The Girl From the Killing Streets

by David Hough

  “Too late. People had died by then.”

  “You shouldn’t be here in prison for something you didn’t actually do,” I said, although I knew I was wrong. She was an accomplice to the killing of Jimmy Fish.

  She gritted her teeth and glared at me as if she was exasperated by my foolish argument. “What I didn’t do was to give the peelers that list before the bombing began. I could have put a stop to it right at the start, but I didn’t. That’s what I didn’t do. That’s why I’ve been here these past eight years. Because people died as a result of what I didn’t do.”

  When Sorcha finally stopped speaking, Susan looked straight at me and shook her head sadly. “The poor girl. She can’t take much more of this.”

  “I can see that.” There was, of course, more to be discussed, like what actually happened the night Constable Dunlop was killed, but I held back from further questioning. This wasn’t the right time.

  I spoke just once more to Sorcha as the warder helped her up from her seat. “Did anyone involved with the bombing see you and Martin leaving the city?”

  She looked puzzled for a few seconds, as if her brain was now running in slow motion. Then she said, “Only Finn McKenna. We managed to get a lift eventually, but only for a short distance. The driver wasn’t going any farther when he dropped us off in a lay-by. McKenna was parked nearby, and he probably saw us. We dashed across the road into a pub when we realised it was him, but he must have seen us. Yes, he must have.”

  “And he would have told Fitzpain?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So Fitzpain must have discovered where you were… I see… well, thank you, Sorcha. That’s all I needed to know for now.”

  She turned to walk away, then paused and said, “Youse’re seeing Martin?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked back at me, her eyes wet with tears. “Tell him I loved him and I’m sorry it worked out so badly for us. Tell him I’m sorry for what I did. Tell him ’tis best this way.”

  “Best this way? What do you mean, Sorcha?”

  “Just tell him. ’Tis best this way.”

  Her head hung low as she shambled away.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  February 1981

  The end of the story was coming into sight and I was anxious to get to the final truth of what really happened that day. I telephoned Will Evans as soon as we got back to Susan’s flat. It was close on mid-day and I hoped he would be at home. I was lucky.

  “Not you again!” His opening remark wasn’t helpful.

  “Yes, it’s me again, Will. I’m in Belfast and I’ve been talking to Sorcha. She’s told me how she found Martin Foster after the bombing, and how they tried to make their way out of the city.”

  “They didn’t get far. Went into a pub on the Downpatrick Road.”

  “That’s where you found them: you and McIlroy? Yes?”

  “Yes. We’d pretty much sewn up the matter before we tracked Fitzpain to the pub. Foster and the Mulveny girl were already there.”

  “Tell me all about it and I won’t bother you again.”

  The sound of a deep sight echoed down the line “That’s a promise?”

  “Yes, a promise.”

  ***

  21st July 1972

  1650 BST

  Will was tired, in need of rest. They all were.

  The city was in a state of utter chaos and panic. Army and police roadblocks had sprung up wherever another bomb was reported. Some of the reports had turned out to be true, others were deliberate distractions. Uniformed men in military vehicles, police cars and ambulances by-passed the blocks where they could, but everyone else was held at bay. The traffic on Dee Street and on the Sydenham by-pass road was backed up in both directions. On the verges, the roads were lined with pedestrians who had escaped the city centre and were now desperate for someone… anyone… to drive them away from Belfast.

  Was this, Will wondered, what Europe was like in the Second World War? Displaced people trying to escape enemy bomb after enemy bomb? Adults in fear of their lives, children screaming in terror? Was this a rerun of what came about as a result of Nazi hatred? Was the Provisional IRA now doing to Belfast what Hitler and his Nazis did to the countries they overran?

  He sat in the police car and waited anxiously for news of another attack, only half listening to the constant chatter on the radio. But there was no news of any more bombs. The terror campaign seemed to have come to a halt… for the moment, but the after-effects continued.

  DCI McIlroy had parked the car in a street of redbrick terraced houses, within sight of the towering Harland and Woolf shipyard cranes. He had ordered Will to stay with it while he walked towards the Dee Street road bridge, where the army was dealing with another possible bomb. Or was it yet another hoax? Will opened the window and scanned up and down the street. Anxious locals peered from behind curtained windows, eyeing the car warily, maybe wondering whether it would blow up in their faces. On balance, Will decided, they would do nothing as long as he stayed with the vehicle. The Provisional IRA was not noted for producing suicide bombers.

  Blow up innocent people, but not yourself.

  So he sat tight.

  McIlroy was gone only a few minutes when a distant crump announced an explosion, at least a mile away. The chatter on the police radio halted for a moment before a positive voice announced the latest bomb had exploded in the Ballysillan area. Then the chaotic babble resumed.

  Ten minutes passed and the local interest in the police car waned. The street residents were no longer keeping an eye on it. It hadn’t blown up, so maybe they had decided it was innocent enough.

  When his boss came hurrying back, Will leaned out from the car window to call to him. “That last one was near the Ballysillan Road!”

  McIlroy said nothing until he was back in the driver’s seat. “There’s nothing we can do to help. Let’s hope that young man, Martin Foster, was nowhere near it. Anyway, we’re no longer needed here. They found this one in time and they’ve already defused it.”

  “Good for them. What now, boss?”

  McIlroy breathed deeply and closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them, Will saw that they were bloodshot. He had not realised the DCI was taking the stress so badly. Maybe age was against him. Maybe he had underlying health problems which Will knew nothing about. Or, was this an outcome of his marital problems? Whatever the reason, DCI McIlroy seemed to be reaching a crisis point.

  “Let’s not get into a panic, Will,” he said, his voice wavering. “Let’s just sit tight for a few minutes while we work out where we could be most needed.”

  “Should we call in?”

  “No. They’re still overloaded with calls.”

  “Fair enough.” Will swivelled in his seat to face his boss. He wished there was somewhere nearby he could grab a cup of tea. They both needed it. Or something stronger, like a McIlroy standard.

  He said, “I’ve been thinking, boss. Remember that message we got from Jimmy Fish about barking up the wrong tree. That’s what he’s supposed to have said. We were barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Funny you should say that. I’ve been pondering over that as well.” McIlroy’s hand shook as he pulled out a cigarette and lit up. “And do you know what I reckon? I reckon Jimmy was right. He gave us a sound tip-off and we misread it completely. Utterly and completely. Remember how he said it was a relative of his who killed Johnny Dunlop? Remember that?” He drew deeply on the cigarette and blew out the smoke in one long cloud that buffeted against the inside of the windscreen.

  “A sort of relative,” Will said. “Not a relative. A sort of relative. What did he mean by that, do you think?”

  “And he said I should do some digging, didn’t he? He wanted me to look beyond the obvious, and I think I know now what he was getting at.” The DCI blew out another cloud of smoke and waved a hand to clear the air. “We assumed he was sending us a message about Fitzpain. But… what if it wasn’t him? What if someone else
killed Johnny Dunlop and that’s what Jimmy wanted to tell us? Not a relative, but a sort of relative. Fitzpain is a cousin of his. Jimmy wouldn’t call him a sort of relative, would he? He’d simply say ‘a relative’. And there’s something else. Sorcha Mulveny was at that hotel when the uniforms went in to get Fitzpain. So what if...”

  “The uniforms questioned her, but they didn’t think she was involved,” Will interrupted. “What exactly do you think Jimmy meant by a sort of relative?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Sorcha Mulvnery thinks Fitzpain is her father. Maybe Jimmy Fish had the same idea. Maybe Jimmy also thought Sorcha is Fitzpain’s bastard child. Jimmy was a cousin of Fitzpain. I figure that might make her a ‘sort of relative’ in his mind.”

  “Related by blood, but not the offspring of any formal marriage.”

  “And we now know they were both wrong about Fitzpain, don’t we? There is no way he could be her father. The proof is there in black and white.”

  Will cast his mind back to the report on Fitzpain’s arrest. It stated that the girl was aged twenty, so she must have been born in nineteen-fifty-two. But the character report on Fitzpain clearly showed he was in gaol from February fifty one to February fifty three. He couldn’t possibly be Sorcha’s father.

  “Gaol was some sort of occupational hazard for the Fitzpains… and the Codds,” McIlroy said with an air of reflection. “Jimmy Fish went down for theft some while after Fitzpain. Caught stealing whiskey from a pub. He only got twelve months for it. Should have got longer if it was ever going to teach him a lesson. One thing is for sure though. Fitzpain got two years for his misdeeds and he was not around when the Mulveny woman conceived that child.”

  “Who’s going to tell Sorcha that?” Will said.

  “There was something else in that character report, Will. Something interesting on the front page. Remember? Fitzpain was once accused of raping a married woman. It was a long time ago though. Can you see what else I’m getting at?”

  “You think he raped Barbara Mulverny.”

  “It’s only conjecture, Will, but it’s a possibility.”

  Will thought for a moment. “What if it wasn’t rape, boss? Sorcha Mulveny told me those two grew up together, Fitzpain and the Mulveny woman. They were close, those two. What if the charge of rape was made as a way of hiding the fact the woman was having an affair with someone… probably Fitzpain. She was married at the time, remember? And the accusation was later dropped. If Sorcha Mulveny knows about that… and she probably does… that could be why she thinks… wrongly… that she was the outcome. And, as you said, Jimmy Fish may well have thought the same.”

  McIlroy took another draw on his cigarette, it was burning down fast. “That would explain why Jimmy sent the uniforms to that hotel. It was because of her, not Fitzpain. It would mean Jimmy was telling us that she was the one who killed Johnny Dunlop; the girl he thought to be Fitzpain’s bastard child.”

  “But Jimmy Fish would know that Fitzpain couldn’t possibly be her father, just as we know it.”

  “I don’t think so, Will. Jimmy Fish was banged up for theft some while after Fitzpain went down. He would have known that Fitzpain and Barbara Mulveny had a thing going between them, but he would have been in gaol when Sorcha Mulveny was born. He probably never knew the child’s date of birth. I reckon he never worked out the truth about the parentage.”

  “Which was?”

  “God knows, but she’s close to Fitzpain, even if she’s not his daughter. I reckon she must have known Jimmy Fish was the informer. I don’t know how, but I’m certain she must have known. The more I think about it, the more I reckon she was somehow involved in Jimmy’s murder.”

  “Okay, boss, I’ll buy that as a possibility. But, assuming Jimmy Fish was right, why would she kill Johnny Dunlop?”

  “Maybe Johnny knew something about her,” McIlroy said.

  “Caught her with her pants down… figuratively speaking.”

  McIlvoy laughed, a hard, cold laugh. “Caught her up to no good? Or maybe he saw something he wasn’t meant to see while he was walking home that night.”

  “Possibly, but that’s only conjecture.”

  “True enough.” McIlvoy screwed up his face as he sought to recall what he knew. He opened his side window to flick his cigarette ash out into the bomb-smoked air. “But she is close to Fitzpain, we know that.”

  “Sounds like they’re a right den of thieves,” Will said.

  “And there’s something else we need to sort out. Do you remember what the café owner told us? She said Jimmy Fish’s last words were, ‘Not you too.’ Do you recall that?”

  “Yes? But he wouldn’t have said ‘you’. He would have said ye. That’s the way he spoke.”

  “All right. He would have used the word ‘ye’. But let’s assume for a moment that he didn’t say, ‘Not ye too’, spelt T… O… O. Let’s suppose he said, ‘Not ye two.’ Spelt T… W… O. Remember how she said it didn’t sound right. Maybe that was because the emphasis was wrong. If he said ‘Not ye too’ the stress would have been on the last word. If he said ‘not ye two’ the stress would have been on ‘ye’. Is that why it sounded wrong?”

  “I’ll buy that idea.”

  “So… let’s suppose two people came to kill him that day.”

  “Fitzpain and the girl? Is that what you’re saying, boss?”

  “No. Why would Fitzpain take the Mulveny girl with him? Unlikely, I think. He could kill Jimmy Fish without any help from her. And then there’s the knife. If Fitzpain killed the boy in the alley, he used a serrated knife. Jimmy Fish was killed with something sharp but straight.”

  “Maybe the girl brought the weapon.”

  “Maybe, Will. But who was with her? The café owner thinks she may have heard the name Fitzpain.”

  “Not Brian Fitzpain. So, is there another member of that clan? Another Fitzpain?” Will eased himself in his seat. “We need to find the girl again, boss. And not just for her own protection.”

  “If only we knew where she is. The uniforms are too busy right now to go looking for her, so maybe we should make a few more enquiries of our own.”

  “If we’re right, boss, we need to get her into an interview room. If she talks, she could bring down the whole damn family, as well as a few IRA bombers. It could be the only way she’d avoid a long stretch behind bars.”

  McIlroy frowned. “But if she’s that loose with her tongue, Fitzpain would want to wipe her out first.” He ran his free hand across his forehead. His bloodshot eyes blinked. “In his warped mind, it could be just what he would do. God, what a bloody mess.”

  “Would he really kill her?”

  “In my view, yes. Without a moment’s hesitation.” McIlroy threw out his cigarette and started the engine. “We’d better try to find the girl first.”

  “Where?”

  “We could try that hotel. The one where the uniforms went to find Fitzpain. She was there this morning, wasn’t she?”

  “Worth a try, boss. It’s in Oldpark Road. D’you think the Oldpark boys will object to us nosing in on their patch?”

  “We won’t tell them. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Sometimes, Will, it pays to be sneaky.”

  As the car eased back through the narrow, terrace-lined streets, Will asked, “What might Johnny Dunlop have come across last night?”

  “Discover that and we wrap up the whole miserable business, I reckon.”

  “I wonder if…” Will stopped when he heard their callsign on the police radio. He picked up the microphone and called back.

  The radio voice was calm but firm. “IRA suspect named as Brian Fitzpain has been seen in a white Ford Transit van leaving the Ballysillan area. All cars are instructed to intercept if seen. The registration is…”

  McIlroy interrupted the transmission by turning down the volume. “Let the other guys catch him. I rather fancy this trip to Oldpark will be more productive. Call in and tell the guys at base that we’re on a CID job
.”

  With so many roads closed by police and army blockades it took them half an hour to reach the Oldpark Road. McIlroy parked outside the hotel. Furtive figures lurked nearby, but the road seemed to have gone quiet now that the bombing had apparently ended.

  “Siesta time?” Will queried.

  “Hiding behind the curtains time, more likely. Let me do the talking, Will. I’ll give you a nod if I want you to take over.”

  They climbed the stairs to the reception area where a white-haired, elderly lady was busily knitting. She looked up and glowered at them, as if she was astute enough to smell a policeman on first sight.

  McIlroy held up his warrant card. “Police. We’re looking for a girl called Sorcha Mulveny. Has she been here?”

  “Never heard of her.” The old lady carried on knitting as if the interference was no more important than the buzzing of a summer fly.

  McIlroy stood beside her and leaned close. “Your name, madam?”

  “None of your business.”

  “What a pity. I shall have to call in the heavy mob. They can be very persuasive.”

  The woman glared at him and then pointed to a small notice sitting on the reception desk. “What the hell does that say? Youse can read, can’t youse?”

  McIlroy peered at it. “Buggered if I can read it, it’s that small. What does it say, Will?”

  Will crossed the room and picked up a small card. “It says Duty Manager…” He glanced at the lady. “That’s a bit posh for a place like this, isn’t it? Rather like a public bog having a Chief Executive. Duty Manager, my foot!” He laughed before he read on. “Duty Manager: Margaret Fitzpain… Oh, my God, boss. Another Fitzpain.”

  “You’re a Fitzpain?” McIlroy chuckled coldly as he faced the old lady. “Any relation to Brian Fitzpain.”

  “So what?”

  “Answer the question!”

  “His mother,” she mumbled.

  “Well, well, he actually has a mother.” He stopped suddenly and picked up the woman’s knitting bag. “And what have we got here?”

  Will moved back to stand beside his boss while McIlroy pulled out a pair of scissors from the bag.