Death to Pay

by Derek Fee

  Moira held up the four pages. ‘The investigation into the disappearance of Francis McComber.’

  ‘What about Armstrong’s notes?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Disappeared, thrown out. Nobody remembers him leaving any notes behind.’

  ‘We shouldn’t read too much into that,’ Wilson said. ‘Every now and then the uniforms are told to spring clean. That means trash everything that’s not nailed down.’

  ‘I’m not as charitable as you,’ Moira said. ‘I think someone wanted this file buried. They couldn’t just get rid of all the paper, so they left a few sheets in case anyone came back later. This all went down thirty years ago. They thought it was buried.’

  ‘I presume you’ve already read the four pages,’ Wilson said.

  She closed the folder. ‘Three witness statements all leading to the conclusion that McComber hit the road of her own free will and a copy of the child’s statement. The latter is the only document that I’d believe.’

  ‘So,’ Wilson said. ‘We start by re-investigating the disappearance of Francis McComber in..?’

  ‘1983,’ Moira said.

  ‘Boss,’ Harry Graham said. ‘Thirty years ago, and that’s not our territory. We should pass this to the Historical Crimes Team. They have the resources for this type of investigation.’

  ‘They’ve also got a caseload of several hundred murders,’ Wilson said. ‘Do you really think that they’re going to concentrate on a missing persons case? We’re not trying to find Francis McComber. We’re looking for a motive for three particularly violent murders, and McComber may, or may not, help us establish that motive. It’s the only lead we’ve had since the beginning of this investigation.’

  ‘Ok, Boss,’ Moira said. ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘Let’s look at the three victims again. Peter, did you notice any pictures of Joan Boyle’s husband at the Boyle house?’

  ‘No, Boss,’ Davidson said.

  ‘I wonder why. And why did they move away from West Belfast? The house is still a crime scene?’

  ‘Yes, Boss,’ Davidson said.

  ‘Get back there and find me the answers to those questions. Eric, you take Morison. Maybe he knows more than he’s letting on. Pump him. Don’t take any old crap from him. Bring him back thirty years and put Francis McComber in front of him. Moira will look for McComber’s daughter while Harry and I will take our good friend Billy Rice. We meet here at six.’

  Maggie Cummerford was bringing her life in Belfast to a close. She had already deposited her notice with the Chronicle, but the asshole editor had insisted that she work a couple of days while he interviewed some hopefuls for her job. He was already buffing up his couch before she’d left his office. She had checked her apartment with Luminol to make sure that not a trace of blood could be found. She had scrubbed until she was satisfied that there was nothing that could tie her to the murders of Rice, Morison and Boyle. She was happy that she had avenged the death of her mother. Three for one was not a bad average. It might have been more but there was no point in being greedy and getting caught into the bargain. She thought about dropping by Wilson’s office to wish him farewell, but he was a smart bastard and that would be something out of the ordinary that might pique his interest. She already dumped fifty per cent of her clothes into a charity shop. Her landlord squeezed a month’s rent out of her, and she had closed her utilities as from the end of the week. She didn’t yet decide on her final destination. Somewhere warm where she could get the cold and humidity of Belfast out of her bones. But also somewhere well out of the way. It was either the US or Luang Prabang in Laos. It was possible to disappear in places like that and re-emerge as someone else. She’d make up her mind at the last minute. She opened the locket that hung around her neck and looked at the photograph of her mother. She would have liked to have known her better. Lizzie Rice had made sure that she would never have the chance. She sighed. It was strange to be at the end of the revenge trail. It was a bit like leaving school or university. A weight was lifted off her shoulders. She was finally free of an event that had haunted her for thirty years. She was free to become Maggie McComber.

  The Archvale Estate was quiet as Peter Davidson pulled up beside the house formally occupied by Joan Boyle. He parked outside the house and slipped under the crime-scene tape. He produced a set of keys taken from the evidence room and opened the front door. The house smelled different. The overriding smell was a sick sweet coppery odour. He went to the rear bedroom where Joan Boyle had been murdered and saw that the room had not yet been cleaned. He closed the door but it had little effect on the smell. He put on a pair of surgical gloves and went into the living room. The forensic team had already been through the house, but they had been searching for evidence relevant to the crime. He was looking for items of relevance to the life and times of Joan Boyle. He looked around the living room. The Boss was right. There were hardly any photos. The walls of his parent’s home were covered in photographs of them and their children. In the Boyle living room, there was only one photograph of their only son. He picked it up. The young Boyle was a handsome lad with a full head of fair hair, high cheekbones, a well-proportioned face and full lips. He would have caused increased heartbeats in the female population of wherever he was located. He opened the chest of drawers positioned directly behind the open door. The first thing he saw was Joan Boyle’s copy of the photo of the Lizzie Rice gang. He picked out a handful of photos and looked through them. He recognised Lizzie and some of the other gang members. He also recognised some of the locations and judging from the amount of fading of the colours they were mainly from the time the Boyle’s lived in West Belfast. He dug further into the drawer until he found a photo album. He took it out and opened it. A large photo dominated the first page. It was a wedding photo of a much younger Joan Boyle. The face of the man standing beside her was scratched out with something sharp. He turned the page to another set of photographs. In every one the man beside Boyle was defaced. He continued on through the book and on each page, the defaced man appeared. He replaced the album and picked up another bunch of photographs. This time they were photos of a young boy gradually growing into a man. The photographs of the boy alone or with his mother were complete. However, there were some photos where the person standing beside the boy had been removed with a scissors. Things were obviously not well in the Boyle household. He heard a noise at the front door and quickly closed the chest of drawers. He went to the hallway in time to see a man retreating from the front door.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Davidson asked the retreating figure.

  ‘Oh,’ the man turned and faced him. ‘I’m Jim McGillon, the next-door neighbour. I was just wondering what was going on.’

  Davidson held up his warrant card. ‘If you’re wondering what’s going on again, call the police. I could have been anyone. Did you know the Boyles well?’

  ‘I was here when they bought the place. That doesn’t mean that I knew them well. They kept pretty much to themselves.’

  ‘Get on well did they?’

  They question seemed to confuse McGillon. ‘Funny you should ask but the wife and I had the feeling that Joan hated his guts. She was positively over the moon when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Terrible death the poor man had.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Affable sort of a bloke. Good-looking fellah as well.’ He smiled. ‘I had to keep an eye on my Geraldine when he was about.’

  ‘What about the son?’

  ‘Nice boy. Got out of here as soon as he could. There was something toxic in that house. I suppose he’ll be back to sell it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ There was no point in saying that they hadn’t managed to contact the son. His mother would be on ice until they could locate him.

  ‘Do you have any idea of why they moved here?’

  ‘They never said but somehow I got the impression that there had been some trouble, and it involved the husband. But wasn’t that the time that was in it. There was tro
uble for everyone back then. It wasn’t polite to ask. Everything is all right then?’ McGillon said making for the driveway.

  ‘Yes,’ Davidson was a million miles away. ‘Yes, everything is all right.’

  Eric Taylor sat in the front room of the Morison house in Malvern Street. George Morison had managed to make a cup of tea and had rustled up a packet of ginger nut biscuits.

  ‘I don’t know whether I’m comin’ or goin’,’ Morison said pouring two cups of tea. ‘I’ve had to delay the funeral for a week so that Nancy’s sister can come from Australia. I haven’t seen the woman in nearly twenty years and now she’s dictating to me when I can bury my wife. I don’t suppose you’ve come to give me any news.’

  Taylor took the proffered cup of tea and shook his head. ‘We need a little more information,’ he sipped the tea but ignored the biscuits which had little blue marks on them.

  ‘Anything I can do to help,’ Morison sat back.

  Taylor put down his tea cup and resolved not to take it up again. How could a grown man have no idea how to make a cup of tea? ‘We’ve established that your wife, and the two other murdered women were members of a women’s group in the Shankill. That group was disbanded in the early nineteen eighties. Can you tell me why?’

  Morison lifted his head from his teacup. ‘I’ve never been interested in politics. The ‘Troubles’ went on around me and I did my best to stay out of it.’

  ‘That must have been difficult considering where you live.’

  ‘It was, but I managed to a certain extent. Nancy was a little more involved. I don’t know how she got into the local UVF, but she did. She also did her best to get me involved, but I didn’t want to go down that road. It was my opinion that the working people should stick together and not be at each other’s throats.’

  ‘The disbanding of the group that Nancy was in?’ Taylor took out his notebook and put it on the coffee table in front of him.

  ‘There was some trouble. Nancy never discussed the details with me but I know that it badly affected her. She didn’t go out for a week or more. It was very unusual. Those women lived in each other’s ears. Normally, she couldn’t see a day go by without meeting one of them. Then in a flash it all changed.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea why?’

  ‘I didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell me. Around that time, I could find her sitting alone saying ‘the poor wee girl’ again and again. When that stopped she switched her focus to religion. Not the sectarian kind but the fanatical kind. She spent hours begging God’s forgiveness.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a woman called Francis McComber?’

  Morison’s brow furrowed. ‘Not that I can think of.’

  ‘She disappeared at the time your wife’s group was disbanded.’

  ‘I don’t think I ever heard of her,’ Morison cast his eyes down to the left.

  Taylor noticed the movement. ‘Your wife died a violent death, and the PSNI is committed to bringing the person who killed her to justice. But we can’t do that if people hold back information on us. I have a feeling that you’ve heard of Francis McComber, and I think you know more about the reason the group was disbanded than you’re telling me. Your wife’s dead. Nothing you say can harm her now.’

  A tear forced its way out of the corner of Morison’s left eye. ‘Nancy was never the same,’ he said. The first tear was followed by another and another until he was forced to raise his hands to his eyes to staunch the flow down his cheeks. ‘She didn’t die this week,’ he sobbed. ‘She died thirty years ago.’

  Taylor watched as Morison shook from the sobbing. He had been there before. He picked up his pen as the floodgates were about to open.

  Moira hoped that Armstrong’s memory was good as she entered the Haven for Young Girls orphanage on the Ormeau Road. The building had seen better days, and like much of old Belfast had been constructed during Victorian times. Attempts had been made at modernization, but as Moira stood in the vestibule, she had a vivid picture of little girls running about in grey skirts and blue pinafores. The woman in the reception was like the building, a left over from Victorian times. She was dressed in herringbone long skirt and jacket. Her brown hair pulled back in a bun and her face a strict mask that looked like it had never seen a smile.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Moira McElvaney,’ she smiled and produced her warrant card.

  ‘Emily Strachan, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’m trying to trace a young girl who was put in care in the early nineteen eighties, Margaret McComber.’

  ‘A young Protestant girl?’

  ‘Yes, she came from somewhere around the Shankill Road.’

  Strachan’s nose turned up. The people of West Belfast were not her kind of people. ‘You have a warrant, of course.’

  ‘No, I assumed that we could do this without becoming too legal. After all, it was thirty years ago.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. Time is not the issue. The young girl in question may not wish to be found.’

  ‘I can see where that works with a relative. However, I am a police officer investigating a series of murders, and I have no intention of disclosing anything that you might tell me to a relative.’

  ‘Come with me,’ Strachan led the way along a corridor and opened a door close to the end.

  The small office contained a series of filing cabinets. The Haven for Young Girls eschewed the computer era. Moira could feel the musty air in the room.

  ‘Margaret McComber, you said,’ Strachan moved to a file cabinet and shuffled through a row of hanging files before withdrawing one. ‘McComber, Margaret,’ she said handing the file to Moira. ‘You may examine the file in this room and take whatever notes you wish, but you will not remove any of the contents.

  Moira took the file and opened it. Pinned to the inside cover was the picture of a six-year old girl. She was a handsome child with curly blond hair and a pixie look. Moira wondered what she would look like as a thirty-five year old women but she was not good at projecting people into the future. There were several sheets of A4 paper in the file. A doctor’s report on the child indicated that she was in perfect health on arrival and departure. A report from Social Welfare explained the circumstances of her placement in the Haven. The final paper was not an adoption certificate but a letter indicating that young Margaret had been fostered to a couple living in Finaghy named Glynn. She wasn’t adopted. Moira took the details of the couple and their address of thirty years before. She passed the file back to Strachan slipping the photograph of the McComber girl from the file as she passed it over. ‘Thanks for your assistance,’ she said and hurried from the building.

  Wilson pushed open the door to the public bar of the Black Bear and adjusted his eyes to the gloom inside. It took him several moments before he saw Billy Rice sitting in the corner. Wilson and Graham walked over and sat down on stools facing Rice. The barman moved to the telephone, but a look from Graham made him drop the receiver.

  ‘Mr Wilson,’ Rice picked up the remnants of a pint of Guinness from the table between them and emptied the glass. ‘Nice to see you,’ he laughed sarcastically.

  Wilson never liked Billy. The older Rice was a vicious thug who should have spent the majority of his life behind bars but had escaped that fate due to his commitment to the Loyalist cause. But the Billy that sat in front of them was far removed from the young firebrand of yesteryear. Billy grew fat on too much booze and too little work. At three o’clock in the afternoon, he was already on his way to Guinness fuelled oblivion.

  ‘Still in mourning, eh Billy,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Rice signalled to the barman. ‘Nothing for the peelers,’ he shouted. ‘No drink while they’re on duty.’ He smiled showing nicotine stained teeth. ‘Did you catch the bastard that did Lizzie yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Wilson said simply.

  ‘Well get up off your fat fuckin’ arses and find him.’

  The barman dropped a pint of Guinness in front of Rice and left quickly.
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br />   ‘The Queen,’ Rice toasted and drank a quarter of the Guinness. ‘State your business or fuck off.’

  ‘We’re looking into Lizzie’s background to see why someone wanted her dead,’ Wilson said. ‘How come her group was disbanded in the early eighties?’

  Rice thought for a minute. ‘Can’t remember,’ he said finally.

  ‘We’re going to find out sooner or later,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Be my guest,’ Rice took another slug of his Guinness. ‘I told you I can’t remember.’

  ‘Ever hear of someone called Francis McComber?’ Wilson asked.

  Rice’s eyes opened wide. He laid the glass on the table slowly. A nerve just beneath his left eye hopped. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Francis McComber,’ Wilson said loud enough for the other drinkers to hear.

  ‘Never heard of her,’ Rice said.

  ‘How did you know it was a woman? Francis could have been a man.’

  ‘OK, never heard of him.’

  ‘She disappeared in the early eights. One of my predecessors, Jack Armstrong, was sure that Lizzie had something to do with the disappearance.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that auld cunt is still alive,’ Rice spat on the ground.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t remember her?’

  Rice seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘I’m sure,’ he said finally.

  Wilson stood up slowly. ‘I’m going to find out what happened back in 1983. I’ve got a strong feeling that both you and Lizzie were involved in disappearing Francis McComber. If I get to prove it, I’m going to make sure you spend the rest of your days in prison.’

  Rice lifted his head, and his eyes were hooded. ‘My son knows where you live.’

  ‘Bring it on,’ Wilson said as he turned and left the bar.

  Moira had returned to the station from the orphanage and started on her search for Margaret McComber. She had spent the next hour on the telephone and learned that the Glynns had later adopted Margaret after her mother had been missing for five years. She also learned that the Glynns no longer lived in Finaghy but had moved to England. There was no forwarding address. The next stop was the Department of Social Welfare where she located a family called Glynn who had established a home in Mold in Cheshire one week after the Glynns left Belfast. It had to be the same family. She looked up the address and called the local police. Mr Glynn died, and his wife had moved. The trail looked to have gone cold.