This section of the city was now largely occupied by an underclass who lived on the edge of the law and frequently beyond it. Petty thieves predominated, often with the added violence which accompanied muggings. There was also a growing amount of freelance prostitution, practised by women of various ages who were bold enough or desperate enough to ply their trade without the protection of a pimp.
The man who moved swiftly and close to the walls knew these streets and was not afraid. Courage was a quality he had always possessed. It had been taken for granted as he had shaped his violent career and risen through the ranks. His spell in the Maze prison had been a badge of honour when he issued orders to the younger men who had followed him into the Provisionals. And then, abruptly, he and his friends had been sold out, when Blair and the Irish traitors had reached their settlement.
Well, there were still a few good men left. And there was still work to be done. There were still Irish men and the odd Irish woman who needed punishing. They knew who they were. And when you got to them and dealt with them, you issued a lesson to others too. The cause was still alive. People who didn’t recognise that needed regular reminders. You hadn’t got the English army men here as your obvious quarry, as you’d had in the glory days. Today’s targets were fewer and it took longer to get to them. But you had all the time in the world. When you’d fought for hundreds of years and now were almost there, you could afford to wait patiently for your opportunities.
This man enjoyed secrecy. He’d lived by it for many years now — since he was fifteen, in fact. It had become a way of life for him and he would have been loath to discard it now. He pulled the baseball cap more firmly over his forehead and thrust his hands deeper into the pockets of his shabby blue anorak. His right hand gripped the butt of the pistol he always kept there; he found the feel of it reassuring, even when it was not loaded. Not many of the old terraced houses he was passing had lights visible. Most of them were occupied, but people for the most part chose to live at the back of them, as if they knew that it was politic to mind their own business and maintain an ignorance of whatever else went on around them.
The door opened almost as he knocked, so suddenly that he almost lost his balance and fell forwards. The shaft of light from within the house flashed unnaturally bright across the wet flags, and then he was in and the door was shutting behind him. The man who led him through to the shabby room at the rear of the house was old. The grey stubble on his chin was a result of a failure to shave rather than an attempt at a beard. He had been driven for years by hate, which operated like a life force within him, far more important to his being than food or drink. He was diminished since the Good Friday agreement. His life was petering out, but he kept it going by the news he gathered from his old juniors, from the evidence they brought to him that violence could still be effective. The settling of old scores renewed his faith. Death or damage to those who had frustrated the cause operated like blood transfusions on his failing body.
The man who had come here understood all of this. He had operated under this man’s command in the battles of the last century; he clung to the camaraderie of the glory days even in these less stirring times. There was a whisky poured ready for him on the table. He clinked glasses with the old man and they downed the Jameson’s to one of the old toasts. Neither of them was really a drinker; they had seen too often in the dangerous years how drink had made others vulnerable.
The man slipped off his baseball cap. Despite the drink, it was his first real evidence of relaxation. He grinned at his old commander. He wanted to prolong the giving of his good news, but that wouldn’t be fair. So he said simply, ‘Dominic O’Connor’s been seen off.’
Then he clasped the gnarled old fingers in his. The two men raised their linked hands skywards, in a hideous parody of the consecration in the Catholic Mass.
TEN
She’d been crying. That much was obvious. She had done her best to disguise it, but she was puffy around the eyes and unnaturally pale. These things are difficult to disguise, as she’d realised twenty minutes ago when she stood in front of the mirror in the cloakroom and studied her face.
But there was surely nothing wrong with a PA being upset by her employer’s death. Dominic O’Connor had been a good employer to Jean Parker. They’d worked together for over four years. These were the first things she told the detectives when they came into the office to speak to her. She was a slim, attractive woman. Her soft brown hair was cut short and her dark grey eyes were very alert. She wore a lightweight grey suit over a white blouse.
Peach watched DS Northcott note the facts Mrs Parker had given him, then said, ‘Your employer was killed methodically and very deliberately by someone. This doesn’t look to us like a spur-of-the-moment murder or an argument which spilled over into violence. We think whoever went to the house went there with homicide in mind. Have you any idea who that might have been?’
‘No. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I heard the awful news. I’m not naive — I know you make enemies when you’re successful in business, so I’ve been thinking of possibilities since I heard he was dead. But I haven’t thought of anyone who might have hated Dominic enough to kill him.’
Both Peach and Clyde Northcott noticed the use of the first name and wondered what degree of intimacy it implied. But relationships between employers and PAs were not as formal as they had once been and nor were the titles used. ‘Mr O’Connor’s brother was shot only a few days ago. Do you think there is a connection between these two deaths?’
She allowed herself a small, bitter smile, the first one they had seen from her. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the ones with the experience of murder and the sort of people who perpetrate it.’
‘Indeed we are. But you’re the one who knows the victim and his associates. We are dependent upon you and people like you for information. Apart from his wife, you probably know more about this victim’s life and the dangers it carried than anyone.’
Both of them noticed a twitch of her face when the widow was mentioned, but it came and went so quickly that it was difficult even to guess at what it might mean. Peach said quietly, ‘It is your duty to be as frank as possible with us, Ms Parker. The crime we’re investigating is murder.’
‘I’m Mrs Parker, please. Normally I wouldn’t speculate about my employer’s marriage, but in these exceptional circumstances I will tell you that I think there were problems.’
These were phrases which she had obviously prepared beforehand. Peach said, ‘You are doing the right thing. You should be aware that we are normally very discreet. Anything you tell us which proves to have nothing to do with this death will not be made public.’
She nodded impatiently, anxious to tell her tale and have done with it. ‘There’s been a little gossip around the office. Mr O’Connor apparently had what one of the women here called a roving eye. Lots of men have that. The higher up they are in the system, the more they suffer from the gossip. People love to spread rumours about the boss. How much was just innocent flirting and how much was more serious than that I really couldn’t say.’
‘Couldn’t or wouldn’t, Mrs Parker?’ Percy was quietly insistent, despite his smile.
‘Couldn’t, Mr Peach. I try to steer clear of tittle tattle. I see that as loyalty to my employer and thus part of my job. Dominic’s business life, not his private life, was my concern.’
‘Admirable, I’m sure. But a pity, nevertheless, from our standpoint, in view of what has now happened to Mr O’Connor.’