Chapter One
March 1994
The nightmare came back
to haunt me yet again the morning I arrived in the UK. That same old Technicolour
film must have been loaded up and ready to roll inside my head. Sleep had
evaded me on the overnight red-eye flight from Los Angeles to London, Heathrow.
It caught up with me only minutes after taking off again on a domestic connection
to Belfast. I fell asleep in my seat and the images began to run.
I was woken
suddenly by a pair of warm hands sliding round my hips. The blurred image of a
pink face appeared close in front of me. I was in a cold sweat and confused, my
mind not yet fully attuned to where I was. Someone was leaning across me: a
woman with her arms reaching out as if she was about to disarm me. I wasn’t
carrying a gun, but I panicked. I shouted at her and lashed out with one hand.
It caught her hard across her well-endowed chest.
She
cried out and staggered off to one side.
The
guy sitting next to me grabbed at my arm. “Hey! Easy there! She was only
fastening your seat belt. She was trying not to waken you.”
That
was when I realised the woman was a stewardess and we were still at thirty
thousand feet. She was young, but with a hard face and a strong dose of
attitude in her voice. She shouted at me to calm down and looked like she’d get
rough if I didn’t.
“What
the hell are you playing at?” The guy in the next seat wasn’t too sympathetic
either. I jerked myself free of his grip, tried to rub the effects of jet lag
from my eyes and apologised profusely. Said I’d been having a nightmare of a
time, which was pretty damn true. One hell of a nightmare.
The
stewardess threatened to have me cuffed if I didn’t behave and then stormed
away down the Boeing’s aisle. I apologised again as she swept away. Maybe I
should have broken my journey in London, but it was too late to change my plans
now.
I tried
to settle back into my seat as the airplane nosed down through thick clouds
towards Belfast’s Aldergrove Airport. Doubts began to crowd in when we broke
through the cloud base and I looked down on the city.
What
on earth had induced my kid sister to come here? Our family had no connection with
Northern Ireland, unless you counted the sad demise of my great-grandfather,
Jacob Bodine. He had been aboard the Titanic
when she sank: the ship that was built in a Belfast shipyard.
More
cloud enveloped the airplane as we made an approach to land. It felt
claustrophobic. I didn’t feel any easier on the ground. Armed soldiers prowled
around the airport terminal building, seemingly ready for trouble. And most of
the passengers looked anxious to be away from there as quick as they could get.
There’d been talk of an IRA cease fire, although talk didn’t seem to go far
these days, and few people back home in the States expected it to amount to anything
permanent.
I
grabbed my holdall from the baggage carousel and made to follow the general
example of getting away from the airport as fast as possible.
“Major
Bodine? Excuse me, sir, are you Major Bodine?” I was almost at the main exit
when a sultry voice caught me from behind. Curious, I homed in on a
tight-fitting, dark green RUC uniform and the sexiest pair of shiny blue eyes
I’d seen in a long time. Her hair fell round her ears in a curtain of golden
silk and her skin was so peachy cream you’d have sworn it would melt to the
touch. For just one moment, she reminded me of Carrie-Ann and her long, golden
hair.
I
flinched and tried to force an element of calm into my head. “It’s Mister Bodine. I’m not a part of any
man’s army.” Back home in LA, Police Chief Hanson had said he would set things
up for me. I made the assumption he’d used my obsolete military rank. Sometimes
he could be a real bastard like that.
“Sorry.
Just using my eyes.” She shrugged and pointed to the canvas holdall with my
name and outdated rank stencilled across the front. “Looks like you’re part of
someone’s army.”
“Not
any longer.”
The
RUC girl frowned like she had been expecting something more civil, more polite.
She was right and I was wrong, and it just wasn’t her day, I guess. Somewhat subdued,
she drew back her shoulders and faced up to me. “I’ve been sent to collect you.
I’ll drive you down to the city.” Then she relaxed and gave me a good imitation
of a smile, which told me she was trying to make my visit just a shade easier. Did
she understand how I felt? Had she come across people like me before? Relatives
looking for logical answers where none existed.
“Just
you?” I looked around, wondering about a young police woman alone in a place
like this. I’d heard that life insurance for the RUC didn’t come cheap.
“Yeah,
just me. Let me take that for you.” She bent forward to grab my holdall but I
instinctively waved her off. I’d had people fetch and carry my kit in the Air
Force and I didn’t need it now.
The police
girl straightened up, dusted down her uniform jacket with an air of justified annoyance
and led me outside to an unmarked police car stopped in a no-parking zone. I
took the front passenger seat beside her in the certain realisation I was more
tired than was good for me. A dull ache crept across my forehead and my limbs
felt like I’d been on a twenty mile route march.
She
hitched back her skirt to free up her legs, or was it to grab my attention?
Either way, we took off in a hail of burning rubber. My body was forced back
into the seat like I’d just lifted an F18 off a carrier deck. I’d seen the same
sort of thing in Bosnia: people in constant fear of their lives and driving
like shit out of hell.
“How
was the flight?” she asked.
“Could
have done without it.” I would have been less cynical if I hadn’t been so damn
fatigued. Any damned fool should have seen she was only trying to help. I
opened my mouth to say sorry, but she got in first.
“I’m
sorry you’ve had a difficult journey.” Then she lapsed into silence and that
was a pity because she had a one of those sensual voices that sends shivers
down your spine. She reminded me of this husky-voiced German girl I met in Berlin
when I was stationed over there. She had a perfect body underneath her
Luftwaffe uniform and was eager to share it. I glanced sideways at the Irish
cop and mentally kicked myself for my crass behaviour.
As we
came down off the hills towards the city she chirped up again. I suppose she
was still trying to make polite conversation to lift me out of my depressed
state.
“Is
this your first visit to Ireland, Major Bodine?”
“Yeah.”
Major Bodine again, but I let it
pass.
“It’ll
be beautiful up here on the hills in couple of months. I love the feel of
spring in the hills, don’t you? When people first come to Northern Ireland
they’re often surprised that it’s not like they expected. There’s some really
lovely places out in the countryside, but the newspapers never write about
that, do they?”
“Seems
like you people give them other things to write about,” I said. She didn’t
reply so I sat in silence and cursed myself for allowing the situation to get
at me again.
The
girl remained quiet until we got to the police station, which was more like a
well-armed fortress. The outside was prickling with barbed wire screens. She
led me inside the building where I sensed an air of organised tension. On an
upper floor we came to a tidy office where a grey-haired guy, smart in his dark
green uniform, rose to meet me. The tab on the door said he was Chief Inspector
Rourke.
“Ah,
Major Bodine.” There it was again, the outdated rank, but I was dog tired so I
let him get away with it.
He led
me across the room to where two seats were set at right angles over the corner
of a conference table. An open folder had spilled out a mess of papers across
the mahogany surface. I caught the hand-written title ‘Marie Bodine’ at the top
of an A4 sheet.
“Do
take a seat.” He was about six foot two, at a rough guess, and a bit on the
paunchy side if you looked closely. He spoke with the usual Northern Irish
accent but was somewhat refined with it; artificially refined. Big on sound,
but low on substance. Like a street trader who’s made his first million bucks
and wants to play the part.
“Thanks.”
I eyed him warily, gauging his likely approach.
“Would
you like a cup of coffee?”
“Not
just now.” I knew already how bad British coffee tasted. Instant and almost
undrinkable.
“How
was your flight?” He waited until I was seated before placing himself in the
right-angled seat. It was a well-rehearsed act.
“Long
and tiring.”
“I’m
sorry.” He lowered his gaze and cleared his throat. “I really am very sorry
that you’ve come here in such tragic circumstances.” I got the hint that he had
been through this act many times before, but it was good for a few more performances.
I
closed my eyes and breathed deep. “Look, I’ve had a bad night without much
sleep, so just cut out the preliminaries and give me the full story, will you.”
He
looked at me askance. “Yes, of course. I can assure you that we’re doing all we
can to investigate your sister’s death. But it will undoubtedly take some time
to get to the bottom of it.” He was offering me banalities, and I was in no
mood for it.
“What
happened, Chief Inspector? What actually happened?”
“What
happened? Well…” He coughed awkwardly and shuffled the jumble of papers on the
table in front of him. “Your sister was a passenger in a taxi which was destroyed
by a fair sized bomb. We estimate about one hundred pounds of Anfo…”
“Anfo?”
“The
IRA calling card. A home-made concoction. Ammonium Nitrate and Fuel Oil…”
My
patience snapped. “I know that! I’ve seen what it can do in other people’s
wars. What I mean is, who the hell would want to use Anfo to kill an innocent
girl like Marie? That stuff’s for blowing up buildings.”
He
shook his head. “We don’t yet know who did it or why.” He coughed again, like
he had something to be nervous about. “Miss Bodine was in a taxi travelling
down the Crumlin Road when it caught the full blast. The explosive had been
planted alongside the road in a dustbin and was triggered by remote control
from a nearby doorway.”
“Did
she suffer?” Painful question, but I had to know the truth.
He
shook his head emphatically and I believed him. “Both your sister and the
driver died instantly. She wouldn’t have suffered.”
“What
was she doing in the car? I mean, where was she going?”
“As
far as we can discover, she was on her way to work. She was a…” His face
momentarily creased into lines of distaste, which he hastily brushed aside. “We
understand that she was a dancer.”
“Yeah.
I know that.” She’d wanted to be a dancer almost as long as I could remember.
It was her passion in life. Before she left home, mom had kept on at her that
there were plenty of opportunities for dancers at home in the States. But Marie
had been determined to go where mom didn’t want her to go and no amount of
arguing had been enough to stop her. There’d been a row about it the day she finally
left the house and that had upset mom more than anything.
Marie
sent us a picture postcard when she first arrived in London. A month later we
had another from Brussels. Neither had much news to tell us, just a few words
to say she was looking for a job. We didn’t hear much from her after that, just
the odd letter to say she was working in Paris, Berlin and then London again.
She stayed there a while this time until, right out of the blue, we got a card
from Belfast. Why did she come here to Belfast, putting herself in harm’s way
in someone else’s war?
We had
no idea.
I
picked up a pencil from the table and grasped it tight in both hands. “Where
was she going? A theatre, was it?”
Rourke
drew himself together and pursed his lips before replying. “As far as we can
tell, she was on her way to the Blue Taboo Club, just off the Shankhill Road.”
“The
what?”
He
sniffed the air like he’d detected a bad smell. “The Blue Taboo. Not a very
salubrious sort of establishment, but we understand she performed there.”
It
didn’t sound like the sort of place I’d expect Marie to be working, but
tiredness was numbing my brain to the point of mental exhaustion. I glossed
over the detail for the moment. “So, she was just a passenger in this taxi? An
innocent passenger?”
“That’s
right. As far as we can tell.”
“And
she was working as a dancer at this club? A night club of sorts?”
He
avoided my eyes, as if he was picking up my uneasy concern. “It’s not exactly
legitimate theatre, but maybe it was only part-time work. Miss Bodine was on
the books of an agency that arranges this sort of thing. The man who died in
the explosion was their regular taxi driver and he took the girls to the clubs
where they performed.”
“Really?”
Something about the way he spoke got up my nose. Words planted neatly together
like they’d been written down and then rehearsed in front of a mirror.
“That’s
as much as we can be sure about at the moment,” he said.
“Was
that her only job? I mean, do you know if she had any other work?”
“Other
work?” The Chief Inspector snorted loudly as if it was a damned stupid
question. His act had a few raw cracks in it and they were beginning to show.
He sat back in his seat, conflicting emotions rippling across his face. “All I
can tell you is that she was a dancer and she was handled by an agency. They
should be able to fill you in on her… her other work. If she had any.”
I was
being led astray. I could smell it. “Tell me more about this club where she was
working.”
“What
can I say?” Again he lowered his eyes and juggled some papers on the polished
mahogany table to hide his embarrassment. “The Blue Taboo is a typical club of
its sort.”
“The
Blue Taboo? Sounds more like a strip joint.”
He
lowered his eyes. For a moment he sat there studying his own thoughts. Then he
looked me in the face. “It is a strip
club, Major Bodine.”
Maybe
it was jet lag that was toppling my brain because a dark shutter seemed to
block out comprehension for some seconds. Then, quite suddenly, the shutter
lifted and the picture all fell into place. I cursed myself for being too fatigued
to have seen it sooner.
“You… you’re
telling me my sister was a stripper?”
“I’m
sorry.” He pointedly averted his gaze again. But the curl of his lip told me
what he really thought of Marie.
“Damn!”
For some moments I couldn’t think of a response. What in hell’s name was I
going to tell mom and dad? I slammed the pencil on the table and it rolled
towards Rourke. “What are they called? The agency people she worked for?”
He ran
his hand around the tabletop for a few seconds and then rummaged into the
folder. He pulled out a business card and handed it across to me. His eyes
followed my reaction.
The
Billy Gidley Agency had an address in central Belfast. I studied the card for a
few seconds and then slipped it into my pocket.
“You’re
still hiding something, aren’t you?” I stared him out, and allowed some acid to
creep into my voice. “Who did this? And why the hell did they kill an innocent
girl like Marie?”
He
picked up the pencil, which had come to a stop at his side of the table, and
twisted it between his fingers. “I told you. At this moment we don’t know who
did it or why. It was just another bomb—”
“Just
another bomb? Good God, Chief Inspector! It was my sister who got killed out
there on your Goddamn streets and I want to know who did it.” I paused to take
breath and pulled back on the aggro. “You said the explosive was deliberately
triggered. Sounds to me like they were aiming to kill someone in particular.”
He
shrugged briefly, but perceptibly. “It seems unlikely anyone was out to settle
a personal score with your sister. But the Provisional IRA have a history of
using Anfo, and we’ve had quite a number of similar explosions in the past few
weeks, you know.” He dropped the pencil suddenly and leaned towards me, face
twisted with suppressed emotion. “It doesn’t stop. Whatever you might hear in
the States about an impending cease-fire, it just doesn’t stop. Other people
are killed and they have friends and relatives who get angry at what happened
to their family, just like you’re angry about what happened to Miss Bodine. My
officers have to face them and hear their expressions of grief, just as I’m now
listening to you. And so it goes on.”
“You
don’t get sick of it?”
“What
do you think?” The answer was vivid in his eyes. “There was another explosion
that same evening on the opposite side of the city. Another young woman was
killed, just like your sister. I had to deal with it, watch them bring in the
body and try to stay calm.” He shook his head sadly.
I took
a deep breath and bit back on my anger. I felt a mite chastened. “You figure no
one was out to get Marie? Nothing personal?”
“For
what it’s worth, we’re reasonably sure your sister was just an innocent victim.
We’re reasonably sure they were not after her.”
“Reasonably
sure?” The words rang hollow.
“As
far as it’s possible to be sure. So many innocent people get killed and we
can’t be certain who triggered the bombs until—”
“Until
someone owns up?”
“Until
we get proof. I have a good team working on this case and as soon as we
discover who did it, and why, we’ll let you know.”
I
breathed deeply. “I’d sure like to meet them, the guys who killed Marie.”
He
knew what I meant. I could see it in his face. He knew I wanted revenge. “I
understand how bitter you must feel.”
“Bitter?
It goes deeper than that. You’d understand that, if someone murdered your kid sister.” I began to wonder if
I’d been wrong to leave my firearm in the States. I’d been warned about not
taking arms into the UK, but there were misfits in this world who deserved to
get their brains blown out and right then I could imagine myself doing it. Then
I remembered mom and dad waiting at home for me to find out what this was all
about. They didn’t need me going over the top.
Rourke
must have seen how the wind was blowing because he tried to change the subject.
“The American Embassy will be able to help you—”
“Already
told them I don’t need their help.” I knew well enough how good the embassy
staff would be at side-tracking me from anything that might harm UK-US relations.
One of the hard lessons I learned in Bosnia was cynicism. The US government
didn’t want me unearthing the truth behind any conflict where they had blood on
their hands. It was the same thing with the Brits, I was certain. They were
onto a loser in Northern Ireland, whatever they did, so they’d have good reason
not to want me digging amongst the shit in their back yard. I drew a long, deep
breath to ease my blood pressure. “When do I get to see the body?”
“It
might be best if you left that until you’ve rested, Major Bodine. She was… pretty
badly ripped apart.”
I
stood up and leaned across his table. “I want to see her now. Please.”
That
must have made some impression because he shook his head sadly. “Yes, of
course. If you’re quite sure.”
“Sure,
I’m sure.”
He
rose to confirm that the discussion was ended and he sounded almost relieved.
“We do need someone to carry out a formal identification of the body, but I
must warn you again that she was badly mutilated by the explosion.”
Rourke
was Goddamn right.
The
RUC girl drove us to the mortuary but they weren’t ready for us, hadn’t been
expecting us. They took us to a viewing room where we waited until the body was
wheeled in on a trolley. The shock of seeing it hit me so badly I couldn’t
recognise the face. They had cleaned up the remains, as much as they could, but
it was a nauseating experience. When it came to the crunch, there wasn’t that
much of Marie left to be identified and I was glad that mom and dad were not
there to see it.
“Is
this your sister, Major Bodine?”
I
looked at what remained of her head and nodded. With red hair like that, it looked
like it ought to be her. They’d already shown me Marie’s blood-stained personal
effects, including her passport, and the viewing was no more than a clincher.
I was
shaking badly when I left that place.
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