The Psalm Killer

by Chris Petit

  Panic overtook Cross again. He didn’t dare trust Matthew’s safety to Moffat and his gang. Beyond that he had no idea other than to stall. The egomaniacal vanity of Candlestick’s design and his hunger for recognition meant there might at least be some grounds for negotiation.

  When the phone went again he had to let it ring while he brought himself under control. His heart was thumping like a bass drum.

  ‘I’m told it will take twelve hours to get the necessary clearance,’ he said. Candlestick said nothing, calling his bluff. Cross ploughed on. ‘They’re talking about putting it on the news some time tomorrow.’

  ‘Ulster or national?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s all being referred through London. There are points you’ve made which are disputed.’

  Again there was silence at the end of the line. Cross prayed that his picture of furious activity was convincing.

  ‘They’re taking issue with some of your points,’ he repeated. ‘You can imagine the panic this is causing.’

  ‘What points?’

  ‘The INLA stuff. I believe you, but we’re dealing with people who don’t know half the time what their other hand is doing.’

  ‘These terms are not negotiable.’

  ‘I told them. The disagreement is not with you. They need time to agree among themselves.’

  He felt like a man building a bridge without supports over a canyon. He wondered who else was listening in on their conversation.

  The silence went on longer than the others, undermining him. The first rule of negotiation was to make the other party talk and he was failing.

  ‘Daddy?’

  Matthew’s scared and tiny voice cut into his heart.

  ‘Matthew, are you all right?’ He couldn’t think of anything less silly to say. The boy choked back a sob.

  ‘Listen. Everything will be all right,’ Cross said. ‘Do as the man says. He’s looking after you until I come. I’m arranging everything so I can get there soon.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He wants me to do something then you’ll come home.’

  ‘I don’t want to live at Grandpa’s any more.’

  ‘You won’t. We’re going on holiday, remember, and we’ll all be together.’

  There was another silence. Cross could hear movement. The boy whimpered, then there was the sound of a door closing and he heard the flat voice again, urgent in the receiver.

  ‘He’s a nice boy, not any trouble, unlike some cunts I could name. Twelve hours. Every hour after that I cut off one of his fingers, and then I start on his toes. Are we clear about this?’

  Blood pounded in Cross’s head. He sought desperately to stamp out the idea of his son’s mutilation.

  ‘I want to hear you say you’re clear about this.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and put down the receiver.

  He tried to bring his stampeding thoughts under control. He had until noon next day and told himself not to think what might happen after that. Six hours to try to find Matthew, then he would have to call in Moffat.

  He drove to Westerby’s. Her flat was in darkness. He rang the bell. Eventually her window opened. Cross motioned her to come down and she held up her hand to say she needed time to dress.

  He waited in the car and when she joined him they didn’t touch. She looked done in. It felt like weeks rather than hours since the débâcle in the canteen. He’d suffered enough upheaval since to last a lifetime. Nothing to what Matthew must be going through.

  He told her what had happened and they drove in silence until Westerby said, ‘Try the lock-up.’

  They parked a couple of streets away and walked to the alley, which was unlit and deserted. Westerby was wearing soft shoes and whispered to Cross to wait.

  She came back shaking her head. ‘It’s padlocked from the outside.’

  ‘We haven’t a hope in hell,’ said Cross, on the brink of collapse. ‘I’ve failed the boy and I’m failing him now.’

  ‘We have to go on. There’s no one except us.’ She spoke with a surprising harshness. ‘This is no time to start feeling guilty.’

  He looked at her and saw for the first time the strain she had been under since that afternoon, and the pressure of seeing each other again.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ she said.

  He went back over the evening and showed her Candlestick’s statement. Westerby read it and said, ‘It’s consistent. But he’s under great stress.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The writing and spelling are much more erratic. With luck he’s getting careless.’

  Westerby shut her eyes and for a moment Cross thought she was falling asleep.

  ‘He’s becoming blurred,’ she said, her eyes still closed. ‘Why’s he suddenly gone off at an angle?’

  ‘Because he saw how close we were to him today?’

  ‘And he wants to punish you for it.’

  He heard her sudden sharp intake of breath.

  ‘How old is Matthew?’ she asked with great reluctance.

  Cross tried but couldn’t bring himself to say.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ she said, seeing his distress. ‘He’s skipping three. He’s broken the pattern.’

  She was silent for a long time.

  ‘I can’t stand this,’ she said. ‘I can’t stand any of it.’

  Sickly fluorescent light splashed over them as they drove down empty streets. Westerby took a deep breath and dragged her thoughts together.

  ‘He knows where you live. He knows where the children were staying. He went after Matthew because of what we did to him this afternoon. So it’s personal. Personal enough to break the pattern. Also he now wants to talk to you.’

  Until then, she explained, he had been content to talk to her, but now it was Cross he wanted.

  ‘Why? ’

  ‘Because he has your son, obviously, but it’s more complicated. You’re the one who knows more about him than anyone else. Only you can appreciate the extent of his achievement.’

  Cross permitted himself a moment of wryness. ‘Not a position I appreciate.’

  ‘He needs you,’ Westerby said. ‘You realize that.’

  ‘Needs me? What? To negotiate on his part?’

  ‘Think where he started.’

  Cross did not get her drift. ‘In the back streets of Belfast.’

  ‘Started killing.’

  ‘In bars in the Shankill.’

  ‘With? ’

  Cross slowly realized. ‘An audience.’

  ‘He wants you there.’

  He slowed for a red light, which changed as he drew up. He accelerated aggressively and said bitterly, ‘Then why doesn’t he say where he is?’

  ‘You have to earn the right to be there.’

  Cross could see that. It was up to him.

  ‘He wants the confrontation. He wants you as a witness.’ Her voice spooked him. It was like an incantation.

  ‘Witness to what?’

  ‘To his loneliness.’

  ‘He needs an audience,’ Cross repeated.

  He remembered the first murder site he had attended, remembered the terrible sense of isolation hanging over the scene, over the discarded body, and over the deed itself. The ultimate unwitnessed deed, the last private act. Cross could see how it would be sharper for being watched.

  ‘He’ll be somewhere you know,’ she said.

  He suddenly knew where. He’d known for some time, though had not admitted it. The place still haunted him.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Westerby when he told her.

  Cross nodded. He turned the car round and headed west out of the city.

  59

  THEY stopped off on the road and Cross spoke to a sleepy-sounding Donnelly from a call box. Ten miles further on Cross called back.

  ‘He says he heard a car arrive some hours ago,’ said Donnelly. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ said Cross, thanking him hurriedly.

  They had driven
most of the way in tense silence. Neither referred to what had gone on since Moffat’s intervention in the hospital.

  Ballybofey was a ghost town. After that Cross lost the way in the forest tracks until he saw the burnt car.

  ‘We’d better walk the last part,’ he said. ‘The sound of an engine will carry out here.’

  He asked if she was all right. She nodded.

  They left the car halfway up the last hill, closing the doors quietly. The hill was steeper than it looked and by the time they reached the gate they were breathing hard. ‘We’ve no jurisdiction here,’ Cross said.

  ‘I know.’

  He told her she didn’t have to come any further.

  ‘I know,’ she said and took his arm as they set off. The moon came out, bathing the valley in cold light. The farmhouse gleamed malevolently, a sight so arresting that they stopped. There were no lights on. Away to the left the valley lay in dark shadow. Cross felt Westerby’s grip tighten, then slip free. When they set off she walked apart from him.

  They approached cautiously. Cross took out the gun and peered through several windows, front and back. The place showed no sign of occupation. The front door was unlocked as before. He lifted the phone. The line still worked.

  They moved carefully through the forlorn rooms, the gloom relieved occasionally by splashes of moonlight. In the last room Cross recognized the mattress. Nothing had been touched.

  He looked at Westerby. Her face was pinched with tension and she looked small and frail.

  He checked the safety catch on the gun, saying, ‘They’ll be in the barn. Phone Moffat—’

  ‘Moffat?’

  Cross handed her the gun. ‘Take this. He’ll search me anyway.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Cross shook his head. ‘I’ll offer myself as hostage instead of the boy. Tell Moffat where we are. It’s up to him whether he tells the Garda or comes in alone.’

  Moffat would fly in the SAS. ‘Stick to him like glue. I want us out alive, not caught in some crossfire because he’s told them to get trigger happy.’

  He looked at her. His face was lined with sadness. ‘I’m sorry for everything,’ he said. He kissed her quickly on the mouth and was gone.

  How long she stood there she didn’t know. The weight of the gun in her hand brought her out of her trance and she set off cautiously down the staircase, stirred by childhood fears of the dark, and felt her way to the phone. An owl hooted, startling her. The house was suddenly darker. She heard the first splashes of rain, then a steady downpour.

  She picked up the receiver, paused, trying to think, then gently replaced it. She imagined the helicopter, the searchlights, the demands shouted over a loud hailer. Moffat would come in announced. He wouldn’t leave it to stealth and if Cross and the boy were sacrificed then that was a price he’d pay for the prize of Candlestick. Either way they’d lose, because in any sort of showdown Candlestick would kill Cross and the boy first. Of that she was sure.

  There was only her left. She had a small element of surprise on her side, Cross’s gun and nothing else.

  She let herself out of the house and into the rain.

  60

  CROSS made no effort to disguise his entrance. He came in slowly, shutting the door after him, expecting to be greeted by the barrel of a gun and the frightened face of his son. He had been sure Matthew would be there. Seeing him unharmed was his first and in a way only goal. Everything after that he’d pushed from his mind.

  His first surprise was how neat and weirdly cosy the barn was. After the tension and discomfort of making his way there through the rain, the dry interior was almost welcoming. It bore no signs of its previous carnage. A storm lamp cast a soft glow and there was a camp bed and a folding chair, a primus stove and even a radio cassette with tapes. The camp area had been swept. It was also deserted.

  He called out Matthew’s name softly. There was no answer. Then, trying to sound matter of fact, he said, ‘If anyone’s watching, I’m crossing to the chair.’

  He was being watched, he was sure. He added, ‘I’m not armed,’ and held his coat open.

  He walked cautiously to the chair, careful to make no sudden move. He was shivering, from fear and his soaking in the rain.

  Candlestick slipped quietly into Cross’s life.

  Cross heard nothing, only the feel of the gun’s muzzle against the back of his head. He raised his hands slowly.

  Candlestick frisked him from behind, making no move to face him, which disoriented Cross.

  ‘They’ll not agree your terms,’ Cross said. ‘You know that, so there’s no point in harming the boy. Let him go and I’ll stay in his place.’

  ‘We’ll be gone before they arrive.’

  Cross tried to calculate the distance of the voice.

  ‘Before who arrives?’

  ‘Whatever back-up you have in mind.’

  ‘There isn’t any.’

  ‘Har-de-har. We’ll be gone anyway. So they hung you out to dry?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Whoever holds your strings. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

  ‘Unless they’re waiting outside.’

  ‘You said they weren’t.’

  A burning pain shot through Cross’s head. He realized he was being yanked by the hair. He tumbled backwards and hit the ground with the brief impression of Candlestick above him. He saw the cold steadiness of the eyes, then a blur of an arm as the pistol smashed his cheek.

  When he came to, the side of his face felt on fire. Candlestick swam in and out of focus. He was sitting on the camp chair, leaning forward, the gun dangling provocatively between his knees, studying him. Cross saw the man’s expression change – the whole face was bizarrely transformed, like it was being pulled by wires. Cross realized the man was grinning.

  ‘Welcome to my world.’

  The eyes glittered, diamond hard in the mirthless mask. Cross felt a trickle of sweat down his spine. Start somewhere, he thought. Start anywhere, just get him talking. Bounce him around. He needs to talk.

  ‘Show me the boy. I want to see him safe.’

  Candlestick shook his head.

  A stab of panic – what if Candlestick had already killed him? But Candlestick read his mind and said the boy was unharmed.

  Breen was the spine, Cross remembered thinking once. Find out what happened to Breen. Draw Candlestick on Breen and it might just distract him enough.

  ‘When you killed Bernadette Breen and her children,’ he began, putting each word together like a clumsy child with building bricks, ‘you meant to kill Breen.’

  ‘No. It was Bernadette and the children I meant to kill.’

  ‘Why? What had they done?’

  ‘Nothing. Regrettable, but there it is.’

  ‘Why kill them?’

  ’Because of what it did to Francis.’

  ‘It broke him.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Was it because he once nearly had you shot?’

  Candlestick gave a sharp look in Cross’s direction.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you have done your homework.’

  ‘If Breen was your godfather, why kill him?’

  ‘Francis was not what he seemed, it was as simple as that.’

  Cross had the impression of two indistinct overlapping images about to snap into focus. He told Candlestick about the Heatherington sting and afterwards Candlestick said he hadn’t known about it.

  ‘But it fits,’ he said laconically.

  ‘At the same time the Brits got you over to the Officials. And by the end of the year they had their ceasefire with the Provos and had split the Officials.’

  Candlestick shrugged. ‘Divide and rule. That’s how it goes.’

  ‘But—’ said Cross. Candlestick watched with sardonic amusement. ‘It wasn’t because of you the Officials split. You were an instrument, not the agent, a trigger.’

  Cross had it. The two pictures slid together. Look for the shadow, he’d told himself. Now he
could see the figure that had cast the shadow.

  ‘Breen,’ he said. ‘Francis was the keeper of the secrets. When you finally came for him, what did he tell you, as you nailed him down and pulled his teeth out one by one? Did he sing like those other Taigs?’

  ‘They all sing in the end.’

  Cross had been puzzled by two things in the events of May 1974: Breen’s antagonism to Candlestick’s defection, and some missing connection between his defection and the split in the Officials.

  ‘Breen knew you were a British asset, didn’t he? But, to find out how reliable you were, you had to be tested. Pushed to the limit to see if you sang. But you didn’t.’

  Candlestick stared at Cross impassively.

  ‘When did you realize Breen was a British agent too?’

  Candlestick shrugged. ‘Much later.’

  In Cross’s estimation Breen must have been working for the British from very early on. He would have been able to report on growing dissent in the ranks of the Belfast Officials and the increasing disagreements with the Dublin leadership. Then, in the wake of the split, which was ideological, slip in the shadow of the gun. Breen, under British instruction, was the agitator of violence, the conduit.

  ‘And you,’ he said to Candlestick, ‘were slipped in as protection, to be sacrificed for Breen if necessary, isn’t that right?’

  Candlestick nodded slowly. ‘I was a Brit so I was always kept to one side by Francis, but his protection meant no one went sticking their finger in my face, and I did the jobs I was asked to and was good at it. But then my handler said the INLA was panicking they’d been penetrated, and my name was on the list. So I decided to become a dead man, went up to Belfast, found a fellow that looked enough like me and blew him up.’

  He smirked at his cleverness.

  ‘And so, after years of being kept in the dark’ – Cross remembered Westerby’s phrase – ‘and being a small player in someone else’s game, you decided to invent one of your own. One that would make them all sit up and take notice.’

  Candlestick cocked his head and looked pleased. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that before.’

  The vanity of having an audience, thought Cross.

  ‘When I was a lad,’ said Candlestick, ‘you could see clear all the way to the horizon. A tree was a tree and a ditch was a ditch. And then I got into this business and, well, they tell you something’s one thing and it turns out to be another.’