“So she and Mulvenna had an affair and she got pregnant. Do you really think Mulvenna didn’t know, sir?”
Craig shook his head. “I don’t think that he’d any idea then, and he doesn’t know now. It would explain a lot of things. Melanie Trainor has brown eyes.”
“Hence the witness seeing a young man who looked like Mulvenna but has brown eyes instead of blue.”
“Yes. And it explains the related D.N.A..”
Annette’s interrupted indignantly “You’re not saying he killed Lissy? His own sister?”
Craig nodded sadly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Annette. Maybe that’s why there was no rape. I think he blames his mother and maybe Mulvenna too, for having him adopted. Killing Lissy was a sure way to hurt Melanie Trainor.”
“Do you think he left the hair on Lissy deliberately, s…sir?”
Craig turned to Davy and smiled. “Perhaps. Maybe he was trying to point us to who he was.”
“The beach burial was a big enough clue.”
“Did he w…want to get caught?”
“No, not that. Liam, do you want to tell everyone why he wanted us to know who he was?”
“He wanted everyone to start looking at the Jarvis case again and see that his father was framed. If he’d worked out Mulvenna was his Dad and identified Trainor as his Mum he would’ve wanted to ruin her, for abandoning him to God only knows what sort of life. Even if she hadn’t wanted to raise him herself his father might have done if he’d known. But she stole that chance from him as well.”
Annette leaned forward, looking puzzled. “Maybe I’m being thick here, but I’m lost. I get that he resented Melanie Trainor for giving him up for adoption and took revenge on her by killing Lissy. But even if he had realised Jonno Mulvenna was his Dad, why think he was framed for Veronica Jarvis’ murder? Mulvenna was a known terrorist and it wasn’t the first time that he’d killed.”
Craig smiled. She was right. How would he have realised that Mulvenna was his father? And if he had done then why think he wasn’t guilty of Jarvis’ death? Nicky gave them the answer.
She spoke so quietly that they had to strain to hear her husky voice. Everyone turned towards her. Her face was solemn.
“There’s only one reason a child’s search for their birth parents becomes an obsession and that’s if they’re really unhappy where they are. He must have been abused.”
Craig could tell from the look on her face that this was close to home. Her voice broke as she went on. “My sister and I were fostered after my Dad died. My Mum had a breakdown from the grief and ended up in psychiatric care. It was only for six months but I can tell you that in those six months I’d convinced myself that it wasn’t our real Dad who’d died. Our real Dad became everyone from a film star to a prince, anyone I saw on TV, and he was going to come and rescue us any day soon.”
Craig interjected gently. “Because you were so unhappy in foster care, Nick?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. Craig smiled at her then took back the floor.
“OK. If Melanie Trainor’s son was being mistreated by his adoptive parents, then he might have been desperate to find out who his real parents were. When he did, and let’s be honest, the resemblance to Mulvenna wouldn’t have gone on unnoticed in Northern Ireland back then for long, maybe he couldn’t let himself believe that Mulvenna had killed a woman. It didn’t go along with the image he had of him as a freedom fighter.”
“What if he was right, boss? Mulvenna always told us he didn’t do it.”
“So he let himself be framed?”
Liam nodded.
“OK. I agree, Liam, but why? Do you really think it was pure altruism on Mulvenna’s part? That he thought he deserved to do time for all his bombings so he let himself be put away? He knew how he’d be treated inside for killing a Veronica Jarvis, even if people believed she was an informer.”
Annette interrupted, watching Nicky out of the side of her eye, concerned.
“How about if he loved Melanie Trainor, sir? Really loved her, and knew it was going to ruin her life if people found out about their affair? He knew how much her career meant to her so when she betrayed him he loved her enough to go down for a crime he hadn’t done.”
Craig nodded. “She wasn’t framing him because of the affair, but because of the baby. She’d found out she was pregnant and she couldn’t have hidden it from Mulvenna for long. Once he’d known he had a child he would never have let go of her, or let himself be sent to prison to protect her. He would have wanted to bring up the child himself and then everything would all have come out. The Jarvis case presented Melanie Trainor/ Ross with the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Protect Wasson and any future information he could give her to further her career, and get rid of Mulvenna before he found out about the pregnancy.”
Liam let out a low whistle. “What a piece of work. She cared more about her career than about the man she loved, or her child. My God, I’m not surprised the boy wanted to hurt her. He should have killed her instead of Lissy.”
The room fell silent for a moment until a ticking clock made Craig realise the time. They had an interview to hold. He stood to go then nodded at Jake and Davy.
“Good work, both of you. Look, Liam and I are going to interview the ACC at High Street now Jake, why don’t you come along to watch.” He pointed to the papers on his desk. “Bring your print-outs, they’ll be useful when she starts to deny everything.”
As they were heading for the door Nicky stood in Craig’s way. He smiled at her kindly.
“We’ll talk when I get back, Nicky.”
She shook her head and he looked bemused.
“Haven’t you forgotten something, sir?”
He searched for an answer then realised. “Jonno Mulvenna.”
She nodded. “He has a right to know he has a son, doesn’t he?”
Craig smiled down at her. Yes, he did. He turned back to Davy and Annette.
“Nicky, work with Davy here to get the adoption records un-sealed. I’ll ask Melanie Trainor for a D.N.A. sample but she’ll probably refuse, so Annette, get a warrant for her blood. We’ve already got Mulvenna’s. We should confirm the hair belongs to their son within twenty-four hours.”
He turned back to Nicky. “When we’re sure he’s Mulvenna’s son, and only when we’re sure, Nicky, I’ll go and tell him myself.” He gave her a wry smile. “No hints until then, Mrs Morris, OK?”
She nodded grudgingly then they left for one of the most challenging interviews of their careers.
***
It had been too easy. The man had cleared the private road easily and driven below the speed limit for thirty minutes with her in the boot. Finally he’d crossed the Bann and pulled into the small clearing in Downhill Forest, inland from Castlerock. He could have killed her then and there but he’d waited for too long not to have his questions answered. He needed to see her face and watch her try to lie. Or worse, to attempt to defend what she’d done. There was no defence, and no punishment would fit now except her death.
He remembered the day he’d discovered who his real mother was. He’d always known that he was adopted; the Fosters had taken pleasure in telling him how lucky he was every single day. How they could have chosen any little boy, but instead they’d picked him. To abuse.
He couldn’t remember a day when he hadn’t been beaten by Nigel Foster, a small man in every single way. He’d hit him with a strap or stick or whatever had come to hand, then he’d thrown him into his room for another night with nothing to eat. It had made him hard and determined that no-one would hurt him once he was big enough to fight back.
That day had come when he was fourteen and then he’d beaten his ‘father’ to a pulp, only stopping when his bitch of a wife had thrown herself at his feet, begging him to stop. He remembered gazing down at her, her fat cheeks reddening as she cried. It had made him laugh. He hated her as well, but she hadn’t been cruel, just stupid and lazy and too weak to defend him
the way she should. As frightened of her brutal husband as he had been.
He’d left then, all grown up, but not before he’d dragged out the name of the woman who’d abandoned him at birth. Mary. It had taken him years to find her, years in which he’d worked in dead-end jobs, until he’d found out who his father was. It didn’t take long for people to start pointing at him in the street. He hadn’t known why at first, until he saw a programme on the prisoner release and there he was, smiling out of the screen, his doppelgänger. He was tall and dark, just like the man he was the spitting image of; Jonno Mulvenna, king of the terrorist scum. That made him the prince.
He’d laughed then, imagining the shock on the Foster’s faces when they realised their church-going lives would never be the same again. They’d adopted a leading republican’s son. Ha ha. He returned a few times to gloat, Nigel Foster too afraid to hit him now. But what of his real mother, why had she given him up? Maybe she was underage and her parents made her have him adopted? He’d watched enough movies to know that’s what happened back then.
When he finally found out that she’d been twenty-five he was angrier than he’d ever felt. She could have kept him if she’d wanted to. He wanted to smash the social worker’s face but he smashed-up their office instead, grabbing his file and walking away before the police arrived. He’d been determined to find her and it had taken him years. Years of working to put himself through school, primed to say, ‘look how well I’ve done, despite you, you bitch’.
He’d hit one dead end after another until finally he’d found the only two women who matched. Mary Wright and Mary Donnelly. Neither of them existed anywhere. It was a stroke of genius to search under date of birth. One visit to the Register of Births and Deaths had worked it out. Then he’d bought the bookshop near her house and waited. Danny Foster was no-one’s fool. No, he wasn’t and the woman lying at his feet was about to find that out.
***
11 a.m.
They glanced at the clock in turn. First Jake, with the impatience of youth, then Liam and Craig. No-one said a word but they were all thinking the same thing. Melanie Trainor was late, late beyond passive aggression this time. Senior officers didn’t just ignore the Chief Constable’s demands and dander in two hours after the time, yawning that they’d overslept or the dog had eaten their homework. This was deliberate defiance and what had so far been kept low-key out of deference to her grief and rank was about to escalate.
Craig picked up his phone and nodded Liam and Jake to do the same
“Jake, phone her office and make sure she hasn’t just turned up there, ignoring her suspension. Liam, give Andy a call and ask him to nip round to the house and knock on her door. Just him, I want this kept quiet for as long as we can.”
He went to dial a number and Liam raised an eyebrow curiously. Craig answered his look.
“I’m ringing her husband. Not that I don’t trust you to be subtle, Liam, but…”
Liam made a face and turned to see the start of a grin on Jake’s face. He squinted at him in warning and they broke into different corners to make the calls.
Craig walked past Jack Harris, the long-time sergeant at High Street, and pushed through the back door into the cool morning air. Jack smiled. He got his weekly quota of excitement from Craig’s team using his station as ‘interview central’ for their murders.
Craig pressed dial and the call was answered quickly. Hugh Trainor came on the line with a welcoming tone. As welcoming as you could be to the man investigating your daughter’s death.
“Good morning, Superintendent. Have you made some progress on the case?”
It was an innocent question and just what a father would want to know but it took Craig aback. So much had happened since they’d spoken last and none of it was repeatable to this man. He fudged his reply expertly.
“Things are moving, Mr Trainor.”
Hugh Trainor interjected before Craig had time to twist more words.
“Good, good. What can I do to help?”
His openness and tone said he knew nothing about his wife’s interview the day before, or her suspension. It could mean several things but one question was top of Craig’s list.
“Could you tell me when you last spoke to your wife, please?”
There was silence for a moment and Craig resisted the temptation to leap into the gap. He wanted the truth from Trainor and he knew he’d get it if he was patient. He guessed why the politician was hesitating and he was right.
“I’m sorry, Mr Craig but I haven’t spoken to Melanie for several days.”
“You didn’t see her last night?”
“No. I called at the house and her car was in the drive, but we didn’t speak.” He paused long enough for Craig to finish the sentence in his head. “I’ve moved in with Darlene. I…it didn’t seem right to continue the lie, now that Lissy’s gone. It felt as if I was lying to her, somehow.”
“I understand.” And he did. Lissy’s happiness was the only reason Trainor had stayed with the ACC, now he could be happy elsewhere.
Trainor’s tone became anxious. “Is there something wrong, Superintendent? Is Melanie OK?”
Craig made placating noises and ended the call as quickly as he could, pushing open the back door. He joined Jack in the staff room. Liam and Jake were already there.
“Well?”
Liam took the cue. “Andy’s on his way there. He’ll call me back when he arrives.” He nodded at Jake.
“The ACC’s not at work, sir. They said they haven’t seen her since eight o’clock yesterday morning.”
Before she’d come down to Belfast for the meeting with Flanagan. The hairs on Craig’s neck stood up and he told them quickly of his conversation with the MLA.
“Man. It didn’t take him long to move out, did it? Makes you wonder how long the marriage had been dead.”
“Years.” Craig glanced at his watch. Eleven-twenty. He’d give Andy twenty minutes to call back then he’d have to ramp things up. He’d already accepted they weren’t getting their interview with the ACC that morning, now he was wondering if they’d get to speak to her again at all.
Just then Jack approached with a tray of tea.
Liam rubbed his hands. “Good man. Here, I hope you’ve got some decent biscuits this time. That last bunch were pathetic.”
Jack halted mid-step and was about to say something rude when Liam’s phone rang. He raised his hand. “Hold that thought, Jack.” He pressed a key, answering the call. “D.C.I. Cullen.”
The others watched as he nodded for a moment then he clicked his phone shut and turned to Craig.
“That was Andy. The ACC’s wasn’t answering so he walked round to the back. The patio door was open and the place was a mess, there was stuff smashed all over the place.”
“As if someone did it deliberately.”
Liam looked at Craig curiously. “Aye. How did you know?”
Craig was already on his feet and heading for the door. “She’s been taken. Liam, get back onto Andy and tell him to get an all-points bulletin out for the man in Jenna Farrelly’s sketch. And tell him to get a sample of Melanie Trainor’s D.N.A. from the house for John to match; a hair or toothbrush should do. Jake, push Annette and Davy on the adoption records. We need the names of the adoptive parents. Now. I need to tell Mulvenna about the boy. If the ACC’s son’s taken her then there might be only one chance of saving her life. We need Jonno Mulvenna to reason with the boy.”
***
Davy gazed at the records in front of him and then at Annette. The file looked old, and it was. Thirty years old. Its grey-coloured cover was curled at the edges and its yellowing official decals were peeling off. He turned over the top page and stared at the typewritten text beneath. The pre-word processor words were irregular; some of them jumping off the line below. Their unsophisticated presentation seemed to increase the pathos of the words even more.
‘Male infant. Healthy.’
It seemed so sad. A brand new life summari
sed in one phrase. Not ‘Baby Jack, welcomed by his loving family’ or ‘To Geoff, a son Ian, much longed for.’ Just sterile words that said exactly what he was; a healthy infant male.
He avoided Annette’s eyes, afraid that their sadness would increase his own, and read. The mother’s name was Mary Wright and she was a twenty-five-year-old civil servant. Not a helpless teenager living on the streets, but an adult woman with her own home. What could have prompted her to give up her child?
Perhaps she was afraid of going it alone, or the stigma of single-motherhood had made her feel ashamed? He stopped mid-excuse, knowing that neither of them applied in this case, and finally met Annette’s eyes. He was shocked by the anger he read there and heard in her voice when she spoke.
“She gave him away because she was worried about her career! Her precious bloody career.”
“W…we don’t know that for sure, Annette. She might have been afraid. You’ve all said it; being a single Mum in the eighties wasn’t an easy ride. Add to that she was in the police and he had a terrorist for a Dad.”
“She bloody well should have thought of that before she slept with him! It wasn’t the baby’s fault. There’s no excuse, Davy. God knows what happened to that child.”
She jabbed her finger at the file. “How long was it before he was adopted? He might have been in a care home for years.”
Davy turned the page and shook his head. “No, it w…wasn’t. He was adopted at six months old by a Mr and Mrs Foster. A farmer and his wife from near Limavady. They couldn’t have any children of their own.”
Annette stopped jabbing. “Well, that’s something at least.” She turned towards the door, barking an order at him as she did. “Find the Fosters and get them brought in downstairs. I want to know everything there is to know about their son. I’ll get the D.N.A. warrant and be back in an hour. I want them here then.”
***
Melanie Trainor’s fog lifted gradually, brief moments of clarity replaced by sleep again, until finally clarity became the norm and she opened her eyes. She expected to see her bedroom with the curtains that needed replaced, and the small TV on the chest of drawers switching on automatically to the morning news. They weren’t there. Instead she saw a wooden-slatted wall. She closed her eyes and shook her head then looked again. There was no mistake. Instead of the bedroom she’d slept in for twenty years she was lying in some sort of shed.
The Broken Shore Page 27