“There was a rumour…just a rumour mind you. And before you ask, no, I can’t remember who started it, but it was definitely something.” He stopped abruptly, mouthing words to himself as if he was rehearsing them till they were right. Eventually he restarted, more certain of his facts. “Something to do with Lindsay’s son getting into trouble with the UFU. He’d double crossed them on a dope deal and then skipped over the Irish Sea with the money-”
Liam cut in. “You mean they were planning to kill the father for the son’s thieving?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Why not? The sins of the fathers have been visited on kids plenty of times, so why not vice versa?”
“But I thought you said that Lindsay’s Troubles’ rep had put him out of bounds?”
“Only with the new gang bosses. The UFU were around when this place was just a hut.”
Craig made a face. It sounded thin but they had to play it out. “What’s the son’s name?”
“Pooler. Pooler Lindsay.”
Liam shook his head. “Where do they get these monikers?”
“Beats me. Anyway, Pooler was always a bad lad, no matter how hard Rowan tried to keep him out of bother. I think he thought he had to live up to the old man’s reputation. Or down to it rather. He’d been in and out of trouble since he was twelve; I think that’s why Lindsay tried so hard to help the neighbourhood kids. If he couldn’t save his own kid he’d save them.”
Craig dragged him back to the point. “When did the son join the UFU?”
“Eighteen. They have an age minimum.”
“Very civic minded of them.” He turned to Liam. “I think it’s time to pay Dusty Wilson a visit.” He rose from his perch. “But first, Reggie here is going to show us around Lindsay’s flat.” He turned to see the Donegal man looking at the time and tutting. “You do have the keys, don’t you, Sergeant?”
The appellation made Reggie jerk upright and give Craig a rueful smile. He rummaged for the keys and then led the way from the grey one storey station into the even greyer high-rise estate.
****
The Demesne Estate was a shambles, a shambles that was frequently vilified on seventies architectural blogs, usually under the heading of ‘How not to build a community’. Its soulless, concrete block construction had created a desolate ambience; the multi-storey blocks and endless walkways peppered with graffiti and ill used syringes, mimicking an Escher-like maze that no-one could escape. As they walked Craig wondered how many assaults had happened on those walkways, while Liam remembered when bins full of rubbish had been hurled from them onto the heads of the police below. What patches of green had been planted for residents to enjoy were now dumping grounds for mattresses, prams and wheel-less bikes, their ‘no ball games’ signs altered to say something rude, their grass brown and scrub-like from years of neglect.
The people the policemen passed looked neglected as well. Baggy, unwashed track suits, hair badly dyed or unkempt and stained yellow by nicotine. It was unsurprising when people lived in such a spirit sapping environment. Why take pride in yourself if the world tells you every day that you don’t count?
The blocks were being knocked down now, to be replaced one by one with terraced streets, where neighbours would be humanised by eye contact and predators would find it harder to rule by fear. Harder but not impossible; cockroaches will always find a way to thrive.
Reggie’s announcement that they’d reached Rowan Lindsay’s block interrupted their thoughts. A five storey walk up because of the broken lift and they were standing outside a boarded and padlocked front door. The sergeant explained.
“The council boarded it up when Lindsay’s death was notified. To stop the squatters.”
When he unlocked the door and they walked down the short hallway the detectives could see why. Rowan Lindsay had transformed the small space into somewhere quite a few people would want to live. There was fitted carpet throughout in a warm shade of plum, a modern white gloss kitchen and bathroom, and a living room and bedroom straight out of a magazine. Reggie gestured them to the plush settee and sat down on the matching chair.
Craig gazed around him. “This is nicer than my place.”
Liam snorted rudely. “Anywhere’s nicer than your place.” He turned to the sergeant for support. “He’s still living like a student. And that old banger he drives would suit one as well.”
Craig ignored him. He did need some new things but he wasn’t giving Liam the pleasure of admitting it. Reggie updated them on his investigation.
“Once you told me that Lindsay’s body had been found I got the C.S.I.s in here to do a sweep.” He shook his head. “There was nothing to suggest that he was beaten or taken from here, but everything they took is at the pathology labs.”
Craig’s curiosity was piqued. “Remind me again how old Lindsay was.”
“Sixty-two.”
“Married?”
“Divorced. The ex-wife lives in Scotland.”
He gazed around him pointedly. “You’re certain that he had no lady friends?”
“You mean relationships? None as far as I’ve heard. Before Pooler legged it both sons lived across town in Ligoniel, but as far as I know they rarely visited and Lindsay didn’t go out much that I heard.”
Liam chipped in.
“Anyone visiting here regularly? From the GP or social maybe?”
Reggie thought for a moment. “Not health. Lindsay was fit and well as far as I know. But now you come to mention it there were some people from the church-”
Liam interrupted rudely. “Church? That murdering git? Since when were he and God on talking terms?”
“Since prison I heard. Lindsay saw the error of his ways and became a born again Christian. Didn’t I say? That’s why he tried so hard to keep the youngsters out of gangs.”
Liam shook his head. “I’ve heard it all now. If a scrote like Lindsay can repent then there’s hope for all of -”
Craig interrupted the morality tale. “My bet is there was a woman in his life. This place is far too designer for most blokes. Tell me about this church, Reggie. Is it nearby? Any idea of the visitors’ names?”
“The church is on Barnetts Road. The only visitors were the vicar, the Reverend McConville, and some lay worker whose first name was Hazel. But there was no sign that she and Lindsay were in a-”
Craig was sceptical. “We’ll see. Forensics?”
“The C.S.I.s went to print them both for elimination, as they’d visited here. They got the woman’s but they’re still trying to catch up with the priest.”
“Have you ever met this Hazel?”
“Aye. Nice enough sort. A bit mousey for my taste, but pleasant.” He saw Liam’s impending quip and headed it off. “I prefer glamourous blondes.”
The quip took a detour. “So does the boss.”
Craig’s response was a raised eyebrow. Reggie continued speaking.
“I really don’t think there was anything going on between her and Lindsay. She wore a wedding ring.”
“She could be widowed.” Craig sprang up from the settee. “Anyway, we’ll soon find out. Liam, give Des a call and get this Hazel’s full name, and ask him where forensics are with the sweep of this place. Then phone Nicky and tell her to bring the briefing forward to one o’clock; we need to get some order into this case.” He waved Reggie towards the door. “While he does that, tell me if there’s anyone else here we should be speaking to. Any enemies Lindsay had, or friends?”
Reggie shook his head. “His only friends would be the kids he helped and they’ll only tell you what I did. Enemies…” He thought for a moment. “Nope, the only bunch I can think who might’ve wanted him dead was the UFU, on account of the son.”
“Fine. What about the other son? What’s his name?”
“Lynton.” Rowan Lindsay had liked unusual names. “He’s married with kids, living up in Ligoniel like I said.”
“Up to anything naughty?”
Reggie made a face. “Not paramilitary i
f that’s what you mean, but he’s in a flute band and they’ve been in trouble a few times for misbehaving on parades.”
Craig puffed out his cheeks. They’d been remarkably lucky in their cases over the previous few years; they’d never crossed swords directly with any of the churches, Orange or Green Orders, or any of the marching bands that accompanied them on the thousands of parades they held between them each year. He had no desire to change that; the last thing they needed was to enter the minefield that constituted Northern Ireland’s political and cultural landscape.
“Well, hopefully it’s got nothing to do with our case. I could do without the media running amok.”
Reggie snorted just as Liam joined them.
“I hope that snort wasn’t about me.”
“I was snorting at your boss’ naïve hope that a case where paramilitaries have been killed isn’t going to start a feeding frenzy with the press, and set thon ones up at Stormont chasing their tails.”
“Ach, politicians are always chasing their tails. You know why?”
Craig rolled his eyes. “It’s bound to be rude, so don’t bother.”
He was overruled by Liam performing a mime that said it all.
****
Helen Connolly stared hard at her husband, wondering how much he knew of the events of the evening before. She decided to find out.
“Roger. What kept you so long at the supermarket last night?”
His eyes lit up. “They had a wine tasting. The reds of Burgundy. Very generous they were too; large glasses and they gave us cheese as well.”
Very large glasses judging by his amorous mood when he’d got home.
She muttered “very nice, dear” then her mind shifted to other things. She’d emailed the Victims’ League’s members and had the secretariat phone them individually, so as near as she could tell they would reconvene on Monday, ostensibly for a special strategy day. It was the best excuse she could think of at such short notice; they certainly wouldn’t have time to get any victims’ representatives to attend, except for Ivor and he would make himself available. The stage was set and she’d done what Jennifer Somerville had asked her to do, but the question was why? Somerville had been vague in her explanation.
Connolly’s mind raced with what might happen to her. Church school hadn’t equipped her to be a spy of any description, especially not one dealing with such a dangerous man. What if he killed her? Her mind flew to the insurance policies in the safe and then to an image of Roger crying by her grave. It was gratifying, in a slightly macabre way; but at least she would be missed. She wondered if they had a wall at the NCA where they put up a star for each fallen agent, like they did in the CIA, and if so would she count or just be considered a C.I.? C.I., a confidential informant, it was a term she’d learned from watching crime on TV and now she was one. Strange the twists and turns in life.
Her thoughts returned to the safe and she made up her mind to sort through its contents that night. Today would be spent shopping for microwave dinners and stocking up the freezer so that Roger wouldn’t starve, in the event that come Monday evening she didn’t return home. But first she had another call to make. It was time for Agent Somerville to tell her exactly what all this cloak and dagger was about.
****
The C.C.U. 1 p.m.
At one o’clock people were still shuffling into the squad-room but by ten past they were sitting quietly, a peace facilitated by the donuts occupying their mouths. Craig washed his down with an espresso then began.
“OK. I’m going to outline the basics and where we are with them. So far we have four dead victims. Three men and one woman. Their names and ages are – Liam, could you cover that.”
Liam swallowed a lump of dough hurriedly and washed away his coughing with some tea. Craig handed him a marker and watched as he wrote on the board.
‘Billy Hart, fifty-one; Rowan Lindsay, sixty-two; Jonno Mulvenna, sixty, and Eilish Murnaghan, sixty-four. Hart and Lindsay are ex-loyalist paramilitaries, both members of UKUF. Mulvenna and Murnaghan were both IRA.”
Craig interjected. “Some of you may remember Mulvenna from a case on the North Coast in twenty-thirteen. He was sent down in eighty-three for twenty years, on the murder of a woman called Veronica Jarvis, and got released after fifteen in nineteen ninety-eight. When we met him he was apparently reformed and intent on getting to know his son.”
Liam nodded. “Aye. He’s been out of the game for years, as was Lindsay apparently.” He squinted at the board. “In fact, they were all out as far we know.”
Craig waved him back to his seat. “OK, that’s what we need to discuss. It’s early days and we’ve a lot more to find out on all four victims but let’s take them one at a time and see where we are.” He tapped Lindsay’s name. “Rowan Lindsay. Ex UKUF, released in ninety-eight under the GFA. Apparently he found religion in prison; Liam and I will be heading to his church later, but to all intents and purposes he was a reformed man who spent his days trying to persuade the kids on the Demesne not to join gangs.”
He stopped and scanned the room for Jake.
“Jake, go and see Geoff Hamill in Gang Crime, please, and find out what he knows about the gangs on the Demesne. Any paramilitary activity at the moment and also which non-paramilitary gangs are most active in East Belfast. We think it’s the Eastern Europeans and Chinese, but check.”
Jake had been sitting with his head down but he’d glanced up when Craig called his name, to reveal a bruise that looked worse than the day before.
“That’s not healing. See a doctor please.”
It would be a pointless visit. The reason the bruise was worse was that Aaron had deliberately punched him on it again the night before. The sergeant nodded anyway.
“Will do. And I’ll phone you with whatever D.C.I. Hamill says.”
“OK, good. Lindsay also has two sons, one of whom, Pooler, got in trouble with the UFU over drugs and skipped to Scotland, and the other, Lynton, who’s been in bother with his flute band. Liam and I will follow up those angles, but Davy and Ash, I need you to dig up what you can on background for both.” He took a quick swig of espresso. “By the way, anything else on the car yet?”
Davy half-nodded, instinctively raising a hand to push away the hair he no longer had. “Annette’s witness remembered that it was navy so Ash is chasing that now. It s…should narrow the field a bit. Also, forensics have come back and said the cigarette butt definitely belonged to Billy Hart but there were no other prints, which backs up the theory of the wearing gloves.” He peered at his screen for a moment before shaking his head. “Nope, nothing else so far.”
Craig turned to Annette, to see her picking lethargically at her donut instead of eating it. “Sorry, Annette; if your witness saw the back of a hand, it was through a plastic glove. Davy’s got your witness sketches, so he’ll follow up on those.”
She interrupted. “The sketch of Hart is pretty good but the other could be anyone.”
Craig sighed. Getting an image of their killer would have been too good to be true. “OK, I’d like you to focus on Mulvenna now, as you were in Portstewart with us in twenty-thirteen. Take Ken with you, please.”
She went to nod but was too tired, so instead she gave him a weak smile. Craig turned back to the board to hide his concern and tapped at the next name on their list. Billy Hart.
“OK, Liam, you and Carmen bring us up to speed, please.”
As Liam summarised Hart’s trip to see his children and his subsequent detour to the pub, Craig poured himself a fresh coffee, eschewing another donut in favour of a Rich Tea. By the time he’d finished it Carmen was adding that she’d interviewed the woman Hart had met at the Red Roof Saloon but had drawn a blank. All she’d known was that Hart had had a few drinks with her and then he’d taken a phone call that made him leave the pub like a bat out of hell. Liam picked up the story.
“The grandparents didn’t see him again so he didn’t head back to the caravan. That means he must have gone bac
k to Belfast, maybe to meet whoever he spoke to on the phone.”
Craig gestured Carmen to rewind. “Did this Pengelly woman hear Hart’s phone conversation?”
“No. She just said he got agitated when the name flashed up, and raced outside to talk. She heard him shouting so after a while she went out to check, but he’d already taken off. Presumably to drive back here.”
“What time did he leave her?”
She glanced down at her notebook. “Ten-thirty. She remembered because the football match was just ending on TV.”
“OK, good. It would have taken him an hour to get back to Belfast, so we need to see where he went then. Davy, Ash, get onto the motorway cops for all the CCTV between Newcastle and Belfast that night, and check every camera on the Shankill Road for Lindsay as well.”
“W…Will do. I’ve already requested the CCTV near all the dump sites.”
Of course he had. He was telling him how to do his job because he was desperate for anything they could find. They were struggling to find a hook for the case; that one thing which once you’d found it, made everything else become clear. Until you had it all the evidence in the world was just a random collection of facts.
“Liam, pick it up from when you went to see McCrae.”
As Liam outlined their conversation and the subsequent raid Craig tuned out his voice and focused on their killer’s motive. Why kill paramilitaries from two different sides? What was the common denominator? Their victims? And if so was it the civilian and forces victims, or other paramilitaries? Something must tie the four deaths together; even serial killers had a rationale for what they did.
Liam was just winding up when he interrupted with a question.
“Did all four of our victims get released in nineteen-ninety-eight? Under the Good Friday?”
“Aye. You think that’s significant? Practically every murdering scrote in N.I. was released around then.”
Craig shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he thought yet. In the time he took to decide his phone rang and he glanced at it and cut it off, avoiding Liam’s eyes as he did.
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