Referendum (25 page)

Leona McMahon hadn’t slept much, didn’t see the point. Instead she’d sat at home reading news sites and researching the red light district’s past. There had been a number of unsolved murders in recent years and she was sure her mother was going to be a victim of public apathy, even if their disdain was misdirected. Her aunt Margaret had tried to be kind, but Leona didn’t really connect with her. She wasn’t married and didn’t have kids so she didn’t really ‘get’ teenagers, particularly ones that had been through a double murder in the summer holidays; it would make for quite an essay. The one bonus of living with her aunt was the ready supply of alcohol. Margaret didn’t know but Leona had been getting plastered every night to try and blot out the pain, to keep reality at bay for a few hours longer. It didn’t take much to get her drunk and it didn’t make her feel much better anyway. Instead of sleep it allowed her to have fitful naps leading to vivid dreams she’d rather forget. In the gloom of the early hours, clicking on the news sites she saw her mother’s murder had slipped off the front page. There was just over a week to go to the Referendum and that was all anyone was talking about. It wasn’t helping that no-one seemed to have any information to move the case on. That Detective Arbogast said that Niall Murphy checked out, that there was no way he could have been involved, but she still had her doubts. Of all the people that had cast a shadow on their lives his was the one name she kept coming back to – a man with no mercy and a dark heart, someone that didn’t hold back from beating the shit out of women. The detectives had told her that she at least didn’t need to worry about the debt; that it had died with her mother.
You’d need to be a real optimist to make that a silver lining.
Leona poured the last of the white wine into the glass, missing the rim and covering her duvet. She didn’t think her aunt would notice, probably wanted her to leave so she could get on with her life.

She phoned the nice one, Guthrie. He’d said she could speak to him anytime. Said they were going to find her mother. When he picked up she could hear a man laughing in the background.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Is that you Leona? You sound a bit muffled.” Chris Guthrie had dealt with enough drunks to know one when he heard one and Leona wasn’t sounding too perky.

“Have you found the white van yet? Just tell me something has changed. I’m going crazy waiting around for you guys to do your job. Just give me one thing, anything.”

Her voice had broken down, the sentences felt disjointed and Chris was worried he might be kept on the phone for too long. He felt sorry for Leona but he wasn’t a social worker, he was didn’t want to make things worse, “We’re doing everything we can to find the killer. We’re chasing down a lot of leads we’re chasing down. But you’re going to need to be patient; this kind of thing doesn’t just go away overnight.”

“You can tell that to my mum, Mister Guthrie. One night was all it took for her to go away,” Chris listened, Leona’s voice was heavy with drink, he thought she would probably try and sleep.

“Are you going to be OK, Leona? You just need to stick with us on this. Have faith.” All he heard was a loud snort and what sounded like the clink of glass before the line went dead.

Leona sat for another hour holding the phone wondering what she could do to help find justice for her mother, but she suspected she couldn’t do anything. Her one big suspect had already been ruled out and the Police...
Well, what had they ever done to help us in the past?
She noticed the missed calls but ignored them, there was nothing more to say. Drifting into oblivion she wished her mum to appear in liquid dreams, with her mind her last remaining sanctuary.
Anything is better than this nightmare.

34

The white van was found, not through public information, but from a chance mistake. The driver had gone through a red light on Duke Street less than half a mile from the crime scene, with the indiscretion recorded by a traffic camera.

Arbogast was ready to leave as soon as they identified where the van was registered, “Anything back on the address yet?”

Guthrie counted that as the third time of asking, “It’s a company van so there’s no named individual against the registration documents. Seems it’s leased by Milltown Social Enterprise; quite a new outfit based out at Port Dundas in the north of the city.”

It was a fairly non-descript unit in an industrial estate. The red brick one storey building ran for about 20 metres with a roller shutter giving access to the warehouse and the attached office.

Outside, Arbogast stopped to look at a white van parked on the roadside. “That’s it alright. Let’s see what our reluctant witness has to say for themselves.”

The receptionist seemed surprised to see them. Guthrie made the introduction and said they needed to speak to the manager. A few minutes later a tall spindly man appeared holding a clip board. He seemed flustered, “Can I help you gentleman? I’m Gerry Bealan.”

“This shouldn’t take too long Mr Bealan, we’re just looking to speak to whoever drives the van outside – registration SC08 VVX.”

“Well – it’s – actually it’s a pool car, we all use it. Can I ask what this is about?”

Arbogast wasn’t going to mess him around.
Just give him the reason and check his reaction. “
It’s about the murder of Lorna McMahon; the van was seen in the area at about the time she died, we need to speak to the driver to rule them out of the inquiry.”

The receptionist was all ears, leaning closer to the men to try and soak up every word, she knew who had been driving the van that night, she’d tried to phone about it but couldn’t get through. Gerry noticed her interest      and thought it would probably be best to take the conversation into his office.

Arbogast and Guthrie sat sipping at overly stewed coffee while they waited for the manager to check the van’s booking sheet to see who had it on the night in question.

“This doesn’t seem like the kind of place that would have too many employees. I think I’ve read about it before, does good things.”

“Yeah, work placements for disabled kids. I think they’ve got funding issues, but who doesn’t?”

Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door. A slightly overweight man wearing a striped polo shirt which showed off the curves of a well fed belly, “Gerry said you were looking to speak to me?”

Arbogast thought he had something to hide, he was too nervous, “That depends on whether you were driving the white van parked outside two nights ago?” The man nodded, “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Colin Jackson. I’m one of the trainers here. Why do you need to know about the van? Gerry said it was something to do with the murder.”

“What murder would that be?”
Let him say the name, I want to see his reaction, subliminal signs that he’d been involved.

“Lorna McMahon.”

“You remember her name?” Guthrie chimed in, he was smiling.

Colin Jackson was scared.
Why’s the big guy smiling?
He didn’t know where this was heading, “It was in all the papers.”

“But most people usually say the prostitute, that’s what they remember. You seem to feel closer to her somehow.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Her name’s in the paper, that’s all I know.”

“What were you doing down there on the night she was killed?”

“I don’t know what you mean, I was nowhere near it.”

“Are you writing this down, Detective Arbogast? He says he was nowhere near it.”

“Got that, Chris, thanks. Funny though, isn’t it?”

“What’s that, Detective Arbogast?”

“It’s funny that we’ve had a number of sightings of a white van in the area, and then ‘voila’, a white van gets clocked on camera going through a red light just round the corner at just the time we think she died.”

“That is funny, what do you think Colin – just a coincidence?”

Colin Jackson was trying to think. His strategy had been to deny everything, he didn’t remember a camera flash but if they said they had him on camera it must be true.
How much to tell them though? “
I was driving home to my wife after a long shift in here. It’s the quickest way home.”

“Where is it you live?”

“London Road.”

“Seems a bit of a convoluted route to take, would you normally go that way?”

“Normally, yes.”

“Did you see this woman that night?” Arbogast pushed over a headshot of Lorna McMahon. Jackson looked at it for a second before saying he couldn’t remember.

“I’m not sure you’re being entirely honest with us Mister Jackson. I’ll ask you again. Did you see this woman three nights ago?”

Colin Jackson thought about just telling them, getting it over with.
But then it would all be out in the open. It would all be gone – my job, my family.
So instead he did what he thought he had to do and bought himself some time.

“I think I need to speak to a lawyer.”

***

The more she looked at the evidence the more she thought there must be something to the claims. Rosalind Ying had been angry that John Arbogast had chosen her to come to talk about Graeme Donald. He knew that she had got her job through her connection to him and he had never hidden his disdain for the way he thought she’d behaved. Part of her thought that this was his revenge for the way she’d ended their relationship, for terminating her pregnancy.
But he’d brought that on himself, should have kept his cock to himself.
But the evidence is pretty compelling; the question is what should I do about it?

The rumours about Donald’s questionable ethics were nothing new. He had been accused in Belfast but nothing had ever come of it. She could see now why not. Arbogast had left her half a dozen prints, each one measuring 10” by 8”. The backdrop was industrial, probably some kind of factory. The pictures showed a sequence of events. The first showed Donald bringing in Colm McNally, the man who had accused the Chief of corruption. The second showed McNally tied to a chair, his neck was tensed up so his sternomastoid muscles were clearly visible. He was braced for something. Another showed the pliers, McNally’s face was fearful. The next four showed Donald using the pliers to break McNally’s fingers, the look of horror on the man’s face told her everything she needed to know about how he must have felt. The shots were all time coded with the stamp at the bottom saying 10/04/05. Rosalind knew the time could have been added but the pictures certainly looked real, they didn’t appear to be doctored. The next item was a CD marked ‘McNally session – April 2005’ Arbogast had attached a post-it note to the see through casing which suggested she wear earphones. The disc rattled violently in the PC drive, it had never been great. When the file started to play she realised it was an audio recording of the torture session she’d already seen. The first sounds were of tape being wound round McNally’s hands with grunts of ‘stay still’. About a minute later the talking started.

Donald:
“You’ve been busy, McNally. I’d have given you credit for having more sense, but you thought you’d try and fuck me over?”

McNally:
“It’s not true. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

Donald:
(laughing) “It’s been in the papers. You said that I was working with ‘underworld figures’. How did you think that was going to play out?”

McNally:
“I didn’t think. Didn’t think about it, should have though. You’ve been good to me.”

Donald:
“Who asked you to go public?”

McNally:
“Me, just me – no-one else.”

Donald:
“Bollocks, you don’t have the gumption to do that, you wouldn’t risk going to jail to put the finger on me. Who’d believe you?”

McNally:
“It’s true. Wait, what are you doing?”

Rosalind was looking at the picture of Donald holding the pliers; she knew what was coming next. As the first sickening crunch was picked up the recording was distorted by the volume of Colm McNally’s screams. She’d heard enough and switched it off.

The one thing she couldn’t gleam from Arbogast’s file was who had made the recordings and taken the pictures.
It doesn’t make sense that Donald would want to have a keepsake of that particular day trip. And surely McNally wouldn’t have known where he’d be taken, wouldn’t have been able to arrange for evidence to be gathered in his defence? At any rate the events dated back almost ten years. Why are they only being made public now given McNally tried to topple Donald in 2005?
The warning had obviously worked, the claims had been withdrawn. McNally had gone to jail. But there was something going on here, there was a third party involved. Tackling Donald was a risk, but if this was the kind of thing he was capable of it might be wise to make a move.
Rosalind decided to give Arbogast the benefit of the doubt, but she still had questions that needed to be answered before anything could happen. Making a mess of this particular investigation was not an option.

Arbogast had arranged to take Colin Jackson to London Road Police Station for questioning. Their suspect was being detained, they didn’t have enough evidence to arrest him yet but they expected it was in the post. Guthrie hadn’t been happy about his idea to drive to London Road when Pitt Street would have been the norm. But Arbogast wanted to put Jackson under pressure. Driving down from Port Dundas he made for Duke Street and then turned into Barrack Street. Jackson had been quiet but he sensed he was being set up.

“Why are we going this way?”

“You said yourself it was the quickest way to get home, the station’s quite near your house. Maybe you’d like some time to yourself after you speak to us. Take some time to think things over.”