‘Let’s go, boy,’ said John.
Christopher exhaled; he was getting out of here. He started to move towards John Fryer. The mutt padded past him, went over to John and waited obediently by his new master’s side. Fryer had been addressing the dog, not him. They stood together; stocky man, stocky dog. It was watching him, the dog that just ripped out a man’s throat and peeled off his face.
‘John, do a quick check out the front door.’
John nodded, told the dog to stay. He walked out. Seconds later her heard the front door unlatch. Christopher moved slowly to the table and lifted Daddy’s Ruger. He watched the dog. The dog watched him. He felt a vibration from his phone, then another and yet another. More alerts, the word had spread. A whispered shout came from the direction of the front door, John’s voice.
‘Clear,’ he said. The dog glanced in the direction of the voice, just the smallest break of its gaze from Christopher.
In the same second, Christopher raised the gun and pointed it at the mutt. His Daddy had taught him how to draw and handle a weapon, said it was essential. He had also taught him how to fire one. A deafening bang, followed by two more, yellow sparks spat from the muzzle of the gun. The dog jerked, tried to run, fell. He could taste the cordite, a high pitched alarm bell ringing in his ears.
The dog was prostrate on its side, blood leaked from the three holes. Its breath was coming in fast rasping pants and its legs were scrabbling and scratching. John burst through the dining room entrance. He looked at the dog on the floor, then at Christopher. Then he went down hard on his knees, and put a hand on it. The mutt’s legs had stopped making a run for it. Dog gone, he thought and swallowed hard and grinded his teeth. This would be a bad time to start laughing. John glared up at him.
‘No,’ he said. Not shouting, sounding close to tears. Fryer repeated himself over and over, both hands cradling the animal’s big head.
‘That dog,’ he said, jabbing the gun in the direction of the carcass, ‘it went for me. It was going to kill me.’ John physically slumped, then got up slowly. Christopher lowered the gun. ‘Would you rather it was me?’ Fryer did not speak. Instead, he locked eyes with Christopher, and in that moment Christopher got his reply. Fryer briefly returned his attention to the carrion on the floor, turned away and walked out of the dining room in the direction of the front door. Christopher could hear the whine of sirens, getting closer. Alone with Dempsey and the dog, the house was immediately as thick with silence as it was with the coppery fumes of congealing blood. He put the Ruger into his belt; saw that the mutt’s mess had seeped over to kiss one of his Doc Martin’s. Christopher made a sound of disgust and flicked the filth off his boot.
He hurried out of the kitchen, picked up the plastic bag with the light from the hallway and scurried from Dempsey’s house. He looked left and right at the gate. No police, but no John Fryer either. He headed for the parked taxi, looking for the man dressed like his dead Daddy, who had disappeared into the mist of the Belfast night.
Part 3:
Blood On The Rise.
Chapter 1.
Belfast, Northern Ireland, present day. Sunday 11th July.
Dawn had seeped a grey brown light over the vista of Belfast city as Aoife parked up on Lincoln View. It had just gone five am. She had been jolted awake in Sheen’s hotel bed (headache, sandpaper mouth) by Irwin’s call an hour before. Sheen had been asleep on the two seater sofa; small mercies. By the time she used the bathroom and borrowed his deodorant, Sheen was awake too and she had given him the update.
‘Jim Dempsey has been murdered and Belfast is fucked.’
In the inky light she could make out half a dozen pallet stacked bonfires in the city below. They were taller than the terraced streets which surrounded them, one almost as high as the twenty storey flats which were adjacent. Tonight, the pallets would be set to flame and the loyalist fires would burn, seeing in the Glorious 12th and in Belfast, the past would come to life and take over. She shivered in the breeze that carried the smell of burning, a residue of the violence across the Peace Line between the Falls and the Shankill, which had been reported on the news.
Four police Land Rovers blocked off access to the end of the street. In front of the vehicles, blue police tape was tied across the road, a uniformed officer standing guard, submachine gun held in both hands. A moment of Deja vu, it was almost identical to the scene she had arrived at the day before in Tiger’s Bay.
They showed their warrant cards and ducked under the blue tape. ‘The west of the city, Dempsey’s street included, is blacked out. Made it a lot easier to get in and kill a man, who lived and breathed security for most of his adult life,’ she said. Sheen stopped, and she waited too, her hair lifted in the cold breeze, goose flesh prickling her arms.
‘The substation explosion; if you can’t turn out just one light, turn out all the lights. Meaning killing Dempsey was always their plan,’ she said.
‘Or the start of one,’ he said. More acrid smoke on the breeze.
‘Out of Chaos,’ she said.
They reached Dempsey’s house. A white forensics tent annexed the front door and part of the garden. A generator hummed, cables running off it, one powering a powerful halogen lamp that illuminated the inside of the tent and the hallway beyond. They changed into protective suits and signed in. Aoife walked through the door, careful to follow the white plastic stepping plates.
She noted the remains of burnt out candles on the floor, and the blood deposits, drops and splashes on the floor, marked by the CSIs. She stopped and pulled the open front door towards her, Sheen by her side. The chain was snapped, hanging on by a single screw, and there was a smear of blood on the inside of the door above it. She pointed at first one, then the other, and Sheen nodded. He got it, forced entry, but the door must have been opened first, the hinges and main lock looked undamaged. She turned her attention to the bottom step of the stairs where she could see a chewed rubber bone behind an open security gate, its key still in the lock.
‘If he had a dog, and it was let out, how come it didn’t guard him?’ said Sheen.
Aoife continued into the house, following predesignated white steps before them. She saw blood, first a little, then, as she entered the kitchen area, a lot. Then she saw Dempsey’s dog. Aoife stared at the black, furry hulk that was on the floor beside the dining room table. What she initially thought was a dark rug beneath the dog’s body was a congealed pool of black blood. The smell in the room was overpowering; thick and raw, the smell of slaughter. It summoned an echo of sawdust floored butcher shops from her childhood. In the super bright glare of the halogens the dog’s body looked hyper real, like a prop from a B movie.
‘That was one huge dog,’ she said. Sheen grunted agreement. She reached out to touch the oily smoothness of the dog’s head. The animal’s eyes were part closed, a film of blue formed over one, no life light. There was a penny tag on the leather collar round the dog’s neck, a name pressed into its smooth surface.
Cara: Friend.
‘Look,’ said Sheen. He was pointing down at the tiled kitchen floor. There, partially obscured under the pool of thick blood that had spread from the dog’s body was a foot print.
‘Looks like this is our boy,’ he said, taking a few photos on his mobile. It was partial, but clear enough, same groves running from left to right, a boat shaped tongue up the middle. The same person, or at least the same pair of boots, had been at all crime scenes.
Dempsey’s body had already been removed. The story was still an easy one to read. There was an overturned chair across the room, next to the sink and cupboard units. On the floor, plastic box ties, once closed, now cut. They must have been used to secure him to the chair, removed when it was time to take the body away. And there was blood, a small lake of it, pooled on the white tile floor around the top of the upturned chair, splashes of gore on the cupboard doors, and spattered across the floor in an arc, where Dempsey’s head had probably laid. He had struggled hard before he died. Sh
e glanced back at the dead dog; its muzzle was caked with blood, she made the connection. Her stomach twisted. She needed air.
Aoife sidestepped past Sheen who was busy taking shots, then stopped. There, next to the leg of the dining room table, concealed behind a chair leg, were two pinched roll up butts, squashed flat. On one she saw a brown spot; possibly blood. She took a plastic bag from her pocket and picked up the two butts. She recalled Fryer’s empty cell, in Belfast Heights. There was an unopened packet of rolling tobacco, and the rolling papers resting on top. It was what had convinced Adeloa that he was really catatonic. Fryer was a chain smoker.
‘Fryer’s been here too,’ she said, holding up the butts so Sheen could see. ‘There’s blood on one of these ends, we can confirm it with DNA. Wonder if Irwin will tell us to keep our distance now?’ she said, standing up to find Irwin whom she could hear from the front entrance. She stopped, dead.
Aoife stepped off the white forensic steps and moved across the kitchen floor. She stepped on some of the blood, felt it slippery under her feet, but Aoife did not stop moving, she did not care. She was staring straight ahead at what she had seen, on the side of Dempsey’s fridge. She heard Sheen’s voice, he sounded urgent.
There was a photograph on the fridge, secured next to a child’s drawing and scrawled message: I love you Granda. She reached out and pulled the photograph free. It showed a little girl, her dark hair crimped in tight ringlets and festooned with green and orange ribbons, she was dressed in a green and sequin Irish dancing dress. Dempsey was next to the child, his arm round her shoulder. But it was not her, or him that had brought her across the room in stunned silence.
There, mid dance, captured in the background, was Ava. She was wearing her competition dress, her wiry blond hair worked into cane rows on her head, falling round her neck and shoulders in stiff braids. This was taken at the Culturlann, last year. Aoife started to shake, tears coursed unchecked, hot and angry, down her cheeks.
John Fryer and whoever was with him last night would have seen this photo if they had looked at the fridge, they would have laid eyes on her little girl. Those murderers had been allowed to see her, and even more absurdly, even though she understood it was neither true nor possible, she felt that she had allowed Ava to somehow witness the horror that had taken place in this kitchen hours before.
‘Fuck,’ she hissed, clenched the photograph.
‘Aoife,’ hissed Sheen, full of warning.
She turned round to see Irwin in the doorway. He looked at her, then focused on the photograph in her hand. His mouth opened, his colour already deepened.
‘DC McCusker, you’d best have a good reason for contaminating a perfectly good crime scene. Outside, now!’ he said. Then, as though reaching the heart of the professional misconduct before his eyes, he added, ‘And for goodness sake please stop crying like a school girl on the job,’ he said.
Chapter 2.
As she emerged from the tent she could see members of the press had gathered beyond the parked Land Rovers on the other side of the blue tape. Irwin was at the front gate, saw her looking in that direction. His colour had returned to ruddy from its previous magenta.
‘Oh don’t you worry, DC McCusker, I have already briefed them, your expertise will not be needed there,’ he said. ‘Now explain to me what the heck I just walked in on,’ he said.
Her tears were gone but she felt her tendons and muscles tighten. Christ almighty she wanted to smash this man in the face. Instead, she took in a shuddering breath. When she spoke, her voice still had a quiver but she managed to keep it steady.
‘Sir, I found this photograph on Dempsey’s fridge,’ she said. Irwin took the photograph from her and scanned it, then looked up.
‘And? What am I seeing here?’ he asked, handing it back. She pushed it back at him and he kept it.
‘Look again, sir. The child in the background, she is my daughter,’ she said. Irwin scrutinised the photograph again. ‘Dempsey must have taken his granddaughter to the same Irish dancing competition that I brought Ava, last year,’ she said. Irwin was still squinting at the photograph, looking confused.
‘That child is half cast,’ he said. It was a statement, but his face made it a question. One she was not prepared to answer.
‘Yes, sir, Ava is mixed,’ she said. ‘I am her legal guardian,’ she added. Irwin grunted, but as he watched her, his complexion mellowed. He continued to observe her, as though she was a new species of some sort. Irwin had large dark bags under his eyes, the whites tinged with red, but he was definitely not nursing a hangover. He ran a hand over his usually shining smooth face, and it rasped loudly.
‘I have two daughters, bit younger. I can see how that would cause a person a shock. But try to keep your emotions under control from now on. This needs to be bagged and sent for prints, not that there will be any point now,’ he said, his tone more gentle than before. He handed the photograph back to Aoife. She waited for him to say something else, but that was it apparently. ‘Back to this,’ he said this, nodding in the direction of Dempsey’s house.
‘Looks as though the dog was used, somehow, to kill Dempsey,’ offered Sheen.
‘I worked that out myself. But I doubt whether that Rottweiler tied him by the ankles to the kitchen chair or kicked his door in. Body had signs of torture, teeth removed, cigarette burns on the face, smashed knee cap. But the dog killed him, MacBride’s colleague who is running the CSIs said the pathologist will make short work of the autopsy. Which means the body will be released for burial in a couple of days. Given the current climate a high profile republican funeral is all we need,’ said Irwin.
‘CCTV?’ asked Aoife. Irwin shook his head. Aoife told him about the foot print, and the discarded roll up, the spot of blood.
‘Fryer disappears from Belfast Heights yesterday and a day later, Jim Dempsey, his former CO turns up dead. We have to go after him,’ said Sheen.
‘The DNA will tell us for sure. If he is involved in this murder, we will have him. But do nothing that will bring Oswald and Special Branch down on us. I want to know who’s wearing the boots, DI Sheen, and I want a link, something concrete that connects John Fryer to Esther Moore,’ said Irwin.
‘Dempsey’s neighbour called 999 last night. Rap his door, get a statement,’ he said, yawning. ‘I need to get a cup of coffee. This town has been destroying itself all night, madness,’ he said.
‘We heard about the trouble over the Peace Line, a man was killed,’ she said
Irwin nodded. ‘Not released his name yet, but it’s all over social media. Scotty Woods, UDA, lower Shankill,’ he said. She recognised the name. Irwin had mentioned the guy in passing earlier, called him a bottom feeder, a minor adversary of Moore, though part of the same paramilitary group.
‘By nationalists? This is going to cause more trouble,’ she said.
‘Most probably, but he wasn’t killed by the other side. The news says we lifted someone?’ he asked. Aoife told him it did.
‘The shooter is a guy called Jackie Coyle, UVF, and he is telling very interesting tales. Say’s that murdering Scotty Woods wasn’t the plan, things got out of hand. Claims he was ordered to petrol bomb Protestant homes, point the finger at Catholics. Make Scotty look impotent. But also says our friend Cecil Moore was giving the orders via his boss Turk Bates, I assume you know of him?’ he said. Aoife said she did. The guy did not even try to pretend that he was involved in community politics, he was a criminal, and he owned a share of most of the drugs shipped into Belfast. On paper, he was Cecil Moore’s political ally, but also his business enemy. She shook her head, said that it didn’t make any sense.
‘Why is Cecil Moore working with Turk Bates?’ she asked.
‘Think about who benefits if Scotty Woods is removed from the frame,’ said Irwin. The picture suddenly cleared. Irwin was right, it was obvious. Cecil would be able to move in and take over UDA operations in Scotty’s patch, and the timing was perfect. The public and the media were still distracted by
his mother’s murder, and while that was so, Cecil was beyond reproach. His move caused riots in the streets; and Cecil would be there to save the day, with the strong man of the people act. Better to have people afraid, looking to him for leadership, increasing his territory, and his profit.
‘Moore is unbelievable,’ she said. Irwin grunted in agreement.
‘Pride before fall, DC McCusker. Jackie Coyle is up in Antrim Area Police Station and he’s going on the record against Turk, Moore, the other low lifes who were involved last night. I am going to lift Moore for questioning, and the others. In my experience one rat jumps, the others surely follow. With any luck Cecil Moore will be left holding the rudder and we can send him down,’ said Irwin. Irwin’s phone chirped and he answered it, listened and then ended the call with thanks.
‘That kid Anderson has turned up. Royal Victoria Hospital, in very bad shape, but he is alive at least. We will go and have a word, when you are finished here,’ said Irwin. As Aoife and Sheen turned to knock on Dempsey’s neighbour, Irwin called her name, and she looked back. Irwin’s eyes were fixed on her, a roadmap of red blood vessels, burning in his pale face. She braced herself for the quip, or the final chastisement, but instead his face creased into a weary smile. ‘Your wee girl’s a lovely looking child. If I were you, I’d check in on her. If you know she’s safe and well you will be able to do your job with a clear head,’ he said. Irwin marched off before she could reply.
‘Thank you sir, I will,’ she said softly. Her hands remained at her sides and the phone stayed in her pocket. For a couple of seconds, Aoife was too stunned to move.
Chapter 3.
Aoife and Sheen were squeezed into the small sofa in the front room of Dempsey’s neighbour, a man named Phelan Brown. A large wooden board, the size of a child’s first snooker table, hung on the wall. A St. Brigit’s cross was embossed on its surface, composed on thousands of meticulously clipped and lacquered match sticks, each one carefully glued in place. She had seen similar craftwork in the homes of many former prisoners during her days in Community Relations. The only other decoration was a framed colour photograph, about half the size of the cross. It was of a young man, small brown moustache, blue jeans, zipped up green bomber jacket, smiling and leaning against a blue Cortina car. The image was grainy; she guessed pre digital, just like his tash and stone washed jeans.
Blood Will Be Born Page 18