‘Been posed this way, obviously,’ said Irwin.
‘There’s more,’ said MacBride. He carefully lifted the nylon house coat and dress beneath, revealing first the backs of her legs covered in tan coloured nylon tights, then her buttocks. Aoife could see the outline of her white pants and a darker circle, sagging from within. She raised a hand and covered her mouth, pressing the flimsy paper mask to her face. Aoife heard Esther Moore’s clothes unstick from her back as MacBride tenderly tugged the dress and top coat free from where they had been stuck, a sound like a Velcro fastener on an umbrella being opened.
‘Oh my God,’ said Aoife. She could see what had caused the dress to adhere to Esther Moore’s back. Three letters, carved deep and wide into the smooth skin of the dead woman, each one blurred with dried blood.
UDA
‘Ulster Defence Association,’ said Sheen, looking down at the wounds. Aoife nodded, but she could not speak. Cecil Moore was a Brigadier, one of its godfathers.
‘Looks like somebody doesn’t approve of Cecil’s choice of country club,’ said Irwin. MacBride lowered Esther Moore’s clothes back in place. She gratefully took her eyes off the dead woman’s body, looked to the wall above the fire place facing them, before which Esther Moore had been laid, giving nightmarish homage.
‘That’s Latin,’ said Irwin.
Big letters, brown and thick against the dirty cream of the wood chipped wallpaper, covered the space above the mantel piece. Brown now, but they would have been red, clean and stark. The bottom of each letter had run, the blood had dripped down the wall obscenely, pooled on the small wooden shelf beneath.
‘Googled it,’ he said.
‘From Chaos Comes Order,’ said Aoife before Irwin could announce it. She returned her gaze to the atrocity before her, not wanting to, but unable to stop looking at Esther Moore. ‘I had the convent education, remember sir?’ she said weakly.
‘That’s what it means detective, but what does it mean here?’ said MacBride, gesturing at the wall and the woman’s body. They were silent for a few seconds, birdsong from a sunny July morning audible from the open front door. MacBride walked gingerly over to the small table beside the high backed easy chair, careful not to step in the pool of blood. He lifted up the heavy leather backed Bible.
‘This is where I found the tongue,’ he said. ‘Mark, Chapter 9, to be exact.’ Irwin’s brow flushed behind his mask.
‘Sacrilege!’ said Irwin. Murdering aged ladies was one thing but using the Bible in the process, criminals beware.
‘He’s used the tongue to write on the wall, like a paint brush. Probably got her on the ground, then held her head, cut the neck, let her bleed out and then took the tongue. I’m no blood spatter expert, but you can see the spray marks on the fireplace.’ MacBride performed a series of charades from hell to help them understand.
‘Thank you MacBride, that’s enough for now. If you could get on with tagging and photographing and maybe leave the police work to us?’ said Irwin.
‘Yes Boss,’ he said, sticking his tongue out after Irwin had looked away from him, before putting on his mask and disappearing into to the kitchen.
‘You can see the footprints here and here,’ said Irwin, pointing to the tiles that bordered the fireplace. ‘No attempt to conceal or be careful. They are probably the same as those in the hallway.’ Aoife asked about the prints, whether there was anything distinctive or different to mark them out. Sheen was close to the ground, shifting position, taking numerous photographs of the clean outline of the print left on the fireplace, as he had done across the whole crime scene. MacBride answered her question before Irwin could.
‘Boots by the look, standard size, probably a nine, maybe larger, no obvious blemishes or identifiers,’ said MacBride.
‘If he was as forensically aware as I think he was, the boots and any other evidence is probably long gone. We will submit them to the National Footwear Database, might get lucky on a match,’ said Irwin.
‘But no foot prints near the front door, just to the bottom of the stairs, then they vanish?’ she said. Irwin nodded.
‘Might suggest whoever did this changed at the scene. Someone insane enough to do this on a Friday afternoon might be bold enough to take a shower. If he was as careful as we think there’s probably nothing, but definitely check the bathroom for evidence,’ said Sheen.
‘Good idea Sheen,’ said Irwin. And it was, but something else had snagged Aoife’s attention. She positioned herself over Esther Moore’s body, each foot on a white plastic island, leaned down, examined at the top of the woman’s head. There was a nasty bruise big as a duck egg on her forehead, extending under her hairline where it erupted in a bloody gash over her temporal lobe. One question answered: Esther Moore had probably been unconscious when the worst of the mutilation took place, probably. Aoife carefully raised herself up to stand but stopped halfway.
She turned so she could reach Esther Moore’s right arm and lifted it up. Dark bruising on her hand, it was swollen and misshapen; broken. She frowned, the woman had been duped into letting the killer in, hit on the head and then he went to work. So why break her hand, unless she attacked him? But that did not ring true; eighty five years old and probably terrified. Aoife stood up, and despite the cloying air of the parlour, she pulled off her mask and frantically looked around the room, unsure of what she was searching for until her eyes stopped. There, on the small sofa, she saw it. A panic alarm, the kind the elderly use to call emergency services when they needed help.
‘Whoever did this broke her hand before killing her. Maybe Esther managed to press her alarm? Normally they are linked up to a support centre, there might be a record,’ she said pointing to the sofa. MacBride was on his knees, inspecting Esther Moore’s smashed hand, then her bruised head, nodding.
‘Good thinking, I’ll look into it,’ Irwin said and Aoife’s heart sank. Man give, and man take away. She turned to MacBride.
‘What might have caused these injuries, have you seen them before?’ she asked. MacBride said he’d seen it all, no jesting in his voice.
‘Could have been any blunt instrument, something long and hard, DC McCusker,’ he said, a smile crept in, then faded fast when she did not respond. ‘Maybe a baseball bat, I’ve seen a few similar bruises on bodies from police issue truncheons in my day, but as I said before, I’m no pathologist,’ he said. Irwin motioned them out. They shed their protective suits and exited the tent.
‘This is where we now stand. Cecil Moore has been up to his neck in bad drug deals with Dissident republicans for years, and it looks like one has come home to roost. So far these scumbags have not been in the business of ritualistically murdering old women, but then think about those Mexican drug cartels. I have seen enough in twenty five years on the job to know some people will always sink lower. I shall speak to Cecil Moore, DC McCusker, size out if there are any other grudges that could bring this upon him, but I doubt if this has come from other loyalists, it’s been quiet on that front for ages. Plus I will follow up with the alarm company,’ he said.
‘Sheen, I want you two to head down to the community centre at the bottom of the road and get statements from any neighbours the uniforms down there have not spoken to,’ said Irwin.
‘Detective work is about knocking on doors,’ said Sheen.
‘Yes indeed. After that, I want you both to take a run up to the Black Mountain. There was an explosion at a substation this morning, does not look like an accident. It killed some poor sinner who was doing a bit of honest overtime. Paddy Laverty is looking into it. See if he needs a hand. If the Dissidents are stepping things up, and it looks very much like they are, there may be a link,’ he said.
‘Sir, the substation is a million miles from this investigation, it’s a dead end. And if Paddy is working it, then it is already in safe hands.’ Irwin ignored her, but his colour rose as he listened to her. He shook his head.
‘I want it looked into and I want you both back to see me in Ladas Drive
for debrief later on. I have asked to speak with Special Branch because of the Dissident angle, so be there in case they have a bone to throw our way. Lord knows they may step in, but for now these are our babies, so let’s rock them,’ said Irwin. He walked away, phone out already, starting a call.
‘Not exactly the welcome you were expecting from Belfast this morning, eh?’ she asked. Sheen was looking at the images he had just taken on his phone, looking confused.
‘A fresh murder victim was not on my agenda, no. Not before breakfast anyway,’ he said.
‘You look troubled. Something not right in there?’ she asked.
‘Lots, but yes, something does not quite fit. Can’t say what,’ he said. MacBride emerged from the front doorway.
‘Good, you’re still here. From Chaos Comes Order. It comes from this guy, Frederic Nietzsche, a German Philosopher,’ he said, holding up his phone.
‘God is dead,’ said Aoife.
‘Just so, but don’t be letting Irwin hear you say that DC McCusker. I think you will find that it is Nietzsche who is dead, detective,’ he said, doing a pretty good imitation of her DCI.
‘Dead he may well be, MacBride,’ said Aoife, looking over his shoulder at the bloody footprints. ‘But some sick boy out there is showing us that his ideas most definitely are not.’
Chapter 11
The Tiger’s Bay community centre was a breeze block building with a wooden façade that gave the false impression of an apex roof. It was painted white but its exterior was marked by years of dirt and the scrawl of numerous graffiti tags. In large letters, sprayed in red paint he read: Tommy is a heron dealer.
Sheen smiled, wondered what the market was in north Belfast for fish eating birds. A PSNI car was parked outside, and a group of young people, some wearing pyjama bottoms, puffer coats on top, watched them as they approached the entrance, then returned to their conversations and their phones. Sheen looked up and read the dedication: Lawrence ‘Lucky’ Anderson Community Centre, Tiger’s Bay. A painted portrait of a man’s face in black and white, caught forever in a mid-chuckle, 1970’s hairstyle. Below it was a printed list of the various leisure activities which could be found within.
They stepped inside. A small stage ran across the opposite wall, people seated on chairs along its length, some wearing dressing gowns, women with hair in rollers and nets. To the right of the stage was a small tuck shop where a line of people queued. Sheen could smell fried bacon. Aoife showed her warrant card to the uniformed officer standing by the entrance and asked if they needed any assistance. He told her they were all but done. He asked if the street would be open anytime soon.
‘CSIs are still gathering evidence, body is still at the scene,’ she said. The officer nodded, yawned.
A man caught Sheen’s eye. He was standing by the tuck shop, had been obscured from Sheen’s view by the people queuing, but Sheen could see him now. He was watching the crowd of people, his eyes darting from one group to the next, like a kestrel on a branch preparing to pick out fresh meat. Skinhead, mid-forties, he had two fat gold hoops, one in each ear, and his arms were dark with tattoos. On one muscular arm, Sheen could make out an armed and masked figure. He was holding a small tablet, and each time the uniformed officers moved on from interviewing a person, he added a note on his device. He was making a tally of who had spoken to the police. He clocked Sheen, held his gaze momentarily. Sheen felt the hair on his neck bristle, his shoulders tense, more fight than flight. The man looked away.
‘Who’s that?’ he said to Aoife quietly, giving her a chance to follow his eyes, hoped she would pick out the odd man as he had done. She did not disappoint.
‘Name’s Nelson McKinty, he is Cecil Moore’s right hand man, bodyguard, and more,’ she said.
‘He live on the street?’ asked Sheen.
‘Nope,’ she said.
Nelson the skinhead was on the move, swooping with a slicing grace through the queue of people. For a big guy he was fast and precise. Sheen searched the room. He caught a brief glimpse of sunlight, white bright, then gone from the left of the stage on the far wall. Must be another door, it had been obscured from Sheen’s view. He tracked his eyes left a little; a uniformed officer was close by, introducing herself to a group of people. She had just finished with someone else, and Nelson was following whoever it was. Sheen turned on his heels and ran out the front and sprinted round the left side of the building, searching for Nelson or the person he was following, but could see nothing. Aoife caught up with him.
‘Who was he after?’ she asked. Sheen shrugged. An engine gunned to life and a metallic blue Range Rover screeched off. Sheen walked to the middle of the road, squinted to see who was inside, saw nothing. It disappeared round the far corner of the street, its engine revving into the distance. Sheen re-joined Aoife on the pavement.
‘Come on,’ said Aoife. They went back inside the community centre using the side exit and found the female officer. She flicked back a couple of pages in her black note book, and gave them the name of the last person she had spoken to, the person McKinty had followed, perhaps just drove off with.
‘Jamie Anderson, aged fifteen,’ she said, and gave the house address. Aoife’s brow creased, forming a faint indent between her eyebrows, there and then gone, Sheen noted.
‘That’s the house opposite Esther Moore,’ she said. Sheen nodded. That made sense, no wonder Nelson was interested, if anyone saw what had happened, Jamie Anderson might have.
‘What did he say?’ asked Aoife. The officer shook her head.
‘Said he saw and heard nothing. He was home alone, his parents are away for the evening, back later,’ she said. Hear no evil, see no evil. Sheen did not buy it. Neither, it seemed, did Aoife.
‘I want that youth brought in again. We have his address, and he probably won’t have gone far. Ask Nelson McKinty if you hit a wall, OK?’ she said. The woman in uniform nodded, said she would and made a note in her book.
‘Right, are you ready for a wild goose chase up the Black Mountain, Sheen?’ she said, as they exited and walked back to where she had parked. Sheen nodded, looked up at the wooden sign where Lucky Anderson smiled down at him and hoped that his luck ran in the family.
Chapter 12
The Bad Bet was empty and smelled of the ghost of Friday night; stale beer, and BO. Cecil looked at the inverted bottles of spirits behind the bar. Their optics were primed and ready. He licked his lips, checked his watch. Not yet gone ten; still too early. There was a rap on the pub door, from the street; the sound echoed sharply through the empty void of the bar.
‘Come,’ said Cecil. Nelson entered, leading with his shaved head, like a street brawler. He closed the door behind him, softly and correctly, using the handle to turn and fasten the clasp in the lock, Cecil’s preference. He stood, not quite to attention, but not speaking.
‘Well?’ said Cecil.
‘One witness,’ he said
‘Who?’
‘Kid from across the road from your mother’s. He’s in the car,’ said Nelson.
‘Spoken to the peelers?’ asked Cecil.
‘Aye, but said kept his mouth shut,’ said Nelson.
‘Good boy,’ said Cecil. Nelson nodded, accepted the boy’s accolade as his own, Cecil let it pass. He noticed Nelson was wearing his skinny jeans, the ones that clung to his crotch Cecil stole a quick glance.
‘Bring him in,’ he said. Nelson disappeared out the door and returned a moment later with a teenage boy, who looked thin as a stick against Nelson’s heft. The boy’s hair was half long, half not, the way the Royal Princes had it when they were at that posh boarding school. The boy stood very still and looked at the floor.
‘What’s your name?’ said Cecil.
‘Jamie, Jamie Anderson.’
‘Are you Lucky Anderson’s boy?’ said Cecil.
‘That was my Granda. I’m Scotty’s son.’ Jesus and where did the time go? Lucky did a bit of time with Cecil in Long Kesh, back in the ‘70s. He remembered Lucky had a f
air sized litter; the kid must be from one of them, fucked if he could remember their names.
‘How’s your Nana doing Jamie?’
‘Ok,’ he said. ‘She has dementia now. She is up in the Heights, the general part, not the secure part. Keeps asking after my Granda.’ Lucky Anderson blew himself up carrying a bomb in a milk float in 1982, fucking terrible mess.
‘Not doing that OK, eh?’ said Cecil. The boy shook his head slowly, eyes down. Cecil caught Nelson’s eye, and he left the bar.
‘Where’s my manners got to?’ said Cecil, smiling. ‘Come over here, son, sit yourself down,’ he gestured to the round upholstered little stool adjacent to the table. The boy sat, Cecil eased back on the cushioned bench, above the boy.
‘Nelson tells me you have something to share,’ said Cecil. Jamie nodded, did not speak.
‘Speak up sonny,’ said Cecil, grandfatherly, nurturing. The boy did not speak up. This time with a little more grit in his voice, Cecil said:
‘That’s my mother who was murdered, are you aware of that?’ The boy nodded again and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. Cecil was on him instantly, a strong fist locked round the boy’s wrist. He yelped and Cecil felt his breath on his mouth. He pulled the boy’s hand from the jacket; a mobile phone. ‘You gotta be careful making sudden movements like that, not a good idea round an old dog like me.’ Cecil squeezed the boy’s knee, felt its bony hardness, the firm muscle of the boy’s thigh meat just above. ‘Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ he said. The kid’s eyes were down and Cecil saw him tremble.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. Cecil leaned in closer, ran his hand up the lad’s thigh, stroking, soothing him. His thumb curled up, flicked against the weight available between the kid’s open legs. Skinny lads usually packed a long length.
‘Don’t be sorry son. You just talk to me,’ said Cecil.
‘I know what happened,’ he said. Cecil leaned in closer still, his thumb doing the work.
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