The Keeper Page 9

  Liam parked the knowledge for later, but the similarities between their three killings edged him towards saying no to a gang.

  “OK. Billy Hart. Who has he annoyed?”

  “Everywan hates him. He’s a thieving bastard.”

  It was saying a lot in a world full of criminals.

  “Does he do anything worse than steal?”

  “Like what?”

  “Rape, kill, wreck another man’s motor?”

  McCrae looked shocked. “He’d never touch somewan’s car!”

  Good grief; of the three crimes that ranked as the worst in his book. McCrae was still moralising.

  “Or weemen. Billy likes them, far too much in my book, but he’d never get rough. He isn’t much fussed about anythin’ ’cept money and booze.” He stared into space for a moment and smiled. “Mind ye, he prabably killed somewan sometime but I dun’t have a name.”

  Liam was damn sure Hart had killed people during The Troubles; he’d been one of the poor sods who’d had to pick up the bits. Carmen signalled to interrupt and he waved her on.

  “Who has Hart ripped off specifically?”

  Good question.

  McCrae swallowed hard. The action said he was scared of whoever it was and as soon as he named them Liam understood why.

  “Dusty Wilson.”

  Liam gave a low whistle, picturing the man that McCrae had just named. Wilson was head of the UFU, The Ulster Freedom Unit, a loyalist group even nastier than the UKUF, if that was possible. He was a bigger bastard than Tommy, McCrae and all the old lags in Belfast roped together. He’d done stretches for murder, drugs and rape in his youth and he was still only fifty so he wouldn’t be retiring to the Costa Del Sol anytime soon. He noticed Carmen staring at him questioningly but his glance towards the door said that her questions would have to wait. First he needed some facts.

  “How much and when?”

  “Ninety Grand. Billy welshed on a drug deal an’ Wilson’s men came lukking fer him last week.”

  Liam frowned. The UFU had a presence on the Demesne so they could have been the loyalists Rowan Lindsay had angered. Could it really be that easy? Had Rowan Lindsay been shot for trying to prevent the UFU recruiting youngsters and Billy Hart killed for owing money to their boss? He stood up to leave, knowing that Jonno Mulvenna’s death fitted uneasily with the solution, but like every lead they had to chase it up.

  As they reached the door Liam turned back to see Rory McCrae looking strangely relieved. He recognised the signs immediately. There was something on the premises that McCrae hadn’t wanted found and he was grateful that they were leaving without a search. When Liam hit the street he turned to Carmen.

  “Stay here. I’m going for a search warrant.”

  Her eyes widened. “On what basis?”

  “Hart’s dead and this was the last place he was seen. That’ll do.”

  He headed for the car knowing that she was swearing at him under her breath. His next comments came over his shoulder.

  “There’s a café over the street. Wait there and keep a note of who goes in and out. I’ll send uniform to watch the rear till I get back. Then we’re heading to the ex-Mrs Hart’s to see if our Billy ever collected his kids.”

  ****

  Two hours later McCrae was heading for a cell, and forensics were cataloguing a load of guns and drugs that they’d found in the store room behind the shop. It was a tidy haul. Liam’s nose wasn’t failing with age. He beckoned Carmen into his car and they headed up the Ligoniel Road to Billy Hart’s ex-wife’s home. When they arrived they were greeted by a mailbox full of letters and 360 degree drawn blinds.

  “Maybe they took off ’cos he was murdered.”

  Carmen was sceptical. “How could they have possibly known? Just because he didn’t arrive to take them on holiday? That’s if he didn’t of course.”

  She was right but instead of saying so Liam merely grunted. He was thinking. The best case scenario was that the family had gone away for a few days, a consolation prize for their dad not turning up. Worse case, they were all lying in a ditch somewhere, wearing toe-tags marked ‘collateral damage’.

  He pulled out his mobile and called Davy, checking the kids’ ages and descriptions before commencing a search. He was just about to set up the alert when Carmen tapped him on the back. She’d meant it as a shove but with Liam’s bulk it was hard to make a dent. He gave her a distracted look.

  “What?”

  “I just thought, before you go calling out the troops, shouldn’t we try both sets of grandparents first?”

  Right again. That was twice in one day so Liam thought he’d better acknowledge it. He did, but with a negative.

  “I suppose that’s not an entirely rubbish suggestion.”

  She snorted. “Talk about damned by faint praise. Anyway, I’ve got their numbers. I’ll call his parents and you call the wife’s.”

  The calls proved her point; the Hart children were at the caravan with Billy Hart’s parents. Liam nodded Carmen to hand over her phone, knowing the conversation was about to take a darker turn.

  “Mr Hart, have you heard from Billy?”

  The quavering voice that answered betrayed the man’s extreme old age. Liam was surprised, although he wasn’t sure why. Billy was in his fifties; his father could hardly have been a young man.

  “Why? Have you seen him?”

  Liam’s silence urged him on.

  “He brought the children down on Saturday night. Then he went out and never came back.” He hesitated and Liam knew that his next words would be a lie. “I don’t know where he went.”

  He knew fine well but he wasn’t about to tell them over the phone; a road trip was on the cards. Liam returned to the grandfather’s initial question, covering his discomfort with a cough. “I haven’t seen Billy.” Strictly speaking it was true, unless you counted viewing his corpse on a slab. “I’ll arrange for someone to call you.”

  He hung up hastily and contacted John, passing on the grandparents’ number so that he could arrange the I.D. When he finished he glanced at his watch. Only eleven-thirty and they’d arrested McCrae, found a drugs and guns stash and made sure that the Hart kids were OK. Not a bad morning’s work. The road trip would have to wait for an hour. The rumbling in his stomach said that it was chips o’clock.

  ****

  The Lab. 12 p.m.

  “Have they all been formally I.D.ed?”

  John shook his head. “Liam’s just put me in touch with William Hart’s parents. They’re coming in later.”

  “How did he-”

  Craig aborted his question, knowing that he’d get the full story at four o’clock. He stood up, readying to leave. He and Ken had spent the last hour picking John’s brains and it was time for lunch. As he reached the door he turned back.

  “I need to ask you something.”

  “About the case?”

  Craig glanced sideways at Ken and he knew it was his cue to wait outside. When he’d gone the detective restarted.

  “About Sophia. Don’t you think it’s worth me seeing her just once more? To try reasoning-”

  John cut him off uncharacteristically abruptly. “NO. That’s the last thing you should do and I’m betting that everyone you’ve asked has said the same thing. Text her if you must, to tell her you’re going to get a restraining order, but on no account see her face to face. She’ll twist everything you say and tie you in knots. Remember she’s a psychiatrist and words are her thing.”

  Craig shook his head. “A restraining order will ruin her career.”

  “If I’m right…” John stopped and shook his head.

  Craig stepped forward eagerly. “If you’re right what? If you’ve found something, John, spit it out!”

  The pathologist shook his head then rose and reached for his jacket. “I know that you shouldn’t see her, that’s what I know. So listen to me for once in your life and don’t!” He turned the door handle. “Now I’m going for lunch. Come with me or don’t
.”

  Craig watched as he walked away, knowing that his friend knew far more about Sophia Emiliani than he was letting on.

  ****

  Annette glanced back at Andy, wishing that he would hurry up. This was their only third homeless haunt and she had another four on her list. She couldn’t even tell him to get a move on because he was a D.C.I. Still, it gave her the confidence that she could be one someday; if they made a half asleep chocaholic a senior officer then there was definitely hope for her.

  As she stopped to let him catch up Annette gave a wide yawn. She felt half asleep these days, even when she’d had a good night’s rest. Mike had done all the usual blood tests but nothing had shown up; she’d just decided to have a full physical when Andy joined her at last and they walked towards a small group of men.

  Annette whispered under her breath. “Remember, the man we’re looking for is called Richard Schofield. He hangs out around York Street on the nights that he’s not in Fernwood, so Sheila Payne said he might know something.”

  Andy raised an eyebrow sardonically. “You said that at the last two places. I’m not deaf you know.”

  She resisted the temptation to tell him exactly what his failings were and pasted on a smile, turning towards the group.

  “Hello. I’m Detective Inspector Eakin and this is D.C.I. Angel.”

  She flashed her I.D., waiting for the usual string of cherub jokes to follow and getting ready to laugh. To her surprise there were a few that they hadn’t already heard. She turned towards the main joker, a youngish man whose blond hair was twisted into dreads.

  “We’d like to ask a few questions if that’s OK?”

  The man rose from his milk crate and towered above them both.

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “What they’re about.” He gestured at Andy. “Can’t your mate speak then? Or are you doing some kind of exam and he’s markin’ you on your questions?”

  Andy narrowed his gaze. “I can speak, but the inspector doesn’t need any help.”

  Annette suddenly viewed him through fonder eyes. She returned to her point.

  “We’re looking for a man called Richard Schofield.” At the sudden shifting of people in their seats she added hastily. “He’s not in any trouble. Ms Payne at the Fernwood Shelter gave us his name. We think that he might have witnessed a crime.”

  The standing man thought for a moment and then asked another question. “Is there a reward?”

  Andy answered quickly, knowing that Annette’s generosity would make her give in too easily. “Maybe. Depends if it leads to anything.”

  A man of around seventy wearing clothes cleaner than most of the people they worked with, tugged on Annette’s coat. As she turned he said in a quiet English voice. “What sort of crime?”

  She hesitated, framing her words carefully. Saying “a paramilitary execution” would clear the group before she’d finished the second word.

  “A murder, unfortunately. I can’t say more than that.”

  The man scanned both detectives’ faces and then fixed Annette with the bluest eyes that she’d ever seen.

  “It was a middle-aged man. Shot?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes. Did you see something?”

  The pensioner began walking straight-backed towards Annette’s hatchback. When they caught up he introduced himself. “My name’s Dick Schofield and I saw your dead man.”

  ****

  Twenty minutes later they were in The James Bar, getting Schofield’s story between bites and gulps. Chips and a burger washed down by a full fat coke was his favoured repast, and he seemed to be savouring his surroundings as much as he savoured each small bite. It made Annette look around her as well. She’d barely noticed The James’ décor before now, it was just their local pub. But now she saw it for what it was; an original Victorian hostelry brought tastefully up to date. Amongst the mahogany, brass and glass fittings were modern touches like charging cables, for business people too attached to their smartphones to be without them even for a few hours, common behaviour for the executives from the nearby Clarendon Docks. There were soft, squashed leather couches along each window, with period wrought iron coffee tables bearing chessboards, but instead of old-fashioned rooks and pawns there were figures from local politics and the media.

  The clientele caught her eye as well. Yuppies and Dinkies, to use the nineties’ acronyms, and the yawning bed-head residents of the new apartment block next door, were chatting to well-worn men more her father’s age. They were the original residents of Sailortown, come home for a drink, a chat and a reminisce, before they returned to the faceless estates that the government had exported them to thirty years before. It was an atmospheric mix and she had Schofield to thank for opening her eyes.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a pleasant looking man by her elbow, with his hand stretched out to shake her own.

  “I’m Joe Higginson, the new landlord. I’ve seen you in here before, so I thought I’d come and say hello.”

  She glanced round for Andy and found him chatting up a sleek-suited brunette at the bar. It looked as if he was having some success so she was loath to interrupt. She shook the landlord’s hand and beckoned him to sit.

  “I’m Annette Eakin, and this is Dick Schofield, but you’ve probably seen me here with a group from work.”

  She wasn’t sure why she’d said ‘but’ and she regretted it as soon as it was out; it made Schofield sound like someone that she was trying to detach. Thankfully he hadn’t noticed. He was too busy eyeing the dessert menu like a connoisseur.

  As Higginson sat down Annette wondered what had made him buy the bar. The James was nice, true, and by the look of its clients there was a considerable profit to be made, but it wasn’t in the city centre so it was out of the way for most people, and she doubted that it did much weekend trade.

  The landlord answered her unspoken question. “My family used to live around here. They moved out in the eighties, when the motorway came through. I’ve always wanted to run a bar, so when this place came up for sale I was in like Flynn.” He waved a large hand around the space. “I’ve all sorts of plans for attracting weekend trade: live music, history tours, traditional maritime stuff.” He stared pointedly at her companion. “All ages and families are welcome. I don’t want it turning into a teenager’s haunt.” With that he stood up again. “Anyway, I’ve disturbed you for long enough.” He smiled at her companion. “I see you looking at the puddings, sir. We have a great apple pie, fresh baked today.”

  Schofield’s face lit up and Annette ordered two, watching as Higginson smiled and chatted his way across the floor, determined to become a local character. Ten minutes later her satisfied companion set down his spoon and sat back, folding his arms across his barely visible paunch. It was her signal to retrieve Andy, now sitting sadly alone, and decamp to the C.C.U.’s relative’s room for a quieter chat.

  ****

  1 p.m.

  Liam pulled out his mobile to call John Winter, but Marcie, the lab’s P.A., answered instead.

  “Forensic pathology. May I help you?”

  Carmen watched curiously as a blush coloured Liam’s face and neck and she knew he had to be talking to a woman, and an attractive one at that. The D.C.I.’s response betrayed his embarrassment.

  “Oh.”

  Marcie Devlin wasn’t a lady to be trifled with, and people ringing her lab and answering her queries with an “Oh” counted as trifling in her book.

  “Who is this?”

  Her sharp tone made Liam blush even more and Carmen watched in fascination as he coloured a dark plum. When it came his answer was a whisper.

  “Sorry. It’s Liam. D.C.I. Cullen.”

  The P.A. wasn’t appeased. In her book people with a title should know better than the rest of the population so she said as much.

  “Then why didn’t you say that? You should have introduced yourself, not just said ‘oh’!”

  The detec
tive found himself apologising again and wondering why pretty women always gave him grief. He corrected the thought immediately. It wasn’t just pretty women, they all did. He was still pondering the injustices inflicted upon him by the fairer sex when Marcie snapped again.

  “For goodness sake, D.C.I. Cullen, did you just ring to annoy me or are you going to tell me the purpose of your call?”

  The words were barked so loudly that Carmen heard every single one. She laughed loudly. She’d never met this woman Marcie but she liked her already. Anyone who gave men hell was her sort of girl.

  Whether it was Marcie’s tone or Carmen’s laugh, something galvanised Liam into getting a grip. He straightened up and adopted his most authoritative tone.

  “The purpose of my call, Ms Devlin, is to speak to Doctor Winter. Please put me through.”

  Marcie was unapologetic. “About time.”

  Several seconds of internal ring tone later John’s voice came on the line.

  “Hello, Liam. What can I do you for?”

  Liam relaxed gratefully. He knew how to talk to men. You bantered with mates, were respectful to the higher ranks and threatened wrong doers with a glare. But women…well, he’d given up on women for today.

  “Have the Hart’s I.D.ed the body yet, Doc?”

  “About an hour ago. Why?”

  “’Cos I’m heading to Newcastle to talk to them and I didn’t want to do it till they knew that Billy was dead.”

  John nodded. “Makes sense. Was that all?”

  “Aye.” Liam hesitated and then added. “Marcie’s wild grumpy today, isn’t she?”

  The pathologist burst out laughing. “That’s my fault. I forgot to sign my reports again so she’s been chasing me around for hours.”

  Liam relaxed, strangely pleased that it wasn’t because the P.A. hated him. He signed off and turned to the passenger seat to see Carmen giving him a smirk. He didn’t need to ask what it was about and he wouldn’t have given her the pleasure anyway. Women. Can’t live with them, can’t live… Nope, can’t live with them today and that was pretty much it.