The Broken Shore (2 page)

Chapter Three

The dark-haired man smiled to himself and he pulled back the tent flap until his view of the Strand was clear. The forensic tape and uniforms had diminished by the hour and now only a lone police officer stood guard. Guarding what? The body was gone and all useful traces had long been erased by the tide. Yet still he stood, like some monument to grief; honouring the dead.

Anger filled the man suddenly and he slammed his fist into the tent-pole, shaking his temporary home. Where was the grief for him? Where were the kind words and caring hands when he’d been left alone? Nowhere. It had made him what he was. Cruel and lost. He smiled. He had no self-delusion left. He
was
cruel. But had he been born that way, or had life moulded him and made him hard?

He shook his head hard, trying to force the answers loose. Only one appeared: the image of a child, loving and gentle, happy with his own games. Defenceless and left alone, to meet with what? Harsh words and harsher hands. Dark spaces and little food. Every word greeted by silence or blame or God’s word, until he’d learned. Learned to keep it all inside. Learned to be cruel and cold. Learned to do onto others before they did it to him. He’d learned well.

***

Craig smiled as he crossed the station reception, extending his hand to his friend. Andy looked just the same. The same upright, energetic stance and the same blue shirt. He always wore one, every day, come rain or shine. The colour matched his eyes. The rumour was that his wife had bought a job lot, coaxing him into wearing them with promises of delight at home. Whatever the reason, Andy’s shirts were as constant as the Atlantic Ocean. Craig found it strangely comforting.

Andy White was an easy-going man, until he got a villain in his sights. Then his affable Dungiven ways morphed into cool precision and his blue eyes grew steely to match. He’d headed up Drugs in Belfast for years, seeking a transfer home with every promotion round. Craig was glad he’d finally managed the move north, even though he did miss the sound of his Dungiven ‘heys’ echoing across Dockland’s canteen.

“Hello Andy. How’s life on the wild Atlantic coast?”

Andy smiled and led the way to the staff room. He knocked-on the kettle and nodded Craig to a chair, grabbing one from across the room. Craig was surprised.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sitting down!”

“Special measures, hey. This is a bad case and it’s about to get worse. We’ve just got the victim’s I.D.”

The look in his eyes said that there was something very wrong. Not that someone’s death could ever be right, but something was compounding it this time.

“It’s Lissy Trainor.”

Craig looked at him blankly so Andy said the name again. It still rang no bells.

“Assistant Chief Constable Trainor’s girl.”

Craig’s mouth fell open as the penny dropped. Melanie Trainor’s daughter was their dead girl!

“You’re positive?”

The question was out before he could even think, even though no-one would ever make the mistake.

Andy nodded. He poured Craig a coffee then took a deep draught of his tea.

Craig shook his head. “Does she know yet?”

“Not yet, I’m on my way to the mortuary now.” Andy nodded at his drink. “This should be whisky, for Dutch courage, hey. The body was found on Thursday morning but there was no I.D. or match on her prints. We’ve just got her name.”

“How?”

He gave a rueful smile. “Your mate John. She had an unusual tattoo on her inner thigh; a number. He recognised what it was.”

“A phone number?”

Andy shook his head and took another sip. “No. A hospital case number. “

He laughed grimly. “Only John would have recognised that, hey. He checked it and the girl’s name and photo came up. Seems she had a kidney transplant when she was fifteen. She must have got the tattoo as a souvenir.”

“God, hadn’t she been through enough in life already, without this happening?”

It was rhetorical. They fell into silence and Craig broke it first.

“How old was she?”

“Twenty-one. Just finished law at the University of Ulster. A bright wee girl with her whole life ahead.”

“How did she die?”

Andy shook his head and stood up, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

“Let’s go and find out.”

***

The morgue was small and cold with faint traces of formaldehyde scenting the air, a legacy from someone passed. The cosy red-brick of the entrance gave way to lines of white corridors, all leading to one place. John Winter stood at the end of one, his pleasure at seeing his friends tempered by decorum and respect for the dead. He greeted them in a subdued voice.

“Hello Marc, nice to see you. Hi again, Andy.”

They nodded in return, all urge to banter dampened by the building’s name. John turned and they followed him in silence into a bright, steel-coloured room where the air was cool and their footsteps made the only sound. He walked to a table and lifted the white sheet on it back from a young woman’s face. Craig gazed at her small, round countenance, the first hints of cheekbone just starting to show through the puppy fat. Thick dark lashes swept down to her cheeks, their colour matched by the tendrils of hair that fell across her brow. She was a child in all but years. She was Melanie Trainor’s child.

Trainor had been Craig’s Superintendent for four weeks when he’d first come back from The Met. She’d been OK. He corrected himself immediately, knowing that his assessment was being made kinder by the pain about to overwhelm her life. She’d been OK-ish, if ruthless ambition and barking orders were your definition of OK. He shrugged; she had it in common with a lot of the higher ranks. Perhaps it was something you acquired, or perhaps it was what had got them there. He’d probably never know.

He stared intently at the girl and saw the strong resemblance to her Mum. It made the macabre coincidence too real and he turned away quickly, not envying John and Andy the task they had ahead. John covered the girl’s face respectfully and ushered them into an office where he’d managed to find coffee and some mugs. They drank in silence for a minute until Andy’s clear voice cut through the air.

“Does she know yet, John?”

Winter shook his head and glanced involuntarily at the clock. It was almost midnight. Craig knew what he was thinking. Did he let the mother have a good night’s sleep before he plunged her into a nightmare that she would never escape, or tell her now and ruin her sleep for years to come?

Craig voiced his opinion. “Let her sleep, John and tell her first thing. Andy and I can start the work tomorrow and by the look of you, you need a good rest.”

They fell into silence again then Andy asked the one thing they needed to know. “How did she die, John?”

“Strangulation.” That one word conjured up a hundred methods and images too gruesome to entertain. He continued. “Approximately three days ago.”

“Tuesday?”

“Around then. The cold water affected Rigor so it’s hard to be accurate. The strangulation was manual and before you ask, no, I don’t think she wasn’t raped. She was still dressed when she was buried.”

Craig nodded, grateful for the little things, then he stood up to go. John stilled him with a hand. There was something else. He swallowed hard then pulled a file from the drawer, laying it face-down. The cardboard cover was faded and badly frayed at the edge, as if it had been read and read again. Craig hazarded a guess at its age; 1970s or ‘80s. But what did it have to do with Lissy Trainor’s death? John sighed heavily then answered Craig’s silent question.

“Do either of you remember a case in ‘83, at the height of The Troubles?”

“We were still at school, John, and so were you!”

Winter smiled. He and Craig had known each other since they were twelve, over thirty years before. They’d gone to the same integrated grammar in Belfast. They’d been thirteen-years-old in 1983 and Andy would only have been ten.

“I didn’t mean did you work it! I meant did you remember hearing about it on the news.”

Craig shook his head, thinking back. The deaths and murders in the eighties were too many to recall, especially for a sports mad boy who never watched TV. Andy looked as puzzled as he felt.

“I doubt it, John, but give us some more detail. Was it one that Melanie Trainor worked?”

John stared at him, astonished. “How did you guess?”

“I’m a genius, hey. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s after midnight and some of us need our sleep. Could you hurry up?”

John startled and glanced at the clock. He forgot everything when he was fascinated by a case.

“Quickly then. Not only did Melanie Trainor work this case as a young Inspector but the M.O. is almost identical to her daughter’s death. Young woman, strangled and buried at exactly the same spot on Portstewart beach. No signs of sexual assault.”

“Who was she?”

“Her name was Veronica Jarvis. Her family called her Ronni. She was suspected of being an informer for MI5. They pinned her death on the IRA.”

“Pinned it?”

“Well, the IRA didn’t actually claim it, but they convicted one of their commanders for the death and he was sentenced to twenty years inside. He did fifteen. Got early release under the Good Friday agreement in 1998.”

Andy interrupted eagerly. “Didn’t the IRA always claim the things they did?”

“Mostly, except for some of the people they disappeared. That’s one of the things that makes me suspicious.”

Craig nodded. John definitely had something. For Melanie Trainor’s daughter to die in the same way as a murder she’d investigated was way beyond coincidence. His mind filled with questions. Two dominated. Why? And why now, thirty years after the fact? Was it straight forward revenge? Every police officer knew that some cases put them and their families more at risk than others. Thankfully it was rare and rarely this extreme, but they spent their days dealing with dangerous criminals not boy scouts.

Craig stood up again and Andy stood as well, signalling the close of discussions for the night. John reluctantly locked up and then they made their way to the hotel, all of them dreading what tomorrow morning would bring.

Chapter Four

Saturday. 7 a.m.

Julia pulled the brush through her curls without any mercy then wound her hair into a tight chignon. She was going to see the Chief Constable to beg him to arrange her transfer so she needed to look smart. He’d agreed to see her at Headquarters in Belfast but she wasn’t telling Marc she’d be in town until afterwards. It was her last chance of a transfer, and the last chance at making their relationship work. She didn’t need any more pressure today.

She pulled her jacket down sharply and stared at her reflection in her polished shoes, years of military training in every glint. Perhaps if she hadn’t already had one career change she wouldn’t be clinging so tightly to the police. But from the army to the police had been a hard enough shift, leaving the police for Civvie Street would be a step too far.

She loved Marc with all her heart, except she mustn’t do, or her giving up the police and moving to Belfast would be a done deal. There was something holding her back. Was it really as simple as her desire to stay in the police, or did she simply not love him enough? She shook her head, rejecting the idea. She loved him desperately. She wanted to have his children and be his wife. Dear God, she’d even started trying out recipes for food he liked. But…

She needed her own career. It made her feel safe. The future could bring anything but she would always have the job. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him; she just didn’t trust life enough not to throw her a curve. She lifted her bag and stood up straight then turned and left her flat; praying that Sean Flanagan would take her side and she could tell Terry ‘Teflon’ Harrison where to stick his Limavady job.

***

Craig woke when the first shards of daylight hit his eyes and lay in bed thinking. If someone had killed Melanie Trainor’s child in the same way as a case she’d led, it was an obvious link. But to what? Was someone trying to tell them something, or was it just simple revenge? He thought for a moment longer and then thrust himself out of bed in one smooth leap. As he stood in the shower with warm water running down his back his thoughts moved to other things. Julia was going to see the Chief Constable today to request a transfer. She hadn’t told him, Nicky had found out. Her secrecy told him something, but what?

He admired her drive but he felt guilty at the same time. She’d never ask him to use his credit with the Chief to get her moved, but he knew that she thought he should have tried. Why hadn’t he? He didn’t know why. He shook his head beneath the shower, trying to clear it. Was he worried about his own career? No, that wasn’t it. He didn’t give a damn about promotion; he hadn’t even wanted the one he had. Was he getting cold feet about her moving down? Or was part of him secretly hoping that she wouldn’t come, so the decision to end their relationship would be taken out of his hands? No. Even as he thought it he knew the ‘no’ was weaker than before. Did he want to end their relationship but he simply didn’t have the guts? And if so, why? Was he happier single? No. The ‘no’ was surer this time. That wasn’t it. He wanted a relationship, and marriage and children someday. What then?

The water ran through his hair and into his ears, shutting out all sounds but the rushing in his head. He focused as it flowed down his body, thinking of the last question he’d asked. He knew he wanted marriage and kids, so what was wrong? Did he want them with someone else? The image of a woman flashed through his mind and he reeled back against the shower’s wall in shock. It wasn’t Julia! He tried to focus on the face. Was it Camille? No, definitely not. Then who the hell was it? Someone he’d already met or some fantasy?

He shook the urge away quickly, filled with guilt. He’d never been unfaithful and he wasn’t about to start now but he knew in that split second that if Julia and he broke up, someone else was already waiting in his heart.

***

9 a.m.

“OK Andy, what would you like me to do? We’ve nothing on in Belfast that Liam can’t handle, so I’m all yours for a few days.”

Andy smiled slyly at him and Craig knew that he was about to ask for something more. “Well now. Since you’ve mentioned the shiny new Chief Inspector Cullen, hey, how would you feel about him joining us for a few days?”

An image of Liam grinning immediately filled Craig’s mind. He would jump at the chance of a trip to the coast, especially if it meant a few nights sleep in a hotel. Liam loved his children dearly but with a toddler and baby under a year, sleep was a luxury that he would pay anything for. Even better if it was on the State.

“OK, you’re on. Annette can step up if needed. And she may have a new sergeant this week, depending on how persuasive Liam’s managed to be. I’ll give him a call.”

Two minutes later Liam was ready to rock and roll.

“Here, should I bring my bucket and spade? I hear Portstewart Strand’s lovely this time of year.”

“Don’t bother; the sand’s already given us more grief than we need. Did you manage to get hold of Jake McLean?”

Liam pulled his pen from his mouth and inspected it, peering at it for a moment before popping it back in. Nicky screwed up her nose in distaste and threw a packet of baby-wipes at his desk. He ignored her and talked on.

“Aye, I did indeed. He didn’t take much persuading, I can tell you that. He seems to like it down here. Said Stranmillis was a bit too quiet for his liking and he fancied some action.”

“Is D.C.I. Nugent OK with the move?”

“Right as rain. I promised him a year’s supply of wine gums and he caved right in.”

He guffawed loudly and Craig pulled the receiver from his ear in pain. No-one could ever have accused Liam of having dulcet tones. He heard Annette and Nicky joining in, in the background and gave them a minute to enjoy the joke. When the laughter subsided he tried again.

“Seriously, Liam. Did you check with him?”

Liam gave a heavy sigh at being brought back to earth then spoke in a mock-reverent tone. “Yes, Superintendent, sir. I did, sir. Detective Chief Inspector Nugent said he’s happy to second Sergeant McLean for six months and see how it goes from there. Seems he thinks a stint in murder is good for the soul.”

“What did he want in return?” Ronnie Nugent never did anything for nothing.

Liam was silent for a moment then he sighed again. “He wants me to run some workshops for his new recruits. ‘Detecting techniques for the Noughties’ or some other crap like that. I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I make for this team.”

Craig laughed so loudly at the image of Liam standing in front of a class that Andy motioned him to turn on his speakerphone. Liam heard the echo immediately.

“Oh aye, now I bet ‘Dungiven Hey’ is listening in! Morning, Andy.”

“Morning Liam, hey. And that’s D.C.I. Dungiven Hey to you.”

Craig interrupted.

“Seriously though, thanks for doing that, Liam. Jake will be a great addition to the team. And look on the bright side.”

“There is one?”

“Yes. All those workshops will look great on your CV. Boards love things like that. See you by noon.”

He cut the line quickly before Liam could reply then glanced at Andy and laughed again, then they set off for the mortuary and a more sombre start to the day.

***

Andy parked outside the single-storey building and they walked across the car-park, neither of them eager to reach their goal. Craig ran his fingers under the over-starched collar of his new shirt, bought in the local shopping centre that morning. He’d left Belfast without packing and he’d nip back when he had time, but for now it would just have to do. Neither of them spoke; just fell into step as they walked, reluctance in every pace.

They saw the high-end limousine simultaneously, knowing immediately who its passenger had been, and hurried towards the entrance, reluctant to leave John to deal with everything alone. Their progress was halted by a wail that ripped the clear morning air, freezing them both to the core. They listened as it grew, so high and relentless that for a moment nothing moved. Not the uniformed guard standing confused by the car and not the still air that neither of them breathed in. Even the birds seemed to slow and turn, searching for the origin of the sound. They glanced at each other and forgot their reticence, running towards the morgue. To the room that held a dead daughter, and a mother who had just died as well.

***

John sipped at his coffee, gathering his thoughts, then he turned towards Craig with a look that said he was dreading what came next.

“You don’t need me there to talk to her, Marc.”

Craig half-smiled ‘yes we do’ as Andy translated their shorthand in his head. John had been chilled by Melanie Trainor’s reaction, more chilled that he liked to admit. In fact, he wouldn’t admit it, hiding behind ‘you don’t need me there’ instead. But he knew why Craig was insisting. None of them had seen a reaction that bad, not in all the years they’d been on the force, more than three score between them. Craig was afraid of how the ACC might react once the questions had to start.

John gazed at his friend pleadingly, fatigue written all over his face. Craig’s voice cut through the air.

“I’m not a doctor, John. You are. Have you ever seen someone take it that hard? She might collapse.”

John shook his head and sighed, knowing that Craig was right. Melanie Trainor might have made it to the top in a world of men but she was here as a mother today. One who had loved her child if her tears were anything to go by. She could collapse, or worse, when they started to talk, and whether his patients were usually dead or not, he was a doctor first of all. He needed to be there.

He took a deep draught of his coffee and made a face. It was cold. He walked to the kettle in silence and stood in silence until it boiled. Then he put a fresh pot on a tray and they walked into the relatives’ room together, bracing themselves for the pain.

***

“Nicky, here’s a list of everything Annette needs to do while I’m away.”

Nicky glanced up from her screen then leaned back in her chair and threw Liam a questioning look. He was standing arms-folded in front of her, his newest tie and jacket saying that this was an important day. She couldn’t be sure but she thought he’d actually combed his hair, although it was hard to tell from the sandy fuzz on top of his head.

“Have you got a mistress or something, Liam? Only the last time you combed your hair was on your wedding day. Danni told me.”

Liam’s guffaw was so loud they probably heard it on the thirteenth floor. When it stopped he wagged a thick finger in her face.

“Let’s have a little respect for your acting boss, madam. I’ll have you know I’m off up north to help out on an important case.”

“So the fact that it involves the ACC has nothing to do with your hair, I suppose?”

A stifled laugh behind him made Liam turn, just in time to see Davy Walsh, their young analyst, drop down behind his desk. He wagged his finger again.

“Now there’s a man who could do with a comb. I thought you had the weekend off, Davy?”

Davy stood-up and wandered over, tossing his black Emo locks back dramatically from his face. He looked like an Armani model and Nicky said so. When he’d first joined the squad eighteen months before he’d been so shy that he’d stuttered relentlessly. Now he teased Liam with the rest of them, his stutter now only occasional, on ‘s’ and ‘w’, and often used to best effect.

“I could lend you s…some of my hair wax, Liam. It would smooth out that frizz.”

Liam looked genuinely shocked. “What frizz? I’ll have you know they’re my family curls. I was born with bright red ringlets according to my Mum and this is what’s left.”

“That’s something to be thankful for, then.”

Liam threw Nicky a look so pained that they all laughed again.

“W…what’s the boss up to in Portstewart, Liam?”

“Dead girl, found on the beach. Nasty business. Anyway, it’s not your problem. Didn’t you and Maggie have plans for the weekend?”

“No, just for yesterday. She’s gone to her Mum’s in Scotland for a few days, so I’m going to catch up on my computer games.”

Nicky leaned in conspiratorially. “Her mother is ACC Trainor. That’s why Liam’s combed his hair.”

“W…whose mother? Maggie’s?”

“Keep up, Davy. The victim’s mother is ACC Trainor.”

“S…seriously? I didn’t think she was married.”

Nicky smiled at him in a way that said she wanted to pat him on the head. “You sweet old fashioned thing, Davy Walsh. Lots of parents don’t get married nowadays.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly. “Although they should. Selfish, thoughtless…”

Liam interrupted before she launched into a moral lecture. “She’s married to Hugh Trainor, the politician. He’s an MLA with the Energy Party.”

Davy whistled. “He’s richer than God too. His family own all those pubs up the Lisburn Road.”

“Then she should work for free.”

Nicky had her arms folded now and Liam could tell she was winding herself up for a rant. The boss could handle her when she started but he always got flustered and gave in for a quiet life. Time to leave. He walked across the office throwing a wave back over his head.

“Tell Annette I’ll call her later and be sure to give her that list.”

Nicky yelled at his back. “I hadn’t finished, Liam Cullen.”

He kept on walking, saving his riskiest comment for when he reached the exit to the lift.

“That’s why I’m leaving. I was afraid you never would.”

He slipped through the glass doors expecting something to hit him, then jumped into the lift and prayed it moved faster than Nicky did.

***

Craig sat opposite Melanie Trainor while Andy stood, almost to attention, by the door. John had hovered for a moment then chosen a spot at the end of the sofa where she sat. It was a challenging situation for all of them, although it shouldn’t have been. She was a victim’s mother first and foremost, and they should treat her that way. Her job didn’t provide a shield from the pain of loss, so why did they have to keep reminding themselves of that?

Craig stared at her, watching as her hands curled and uncurled as if they were searching for something to hold. They stretched into activity until her loss hit her again and made them limp, then the cycle started again.