The Keeper Read online

  “And that’s where you were going that night?”

  He nodded. “I like to get there around three, when everyone else is asleep.”

  As he paused to lift a garibaldi Annette couldn’t resist jumping in.

  “How far is the garage from where you saw the man?”

  She needed confirmation that they were in the right place. Schofield stared at the ceiling as he chewed and kept staring as he answered.

  “Five minutes’ walk, I’d say.” He glanced at her. “But a young thing like you could probably do it in two.”

  Not the way she was feeling these days, but the walk he’d mentioned was about a quarter of a mile; the distance from Garmoyle Street to their crime scene. She had a hundred more questions but she needed him to come out with things spontaneously so she fell silent again as he reminisced.

  “I used to run really fast, you know. Trialled for the commonwealth games in sixty-two, before…” His eyes said that the memory was painful and she wondered what had happened to turn the young athlete into an old man living on the streets. Life was cruel sometimes. She made up her mind to look into his background just as Schofield recovered his voice.

  “Anyway…the man was on the waste ground. Near where the old Gallaher’s factory used to be.” He looked around as if there would be a map that he could point to. Annette pulled one up swiftly on her phone.

  He shook his head. “That’s just street names. I need to see it.”

  She changed obediently to street view and they walked virtually through the urban streets until he suddenly stopped. Her heart leapt; it was exactly where Billy Hart had been found. Her heart plummeted again when he shook his head.

  “I think that’s it but I’ll need to walk it again to be sure.”

  She nodded. “We’ll do that, but for now, could you just tell me what you saw?”

  The old man shuddered at the image that her question evoked. “It was pitch dark. The streetlights on that stretch of road had been broken all week.”

  She would check it out; if it was true it might have been partly why their killer had chosen the spot.

  “They didn’t see me, I made sure of that. As soon as I saw the car pull up I hid behind an advertising board. The one selling life insurance.” He shook his head at the irony. “Insurance didn’t do that poor soul much good.”

  This was brilliant! He was narrowing the location by the minute and he’d actually seen the killer’s car! Annette abandoned her resolve to let things emerge organically.

  “Can you describe the car? Was the man inside or-”

  Schofield shook his grey head. “He was in the boot; that’s what made me keep watching. If you’re carrying someone in your boot then you’ve got to be up to no good.”

  “And the car? What did it look like?”

  He shrugged. “Dark; maybe black or navy. Some sort of saloon. But I don’t know modern cars. I haven’t driven one for years.”

  “But it looked modern? You’re sure?”

  He took another biscuit. “If you’re hoping for me to identify it by make, I can’t.” He set down his mug and reached inside his worn but good quality jacket. A flash of bright red lining said that Richard Schofield had been quite a dandy at one time. He brought out a cigarette packet and Annette was just about to say “I’m sorry but you can’t smoke” when he turned the front towards her and she saw something written in black pen. WEZ.

  “It was all I could make out. My eyes aren’t what they were and it was a moonless sky.”

  The car’s registration number! He’d got the first three letters. She wanted to hug him but hugging witnesses hadn’t been on the training syllabus, so instead she re-boiled the kettle and made him a fresh drink. When the milking and sugaring was over Schofield resumed.

  “You want to know about the man.”

  “Both of them if you can.”

  He made a face. “The driver kept his face down the whole time. I’m sorry. All I can tell you is that he was really tall; tall and slim. But broad too. You know, broad across the shoulders and back. The other man was smaller. A good head shorter.”

  “Any idea of the driver’s age?”

  Schofield thought for a moment before speaking. “It’s hard…I never saw his face…but from the skin on his hands and the way he stood, I’d say late fifties or thereabouts.”

  It was something. Annette pressed on.

  “What was the driver wearing?”

  “A dark overcoat. Looked like that woolly stuff. Mouflon, I think they call it.”

  It was a word she hadn’t heard used since she was a kid. It was what her mother used to call her brother’s army uniform dress coat. The man opposite was around her mother’s age so she tried her luck.

  “Was it long like a military coat? With buttons and epaulettes?”

  He nodded eagerly. “Yes, that’s it. My son used-” He stopped dead and Annette knew that they’d hit another painful memory. Who was Richard Schofield? He was from England somewhere and obviously a talented sportsman; a man with a child, someone who’d once owned expensive clothes and was still spotlessly clean. Surely someone somewhere cared about him. She made up her mind to find out who that was. When she listened again her witness had regrouped and was describing the second man.

  “His hands were tied behind his back and he looked….worn down. Like all the fight had gone out of him. The driver was pushing him forward.”

  “With his hand?”

  “And a gun. He had a gun.”

  “In which hand?”

  He closed his eyes tight, visualising the scene. “His right hand. He was pushing him forward with his left. The man was crying and begging to be let go.” His eyes flew open. “I should have intervened.”

  Annette shook her head firmly. “You would have been killed. The only thing you could possibly have done was call the police, if -”

  Schofield’s eyes grew frantic. “I don’t have a phone. I hate them.”

  Her voice was soothing. “Then there was nothing that you could possibly have done.”

  Except come to us immediately afterwards, but there was no point saying that to him now. He must have had his reasons for keeping quiet. Schofield’s next words told her what they’d been.

  “He begged the driver for a cigarette so he took one from the man’s pocket, lit it for him and then put it into his mouth.” The butt that Liam had found. “When it was finished he asked for another, probably stalling for time, but the driver said no and shoved him onto the ground.” Suddenly he clamped his hands over his ears. “That’s when I heard the shot.” The first kneecapping. “It reminded me of-” He stopped abruptly, shuddering and Annette knew that he’d fought in a war somewhere. It made sense; far too many forces’ veterans ended up on the streets.

  She murmured soothingly, until eventually he relaxed and spoke again.

  “I’m ashamed to say that I ran and didn’t look back.” He gazed at her, his wet blue eyes imploring her to understand. “I’m sorry. I should have come to you but I was afraid.” He returned to the edge of the settee. “What if he’d seen me and came after me? He could have killed me anytime on the street. He could kill me now for telling you all this.”

  Annette doubted very much that the killer had seen him; he would have gone after him then and there. But his fear made Schofield coming forward now an even more heroic move. She reached out her hand and covered one of the old man’s with it.

  “I really don’t think that he saw you. He would have acted immediately if he had.”

  Schofield nodded hesitantly, still not convinced. His next question was asked as if he was reluctant to hear the answer.

  “Did the man die? Was that the murder you mentioned?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid he did. But the information you’ve given me now could help save someone else’s life. I’d like to get it all down in a statement, if that’s OK. But meanwhile…” She reached into her bag to find her purse but was stopped by Schofield’s hand.

 
“I’m not doing this for the reward. I should have done it right away.”

  She took out the fifty pounds anyway and smiled. “I know you’re not doing it for the money, but we’d like you to have it just the same.” She set down the notes and then rose and lifted the internal phone. “A Sergeant McLean will come down and record your statement now, then the sketch artist will see if he can help you with a likeness of the car and the two men. When that’s all done we’ll retrace the route, probably tomorrow morning if that’s OK? Just to ensure that we’ve got the location spot on.”

  What she didn’t say was that meanwhile she would be seeing what she could find out about their witness, in the faint hope that she could somehow improve his life.

  Chapter Six

  It didn’t take long for Liam to reach Templepatrick and less time again to arrive at the manse, where The Reverend Geoffrey Kerr and his wife Miriam had arranged to meet them, along with Miriam’s ex-husband Tommy Hill. Craig pulled into the pebbled driveway just as Liam was exiting his car, and they walked together to the manse’s dark front door.

  Geoffrey Kerr hadn’t changed since they’d last seen him. Still the same gentle agelessness, despite his snow-white hair. It was matched by grey eyes set below dark grey brows, presenting a palette of reassuring calm. The vicar showed them into his cosy study and went to help his wife with the tea, reappearing five minutes later with both her and their tiny granddaughter, Ella, in tow. They’d last seen the little girl as a baby but now she was three years old; with the dark colouring of her dead mother, Tommy’s daughter, and the healthy glow of a much loved child. After a few minutes small talk and drinking she emerged from behind her grandmother’s skirt and sidled across to the two detectives, staring curiously at the half hidden warrant card peeking out of Craig’s pocket.

  He smiled and handed it to her, careful not to smile for too long for fear Liam would restart his marital wind-ups when they left. After glancing quickly at the mantle clock Craig turned to the matter in hand.

  “What time is Tommy coming?”

  Miriam Kerr checked the clock as well and then sighed in exasperation. “He should have been here ten minutes ago, but timekeeping was never his strong point.”

  Liam made a face. “More likely he’s off somewhere, up to -”

  Craig cut in, gazing pointedly at the child seated at their feet. “Up to some charity work no doubt.”

  Geoff Kerr nodded in agreement. “Of course. That’s it. I’m sure that he will be here soon.”

  Just then the doorbell rang and his wife sprang eagerly to her feet. “That will be Thomas now.”

  After five minutes of Ella rushing into the hall, shouting “Danda, Danda”, obviously her pet name for Hill, and Tommy cooing in the most un-Tommy like voice that the detectives had ever heard, Miriam Kerr showed the reformed bad boy into the study. The Kerrs left quickly with the toddler, leaving the ex-paramilitary facing his old foes.

  The investigators stared at the old lag and Tommy stared back with barely concealed hostility, particularly at Liam.

  “Go on then, Ghost. Take the piss. Ye know yer dyin’ to.”

  Liam was dying to, but knowing where to start was difficult. He was spoilt for choice; between Tommy’s Telly Tubby vocals in the hallway and his button down collared shirt and unfeasibly well ironed jeans. He decided on the latter; kids were out of bounds.

  “So is this your man at Marks and Spencer look then?”

  Hill arched an eyebrow. “Is that the best ye’ve got? Yer slowin’ down, boy.”

  Craig cut in before the exchange deteriorated into an all-out scrap. They had business to do and they were short on time.

  “Thanks for coming, Tommy. We’re hoping that you can help us.”

  Hill took a seat, reaching forward for a sandwich. He responded with his mouth full. “I’m not snitchin’ on nowan, if that’s what yer looking fer.”

  It was too much for Liam. He hissed at the retired terrorist. “You’ll do as you’re bloody told, mate. If it hadn’t been for us intervening on that charge of receiving stolen goods last year, you’d be back in Maghaberry now and only seeing Ella once a month.” He leaned forward for emphasis and Hill did the same. When Craig had had enough of the testosterone stand-off he shoved them apart, shooting Liam a warning glance.

  “It’s got nothing to do with snitching, Tommy. In fact it might be to your advantage.” It had just occurred to him that Hill might be on their killer’s hit list. “We’re investigating a series of murders.”

  Hill poured himself a cup of tea. “So? That’s what ye lot do, isn’t it.”

  “Yes, but it’s who is being murdered that’s relevant. Someone’s targeting ex-paramilitaries.”

  The UKUF man froze mid-slurp. After a moment’s pause during which his face turned white and then red, he croaked out the only question that he thought was relevant. Not “who’s died” or “would I know them” but “were they from my side or theirs?”

  Both police men knew that saying “theirs” would provoke a cheer. “Your side” would elicit an equally noisy snarl, followed by “so what the hell are ye doin’ about it?” So Craig said neither. Instead he told the truth.

  “Both. Two loyalists and one republican so far, but we doubt that will be the end of it. Whoever’s doing this is on a spree.”

  He was unprepared for the snort that Tommy gave. It was heavy with derision but he wasn’t sure what for. Hill’s next words enlightened him.

  “Are ye lat thick? It’s bloody obvious who’s doin’ it. Them so called ‘victims’.” He formed the parentheses sarcastically with his hands. “Or some bleeding heart liberal bunch that’s givin’ them money.”

  Victims had been mooted in the briefing but Craig was quite sure that Tommy’s definition of victim would differ from theirs.

  “Who exactly do you mean by victim?”

  Hill’s next words said that his definition of victim wasn’t in fact that different, even if it was delivered with a snort. Although the words sounded like something he’d read somewhere rather than what he truly believed.

  “Them Taigs that was shot.” He added hastily. “Mind, I dun’t think any of them were victims. We was at war an’ they was on the opposite side. Legitimate targets. Enemy combatants. On the other hand the poor Prod victims-”

  Liam lurched forward again. “Legitimate targets! Some poor kid walking home from university? Some combatant. They weren’t even armed.”

  Hill snarled back. “They could breed, cudn’t they? Screw fer Ireland, wasn’t that the motto? And they could spread their nationalist crap with their words.”

  Craig tensed angrily as Tommy showed his true colours. They occasionally forgot that he wasn’t just some aging grandfather retired to the country to dote on Ella, then every so often he reminded them of the murdering bastard he really was and the dogma that had backed him up.

  He could see Liam coming to the boil so he knocked the political discourse on the head. “Liam, sit back.” Hill folded his arms smugly. “And you, wipe that smug look off your face.” He glanced pointedly at Hill’s ankle bracelet. “Remember you’re on licence for that receiving charge, so you could still find yourself back inside.” Hill’s face fell. “OK, apart from the civilian victims that were killed, what about rival loyalist gangs? Is there anything brewing that would account for them killing each other?”

  Tommy’s eyes narrowed and Craig knew the question that was coming next. Which acronym starting with ‘U’ had been branded on the two dead loyalists? He answered the question before it came.

  “UKUF.”

  The UK Ulster Force was the modern version of the group that Hill had set up in the seventies; the UKF. His baby all grown up, so to speak. The detectives watched as Tommy’s face darkened and his hands became two fists then Craig spoke again, in a warning tone.

  “Don’t even think of getting involved, Tommy. You may have founded the UKF but they’re a long way from the group you knew. It’s all about making a profit nowadays
and they really don’t care where from.”

  He didn’t hold out much hope of being listened to, but he’d had to say it just the same.

  After a moment’s angry consideration, Tommy shook his head. “Dusty Wilson’s in charge of the UFU but he’s too busy launderin’ money to bather with anythin’ else.” Craig made a note to pass the information onto serious and organised crime. “An’ McCrae’s runnin’ UKUF and he’s runnin’ a real tight ship.” He smiled like a proud father.

  Liam couldn’t let it pass. “McCrae’s not running anything at the moment. He’s banged up in the nick for guns and drugs.” He ignored Craig’s glance that said he would pay him back later for deliberately winding Tommy up.

  Hill’s sudden growl didn’t prevent Craig’s next question. “So as far as you know there’s no in-fighting amongst the loyalist gangs?”

  Tommy shook his head, fixing Liam with a glare. Craig pressed on.

  “Are they targeting republicans?”

  Hill’s gaze didn’t shift as he answered. “Nat that I’ve heered, but they’re alays fair game.”

  Craig paused to let Liam ask something. When he didn’t speak he carried on. “So who, in your opinion, would want both republicans and loyalist paramilitaries dead?”

  Hill shrugged. The action broke his stare and resulted in Liam grinning. The staring contest score stood at Liam one, Tommy nil. The paramilitary turned his whole body towards Craig, treating Liam as if he’d disappeared.

  “Like I said afore; victims. Them victims’ organisations think all paramilitaries is dirt. They dun’t care which side we’re from.” He paused for a moment before restarting. “’Course…” Then he stopped again, shaking his head. “Nah.”

  Craig moved forward on his chair. “What? We need whatever you know, Tommy.”

  “Nah, they wudn’t be that thick.”

  “Who wouldn’t? If you know something you’d better talk.”

  Hill leered at him. “I will if ye tell me who’s been taken out.”

  Craig shook his head emphatically. “Nice try but no dice. Tell me or you’ll be taking a trip to Maghaberry.”