‘I like your sister,’ said Elaine.
‘Yeah, she’s a sweetie,’ said Shepherd.
‘She doesn’t look much like you.’
‘She takes after our mum. I’m like Dad.’
A face flashed up on the television screen. Shepherd recognised it immediately. Gerry Lynn. Elaine saw his reaction and looked at the screen. ‘That’s Lynn, one of the bastards who shot Robbie,’ she said.
Shepherd reached for the remote control and turned up the sound.
The picture of Lynn was replaced by a video shot of forensic investigators in disposable white suits on a rutted track standing round a Lexus. The back window had been shot out. The camera panned to the right where more white-suited figures were working in a muddy field.
A female reporter with a Scottish accent was explaining that three men had been shot dead on a farm outside Dublin and that the killings followed a series of sectarian shootings, but that sources within the Police Service of Northern Ireland did not believe that the Peace Process was breaking down.
Elaine listened intently. ‘Good riddance,’ she said quietly. She was staring at the screen with undiluted hatred.
The video was replaced with a studio set. The female presenter was a pale-faced blonde with straight hair and penetrating eyes. She was interviewing a senior police officer. She grilled him as if she believed he personally had pulled the trigger and barely gave him the opportunity to answer her rapid-fire questions. She suggested that the police had been slow to investigate the previous killings and that some members of the Republican movement believed the police were unconcerned about the murders because the victims were convicted killers. The officer explained patiently that the killings were being investigated but that without witnesses or forensic evidence there would be no quick resolution. The presenter interrupted him to ask if he thought there was a connection with the death of Joseph McFee. The officer started to tell her that it was one avenue being investigated but before he could finish she was saying she had spoken to Republicans who feared that the police were involved in some way with the killings. At this the officer was lost for words.
The camera cut away to another presenter who read out the latest crime figures from an autocue. Shepherd muted the sound again.
Elaine gulped more wine, then refilled her glass again. ‘They didn’t even mention Robbie,’ she said. ‘Lynn murdered Robbie and they didn’t even mention it.’
‘I guess they think Lynn’s the story now,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s what journalists do, they look for the angle.’
‘It’s like they don’t care about the real victims. They want to make it look as if Lynn’s the hero in this.’
‘They weren’t making him out to be a hero,’ said Shepherd. ‘But his murder is the news story.’
Elaine pointed at the screen. ‘You heard what that silly cow was suggesting,’ she said. ‘She was making it sound like the police killed Lynn.’
‘Maybe they did,’ said Shepherd. ‘Maybe there are cops who resent the fact that so many of the men they put away are back on the streets.’
‘That’s crazy,’ said Elaine. ‘The police don’t do that.’ Her eyes blazed and Shepherd stayed quiet. He didn’t want to antagonise her. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like to be a cop, Jamie. Living with Robbie, I got to see just how their hands are tied. Everything’s geared to protect the criminals.’ She waved her glass at the television. ‘The media too – they’re always on the side of the villains. Do they care that Lynn shot my husband in front of me and my little boy? That Lynn and his IRA bastard friends blew Robbie’s brains out for no other reason than that he worked for the RUC?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd again.
‘You don’t have to keep saying you’re sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not your problem. It’s never been your problem.’
Shepherd sipped some wine.
‘I’m glad Lynn’s dead,’ she said. ‘And I’m glad McFee’s dead. Whoever killed them should get a medal.’
‘What about the others?’ asked Shepherd.
‘The others?’
‘The ones with Lynn and McFee? How many were there?’
‘Three,’ said Elaine. ‘Adrian Dunne, Willie McEvoy and Noel Kinsella.’
‘Has anything happened to them?’
‘Nothing they didn’t deserve,’ she said.
‘They’re dead?’
‘Adrian Dunne was shot a couple of months ago, Willie McEvoy too. Kinsella’s still around. He ran away to the States and the Americans refused to extradite him. He came back last month but because of the Belfast Agreement he didn’t serve a day.’
‘What are the odds of that?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Odds of what?’
‘Elaine, come on. Out of the five men who killed your husband, four are dead.’
‘The killings are still going on, Peace Process or not,’ said Elaine. ‘Now it’s old scores being settled or gangsters fighting over drugs.’
‘But four out of five? Haven’t the police questioned you?’
Elaine laughed. ‘You think I’ve been behaving like some crazed vigilante?’
‘Of course not,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I would have thought the police might wonder if there’s a connection.’
Elaine was astonished. ‘I can’t believe you’d say that, Jamie.’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, I’m just saying, cops are cops, wouldn’t they think that you might be involved?’
‘Involved in what way?’ she said defensively.
‘I don’t know. But you above all people would want them dead, wouldn’t you?’
‘There’s a world of difference between wanting someone dead and killing them.’
‘Of course there is. If it was me, I’d want the men responsible dead.’ He thought of Amar Singh and Charlotte Button listening to this. And recording everything that was said.
Elaine’s eyes were brimming with tears. ‘I lost my husband,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘I lost my husband and I lost my son. Yes, the men who ruined my family deserve to suffer and die. But do you think I want to spend the rest of my life behind bars?’
‘Elaine, I didn’t say I thought you did anything. I said the police might think that.’
She put down her glass and got to her feet, a little unsteadily. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Elaine, please, don’t be angry.’
She glared at him. ‘Why? Are you frightened I might shoot you?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Shepherd.
‘Oh – so first I’m a vigilante, and now I’m silly, am I?’ She swayed a little. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Elaine, come on, let me make you a coffee.’
‘Now you’re saying I’m drunk? I’m not drunk, Jamie. I’m not drunk, I’m not silly and I’m not a murderer.’ She brushed past him and hurried down the hallway, keeping her left hand on the wall to help her balance. Shepherd hurried after her but she got to the front door ahead of him and let herself out.
‘Elaine!’ he called, but she was already running across the lawn to her house.
Shepherd closed the front door and swore under his breath. He went into the sitting room and peered through the window. Elaine was trying to insert her key into the lock. It took her several attempts and then she was stumbling inside and slamming the door behind her.
His mobile phone rang. It was Button. ‘You pushed too hard, Spider,’ she said.
‘I know. It got away from me, I’m sorry.’
‘Is it retrievable?’
‘I think so. She was a bit drunk, and that’s probably why she reacted the way she did. I’ll let her sleep on it and see how she feels tomorrow. I don’t think it’s her, Charlie. I really don’t.’
‘You found bullets in her attic. And, from what I heard, there’s a lot of anger there. Anger and hatred.’
‘But she’s not a killer.’
‘And you say that based on what?’
Shepherd rubbed the back of his neck. ‘On the basis that it takes one to know one,’ he said quietly.
‘Elizabeth, you’re worrying about nothing,’ said Kinsella. ‘And keep your voice down. I don’t want the Rottweilers to think we’re arguing.’
‘We are arguing, honey,’ said Elizabeth, frostily. ‘A friend of yours has been killed and you don’t seem the least bit concerned.’