The Tribes

by Catriona King

  John scrambled for an answer and found one, hurling it back triumphantly. “He fought because the cold water woke him up.”

  Liam supported him, switching sides for a moment. “Or there were two attackers. They shoved him into the boot un-sedated, then took him out, walked him to the river, injected him there and then threw him in.”

  Craig thought about it for a moment. “So he was awake in the car boot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine, then there’ll be fibres or something else to say so.”

  Liam searched for a way to cover his ass just in case there weren’t. “Not if they were washed away by the water.”

  Craig snorted. “If you were in a boot on your way to be killed wouldn’t you be scratching hard at anything nearby trying to find a way out? The fibres will be wedged under his nails.” He turned back to John. “Did you find any, John? Or any signs of restraint, tape, anything to say he’d been held awake anywhere before death?”

  John made a face. “Possibly. But-”

  “It’s early days. Agreed.” Craig hopped off his stool. “OK, all of these scenarios are possible and it’s our job to work out which one fits.” He turned for the door but both of the others waved him back. John got in first.

  “I’ve got something else to show you.” He enlisted their help in sitting their victim up. On the man’s back were two small symbols. Craig lifted a magnifying class to look then raked his dark hair, puzzled.

  “What are you thinking, John?”

  “It’s a small castle and the word ‘Rock’, but you already know that. If you mean what’s their relevance...” He shrugged. “Search me. That’s your bit. But they might help us with his I.D.”

  “Does he have others?”

  “No. That’s why these seem curious. What do you think, Liam? Could they be gang tattoos? It might fit with the hit theory.”

  Liam frowned. “They’re nothing I’ve seen before, but nothing would surprise me about gangs. Some of the idiots would stamp their tribe on their forehead if they thought that it looked good. Anyway, the boss still hasn’t explained why this feels like a hit.”

  Craig gave a twisted smile. “Drugged, pushed into a river with his hands stamped on, probably in the dead of night. It would be a hit in any book I read.”

  ****

  McMorrow’s Bar. 5.30 p.m.

  Tommy had been playing with his whisky tumbler for half-an-hour, turning it this way and that and now and again running his finger around the rim, to generate a high-pitched whine that he knew would get on the Republican’s nerves. Micky Hanratty watched him with gritted teeth, feigning uncharacteristic tolerance. He really wanted to clock the wee bastard one on the jaw and would have done so the second time Tommy had played his tune, if it hadn’t been that he really needed him for a job.

  Finally the Dubliner had had enough and he reached for the whisky and re-filled Tommy’s glass. At least it would change the song.

  “Time to talk turkey, Mr Hill.”

  Tommy stopped rubbing and shot him a sceptical look. “And wat the fuck wud we huv to talk about? When I’m wan of God’s own people and yeer lousy Fenian scum.”

  Hanratty felt his bile rise and with it his contempt for the man across the booth. Maybe what he’d heard was wrong and Tommy Hill wasn’t the route to the Loyalists in Belfast. Maybe there was someone better and he should just have the wee scrote given a kicking and be done with Belfast’s stench. Billy Ross read his mind and appeared beside the two men, his eyes seeking permission to sit down.

  Micky Hanratty liked Ross, even though he was on the opposite side he had never played him false, so with a barely perceptible nod he signalled the barman to take a seat. Ross lost no time in shifting close to Tommy and hissing in his ear.

  “Unless you’re very fucking stupid, you’ll do business with this man. He’s got money to burn and he’s trying to give it to you.”

  Tommy turned so sharply his nose was barely inches from Ross’ own. “Give me money? Fenian money? I’d rather die than work with the likes af him.”

  Ross’ follow up was instant. “Not even if it meant hammering some Belfast Taigs? Thumping the other side, Tommy. Remember how that felt?”

  The shine in the ex-paramilitary’s eyes was immediate. It was followed by a shadow twice as dark.

  “It’s a trick and yer in on it, Ross. Yer betraying yer own fer Republican scum.” Tommy made to stand and with his next movement Billy Ross took his life in his hands. He grabbed Hill’s arm and dragged him back into his seat, ending the contact on the retired criminal’s murderous glare.

  “I’m not betraying anyone, Tommy. Mr Hanratty’s religion isn’t part of the game here and he doesn’t give a flyin’ fuck about anyone else’s. This is business, pure and simple. Someone’s killing his men up here and he knows there’ll be more to come. This is war and he needs someone with Belfast street smarts to find out who’s startin’ it and help him sort them out.”

  He sat back and took a deep breath. He’d either just made a smart move or his dumbest ever; whether he was still alive tomorrow would tell. Tommy didn’t move for a whole minute and even then he only shifted his eyes. They swivelled from one man to another and then back to his drink, fixing there for another minute before he spoke in a cold, dry croak.

  “Yer tellin’ me wan Fenian gang’s killin’ anuther?”

  Ross nodded. “Looks like it.”

  Hill’s face contorted into a sneer. “And why wud I give a shite about that? The more Taigs that kill each other the more food there is fer us.”

  Micky Hanratty retrieved his façade of tolerance from the murderous rage threatening to engulf it.

  “I’ll tell you why, Mr Hill. Because this bunch hate Loyalists, really hate you.” He had no idea whether the interlopers hated them or not; he didn’t know who they were, or whether they were even Catholics for that matter, as Ross had implied, but it served his purpose to have Tommy fired up, whatever motivated him.

  “They’re dealing drugs and trafficking girls to work in brothels, neither of which I can abide. They’re also encroaching on my other businesses, but the bit that really affects the north is that they’re using the funds they steal from me to build dissident Republicanism here and bring in guns.”

  He prayed for forgiveness for the lie and promised himself he would halt things if it looked like people would get killed.

  Tommy snorted scornfully. “And yer nat?”

  “No, I’m not. Any money I make goes into my farm, horses and other property that I own near home; the rest is put away for my kids.” Hanratty took a deep swig of his whisky and got ready to tell one of the biggest lies of his life. “I don’t give a damn about a united Ireland, Tommy. As far as I’m concerned if the north wants to stay with the British then they’re welcome to it. All I want is to stop these scumbags killing my men and wrecking my business interests up here.”

  Tommy’s interest was piqued. “Why can’t ye do it yerself?”

  Hanratty shrugged. “I could bring men up from Dublin, but that would take them away from other business I have. Besides, they don’t know the north like you and your men do, so there would be wasted time and mistakes and we need to move fast.”

  He sat back, expert enough in body language to sense a slight thaw. The last thing he wanted to do was blow it now by seeming too keen. It paid off. After another minute of thinking and sipping Tommy asked the question that Hanratty had been waiting an hour to hear.

  “What wud ye want from me?”

  The Dubliner smiled inwardly but his face remained poker straight. “Information. You have contacts all over Belfast. Get them to keep their ears to the ground. Anything they hear feed back to me immediately and my men can do the rest. Unless…” He paused, spotting the glint of battle in Tommy’s eye. “Unless you want to do it yourself, of course?”

  Hill’s mouth turned dry from excitement. Whacking dissidents who would never see them coming; it was the stuff of his dreams. He pulled himself up abr
uptly, remembering the granddaughter that he loved. He had to keep his nose clean for Ella’s sake, so there was no way he could be linked with trouble in any way. Still, he knew plenty of men who would do it without a second’s hesitation. His next question was asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “So I get paid just fer passing ye information and linking ye up with men who’ll dee yer dirty work?”

  “You will. But as a matter of interest… why won’t you be doing it yourself?”

  Tommy bared his teeth in a snarl. “That’s my business, nat yeers.” He drained his glass and signalled for a refill and as Ross obliged the Loyalist asked the most important question of all.

  “How much?”

  Micky Hanratty’s reply was a slip of paper drawn from his pocket on which he’d already written a sum. He slid it across the table and watched Tommy’s face blanch as he read.

  He dragged his eyes up from the note, astounded. “Fer killin’ how many?”

  Hanratty’s hands flew up immediately. “Now hang on. Who said anything about killing? Work them over by all means, but…” His voice tailed off as the realisation of what Tommy really was hit him. When he restarted it was in a robust voice. “Let’s be very clear…” He took a swig of whisky for courage. “…that money’s just for information. For each man persuaded to back off it will be that again, until I’m satisfied that the problem has gone.” He stared straight into Hill’s eyes. “But no killing, Tommy. Understood?”

  Billy Ross risked a smile. “Do you see now why I wanted you to stay, Tommy?”

  If he’d been expecting gratitude he was wrong. Tommy’s disappointment about the ban on capital punishment made his temper flare. He leapt up and shoved his face close to the barman’s.

  “Yeer still working for a Taig, Ross, and I won’t forget ye grabbed my arm.”

  But it was bluff. Tommy had just found a way to bolster his non-existent pension and he’d no intention of spending his remaining years inside. Billy Ross was safe for now.

  As he turned for the door the old lag added the words that Micky Hanratty wanted to hear.

  “Monday. Back here.”

  Then he was gone, leaving the horse-breeder satisfied that he would get his information and planning that once he did Tommy Hill would pay for calling him names.

  ****

  St Mary’s Orthopaedic Hospital. Balmoral Avenue, Belfast.

  Katy Stevens winced as the lithely built physiotherapist moved her left wrist expertly into place. Not so much because it hurt but because she thought that what was coming next would; electrical stimulation to help her wrist work normally again. Stimulation; it sounded like an intellectual workout, an interesting episode after which she should feel refreshed. And perhaps it would be if the neurons in question were located in her brain and she was at a pub quiz, but not when they lay inside her wrist. Her mind drifted back to her accident, except that it hadn’t been an accident of course. More a collision between her and a stone wall, engineered by Marc’s latest psychopath.

  Marc. As the physio adjusted the electrodes she allowed herself to think about him for the first time that day. It brought mixed emotions. Love of course, that was always there, strong and unwavering since their very first date. She would die for him and very nearly had, so why wasn’t she still with him and why was she punishing him for something that clearly wasn’t his fault?

  She defended herself against her own accusation immediately. She wasn’t punishing him, well, not deliberately anyway. As a defence it failed. She loved him and felt guilty about hurting him, so why couldn’t she just answer his calls, tell him that she still loved him desperately and then everything could be as it had been before? A cheerful voice cut through her thoughts. English, no, not English, a New Zealander, she could hear the distinctive accent on the therapist’s first word.

  “Er you ready?”

  She wasn’t but there was no backing out unless she wanted to wear a wrist brace all her life. She gritted her teeth and waited for the buzz that heralded the anticipated pain. As a completely painless tingling ran through her arm and hand, she felt like a complete wimp. It wasn’t sore at all. As usual her fear of something was far worse than the reality.

  She’d never been good with strange things. It had taken her three cancelled appointments just to get there, each time backing out the day before. Only her mother’s insistence on her staying at her house nearby, and her pursed lips and smiles of encouragement had finally got her there that day.

  As the tingling continued Katy closed her eyes and tried to think of something new. It didn’t work; she was soon back facing her own cowardice and realising that it wasn’t just over the accident, but over far too many things in life.

  She’d always been on the shy side, especially with strangers; only really relaxed and chatty when someone was already a friend. It had been the same when she was little; hiding behind her mother’s skirt when visitors called and crying for the whole of her first week at primary school. Medicine had helped bring her out of herself, having to chat to hundreds of strangers each week has a way of doing that, and by the time she’d reached consultant level the hiding child and tearful schoolgirl appeared to have been relegated to the past. Except that they hadn’t really. Only while she was wearing her white coat. The rest of the time that little girl was bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting to reappear when something scared her, which seemed to happen every day now.

  She’d reappeared in every romance she’d ever had as well, making her love life a disaster. She’d been so terrified of rejection by a man she’d really liked that she’d run away and sought refuge in her books. Until Marc that was, and then she’d only stopped running because he’d very firmly made the moves.

  She bit her lip as a sting signalled the stimulation’s increase. After a moment she got used to it and returned to her thoughts again. She shook her head at the conversation inside her head, prompting an “Er you OK?” from the therapist.

  “Fine, Josh. I was just thinking of something.”

  Trying not to think of it if would have been nearer the truth. And that truth was that she wasn’t just shy, she was timid; far too many things in life frightened her. The dark, high winds, spiders, aggressive people, and most of all, making a mistake in a patient’s care. The list was endless. Yet she knew that she would take a bullet to protect someone that she loved and she protested at the injustices in the world, joining Marc’s sister Lucia on her many marches. It was a confusing mix, but then wasn’t everyone? Perhaps that was why she loved Marc so much; he was fearless and let nothing get in his way, while she was so busy apologising for breathing that it was a wonder that she ever got anything done. The voice broke through again.

  “Last level, Keydy. Brace yerself.”

  She did and again it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared so she settled down for the final stretch, returning to her thoughts.

  The media didn’t help of course; substituting the oppression of one female stereotype for another at random intervals and making any woman who didn’t fit them feel that they were wrong. Today’s fearless, kick-ass, warrior princess model was as big a tyranny as the nineteen-fifties’ perfect, passive housewife had been, both guaranteed to make any woman who didn’t fit the mould feel inadequate. She blushed as she realised she was naturally closer to the second than the first in many ways, but the truth was that she was scared of a lot of things in life, and that was really why she had pushed the man she loved away.

  She didn’t blame Marc for what some murderer had done to her, his life was spent putting such people in prison, but the fact was that if one killer had targeted her to get at him then another could do the same in the future and they might actually kill her the next time, or even worse kill him, and she could never bear that.

  As the session ended and she said thank you, she realised that she had a decision to make. Life with Marc and all those risks and fears, or life alone, living in a safe but loveless world.

  ****

  The
Lab. 6 p.m.

  Five floors up from John Winter’s domain Doctor Des Marsham was busy working in his. It was a much noisier floor, with the sound of machines whirring, and pinging when their results were ready, combined with chattering white-suited figures wandering around in a sterile clean room. It reminded Liam of a dream scene in the movies, the ones where someone has been abducted by aliens and is about to lose their bits.

  Amidst the slightly surreal scene and sound track stood the far less other-worldly Des. The two detectives laughed when they saw him; since they’d last seen him, just before Christmas, his beard hadn’t only grown down but out. What had been firmly confined to his chin before had now joined with mutton chop side-burns. With their mix of red and grey and the extra pounds that he’d put on over the festive season, the scientist looked like Santa Claus crossed with a portly Henry the Eighth. Liam couldn’t allow it to pass.

  “Does Annie know she’s for the axe then?”

  Des’ wife Annie was tolerant to the nth degree, except on the subject of his beard which she very vocally loathed.

  Des raised his eyes from the fuming cabinet he’d been peering into. “What?”

  “Divorced, beheaded, died. Divorced, beheaded, survived. The six wives of Henry the Eighth, your doppelganger. As far as I remember the first Anne lost her head.”

  As Des got the joke and objected noisily Craig and John found chairs and sat down. The forensic expert stroked his beard possessively.

  “You’d better be comparing me to him because of my beard and nothing else.”

  Liam said nothing, just stared at Des’ paunch and then down at his greatly diminished own. Before the scientist could object again Craig outlined the reasons that they were there.

  “You’ve got two of our cases, Des, so we’d just like a quick catch up.” He waited until the others were seated before continuing. “Number one; the slurry death. Was the hole in the suit made deliberately, and could it have caused his death?”