by Jeff Gulvin
Ray Kinane’s story of the dummy, shirt and tie and no jacket, lying in the road with rain falling all over it. Jessica must have given him a very graphic description. The dummy had never been found. James McCauley in the back. Who else had access to Eilish’s wardrobe? Who could have got the sweater except perhaps Mary-Anne Forbes who had been active with Quinlon in the eighties. But Mary-Anne Forbes was alibi’d, spotted in Belfast the night of the shooting. He thought of Tim Phelan, broken into pieces in a chair amid the silence of his Yorkshire village. Why Jessica and not Kinane?
He took his coffee through to the lounge and sipped at it. Cold already. He thought about making a fresh one. Instead he poured himself a shot of Bushmills and swallowed hard before pouring another. The darkness of the street pressed against the uncurtained window. When he looked sideways he could see his face in it. He lit another cigarette, smoked half and crushed it in the ashtray. He thought of Eilish in the cell and her children with the priest, wondering what on earth had become of them. Checking the phone book, he found the number and dialled. The priest answered and Vanner asked him if James had been in touch. The priest said that he hadn’t. Vanner asked him if there was anywhere else he might be. The priest said he didn’t know. Westbrook had set up an OP at Mary-Anne Forbes’s place in Hammersmith but so far they had seen no-one.
He looked at the telephone, wondering again whether he should phone Ellie a second time. He wanted to, but what was the point. Her distance of late, too much too soon. Three months of intensity and then maybe reality settling in. Guns, why had she started asking about guns?
He picked up the telephone and rang her. Again the answer machine. ‘Elle, it’s me. Pick up the phone if you’re there.’
Nothing.
‘Ellie. I mean it. Pick up the phone. It’s important.’
Nothing.
Getting his coat he went out.
She did not answer her door. Fear and frustration rose in his chest. He rang again and still she did not answer. Friends, he thought. Who were her friends? The other nurse, the one who had patched him up that time. Valesca. He rang Sid Ryan at home.
‘Sid, it’s Vanner.’
‘Hello, Guv. Cracked it yet?’
‘What?’
‘My AMIP deal.’
‘I’m not in the mood, Sid.’
‘No. Neither am I.’
‘Listen, Ellie’s mate—Valesca.’
‘The other nurse?’
‘That’s right. You don’t have her number do you?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘I’m a married man, Guv.’
‘When it suits you.’
‘What’s the panic?’
‘Oh, nothing. I can’t get hold of Ellie that’s all. I just thought you might know.’
‘Dumped you has she, Guv. Not before time.’
‘Not funny, Sid.’ Vanner switched off the phone.
As he drove off a woman watched from a car across the road. She had painted nails and long black hair. Her make-up was a touch too heavy.
Vanner lay awake most of the night, thinking about his father. He thought of Jane again and some of the old pain revisited him. In the morning he tried ringing Ellie again and got the answer machine. He did not leave a message.
Westbrook and Webb were waiting for him at the Hendon incident room. They had been briefing Morrison and Weir. Ryan was there looking sullen. Vanner walked in and Westbrook nodded to him.
‘How long can you hold Eilish McCauley?’ Morrison was asking.
‘Seven days. Fourteen if we have to.’
Morrison nodded. ‘She obviously hasn’t seen a set of the pictures.’
‘Obviously,’ Vanner said without looking at him.
Webb took him to one side. ‘You okay, Guv’nor? You look knackered.’
‘I am. No sleep last night.’
‘James McCauley,’ Webb said. ‘We’ve had word on him.’
‘Already.’
‘Snouts who remember Quinlon are wound up, Guv’nor.’
‘Good—your information is it?’
‘What do you think? We’ll talk back at the Yard.’
Vanner sat at Ryan’s desk and picked up the phone. He dialled the nurse’s station at the hospital and breathed a silent sigh of relief when Ellie’s voice answered.
‘Ellie, it’s me.’
‘Hello you.’
‘You stayed away last night.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I just needed my own place.’
‘I know. It’s all right. I was worried about you that’s all. I called you but you were out.’
‘Drinks with the girls. Blow the cobwebs out. I’ve let myself go stale.’
‘You don’t drink, Elle.’
‘Coke.’
‘Right.’ He paused, lost for what to say. ‘You coming home tonight?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Okay. Whatever. I need to talk to you though.’
‘What about?’
‘Not on the phone.’
‘Tomorrow? I’m going out again tonight.’
Vanner sucked breath silently. ‘Fine. You’ll come round?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘Okay’
‘Elle.’
‘What?’
‘I …’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. See you tomorrow.’
‘What were you going to say?’
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’ He put down the phone.
Nineteen
EILISH SAT IN HER CELL at Paddington Green police station and thought about her children. No word, nothing from anybody to tell her that they were all right. She stared at the wall, hating Vanner for his lies in Belfast and hating Stepper-Nap for setting her up like he did. All at once she thought of her mother and a loneliness that she had not known before descended like a weight inside her.
She got up from the bench that served as her bed, trying to work out exactly how long she had been in this sterile, lifeless place where time had no meaning and meals were pushed through a crack in the door. Apart from Vanner, she had no idea who the men were who interviewed her. Nameless faces from across the table. Thoughts of the children plagued her. What would she do without them? Thirty long years stared her in the face and there was nothing she could do about it. The only person alive who could help her was the leader of a crack gang who had threatened to skin her alive.
Her mind wandered and she began to think back to how she had got herself into this mess in the first place. Fun originally, a life other than that which she had known, when all there was was James with his sombre face, tugging at her emotions like a son she had never borne. And then Stepper and Young Young and the countless others. She could not even look her children in the eye and tell them who their fathers were.
Lying down again she closed her eyes and a night long past, now resurrected in a terrifying way, lifted once more in her head.
Tommy reaching for his underpants, naked until that moment with her watching him and her brother watching him too. He pulled them on, trembling slightly, unsteady still on his feet. Eilish stood with her arms folded and watched him.
‘Get him his trousers, Jamie.’
James did not move. He stared at her, something like hatred standing out in his eyes.
‘You know he can’t stay here,’ she said.
James picked up the trousers, held them a moment then passed them to Tommy. He took them without speaking, thrust one foot in and almost fell. He shook his head and laughed. ‘You can’t send me out now, Eilish. I can hardly stand never mind ride my bike.’
‘You can’t stay’
He shook his head at her then buckled his trousers and reached for his shirt, tie still held in place by the button-down collar. He pulled the shirt over his head and stuffed it into his belt.
‘Gi’s my boots, Jamie.’
James passed them to him as he sat in
the chair and he worked his feet into them. Then he sat with his hands resting on his thighs and looked up at Eilish.
‘Don’t, Tommy,’ she said. ‘I’ll lose the flat. You know I will. Ride on over to Danny’s.’
‘It’s pissing wi’ rain. How’m I gonna make it to Danny’s?’
‘You drank the beer. Nobody forced it down your neck.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Eilish.’ James looked imploringly at her.
She rounded on him then. ‘Go to bed, Jamie. And keep your mouth shut. This is nothing to do with you.’
‘But, Eilish.’
‘If you want a place to live—go to bed now.’ She fisted one hand on her hip as if daring him to defy her. He looked at Tommy who winked.
‘On you go, son. Don’t worry about me.’
For a moment James stood where he was, then he turned and went back to his bedroom.
Tommy looked up at Eilish from where he still sat in the chair. ‘Tell you what, lass,’ he said. ‘You make me leave now and I won’t be coming back.’
Eilish trembled slightly. ‘That’s up to you, Tom. But you know I’m right about the flat.’
‘I know you’re a bitch is what I know.’ He stood up then and faced her. She flared her nostrils at him, standing her ground. He took one step towards her, features stiff all at once, a coldness in the flat of his eyes.
‘Get out,’ she said. ‘Get out of here now.’
Still he stood there, hands loose at his sides. For a moment she thought he was going to hit her, but all he did was lift a palm to his face and rub the line of his jaw. She called to him as he opened the front door. ‘Your jacket.’
‘You wear it.’ The door slammed and she heard him crashing down the stairs. She closed her eyes then, hating herself and fearing the noise and Mrs McAvoy’s mouth in the morning.
Rain washed the glass as she peered out of the window. Tommy was beside his motorbike, trying to get the kick start, down. He sat astride it, shirt plastered against his flesh, hair thick and black like oil over his head. He kicked the starter over and the bike coughed but did not respond. He tried again and again and still nothing. Then he got off, lost his balance and watched as the bike crashed into the grass on its side. Lifting his head to the window he stared at Eilish before lurching off down the street. Far in the distance she could see the pale wash of headlamps.
She was sitting in the armchair he had just vacated when James came back through from his bedroom. She could still smell him, cigarettes and alcohol and the sweetness of sweat after love. She closed her eyes, opened them again and looked at her brother. He was fully clothed, accusation large in his eyes.
‘Go to bed, Jamie. He’s a big boy.’
‘You shouldn’t have sent him away, Eilish. Where’s he going to go?’
‘He’s got a wife hasn’t he?’
‘Not any more. You took him away from her.’
Again she closed her eyes. ‘Shut up, Jamie. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He turned for the door. She opened her eyes again. ‘Where you going?’
‘After him. I’m not staying here with you.’
Eilish stared at him then. ‘You little shit,’ she said. ‘Tell me something, Jamie. When you play with yourself while we’re screwing—is it me you’re watching or him?’
James dropped his gaze, a redness on his face like a rash creasing the skin. For a moment she thought he would cry, then he turned and stalked into the hall.
‘James.’
The door slammed shut for the second time in as many minutes.
She sat up on the bunk and looked at the wall of her cell, eyes wide now, staring at a dirty mark on the paint. Much later, when he came back in floods of tears he had told her what happened.
James ran through the rain, away from the flat, away from the pub, to the end of the village and then down the road to the ford where the army set up roadblocks. He ran hard, feet slapping through puddles broken up with rain. He could not see Tommy. He was that drunk he could not have got very far. Halfway down the hill he thought he heard a shout and he paused, straining his ear to the wind. A second shout, definite this time. He looked back up the road suddenly very unsure of himself. He looked back down the hill and as he did so three shots rang out in quick succession. He had heard gunfire before. He knew what it sounded like. And then he was running, blind panic, and as he rounded the bend before the ford he saw headlights and dark figures moving. He shrank into the bushes that bordered the tarmac.
He was barely a few yards away when he saw two men with torches move across the brimming ford to a figure lying in the road. James stifled a cry. It was all he could do to keep it in his chest. Torchlight and a body, lying askew with one arm hunched underneath him and the other splayed out like a half a crucifix. He could see the massed black of his hair.
Eilish got up from the bench and banged on the door. ‘Open this up,’ she cried. ‘I’ve got things I want to say.’
Webb and Westbrook went down to the interview room. Her legal counsel was not there yet but all of a sudden she wanted to talk. Vanner sat behind the security mirror and watched her sitting in the room before Webb and Westbrook arrived. She was hunched, dwarfish and lost in the chair, one knee to her chest, both her arms wrapped around it. The WPC stood against the door with her arms folded.
Webb and Westbrook came in and Eilish almost jumped at the sound. She looked round, glancing between their faces in quick succession.
‘Cigarettes,’ she said. ‘Have you got any cigarettes?’
Webb looked down at her. ‘We don’t smoke.’
‘Somebody must have some. Get me some will you.’
A moment later Webb stuck his head round Vanner’s door. ‘Guv’nor …’
Vanner held out his packet.
Eilish smoked, sucking hard, cheeks narrowing and then inhaling with a hiss through her teeth.
‘You don’t want to wait for your lawyer?’ Westbrook asked.
She shook her head. ‘Lot of good she did me.’ She sat forward, tapping the cigarette end on the edge of the tin-foil ashtray. ‘If I help you what’ll happen to me?’
Westbrook made a face. ‘Don’t see how you can, Eilish. We’ve got you at the scene — your pullover. Remember.’
‘I wasn’t there.’
‘So you keep saying.’
Eilish drew savagely on the cigarette and exhaled in a stiff stream of smoke. ‘My children,’ she said. ‘I can’t lose my children. They’re all I have in the world.’
‘You will lose them.’ Webb stuck his face into hers. ‘Terrorists do their time, Eilish. Every single day of it.’
She shook visibly, dropping ash over the table. ‘My brother’s gay,’ she said.
Webb looked at Westbrook. ‘That supposed to mean something to us?’
She bit her nail then, eyes on the floor as if unsure how to go on. Westbrook clasped his hands together. ‘What are you telling us, Eilish?’
‘I’m telling you I was at a party in Brighton on February 12th. I can’t verify it because I was there with a crack gang from Harlesden. I was sleeping with the leader. He’s not going to come down here and tell you himself so I’m fucked.’
Westbrook looked at her. ‘Go on,’ he said quietly.
‘James was home on his own that night. Both the girls were staying over at friends. James was home all weekend in fact.’
‘What’re you saying—your brother killed Jessica Turner?’
Eilish stopped then. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘If I tell you this you’ve got to let me go. I can’t lose my kids.’
‘You ran drugs to Northern Ireland.’
She shook her head. ‘It was candlewax. Stepper-Nap tried to stiff them.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know names. Okay, I admit I thought it was crack but it wasn’t so I can’t get done for that. Look,’ she said. ‘I’m telling you the truth. I really am.’
‘So far you’re telling us nothing.’
&nbs
p; ‘James,’ she said. ‘He used to stand outside my room and fiddle with himself when I was with men. It started with Tommy and I thought it was just him, some sort of stupid boyish crush. But he did the same with Young Young and Stepper-Nap.’ She paused and licked her lips. ‘James saw Tommy the night the police shot him. He was lying in the ford at the bottom of the hill in Brindley Cross.’
‘Quinlon was PIRA wasn’t he?’
She bit her lip and nodded. ‘He was unarmed. Pissed as a fart. Couldn’t even start his motorbike.’ She looked Westbrook in the eye. ‘They shot him down and James saw them do it. He blamed me because I wouldn’t let Tommy stay.’
‘Why not?’
She shook her head. ‘It was my ma’s flat and she had gone south and we hadn’t told the council. I was terrified the neighbours would create. Tommy was married to a good Catholic girl and I was the floozy who screwed up her life.’
She bent her head then and through the glass Vanner saw her shoulders convulse and for a moment he thought she would cry. She gathered herself though, lifted her head, lit a third cigarette and went on.
‘James was distraught. I’ve never seen him so lost. He blamed me. Tried to hide it but he couldn’t. He kept asking me what I was going to do about it. I was a nineteen-year-old girl for Christ’s sake. It was fun with Tommy, but I never had anything to do with what he did. I knew Mary-Anne but I didn’t know what she did until she was sent down in Belfast.’ She broke off, coughing suddenly.
‘James started seeing men. Stupidly, in the toilets, that kind of thing. He loved Tommy Quinlon. He watched us together. He took up with any stranger that looked at him twice after Tommy was killed. He was only fifteen for God’s sake. I couldn’t stand it so in the end we moved back to our mother’s and then we came over here.’ She looked up again then. ‘I only got the tattoo done because I felt so guilty. I did it for Jamie more than for me.’
‘You were never a member?’
She shook her head. ‘I was a good-time girl. I screwed some of them. I was good at it. James,’ she said, ‘when he was sixteen he tried to join the youth wing — Oglaidh na hEireann.’ She pinched up her face. ‘I felt so desperately sorry for him. They knew what he was like. They laughed and sent him away.’