The Psalm Killer

by Chris Petit

  She was surprised to find Cross up and dressed.

  ‘Are you better, sir?’ she found herself asking inanely.

  ‘They let me down to the canteen, which is enough to stop anyone getting better.’

  She laughed politely. At least he looked in reasonable spirits.

  ‘Were the police still downstairs when you arrived? Great drama.’

  ‘No. What happened?’

  ‘There was a big theft of drugs from the dispensary.’ He looked distracted.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes, fine. Can you check for me if anyone knows who did it.’ He seemed to lose his thread. ‘Moffat came to see me the other day. Yesterday, I think.’

  ‘Moffat!’

  ‘Oh, all very polite. He can be quite pleasant when he wants, but he was here to gloat. He told me there wasn’t another murder on that Friday.’

  ‘But there was!’

  Cross looked at her uncertainly. ‘What?’

  Westerby told him what she had discovered.

  ‘Did you tell Moffat?’

  ‘No, sir. Moffat tore me off such a strip the last time. He’s convinced the killings are unrelated, so I thought I’d wait and tell you when you were better.’

  Cross thought for a long time.

  ‘All right, let’s play it Moffat’s way. Forget about the killings being linked.’

  Westerby was disappointed by Cross’s capitulation. Then she saw him smile.

  ‘We carry on looking for Breen’s killer,’ he said. ‘We can do that. And when we have Breen’s killer we have the Psalm Killer.’

  Westerby grinned back at him.

  ‘When do they let you out?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Cross.

  Westerby was alone in the main office apart from some reservists who had been drafted in. Everyone else was taken up with the Orange Parades.

  Telephones rang endlessly and the only way they could answer half of them was by ignoring the rest. She snatched up the receiver and was about to hang up, thinking no one was there, when she heard a clearing of the throat at the other end.

  ‘This is Seamus McGinley calling from Galway.’

  Westerby tried to place the name.

  ‘I’m in Galway,’ he repeated. ‘And it’s about Mary Elam that I’m calling.’

  She remembered now: Mary’s last boyfriend, the one who had gone off and never sent for her.

  He was in a call box, he said, and wanted her to call back, which she did. Then he said he would only talk to a senior officer. She told him that none was available.

  ‘I’m working on Mary’s case,’ she said. ‘You can talk to me now or I can get another officer to call you back later.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone calling at home.’

  McGinley sounded difficult.

  ‘Is there something you want to say about Mary?’

  ‘Do you have any news of the man that killed Mary?’ he eventually said.

  She replied that they were no closer to finding him, but she very much wanted to hear what he had to say. She hoped she sounded sincere.

  McGinley started to speak then stuttered to a halt. He was clearly unused to the telephone and probably feeling doubly awkward because he’d rather be talking to a man. Westerby decided that any attempt to break down his hesitancy would sound like cajoling so she counted a silent thirty, praying he wouldn’t hang up.

  ‘Well, it’s like it’s to do with Mary, I think, but I can’t be sure,’ he finally managed. ‘You see, I left because I was told to.’

  ‘Told to?’ queried Westerby, fearing she had a nutter on her hands.

  McGinley went on slowly. ‘This man told me to clear out. A Brit.’

  ‘A Brit?’

  ‘That’s what I just said.’ McGinley sounded defensive.

  ‘What did he look like?’ she prompted.

  ‘He had film star hair, and blue eyes, not tall.’

  They embarked on a fruitless game of name the film star: fair, acted in Westerns. Robert Redford was the only one she could think of, but it wasn’t him.

  ‘Was he thin? Or fat?’

  ‘Thin, I’d say, definitely thin.’

  McGinley was hopeless on description, so Westerby, rather than lose him, changed tack.

  ‘Tell me what happened when you met this man.’

  McGinley laboriously explained how he had been approached and told that he was on a loyalist death list. He still sounded bewildered by the incident.

  ‘I’m just a carpenter.’

  She wondered why he had waited so long to make this call.

  ‘Has anything happened to make you telephone now?’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Have you seen this man again?’

  There was a silence at the other end. Whether it was suspicion or stupidity that prompted it she couldn’t tell.

  ‘The man who told you this, did he tell you to go away?’

  ‘He did, so he did. He even came to the house. And now I can’t get it out of my head he had something to do with Mary’s death.’

  ‘This is important. We need to meet so you can tell me what this man looked like. Your description is the only one we have.’

  She listened to the dead line and cursed loudly and fluently enough for a couple of reservists to look up.

  McGinley, it turned out, was no longer in Galway as he’d said. His employer, whom Westerby had spoken to when initially clearing him of Mary Elam’s murder, thought he’d moved down to Cork.

  Westerby traced the woman McGinley had set up house with in Galway and gathered from her that he was up to his usual tricks. He had moved on, promising to send for her and the children. She had no number for McGinley. He was, he said, in difficult lodgings and always called her. She added that the idea of Seamus McGinley in difficult anything was a joke.

  The woman thought that he had gone south. That’s what he’d told her. But the number he’d given Westerby to call her back on turned out to be in Leitrim, up near the border.

  She wondered why McGinley had bothered to call. A delayed guilty conscience, perhaps, over Mary Elam. Making some gesture in her direction might have been a way of distracting himself from the unpleasant business of dumping her successor.

  She didn’t think they’d be hearing from McGinley again. He probably believed that he had discharged his responsibility with that phone call. But Westerby was curious enough about McGinley’s motive to call Mary’s sister Josephine who told her that McGinley’s leaving had coincided with the holiday season. He’d left more or less a year ago to the day.

  Cross came out of hospital, collected by Deidre and the children, who were sweet and considerate, fussing over him. Deidre made a special effort and Cross wondered if the dramatic intervention of the beating had made her see sense and re-evaluate things. She invited him back into their bed, saying that it was silly to continue sleeping apart.

  Most of the time he wasn’t sure what he felt. The pills he was taking meant that the days drifted by emptily. Whatever he took at night punched him out until he emerged groggily and the day pills kicked in for the cycle to begin again. He decided to stop taking them.

  He was supposed to rest but found himself drifting back to work. The bruising was still there and Cross countered it with a pair of dark glasses that probably resulted in him being stared at all the more.

  Deidre, laughing for the first time in weeks, said, ‘Darling, you look like a drummer in a third-rate jazz band.’

  ‘A third-rate drummer or a third-rate jazz band?’

  She kissed him and added, ’I could quite go for you, but at least let me buy you a decent pair of glasses.’

  Was this the start of the thaw? Cross wondered.

  In bed they stroked each other but nothing happened. Cross didn’t know if that was all she wanted. His own body failed to respond and both of them feigned tiredness.

  ‘When you’re better,’ said Deidre, still considerate.

  43


  ‘I’M not the man’s nanny,’ said McCausland. ‘I don’t know what Stevens and Warren were up to. Stevens told me nothing.’

  Cross asked where Stevens was now.

  ‘He’s in the Republic.’

  They were sitting in McCausland’s office. The bright weather outside seemed quite unconnected with the sunless cool of the room. Cross watched the crowds in their summer clothes drifting below. The shops were full. Belfast centre was starting to look almost normal. He remembered McIlvenna in vice once saying that shopping was the one thing that would unite Northern Ireland. ‘We’re great shoppers,’ he’d said.

  ‘I need to speak to Stevens,’ Cross said.

  McCausland appeared not to be listening. He seemed more interested in opening his mail.

  ‘You can’t,’ he eventually said. ‘Unless he phones us. He’s on leave.’

  Stevens had left ten days earlier, while Cross was in hospital. He wondered if it was Stevens who had found him on the wasteland. Whoever had called the police had left no name.

  According to personnel – whom Cross rang on McCausland’s phone just to irritate the man – Stevens wasn’t due back until the following Monday and had only given twenty-four hours’ notice before leaving. McCausland said he didn’t think this unusual. Stevens had probably hit a quiet patch.

  Cross snorted. Quiet patch! The annual holiday season was traditionally one of the most volatile times of the year. It was when the Protestants celebrated the anniversary of their ascendancy over Roman Catholicism.

  Cross was about to get up and leave but was suddenly so tired that he didn’t have the energy. He sat watching McCausland ignoring him, sifting through the waiting pile of letters. McCausland looked up, surprised that Cross was still there.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about the attack on you, Inspector. Have they got the fellows that did it?’

  His question was clearly a dismissal. Cross struggled up and left without bothering to answer.

  The identity of his attackers vexed him. Someone didn’t want him digging too deep into Warren’s story and raking up the past. He thought the loyalists were probably behind it. It had also occurred to him that Stevens had been bought off and had set him up. Also, they knew where he lived.

  After coming out of hospital he had taken the precaution of removing his father-in-law’s service revolver from the trunk where it had been kept since he’d been given the thing. Cross’s own gun had vanished with his attackers. It was part of standard issue to detectives working in Northern Ireland and he dreaded the endless paperwork that would face him back at work to account for its disappearance. Until that was done he would not be issued with another. He had not realized until then how much he had taken the weapon for granted even though he was lazy about carrying it with him much of the time.

  The old revolver was heavy and cumbersome and until then he’d had no use for it and had only taken it on Gub O’Neill’s insistence that he have it in the house for Deidre’s sake. Deidre had been taught to fire the thing – potting at old cans as a teenager – and, although she disapproved of guns, part of her accepted it comfortably as a family heirloom. Cross wondered if his father-in-law had a licence for it. Probably not; he was remarkably casual about such things.

  ‘You never know who might come to the door while you’re out,’ he’d said. ‘And you should have something extra to protect the family, just in case.’

  Cross was about to take the lift when he heard his name called. It was McCausland again, suddenly keen.

  ‘Inspector, what do you make of this?’

  He showed Cross a letter. It was properly typed on notepaper and addressed to the news editor.

  ‘Dear sir,’ he read. ‘Why has no one connected up the recent spate of killings in this city? Roman Catholics are being systimatically murdered. The two Marys for a start. Seven times Seven and a Plague on your House. Yours faithfully (not loyally), A Friend.’

  Cross read the letter twice, noting the typing slip, his scalp pricking when he came to the numerical references: seven again.

  ‘You must get a lot of this stuff,’ said Cross.

  ‘Yes, but they’re usually written in maniac’s ink. You can spot the nutters a mile off.’

  ‘Is this the first one like this you’ve had?’

  McCausland said it was.

  Cross took the letter, copied it and passed on the original to Moffat, with some glee as it was the first support he’d found for the theory of linked killings.

  Moffat read the letter coolly, giving nothing away.

  ‘Mmm, interesting,’ he said. ‘Maybe I owe you an apology. I’ll deal with this straight away.’ He looked up and gave a watery smile. His concessions were even harder to take than his usual objections, Cross decided. The thought of proving Moffat wrong was one thing that was helping him mend.

  Cross wondered if Blair was being asked to act as a messenger. The call came several hours after Cross had passed on the McCausland letter. Blair was affable, ostensibly enquiring after Cross’s health.

  ‘Good to have you back, skip.’

  The call resulted in a drink that evening, suggested by Blair. Cross had forgotten about drink. He’d not had one since being in hospital and his last cigarette had been the one he’d smoked at the scene of Mary Ryan’s murder. Cured of the weed: that was something. He did not miss it.

  He sipped soda water while Blair sank a couple of pints. In among the chat, Blair delivered what Cross presumed was Moffat’s message. It was not a time to go rocking the boat. In spite of his earlier resolve, Cross wondered if he shouldn’t heed the warning. Blair was probably right. He would gain nothing from sticking his neck out.

  Cross drained his glass. He wanted to go but Blair hadn’t finished. Blair would presumably report to Moffat that he was a lame duck. So much for his resolution of revenge.

  ‘By the way, I’d advise against spending too much time with McMahon,’ Blair said.

  ‘He was a useful contact,’ replied Cross with more assurance than he felt.

  Blair downed the last of his drink and said, ‘The man’s a viper.’

  Cross wondered how Blair knew about him and McMahon. Sometimes he had the impression that they all knew.

  Talk of the devil. McMahon called just after Cross had got to his office the following morning. There was no introduction, just his soft voice saying, ‘Do you know who this is?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cross.

  ‘Then can you tell me who, in so many words?’

  ‘You’re the man with the bonny daughter.’

  McMahon said he wanted to meet. After Blair’s warning, Cross was reluctant.

  ‘Why can’t we talk now?’

  ‘I don’t like to talk on the phone.’

  Of course not. Stupid. Cross remembered his medical check that afternoon and told McMahon he could be in the hospital canteen afterwards. Then, thinking of the prying eyes that might be there, he said he would meet him in Maureen’s room instead.

  ‘I heard you were up there yourself recently,’ said McMahon. Again Cross was left with the feeling that everybody knew.

  The doctor who did his check-up told him to take a holiday. ‘The head mends slower than the body.’

  ‘When did you last take one?’ asked Cross.

  ‘Years ago, so I know what I’m talking about.’

  She was still young, perhaps not even thirty. In spite of her competent and reassuring air, Cross could see the fatigue eating at her. Another one locked in Belfast’s vice.

  McMahon was waiting, sitting as Cross first remembered him, staring intently at his daughter. There were fresh flowers in a vase and sunlight slanted into the room. McMahon was a pocket of agitation in the stillness. There had been no sign of his bodyguard, though his chair was outside.

  McMahon surprised Cross by standing and shaking his hand.

  ‘Clean bill of health?’

  ‘I was told to take a holiday.’

  ‘That’s something we could all do with. I used to go
to Belleek myself when I was a boy. Are you one for mucking about on boats?’

  ‘I was warned about talking to you,’ said Cross.

  McMahon’s expression darkened. ‘Well, tell whoever gave you the warning that I have a warning for him. Feelings are running high in the nationalist community. Word’s going round that several of the recent killings we’ve discussed are the work of loyalists. Innocent victims, we’re talking about. And from what I hear, the constabulary is doing nothing, maybe even condoning them.’

  Cross wondered about the different degrees of innocence when applied to the word victim, and how they could be twisted to suit the speaker.

  McMahon seemed to read Cross’s thoughts.

  ‘This war has its own rules. Quite often not very nice rules but rules nevertheless, not spelled out but clear enough.’

  He went on to say that the Provisional IRA was not prepared to tolerate a return to the random brutality of earlier years, with innocent Catholics being picked off by loyalist killers.

  ‘Do you think it’s that?’ asked Cross.

  ‘I think you yourself once voiced the same suspicion.’

  ‘What do you know of the theft from the dispensary downstairs?’

  McMahon looked taken aback and said it was news to him. As Cross explained the extent of the theft – a whole van load of pure cocaine and heroin – McMahon shook his head in disbelief. He said he did not know who was responsible and was gravely concerned because if those drugs hit the streets there would be a war of quite a different kind.

  ‘People shooting each other for profit.’ He noted Cross’s scepticism. ‘You may despise us, Inspector, but we’ve kept out the gangsters.’

  ‘I thought you were the gangsters.’ He couldn’t resist the dig.

  ‘The pushers and the pimps, I mean. The scum.’

  ‘Maybe you should look around, Mr McMahon. The rules might be changing behind your back.’

  McMahon nodded curtly and said, ‘In the meantime, tell your people that unless some positive action is taken about these killings the Provisional IRA will step up its campaign against the RUC.’