’t tell you?’
This felt awkward. She disliked DCI Weir intensely, but Rory Ferguson seemed well acquainted with his Liverpool counterpart. How did it look that she, the wee lass, hadn’t been properly briefed before leaving St Anne Street? She managed only a single shake of her head. Ferguson smiled, and his gaze lingered on her for more than a few moments. She smiled back, and it sparked him into action once again.
‘Right. Well, Fitter and McHugh’s drug running activities, we believe, branch out from Belfast through Scotland, the North East of England and down as far as Manchester and Liverpool. The reason why these Belfast gangs, both loyalist and republican, are so successful in running drugs and other smuggling operations is because they’ve had years of experience in doing just that during the Troubles, under intense security. They’ve mastered all the tricks of the trade, they’re very good at what they do. What we believe is that drugs, or the illicit booze or ciggies enter Britain through any of our ports, particularly Belfast, Liverpool and then, of course, the Channel ports. Distribution is through these networks in Liverpool, Manchester, Belfast, Glasgow and Sunderland. We reckon that Carly was managing the Sunderland branch on Daddy’s behalf.’
‘She acted as a dealer?’
‘Not so much at street level, we don’t think. She was more an organiser of supplies coming through Sunderland. Like a shipping agent for moving the drugs or booze, rather than selling direct to users.’
‘Which explains why police in Sunderland didn’t find any drugs in Carly’s flat.’
‘Mmm. I would say she and her da are very careful to keep their distance from the merchandise. What we don’t know is the nature of the relationship between Carly and this Boswell lad who got himself shot. Was it just business? Was he a street dealer or a courier? Were they romantically involved? I suppose that’s why you’re here. Remember, mam, at the moment this is all supposition on our part; we don’t yet have the evidence to convict any of these characters. That’s why we, and DCI Weir, of course, have some undercover operations in place. We have to be very careful not to expose our investigations. But I can tell you for nothing that McHugh and Hobbs are nasty pieces of work. Both have impressive histories.’
‘Thanks for the background, DS Ferguson.’
‘No problem, mam. How long are you staying in Belfast?’
‘Just overnight, assuming all goes well in talking with Carly.’
Ferguson grimaced.
‘Don’t expect too much. She’s only a kid, but she has her da’s genes. I reckon she’d cut your throat as quick as look at you.’
He shut down the computer and rose from his chair.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘as far as I know the girl is here already. We can have a chat with her before her da hears about it, and sends in his solicitor to stir up trouble.’
Ferguson led Tara back along the corridor and down two flights of stairs where he checked with an officer at a desk which room held Carly McHugh. Just before entering, he stopped and spoke quietly.
‘I was thinking, mam, if you’ve no plans for this evening I could give you a quick tour of the city. We can have a bite to eat and you can ask me any questions you still might have on the case?’
‘That would be great, thank you. It’s very kind.’ She smiled, thinking how much she enjoyed hearing his Belfast accent. He returned her smile, and she noted his half wink.
‘No problem.’
They entered an interview room, where Carly McHugh sat behind a table, her arms folded defensively, her expression unhappy. She has a cute face, Tara thought, long black hair neatly styled and brushed, dark eyes with liner and mascara, a pale but clear complexion and a small upturned nose. She was dressed in a royal blue V-necked jumper and skinny jeans with white trainers. Her demeanour, despite her good looks, was of pent-up aggression, hostility and a healthy dose of her father’s cockiness.
‘Morning, Carly, how’s it going?’ said Ferguson, as he indicated for Tara to sit at the table.
‘All right, Fergie?’ the girl replied in a bellicose voice. ‘You’re for it when my da hears you’ve pulled me in.’
‘Calm your flaps, Carly. Nobody said you’ve done anything wrong. We just want to have a wee chat. This is Detective Inspector Grogan of the Merseyside Police. She wants to ask you a few questions.’
Carly smirked like a school kid, seemingly amused by the sight of the young woman before her.
‘Nice to meet you, Carly.’
‘How’s it going?’
Ferguson started a voice and video recorder before Tara put her first question to the girl.
‘Carly, can you tell me what you were doing on the Treadwater Estate in Liverpool on Saturday the fifteenth of April?’
The girl remained with arms folded, her legs outstretched and feet crossed beneath the table. She glared at Tara.
‘Wasn’t there. Never heard of the place.’
‘Ryan Boswell was a friend of yours, isn’t that correct?’
The girl shrugged.
‘You shared a flat together in Sunderland?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Was he your boyfriend?’
Another shrug and she re-crossed her feet.
‘On Saturday the fifteenth of April, Ryan was shot and killed on the Treadwater Estate. Do you know anything about that?’
There was no response; the girl remained steely calm.
‘The gun used to kill Ryan had been used before, to shoot someone in Belfast. Do you know anything about this gun?’ This prompted a snigger, and Tara realised that this young girl, despite her age, was well versed in handling police interrogation.
She continued. ‘I have a witness who claims that you were in Treadwater on the fifteenth of April and another who saw you running through the streets late that night, apparently being chased by someone. Have you anything to say about that?’
‘Nope.’ She looked at DS Ferguson. ‘Can I go now, Fergie?’
Ferguson glanced at Tara, n
o doubt wondering if the Liverpool detective had anything to say that might prise something from this irascible girl. Tara decided to have one last attempt. She’d hoped for more co-operation from Carly McHugh, particularly if she had cared for Ryan Boswell.
‘Do you know, Carly, your boyfriend bled to death that night? He may have survived if someone had called an ambulance, tried to help him.’
The girl’s eyes widened; they glanced at Tara then quickly retreated to the floor. But Tara had noted the reaction. She hoped that she had stirred something.
‘He was only nineteen. His whole life ahead of him. Needlessly killed, don’t you think?’
Carly’s gaze remained fixed upon the floor.
‘Did you love him, Carly?’
She jumped to her feet, startling both officers.
‘Can I go now? I’ve answered all your questions. Done nothing wrong. I’ve stuff to do.’
‘Are you going back to Sunderland, Carly? To the flat you shared with Ryan?’
‘What are you? Some kind of social worker? You’re wasting your time, love, trying to get something out of me. Piss off home to Liverpool and leave me alone.’
Chapter 27
Suddenly, I’m as horny as fuck. Could hardly get my day in, driving around dumping groceries in houses. I looked forward to getting home, to Kirsty, to going to bed early and doing the business with her. But, wouldn’t you know, as soon as I walked in the door there she was, puking in the bathroom, and when she came out she went straight back to writing wedding invitations. Just great.
‘I’m away out,’ I said.
‘Where are you going? I need to talk to you about the menu for the reception.’
I slammed the door behind me. What the hell am I getting into? Can’t take much more of this.
By the time I’d driven around for a while, I’d started to cool down. I knew it wasn’t Kirsty’s fault. She’s pregnant, and she’s excited about the wedding. That’s not what is bothering me. I’m worried about what Tara Grogan is up to in Belfast. It was clear she wasn’t going for a nice wee city break. She was dressed in her work clothes, and her mates weren’t with her. I can’t help thinking that she has an interest in Millie, and if so, has she connected her to me?
Don’t know if it was deliberate, or if I did it automatically, but I found myself driving out by Stockbridge. When I realised the significance of where I’d ended up, I parked the car and went for a walk. It was a pissing awful night, the wind howling and rain coming down in sheets, and I’d only a light jacket on me, but I soon ended up in the street where Daisy lives. Couldn’t help myself. I strolled by her window several times hoping for a glimpse of her, but although a light was on in the living room, the blinds were closed. That was enough. I was back on a mission. Until I could relax over what Tara was up to I had to have something to occupy my time. To take my mind off it. And while Kirsty and her ma were so busy planning the rest of my life, I decided to do some planning of my own.
I would have a go at Daisy.
Chapter 28
In the late afternoon, DS Ferguson drove Tara around the city centre, pointing out places of interest, explaining the history, both ancient and modern, of Belfast. Tara was impressed by his knowledge and was struck also by his lack of prejudice, his disinclination to favour one side or the other, even though the political divide was clearly still in existence. Tara had only a cursory knowledge of such topics, which were mentioned at times by her mother, whose family came originally from Dublin.
An hour later, after returning his car to Musgrave station, they went on foot to a restaurant close to the City Hall.
‘What did you make of Carly?’ he asked as they ate their starters. Tara had chosen seared scallops and Ferguson spicy prawns.
‘She’s definitely angry about something. I’ve no doubt that she was the girl seen running through Treadwater on the night Boswell was killed. Whether she had witnessed the shooting or had anything to do with it is another matter. I do think that she cared for him. Her reactions, when I told her that he might have survived if he’d received treatment, were a giveaway.’
‘Do you know what they were doing in Liverpool that night?’
‘Not yet, but I’m assuming for now that they were attending a birthday party for Ryan’s brother Aidan. That’s been denied by the girlfriend of Tyler Finlay, but it seems to me that it was the reason for Boswell to be in Treadwater on the fifteenth of April. Whether it was the only reason, remains to be seen.’
‘Maybe Boswell had stepped out of line with those who run things in his gang. The birthday party was a ruse to bring him to Liverpool.’
‘Perhaps, but who was his boss? Someone in the Vipers, or your Mr McHugh? And there remains the possibility that the killing is part of a gang feud in Liverpool or even Sunderland, and is not connected to Belfast at all.’
‘What does Malcolm Weir make of it?’
‘Hasn’t said much, but his view is that the Vipers are a small-time gang. Truth is, he doesn’t seem bothered by the killing. He is more concerned that I don’t compromise any of his investigations.’
‘Do I take it that you and Weir don’t get along?’
Tara blushed. She hated the idea of admitting that she did not have respect for a colleague. When it came down to it, they were all trying to do a job in whatever way they could.
‘I haven’t had many dealings with him,’ she replied, hopefully laying the subject to rest.
‘He’s been over here a few times. Seemed decent enough.’
She had to change the subject. Even though the man was on the other side of the Irish Sea, Weir was spoiling her appetite.
‘I was wondering if you could help me on another matter, unofficially that is.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The body of the girl retrieved from the sea recently, it’s been on the national news.’
‘Linda Meredith?’
‘Yes. Would it be possible to speak with the officer in charge of the case?’
‘Wallace Brown. I’m sure I can arrange it.’ He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and began texting. ‘What’s your interest?’
Tara explained the background: she told him of the murdered journalist Terry Lawler, how he had been searching for his sister and apparently had connected a host of similar disappearances.
‘I have a collection of photographs of missing girls, photographs taken from Lawler’s flat. We’ve identified most of them, one is Linda Meredith. It might be nothing at all, or simply that Lawler had been comparing each of the disappearances, but I was thinking there may be a chance that one individual is responsible for all of them.’
‘Jeepers, how many girls are we talking about?’
‘We have names for twenty-four of the twenty-nine pictures found at Lawler’s flat.’
Ferguson puffed air through his cheeks.
‘I think Wallace will be very keen to talk to you.’
At that point his mobile beeped, and he checked his message.
‘There we are. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll take you down to meet him. He’s on the floor below ours.’
‘That’s great, thank you.’
After dinner they collected her case from Musgrave Street, and Ferguson drove to her hotel next to the Waterfront Hall where a crowd of people were gathering for a concert within. He climbed out of the car to fetch her case from the boot.
‘There you are, mam. I hope today has been of some help.’
‘Absolutely, thank you, Rory.’ She reached out her hand to shake his. They held the handshake long enough for her to gaze into his eyes. Reality quickly settled matters; she drew back and smiled warmly. He seemed to hesitate.
‘Thanks again, Rory.’
‘See you in the morning, mam. Sleep well.’
She watched him get back in his car and drive away. She got the impression that DS Ferguson would not have needed much coaxing.
She walked into the hotel foyer, her mind and tummy battling the sensation o
f what had nearly happened.
Chapter 29
The next morning, she was surprisedto see DS Ferguson seated in the hotel reception. He got to his feet when he saw Tara approach.
‘Morning, mam. I thought I would give you a lift to the station.’
‘That’s very kind, but it’s only round the corner. I could have walked.’
He took her bag, while she checked out. She was well aware of him staring at her, but her night’s sleep had cooled any rising passion, and he was still a married man. Just as well that she was going home this evening. It was back to business.
‘Sleep well?’ he asked as they walked out to the car.
‘Perfectly.’
Nothing more was said, on the brief drive to Musgrave Street. Ferguson showed her into the office of DCI Wallace Brown, who stood up when she entered the room.
‘DI Grogan, very nice to meet you,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘And you, sir.’
‘Please have a seat.’
She sat down and noticed that Ferguson was about to join them. ‘Rory, you’ve no need to stay. I’m sure DI Grogan can manage.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Smiling rather sheepishly at Tara, he left the room. Tara, for some reason, felt slightly more relaxed now that he had done so.
‘So, how can I help you?’ said Brown. He was a man of about forty, Tara guessed. Striped shirt and dark tie of some golf club. She couldn’t make out the detail. He looked quite serious, intense, despite the pleasant manner when he spoke. She thought he could improve by offering the odd smile. His eyes were small, quite sunken, and he seemed to squint as he listened to her theories concerning the disappeared girls, Terry Lawler and his sister Ruth. From her bag, she produced her collection of photographs and set them in front of Wallace Brown.
‘These pictures were all found on a wall in Terry Lawler’s flat. We managed to identify most of them from the missing persons list. All these girls apparently disappeared without trace. None of their bodies have ever been found. Until you recovered Linda Meredith from the sea. I believe that Lawler must have stumbled upon some reason to connect all of them.’
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 60