by Jeff Gulvin
‘Your priest has them. Your brother took them there,’ Westbrook told her.
‘Father Sheehan’s, Mary-Anne. Check on my kids will you? Tell them Mummy loves them and she’ll see them very soon.’ She put the phone down and looked straight at Westbrook. ‘Very soon,’ she said.
Westbrook smiled, rubbed his palms together and sat forward. ‘Well let’s hope so eh.’
Eilish sat back. ‘I’m not talking to you till my lawyer gets here.’
Webb looked at her. ‘Mary-Anne Forbes. That’s a good start, Eilish. I bet she knows some great lawyers.’
Eilish stared at him, uncertainty showing in her eyes for the first time since she had been brought in.
‘Worked with Tommy didn’t she?’
‘Tommy who?’
‘Come on, Eilish. Tommy’
‘Quinlon. You’re talking about Tommy Quinlon?’
Vanner watched through the glass, Jack Swann sitting next to him. ‘She’s good, I’ll give her that,’ Swann said. ‘Not your average volunteer.’
‘Thomas Michael Quinlon,’ Webb was saying. ‘Shot dead by security forces in February of 1984.’
‘Murdered.’
‘What?’
‘Murdered by security forces. Shot in cold blood, mister. Unarmed man. He wasn’t even wearing a jacket.’
Vanner frowned. The dummy in the road. Ray Kinane’s statement. A store mannequin, male, trousers, no jacket, lying in the rain in the road. He half-closed his eyes. A man lurching down the hill to the ford, shirt plastered against his flesh by the rain. And shots ringing out. He sat forward in his chair and looked closely at Eilish.
‘That night,’ Webb was saying. ‘That’s what all this is about isn’t it, Eilish?’
‘All what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Course you don’t. You don’t know anything about Jessica Turner either or David Quigley for that matter.’
Eilish looked blankly at him. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I don’t. Now, why don’t you take me back to that nice little cell until my solicitor gets here.’
Webb came into the room where Vanner and Swann were sitting. ‘Get all that?’ Webb said.
Vanner nodded. ‘Thinks she’s a hardcase. It was the same when we interviewed her in Antrim Road.’
‘One phonecall and it’s Mary-Anne Forbes.’
Vanner turned his mouth down at the corners. ‘Not a very bright thing to do.’
Webb grinned at him.
‘The dummy,’ Vanner said. ‘Beginning to fit.’
‘How’s that?’
Vanner thought carefully before replying. ‘That night at Brindley Cross — it was raining very hard, Quinlon was only wearing a shirt. Turned out later he was pissed.’ He paused then added: ‘Friday the 12th it rained. The dummy in the road had no jacket on.’
Webb scratched his chin. ‘Bit deep isn’t it?’
‘Twelve years,’ Vanner said. ‘Lot of time for someone to think.’
‘It’s a long time generally. Why wait a dozen years?’
Vanner shrugged. ‘Maybe it took that long to find out who we were.’
‘You maybe, but not the RUC boys. That would be easy enough if you had the right PIRA contacts.’
‘Ask her,’ Vanner said.
‘I intend to.’ Webb opened the door. ‘Want to see what the Exhibits boys have come up with?’
They went upstairs to the evidence room. Webb nodded to his colleagues, who were laying plastic bags on the table.
‘What you got, boys?’
One of them looked up at him and nodded to the bags. ‘The sweater,’ he said. ‘Piece missing at the elbow. Waiting for the sample from Hendon then I’ll get it down to the lab.’
Webb stared at the table and picked up a bundle wrapped in plastic. ‘What’s this?’
‘Fifteen thousand quid, Skip. We found it behind the bath.’
Vanner looked at the cash. ‘Fifteen thousand,’ he mused. ‘Now that is very interesting.’
‘Drug money?’
‘Could be.’ He looked at Westbrook then. ‘What’re the chances of me having a chat with her?’
Westbrook made a face. ‘If we’ve got the right body—you were her next target.’
‘So?’
‘So, I don’t know. Leave it for now. Let Webby and me handle it. If we get nowhere then maybe we’ll see.’
The phone rang and one of the Exhibits officers offered the receiver to Webb. Webb took the call, spoke for a few minutes and then hung up. ‘Lawyer’s going to be late,’ he said. ‘In court this morning. We’ll have to wait till this afternoon.’
Westbrook took a breath. ‘You want to try again without?’
Webb shook his head. ‘You saw her, Guv’nor. She isn’t going to talk.’
The door opened and two more Exhibits men came in. One of them carrying a plastic bag with something heavy and black inside it. For a moment Vanner’s heart pumped.
‘Not a Toky,’ the man said as he laid it down with a thump. ‘Uzi machine pistol.’
Vanner picked up the package and inspected it. ‘Where’d you get this?’
‘Coal bunker. It wasn’t in use, full of concrete and bits of wood.’
Webb took it from him and turned it over in his hands. ‘Hers?’
Vanner shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
At Hendon, Morrison was in the Superintendent’s office with Weir. Vanner walked past the door on his way to the stairs. Morrison called him inside.
‘Shut the door, Vanner.’
Vanner looked briefly at him then did as he was asked. Weir stood with his hands behind his back.
‘What’s happening?’ Morrison asked him.
‘Waiting for Eilish McCauley’s lawyer.’
‘She’s made a complaint against you, Vanner. Formal one. Funny how many people do that.’
Vanner shook his head. ‘What’s she saying?’
‘She’s saying that you and Jimmy Crack lied to her over a consignment of crack in Ulster.
She reckons you told her she had a kilo and a half and unless she co-operated she would be looking at ten years.’
‘Antrim Road verified it?’
‘Not yet.’
Vanner shook his head. ‘Crack turned out to be candlewax, Sir. Don’t know what she’s on about.’
Morrison leaned on the radiator and looked disparagingly at him. ‘What else is happening?’
‘SO13 found fifteen grand stashed behind the panel of her bath.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Young Young’s Uzi.’
Morrison looked up. ‘Carter’s killer.’
Vanner nodded. ‘His car was found at Roundwood Park. That’s over the road from Eilish’s house.’ Vanner looked at him then. ‘Do you want me to tell Keithley?’
‘I’ll do it,’ Morrison said.
Outside Vanner phoned Jimmy Crack and told him about the find in the coal bunker. ‘Eilish is gone as far as Stepper-Nap’s concerned, Jim. But at least Young Young’s history.’
‘Something I guess. Doesn’t give me who I want though, Guv.’
‘Can’t win ’em all, Jim.’
‘It’s not over, Guv. We’ve still got Rafter’s baby mother.’
‘Any more on that?’
‘Me and Sammy are going down to have another word with him. She’s still over in Kingston. He says he needs money for phone cards.’
‘Give him all he wants.’
‘I intend to. What’s happening your end?’
‘Getting there, Jim. You seen Slippery?’
‘No.’
‘Probably arguing with himself somewhere. If you see him tell him to bell me would you?’
‘Sure. See you, Guv.’
Vanner got in his car and drove back to Willesden. He parked outside Eilish’s house where the front door was still cordoned off with tape. Inside SO13 officers were putting back the carpets. Vanner showed his warrant card to the uniform at the door and
stepped inside. He spoke to the nearest man. ‘You finished in here?’
‘Yep.’
‘Got everything?’
‘Never been known to miss.’
Vanner nodded. ‘Family can come back then, brother and that.’
‘I reckon. You better check with the Guv’nor.’
‘Explosives?’
‘Not a trace.’ The man grinned again. ‘Believe me we’d know’
‘I believe you.’
Vanner went into the lounge and leafed through the phone book until he came to Father Sheehan’s address. He wrote it down and then went back to the car. The house was a small two-up two-down built alongside the Catholic church off the High Road, Vanner parked and locked his car then walked up the path. It was opened by a woman of about fifty, grey-white hair fastened with a silver pin.
‘Father Sheehan please.’
‘And you are?’
‘Detective Inspector Vanner.’
Sheehan was in his study talking to James McCauley who sat in a low armchair, gripping the arms with stiff fingers. The children were nowhere to he seen. Vanner showed his ID to the priest. ‘Where’re the kids?’ he asked.
‘School,’ Sheehan told him. ‘We thought that would be best. Take their minds off last night.’
Vanner did not say anything. He looked at James. ‘You okay?’
James snorted. ‘What kind of question is that? You burst into our house at four o’clock in the morning, waving machine guns and terrifying the children.’
Vanner looked evenly back at him. ‘Your sister is a suspected terrorist, James. What d’you expect us to do?’
‘Terrorist?’ James stared at him, then he laughed, almost brutally. ‘She’s no more that than I am.’
Vanner looked again at the priest. ‘Would you give us a minute please?’
Sheehan looked doubtfully at James. James looked at Vanner, then at the floor. ‘It’s all right,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ Sheehan said. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’ He looked at Vanner as he passed him. ‘You know you ought to consider your methods,’ he said.
Vanner smiled. ‘Believe me we do.’
He closed the door and then sat down in the swivel chair by Sheehan’s desk. ‘They’re almost finished at your house,’ he said. ‘You’ll be able to go home soon. You can pick up the kids from school.’
‘And my sister?’
‘Your sister’s in custody.’
James bunched his eyes at the corners.
‘It’s very serious, James.’
‘What d’you want me to do about it?’
‘Nothing. Look after the kids that’s all.’
‘Been doing it all my life.’
Vanner leaned his chin in his palm. ‘Wild is she your sister?’
‘I don’t think I want to talk about her.’
‘Why not? You might be able to help her.’
James sat silently then and Vanner considered his words. ‘You knew Young Young didn’t you?’ he said quietly.
James looked up at him.
‘I’m with the Drug Squad, James.’
‘Why last night then?’
‘Long story. It’s not important right now.’ He sat up straighter in the chair. ‘Young Young used to come over to your house didn’t he? Sometimes he slept with your sister.’
James looked at the floor.
‘And Stepper-Nap. The big fat one who drives the Mercedes.’
James looked at him then. ‘I hated them,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what she’s doing with them.’
‘I’ll tell you what she was doing with them, James.’ Vanner’s voice was sharper. ‘She was running drugs for them. How many times has she crossed the water lately. Two, three times? What did she tell you—visiting your mother?’ He paused then. ‘Why don’t you ring your mother, James—ask her when last she saw Eilish?’
James gaze clawed at the carpet around Vanner’s feet. ‘I don’t need to,’ he said. ‘Besides, she’s not on the phone.’
‘Convenient.’
James did not reply.
‘You know what Stepper-Nap is don’t you, James? He’s a crack dealer. He sells misery for a fat profit and kids on the street look up to him.’
‘I told you. I hate the fat bastard. Eilish should never’ve hooked up with him.’
‘I’d like to get him off the street, James. I thought Eilish might help me but she won’t.’
James chewed the end of his finger.
Vanner sat back again. ‘Tell me about Mary-Anne Forbes.’
‘Don’t really know her.’
‘Eilish does.’
James shrugged.
‘Mary-Anne did time in Northern Ireland, James. Terrorist activities. Did you know that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And she’s a good friend of your sister.’
‘They know each other that’s all.’
Vanner laughed. ‘Come on, James. Eilish was allowed one phonecall from custody. She called Mary-Anne. She wanted Mary-Anne to get her a lawyer. How d’you think that looks?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Course you do. You’re not stupid, James. It looks bad. I mean it looks really bad.’
‘Why’re you telling me all this?’ James’s voice had risen a fraction. He looked Vanner in the eye now.
‘Tell me something, James. When Eilish went across the water, not just now, in the past. Did she ever bring anything back?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. A bag maybe—box or something?’
James shrugged.
Vanner sat back again. ‘Tell me something else, James. When did you last see your mother?’
‘Ages ago.’
‘When exactly?’
‘July’
‘Last year?’
James shook his head, watching Vanner carefully. ‘The year before.’
‘1994.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was Eilish with you?’
‘We all went.’
Vanner stood up. ‘Thank you, James. By the way, it’s okay to go home.’
James nodded.
‘And look after the children.’
‘I always do.’
Back at Paddington Vanner sought out Webb and Westbrook. Eilish’s legal representation had arrived and was talking with her in the interview room.
‘I spoke to the brother,’ Vanner said.
‘When?’ Westbrook looked across the desk at him.
‘Just now. I told him he could go home soon.’
‘He can go now. We’ve got everything there is to get.’ Vanner nodded. ‘July 1994,’ he said. ‘Eilish was in Eire visiting her mother. She lives just across the border.’
Webb and Westbrook resumed their interview with Eilish. The lawyer was a woman in her late twenties, black two-piece suit over a white high-collared blouse. Webb smiled at her.
‘You’re a solicitor are you?’
‘Yes.’ Irish accent. Webb smiled again.
‘I mean a real one.’
The woman frowned.
‘What he means is,’ Westbrook cut in, ‘are you a solicitor or a solicitor’s clerk?’
The woman coloured. Eilish cast a glance in her direction.
‘Well?’ Webbwenton.
‘I’m a legal executive.’
‘Not a solicitor then?’
Again she coloured.
‘A clerk,’ Webb said, nodding to himself.
‘Legal executive. I’m empowered to do this, officer.’
‘Fine.’ Webb smiled again. ‘But you’re not technically a solicitor.’
The woman tapped the end of her pen on the desk. ‘Not technically. No. But I can do this. I do it all the time.’
‘You’re fully conversant with The Prevention of Terrorism Act,’ Westbrook said.
‘Yes.’
Webb smiled. ‘Just so long as we all know.’ He looked at Eilish. ‘How often d’you dye your hair?’
‘I do
n’t.’
‘No?’ Webb looked at Westbrook. ‘Then why is there black hair dye in your bathroom?’ He lifted the plastic bag in front of him. ‘We found it, Eilish. Raven-black. Nice colour. Must look good with your skin. Sort of Morticea style.’
‘That’s ancient. I haven’t used it in years.’ Eilish looked at the box. ‘See for yourself. I bought it years ago.’
‘Like to change your hair colour do you?’ Westbrook said. ‘Different look, different style.’
‘I told you. I haven’t used it in years. I think I bought it for a party about three years ago.’
‘Witch were you?’ Webb said.
The legal executive looked sourly at him. ‘Cheap joke, sergeant.’
Webb rocked back on the legs of the chair. ‘How come we found a 9mm Uzi in your coal bunker?’ he said.
Eilish stared at him.
‘Not well hidden but hidden.’
Eilish said nothing.
‘Yours is it?’
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘Funny thing is,’ Westbrook cut in, ‘we didn’t find the Tokarev.’
Again Eilish said nothing.
‘What did you do with it?’
‘I don’t even know what it is.’
‘Yes you do, Eilish,’ Westbrook voice was quieter. ‘You used it to kill Jessica Turner. Why did you do that? And why the dummy? Bit theatrical wasn’t it?’
Eilish opened her mouth, closed it again and shook her head. She looked sideways at her solicitor. ‘I don’t know what he’s on about.’
‘Jessica Turner, Eilish. February 12th of this year. Sunday night, very cold. On the Friday you followed her down to the New Forest and laid a dummy out in the road. Then you got in the back of her car and you would have killed her there if another car hadn’t followed you.’
Eilish stared at him. ‘You’re making this up aren’t you? Belfast all over again.’
‘Belfast?’
‘Yeah. Fucking candlewax.’
Westbrook made a face. ‘Why her and not her lover? It was him you really wanted.’
‘You’re talking shit.’
‘Ray Kinane, Eilish. Jessica Turner’s lover. Ex RUC Ray Kinane. Special Branch. He was there when Tommy jumped the roadblock.’
Eilish stared at him now, lips thin in her face. ‘Tommy didn’t jump any roadblock. He was shitfaced. He was on his way home to his wife. He was shot dead just for being there.’
‘Is that how you see it?’ Webb said. ‘Is that what this is all about? Why twelve years though? Why did you wait so long? Did you need Mary-Anne to help you—is that it?’