James Benn - Evil for evil

A waiter came to the table, three plates of lamb chops and boiled potatoes at the ready.

"Oh dear," said Cosgrove as he pushed his chair back. "Those look delicious."

ON A PERSONAL level, I thought Cosgrove was more distraught over the idea of the lamb chops going back to the kitchen than the image of Jenkins dangling at the end of a rope. I was wistful about them myself. It took him about five minutes to get a staff car and driver for us, and then we were off, exiting the formal gardens surrounding Stormont and heading for the main road that would take us south to Lisburn.

One of the first things I saw was a bombed-out stadium. It looked like it had just been hit.

"What's that?" I asked.

"The Oval. It's a football stadium. Not American football, the real thing," Slaine said. "The Germans bombed it in 1941. They were probably aiming for the dockyards or the railway station and released their bombs too early."

"Bad luck for Glentoran," the driver said. "I'm a supporter."

"That's a team, Billy, and he's a fan," Slaine explained.

"Thanks. I'm a Red Sox supporter myself. Ever hear of them?"

"You mean like garters?" the driver asked.

"Never mind."

Cosgrove laughed and I gazed at the gritty city landscape. We were nearing the Belfast dockyards, one of the busiest harbor areas in Europe now. Troopships, tankers, Liberty Ships, and destroyers were lined up to unload or refuel. Trucks rumbled by, heavy with the material of war brought by ships. A column of GIs crossed the road in front of us until finally an MP let us through.

"Have you seen all this before, Boyle?"

"No, sir. First time in Belfast."

"It's rather amazing. They have a runway built right up to the docks. After they unload the planes, they take off, right from the ship. Wizard, simply wizard."

"More bomb damage?" I said, pointing to piles of rubble where workers were loading debris onto trucks.

"Yes. The Luftwaffe gave Belfast the full treatment early on. They went for the dockyards regularly, the railroads, and the city in general. Some neighborhoods were hit quite badly. There are not enough resources at present to rebuild everything, so some of the damaged buildings are taken down and the rubble hauled away, as they are doing there. They still find bodies underneath."

"Do they still hit the city?"

"No, not for a while. With you Yanks coming in, with your aircraft added to ours, and our increased defenses, it's too risky for them. It's a long flight, navigating at night, across England, avoiding the Republic of Ireland, and then finding Belfast. It's a wonder they ever tried. Do you know they accidentally bombed Dublin? Blighters got lost and thought they were over Ulster! I'd say those particular boys are shivering at the Russian front, if they're still alive."

"I never heard about that."

"De Valera kept it as quiet as he could. Embarrassing for him not to retaliate in any way but he didn't want to antagonize the Germans or encourage us. He's walking a tightrope. One slip and he'll have us, the Germans, or both over his border."

We left the city, occasional gaps in the rows of buildings showing where German bombs had fallen. A few new buildings were going up but mostly it was bricks and concrete going out, leaving small fields of weeds sprouting between structures, marking the place where homes and lives had once flourished.

Convoy traffic lightened up and we made it into Lisburn in forty minutes. Slaine gave the driver directions to Jenkins's warehouse, one of a number of small facilities he owned as part of his distribution network. Had owned, I should say. We drove up to where two RUC constables had set up a roadblock with their vehicle at the entrance to a fenced-in yard containing a few large garages, some open sheds, and a few sheet-metal-roofed wooden buildings. The main gate was open, a chain with an open padlock hanging from one side.

"Here to see DI Carrick," the driver said.

We were waved through, the constable pointing to the row of buildings on our left. We drove across the dirt drive, still wet and churned up from the recent rains. Ahead of us were an ambulance and three police cars. It occurred to me I'd seen several ambulances in Northern Ireland, and they all had been used to transport murder victims. Wasn't anybody ever simply injured here?

Jenkins's warehouse was the last building. The double doors were open and one of the police cars was parked in front, its lights on, illuminating the dark interior. Two thick wooden beams ran across the interior space. From the second hung the limp body of Andrew Jenkins, his head tilted sideways at a sickening angle. Those who hang themselves are not pretty to behold, and I'd give odds that no one would do so who had ever seen such a sight.

"Lieutenant Boyle," DI Carrick said with the solemn tone appropriate to a crime scene. He shook Major Cosgrove's hand and suggested to Slaine that she might wish to wait outside.

She ignored his concern and glanced around the space. Beneath Jenkins was a flatbed truck and a single wooden chair on the ground next to it. Crates of vegetables were stacked along one wall, and an empty workbench adorned the other.

"Nothing's been moved?"

"Nothing. We thought you might have an interest, and were sure Lieutenant Boyle would."

"Do you mind?" I asked, stepping forward. Carrick nodded his assent, and I walked over to the truck, watching where I stepped across the dirt floor. The truck had been driven in recently, the wet mud showing clearly in its tracks. A rope was secured to the truck bed, tied through one of several clamps used to tie down crates. The truck looked like it had come straight from a farm.

"It appears that Mr. Jenkins secured the rope, threw it over the rafter, put the chair on the truck bed, and then kicked it out from under him," Carrick said, raising his voice for all to hear.

"It does," I said, looking inside the truck cab. "There's no note. Did you see any paper in here?"

"None."

I walked around the truck, searching the ground. I looked inside the cab. The seat was cracked and torn, the interior caked with mud and dust. The key was in the ignition. I put the chair on the truck bed and jumped up. I could see the rope wasn't long enough to reach the rafter from the ground, so he'd used the truck for extra height. I stood on the chair, close to Jenkins. His feet dangled several inches above the seat where my feet were. I had to look up at his face, which was distended, eyes and tongue bulging out. I didn't linger long. He hadn't been much to look at when alive.

I felt his arm and noticed the beginnings of rigor. "Who called it in?" I asked.

"Anonymous phone call," Carrick said. "To the local station, saying that Andrew Jenkins had hung himself."

"The caller used that name specifically?" Carrick consulted with a constable, who nodded his head emphatically.

"Yes."

Why? Why would someone who knew Jenkins call in his suicide? Why mention his name? I turned the body, listening to the creak of the rope on wood as I did. The back of his head was dark. I turned the body more, bringing his head into the full light of the headlamps. Dried blood. Andrew Jenkins had been hit over the head before this noose had gone around his neck. I looked at the rope again, and I saw how it had been done. Knock Jenkins out, and then throw him up on the truck bed, parked right below the rafter. Toss the rope over, tie it to the truck, and put the noose around his neck. Then drive the truck forward about four feet, and Jenkins is swaying in the air. Throw the chair down near the truck, and we're ready to jump to the suicide conclusion.

"He was murdered," I said. Jenkins spun around once or twice, then settled into a gentle back-and-forth motion. I saw Slaine turn away, her hand over her mouth. Not quite one of the hard-case boys yet. I got down from the truck and told them about the blood on the back of his head.