Animal Instinct (4 page)

“The bank holiday's doing us no favours,” said Massey.

“Back to normal tomorrow, but there's still a fair amount of stuff to work on. Take the watch, for example. Someone may recognise it, especially the inscription. Work closely with the forensic team. They hold the key for now. Re-check the current scene of crime. There has to be some further evidence on site. Where is her clothing, for example? Once we have her I.D. and have notified her next of kin, we can then use the media more effectively.”

Massey left the office with more questions than answers. He returned to the incident room and grabbed hold of Turner. “I rather think we should do some detecting amongst the local riff-raff, but first stop forensics, second stop the Barleycorn.”

*****

The stranger approached the bar and slipped a packet of Marlboro Lights from his pocket. He withdrew a cigarette, flicked open a lighter and gently stroked the tobacco with the flame until the cigarette end glowed red, causing wisps of white smoke to drift upwards towards the extractor fans.

“You Sean O'malley?” he inquired.

“Who's asking?” replied Sean.

“Jimmy Moran,” said the stranger, extending his hand.

“What can I do for you?” remarked Sean, ignoring the outstretched arm.

“I hear you have rooms here…bed and breakfast.”

Sean nodded, wondering why the man had introduced himself. Despite his name, the stranger had only a faint trace of Irish lilt to his voice. Well groomed and casually dressed in smart designer clothes he stood out from the usual visitors seeking accommodation at the Barleycorn.

The regular bed and breakfast trade stemmed chiefly from business reps who were working the area or, especially at weekends, couples desperate for a bed to fulfil some illicit one-night stand. The cheap rates also attracted the odd gang of labourers who were often in town on some short-term construction job looking for rooms. This punter was not the norm.

“I need a room for the night, maybe tomorrow as well. Have you any vacancies?”

As it was a bank holiday weekend, all the rooms were available. Sean beckoned a member of staff to keep an eye on the bar and motioned the stranger towards a door marked PRIVATE at the end of the lounge bar. The door led into a hallway. At one end, a wooden door, badly in need of renovation, opened onto the main street. Turning in the opposite direction, Sean beckoned the man up a carpet-less staircase towards a first floor landing.

“You can take your pick,” he said. “We don't get busy until after the bank holiday.”

“How many rooms have you?” asked the stranger.

“Eight in total, five on this floor and three on the next. Two of them are kind of en-suite. In other words, there's a shower and a bog included. Would you be wanting one of those?”

“Sounds favourite.”

Sean opened the door to room two, situated at the back of the building and ushered the man inside. The interior was sparsely furnished. A small chest of drawers separated two single beds with a wardrobe completing the facilities, apart from the small shower cubicle, sink and W.C. in an adjoining alcove. Flimsy floral curtains hung limply from the sash window. There was a musty smell, probably due to lack of ventilation.

“You'll find it quieter here…less traffic noise. Got any baggage?”

“In the car, out there on the car park,” replied the man, peering through the dusty window at the pitted tarmac area below.

“The keys are in the door,” said Sean, “one for the bedroom, the other for the downstairs front door to the entrance hall. Come down when you're settled and I'll book you in.”

“I can pay you now.”

“Sort it later,” said Sean and returned to the bar, leaving the man to familiarise himself with his new surroundings.

Fifteen minutes later Jimmy Moran re-appeared at the bar to pay for the room. He ordered a large Jamesons.

“Can you spare five minutes, Sean?” he asked. “I have a proposition for you.”

Sean nodded, wondering what the man had in mind. Maybe he was a sales rep pitching for business…but on a bank holiday weekend? Reluctantly he joined him at a small round Britannia-style table in a quiet corner of the main lounge area. This stranger, this fellow-countryman, intrigued him but who was he and what was the proposition to which he had referred? He sensed a deep feeling of foreboding. How did he know his name and why was he so familiar towards him? He studied the man's face but was unable to place it. He shuddered at the thought of his past catching up. The man was about to enlighten him.

“We have a history, Sean,” began Moran. “I vaguely knew your father. He was with mine when the Brits discovered them planting a roadside bomb in Enniskillen. Your da escaped. My da was not so lucky. They shot him dead. However, your da's luck quickly ran out. They caught up with him and literally hung him out to dry in the barn where you found him the following morning. We know that Special Branch eventually convinced you that it was retribution by us. You were young and impressionable and can be excused. The truth is that it was a fuckin’ bare-faced lie.”

Sean shuddered. The past had caught up with him. “How did I know who to believe?” he asked, wary of the man who had surfaced like a ghost from the past.

“Maybe not at that time, but think about it. How could an ex-member of the I.R.A. be allowed to be granted a licence to run a pub on mainland Britain?”

“They took their seats in the British parliament.”

“Only recently. It took the Good Friday agreement and all that shite to bring about such a con trick. You wouldn't have stood a fuckin’ chance had not Special Branch sanctioned it. Besides, keeping you out of the loop was one less activist to worry about. It banked some credit for them.”

Jimmy Moran leaned across the table. Sean felt his warm whiskey-laden breath as the stranger pressed his face closer.

“Over here they can keep you under surveillance and one day they'll demand compensation. You now owe them, mark my words,” he whispered.

Sean could see some logic in the man's point of view. He suspected that the stranger was also looking for some payback, but what did
he
want? He decided to ask him directly.

“What's this proposition?”

“We're looking to accommodate some students.”

“Excuse my ignorance, but who's this ‘we’ you keep referring to?” interrupted Sean.

“I'll come to that later. There's a new outward-bound training establishment being developed not far from here in the Delamere forest area. We have hired it exclusively over the next couple of weeks to receive a throughput of students. Unfortunately, the accommodation block is still under construction, so they will need somewhere to stay. We could wait a couple of months, but our clients have specified this particular time-slot. They have unlimited resources, so it's an opportunity for you to make a generous financial killing from the situation. In other words, charge what the hell you like.”

“If your clients have so much financial clout, why choose here? There are numerous first class hotels in the area.”

“They prefer not to draw too much attention to themselves and, without being rude, they should fit in quite unobtrusively with your regular clientele.”

“They're dodgy, then,” suggested Sean.

“We've done a deal with a group of individuals who need some training and the benefit of our expertise, but it needs to be kept low-key and we need someone, like your good self, on whom we can rely.”

“This place is crawling with local C.I.D. If they clock what's going on and your so-called students are…” Sean hesitated. “Who are these people for fuck's sake?”

“That's where you come in. To be sure, we know about the police presence here, but don't you see, it's perfect. Let's be honest, your pub's full of the dregs of society. A few extra ones will just blend in. Anyhow, they'll tend to stay in their rooms apart from attending the training activities.”

“They're recruits for a new cell, aren't they?”

“As you are well aware, Sinn Fein has done a deal with the British government, but that does not mean that we have ceased to exist. On the contrary, we are still extremely active but desperately short of funding. This is merely an arrangement that will go towards solving some of our money problems. We have to be prepared when the time comes.”

“You're a splinter group of dissident Republicans,” declared Sean, beginning to grasp the underlying truth. “But how does this ‘arrangement’, as you put it, fund your activities?”

“I'm afraid that I cannot divulge any further detail, suffice to say that, not only will you reap some considerable financial reward, but you will also be avenging your father's brutal death. At least you owe him that. When you found him in that barn all those years ago, did you not choke on the bitter stench of treachery? Did you not crave for instant revenge?”

The painful memories flooded back. Hairs stood out on the back of Sean's neck; a shiver coursed through his head and shoulders. The stranger continued.

“This is payback time, Sean. This is your opportunity to support the cause in our struggle against those bastards who continue to persecute us in the name of justice. You were right about the peace process, but be honest…Sinn Fein have bottled it. The evil roots of our suffering have never left our shores. The Stormont traitors will never satisfy true patriots. The fight began with our fathers’ fathers and will be carried forward by the Real IRA. We are almost ready. As I said before, our only obstacle is finance. This will be a major step towards resolving that issue.”

Sean had mixed emotions. What would he be getting into? “These students, then, who are they? You didn't say. What's this training stuff? Surely a sudden influx of so-called students, especially Irish, won't go un-noticed.”

“They're not Irish.” Jimmy Moran finished his drink and turned to leave. “Think it over. We'll discuss it tomorrow.” He walked away and disappeared through the door marked PRIVATE.

Sean remained at the table, attempting to digest what they had discussed. The man had talked a lot but explained very little. If he was to agree to his demands…it was hardly a polite enquiry.…his future at the Barleycorn and even beyond could be at risk. However, what would be the consequences if he refused?

*****

“I'm afraid you're going to have to wait until the results come back from the lab,” remarked John Nuttall. “The D.N.A. results may take some time, but I should have the analysis of the fluid on the bin bags and the metallic traces back by Wednesday or Thursday.”

“Why so long?” asked Massey.

“It's this bloody bank holiday weekend. We always seem to lose half a week at Easter.”

“Any chance of a photograph of the watch and the inscription?”

“No problem. I'll sort it now for you. Since I sent you the report, I've discovered something else that may interest you. The residue of the unknown liquid has traces of some kind of chemical, something caustic, which could be the cause of the obnoxious odour. There's evidence of it on both the plastic bags and the girl's body but predominantly on the girl's hands, parts of her legs and her heels.”

“What do you mean by caustic.…like bleach?”

“Similar to bleach but stronger. There are possibly other chemicals involved. I'll know better, when the results come back. In addition, from analysis of the stomach contents, I would say that prior to her death she had merely consumed a light breakfast. There was no trace of alcohol or drugs. She was clean.”

“Breakfast?” queried Massey. “How long after breakfast did she die?”

“I would say within an hour or so. I reckon she was suffocated sometime between eight and nine last Thursday morning.”

“And dumped on the tip…when?”

“Probably the same day, assuming that it was closed on Good Friday.”

“But that would have been in broad daylight,” added Turner.

“Could it have been dumped overnight?” asked Massey.

“You'd have to be superhuman to heave a corpse over those gates,” replied Nuttall.

“We need to check the CCTV at the gates,” declared Massey. “If there are only refuse carts using it on Thursday, she's come in on one of the loads.”

“I'd go with that,” said Nuttall. “Crashing around with other rubbish in the back of one of those vehicles would account for the tears in the bin bags and the abrasions to her body.” He passed them copies of the watch photographs, which he had been processing on the computer.

“What about fingerprints?” asked Turner.

“Nothing so far to match the database. There are several different sets on the bin liners, but none ring any alarm bells.”

“Thanks,” said Massey. “That's narrowed things down somewhat.” He looked at Turner. “Now for our second stop. I don't know about you, but I'm thirsty.”

*****

Little was known about the Crawford family. They had moved into the picturesque village of Moulton with their two cats and Border collie three years ago. There was a mother, accompanied by two children, Michael aged twelve and a daughter aged sixteen. They both attended the nearby comprehensive at Winsford until Lara left after completing her A-levels. Her brother still awaited that particular ordeal.

It was rumoured that the father had died some time previously, a life-changing event, which had brought about the move to Moulton from ‘somewhere up north’. The family lived in a pretty cottage, which, along with several others, had been converted from a collection of farm buildings. The nine terraced properties surrounded a central courtyard. A private road was the only approach into the whole complex. The Crawfords had chosen a corner unit, the rear garden of which overlooked open fields and a public footpath leading to the churchyard and the nearby public house.

Mrs. Crawford had made the choice herself as, in her words, it was ‘ideal for the babies’, the welfare of the animals seemingly taking precedent over the rest of the family. She had added a hexagonal Victorian-style conservatory to give them more living space. It also provided a separate area where the children could attend to their homework or amuse themselves away from the open-plan living room and kitchen.

Michael tended to be rather withdrawn when in company but excelled at school in most academic subjects. Each morning during term time, he could be seen running to catch the school bus. His sister had completed her studies and had opted to pursue a career as opposed to grasping the opportunity to apply for a place at university. Despite her mother's protestations, she was determined to make her way in the fashion industry, combining her talents for design with her natural beauty by simultaneously pursuing modelling opportunities.