Chapter Thirteen
I didn’t hang around.
Instead, I hurriedly picked up my hire car from a nearby street, headed back to
the hotel and hoped to hell I wasn’t being followed. Several hours passed
without anything untoward happening before I began to wind down the tension
just a touch. I seemed to have got away with it, but that night I slept even
more uneasily than usual.
I lay
awake for some time turning over in my mind what I would do next. I’d learned
little of real value about Penny’s present whereabouts from Rourke, and even
less from the Blue Taboo club so where did I go from here? After some
reflection, I decided one line of investigation looked promising but highly
dangerous, and it stemmed from something Rourke had let slip.
“It got back to Felan that Hamilton
was asking for him and the word on the street this morning is that Felan isn’t
at all happy. He thinks your lady friend was trying to put the finger on him.
He thinks there’s something going on between Hamilton and ourselves.”
It was
a lead I could not afford to ignore. Despite the warnings Penny had given me
about Felan, I decided to take the plunge and contact him. Dangerous? Of
course, but I had no better ideas.
Next
morning I drove south into County Down in what was, in all probability, a
damned foolhardy attempt to try to find him. It was pure guesswork that I might
hit on something in one of the big towns. I had a feeling that there were two
things Felan might be able to set me straight on: what part Christine Fisher
played in Marie’s killing, and what happened to Penny? But I had no idea where
to start looking for him, just a growing certainty that I had to find him.
That’s when my problems compounded. How do you track down an unsavoury
character like that when all you have to go on is a name and the likelihood
that the guy doesn’t take kindly to casual callers?
Following
up on that sort of lead isn’t easy and, at the end of the day, it’s often pure
chance that makes the difference between success and failure. I couldn’t afford
to wait around for chance to lend a hand so I drove into a market town and made
my way to the offices of the local free newspaper. It was the only way I could
figure out how to bend the odds in my favour.
I left
the car in a backstreet parking lot and found the newspaper office, right next
door to a funeral director, which probably added to the authenticity of the In Memoriam column. The woman at the reception
desk smiled sweetly as I walked in. I guessed that the sickly sweet greeting
probably meant she thought I had some business to place their way. I tried to
play the whole thing brisk, before she got wind of my lack of credentials.
“Hi,
I’m Henry Bodine of the Los Angeles
Courier. Any chance of talking to the boss?”
“The
boss?” The smile was quickly replaced by a suspicious frown. Her hand reached
out and hovered over a telephone on her desk.
“The
editor. Just a few words is all I need.”
“You’ll
have to tell me what this is all about, Mr Bodine. The editor is a very busy
man.”
“Just
tell him I’m here on a story and I need a few minutes of his time.” I gave her
what I thought was a reasonably honest expression.
She
grimaced, made up her mind and picked up the phone. “Mr Cusack? There’s an
American gentleman from Los Angeles out here asking to speak with you. He says
he’s here on a story.”
I
didn’t catch the boss’s reply but the woman looked up at me and said, “He won’t
be a minute,” as she replaced the receiver. I guessed that I’d struck lucky.
“Mr
Bodine.” Fred Cusack was a tall, wiry man with thinning hair, a bemused
expression and rimless spectacles. The visual essence of a lifetime dedicated
towards writing. He offered his hand cautiously as he approached me. “From Los
Angeles?”
“That’s
right. The LA Courier.” It was a
pretty safe bet he’d never heard of the paper but I mentally crossed my fingers
anyway.
“Oh
yes? You’re a long way from home.”
“Over
here on a story, Mr Cusack. Thought you might be able to give me a lead or
two.”
“Really?”
He made no attempt to usher me towards his office and I guessed this was going
to be a short interview. He perched himself on the side of the receptionist’s
desk and folded his arms, leaving me standing. “What sort of story?”
“Narcotics.
The American involvement in the Irish drugs scene. My editor thinks it’s likely
to go down well at home, what with the moves towards a cease fire over here. He
wants me to slant it along the lines of the local paramilitary Mafia gangs replacing
guns with drugs.”
Cusack
eyed me suspiciously. “Really?” His expression told me my explanation didn’t
exactly ring true with him.
“Sure.
The way we see it, there are people here making a mint out of supplying arms to
terrorists and if peace breaks out they’ll need to find a new line of
business.”
He
removed his spectacles and wiped them with a gesture that said he’d heard it
all before. “And what do you want from me?”
“I
need to talk to the people on the inside. People like…” I make a casual gesture.
“People like this guy Joe Felan. We know he’s big in the narcotics business. I
figured that someone like you could point me in the right direction.”
His
face took on a look of displeasure. The glasses went back on with a heavy hand.
“I’m an editor, Mr Bodine, not a drug pusher. Go to the police and ask them to
help you.”
“You’re
joking. The police? Look, Mr Cusack, we help your British reporters when they
come to LA so all I’m asking is a bit of friendly co-operation. A man like you
must know what’s going on at ground level.”
He
gave me a look that said I was close to losing the game. “I could take that in
several ways, Mr Bodine.”
“Hell,
now don’t get me wrong. I just figured you’d know more than most people about
what’s really happening out there on the streets. I just need you to give me a
lead.”
“And
watch you getting your head blown off? You know who Joe Felan is?”
“Sure,
I’m a journalist, like you. I know who the guy is and what he does. But how do
I make contact with him?”
“In a
word, you don’t. No one makes direct contact with Felan. You’re on a losing
streak this time.” He stood up and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets
like he was about to walk off.
I’d
heard the words before, seen the gesture before, but I decided to persist.
“Just tell me where he lives, I’ll do the rest.”
He
shook his head sadly, “Mr Bodine, you’re an innocent abroad and you’re likely
to end up stone cold dead if you carry on like this.” He took a step away from
me and then seemed to think better of it. He withdrew his hands, removed his
glasses once again and bit on one of the ear struts while he considered his
next words. “What exactly do you want with Felan?”
I was
almost pleading now. Desperate. “An interview with him. Off the record, of
course. Come on now, Mr Cusack, it needn’t go any farther than us. Just a
single lead.”
He
shook his head sadly and replaced the spectacles with an air of precision
before he replied. “There’s a council housing estate just outside the town
called Paragon Farm. Ask there for a man called Milligan—”
I
jerked myself upright. “Milligan? The IRA brigade leader?”
“You’ve
heard of him?”
“If
it’s the same man, yeah. I met him in Belfast.”
“You’ve
met him? That could work for you or against you. I’m sorry; it’s all I’m
prepared to do for you, Mr Bodine. After this it’s your own funeral.” He turned
away without so much as a farewell, but I offered my thanks to his back anyway.
The
town sat at the base of a hill and one of its three main streets crawled up
that hill to where a well-fortified police station looked down over the town
centre. The fortifications reminded me of a UNPROFOR base in Bosnia. From the
higher ground above the building, you can see the Mourne Mountains, rising up
from a distant horizon like a purple watercolour backcloth. Just like the hills
around Sarajevo. Several roads led out of the town towards the coast. One
headed north towards Belfast and another veered inland along a route which
twisted and turned until it skirted the Paragon Farm housing estate. This was
where the local council practiced its policy of containing all its bad eggs in
one basket. New housing mixed with old bigotries. A display of IRA graffiti
adorned the walls of the houses here like some travesty of a garden display,
the green shoots of hatred and bigotry in full bloom across once clean
brickwork.
I
decided to leave the car in the town parking lot and make my way on foot.
Taking a hire car into Felan’s territory could no nothing for the looks of the
car and I would have need of it again. So I walked until I found a small
general purpose store close to the edge of the estate, the sort of store that,
back home, would be the centre of local knowledge. This one was so well
fortified you’d think it was guarding the Fort Knox gold. Once again I used an
element of bluster and pure ignorance to get what I wanted.
“Hi
there!” I gave an overly cheery greeting to a tarty-looking woman behind the
cash till.
She
glowered back at me through small, rat-like eyes. “What-do-you-want?”
“I’m
looking for Mr Milligan.”
The
woman turned up her nose and then ignored me with a pointed shake of her
bulbous head.
I
tried again. “Milligan. It’s important I talk to him. How do I find him?”
“Feck
off!” A short pause and then, “How important?”
I took
a gamble. “Felan himself won’t be happy with anyone who stands in my way.”
“Jeez!
If you’re pissin’ me around you’ll not get outa here alive.”
“You’d
better believe me. If you know what’s good for you.”
“First
street on the estate, so ’tis. Two doors down on the left hand side. Now get
out of here.”
I got
out while the going was good and quickly found the house at the end of a short
terrace. Even from a distance, it stood out as the sort of place you didn’t go
near unless you had to. I mean, really
had to. Not that the rest of the estate was much better, but this place had an
air about it which you couldn’t pin down to anything more than plain evil. Although
the whole estate couldn’t have been more than ten years or so built, it was
littered with the usual gable end murals, the usual Provisional IRA graffiti
and the usual air of neglect which I’d learned to expect after that first visit
to The Divis. Milligan’s house added to the overall effect with a display of
broken windows, overgrown front garden, IRA and Sinn Fein posters, and an Irish
tricolor over the front door. Enough to scare away any Loyalist who happened to
stumble on the place by mistake.
I
should have known better than approach the house straight away. I was spotted
before I got anywhere near the front door. Milligan himself opened the door
before I reached it and he stared at me with some sort of open-mouth disbelief.
“What
the hell do you want here?”
“Hi,
there!” I laid on more bluster, good and thick, and hoped he was as gullible as
the woman in the store. “Glad I found the right place. Mr Milligan, ain’t it?
Mind if I come inside?”
By
some miracle it worked and he was too taken aback to do any more than stand
aside while I strode on into his house. My heart was rattling round inside my
chest like a loose bell clapper so I clenched my fists to keep myself under
control. Inside it was a hovel, totally in keeping with the exterior
appearance. It smelled so bad that even a down-at-heel pig would have hesitated
to go in there.
“You’re
the Yank who was at the Woman’s Aid Centre!”
“Right
first time. Where do I find Felan?”
That
sure shook him. His face turned to thunder. “What do you want with Felan?”
“Business.
Important business.” I leaned towards him, smelling the foul cocktail of
alcohol and cigarette smoke on his clothes. “Just tell me how I can find him.”
“You’re
a fool, Yank, comin’ here like this.”
“So
how do I find this guy?”
Milligan
was in a quandary, unused to this sort of approach, and his face registered his
dilemma. I was growing confident that he was only a pawn in the larger game,
and a pretty unintelligent pawn at that. I prodded him further, “Go on,
Milligan, tell me how to contact Felan!”
He
screwed up his face and then snorted. “Okay, okay. You’d better wait here.
Don’t try anything stupid.”
“Wouldn’t
dream of it.”
Milligan
dashed off into the depths of the estate and came scampering back about thirty
minutes later, scowling miserably. He was breathing heavily as he let himself
into the house. “Joe says he wants to talk to you. You’d better come with me.
He don’t like bein’ kept waitin’.”
The
impetus was, in those few words, transferred from me to Felan. Not a good omen.
I followed Milligan out into the street and through a series of alleyways until
we came to a house with somewhat less ‘tat’ crawling over it than most on the
estate. Someone of local influence lived here.
Milligan
led me inside.
From
the hallway, we went into what was, seemingly, originally planned as a dining
room although it had probably never been used as such. The first thing I saw as
I came into the room was a girl. She was totally naked, huddled in one corner
of the room with her arms strapped behind her back and her legs bound at the
ankles. She was young, probably in her early or mid-twenties, and had light
blonde hair which fell in tresses about her bare shoulders. Her mouth was
gagged with sticking plaster, but her eyes were free to stare at me with the
sort of desperate panic that could only come from the certain knowledge of what
was going to happen to her.
A Black
& Decker electric drill lay ominously on the dining table, the flex draped
across the girl to reach the wall plug. Most of the drill was caked in the dark
brown stains of dried blood.
Milligan
stopped to kick at the girl’s legs. “Not bad looking, is she?”
“What
have you done to her?”
“Nuthin’
yet.” He grinned, exposing an uneven row of heavily stained teeth. “Felan wants
to do this one himself.”
“Who
is she?”
“British
army. Thought she could drink in one of our bars with her army boyfriend.
Stupid bastards should have known better. The boyfriend didn’t last long.”
“You
killed him.”
He
sniffed. “They expect it if they get caught. But he talked first. Tried to save
himself by tellin’ us all about their operations. You can’t have any respect
for bastards who squeal, can you?”
He
pushed me on through the dining room into a squalid little living room which
looked like it was being used as a junk store. One person was in the room
waiting for us.
“This
is him, boss. The bloody American.” Milligan hung back as he pushed me into the
room, as if he was edging into the presence of the Almighty.
Joe
Felan sat back in an old, torn, pseudo-leather arm chair, one hand rubbing
across his thick, rubbery lips as he mused over my predicament. His narrow,
piercing eyes bored into me, eyes which were at the same time both penetrating
and yet devoid of any emotion. His heavy black eyebrows sat like awnings above
those piercing eyes, adding to a growth of black stubble and giving his face an
exaggerated angry look. His bulging stomach seemed to weigh heavily on his legs,
even though he was seated, so that his knees splayed out on either side at
uncomfortably acute angles.
Eventually
he spoke, forming the words slowly with a deep, quavering voice. “What th’ fookin
hell d’you want here?”
“An
interview. I’m a reporter—”
“Don’t
piss me about Bodine. You’re fookin’ Hamilton’s fookin’ boyfriend. The one
who’s fookin’ sister got herself blown up. We know fookin’ well who you are.”
I felt
my confidence suddenly slip away. “So you know why I’m here. Tell me about what
happened to the girls.”
“Which
girls?”
“All
of them. My sister, Christine Fisher, Penny Hamilton.”
“You
must think I’m fookin’ stupid or something’.” He pulled a cigarette from his
shirt pocket and lit up. “You know what it’s like to lose your fookin’ knee
caps with a Black an’ Decker?”
This
wasn’t going to be easy. Would my military training hold out against these
guys? I pictured the girl in the next room and had my doubts. “Look, if I
thought I was any sort of threat to you, I wouldn’t have come. All I want is to
find out what happened. And I’ll even forego anything you can tell me about the
other two girls if you’ll help me find Penny Hamilton.”
“Good fookin’
screw, is she?” He pulled deep on the cigarette and then exhaled. It smelled
suspiciously unlike nicotine. Maybe Felan wasn’t so averse to using his own
product line. “I heard she’s a damn fookin’ good screw.”
“Help
me find her and I’ll not bother you again.”
Felan
suddenly jerked forward, dropped his cigarette on the floor and stamped one
foot loudly onto it. “You’re just fookin’ me about. What the hell should I do
with you, Yank?”
“Nothing.
Tell me where to find Penny, let me walk away from here and I’ll say no more
about all this.”
“Fook
that. You’ve been sayin’ too much already. God save us, but you’re a persistent
fookin’ bastard. I’ll say that fer you.”
“They
breed them that way where I come from.” Nothing would be gained by being
weak-kneed with this character. He had to be confronted face-on. “Look, you
tell me where I can find Penny Hamilton and I’ll promise to forget all about
this place. I’ll swear I’ve never heard of Joe Felan or Paragon Farm. How does
that grab you?”
His
eyes bored even deeper. “Like a fookin’ big hand on me goolies. No, there’s
nuthin’ in that fer me. Except the risk of you openin’ yer fookin’ gob once too
often.”
“So
make me a better offer.”
“That’s
your problem, so it is. There’s nuthin’ I want from you.” He grunted, leaned
back and lit up another cigarette. “You’ve been asking fookin’ awkward
questions about Hamilton all over the place, so they tell me. Is that right?”
“I
want to find her, that’s all.”
“And
yer fookin’ sister? They tell me you’re asking fookin’ awkward questions about
what happened to yer fookin’ sister all over the fookin’ shop.”
“You
know what happened to her?”
“I
might, and then again I might not. You’d be surprised what I know, Yank. But
what worries me is the possibility that you might go shootin’ yer fookin’ mouth
off too much when you leave here. If
you fookin’ well leave here, that is.”
“There’s
a choice?”
“Yeah,
my fookin’ choice. Seems like I hold
all the fookin’ cards, don’t it?” He eased his bulk forward in the arm chair.
“My hand on your fookin’ goolies, so
to speak.”
A cold
feeling wrapped itself around my spine. I tried to look unconcerned but it wasn’t
that easy. Maybe it was time to insert a little pressure. “There’s a guy up in
Belfast called Rourke. Chief Inspector Rourke. He’s working on what happened to
my sister. Who killed her and why. You get my drift?”
“No.”
At least the man was honest on that score.
I
tried again. “The RUC know all about me and why I’m here. They’re not too happy
with me for the same reasons as you. Don’t like me asking about what happened
to Marie. So they’re watching every move I make. Almost certainly they know
I’ve made contact with you. Think about it. If anything nasty happens to me,
they’ll know whose shoulder to come tapping on.” I let that sink in before I
added, “Could be an international incident.”
“Ah,
that’s just a load o’ fookin’ horse crap, so ’tis.” His brow furrowed deeply
nevertheless. “What does this fookin’ RUC pig, Rourke, know about what happened
to yer sister?”
“More
than he’s telling me, that’s for sure.”
“Which
ain’t fookin’ much, is it?” He was getting agitated now. Something of my
desperate swagger had hit home. The trouble was, I was firing blind and I
didn’t know exactly where the soft underbelly lay. I decided to try another
blind shot.
“What
do you know about Christine Fisher’s American connection?”
His
face blackened suddenly. “What d’you
know about it?”
I
answered slowly, measuring his response against my words. I was getting near a
vulnerable spot. “I know she was wanted by the New York Police Department. She
was running narcotics across the Atlantic. She was also involved in some sort
of Irish American link with the IRA. And she was quite a good ringer for my
sister.”
He
dragged deep on the cigarette. “Ah fook! I know all that.”
“You know it, Mr Felan, I know it and this guy Rourke knows it.
Rourke also knows I’m following up on the lead. Now, imagine what’s going to go
through his mind if I don’t come bounding out of this house like a lamb in
spring.”
“You
fookin’ told him that you were coming here?”
“Might
have. That’s something you’ll need to worry about, isn’t it? One thing I do
know is that he’s having me tailed.”
Felan
went silent again, wedged back into his seat so that his legs were unable to
splay out to their full extent. He was thinking deeply and didn’t seem to care
if I knew it. After some minutes he shook his head sadly. “You’d better fook
off out o’ here, Yank. While you’ve still got yer fookin’ goolies intact.”
I hide
my deep feeling of relief. “If you say so.”
“And
when you find Hamilton, tell the fookin’ little whore to mind her own fookin’
business and not to come looking fer Joe Felan again. You got that? And you can
fookin’ well tell her that if she knows what’s good fer her she’d better lie
low fer a while. You know what I mean?”
“Sure.
But first I need to find her.”
He
sniffed loudly. “Try the Blue Taboo Club. Fookin’ Loyalist dive, so ’tis. Sure
as hell, that’s where you’ll find the fookin’ little bitch. You know the
place?”
“Yeah,
I know it. I already tried there.”
“So
fookin’ well try it again! That’s where they always go to ground; them sort.
You know; the fookin’ Proddy strippers. Tell them that Joe Felan knows all
about what goes on there, and then see what happens.”
Knowing
my hide was still intact, I began to grin. “Thanks for the information.”
“So
what are you fookin’ well waitin’ for?”
I gave
him a quick nod and turned towards Milligan who had been standing silently by
the door throughout the interview. He led me back out through the dining room
where two other brutes were holding the blonde girl flat on the floor, one
sitting astride her legs and grasping her knees. They had a rubber mat spread
out on the floor beneath her, presumably to contain the expected flow of blood.
The girl looked up at me and I recognised the signs of intense of fear, but I
could do nothing to help her, not until I was clear of the Paragon Farm estate.
“Felan
wants to do this one himself,” Milligan said again. “You’d better get outside
before he starts. You don’t want to know about this.”
“He
enjoys inflicting pain, does he?”
“He
learned it inside Long Kesh. That’s one thing the British did for Joe.”
We
went on outside the house. Behind us, someone was revving up the Black and
Decker.
Milligan
led me to the edge of the estate and pointed me towards the town. Then he left
me without another word. Nearby, a group of shifty-looking jerks in denims and
sneakers smoked incessantly as they shambled along the road behind me, watching
my every move.
Fifteen
minutes later I had recovered the car and was heading out of the town, thankful
to have escaped with my body still in one piece. I was certain I was being
tailed as I drove back towards Belfast, the driver of a blue Ford Escort was
making no attempt to disguise what he was doing. I was less sure about who was following me. Felan’s men or
Rourke’s. Probably Felan’s men, I decided, and knew I had to keep going and not
stop to phone the police.
The
sun was setting as I entered the city so I went straight to the hotel and
immediately telephoned the police confidential hot line from my room. I told
them about the girl and where to find her, but I guessed that, in all likelihood,
they’d do little or nothing. Mount a raid at Paragon Farm and they’d have a
bloody riot on their hands, with the risk of a shoot-out. They’d find nothing
they didn’t already know about, and they’d be too late to save the girl. Her
dead body would be found on some lonely hillside with no evidence of who killed
her, and the rest of the world would go on its way, unconcerned because one
more police officer died in Northern Ireland.
Then I
had a late dinner.
Later
that evening, I phoned dad. He sounded glad to hear from me but he let slip
that mom was worried about me because I hadn’t been in touch. That pricked my
conscience somewhat so I spent the next ten minutes talking to mom and
reassuring her with all sorts of blatant lies. When I got back to dad he told
me that Chief Hanson had been round at the house asking after me.
It was
still late afternoon over there so when I had finished talking to mom and dad I
called Hanson at his office. I was lucky to catch him in.
“So,
you’re still alive, are you?” His voice was devoid of all emotion, as if he was
just reading the words straight from a page.
“What
does it sound like, Chief?” I tried to instil some degree of confidence into my
reply. “How’re you keeping?”
“Better
for hearing your voice, you stupid bastard. You found out any more about what
happened to Marie?”
“No,
but I now know a damn sight more than I did at the start. Look, Chief, I phoned
dad and he said you were round there asking about me. You shouldn’t be
bothering my folks, you know. They’ve had it hard enough already.”
“Didn’t
mean to spook them, Henry. Thought they might know how I could contact you.
That’s all I wanted to find out. How to contact you.”
“Why?”
“A bit
of information came my way. Could be useful. Concerns your adventures with that
Irish woman, McDolan.”
“What
about her?”
I
could tell from the way that he paused and then began talking slowly that he
was in a quandary, probably didn’t know how to interpret whatever information
he had access to. “Well, it’s not her,
exactly. The thing is, she introduced you to a Catholic priest called O’Hagan.”
“How
do you know all this, Chief?” I’d never told him about O’Hagan.
“It’s
my job. Now, listen here, Henry. O’Hagan is in Belfast right now, working with
that Irish American Woman’s Aid Centre you were asking about.”
“I
already know he’s over here, Chief.”
“You
been in touch with him?” There was a note of hesitation in his voice.
“Not
yet. Went visiting the Irish American Woman’s Aid Centre. He wasn’t at home.”
“A
word in your ear, Henry. Try again. See what he’s up to. Could be he’s got more
on his plate than just giving aid to poor Irish girls.”
“Is
that a nod and a wink sort of suggestion?”
He
didn’t reply immediately. When he did his voice was hard. “Take it whatever way
you want.”
“Thanks,
Chief. I’ll give it a go. I thought you wanted me to keep out of trouble.”
“I
did, but it’s too late for that now” He paused and then loosened up. “Just want
to help if I can.”
“Well,
thanks anyway.”
“Keep
in touch, Henry.”
“Sure.”
Next
morning I had a late breakfast, protracting the meal over the morning
newspaper. It had an intriguing leader article on the growing hopes for peace
in Ireland. Once again they’d missed the point that the hope was for a cease
fire, not peace. But the writer caught my imagination with his analysis of the
degree of co-operation and effort required to bring about a cease fire. The IRA
and the UVF, he postulated, would be getting their acts together in a common
goal, along with the IRA paymasters overseas. And the biggest source of IRA
overseas funding came from the United States. If peace was to break out in
Ireland, the American fund-raisers would have to be on-side.
I
searched the inside pages for something on the girl at Paragon Farm, but I
found nothing. I doubted if she was still alive. In the meantime it was up to
me to act on Chief Hanson’s advice.
Later
that morning, I made my way back to the Irish American Woman’s Aid Centre. This
time the place looked more alive, at least a dozen women milled around inside
and several sat in counsel at tables spread about the outer room. I seemed to
have arrived during a counselling surgery and I stood out like a sore thumb. A
lone male in a woman’s world.
One of
the women, who had been standing smoking near the entrance door, approached me
with an enquiring look. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah.”
I continued looking round the room for a familiar face. “I’m here to see Father
O’Hagan. Is he about?”
She
didn’t seem at all surprised by my opener, just stubbed out her cigarette and
said, “Well, he’s busy at the moment. Hold on and I’ll speak to him.” She
hurried off into the small back room and appeared a few minutes later with the
priest close behind her. His brow was creased with a deep frown as he crossed
the room towards me.
“‘Morning,
Father. How are you?”
“So,
we meet again, Mr Bodine.” He pulled at his face as he confronted me. His eyes
were a fixed mask, hiding what he really thought about me walking in on him in
the middle of Belfast.
“Nice
to meet you again, Father. Obviously you remember me.”
“Of
course I remember you, Mr Bodine. I seem to recall I told you that no good
would come of you getting involved in things you don’t understand.”
“So
help me to understand.”
He
shook his head and clicked his tongue with a sense of exasperation. “Come with
me.” He led me into the small back room and shut the door so that we could be
alone. “Now, tell me. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Looking
for answers, just like before. I heard you were here and I figured that you
might be able to give me a few of those answers, Father. You were here in
Belfast when my sister was killed, weren’t you?”
“I
was.”
“Tell
me about it.”
“What’s
to tell?” He sat down but declined to offer me a seat. “I was staying with my
good friend, Father Philamore. It was he who was called out to administer the
last rites to the girl who was killed.”
“At
the scene of the bomb?”
“No,
at the police mortuary. I went there with him.”
I felt
my face muscles go tight. “You saw her?”
“I
did.”
“Jeez!”
I tried desperately to marshal my thoughts. Something important was buried here
and I had to find the right questions to dig it out. “What about the other girl
who was killed that night?”
“What
about her?”
“You
saw her also?”
“Yes,
they were both there in the same mortuary. Side by side, on adjacent slabs.” He
looked up at me with no sign of malice but a deep sense of sadness. “We said a
few prayers for the other girl out of common humanity.”
“I
see. So, tell me this, Father, how did you know which was my sister and which
was Christine Fisher? There wasn’t much of Marie left to recognise.”
He
shrugged. “We relied on what the police told us. I remembered her from having
seen her once before here at the Woman’s Aid Centre.”
“You
spoke to her on that occasion?” I was getting nearer the truth now, but what
truth?
“No. I
only saw her but I remembered her flame red hair.”
“Father,
both those girls had flame red hair!”
That
was it! They both had flaming red hair, they died the same night and—the clinching point—they had been together, side-by-side,
in the same mortuary.
Now I
knew what had happened, but I still
had to find out why.
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