Blood Will Be Born

by Donnelly, Gary

  ‘We have searched here,’ said Kinnard.

  Sheen pulled the thin mattress up, and then flipped it, revealing the bare plastic of the frame. He hunkered down, looked under it, started to rise, but stopped. He pulled the sheet off the edge of the mattress and his fingers disappeared into a small orifice in the corner. He pulled his fingers out, dozens of pink pills bounced along the underside of the upturned mattress.

  ‘Recognise these,’ he said to Kinnard, who was slowly turning white before her eyes. Adeola answered.

  ‘Mr. Fryer’s pills. Anti-psychotic tranquilizers, he take them from me, with his water, every day he take them,’ he said shaking his head. He had started to sweat, perspiration forming beads on his broad forehead. Sheen’s face was like thunder.

  ‘Apparently not. Looks like he was more alert, and a lot smarter than he led you to believe,’ he said.

  ‘No, no, Mr. Fryer not even touch his smokes for so long, and he never without his smokes. He not well, not even speak,’ said Adeola, still shaking his head. Sheen ignored him, glared at Kinnard.

  ‘Report John Fryer as escaped, not missing, escaped, Mr. Kinnard, and do it now. I want those DVDs from the CCTV, and the visitor log is coming with us, his file too,’ he said. He pushed past Kinnard, and Adeola, and Aoife stepped out of the way before he could push past her. He walked up the tight corridor, shoes squeaking like a rusty bike chain. Kinnard stared at Fryer’s busted mattress, the pills scattered across its surface.

  ‘Yes, yes, right away. Ade, please clear up this mess,’ he said, gesturing to the medication and bedding, and then he scuttled out, squeaking up the corridor after Sheen. Adeola was on his knees, collecting the pills in one hand and deposited them in his out stretched palm. She turned to leave, but then he spoke.

  ‘Mr. Fryer not safe when he don’t take the pills, he needs his pills, he cuts himself, blood, blood, blood. Mr. Fryer, he think he is a cursed man. He has hurt people, but he no mean to, his self too. And he will hurt more people,’ said Adeola.

  ‘The police artist will be with you later today for the E-fit, please don’t leave the grounds Adeola,’ she said turning to go.

  ‘Wait!’ he said, looking at her now. His eyes were wide in his face. ‘I am nearly done. Don’t leave me alone here,’ he said, and then quickly turned to his task.

  Kinnard handed her the recordings and documents as she left. Sheen was already waiting in the front reception. He hit the green button, exited, she followed, scrunching towards the car as the door sealed closed behind her. Aoife paused, looked at the scorched earth where the burnt out car had been.

  Fryer was the reason why the car was petrol bombed, someone had gone to great lengths to break him out of the Heights. If it was Dissidents, then like the Semtex used at the substation, they wanted to bring some old stock back into circulation, a damaged and dangerous ex-prisoner.

  Some looper Dissident, from the Ardoyne, or The Bone.

  Aoife looked over at the tree bench where the members of the press were still bunched together. They spotted her looking and the female reporter started over, the cameraman in tow.

  I want to hear that spoken.

  In public, before the day is out.

  Aoife fixed her hair and walked towards them. A statement would get Cecil Moore off her case, temporarily at least, until she could work out a way of uncoupling her fortunes from his and getting her hands on that bloody video. The reporter was within speaking distance, a microphone in her hand, the halogen light from the camera ignited, blazing like a second sun. Aoife fixed a professional mask, tried to recall her media training from the Northern Ireland Police College, and got ready to speak.

  Chapter 23.

  ‘This is Oswald Smith, he works for the Northern Ireland Office,’ said Irwin, who then introduced Sheen and Aoife.

  This guy’s a spook, thought Sheen.

  Oswald was the quintessential grey man, with his mostly receded hair, he could have been thirty five, or forty five, older or younger. He was small in stature, his thin frame lost in his dark suit, but the man had a force, a presence; zinc eyes unblinking and appraising them in the meeting room at Serious Crime HQ at Ladas Drive Police Station. Definitely a spook, but question was what was Oswald the spooky N.I.O officer doing here?

  ‘DCI Kirkcaldy said Special Branch was sending someone to this meeting,’ said Aoife.

  It was as much as she had spoken since they left Belfast Heights. Sheen had not broken the silence, used the journey to regain his composure and evaluate how much he had given away. No way could she know about Fryer’s significance to him and his family. Sheen had only become privy to that information through his meeting with Billy Murphy earlier in the day. But she was clearly upset with him. So silence it was, all the way across Belfast, interrupted only by her (illegal) checking of a small Nokia phone three times during the journey. Sheen assumed it was to do with her daughter, Ava. Perhaps she used a different phone for her personal business? Not unheard of. Sheen wanted to know why she had spoken to the press and what she had said, but it would have to wait.

  ‘Suffice to say, DC McCusker, that I represent the broader voice of the security services in my role with the N.I.O,’ said Oswald. He was English, but unlike Sheen his soft accent was hard to place beyond the fact that he had probably been public school educated.

  ‘My colleagues in Special Branch suggested that I join you today to add a little intelligence led insight about the possible role of Dissident republican paramilitaries in the recent spate of criminal activities experienced over the last twenty four hours,’ he said, hands palm down, thumbs touching. Aoife interrupted him.

  ‘That is our strongest lead by far,’ she said. Oswald looked at her, mouth half open. Irwin was glaring right at her, his colour deepening by the second. If she noticed, she did not show it. Sheen supressed a smile; it must have been a long time since Oswald was cut short. She had some guts.

  ‘We have Semtex used at the substation, a link to a fire bomb attack last night at Belfast Heights. A republican, John Fryer, is missing. We believe that he escaped and was assisted in doing so by those responsible for the explosion. We also have a circumstantial link to connect the murder of Mrs. Moore and the substation bombing. Dissidents have already started to claim responsibility for Mrs. Moore and the substation online-’

  Oswald raised both palms from the table, cutting her off.

  ‘Which Dissident group has claimed responsibility, exactly? I assume you are privy to the recognised code words in use to verify such claims? There are now no fewer than four active Dissident republican paramilitary splinter groups at work in Ulster. I can assure you, there are informants and agents hard at work in all of them, sending a steady stream of intelligence our way.’ Aoife said nothing. Irwin skewered her with a look.

  ‘So let me spell this out for you DC McCusker, DI Sheen and you too, DCI Kirkcaldy: There is no Dissident republican angle in this. None whatsoever. If there were, I would know about it. To publicise it as such runs the risk of giving war junkies and their supporters much needed propaganda and risks adding to what is already an incendiary situation this 12th of July weekend,’ said Oswald. Sheen glanced at Irwin. Oswald just demolished his main line of investigation.

  ‘Is that clear?’ finished Oswald, looking at each person seated round the table in turn.

  ‘Crystal, Oswald, thank you for your assistance in clarifying this,’ said Irwin. ‘In fairness, it was only one angle, and we can play it down when I speak to the press later,’ he said. Sheen looked at Aoife.

  ‘I spoke to the press, at Belfast Heights,’ she said, voice as timid as the school girl she had apparently regressed to.

  ‘What?’ asked Oswald and Irwin simultaneously.

  ‘Just to the UTV crew, the local lot. I might have mentioned the Dissident link. Seemed like a good time to show we were on top of the case, and it is our best lead, or was,’ she said. Oswald looked at Irwin. Irwin stared at Aoife blackly.

  Sheen gritted his te
eth, this was his fault. He had lost his rag at the Heights, stormed off in a rage. If he had kept a lid on it, he would have also kept an eye on her, behaved like a partner. She would never have blundered into such a poor decision.

  ‘I suggested that she speak to the press,’ said Sheen. Oswald moved his head to look at him, very slowly like a lizard appraising potential prey. Irwin’s face twitched, his eyes flicked between Aoife and Sheen.

  ‘I thought we should put out a clear message; we seemed happy that we had our ducks in a row. Aoife, DC McCusker was against it, I pushed her to do it. Effectively I pulled rank if I am to be honest. I didn’t want to speak to the press directly, given my transitional status, and the role I will be undertaking in the months to come,’ he said. The men at the table were absolutely quiet. Irwin’s face was a study of unmitigated disappointment. It was impossible to tell if Oswald believed him. He deftly pushed his chair back from the table and walked softly to the door. Aoife spoke.

  ‘I did not mention anything alarmist, only that while we were following several lines of enquiry, Dissidents being one,’ she said softly.

  ‘For your sake, DC McCusker, I hope you are right,’ said Oswald from the door. He exited and was gone. Now you see him, now you don’t. The door clicked closed.

  ‘In future, DI Sheen, you will leave press briefings to me or to one of my superiors. Is that understood?’ said Irwin.

  ‘Totally,’ said Sheen.

  ‘DC McCusker, you have disappointed me. I was led to expect more tact from someone who cut their teeth working Community Relations. Just so we are clear, you take you orders in this case from me, and only from me,’ he said.

  ‘Sir,’ she answered.

  Irwin sighed, pushed his face into both his palms. The angry man had gone, in its place an overgrown country school boy.

  ‘No matter, we move forward. The Dissident angle is out, Semtex or none. Let’s rethink, see where the facts are leading us. On the plus side, MacBride extracted a hair from the plug hole in Mrs. Moore’s bathtub. It is different from those which appear to correspond with Mrs. Moore, though both have been sent to England for DNA comparison, fast track but it will take no less than a day, probably more. Could be something, could be nothing,’ said Irwin.

  ‘Every touch leaves a trace,’ said Sheen. Sheen went on to explain the physical links between Esther Moore’s murder scene and the explosion at the substation; the boot prints, the fact that a Doc Martin box was the likely trigger for the booby trap bomb, the discovery of the bra. Irwin nodded, but still did not look overjoyed.

  ‘Paddy bagged the bra,’ said Aoife.

  ‘I’ll have it sent away separately, see if we can get a trace that confirms it to be Esther Moore’s. Without the DNA it is just a discarded piece of underwear in the long grass on a hill side,’ said Irwin. Irwin was correct; Sheen had seen good evidence discredited in court by barristers who cast reasonable doubt where none really existed.

  ‘Any update on the young man we were looking for at Tiger’s bay, sir?’ asked Aoife.

  ‘Jamie Anderson you mean? No. His mother is back, not been able to get in touch with him. Worryingly for a teen, his phone is not responsive, and the lad has his MAC password protected so she can’t access it. Meaning we can’t locate the phone. Not yet anyway. We’ve asked the phone company to send his records and triangulate the last time it was in use. Technically he is not yet missing but the mother is pulling her hair out. His picture’s been mailed to all units,’ said Irwin.

  ‘Cecil Moore’s man Nelson?’ said Aoife.

  ‘You actually saw Nelson McKinty talking to this lad, or take him away?’ asked Irwin. He was looking at both Sheen and Aoife. Aoife glanced at Sheen. This was his call, it was he who first noticed Nelson on the move at the community centre, and went after him. But he had not even laid eyes on Jamie Anderson, either in the centre, or on the street. Reluctantly, Sheen shook his head.

  ‘Not exactly, no,’ said Sheen. There had been enough bending of the facts for one day, and already, enough blow back.

  ‘Then you know darn well, it’s not enough. Still, that man Nelson is a pervert, like his master. I will send a uniform round to the Bad Bet; see if we can get him to account for his movements. If not, I’ll bring him in,’ said Irwin.

  ‘What about Cecil Moore?’ asked Sheen. He thought he saw Aoife tense beside him, just a fractional raising of her shoulders, or perhaps he was imagining things. Irwin scoffed.

  ‘What about him? You heard Oswald. The Dissident angle is dead in the water, we halt any more probes into Cecil’s underworld business deals with splinter republicans,’ said Irwin.

  ‘Known enemies, bad blood within the loyalist community?’ asked Sheen.

  ‘An abundance of both. Moore had a fall out with a guy called Scotty Woods from the Shankill not long ago, but there is no way that bottom feeder would dare confront him, and definitely not by murdering his mother. Cecil’s UDA and the UVF have a détente and the word down the jungle drums is that Esther Moore’s murder was not a loyalist home job. In fact, all fingers are pointing at Dissidents, which leaves us back where we started,’ he said.

  ‘What if we release the audio recording from SecuriTel, we might get a name,’ suggested Aoife.

  ‘Oh we will; we’ll get the phone book. It’ll send the press into a feeding frenzy, probably drive those responsible deeper underground. It’s an option, but not our best, more likely to muddy the waters than not,’ said Irwin.

  ‘We have to find John Fryer, no matter what Oswald says. Fryer was broken out of the Heights for a reason. There is a clear link,’ said Sheen. Aoife explained the mystery guest on Friday mornings who stopped visiting in time for CCTV evidence to be recorded over, her suggestion an E Fit be put together using Adeola’s memory of the man. She also told Irwin she had bagged the blood stained gauze, something to give them a recent DNA comparison, should it be necessary.

  ‘The nurse who worked with Fryer, he said that Fryer’s visitor had long blonde hair, called him goldilocks,’ said Sheen. He had forgotten about the goldilocks comment from Adeola, and now he could see how it chimed in with the hair found in Esther Moore’s bath.

  ‘Then let’s get that artist’s impression done quickly, the E Fit will be shared with all units, and a recent photograph of Fryer,’ said Irwin. He shook his head. ‘The streets are awash with ex-prisoners, throw a stone in west Belfast and you’re going to hit a Provo that served time. Yet this guy goes to the hassle of creating a distraction fire and breaks Fryer out of the Heights? Why?’ He looked at Sheen and Aoife as though for an answer, but neither could give it.

  ‘If they’re not Dissidents, then what are they? What sort of cause is this? Find me a link, something that connects Cecil Moore and his mother with John Fryer and Belfast Heights.’ Their challenge set, Sheen and Aoife both stood, she moved quickly to the door.

  ‘But keep the heck away from any republicans, Dissident or otherwise, assume Fryer’s former employment is incidental,’ Irwin said.

  ‘Sir,’ said Sheen. He looked round, but Aoife was gone. Sheen called down the corridor for her to wait. She stopped and turned, her eyes full of reproach.

  Chapter 25.

  ‘Next time I need you to take the blame for my mess ups I will let you know. How dare you?!’

  ‘Hey! No need to get us both killed. I’m sorry if I have upset you. Just thought that what happened was partly my fault, if I had kept a closer eye on things, you might not have spoken to the press the way you did,’ he said, still fumbling with the belt. She glanced at Sheen, then at the speedometer, which was well over forty mph along the build-up city street. A blare of horns from behind, someone she cut up. Typical man; he saw himself as central in every problem, and himself as the required solution. If they could look after themselves for five minutes she would not be in the jam she now was.

  ‘Don’t you ever take what’s mine, do you hear me? You’d no right.’

  If she saw a smirk on Sheen’s face she was going t
o belt him, she’d crash this bloody car if it meant doing it. Sheen was nodding, no smirk. He looked part penitent and part sullen, staring out the windscreen. She breathed out, suddenly aware she had a lung full of air, she scrubbed some speed off. The beat of blood slowed in her ears, her words replayed in her mind until they started to sound like someone else, angrier, less reasonable.

  They sat in silence, city bound.

  A winking row of red tail lights blinking to life up ahead; traffic was queuing to turn up the Castlereagh Road, she pumped the brake. The guy did her a good turn and she was jumping down his throat. Probably he deserved it, but at least in part this anger was coming from somewhere else, and it should be directed at someone else. Charlie Donaldson for a start, but even Charlie was a relative innocent in all of this.

  A vibration in her trouser pocket, it was a message from Cecil. Sheen stared out the window as they edged forward to the lights at the junction, arms crossed. She sneaked a peek at her phone.

  Thanks for that wee message on UTV Live. If there is something I should know about, be sure to let me know. Love Dad. X.

  Aoife deleted the message, followed the sluggish traffic as they inched closer to town, slow progress explained as they were waved through a police checkpoint. They were monitoring traffic flow from the east of the city travelling west. The blackout was clearly expected. By the time she got over the Albert Bridge and back into the city centre, it was almost six.

  ‘Where are we going by the way,’ asked Sheen. Fact was when she left Ladas Drive she had no plan other than to dump Sheen at his hotel. Or in the Lagan. The DNA tests on the hairs found in Esther Moore’s bath would be another day at least, and there was no sign of Jamie Anderson, the possible witness to Esther Moore’s murder. Meaning welcome to the biggest part of police work they never taught you at training college; the art of waiting.