The Psalm Killer Read online

  Author’s note

  Parts of this story are drawn from actual incidents in Northern Ireland’s recent troubled history. Because of the nature of the conflict, much of what has gone on there has necessarily been secret. But clandestine activity is by its very nature clouded with disinformation and lies, and nowhere more than in Northern Ireland. Deniability is an essential part of this world. Even when something is true – and shown to be true – it can and will be effectively denied. The unwary enter this quagmire at their peril.

  There is a glossary at the back for those wishing to discover the bald facts, but I leave the reader to decide what – in the story itself – is fact and what is fiction.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Belfast, September 1973

  CANDLESTICK lay in the boot of the car, as still as a dead man. He wondered how it would feel if this were his last drive. It was a favourite method of transporting captured Catholics – Taigs – bundling them into a boot and driving somewhere quiet to finish them off. But this was different.

  He shifted position and looked at the illuminated dial of his watch. So far the ride had taken seven minutes. The woman was being careful, driving inside the speed limit. They stopped for lights, then were off again. The licence plate was clean and a woman alone at the wheel would attract no attention from the watching security forces. He calculated another seven minutes to reach the Ulster Defence Association’s East Belfast headquarters in the Newtownards Road.

  They had collected the car from a workshop under the arch of a railway viaduct in a district that he didn’t know. The garage mechanic he knew, a fat cunt in dirty blue overalls, with the lardy pallor of the city’s poor and a wispy moustache that was failing to grow. They exchanged barely a dozen words as he showed them the red Cortina, the keys in the ignition, and fetched the gun from a drawer, a .38 wrapped in an oily rag, with six rounds in a separate piece of cloth. It looked well cared for, its dark metal gleaming dully under the neon.

  Candlestick had specified a revolver rather than an automatic so there wouldn’t be a problem with jamming.

  The woman told the boy to make himself scarce. Before leaving he offered them cigarettes, which they refused, and as he opened the door into the alley bright sunlight spilled into the workshop, turning the dust hanging in the air to golden motes. A car up on the ramp had its bonnet open. The Cortina was parked alongside.

  Candlestick stood in the doorway of the cluttered office at the rear of the workshop, loading the gun, watching out of the corner of his eye as she sat on the edge of a greasy desk, after arranging an old newspaper so as not to spoil her skirt, and picked up the phone and dialled the Newtownards Road number.

  They were in another of those dingy back spaces that most of his business seemed to end up in. This one was windowless. A train rumbled overhead as the woman asked for Tommy Herron and in turn was asked who she was.

  ‘Tell the fat fuck it’s Maggie.’

  She laughed and turned and pulled a wry face at him, slipping her pump free from her heel and jiggling the shoe impatiently, from nerves perhaps, though she seemed relaxed enough. His own mouth was dry. Her feet were slim, he saw. There were oil spills on the workshop floor. They reminded him of old newspaper pictures of dead gangsters.

  ‘Tommy?’

  He heard Herron asking if it was her.

  ‘Who else?’ she said tartly.

  She arranged to pick him up and Herron said something he didn’t catch and she laughed, smiling at him as she spoke.

  ‘A white blouse, my red skirt and the French knickers. And I’ve had my legs lengthened.’

  He listened to her playing up the sex in her voice until Tommy at the other end gurgled in anticipation, and he wondered about her age – several years older than himself, thirty, probably, and experienced. She was buxom, with a good figure and bright lipstick, and there was nothing wrong with her legs. The grimy surroundings exaggerated her sensuality, which she flaunted at him.

  He knew nothing about her except for a suspicion that she, like he, had secret masters. Whether they were the same as his he had no idea. Her intimacy with Herron was part of the larger game, he imagined, and he thought of the childish code name his had given him: Candlestick.

  Herron was grumbling in the background when she cut him short. ‘Long enough for a frisky boy like yourself.’

  She led him by the nose until, as she was about to hang up, Herron said something to make her frown. She recovered quickly, with a sarcastic laugh.

  ‘Tommy Herron, if you want to fuck me in my lunchtime, bloody well pay for your own parking.’

  Herron wanted to take his own car when she collected him because it was illegally parked. He had a reputation for being obstinate over the most trivial matters. She ended the argument by telling him to get one of his flunkeys to move it.

  ‘Pig-headed at best, our Tommy,’ she said after, amused at the idea of a big-shot like Herron worried about a traffic warden.

  Lying in the darkness, he checked his watch again. Twelve minutes gone. The car swung left then right.

  Herron got in as the car drew up. They had arranged to meet around the corner from the HQ and he must have been waiting. Herron had been increasingly wary of late and stuck close to his bodyguards. Seeing Maggie was the only time he travelled without an armed escort.

  ‘Ah, Maggie, a sight for sore eyes,’ he said, closing the door.

  From the boot he could hear Herron settle in his seat and lean across to kiss her, followed by the laugh of a man enjoying his clandestine assignment.

  As Maggie drove off she said, ‘That’s a good haircut you’ve got.’

  ‘Found a new feller. It means going over to the Crumlin Road but you can’t have everything. He’ll be a poof too, but like I said you can’t have everything.’

  He sounded relaxed and amiable, easily flattered by her compliment. Tommy’s hair was his crowning vanity, dark and lustrous like early Elvis Presley, a distraction from his bulk and lack of height.

  It was pitch black in the boot and Candlestick wondered if the perpetual darkness that awaited Tommy Herron would be any blacker.

  Herron’s fate appeared to have been decided by his own Protestant paramilitary colleagues in West Belfast. Candlestick doubted if this was the whole picture. He had been approached by Herron’s rivals in the UDA but he wondered if the security services weren’t playing a part. When he had mentioned the plan to Captain B
unty during one of their regular meetings Bunty had shrugged and said it was news to him.

  ‘I can’t say I’m altogether surprised. Tommy’s hobby is making enemies.’ Bunty spoke with a nasal drone, tinged with English North Country. ‘There’s lots of people happy to chip in for the collection that pays to get rid of Tommy Herron.’

  Bunty finished his drink. They were in the Candlelight Inn, as usual, where there was no chance of being spotted. ‘Well. Fine. So be it.’

  By then a death in Belfast was easier to arrange than crossing the road.

  Herron betrayed no signs of nerves as they drove south through the city. He was his usual garrulous self, grumbling about how he had been forced to give a boy a hiding because of his reluctance to collect protection money, and complimenting Maggie on her perfume.

  ‘Smellin’ as grand as ever, that’s what I like about you.’ He noticed she was not wearing tights.

  ‘Not much you miss, is there, Tommy?’

  From the boot of the car Candlestick could hear their conversation quite clearly. He could even hear the click of the indicator as she prepared to turn. Their destination was a secluded lane the lovers had used before. Tommy whistled flatly through his teeth, a popular hit from the summer.

  Petrol fumes made Candlestick nauseous, and his ankle itched but he dared not move as every sound seemed magnified.

  They were lighting up cigarettes in front and one of them must have opened a window because the engine noise was louder. He pictured Herron staring idly at the passing landscape, squinting from the sunlight and smoke, thinking of the sex to come.

  ‘Another grand day, but it’s supposed to change tomorrow,’ he said.

  They turned on to a dirt track and bumped down it for a while. When Maggie switched off the engine it was so quiet that the rustle of her skirt carried as she moved towards Tommy. He could hear the birdsong outside and the wind in the leaves, the noise of the engine settling on its mounting, and Tommy Herron’s breathing as they kissed. He waited for his cue.

  They were still kissing, by the sound of it.

  ‘Ah, Tommy’s getting awful stiff,’ said Herron and Candlestick had to overcome an impulse to giggle.

  ‘Come on, fat Tommy, let’s get in the back,’ she said.

  ‘I amn’t,’ he protested.

  Candlestick gave the seat a sharp kick and it went down, like the mechanic had said it would. Brightness flooded his eyes and, as he blinked away the dark, the split second he had of them kissing was like a developing photograph. Herron broke and turned in time to see the gun swing up towards his face.

  ‘Hold it there, Tommy,’ he said.

  As it dawned on Herron that he knew the man manoeuvring himself out of the boot he gave a little yelp, a bewildered half-laugh, like a prank victim.

  ‘What the fuck is yous doing back there?’ he said when he managed to find the words.

  ‘Candid camera,’ said Candlestick, sitting up. He held the gun two-handed.

  ‘Well, blow me down,’ said Herron, recovering fast, a man who could joke his way out of any corner.

  ‘We will, Tommy, we will,’ said Maggie.

  Maggie watched his expression shift from comic surprise, to outrage, to fear, as it dawned on him that he had been set up.

  ‘What a face, fat Tommy, a wonder to behold.’

  ‘You bitch! You sow’s arse!’ he roared, his voice cracked and vicious, then spat in her face.

  ‘Don’t move, Tommy!’ Candlestick shouted. ‘Or there’s brains on the windscreen.’

  ‘Still stiff, Tommy?’ Maggie murmured, wiping his spittle away with her hand.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, looking from one to the other. ‘As cool as you fucking like. Am I allowed a smoke at least?’

  Maggie considered. She lit one of her own and passed it across. Herron inhaled deeply. ‘Look at us,’ he said. ‘Are we daft or what? Here we are, we’re supposed to be friends, so let’s be reasonable. What say you to five hundred quid? I’ve it on me now, right here.’

  It was widely thought that Herron carried large amounts of cash in the event of having to disappear without warning. He gestured towards his inside jacket pocket, waiting for permission to show them.

  ‘Uh, uh, Tommy,’ said Maggie with a shake of the head.

  There was a look of animal cunning in his eyes as he crushed out the cigarette. ‘And there’s more at home. What about five each and another two next week?’

  ‘Time’s all used up, Tommy,’ said Maggie. ‘You’re not worth the five hundred, and we’re taking that anyway.’

  Herron angrily continued to stab the dead cigarette into the ashtray. ‘Yous is dead in this town. You’re top of the fucking list.’

  Maggie stared at him with beady sensuality.

  ‘Anything happens here,’ he went on, ‘you’re dead ducks, that should be as plain as paint. Do you think they don’t know who I’m with?’

  ‘Ah, quit blathering, Tommy.’

  ‘I tell you, the boys in the Romper Room’ve not had a Judy to play with before.’

  Maggie smiled sweetly. ‘All wind and bluster, Tommy.’

  His look of disgust used up most of his dwindling courage. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Getting yourself all turned on.’

  Maggie smiled again, leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. ‘You bet, Tommy. Now give us your gun.’

  Tommy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and held open his jacket while she took his pistol. He had taken to sporting one in a fancy shoulder holster, and even had a licence, fixed by a bent CID man.

  ‘Now open your door, slowly.’ He did as she told. ‘Put your hands on the back of your head and we’ll all get out.’

  Candlestick shadowed Herron with his gun, until they were standing in the open, then stuck the muzzle hard in his ear. Herron, already unmanned by the removal of his gun, looked even more beaten. What little colour he had left drained from his face as he stood unsteadily in the lane, trembling.

  ‘Ah, fuck it, please, Maggie.’ There was a whine in his voice. ‘Anything you want, the both of yous. Am I to kneel to beg for mercy? Then I’m kneeling.’

  ‘Do you know what, Tommy? Afterwards I’ll fuck the boy,’ she said. ‘All the while thinking of you, Tommy, only the best thoughts.’

  Candlestick wondered about this Maggie woman. A hard bitch and liking every minute of it. He wondered if she’d ask to pull the trigger and what he’d say then.

  She went to the car and fetched a half-bottle of Haig, took a swig and told Tommy to drink the rest.

  As Herron tried to take hold of the bottle, he lost control and went down in a heap. Candlestick followed the move with his gun, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Sensing him about to shoot, Maggie said, ‘Not yet.’

  She pushed Herron up into a sitting position, splaying his shaking legs to give him balance.

  ‘Drink up, Tommy. Last orders,’ said Maggie.

  Big tears rolled down Tommy’s cheeks. ‘Ah, please. If not for me, for the kids. Please, Maggie. I’ve held you in my arms. Have mercy for the kids’ sakes. Dessy and little Billy, not yet two, don’t take his da away from him.’

  He held the bottle to his mouth but his teeth were chattering so with the fear that most of the drink slopped down him. A stain spread over the front of his trousers and Candlestick saw that he was pissing himself. Maggie made Herron finish the bottle.

  ‘Well, Tommy, at least you’ll miss the hangover,’ was the last thing she said as she grabbed his jacket from behind, lifting it high over his head and down over his face, then pulling tight. Looking up at Candlestick she grunted, ‘Do it now,’ in the same voice she used for fucking, he thought.

  Tommy made a strange gurgling noise then started to bellow and flap like a landed fish. She needed all her strength to hold him down. Candlestick found it hard to take his eyes off the sight of her calves and thighs tightening with exertion. It wasn’t until she shouted at him to help that he kicked Herron’s feet and bo
oted him in the stomach until he was still enough for her to roll him over. She knelt, straddling his back, wrenching the hooded head back, offering it to Candlestick’s gun.

  He stood spellbound. He was too slow for her, he knew, but he could not respond. He had killed others without any hesitation. It was doing it in front of this woman, he decided.

  ‘Quick, do it now!’ she shouted.

  He tried to shake himself free of his paralysis. Her guttural voice drove him on.

  ‘Kill the fat cunt, stick the fuck!’

  He saw the strain of desire in her face. He could feel it travelling like an infection into him.

  ‘Come on, baby, do it.’

  She offered him Herron’s head. He put the gun close to the back of the skull, steadied it with his free hand and pulled the trigger.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he heard her murmur, just after.

  As the report faded, and the birds flew away, the woods fell eerily quiet. The only noise was the last of Tommy’s pumping body, feet thrashing on the dry mud. There was a powder burn around the bullet’s entry hole in the jacket. The exit he couldn’t see. The woman was transfixed by the final spasms of Tommy Herron, her lips parted.

  She put Tommy’s gun back in its holster. Neither spoke as they dragged Herron’s posthumously farting body to the boot of the car and with a lot of grunting and sweating hauled him up and tipped him in.

  He went to fix the seat. She told him to leave it.

  ‘I want him to see.’

  He didn’t understand.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ was all he could think to say.

  She looked at him. ‘After what we came here for.’

  ‘We have to go,’ he repeated.

  She went and sat behind the wheel. He got in front with her and waited, thinking about how he was sitting where Tommy Herron had just been. She made no move to drive away, but stayed there, transfixed, her hands driven deep between her thighs.

  He was frightened by her intensity and nearly panicked when he saw that she wanted him to finish what they’d stopped Tommy from doing. But then he told himself that shooting Tommy Herron made him eligible for Tommy’s things, including her.

  He wanted to get in the back with her, Tommy or not, but she dictated their moves. She slid her legs from under the wheel and manoeuvred herself to his side, pushing her skirt up to straddle him.