Читать книгу Terry Brankin Has a Gun - Malachi O'Doherty - Страница 15

Five

Terry Brankin sat on the kerb watching firemen fight the blaze and waiting for the police. He looked at the house he had lived in for seven years, watched it burn and felt as if he had never really got to know it. He was thinking of the day he and Kathleen had first viewed it and discussed whether they could afford it. He remembered the legal delays and the day he got the key, the way they had walked around from room to room and spent their first night on a mattress on bare floorboards, feeling rich and poor at the same time.

They had planned how to decorate and furnish it and had worked slowly on it, Kathleen having to organise the other houses too, making them fit for tenants and cleaning up after them. The moment they had anticipated, at which they would feel contented and secure, their work on the house done, had never really come, and now it was a crackling shell. He remembered climbing onto the roof himself to put cowls on the chimney pots, arguing with Kathleen about the colour of the frontage and watching her spend whole days managing the window boxes. He had said she was daft to spend thousands on kitchen furnishings that were just cupboards out of a flat-pack store. And he knew that in the sixty years the house had stood before he had taken ownership of it, others had loved and died in it, strangers had accumulated memories that would be sharpening in their minds now if they knew it was burning down.

The next to arrive were a couple of constables, who asked him if he would like to come down to the station and make a statement, there being nothing that they could do here until the fire service was finished hosing down the flames. He sat in the back of their car and endured their small talk.

‘An awful thing to happen, Mr Brankin.’

He was trying to work out who might have burnt his houses, and already he was suspecting the police themselves. Inspector Basil McKeague of the Cold Case team knew that he had killed the Lavery family and got away with it. He might be happy that someone should torch nearly everything Terry owned. Maybe George Caulfield, Nools’s husband, had seen him leave the house and found an old-fashioned explanation for their meeting up. George had never liked him. There were loyalist paramilitaries who fancied they had defended Ulster against the IRA. Some among them might have done it. Even Benny Curtis. Who knew how complicated and perverse were the workings of that nasty mind? Benny might say it was nothing personal. But why not just shoot him on his doorstep? Well, because that would be breaking a ceasefire, while burning his house down could be passed off as vandalism. Or maybe somebody below Benny in the hierarchy of his mob was aggrieved that Terry wasn’t doing enough to keep men out of jail. There were also the other republican groups, at least four of them, all of which occasionally shot someone or burnt a house or shop, to remind everyone they still functioned. But what gripe would they have with Terry Brankin? None that he could think of. Maybe they thought he was a tout.

It could have been somebody who knew the Laverys. That’s a possibility, he thought. But there were other attacks that Terry had been involved in that nobody was currently talking about. The Cold Case team might get round to some of them too. It might be one of those cases the arsonists were avenging. And there were the hoods he had shot in the legs, maybe a dozen of them, any one of whom might have taken a notion to avenge himself. It’s funny how little of that there is in Belfast. And there were the rattled neighbours of noisy students who had burnt the odd car in protest, or daubed a house with paint, though never one of his own. All these thoughts he turned over in his head as the inane young peelers in the front of the car prattled on about how it was almost like the Troubles coming back, a bad night like this.

Who else? ‘Come on,’ he urged his brain. ‘Think! Who else might have done this?’

It was Ig who had called to tell him that the Cold Case crowd were digging into him, so Ig had known first and had had time to think through the implications. He’d had time to plan. He would have been able to put a team together; he had men at his disposal for what he called ‘operations’. But why? What advantage would Ig get over the Cold Case detectives by burning his houses?

Well, suppose he confessed to McKeague and let him build a case. What would happen then? Ig wouldn’t have too much to worry about, would he? He hadn’t been there. He had come in only afterwards to debrief Terry and make sure he wasn’t going to embarrass Dom McGrath. That was it! If Terry confessed to the Magheraloy bomb and told the whole story, that story would have to include the information that it was Dom McGrath who had ordered the operation. McGrath was now a respectable politician at the head of a party in partnership government, running Northern Ireland. But why didn’t they just come and talk to him? Probably because he was outside the movement now and wasn’t to be trusted.

At the police station, he was kept waiting in the reception area with one truculent drunk and a maudlin woman with one shoe on, but after the constables had reported the fire to a senior officer, he was invited through to a more comfortable room and offered a cup of tea. As a solicitor handling occasional criminal cases and legal claims against the police, he had been in the station before and most of the staff knew him to see. And, having seen senior officers being civil to him, they did the same.

In came Sergeant Jamie Spick. Terry had met him many times over the years when he’d been in the station to sit with clients or vet identity parade line-ups, and he was always civil. ‘Och Terry, this is a bad one. What are we looking at here?’

‘Five of my houses burnt down, including the one I live in.’

‘And the missus?’ said Spick.

‘I’ve sent her up to the Welly Park. They’ll look after her.’

‘Well look, you keep your spirits up and give me a call for anything at all that you need.’

He was at least playing it friendly, making it easy for him.

‘Now let me fill you in on what’s going to happen here. I mean, you know it all yourself but it’s as well to focus. In here, they’re going to be asking two things: is this an insurance stitch-up or is it violence against the person? Of course you didn’t burn your own houses down, but the peeler mind works that way, ticks that box. OK? The insurance company is going to be asking if this is civil disorder, in which case, it’s the government that pays out, or if it is arson of the old-fashioned kind, in which case, they pay. But you know all that.

‘One other thing,’ said Spick. ‘After you’ve done the paperwork, there’s an Inspector McKeague wants a word with you. I don’t know what that’s about. I thought they’d kicked him upstairs.’

Spick left him then with a warm firm handshake, and for an hour Terry took questions from a sergeant writing up his statement. At the end of it, he signed, confident that he had told the story correctly and that he had nothing more to add.

‘You’ll be heartened to know that no one was injured in any of the fires, by the way,’ said the sergeant. ‘Funny how often a firebomb lands in a bedroom and everybody gets out alive. Pure fluke though.’

‘Of course.’ Terry had not even been wondering about casualties.

‘Now, do you mind holding on for Inspector McKeague? He’s on his way specifically to see you.’

‘I’m sorry. Tell him I am much too busy.’

It was only when he was out on the street that Terry remembered he had nowhere to go. His car was up at the Wellington Park and Kathleen had the keys and, with any luck, was asleep. She presumably had the keys to her own car too and that was in Damascus Street. He could go to his office and at least have a computer and a desk on which to make plans. He would have to talk to the bank and make sure there was a steady flow of cash to Kathleen. Right now, she didn’t even have a credit card, unless it was in the house in Damascus Street. It wasn’t far, so he decided to walk round there and see what state it was in. There were more people and cars on the streets now. Office workers and university staff drove in to town early from the suburbs to try to claim a parking space.

The Holy Land was quiet but there was a strong stench of soot and petrol from the house. The front door opened on a nudge. The acrid fumes were almost stifling on the ground floor. He saw what had broken the downstairs window. A petrol bomb had come through into the front living room but had not exploded. This told him how thorough the attack was. If this one had gone off, Kathleen would not have got out alive. In the old days, he had made petrol bombs with milk bottles, but everybody got their milk in cartons now. That left beer bottles, which were too small, or whiskey bottles, which, if they were the large size, would carry their own weight through double glazing but often not break when they landed. The neck was narrow and long, so the fuse cloth often burnt out too. That’s what had happened to this one. But he could tell that, otherwise, it was a well-made bomb. There was sugar and detergent in the mix – the working man’s napalm. It didn’t mean the bomber was a seasoned terrorist; he could have learnt that from a TV documentary, or from some old reminiscing rioter. But it didn’t mean the arsonist wasn’t a pro. You could get so good at murder and sabotage that your own skill singled you out so you disguised your style by being amateurish.

Kathleen’s overcoat was still draped over an armchair and her handbag was on the floor beside it. Her car keys were in the bag. Her red leather purse with her credit cards was there too. Well, wasn’t it great, he thought, that she had such nice honest neighbours? The coat stank of petrol and would have to be cleaned. Terry went upstairs. The main bedroom, where Kathleen had slept, was badly scorched. The flames had reached all the walls, and the mattress and sheets too. Apart from the fumes and stench, the bathroom was all right. So were the other two bedrooms. He stripped for a shower. He needed one.

Under the steaming water he didn’t hear the door open and a man with heavy feet ascend the stairs. The man opened the bathroom door and was as surprised to see Terry as Terry was to see him.

‘Jack! An early start. Good on you, man.’

The recovery had begun.

***

Kathleen had not slept well. She got snatches of sleep for half an hour at a time and then would snap awake. Her nerves jangled. The shock and adrenalin alone would have made her restless without the fear and anxiety tormenting her. What if the arsonist had followed her to the hotel? He might have been on the street when the fire had started and seen her run out of the house. Maybe the man who had burnt her out of two houses in one night was sleeping soundly now, as content as if he had killed her, perhaps assuming he had.

She got up, went into the bathroom, looked around it and walked out again. She crossed the large room, sat in a deep armchair and picked up the hotel’s guidelines, which detailed where she could get a masseuse or a dentist and the times of church services. She opened the drawer by her bed and took out the Gideons Bible. Her eye lighted on a familiar passage: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.’ Clothe the naked and feed the hungry and comfort the outcast. Yes to all three, she said to herself. As for the prisoner? Yes, she would visit Terry and try to love him if he went to jail. She would feel better about him having two grim years in a cell to think about what he had done and to say sorry, if only to himself or to God. She believed in God. That’s what it came down to. There has to be a God, she thought, if things like this are to be resolved, for it is not right to just put them out of your mind and move on.

But she had more practical things to think about. It was now eight o’clock. She was in that dreadful limbo between not having slept properly and not being tired enough to reverse the habit of being up and doing things at this hour. Her mobile rang.

‘Hello, Kathleen Brankin.’

‘Mrs Brankin, it’s Gilly McDonald. I need somewhere to live. Our house was burnt out last night and you’ve to get me somewhere else to live. I’ve nowhere.’

‘Gilly, give me your number and I’ll get back to you.’

Gilly was frantic. ‘You could have killed us last night.’

‘I could have killed you? How do you work that out?’

‘That’s what everyone is saying; this was for the insurance. What else would it be when every house you own was burnt out in one night. It’s on the news.’

‘I doubt that the news is saying we burnt our own houses.’

‘Well, that’s what it sounds like.’

‘Gilly, I have nowhere to go today yet either. Give me your number.’

‘I bet you’re not sleeping on a sofa out in Andytown, are you?’

‘No.’ She felt ashamed that she was in a nice suite in the Welly Park and then angry that she should be justifying that.

‘Gilly, we did not burn the houses for the insurance, whatever anyone is saying. The best I can offer you now is to give you money. Go to the estate agent and get another flat and we’ll pay the deposit.’

‘If I come up and see you now, will you give me £500?’

‘Gilly, I don’t even have clothes to wear today. I don’t have my chequebook or anything.’

‘Aye, that’s all right, Mrs Brankin. You just worry about yourself. Well, I’ll see you in court and I hope the pair of youse go to jail for this.’

There was another call coming through. It was Terry, so she took it.

‘Hi.’

‘I’m over in Damascus Street. Your things are OK, though your clothes smell of petrol and smoke. Your bag is here with your cards. I can run them up to you now.’

When she finished that call, the phone rang yet again. ‘Mrs Brankin? My name is Sam. I’m a producer on the Nevan Toland Show. We were wondering if you would take a call from Nevan about the fires last night.’

She could not help but be curious. ‘What about the fires last night?’

‘Well, it’s a terrible thing that so many of your properties were burnt down. Have you lost everything?’

‘I don’t know the scale of the damage yet. Our home was well ablaze this morning. I doubt that there is much left of it.’

‘Would you be happy to talk to Nevan about it?’

‘I don’t know what’s to be gained. Some people apparently are already saying that we did all this ourselves for the insurance money.’

‘Well, we’re not saying that. Nevan would never say a thing like that. No, our concern is just for the tragedy of a family that has lost everything, and your tenants, who were nearly killed but now have nowhere to live.’

‘It is appalling.’

‘I take it the houses were properly insured, though.’

‘Well, of course.’

‘Well, sure, why not take a call from Nevan at nine o’clock and just let him lead you through a conversation like this.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m beginning to see that this could be twisted in some people’s minds to make us look bad. I think it’s better just to leave it.’

‘We’ll have others on the programme talking about this. You can see the danger, can’t you? If your tenants make allegations against you, and we have to say that you declined to take part …’

‘I’m not declining to talk to the tenants. I’m just declining to do it on radio.’

‘Why, Mrs Brankin? Do you have something to hide?’

‘Screw you,’ she said and hung up.

A text had come in from Nools during that call: ‘You okay? Call if you need anything.’

Kathleen called reception to find out what time they served breakfast to. She ran a bath and sank into it and then there was a knock at the door.

‘It’s me, love.’

If only she could have just half an hour to relax and not think about her problems. She climbed out, dripping, wrapped herself in a towel and opened the door for Terry. He was energised with purpose and plans and seemed to bring urgency into the room with him. She got back into the bath. He paced fretfully about the room talking to her, only glancing in momentarily to see how she was reacting to him.

‘I’m nearly on top of this. Jack will have Damascus Street sorted out today. I’ll stay there for a couple of days anyway. You can stay here for a few days if you prefer, and by then we’ll have one of the flats in Dunluce Avenue ready. I had a quick look in and a clean-up and a new window will do for one of them. I need to get on to the insurance company but this looks paramilitary so it’ll be compensation from the state. If the police play ball.’

‘What could the police do?’

‘They could say I brought this on us through paramilitary activity of my own. Look, the worst is that we would have to sell the site and get somewhere smaller. We wouldn’t be able to rebuild.’

‘And we wouldn’t get compensation for the lost furniture and everything?’

‘No.’

‘Well that’s fair.’

‘Jesus, the things you come out with,’ he said.

Terry stood at the bathroom door and watched the way she was soaping her body as if it was no concern of his, her sullen face turned away from him. He shuddered to think she could have been killed. It would have been a horrible death.

She said, ‘Turn on the radio.’

He looked puzzled.

‘They’ll be talking about us on the Toland show.’ She could see that he was trying to grasp the implications of this news as he walked to the bedside and picked up the remote control. He found the station. The discussion had started.

‘This was a busy night for you in the Fire and Rescue Service?’

‘Well, the first call out was at 3.15 to a house in Damascus Street. This is a residential property and in the area popularly known as the Holy Land. We despatched two appliances but by the time we arrived there was significant scorch and smoke damage and I think it is important to say that incidents like this illustrate the need for a working smoke alarm, which we would urge people to have in their homes and to check every week.’

‘The house had been petrol-bombed,’ said Nevan, trying to bring the man to the point.

‘At this stage we have not ascertained the precise cause of the fire.’

‘Of course you have,’ said Nevan. ‘It was a petrol bomb, wasn’t it?’

‘Well, it is up to the police to issue an official statement, but we can say that first indications are that the fire was exacerbated by an accelerant. That makes it suspicious.’

‘I’ll say it was suspicious. The poor man who owned it had four other houses burnt down last night. Tell me about the others.’

‘The largest fire was at a house in Sallagh Crescent. This fire was at an advanced stage when we got there and there was nothing we could do but control the flames and let it burn out. The premises were totally destroyed. Fortunately, though it was a private residence, there was no one at home.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘No. Sometimes people leave electrical appliances switched on and plugs in the socket, so this is an appropriate time perhaps to remind people of the necessary precautions. Always unplug all appliances when you go to bed or leave the house—’

‘Yes, yes, yes, of course. But you’re not telling me that this was caused by the pilot light on the TV, are you?’

‘It would be premature to declare the precise cause of the fire.’

‘Really. Why’s that?’

‘Because a police investigation is underway.’

Toland was getting exasperated. ‘OK, well, let’s just confirm the basic facts and move on. Five houses were petrol-bombed last night and all belong to the solicitor Terry Brankin, isn’t that right?’

‘I am sure the police would be better able to confirm details like that when their initial investigations are complete. Our role was to bring the fires under control and report our assessments of the likely causes to the police. We have done that.’

‘Good. Now we are getting somewhere. And did you tell the police that all these houses had been firebombed.’

‘We alerted them to the fact that traces of accelerant had been found in all the houses.’

‘Thank you, Fire Officer Tomasin McCourtney. Now, we have a call coming in from a young woman who lived in one of the burnt-out houses. Tell us your name, love.’

‘Don’t love me, Nevan. I’m not one of your big fans. Gilly McDonald.’

‘And what was your experience, Gilly?’

‘I was living in the house in Dunluce Avenue that was petrol-bombed last night.’

‘And you are sure that it was a petrol bomb.’

‘Of course it was a bloody petrol bomb. I saw it come through the front windy at me.’

‘Well take us through this whole thing, Gilly.’

‘I was in the front room watching a DVD at about four in the morning and I might have been dozing off, but then there was a mighty smash through the bay window. Now the big curtains did stop it but there was a stink of petrol and suddenly there were flames leppin’ up all over the place. I screamed my head off and ran out the front door.’

‘Were there others in the house at the time?’

‘There was lads upstairs. They got out the bathroom windy into the yard. I’m telling you, we could all have been killed and all for that fuck—’

That was the last of her voice they heard. Nevan or his producer had closed the fader.

Nevan seemed a bit unsure what to say next. ‘Well, we don’t tolerate foul language on the airwaves and we always cut it off, and I know people say that’s the ordinary way that people talk in this town, but that’s beside the point. The rules are the rules. Furthermore, this programme has no insights at all into the identity of the person Gilly was alluding to, nor does it support her in any allegation that might be implied, intentionally or otherwise, by the terms she used.’

Terry reckoned Toland had just about covered himself legally against a defamation action, but the point had been made. Gilly McDonald had blamed someone, and it would be easy for many listeners to conclude that it was him.

‘We’ve another caller. Good morning.’

‘Good morning, Nevan. I used to rent a house from Terry Brankin myself and I don’t believe he would do a thing like that at all, for any amount of insurance money.’

Nevan roared at him, ‘Right, if you can’t come onto this programme without swearing and slandering people, don’t come on at all. And you might think you are doing someone a favour by saying they didn’t do something that someone else said they did do, but if you name someone in connection with an allegation, whether to try and get them off the hook or hang them on it even higher, let me tell you – it is still actionable, because you are perpetuating the original defamation.’

Nevan’s producers would be crapping themselves now.