Chapter 32
The McCartney home was a large and attractive detached bungalow with a huge expanse of lawn and bordered with Castlewellan Gold leylandii trees. Eleanor McCartney was a bright-faced and shapely woman in her fifties, with shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair and a splash of freckles on her cheeks. Wearing slim jeans and a Beatles T-shirt, she sat opposite Tara in a spacious lounge, its huge picture window framing a vista of the County Down drumlins. Instantly, the well-spoken Eleanor McCartney seemed to Tara a woman who had fought to remain positive about life despite the tragedy that had befallen her family.
‘Are you sure I can’t get you a coffee or tea?’
‘No, thank you, Mrs McCartney,’ Tara replied. ‘We don’t want to take up too much of your time.’
‘Please, call me Eleanor.’
Tara explained the purpose of her visit. Eleanor nodded her understanding and reported on her meeting with Terry Lawler.
‘He came to see us about two years ago. Very chatty sort, very friendly — but also determined that he was going to find out what had happened to his sister.’
Tara was a little surprised to hear that Lawler had seemed friendly. Most of the people she’d spoken to who had been interviewed by the journalist had not found him to be pleasant.
‘I told him all that I knew about Diane’s disappearance. I suppose at first I’d thought that Mr Lawler was bringing me some hope, hope that she might still be alive, but he was quite candid and convinced that Diane and his own sister were dead. He was frustrated that police had made no progress in finding out what had happened to all of these women.’
‘Did he give you any explanation or theory as to what may have happened?’
‘Oh yes. He was convinced that Diane’s disappearance was similar to his sister’s and to other cases. He told me that he’d visited the parents of Linda Meredith, who disappeared in Belfast a while before Diane. And there were other disappearances he mentioned, that had taken place in England.’
‘What did he think had happened to these girls?’
‘He thought that one man was responsible. He said that the disappearances were so similar, that one person had to be the killer of all of these girls. I wanted to go to the police with what he’d told me, but he said that he was the only person taking an interest and he still needed proof that he was right. He said that he would keep me informed. I never heard from him, after that visit.’
Tara explained that Terry Lawler had been murdered shortly after his return home and that his death was not linked to the disappearances, but to another case.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that. He was the only person to give us hope that we would ever find out what happened to Diane.’
‘Did he mention any names... of people he suspected?’
‘He refused to give me the name of the man he was investigating, whom he suspected of killing his sister and my daughter. But he told me that there was a man who’d been behaving strangely around his sister. She worked at a hospital in Liverpool, isn’t that correct?’
‘Yes, The Royal.’
‘His sister had told him about a man who also worked there, who she thought may have been stalking her.’
‘He hadn’t passed this information on, to the police?’
Eleanor shook her head.
‘He wanted to look into it himself before going to the authorities.’
Just one name screamed in her head. James Guy. Had Terry Lawler really found a serial killer but then was murdered before he could pass on what he knew?
‘Inspector, do you think that if one man is responsible for all these girls disappearing... given that Linda Meredith’s body was found in the sea that others, including Diane, are also down there?’
‘I’m sorry to say that it is a possibility, Eleanor.’
Tara noticed Gina’s eyes widen at the thought. The scale of what they were considering was almost too horrific to take in. More than twenty young women may have been dumped in the Irish Sea. Would it ever be possible to find them?
Gina could hardly contain herself as they left the McCartney home.
‘Mam, the man Eleanor referred to, would that be the same man you’re thinking of, James Guy?’
‘I’m fairly sure, yes.’
‘But it has to be. You said that Guy worked at the hospital, and now you know that this journalist Lawler was thinking the same way.’
‘That doesn’t mean that he was right, or that I am right.’
As they drove back to the city Tara asked a favour of Gina Marshall.
‘I’ll have to get back to Liverpool tomorrow. Do you think you could try to find some information on James Guy, his life during the time he lived in Northern Ireland?’
‘I will try my best, mam.’
‘Thank you. Now, I really should get back to the reason I came here, Carly McHugh.’
‘Are you going to speak with her again?’
‘Yes. It might be worth having another chat. But I’ll have a word with DS Ferguson, see what he thinks about it.’
*
It was late in the afternoon before DS Ferguson was free to speak with her. She’d hung around the station, filling her time by checking back into her hotel, arranging her flight home for the following morning then looking over the shoulder of Gina Marshall while she searched for local information on James Guy.
‘Nine James Guys with current Northern Ireland addresses.’
‘I don’t think any of them will be our man. As far as I know, the James Guy in question is still resident in Liverpool.’
‘Maybe one of these addresses could point to a relative?’
‘I’ll leave you to check that out, Gina. Anything you find on this man will be very useful. I really appreciate your help, thank you.’
‘No problem, mam.’
When eventually she met up with Ferguson, he led her to a vacant meeting room and closed the door behind them. But Ferguson seemed uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, and nervously pulled out a chair from the table. Tara sensed an awkward situation was arising.
‘Have a seat please, mam.’ She sat down at the table and waited for Ferguson to do the same.
‘Do you have some news for me?’ she asked.
‘Not something you’re going to find useful, unfortunately.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, mam, in this part of the world sometimes it’s still hard to divorce crime from politics. Some people have connections to those in positions of power, and when that power is exercised certain things happen and others don’t happen.’
‘I’m really not following you, Rory.’
Ferguson smiled and winced at the same time. He wrung his hands.
‘We’ve been told to leave off Carly McHugh.’
‘But she is central to a murder enquiry!’
‘I know, but what is meant by leaving off Carly is that we’re not to go poking our noses into the current activities of her da, Rab McHugh.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘I can’t tell you. What I mean is, I don’t know.’
Tara glared at Ferguson, demanding more simply by waiting. It didn’t take long for him to capitulate. ‘It may be that the order has come from on high. Rab McHugh does have connections... to politicians and councillors in this city. Or it may be that an operation is ongoing and we would be interfering and risking its collapse.’
‘So which is it, Rory?’
‘Can’t tell you that, mam. I’m sorry.’
‘But you heard Carly. She’s up to her eyes in this Boswell case, and you’re saying she can’t be arrested. This is ridiculous.’
‘I can only apologise, mam. All I can tell you is that there are bigger fish to fry.’
‘For now, that is no help to me.’
And she couldn’t help thinking that the frying fish metaphor had DCI Weir stamped all over it.
*
She left the station in the early evening, having first caught up again with Gina Marshall.
The girl was diligently working through names, addresses and files, making calls to those she thought might have a connection to James Guy.
‘I was going to ask if you would like to join me for dinner,’ she said to Marshall.
‘Thanks, mam, but I really would like to get on with this. Maybe I can find something for you before you go back to Liverpool.’
‘Thank you. I really appreciate your help. I’ll see you in the morning before I go to the airport.’
*
She’d taken up a recommendation from Rory Ferguson, and went alone to a restaurant beside St Anne’s Cathedral. She started with a caesar salad and followed it with baked salmon, accompanied by a light New Zealand Chardonnay. After dinner, she walked slowly through the Cathedral Quarter, as it had become known in recent years, which was primarily an area for socialising, with many bars, restaurants and clubs tucked away down narrow lanes.
Her mind battled the horrors of her experiences of James Guy. Life was strange... her main reason for coming to Belfast had been to gather information, to help in solving the murder of Ryan Boswell, but the thought of catching the man who had killed so many young women blotted out everything else.
It was a mild evening, and as she reached the junction of one narrow street with another she noticed a group of people, standing around outside a pub. The street was little more than an alleyway but was lit by fairy lights and had some benches to sit on, a jolly scene with laughter and chat from those enjoying their drinks. She couldn’t resist the cosy setting and, with nothing else but thoughts of a serial killer to occupy her time, she stepped into The Duke of York and stood at the bar. She ordered a glass of lager, and before she’d even managed a sip, a young man of no more than twenty was beside her and smiling warmly. She returned the smile.
‘Are you going to the gig?’ he asked. He was dressed casually in jeans and striped shirt. His face was pleasant, square and strong-looking; he had blue eyes and short fair hair. He was not unappealing. It wasn’t the first time a lad of his age had mistaken her for a much younger girl. Usually she felt flattered, but at times it made for awkward situations.
‘What gig?’
‘At the Black Box. It’s stand-up night.’
‘No, I just called for a drink on my way home.’
She pushed her hair back, behind her ear. She knew she wasn’t looking her best and yet she seemed to have caught the eye of this young man. Too young for her, though. A brief thought of Rory Ferguson slid through her mind.
‘Where’s home then? You don’t live here, do you?’
‘Liverpool.’
‘You don’t sound like a Scouser, either?’
She smiled, not knowing exactly how to answer that without sounding arrogant.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Business.’
‘Right. I’m Michael, by the way.’
‘Tara.’
He held out his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you, Tara.’ They shook hands and smiled at each other. A barman lined up the drinks that Michael had ordered, two pints of Guinness, a pint of lager and a glass of red wine.
‘You’re not on your own then?’ she said.
Michael handed money to the barman.
‘No, my friends are outside. Come and meet them.’
‘Oh no, it’s okay. I don’t want to intrude on your evening.’
‘C’mon. You’re on your own in Belfast. May as well have some company.’
Feeling rather sheepish, she stepped outside with Michael and was introduced to two other young men and a young woman, all of similar age, she guessed. Michael and his two male companions were civil servants, based in an office in the city centre. The woman, Lisa, was Michael’s sister and an arts student. The four young people chatted with Tara as if they’d known her for years. She immediately felt at ease, and she had to admit, she enjoyed the company, the chat and the fun.
Several drinks later they parted, as the friends went off to their gig and Tara made her way towards her hotel. Michael was sweet, she thought, and given a few years... She smiled to herself. Perhaps he wouldn’t have believed that she was thirty-one years old. He might never have spoken to her if he’d realised.
At least all thoughts of serial killers had been dispelled for a while.
Darkness had descended on these narrow alleys, but she remained cheerful as people strolled by on their way to bars, restaurants and gigs. In a few minutes, she emerged from the Cathedral Quarter into wider streets and crossed the road into Victoria Street beside the Albert Clock, a structure not unlike Big Ben, she thought, and with a gentle tilt less severe than Pisa’s. As she walked by yet another restaurant, a car drew up at the pavement. It was a large silver Audi, and a youth was climbing out in something of a hurry. She thought nothing of it as she passed them by.
Then, suddenly, she was aware of a horrifically searing pain in her right arm. Someone had a tight grip and was wrenching it behind her. She called out for help, but it was lost in the noise of traffic. She no longer had control of her feet, and before she could react further the youth thrust her into the back seat of the car.
It roared off and beat the lights near the Albert Clock, passing just as they changed to red.
Chapter 33
Another day spent loitering about the airport and still no sign of her. I hung around by the police station on St Anne Street for a couple of hours, but nothing there either. Before going home, I checked out her flat at Wapping Dock. Even rang her doorbell. Nothing. I finally convinced myself that whatever she was doing in Belfast had nothing to do with me and drove home to Kirsty.
For a while over dinner, I listened to her go on and on about our wedding, and I tried my best to look interested. Like I give a fuck. It felt like Tara was standing in the room with us, listening to Kirsty prattling on about table settings, flowers and menus and the whole time Tara’s glaring at me with a face on her like thunder. I know what you’ve done she was saying in my ear. I’m coming for you. I shivered at the thought.
‘Are you all right, honey?’
‘What?’ I said, distracted.
‘You’ve hardly touched your lasagne. You’re not coming down with something?’
‘I’m fine. Just a headache.’
She smiled sympathetically and rubbed my arm with her hand. I really don’t deserve her.
‘I’ve to go for my first scan next Tuesday. Do you want to come with me?’
I knew I should say yes. I mean, I wanted to go — but right at that minute I had Tara whispering in my ear, and it wasn’t anything nice. Kirsty took the brunt of my frustration.
‘I’m working, Kirsty. I can’t just take the day off.’
‘But it’s a morning appointment. You could go into work late. It’s not a whole day.’
‘I can’t, I’m busy.’
I could tell she was hurt, but I had more important things to worry about. She didn’t speak for a while, and then she came up with another date for me to refuse.
‘Dad wants to know if you’re free this weekend. He got you a ticket for the match.’
‘I’m working on Saturday. He should have asked me first.’
‘He was thinking you could get the afternoon off.’
I threw down my knife and fork. They clattered over my plate and fell on the floor.
‘I just told you I have to work. Are you stupid or something?’
As I sprawled on the sofa and flicked through the TV channels with the remote, I could hear her banging about the kitchen as she cleared up the dishes. Then the front door slammed. She’d stormed off to her mother’s or to Mel’s. Give it ten minutes and my ears would be burning.
And still Tara was getting to my head. I know it’s you, James. I fucking know. I will get you.
What the hell am I going to do about her?
Chapter 34
Shania couldn’t move her left arm. Not without great pain, that made her call out for help. But the sound coming from her mouth was muted. Her face s
eemed paralysed; she couldn’t move her lower jaw and if she tried, a sharp pain shot upwards into her head. She had the metallic taste of blood on her tongue and felt the trickle of warm liquid leaving her open mouth. Why didn’t somebody come?
She was cold. Cold and wet, her hair soaked in a puddle. She couldn’t get up. Not on her own. She thought she might die here, squinting through blood and tears at the night sky with its hue of yellow light reflected from the damp streets. How long had she been like this? How long had she been lying here? How long since they had dragged her to this spot, kicking her, pulling her hair, ripping her dress. And the sticks and baseball bats cracking at her body, her arms and her face. She must surely have passed out. They were gone now. Not a sound. What was the time? Had she been lying here for hours or just minutes? Why didn’t somebody come? Where was Tyler? What was he doing to help her?
She’d worn her new dress just for him. Had her hair and nails done for the party at Craig’s place. Why had he left her on her own? She wanted her mum. Her mum could help her, take care of her, get her to a hospital. But she loved Tyler, and yet he’d abandoned her. He’d left the party without her. And not long afterwards, as she walked home alone, they’d grabbed her by the hair and pushed her down the steps. And people just stood there, watching. No one came to help her. Even then the pain in her arm made her cry out. Some of them were laughing. People she knew. People from the party. Some she’d called her friends. Girls as well as fellas. And the more she’d screamed, the more they’d jeered. What had she ever done to them?
Her cries for help were little more than whimpers now. Her only thought as she drifted to unconsciousness once again was that somebody should come to help her.
Chapter 35
‘Who are you? Where are you taking me?’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
‘I’m a police officer…’
‘Know who you are, love. But you don’t get to say anything.’ This was a different voice from the first, and it came from the figure sitting in the front passenger seat. He didn’t turn around but spoke directly at the windscreen. It was dark; she couldn’t make out his face, but thought immediately of the men she’d spied on the Treadwater Estate and of the man she’d noticed watching her on the night she was out with Kate and Aisling.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 62