Belfast Noir

by Adrian McKinty

  I flipped open my brief and found a copy of the photograph. Betty Stoke had been an attractive woman; she stood in the sunlight, on a wintry beach, hugging her coat about her beneath a dark sky. She looked happy. Fozzy wasn’t interested in the photograph itself, or why the deceased might have been holding it, but that became the key question in my mind and one which I felt might hold the answer to my client’s case.

  Fozzy let his last statement sink in before finishing his speech with a final and surprising nail in Mickey’s coffin: “Members of the jury, the motive for this brutal killing is known. The killer believed the victim to be a police informant. You will see, in photograph four, the living room where the deceased was found. Scrawled on the wall, in fresh paint, is the word tout. The paint was obtained from the airing cupboard in between the kitchenette and the living room. Photograph five is a picture of the open airing cupboard where we believe the paint to have been stored. The jury will note, as I have already stated, that the defendant initially denied ever having met the deceased. Yet, members of the jury, the defendant’s thumbprint was found on the inside of the airing cupboard door, left there, we say, in a moment of carelessness whilst he fetched the paint to scrawl the motive for his heinous crime on the living room wall for all to see . . .”

  I was on my feet in a flash. “Your Honour, a matter has arisen.”

  Judge Booth sent the jury out.

  “Fozzy, you fuck, you’ve not served any forensics on a fingerprint,” I said, fuming.

  “Oh, haven’t we? I’m sure that I directed service. The partials obtained during the initial investigation have only just been matched with your client. We found some partials on the photo too, but not enough for a match to your man. After the DNA hit I directed a full forensic review. You know what the cops are like—they get a DNA match and they think they’re home in a boat.”

  “Gentlemen?” said Judge Booth.

  I explained that the fingerprint evidence had not been served. Fozzy apologised and a prosecutor handed me a brown envelope containing the forensic report. Even though it had not formed part of discovery, it was relevant and there was no way of excluding it.

  Turning to face Mickey in the dock, I began scratching at the cut on my finger which had become red and itchy.

  Behind Mickey, in the public gallery, his long-suffering wife Agnes bit at her hanky, her small hands trembling.

  Mickey was going down and she knew it.

  * * *

  The next morning I drove along the Ormeau Road, on my way to court, thinking about the photograph of Betty Stoke. That image clawed at my memory, but its significance continued to elude me. The traffic calmed as I made my way past the old Gasworks. The beautiful Victorian brickwork façade and clock had been preserved when the site went through redevelopment. For some reason the developers had failed to keep up maintenance on the clock, which always seemed at least an hour slow.

  The radio distracted me. A heated discussion had begun amongst commentators arguing over the latest political bombshell by someone or another who had proposed, in all but name, an amnesty for historical crimes committed during the Troubles. One commentator, a representative from a victims’ group, argued that it was the right of the victim or the victim’s family to determine whether or not they would forgive past crimes or seek truth and justice through an inquiry or prosecution. To balance the argument, a politician, if one were willing to stretch the definition of that title to fit this individual, who regularly appeared on early-morning radio, presumably having been prodded with a stick by the producers until he reached his seemingly habitual state of apoplexy, argued that murder was murder and that all crimes, political and historical, should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. I found a parking space on Cromac Street, let out a sigh of relief as I killed both the engine and the radio.

  My relief was twofold: I was glad that I didn’t have to listen to such a heavy argument on a full stomach of bacon and black pudding, and secondly, I’d realised the significance of the photograph.

  Stepping out of the car into the biting December air, I called my instructing solicitor.

  By an ingenious technological feat, when one telephoned Mr. O’Neill’s mobile, instead of a ringtone one was treated to the theme tune from The A-Team. The call went to voicemail, “You’re through to the voicemail of Sean O’Neill, the People’s Champion. I’m probably fighting with the police at the moment, leave a message and I’ll get back to you when justice has been served.”

  “Mr. O’Neill, it’s Teddy Mack, I’m on my way to court. I’ve had a thought, a possible game changer for our good friend Mr. Fuck. Meet me at the cells. We need a consultation right away.”

  Disconnecting the call, I threw my red velvet bag which contained my wig, collar, and gown over my shoulder, hefted my briefcase, and stepped brightly toward the day’s labours.

  It was Friday and I saw the vans and cars of stall holders parked outside St. George’s Market. There had been a fish market at this site for over three hundred years with fishermen selling their catch straight from Belfast Lough. They sailed up the River Lagan right into the heart of the city and anchored just a stone’s throw away from the marketplace. In the late 1800s a beautiful indoor Victorian market had been built with a paned-glass roof and it still operated today, although it had changed much over the last twenty years. When I first came to Saint George’s, as a young barrister seeking a Friday cod, I would have to fight my way through the old millies who operated the jumble sale at one end of the market. A milly was a heavily built middle-aged woman, draped in shawls and dragging a shopping basket, who’d grown arms like thick steel cables from years working in the linen mills. In those times, during the summer, the market stank of fish and mouldy clothes. Not so today. Smartly dressed members of a jazz band hauled a double bass through the doors and I could already smell the fresh fish and the wondrous aromas of curry, exotic fruits, paella, and slowly roasting meat. The market had become trendy with boutique stalls that sold paintings and Art Deco furniture. Sadly, there was not one milly in sight.

  * * *

  Mickey held his head in his hands. Beads of sweat sat precariously on his unkempt and somewhat wild eyebrows.

  “That fuckin’ judge has it in for me,” said Mickey.

  “Forget about the judge,” I responded, “I want to know about the photograph, the one of Betty Stoke on the beach.”

  His head came up. Fear in his eyes.

  “I was listening to the radio this morning. They were talking about the Troubles and what should we do about the past. I think it’s time your past came out, Mickey. I remembered our little case all those years ago. Our first case—the pub bombings? That got me thinking about our past. And our second or third case, if I remember rightly? Another fraud conviction. That time you got nine months, and with 50 percent remission and time on remand you were out in a month and a half. But you weren’t worried about doing the time, you were worried about—”

  “Fuck that, no way.”

  “You have no choice.”

  Rubbing his head, he swore.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I said.

  “It’s ancient fuckin’ history, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t . . . I didn’t want to put Agnes through all that, not again.”

  “It’s the only way.”

  Eventually, Mickey relented. Even though he faced twenty years for murder, he would rather do that time than hurt his wife any further. I had to admire him for that, at least. But now it was time for the truth to emerge, with a little unwitting help from the prosecution.

  Before court began, I sent Mr. O’Neill on an errand to the offices of the Belfast Telegraph.

  * * *

  Fozzy looked at me like I’d suffered a minor stroke. He questioned witness after witness—scenes of crime officers, photographers, police officers—and elicited damning evidence against Mickey from each one before turning them over to me, at which point I would politely shake my head, having no questions to ask.

/>   “Are you feeling all right, Mack?” asked Fozzy.

  “Fuck off,” I said.

  He called his final witness, a seemingly minor individual who was there simply to prove documents. He was Arthur Hamill, a records officer with the Department of Justice. Earlier that morning Fozzy had sought to introduce bad-character evidence against Mickey—in other words, his criminal record. He wished to show the jury that Mickey was a dishonest man and therefore a dishonest witness, having been previously convicted of over one hundred crimes of dishonesty. I agreed that Mickey’s record could be shown to the jury on the understanding that we would be provided with a copy of the deceased’s criminal record in return. Fozzy agreed, thinking that I had made a grave error; nothing is more likely to increase a sentence than attacking the victim during the defence case, and Fozzy wanted to give me full reign to hang my client by assassinating the character of a murder victim.

  After Mr. Hamill, a rather bored civil servant in a blue suit was sworn in, Fozzy took the jury through our client’s record, highlighting the number of convictions for theft and fraud, but not going into the facts of any of the prior cases.

  “Nothing further,” said Fozzy.

  “I have just a few questions, Mr. Hamill,” I began.

  The jury seemed surprised to hear my voice, as if I was going to spoil what had been up until then a fairly straightforward affair.

  “Mr. Hamill, you will see that the defendant was convicted of fraud on the 18th of October 1981 at Belfast Magistrates Court. There is, I believe, a short narrative below each record of conviction to give a little more detail of the crime. Would you please read out that narrative for the 18th of October?”

  “Yes. It states, Pleaded guilty to twenty-three counts of obtaining electricity by fraudulent means. Fined one hundred pounds, with time to pay, and sentenced to nine months’ imprisonment on each count, sentences to run concurrently.”

  “Thank you. Now, I believe you also have a copy of the victim’s criminal record?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Mr. Stoke, the victim, had five convictions for violent crime?”

  “It appears that he did, yes.”

  “And three of those were for common assault?”

  “Yes.”

  “One of those convictions was for assault occasioning actual bodily harm roughly three years before his death?”

  “Yes.”

  “One conviction for assault occasioning grievous bodily harm just six months before his death?”

  “Yes.”

  “In actual fact, he spent two and a half years on remand before that conviction for GBH and was released just a week before his murder?”

  “It seems so, yes.”

  “Mr. Hamill, the narrative for each of those convictions records the identity of the victim of all five of those violent assaults, does it not?”

  “It does.”

  “And the victim is identical in each and every case of assault committed by the deceased?”

  “Yes. The victim was Elizabeth Stoke.”

  “The deceased assaulted his wife, regularly, throughout a five-year period?”

  “Yes. It appears that he did.”

  Several jury members shook their heads. Two female jurors appeared horrified. It was as good as I could’ve hoped for.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hamill.”

  Fozzy flapped to his feet and said, “That is the prosecution’s case.”

  The rear doors opened and Mr. O’Neill reentered the fray. I was pleased to see a thick bundle of papers tucked beneath his trusty arm.

  “Your Honour, we call the defendant, Mr. Michael Flannigan.”

  The custody officer opened the glass-covered dock and let Mickey make his way toward the witness box. As he passed me I whispered, “Remember what I told you.”

  He nodded. “I know, tell the truth, don’t say fuck.”

  I winked and patted his shoulder.

  * * *

  “Mr. Flannigan, did you know the deceased, Mr. Stoke?”

  “I did. We were from the same area, I would have spoken to him the odd time in the street or in the bar.”

  I fetched the copy of the photograph found next to Mr. Stoke’s body.

  “Do you know the woman in this photograph?”

  “Yes, that’s Betty Stoke. Willy’s wife.”

  “And did you know Betty Stoke?”

  “Yes.” He hung his head.

  “How did you come to know her?”

  “I did a bit of work for her.”

  “When you say work, what do you mean?”

  “I fixed her electric meter so she wouldn’t have to pay for any electricity.”

  “So we can all follow what you’re saying—you mean you tampered with her electric meter illegally?”

  “That’s right.”

  From my brief, I removed Mickey’s criminal record. Fozzy wasn’t in the least bit interested. The jury members were paying close attention.

  “I have your criminal record here. In 1981 you pleaded guilty to a number of counts of obtaining electricity by fraudulent means. Tell the jury exactly what happened.”

  Mickey turned in his seat and looked at the jury while he spoke, just as I’d told him. “I figured out a way to stop your meter turnin’ when you put in your money. If you opened up the electric box and slotted a wee piece of card into the right place, like, the meter wouldn’t turn. So you could put ten shillins into the meter and it would last you all year.”

  “And did you offer this electrical-engineering expertise to your fellow neighbours?”

  “Aye, I wasn’t workin’ so I would do your meter for a couple of quid.”

  “How was your little enterprise discovered?”

  “Wha’?”

  “You were arrested, yes? How did the police discover your crime?”

  “Well, turns out the IRA tipped off the peelers. The Ra’ robbed the electric man the odd time, after he’d been round the houses, emptying the meters. After I started up they robbed him expecting to get a few hundred quid, but they only got about £4.50 and then they caught on to what I was doin’. They threatened me with a punishment beatin’ but I was too well liked in the area. So they shopped me to the peelers—I mean, the police.”

  At that moment Mr. O’Neill placed into my hand the first of the clippings from the Belfast Telegraph that I had sent him off to find. The paper keeps all its past editions on microfiche and sends them across the road to the Central Library.

  “The Belfast Telegraph learned of your exploits and a particular facet of your case became widely reported. Please read out, for the benefit of the jury, the headline of this piece from the 5th of November 1981.”

  He coughed and read aloud, “Electricity Fraudster Is Secret Love Rat.”

  “We shall let the jury read the article in a moment, but give us the basics, please.”

  “I’m not proud of that, Mack, you know I’m not. At the time, me and the wife weren’t gettin’ on the best so some of the wee jobs I done in houses, on the meters, like, the women couldn’t pay any money. So they paid me in other ways, you know. Voluntary, like—I’m not a rapist!” he added emphatically.

  “Not one of the housewives ever said that you were. But, on those occasions that you weren’t paid with money, when you were paid . . . in kind, shall we say, in what way were those jobs different to the jobs in which you were paid cash?”

  “Well, I found out that the best thing to use to stop the meter was a Polaroid photo. It was just the exact size that you needed to stop the mechanism. So in those wee jobs, I would bring my camera and take a photo of the woman. Just a cheeky photo, like. And I’d put the photo in the meter. They liked that, some of them. They got a wee thrill knowin’ there was a sexy photo of themselves stuck into their electric meter and their husband knew nothin’ about it.”

  I paused as Mr. O’Neill handed copies of the article around the court. My finger itched like mad. The cut looked angry and swollen. Glancing over my shoulder, I
saw Mickey’s wife Agnes, her face drawn tightly together by her set lips. She didn’t want this brought up and I guessed she knew where we were headed.

  “And the photo of Betty Stoke, did you take that?”

  Tears formed at the corner of Mickey’s eyes and he seemed to grow pale.

  “Aye, Betty was different. I loved her. She put up with so much from that oul’ bastard she was married to. He beat her for years. Even when she started reporting it to the peelers, he kept on. But she loved him, she always took him back. I wanted to change her mind so I took her to Newcastle, the week before he got out. We were goin’ to run away. She got afraid and said that he’d find us. When we got back to the flat, I put the photo in her electric meter and took out the bit of card I’d used before. I just . . . I just wanted her to know that I loved her, that somewhere in that house there was a wee bit of her that he didn’t know about. I must have cut my finger, and that’s how my blood came to be on the photo. And I opened the cupboard door, so my fingerprints would be on that too.”

  “He found the photo?”

  “Aye, I got a phone call from Betty, not long after he got out. I drank in the Hatfield on a Thursday and she phoned the bar, she was screaming and crying. He found the picture, he was going to kill her, he’d almost killed her the last time, broke her jaw and everything. But this time, he was really going to kill her. She told me she had lifted the coal shovel and hit him over the head. He was dead when he hit the floor. She told me all this on the phone, in hysterics. I told her to write tout on the wall, get rid of the paintbrush and the shovel in the Lagan, and get out of the house, go and stay with her sister.”