The Keeper Page 8

  She searched for a way of distracting herself. She could feel that she was sitting upright and she began checking off her body parts in her mind, head to toes. Her head hurt, but not from a blow; it was the heaviness of dehydration, and something more. She’d been drugged! Just like that time back in seventy-one. She was groggy and her eyes and ears hurt, but apart from some arm pain from being strapped, her upper body seemed OK. Her exploration was halted by a new sound. Water; water was being poured somewhere and the cooling of her toes said that it was over her feet. They were being soaked in water. But why? The question emerged from her mouth as a shout.

  “WHY? Why are you doing this to me?”

  She didn’t have long to wait for an answer. The man’s voice was unthreatening in tone. A local accent: polite, educated. But why would an educated man take her prisoner? Why would anyone?

  “Do you really not know, Eilish?”

  He knew her name; he’d targeted her! She corrected herself instantly; her identity would have been obvious from the driving licence in her bag. She pictured the driver that she’d stopped to help. Why had she bothered, why hadn’t she just driven past? This is what she got for being kind. A faint quiver of hope rose in her chest. Gerry would be waiting at home for her. He would have called the police by now. The man watched as her questions were echoed on her face and answered them all with one phrase.

  “Gerry thinks you’ve met a friend for coffee. No-one’s coming to your rescue, Eilish.”

  She heard a sob and realised it was coming from her. Then another sound, like a chair being drawn close. He was sitting down beside her like they were friends! Louder words in her ear confirmed the man’s proximity.

  “It’s time to pay the piper, Eilish.” She heard a page being turned. “And how better to do it than with the very manual that you wrote.”

  He’d found the manual! But how? The planning council had sworn it’d been destroyed. In that moment Eilish Murnaghan knew she would soon be dead. Her sobs became gasps, rapid and gulping, swallowing each breath as fast as it came. Her words begging, pleading, crying for pity, until he’d tired of hearing them and with one sharp flick electricity tore through her every sinew; shortening, twisting, contorting them, and turning her sobbing cries into unending screams.

  The man watched implacably, his hand on the dial, as each muscle twitched and tightened until it began to tear and the skin that covered it singed, making him retch at the stench. Eilish Murnaghan’s hands gripped her chair without volition and her feet curled inwards, powerless to escape. Her captor felt no pleasure as he smelled her burnt flesh, or joy as he turned the dial up and down, alternately forcing her into spasm and then targeting her nerve endings by touching bare wires to her skin. Pleasure and joy were for other people; guilt had stolen his capacity for both many years before.

  Instead he felt grim determination as he switched the current on and off, again and again, until finally the metallic squealing ceased for the day and the hum of the harsh white light was the only sound in the room. Then he left her alone, to return and begin again when it was light. Eilish Murnaghan deserved a long slow death and when she had finally suffered it her thug of a husband would be next.

  ****

  The VLNI. 8.30 p.m.

  It had been hell, three hours of hell to be precise. The full Dantean nine circles without a cup of tea or a biscuit, and there was still no end in sight. Helen Connolly’s heart soared as the Boardroom’s door opened suddenly and the League’s civil servant approached her with a note, allowing her to legitimately raise a hand and halt the stream of anguish emerging from Ivor Watson’s mouth. Her soaring was short-lived however, the note brief but soul destroying; ‘The porter says he’s happy to keep the building open until ten p.m.’ It removed her last excuse for ending the meeting and all hope of getting home for Emmerdale on plus one. Sod Emmerdale, she wanted the gin and tonic that always accompanied it; now she’d have to wait until the late night news to numb herself.

  She nodded solemnly at the clerk then shook her head heavily at the other members who’d surged forward expectantly in their seats. They resumed their various postures of decline instantly. Rose Matheson was leaning, one elbow on the table with her chin resting on her hand; Eleanor Campbell had been scribbling or doodling something that Connolly was too far away to see; Kieran Dallat had given up any pretence of listening and was slumped in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling in a way that said ‘beam me up’. Only Rachel Harris and Douglas Orton were making any show of interest, and Orton came from a family that had banned slumping or shows of boredom on penalty of death.

  As the dark-suited clerk exited, Connolly reluctantly allowed her upheld hand to drop, the signal for Ivor Watson to resume his verbal assault.

  “You lot are so bloody useless I might as well get those bastards myself-”

  She made a half-hearted attempt to interrupt. “I’m sure you don’t mean-”

  “I mean every word. Every bloody word of it.” He half rose from his chair, the one nearest the exit, and for one moment she thought that he was going to storm out. Her judgement was premature; Watson’s change in posture had been for emphasis.

  “FOUR YEARS! FOUR SHITTY YEARS!”

  The words were accompanied by such a thump on the table that she could see why he’d needed to stand. His fist thudded down again as he continued without a pause for breath.

  “Twelve years of looking for the man who killed my boy, before they even got him to court. And then what? Then what? I’ll tell you what. He gets fifteen years only to get out in four.”

  His fist rose again and Connolly knew what to expect, bracing herself for the surge in sound. “BLOODY GOOD FRIDAY AGREEMENT!” Thump, thump, thump and then he slumped back down in his chair. “The biggest sell out in history, that’s what it was. Every scummy gangster gets forgiven and probably gets a de-mob suit on release, and what do we get? Eh? What do the victims’ families get?”

  It was time to interject.

  “That’s why the VLNI was formed, Mr Watson. We want to hear what would help you.”

  It was answered by a laugh of derision and another wave of his fist. “I’ll tell you what would help me. If someone shot the bastards in the head, that’s what.” He swept his hand around the group. “Not you lot. You’re as much use as a chocolate tea-pot, all of you. If you tried to fire a gun you’d probably shoot yourselves!”

  Connolly let him shout for a while longer, her face saying that she was listening attentively, while her mind went to somewhere serene again. Killarney was very pretty at this time of year.

  Suddenly there was a lull and she pulled herself back from the Ring of Kerry to see Ivor Watson on his feet with his hand reaching for the door. That was the problem with being the Chair; you couldn’t get distracted like the normal plebs or everything went to hell.

  A few unprintable words later and Watson was out the door and heading down five storeys in the lift. Connolly closed her eyes momentarily in relief, although she knew that his letter of complaint would hit her desk within the week. For a moment she said nothing and then she scanned the faces of her team, hoping to see some sign of the sympathy that Ivor Watson’s pain always made her feel. The only one of them not packing up to leave was Eleanor. She waved them to sit again with the cheerful briskness that she’d learnt at Brownie camp.

  “Well, I think that was useful.”

  Kieran Dallat snorted. “You mean he got his two monthly dose of anger out. It’ll change nothing. He’ll be back to do the same in eight weeks’ time.”

  She knew he was right. She also knew that Ivor Watson had a point. What could the League do for victims except listen? Killing the men who’d killed their relatives would leave far more of a mark.

  ****

  Garvan’s Betting Shop, East Belfast. Friday 9th October, 9 a.m.

  Liam parked this Ford at the end of the East Belfast street and checked that his Glock was safely in place. Not that he was going to use it you understand; it was jus
t nice to be prepared. He thought of his gun as a wardrobe essential, like his socks and belt or his tie; he wouldn’t dream of leaving home without any of them, it would make him feel undressed. As he climbed out of the car he wondered idly where Carmen kept her gun; maybe in her handbag. Come to think of it he’d never actually seen her with one, maybe she was one of these hippie cops, all peace and love. Speaking gently to armed villains in the hope it would make them realise they were wrong. He gave a loud guffaw, half at the idea of disarming criminals with a smile and half at the idea of the small Scot as gentle when she was tougher than most men. Carmen exited the car thinking as well, but her thoughts were that Liam had lost it, laughing at nothing but thin air; it was time for him to join the rest of the pensioners on the bench.

  They approached the betting shop in silence. Liam first pushing open the door, to be announced with a warning buzz like a quiz show signal that someone was running out of time. The shop’s interior was grubby. The floor covered in dead betting slips and the butts of cigarettes, ignoring the no-smoking laws. Men, dead eyed or feverish of all shapes and sizes, were propped against the walls, the sweatiest of them all standing beneath the suspended TV, yelling at some poor nag to “move their ass”. So far so bookies.

  It was comforting in a way. In a world that was regulated and regimented by identikit malls, shops and bars, the political incorrectness of cigs and sweat made Liam feel quite at home. Although not as at home as it would have done in his youth. Living with Danni was turning him into a wuss.

  Carmen was much less impressed with the shop’s ambience but then she wasn’t impressed by anything nowadays. Her waking thoughts were preoccupied with revenge. On Ken for taking her dumping of him so literally and for replacing her so fast, and on Craig for putting her through six months of counselling, as if there was something wrong with her just being herself. Six months of a shrink telling her what she already knew, that her parents had screwed her up. So what? That’s what parents did, wasn’t it? Like it was part of their job. So she hated her father and that meant she didn’t trust men and always needed to be in control. Big deal. It hadn’t been a problem till Annette had snitched on her and Craig had said that it was. That was three people on her hit list: Ken, Annette and Craig. She glanced up at Liam. Four. The big culchie had been on there since day one.

  She was dragged back to the here and now by Liam thumping on the counter, bringing a weasel faced youth with acne scurrying out behind the glass. Liam recognised him from his visit the year before.

  “Here! Stop thumpin’. Ye’ll wreck the place.”

  Liam gazed around pointedly. “It’s hardly Homes and Gardens now, is it?” He gestured behind the young man. “Tell your boss I’m here.”

  The youth drew himself up to his full five-feet-six. “An’ who are ye that he’d want to see ye?”

  Liam was about to answer when a second voice hissed from behind the glass.

  “Tell him the boss isn’t here.”

  The boy amended his question obediently. “Who are ye that he’d want to see ye, if he was here, which he ain’t.”

  Liam shook his head at the modern standard of education “Isn’t, not ain’t. And you know damn fine that he’s here.” He whipped out his I.D. “Tell him D.C.I. Cullen wants a word.”

  The youth stepped back as if the warrant card could cut through glass. “He’s nat here.”

  The detective leaned forward threateningly. “Don’t make me come back there.”

  It sounded good even if it was illogical. Back there was exactly where he wanted to be. As the youth retreated for a conference a punter approached Carmen from behind. He was just reaching out a hand to touch her russet hair when she swung round, grabbed his wrist and twisted it hard up his back.

  “OW! Ya wee bitch. I was only lukkin.’”

  Liam snorted. “Men have died for less than that, son. I’d leave while you’re still in one piece.”

  Carmen rounded on him. “Did I ask for your help?”

  Liam’s retort was drowned out by a yell from behind the glass, then the youth re-emerged, red eared. His boss obviously hadn’t appreciated his efforts as a guard dog. He rubbed the ear with one hand and slid back the door bolt with the other, waving the investigators through. Carmen gave the man’s wrist a final twist and entered, leaving Liam shaking his head. She had a sadistic streak that didn’t bode well if she ever caught Lucia with Ken.

  Ten seconds later they were in the back room staring down at Rory McCrae. He was sitting in semi-darkness with an angle poise lamp pointing towards his guests.

  Liam shoved it away and grabbed a chair, signalling Carmen to do the same. “Don’t be a dickhead, McCrae. You’re not in a mafia movie.”

  Rory McCrae had been one of Tommy Hill’s crew until Hill had decided to retire, and he was as bad a bugger as had ever walked Belfast’s streets. He’d done a recent stretch in Maghaberry, getting early release for good behaviour the June before. So well behaved was he that the first thing he’d done on his release was commandeer the UKUF throne, newly empty after the death of its last boss.

  McCrae sniffed; the product of years of smoking and bad adenoids. “Why are ye here, Ghost?”

  Liam shook his head at the use of his nickname, given to him by Tommy years earlier because of his pallor. “Only your boss is allowed to call me that.”

  McCrae growled. “I dun’t have no boss nye. So what dee ye want?”

  Liam feigned offence. “What does anyone want? To be loved. Or from you; information.”

  McCrae shook his head vehemently, rattling the gold chain around his neck. It was obviously his attempt at mafia chic.

  “I dun’t talk to pigs.”

  Liam’s offended look deepened and he turned to Carmen dolefully. “Did you hear that? He called us pigs. I’m hurt. Are you hurt?”

  On the last word his hand shot out and grabbed the neck of McCrae’s T-shirt, yanking him halfway across the desk. However many henchmen Rory McCrae had he’d never have Liam’s six-feet-six strength and before he could deploy the former Liam was on his feet, dangling the would-be gangster ten inches off the ground. He hissed in McCrae’s ear.

  “Let’s try that again. I want some information. OK?”

  The strangulated sound that emerged sounded as much like an OK as they were going to get, so Liam opened his hand and dropped the counterfeit Godfather on the floor.

  “Good. Now let’s start again. Good morning, Rory. We’d like some information.”

  McCrae retook his seat, rubbing his neck hard and nodding a grudging assent.

  Liam rubbed his hands together cheerfully. “Excellent. Now, I want you to tell me who’s been killing your scrotes of paramilitary friends.” He raised a hand and McCrae reared back, but the gesture was only for emphasis. “No hurry. Anytime in the next five minutes will do.”

  Carmen watched the exchange with grudging admiration. She hated Liam on principle, pretty much the way she hated anyone who had the power to tell her what to do; but she had to admit that she liked his approach. None of Craig’s politeness or Annette’s worrying about people’s feelings, just straight in with his size thirteens.

  McCrae coughed and gasped for so long that Liam knew that he was playing for time. He went to stand up again and the hoodlum hastily waved him back down.

  “OK, OK. I’ll tell ye everythin’ I know.” He rubbed his neck again, looking pained. “I heered about Lindsay, but I dun’t know who dun him.”

  Liam frowned and McCrae’s voice rose in pitch.

  “I swear to God, I dun’t. But I can tell ye who he pissed aff.”

  “OK, we’ll come back to that. He’s the only one you’ve heard about?”

  The gang boss’ eyes widened and his ignorance felt genuine; but how could he not know that Billy Hart, another one of his gang, had gone? Although McCrae’s predecessor Sharpy Greer, UKUF’s boss of twenty years, had been dead for days before even her own son knew.

  “Who else bought it? My lads are all accounted fe
r except Lindsay.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  He thought for so long that Liam prompted him with a quip.

  “I can smell your brain burning.”

  Carmen chipped in. “That’s always supposing he has one.”

  McCrae opened his mouth to retort, but a squint from Liam tempered his response. “Billy Hart’s on haliday but the others is all around.”

  Bingo. He’d just named their other loyalist victim, but Liam wasn’t giving anything away.

  “Where on holiday?”

  “He was taking his kids to the caravan fer a week; down in Newcastle. He only gets them twice a year. His ex-wife’s a real bitch.”

  “Charming. When did he leave?”

  McCrae thought for a moment then shrugged. “Saturday maybe. He lacked up here last Friday night an’ he’s due back Sunday.”

  It was on the tip of Liam’s tongue to say “I wouldn’t hold your breath” when he remembered the families hadn’t I.D.ed the corpses yet. He tapped the table instead. “Give me his kids’ address.”

  As McCrae scribbled it down Liam hoped the killer had nailed Hart before he’d collected his children; he could do without dead kids. He grabbed the paper and then returned to the matter in hand.

  “OK. Who had Lindsay pissed off, and has Hart pissed off anyone as well?” He was deliberately careful with his tenses.

  McCrae laughed. “Billy? Aye; everywan he meets. Lindsay was just a dickhead.”

  “To?”

  “Everywan thought so.” Disgust flickered across his face. “He reformed, didn’t he, an’ people dun’t like that. Spent all his time trying to stap kids joining gangs.” He adopted a pious tone. “If ye want to retire, fair enough, but dun’t go spoiling everywan else’s fun.”

  It fitted with what Reggie Boyd had said.

  “So you’re saying that a gang leader could have killed him?”

  “Yep.”

  “Which gang?”

  McCrae shrugged. “Take yer pick. Locals on the Demesne, Eastern Europeans, or the Chinese bunch. He was annoying all of them so it was only a matter of time.”