‘Did they teach you nothing in the Met, Sheen? It’s always about the money, or revenge, or fucking love,’ he said. Sheen felt his pulse treble, they were going to be warned off Fryer, or sent in the wrong direction, Paddy could not see the wood for the trees.
‘With respect, this has nothing to do with money. Christopher left without touching Esther Moore’s rings and jewellery. But he took the time to mutilate her body and write a message for us on her parlour wall. The money is not relevant,’ he said. Paddy was staring at him, his jaw clenched. Sheen sat back in his chair, steadied his breathing. He had been almost shouting. He was angry, but not just because Paddy was refusing to listen, because his reasoning sounded so solid.
‘The money man on the Falls Road stated that he was down just under five K. Meaning he was probably down ten times that if not more. We are not talking about robbing some granny of her Giro, this is proper money, especially for those who have absolutely none,’ he said. Another new card, something he did not understand. Paddy read the question that must have been written on Sheen’s face, he started to nod.
‘Old fashioned detective work Sheen, the type that solves cases based on the facts, not based on theories, or feelings. Fryer just got out of the loony bin, the man has no bank account, no assets, nothing. Fryer is going to want to eat, no? And if I had just broken out, I would be planning to stay out, maybe even enjoy my time. Christopher Moore’s bank statement tells its own tale,’ said Paddy sifting through a stack of printed pages on the desk and setting ten or more between Sheen and Aoife so they could read them.
‘Our boy does not have a job, been living off the life insurance of his dead father, the money was transferred into his account after his mother was committed. Good sum, but as you can see, it’s nearly gone,’ he said. Sheen flicked through the pages, Paddy was right. The numbers dwindled from a five figure sum several years before to just over £150 by last week. All cash withdrawals, no credits.
‘Those two facts tell me that money matters. Follow the money, find the motive. Next is revenge. Christopher Moore gives his grandmother a terrible death for reasons best clear in his own sick brain, but given that she was Cecil Moore’s mother, and Christopher’s late father married a Roman Catholic, I think we can safely say that she never sat him on her knee and fed him sweets. Former colleagues of Christopher’s father confirmed his family disowned him long ago. Apparently he had to discharge his weapon once after taking his boy to the mother’s house, that was the kind of welcome they got,’ said Paddy.
‘Christopher befriends John Fryer, makes a deal to bust him out, they go on the rampage, getting their revenge. Christopher kills Granny, Fryer wipes out Dempsey, who was the man that had him locked up there in the first place, and then they cash in their chips, and get their asses out of Dodge,’ said Paddy. He glanced from Sheen to Aoife, nodding slowly; reading what was probably a look of shared revelation on their faces.
‘Oh, you didn’t know that? Aye, Dempsey was his CO on the street, and then had him locked away. Would piss me off,’ he said. Sheen gritted his teeth, stared at Paddy and Paddy held his gaze. It was tight reasoning, and under different circumstances, Sheen would have been the first to back him.
‘That leaves us love, and so far, there has been precious little of that in Belfast of late,’ said Paddy.
‘There is more to this, it’s not a revenge murder or robbery, they will hit again, probably bigger next time,’ said Sheen.
‘Hit who? There is nobody left to hit Sheen, you need to wake up. It’s over; Fryer’s old comrades are all dead, so is Dempsey. We knocked on doors down St James and you know what? Most people there don’t even remember him; the man’s a nobody, forgotten. The Belfast Taxi Company hasn’t even got a record of Fryer. The two of them have taken the money and disappeared, exactly as they had planned all along. And we will be damn lucky if we ever set eyes on the pair of them in Belfast again. The work you did connecting the two of them was good, but you were slow, they were fast, and so far, they have been smarter. So, before I draw a line under this, I’ll ask you again, who are they going to hit? Where exactly can I find Fryer and Christopher Moore?’ Sheen’s mind whirled, he could see something, skipping just beyond his vision like flickering lights, and with them the answer that he needed. It was there for an instant, then gone. He did not reply.
‘So what? Are you saying we just let them go?’ asked Aoife.
‘No, I am saying we do our best to catch them, but there is only so much we can put into this. We are stretched to capacity. Fryer has no passport. Christopher Moore would be foolish to try to use his. We have to assume they know we are looking for them. So we will set up a rota of checkpoints at well used border crossings, as well as others known for smuggling. If they try to leave the country, they will go that way, or, they will head for the docks and try to escape on a ferry to Scotland, maybe bribe their way on a container ship,’ said Paddy.
‘Sir, listen –’ Aoife started, but he interrupted her abruptly.
‘No! You listen, both of you, I want these bastards caught. Irwin Kirkcaldy was a decent man and a friend of mine. You will follow orders. Get yourselves down to the docks; start looking for these clowns, fortune might turn in your favour.’ Sheen was about to argue, but he swallowed it. It would make no difference. He stood up and left the room, Aoife too. He hoped Paddy was right about getting lucky, because Christopher and Fryer seemed to have the luck of the Devil himself.
Chapter 22.
‘Turn it off,’ said Sheen, Aoife pressed standby on the television remote. The screen went black, and the Operation Room in Ladas Drive PSNI station went deathly quiet. The news had started by reporting that Jim Dempsey’s funeral was scheduled for tomorrow. He was to be buried in Milltown Cemetery’s Republican Plot, next to his old comrade Bobby Sands, huge crowds expected. It ended with Cecil Moore, released without charge by the PSNI. Sheen and Aoife knew why; Jackie Coyle had somehow managed to hang himself in police custody.
Moore had been speaking on an improvised stage next to a bonfire in the lower Shankill, the community he had turned up to save from attack. An attack he had organised. He said he would stand shoulder to shoulder with his Protestant brethren, and that he would march on the 12th of July to join the new Orange protest camp near Twaddle Avenue in north Belfast. It was the place where those who had been denied the right to march their traditional route stood their ground, the apotheosis of loyalists under siege. And a good photo opportunity.
‘Drink?’ asked Aoife. Sheen nodded and soon, Aoife handed him a polystyrene cup of black coffee. It would be too hot, too bitter, but that was too bad. Only he and Aoife remained, Paddy had gone to be with Irwin’s widow. They had spent the afternoon and evening trying to spot Fryer and Christopher Moore at different entry points at Belfast docks. No joy, just a steady stream of mostly men, coming from Scotland.
‘Thanks,’ he said, looking at the crime scene photos pinned to his board, now attached to the Operation Room wall. ‘We wasted our time this afternoon you know,’ he said.
‘Paddy’s the gaffer for now,’ she said. Which was true, there was a chain of command. Sheen blew on his drink, took a small sip, and winced. He needed a mental jolt, something to move his brain up a gear. In the briefing with Paddy earlier, he had come close to something, something that was going to help. No matter how much coffee he had downed at the docks today, it remained beyond his reach, a ship on the horizon, moving further away.
‘Paddy’s in charge, but Paddy is still wrong. This is not about money, it was never about money. Fryer could have been living in the lap of luxury up on Lincoln View with Dempsey if he had played the game,’ said Sheen.
‘We are talking about fifty thousand, maybe more. A man might think he isn’t motivated by money until he finds a bag stuffed full of it. People change,’ suggested Aoife. Sheen shook his head.
‘Paddy said himself, these two are a team, and I think he is right on that. Whatever they have planned,’ said Sheen, moving ove
r to the board and tapping the picture of the blood painted words daubed on the wall of Esther Moore’s parlour room. ‘I think they plan to carry it out together. Something that will create total chaos,’ said Sheen. Aoife’s phone started to ring; it was her smartphone, he noted, not the small Nokia. Aoife picked it up. A short conversation, she listened and then said, ‘Yes, good news, thanks for the fast turnaround, bye.’ Sheen nodded to her; he wanted the news, anything good.
‘That was the London lab. The blood on the cigarette end found at Dempsey’s came back as a positive match for Fryer,’ she said. Her eyes were twinkling, but Sheen only nodded and turned his attention to the board. It was good news, but no break through; now they knew for sure that Fryer had killed his former CO, but it brought them no closer to finding him, or Christopher Moore. He dragged a chair from the table and slumped into it, elbows resting on his knees. He stared at the evidence board; he was down, but not yet out. Aoife was looking at her phone.
‘Trouble along the Peace Line in west Belfast, same as last night, plus in Ardoyne in north Belfast, and other places; Portadown, Lurgan, parts of Derry. Its spreading, looks like Freeloader is partly to blame; young people calling each other out, egging one another on,’ said Aoife. She sounded tired too. ‘Rioting, it’s the age old Northern Irish pastime, a close second to the all-time favourite; killing each other and burying our dead. The past’s played out year in and year out, but this year it is even worse,’ she said.
Sheen could see the flickering lights again, but this time they were headstones, reflecting the morning sun as they drove past.
‘What was that you just said?’ asked Sheen.
‘What, about rioting?’ she started, but got no further as Sheen interrupted her.
‘No, no, the other bit, burying the dead, you said the past is played out every year, and each year the past becomes the present?’ said Sheen. Aoife thought for a second, nodded, agreeing.
‘Close enough,’ she said.
‘That’s right, that is exactly right,’ said Sheen. He stepped over and took a closer look at the photo of the substation, the partially visible graffiti, a chaos of contradictions, the A for Anarchy straddled over all.
‘We’ve been looking out for these men, but our answer is behind us. In the past. Tomorrow Jim Dempsey will be buried in Milltown Cemetery, same place a loyalist once attacked and murdered mourners at another IRA funeral in 1988. He tried to take out the entire republican leadership in one go, all filmed by the world’s media, remember?’
‘Jesus,’ said Aoife. He could hear the change in her voice, recognition replacing exasperation.
‘Only this time, a funeral will not be attacked by some freelance loyalist,’ said Sheen. He turned, looked her full in the face and he could feel the excitement pass between them, like high voltage jumping between live wire and raw steel.
‘It will be John Fryer, Dempsey’s friend and one of their own,’ she said. Sheen nodded.
‘And tomorrow the past will march on the streets of Belfast wearing Orange sashes, beating the tribal drums, commemorating Protestant sacrifices. Cecil Moore will be there, he just said so on telly,’ said Sheen.
‘And so will Christopher, ready to serve up the past with a new spin. Cecil’s own blood is going to attack the Order, and murder him. Oh my God Sheen, we need to find them,’ she said, starting to move. Sheen raised a hand, she stopped, but her face told him she wanted an explanation.
‘Half of Belfast is blacked out; a fair swathe of the city is fighting in the streets. Paddy told us that Fryer’s old haunts in St James drew a blank, and no more leads came from the house in Bangor. They could be anywhere. So we wait, let them break cover tomorrow, we know where they will go,’ said Sheen.
‘Paddy told us to watch the docks,’ she said. Sheen shook his head, hoping he looked assured, but what he was about to suggest was risky; a formal warning, suspension, possibly worse. Not only for his career, but Aoife’s, he needed to be sure, and he hoped he was right.
‘New orders. Tomorrow you will follow the Orange parade in Belfast, Cecil will be there. Find him and tail him, at some point he is going to draw his crackpot nephew like a wasp to meat. I will follow Dempsey’s funeral. With any luck I will spot Fryer before they even enter the church,’ said Sheen. Aoife looked like she was standing on the edge of a high diving board being told to jump.
‘Paddy will have our heads on spikes. We could work through the night, keep looking? We might get lucky,’ she said, but her proposal lacked energy, and she looked tired.
‘If we deliver Fryer and Christopher Moore tomorrow, we can write our own tickets,’ said Sheen. Which was probably true, but only one man mattered to him; John Fryer. Aoife nodded. He had won her round.
‘I’ll call and make sure Ava is OK and then I am going home for some kip,’ she said. ‘Do you want a lift to your hotel?’ she asked.
‘Please,’ he said, reaching for his jacket. Aoife raised her phone to her ear and walked into the corridor. Sheen looked over at Fryer’s image on the board, his dark, blank eyes. Ade, the nurse from the Heights, had said Fryer had thought he was cursed, being chased by a monster or bogey man from the dark.
‘Hope you have a torch tonight, I don’t want any bogey man getting you before I do,’ said Sheen quietly, to the empty room. He turned off the light, followed Aoife. No, John Fryer, thought Sheen, you keep safe this night mate, because tomorrow, as God is my witness, you answer to me.
Part4:
Blood Will Be Born.
Chapter 1.
Belfast, Northern Ireland, present day. Monday 12th July.
Fryer’s throat burned, the lock up garage on the edge of Poleglass was heavy with the stale smell of many roll ups. The blue smoke of his last still gently twisted in the air, illuminated by the internal light of the taxi where he sat. The rest of the room was thick with darkness. Fryer’s fingers went to work again, and very soon another one was between his lips, dry and papery and set to flame. Fryer sucked in the cutting heat; he needed to be cool. He stretched his cramped leg out the open driver’s door, but after only a few seconds he returned it to the illuminated cab. He did not want it in the dark.
Not for the first time he thought about his cell, its cold comforts and safety. He sipped water from a bottle. Felt good, but it would be even better to see his three pink bedtime pills lined up, and he would take them. He glanced at the kid in the rear view, lying on the back seat. Fryer could see the blue glow of his mobile; the kid’s fingers worked away.
‘Belfast is burning John, they are at each other’s throats across the city; plus Derry, Larne, Newry, Carrickfergus. Everywhere! Government is talking about sending in the troops. It’s happening, just like Daddy said. And this time people won’t bring soldiers cups of tea on the street corners.’ He started one of his laughing fits. Fryer winced, watched as the kid’s legs twitched.
Fryer pinched his cigarette, flicked it out the door, and gripped the wheel. The kid was getting worse, by the hour. Fucking sick; sick enough to murder a dog. Fryer felt his pulse quicken at the thought of Cara, prostrate and bleeding. That dog would have made a great companion in the dark of this night. A good dog can warm the heart of a cold man. Fryer blotted out the broken sound of the kid’s cackling and closed his eyes. He was walking Cara in the Falls Park, the breeze off the Black Mountain lifted his hair pleasantly as he cracked a sweat in the sunshine. The leather leash, tight in one of his hands, held the weight of Cara, huge and straining but obedient. Ava, his granddaughter, held his other hand. She was swinging his arm a bit as she hurried to keep pace, chatting away. Fryer told her that there was buried treasure hidden in a well up the Black Mountain. Gems for his gem, and they were going to find them together.
‘Shut up!’ screamed Fryer. He slammed his open palm on to the dash. The light over the windscreen flickered; brief and total darkness, then came back on. The kid stopped, Fryer glared at him in the mirror.
‘Sorry,’ he said. His face was wet with tears, eyes
still glassy. But he had stopped laughing. ‘No need to scream at me like that. Lose you temper and lose the argument, that’s what my Daddy-’ he said.
‘I’m not arguing kid. And I don’t fucking care what your Daddy said either,’ said Fryer. The kid said nothing. The blue glow from his phone winked out, the back of the cab was in darkness. Time passed. Fryer thought the kid had fallen asleep and when he spoke, his words a slow slur.
‘Tomorrow seal deal John. Dirty job, has be done, suffer lil children, God’s work, suffer lil …’ The kid went quiet, he was gone. Fryer reached for his smokes, rolled one and then one more, stocked up.
Two hours later, the kid was still asleep; his breathing low and steady; no talk from him tonight. Fryer shifted his weight and removed the hand cuffs and razor from his back pocket. He had lifted the cuffs from the armoury before he picked up the two back packs and makings for the bombs they would use tomorrow. The blade was stained with the Accountant’s blood. He set both on the seat beside him, sniffed the air. No sign of the Moley, but if it came blood would flow, though not from his veins, not any more. Yes, Fryer would complete the mission. When the kid told him how the plan had changed, that there would be no coming home, it had been a relief. He had nothing to live for, and nothing to lose. But the kid was not his friend, he had killed the dog, and if needs be, his blood would be shed.
‘He will feed you if you come for me,’ whispered Fryer. His eyes were full and shining. His thoughts returned to Cara, and Ava and he did not fight it. The wind was gusting, fresh as sea foam off the Black Mountain. He let Cara off the leash, watched her sprint into a pool of black crows who took to noisy flight, and Ava laughed and asked him to show her the buried treasure.
Chapter 2.
Cecil popped two ibuprofens into his palm from the foil backed sheet. He was shaking ever so lightly. He waited a second, and then mouthed them, washing the tablets down with a full pint of cold water that was on his bedside dresser. The savage pounding coming from the sides and back of his head was momentarily superseded by a new spike of pain as the cool water froze his brain. He growled, blinking it away, leaving him with the deafening beat of his hangover headache throbbing like a red alert in a nuclear power plant.
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