Thirty-One





O’Brien’s outward focus was on the motorway traffic ahead as they sped north. Inwardly he had murder on his mind. ‘The investigating officer says there was no sign of forced entry.’

There wouldn’t be. Stupid sod probably invited him in.’

Emily was driving again, this time regularly exceeding the speed limit. She kept to the outer lane, alternately cruising and cursing when the traffic was choked into narrow sections by roadworks. O’Brien’s car was a standard issue BMW 3 series, powerful enough when the situation allowed, but minus the blue lights or siren fitted to Incident Response Vehicles. Now she had to risk her colleagues in Traffic pulling them over during the sixty or so miles to Bootle.

Anything else?’

O’Brien glanced at her, aware of the seething anger in the girl beside him as she hunched over the steering wheel. They’d argued back at the services over who should drive. He had mixed concerns about taking a diversion, but conceded that Wally’s death was almost certainly connected to their investigation. He also felt Emily’s relationship to the deceased was an argument for making her take a step back. This was not a case she could take a professional part in, and yet… this was not a normal case. Emily had every right, as Wally’s next of kin, to attend as quickly as possible. But as she was seconded to his operation, O'Brien had to ensure she remained answerable to his command. On a practical level, he elected to man the phone and make all the necessary communications (to Merseyside Police, to Manchester and to his own team in London) while Emily concentrated on getting them to their destination.

He says there’s no indication of any physical assault.’

Meaning?’ Emily picked her moment to accelerate past a VW Beetle as some roadworks came to an end.

Meaning no apparent indicators for cause of death. Just sitting in a chair with his mouth wide open. PM will confirm, but COD probably a heart attack. Time of death at least nine hours ago, possibly as much as twenty.’

Shit.’ Emily’s attention switched back to the road. A sign told her it would be another nineteen minutes to the M62. Could she do it in ten?



*



Emily’s emotions had been unpredictable since the day, as a child, she had stood in the middle of the road with a car bearing down on her. Anything resembling a personal threat could provoke an unpredictable reaction. On some occasions she remained calm, time seeming to slow down while she took command and steered a situation to her advantage. On others, she could freeze, taking the hit if necessary, but furious at her inability to keep control as she scrambled to recover.

To that degree she had grown to recognise at least two parallels between her own personality and that of Peter Gris. Both had displayed a perverse appetite for sex, but the dominant aspect was a need for control. While he had the benefit of being in powerful positions for a number of years, she had youth on her side. Where he was determined to stamp out any threat to his political and personal reputation, she had a hunger for revenge and survival. In Emily’s eyes, the outcome was down to whoever had the tenacity to finish on top, and missionary had never been her position of choice.

Now, as the speedometer climbed past 80 mph, she found herself reflecting on the memory of a man she had addressed by a childhood name for nearly thirty years. Her grandfather had bought her that book for her tenth birthday, with the character of Wally hidden inside a series of postcards. She had been quicker than her sister to point out the tiny figure clad in red and white stripes, and then her grandfather had challenged her to find him in some old photos. From that moment on, rather than Walter, Walt or Grandad, he had become Wally to her, and to almost everyone who knew him. She touched her lips in an unconscious gesture, a brief shake of her head in self-denial. You wally, Wally. Now she had to find his killer.

Eighty-five miles per hour. This was more like it. The M62 less than five miles away, and Liverpool beckoned inside half an hour.

Speed. There’s irony for you. Emily’s detachment led her thoughts in another direction. That was what had started this whole thing, indirectly. For how many years had Titanic enthusiasts puzzled over the excessive speed of the doomed liner? Why had Captain Smith ignored warnings of ice and continued to power forward into the Atlantic at around 26 knots?

She knew why.

It was for the same reasons she had now: a rendezvous. Time was critical. Titanic had the benefit of Marconi radio, but the other ship did not, so Smith had to be in position by the agreed time, and they’d been held up leaving Southampton later than he could afford. Icebergs? So what? The officers were experienced enough to steer round any they might encounter. Or so they had thought. It was all in that document Gris was so desperate to destroy: Morgan and his big idea for publicity; Ismay and his determination to impress; Lord Pirrie in a panic while caught up in a plan he had opposed from the outset. All there, written in notes taken on Pirrie’s instructions by her own ancestor, Michael (Mickey) Palmer.



*



There was always a chill wind at Clarence Wharf. Mickey reckoned it was the coldest part of town, where winds from the north gusted down the channel between Ireland and Scotland, then took a diversion up Belfast Lough to test the mettle of anyone daft enough to work the shipyards. Even today, on a Sunday in the middle of May, he was shivering. But then he couldn’t deny his nerves were shot to pieces. He stood alone in the lee of the pump house, waiting for Tully Mac—and whatever Tully said to him, he had to listen. Tully’s Law. Mackenzie Tulse was the law in the shipyards. Since Old Man Pirrie left Ireland in shame, the Orangemen had filled the void. Loyalists had total control and all talk of Home Rule had blown off in the wind. Had Mickey done enough to prove himself? He’d soon find out.

From the direction of Queen’s Road came two figures: one lean and bare-headed, the other bulky with his head covered by a cloth cap similar to Mickey’s own. While the latter stopped a hundred yards off, leaning casually against a railway wagon, the other man continued to stride towards him. Mickey had never spoken to Tully before. Not even seen him up close. But he recognised the beard, ginger fading to grey at the tips, and the strong black eyes under heavy brows.

You the pen-pusher?’ The words were accusing, spat out from thin lips barely visible under an untidy curtain of whiskers.

Mickey nodded, determined not to lose any ground despite the man stopping less than three feet from his chest and standing fully six inches taller. ‘Mickey Palmer. Pleased to meet you, Mr Tulse.’

Stuff that. I’m Tully to everyone here. Even Himself Almighty. You got ambitions?’

The question puzzled Mickey. ‘Well, yes. Er… I’m not sure what you—’

You want to be the next fecking Prime Minister or something? Is what I see here supposed to impress me?’ Mickey watched his own notes being brandished above his head like a hammer. ‘Pirrie’s a twat and a turncoat. You think this is some kind of defence of his treachery? Well, do you?’

No! Not in the least, Mr… not a bit… Tully. Those are copies of notes he asked me to take at all kind of meetings. Private notes. I thought you might find them useful. Specially after… well, you know. After we lost… Titanic.’ Even saying the name felt awkward.

Tulse’s lean figure towered over Mickey, but now he let his fist drop to his side. ‘Go on, lad. I’m listening.’

There’s that big inquiry going on in London, isn’t there? I heard that we’re getting blamed for not building her right. And that’s bollocks. Those men at the department… well, they’ll want to cover their backs, won’t they? And Churchill, he—’

Careful, laddie! That’s a name we don’t welcome round here.’

Sorry. Anyway, him and some others were the ones that knew what Mr Morgan was about. They approved it! So, if them at the inquiry want to point fingers—’

Enough!’ Tully raised his other hand an inch in front of Mickey’s face. ‘I’ve heard enough of what you’ve got to say, and I’ve read your fecking notes. So now you listen to me.’ He tugged at the top of Mickey’s waistcoat with one hand, then used the other to stuff the bundle of papers into the gap. ‘You take these back home with you and keep them someplace safe. You might mean well, laddie, but leave the politics to others, cos it’s a messy fecking business, this. There’re some bastards out there who’d take all your lovely scribbles and use them to close this yard. Permanent. Then where would we be? Fourteen thousand men and their whelps all wanting revenge on whoever lost them their livelihood. Don’t worry your pretty little head about the inquiry. We’ve got a lawyer for the association who’ll savage anyone who has a go at Harland & Wolff. We won’t take any shit. But trust me, you let those papers of yours out of your sight—ever—and I promise you that someone will come after you. You got family?’

Mickey nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Three girls and a boy.’

How old’s the boy?’

Just turned nine.’

Tully’s face produced the nearest thing he could to a smile. ‘The apple of his father’s eye, eh? Well you see that your boy gets to follow in your shoes. Keep your nose clean and make sure he still has a future in this yard. You know what to do.’

He poked Mickey in the chest with a bony forefinger to drive the point home, then he turned on his heels and walked back in the direction of his minder and the Queen’s Road.