Blood Will Be Born Page 8
‘I was in my room. It looks out over your Mother’s house. I was online gaming,’ he continued.
‘Doing what?’ said Cecil.
’Playing computer games, but online, with other people, different countries.’ Cecil shook his head, dismissed it.
‘Never mind, just go on,’ he said.
‘There was a black taxi parked outside her house.’
‘Ok,’ said Cecil. This was new, this was important.
‘It distracted me, so I looked over. I saw you leave, so I thought it was for you.’
Cecil closed his eyes and spun his thoughts back. No way had he walked past the bastard, no way he did not spot a taxi sitting outside his ma’s. He remembered leaving, he had been in a hurry, told her something about locking up before he shut the door. Then he was on his phone, that App that sent you mug shots of possible fucks. He had been sliding pictures back and forth as he went down the road, mostly to the left, one or two to the right. He opened his eyes. He was gripping the boy’s thigh, hard. He released his clench, returned to strokes, smooth strokes, needed to keep calm.
‘But the taxi wasn’t for me,’ he prompted.
‘No, you just walked down the street,’ he said.
‘And then,’ said Cecil, stroking a fat rope growing in his trousers.
‘Then the man got out of the taxi,’ said the kid. Cecil stopped and lifted the boy’s face so he was staring into his eyes.
‘What did he look like?’
‘He looked, like a bit of a tough nut. Black jacket, woollen hat,’ he said.
‘And you got a good look at his face? Could you describe him?’ The boy nodded, hair swishing over his forehead and eyes.
‘I took a video.’ Cecil sat back on the bench, one hand still on the boy’s knee.
‘Did you by fuck? Good boy, clever boy.’ He was a spying little piece of shit. How many other videos had he taken? Who the fuck did he think he was?
‘This fella, was he alone?’ asked Cecil. The boy nodded. ‘Then what happened?’
‘He pulled the hat down over his face, when he was at the front door.’
‘You watched a man put on a woolly mask at my Mother’s home? Without running down here to tell me?’ said Cecil. Jamie Anderson did not reply. His eyes were full of tears, his lip quivered. Cecil waited, he spoke.
‘I didn’t know what to do,’ he said. The boy had gone very pale, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. Cecil let go of his knee, and slumped back on his seat, deep into the well of cool shadows.
‘Where’s the video,’ said Cecil. The boy held the phone up.
‘Give,’ said Cecil. The boy did, Cecil looked at the phone. The screen was cracked; it had gel stickers on the back.
‘Did you make a copy of the video?’ he said.
‘No, that’s it, and I don’t use a cloud backup either,’ said the kid pointing at the phone.
‘And you did not mention this to the peelers?’ he asked
‘No, said I didn’t see anything.’
‘That is because you did not see anything, understand me.’ The boy nodded his head three times in quick succession.
‘I need this,’ said Cecil, holding the phone up. ‘Just for a while, you’ll get it back.’ More nods from the boy, more colour in his cheeks now. Cecil got up and walked over to the door, rapped the glass twice with the pinky ring on his right hand. Nelson came in. Cecil turned to look at the boy.
‘This young man has been very helpful,’ he said. ‘See that he gets back OK.’
‘Dead on,’ said Nelson. He stared at the boy, unblinking. Cecil pulled his wallet from his back pocket and took out two fifties from the wad inside.
‘Here,’ he said jerking his head towards the door. The boy got up quickly and took the notes, moved for the exit.
‘You done well son. Now just keep your mouth sealed,’ he said. ‘Off you trot,’ said Cecil. The boy left, closed the pub door with a crash. Cecil gritted his teeth, turned to Nelson.
‘Looks like Prince Harry here saw the bastard,’ he said. ‘And he seems to think it’s alright to shoot videos of my mother’s home. Nelson nodded slowly, but did not speak.
‘Get him off the streets Nelson, away from the peelers. Take him to the lockup, work on him. Not the head, he lives, but he hurts, understand? Dump him outside the area. Blame Fenians if possible,’ he said. Nelson nodded.
‘Go,’ said Cecil and Nelson did. He closed the door quietly. Cecil walked down the length of the bar, took a glass from the clean stack beneath the beer pumps and pumped it three times in succession under the Bacardi’s optic, its gurgling refill the only sound. He sat down again in his preferred spot, his brimming glass on the table in front of him.
When he was at his most angry, his most volatile, his mother had been there, but not today. He closed his eyes, waited for her voice: You use your hate, let it keep you cold and clear when the fight is on, it’s your best weapon, let your enemies fear it.
Cecil opened his eyes and raised the drink to his lips and took a slow, lengthy draw, feeling the clear fire burn his throat. His first shot was drained; gauged to the measure, a decision was now in place.
It was time to call in an old debt from Turk Bates, his Ulster Volunteer Force counterpart, and sometimes enemy, on the Shankill Road. With Mother’s demise, Cecil’s stock would be high, no request, however large, would likely be refused. But the tide of sympathy quickly recedes, so if he was to act, it must be now. If the Turk complied, Cecil would win control of the lower Shankill from his UDA ‘comrade’ Scotty Woods, who had got a bit too big for his boots of late. What he was going to ask was risky, it would mean destruction for him, and the Turk if it was ever proven. But the spoils of Scotty’s territory for street deals and the chance to show the Fenians as aggressors over the twelfth weekend; it was too good a chance to pass.
Thank you Mother.
Cecil lifted the glass to his mouth for the second time, already enjoying the background tingle of the first dispensed shot. He sucked his second shot, licked his top lip and held the liquid in his mouth, before flushing the medicine into his throat.
His second move would be to pin Mother’s murder on the Fenians, whatever the truth may be. The loyalist people would be ready for the message, the cry that republicans, Dissidents, the Real IRA, Continuity IRA, New Improved IRA, who cares what name was used, it was the same old enemy, the same old bogey man, they must be responsible for butchering Mother. Loyalists would listen, they would be more than ready; it was what they needed.
If Cecil came out and said it, it would be little use (though of course he would). What this needed was someone neutral, a peeler for instance, to point the finger at Fenians, turn all eyes on the rebels beyond the walls. So it was time to cash in an investment that was just coming to maturity. Like his debt with the Turk, timing was everything.
Thank you again, Mother.
Cecil lifted his glass for the final time, and slowly emptied the last of the lukewarm fire water into his mouth. Part three of his plan was inside Jamie Anderson’s phone. He tapped it gently against the table top. The screen came to life, an animated cave woman, barely clothed, looked lustfully out at him. Cecil touched the camera icon and scrolled to the most recent video.
In here was the face of the man who came to the door of his blessed Mother and carved her like a stuck pig. In here was the person who was soon to have Cecil Moore’s attention, all his hatred and black fire. It made him into the most dangerous animal in this city. Cecil pressed play and settled into the nook of shadows, and watched what Jamie Anderson had spied from his window.
Thank you Mother; for the third time today, thank you.
Chapter 13.
Aoife had driven beyond the estates and streets of the upper Glen Road in west Belfast, on route for the substation on the Black Mountain. Sheen was in the passenger seat, and he was looking out the window, as streets gave way to boggy fields and barren farm land.
They passed a Gaelic Football club on the left
, large playing field, frugal clubhouse, with a red hand of Ulster emblazoned over the front door. The team’s name in Gaelic, Lamh Dhearg, meaning red hand, was written in acrylic style lettering. Sheen nodded in its direction.
‘Lam Derg?’ he attempted. Aoife corrected him, the pronunciation correctly spoken sounding more like lave jarag.
‘Means red hand as in red hand of Ulster,’ she said, laughed. Gaelic pronunciation was not easy. ‘Surely you know the legend?’ she asked. Sheen shook his head.
‘Call yourself an Ulsterman? Did you never have a history lesson when you were a child here?’ she said, the laugh still in her voice.
‘The story goes, that the Kingdom of Ulster had no rightful heir. It was decided that whosoever’s hand should touch the shore of Ireland first would be made the king. The race came down between two brothers. Niall, realised that he was losing, took a sword and cut off his right hand and threw it from his boat. The bloody hand landed on the shore before his opponent could touch land. Niall was crowned King of Ulster. That’s your free history lesson. Fact is they’re still arguing over who owns this place. Both sides claim Ulster as theirs, both claim the bloody hand as their symbol too,’ she said, but when she glanced at Sheen, he had looked away, as though he was not listening, or was in a huff.
Aoife indicated right and climbed a steep, single track that levelled off at a small carpark of pressed stone and quarry dust. There were two PSNI Land Rovers parked and an NIE van with its rear door open; a workshop of tools and rolls of plastic insulated wire on show. Next to the van, but a few spaces further on, was a battered looking Ford Escort, its original red paint pock marked with rust, and sun bleached on its corners to a scorched white. Two officers in uniform, one male and one female, were standing guard at the mouth of the path which cut a way up towards the higher ground, and, she assumed, the flat plateau near the summit of the Black Mountain. Aoife showed her warrant card and said Irwin had requested they enter the crime scene. They pulled on protective suits in the tented enclosure at the foot of the path and signed in.
At the head of the path she saw a white CSI tent, pegged down with draw strings, its side fluttering in the breeze. It was fixed to the side of a green electricity transformer box, size of a large family caravan. Blue and white police tape formed a cordoned off section of hillside. Small white flags like mini gold hole markers were scattered across the slope. Two white suited CSI were bagging and marking the evidence as they found it. One was in the process of taking a photo of something on the grass. He lifted it up and dropped it into a small transparent plastic bag and wrote a number on the side with a permanent marker.
It looked like a lump of steak.
A man emerged from the tent, same protective suit, dark moustache visible either side of his mask. He was looking down at them, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun hanging in the east behind her.
‘Morning sir,’ she said as he approached. DS Paddy Laverty raised one hand in a momentary greeting.
‘Aoife, what about ye,’ he said. He strode past her nonetheless, straight to Sheen.
‘DS Paddy Laverty,’ he said. ‘Are you the new boyo from the Met drafted in to help this weekend?’
‘Detective Inspector Sheen. I am here to oversee the Serious Historical Offences Team,’ replied Sheen. Paddy dropped his eyes, sniffed, then coughed.
‘Sorry, no disrespect intended,’ he said.
‘None taken,’ said Sheen. Paddy looked around the hillside, appeared a bit lost.
Aoife said: ‘What happened here, Paddy?’
‘Smallish explosion,’ he replied. ‘One fatality. The NIE worker, who was called out to inspect the breach of the gate. We think his name is O’Reilly, local guy from the west. NIE confirm a Sean O’Reilly was on call out this morning, though we have yet to formally ID him,’ he said. ‘That might take a bit of time, know what I’m saying?’
Aoife surveyed the scattered white markers across the hillside, and thought, yes; formal ID of Mr. O’Reilly could be a very long time coming. Perhaps best to call for dental records.
The governor thinks the murder in Tiger’s Bay is Dissident work, and if so there might be a link to this. Was O’Reilly the likely target, or a Dissident?’
‘O’Reilly’s background draws a blank. No connections, no history, no red lights on the screen next to his name,’ said Paddy. She nodded. In short, O’Reilly neither killed himself planting a bomb for Dissidents, nor was he likely their intended target. Bad for him, but also bad for them, the crime scene felt cold. Paddy nodded back down the hill in the direction of the car park.
‘Might mean nothing, but there is a six pack of beer in the passenger foot well of the Ford, one bottle missing.’
‘So this was some kind of drunken accident?’ asked Sheen.
‘Well, not unless he brought a few pounds of plastic explosives along with him and detonated it,’ said Paddy. Sheen looked up to where the substation stood, squat and green like a medieval keep.
‘So the substation was the target, O’Reilly might just be collateral damage. Question is; why?’ said Sheen. Paddy shrugged and nodded. The wind made the small flags flutter, and pushing the coarse grass one way then the other, rolling waves of bright and lighter green as the blades were swished back and forward. They started up the hill.
Inside the shelter of the tent, the wind sucked and pushed the material over their heads, crackling and scrunching. The trapped air inside was heavy with the burnt, metallic odour of fried circuitry, faint but unmistakable. There was also the dank, musty smell from the CSI tent itself. The ground under their feet was sodden with the remains of the flame retardant foam, thick clumps of the stuff remained in the longer grass that surrounded the structure. Paddy pointed to the scorched side of the transformer; the graffiti covered face was charred and blackened as a hearth around its midpoint, where the heavy steel doors had been ripped open like a can of sardines, clean sliver edges that looked sharp as glass. Inside was a mess of wires and what looked like relay switches or resistors, she had no idea. It was clear that the innards of the substation were badly damaged; the NIE could take that to the bank.
‘If you look just here, you’ll see that the damage was caused from the outside,’ said Paddy. ‘Though, to be fair, the late Mr. O Reilly appears to have taken the brunt of the explosion. That said, whoever was responsible also managed to knock the substation out entirely. NIE say they will do their best but chances are by the time we open the crime scene and they get to work, west Belfast and beyond will be blacked out,’ said Paddy. Sheen stepped back a few yards, took a photo of the length of the station, and then proceeded to take more close up shots of the side of the structure. Aoife stepped back too, frowned. This was simple but not. The details did not add up; why O’Reilly, what had they missed? She looked at the ruptured door.
‘Murdering the guy like this, just to damage the transformer; it’s a big hammer to crack a small nut,’ said Paddy. Which was exactly the point. She looked closely at the vertical slot which she assumed served as a key hole. Inside, something silver and gleaming. Between the seams of the doors, she could see that the thick iron latch was released. The door had been unlocked, O’Reilly was the key holder.
‘His hand, Paddy, was there anything in his hand?’ she said.
Paddy pointed down to the square of concrete paving she was standing on. There was a white flag marker, with a number written on it, planted just to her left. What looked like dried blood had stained the paving. There was something else too, something that looked like the burnt and blackened scrapings that come off a hot plate. He took out a digital camera and handed her a colour photo of a human hand, palm down, there on the same square of grey paving stone now occupied by the flag. Prongs of bone extended from the wrist, and a small pool of blood neatly pooled like gravy on a plate, covering the palm. The fingers and thumb were intact, clasped what looked like a steel knuckle duster, but with just one, not several protrusions at the business end, pointed up.
‘Callous bastards,’ said Paddy. He pointed down to the place where the explosion had done its peak damage. ‘Looks like the device was hidden in a cardboard box. We found remnants of one near the blast zone,’ said Paddy, and showed her another photo, burnt fragments. ‘Reminded me of a Doc Martin box. We used to wear them when we were kids. You know, plain cardboard, like that,’ he said. ‘And there was this,’ he walked her round the side of the substation, on the white plastic stepping plates to a patch of sodden ground, grass free and muddy. She stopped dead, eyes wide; it was a print.
‘This is the only one we found. No finger prints,’ he said. Aoife stared at the boot print, clean and fresh. It was identical to the one which had been made in blood on Esther Moore’s hallway carpet; groves running from left to right, a boat shaped tongue up the middle. She shouted Sheen’s name, he joined them, snapped several shots on his phone. He nodded and she could see the recognition in his eyes. Paddy looked from her to Sheen, he sensed their excitement.
‘Mean anything to you?’ he asked.
‘There was a boot print at the Tiger’s Bay murder scene, very similar,’ she said.
‘Very average, no blemishes or identifiers. Fresh, but could have been left by the kids who sprayed the front of this place,’ said Paddy, waving his hand towards the front face of the substation. Aoife thought about the horror of the blood painted words on Esther Moore’s chimney breast. Another flutter of excitement, a bird trapped in her chest. Maybe Irwin’s move to deflect her had backfired; there were links, tenuous, but links all the same. She looked at Sheen and he nodded; they were done. She left the tent, breathed in the fresh mountain air. A CSI waved them over.
‘This was snagged up in the long grass,’ he said. It was a baize bra. ‘It looks like it has not been in the elements for long either, no signs of degradation or weathering.’