You'll Get Yours, page 20
They all looked at Cahill.
“Aye, sir. Lily Feagins is from Creggan Heights. Her mam and da live there, on Conner Road. And she’s got three brothers and two sisters, all currently residing in Derry.”
“Dear God!” Nix said. “So the circus will be starting soon. I’ve to notify them upstairs. We’ll need more resources, then, more uniformed officers. Where can they possibly be dredged up from?”
McLaughlin was surprised at this rant about press interference.
“But, sir, I thought you enjoyed it all?”
“Och, you know yourself I never shy from the limelight, but I’m pure knackered with all these press conferences I’ve had to hold. Drag myself home after ten most nights. No chance for a nice dinner. Leftovers heated up in the microwave. You might be surprised to hear I am sick of the sight of myself on the telly every night.”
McLaughlin was indeed.
“Off you go then, lads and ladies,” Nix said, waving them off. “I know you’ve got a morning briefing planned to alert the troops. And we now know we need results this very moment!”
After they left his office, Nix tried the Chief Superintendent's number, but there was no reply.
Nix reclined in his chair and reflected, staring up at the warped soundproofing tiles in the ceiling. In the back of his mind, he wondered if his team was up to the task. McLaughlin, for his many years on the force, had never been confronted with such an atypical homicide. Not only was there the thumb to think of, and the knickers as well, they’d now discovered the victim was a celebrity!
And to think that there was a time when he’d been delighted Strand Road had passed the case on to them. He wished they would take it back. Although...
In another compartment of his mind, DCI Nix saw himself rubbing his hands with delight, visions of commendations and promotions dancing in his mind. What were a few garish headlines and a few mics shoved under his nose, a few scratches on his BMW when compared to that?
FOURTH DAY
CHAPTER 24
EXCERPT FROM JOURNAL ENTERED INTO POLICE EVIDENCE
There are bad words for women, bad names they are called. Not only by men, but also by a woman to another woman. Theres the b word, the c word, the w word, the s word. The list goes on. I would never say any of those words not even in my mind. I can’t even write them down you see? My mammy brought me up right. Vulgar langage is just that-vulgar. Those words never pass my lips. I don’t hate women. I know everyone will say I do when all this comes out but it’s not true. The other fellas I went to school with thought I was diffrent. How could I not know that. They told me over and over again. Yelling at me on the playground. A nancy boy, a poof. And maybe I thought I was. Mayby that’s why years later I no I can’t think of it. But I knew then I’m not a nancy boy. Being skinny and wearing glasses doesn’t make me a nancy boy. Skinny. Ha. That was then, this is now. I’m thankful for that. But after what happend after what happend I can’t trust, I fear women. That leaves me wanting but fearful of women. After all this is over people are going to say I hate women I know they’ll say that but they’ll be wrong. I love women how I’d love to have a woman for my own. But they made it imposible for me. There are only a few women I hate and theres a reason for that they made me who I am.
HAWKINS WAS AT ONE end of the room distributing the information pack to the seated uniformed coppers, Cahill on the other. The coppers grabbed them eagerly. Cahill and Hawkins had been busy that morning, preparing the report, printing out the information, most of it culled from Wikipedia.
As tense and excited as the mood had been during the first briefing of the investigation, this morning it was even more electric. They’d learned the victim wasn’t some indeterminate and lonely supermarket shelf stacker. Well, yes she was. But that wasn’t who she had been. She had been a celebrity. It was now a celebrity murder. In Derry. It was inconceivable and very exciting. Something that would be added to Derry lore, something they’d tell all their grandchildren.
Cahill overhead one copper slouched in his seat saying offhandedly to another, “I knew your woman had to be something like that all the time. It was her surname that did it for me.” Cahill lingered, pretending he was arranging the papers. “Steps? Of course she’d choose a name like that. That group also from the 90s? Steps? Only a washed-up pop star would choose a name like that. Wannabe pop star.”
Cahill wanted to say, “She hadn’t chosen it. It had been chosen for her,” but stopped himself. He went to the next row.
Information sheets distributed, Hawkins went to her computers in the back of the room, and Cahill headed nervously through the rows of constables. He’d never been one for public speaking. But he was proud of himself. He would never have thought that one day his love of music charts would be of assistance in a murder investigation.
As the coppers were reading through the sheets, Cahill took a spot on the wall next to Lyons, who punched him affectionately on the arm.
“Result, aye?” Lyons said.
Cahill beamed, a warm chill running through him.
McLaughlin was at his usual position before the murder wall, D’Arcy perched on the desk to his left.
One corner of the murder wall had been transformed. Cahill had done all the work, printing out the photos from the internet. Those happening to pass by the room and taking a glance at the murder wall would be forgiven for thinking they had chanced upon a presentation at a music seminar.
Cahill had written THE SPARKLETTES.
ACTIVE YEARS 1996-1997 (1998)
Underneath were four glossy photographs of female pop stars.
VERONICA DONOVAN (now SKELLY) lead singer
GERARDA PERRY (now McGINTY) keyboards, backing vocals
ROISIN GOWAN (now OBI) drums, backing vocals
LILY FEAGINS (victim) maracas, backing vocals
The lead singer, Veronica Donovan, had long wavy red hair and her voluptuous form was shoehorned into a green lame dress. The keyboardist, Gerarda Perry, had a black bob and was wearing a low-cut black-and-white striped top, a beret at a natty angle on her head. Roisin Gowan, the drummer, had a shaved head and a distressed black t-shirt and was glowering at the camera. Lily, of course, had her trademark blonde pigtails all around her head and was staring at the camera in delighted surprise, one hand on her cheek.
The younger coppers were looking at the photos of the band with some bemusement. This was not their music. Not even, some of them, their mothers’ music. Others, older, knew it only too well.
Cahill had drawn an arrow from Lily’s photo to the VICTIM photo, where Regina Steps in her bad perm and red-framed glasses still smiled down at them.
“Christ, sir,” called out one older copper good-naturedly. “What have you got up there on the board? Looks like Ginger Spice, your woman out of Swing Out Sister, Sinead O’Connor and that singer of ‘Saturday Night,’ that Whigfield woman. All together in one group?”
Cahill and McLaughlin couldn’t conceal their mirth, and around the room, there was scattered laughter from those old enough in the ranks to know what he was talking about.
“Looks like the supergroup from hell,” said another to howls of laughter.
“Or a gay man’s wet dream.”
D’Arcy was incensed.
“Sir! This is inappropriate! It is no laughing matter! This is a murder investigation! And,” she stared down the offending officers, “these other three women might be targets for our perp. Their lives may be in danger. Please act your ages and give your uniforms the respect the public and this investigation demand. The respect a murder investigation demands. Respect for the victim. Respect for those whose lives might be in danger.”
Cahill was looking in alarm at D’Arcy. She was unable to control the shuddering of her limbs, so enraged was she.
“Aye, lads,” McLaughlin said, looking slightly abashed himself and appealing for calm. “DS D’Arcy is quite right. Please behave in an appropriate manner. This is a very serious situation, and your behavior is frankly disappointing.”
D’Arcy, head bobbing righteously, plumped herself back down on the desk, still shaking slightly. She whipped off her glasses, located a cloth and wiped them, placed them back on her face with trembling fingers.
“And...” called out one older female copper quite angrily; she apparently could control herself no longer, “keep your opinions to yourselves! I quite liked the Sparklettes. Had them hanging on my bedroom wall as a teen. For a bit.”
The offending officers had crossed their arms and sunk into their seats, scowls on their red faces.
Cahill noted with wonder that the Sparklettes were still causing controversy in Derry after all this time.
“Right!” McLaughlin said. “Now that you’ve been properly chastised, let’s get to the matter at hand. As you all know by now, we’ve discovered thanks to DC Hens Cahill that our murder vic Regina Steps is actually Lily Feagins, one of the members of the pop group the Sparklettes. The Derry pop group, I should add. So media interest will be intense. This absolutely cannot leak to the press. We must notify her next of kin first.”
A hand went up. “I know myself,” the younger copper looked around the room, “of the Sparklettes. Even those of us not old enough to know what songs they sang know them. For obvious reasons. Eurovision and all that palaver. I only know that Veronica one to see, the lead singer, like, as she’s still famous now. What with her perfume and clothing line, always voted one of Derry’s Top Businesswomen of the Year. I think the majority of us recognize her.” There were nods all around. “The other three I hadn’t a clue were in the group, and, sure, your woman Regina, well, Lily, only played the maracas, am I getting that right?” This was directed at Cahill, the alleged sudden expert in the group. Cahill nodded. “So nobody knows her from Adam. Not to Veronica Skelly’s extent, in any case. What I can’t understand, but, is why her next of kin didn’t know her. Why didn’t they come forward? We’ve been begging the public for information. Does her family not live here in Derry still?”
McLaughlin replied, “We know the Feagins are from Creggan Heights, and we know her mam and dad still live there, and probably some siblings, if not all of them. Why they didn’t come forward is anyone’s guess. Interviewing them is our top priority. But...have a look at the two photos.” He pointed to LILY FEAGINS and then to REGINA STEPS. “Do seriously think they look alike?”
There were rows of shaking heads.
“We didn’t know her,” a copper agreed. “Didn’t grow up with her, like her ma and da and brothers and sisters did. Didn’t go to school with her. Sure, there’s a world of difference in what a teenager looks like and what they’d look like at 45. And even anyone who was into the group back in the day...” he searched out the female copper who had spoken out, “they would struggle to recognize their pop stars nowadays.”
The female officer concurred. “We’ve been staring at that photo of Regina Steps for four days now, and I hadn’t an inkling. Though, of course, Lily wasn’t the main reason everyone liked the group. Whoever did. It was all about Veronica. Sure, they could’ve called the group Veronica and the Other Three and be done with it.”
McLaughlin nodded. “You’ve got the information pack that DCs Cahill and Hawkins drew up, and as you can see, when there are photos of the entire group, the focus is on the lead singer, that I’ll give you. The other three are somewhat hidden, or slightly out of focus in the background or were shot at odd angles. In many, Lily is posing with her maracas partially covering her face. That might be why nobody came forward and recognized her. As to why her parents—”
A hand was raised, somewhat sheepishly. It was PC O’Shaughnessy.
“About that, sir,” he said, grimacing. “I’m probably going to get grief for this. For good reason, like. I can’t stay silent no longer, but. Yesterday I was manning the phones, the calls from the public, and some old dear called and said she thought she recognized the vic as someone who used to be in a pop group.”
McLaughlin dropped the marker.
“You what?!” he demanded.
PC O’Shaughnessy sunk in his seat. “And...I hate to say it, boss, but...” He looked cagily at the copper sitting next to him.
The copper heaved a sigh and said with reluctance, “Aye, when PC O’Shaughnessy got off the phone with the pensioner, he told me what she said, and I told him, sure, I got a call the day before from someone who said Regina Steps looked like the one from the Sparklettes. The one who did the dancing with the maracas, the one with the, er, large breasts.”
“What?!” McLaughlin roared.
The copper scowled. “I’m kicking myself now. I’m mortified. And I must admit PC O’Shaughnessy and I had a right laugh about it. That woman on the cannon being a pop star.”
“All leads are meant to be investigated!” McLaughlin yelled, face pink.
“You can’t blame us, sir. There were only a few of us answering the phones day in and out, and there were hundreds of calls. How could we take them seriously? It would be like they’d told us, aye,” he nodded at the board, “that Ginger Spice had been found on that cannon. How unlikely would you think that?”
“Ginger Spice isn’t from Derry!” McLaughlin bawled.
“And this is not Ging—Gerry Halliwell,” D’Arcy said icily, pointing at the photo. “This is Veronica Donovan.”
“Skelly,” Cahill said meekly.
He shrank as D’Arcy’s head whipped in his direction.
“Skelly, boss,” Cahill said. “She changed her name when she got married. To that famous rugby player, Frank Skelly.”
“Veronica Skelly,” D’Arcy corrected herself, color rising in her face.
“Anyroad,” McLaughlin said, “before we go any farther, I’d like DC Cahill to come up and fill us in on the group. The more we know, the better for all of us.”
Lyons gave Cahill a little push forward, and Cahill walked over to the murder board. His heart was in his throat, but he had to control himself, conduct himself with professionalism before the uniformed coppers. He was no longer one of them.
“I’ll make this brief,” he said, eyeing D’Arcy somewhat nervously. “This is a murder investigation after all, and you’ve got most of the information I’m going to tell you in front of you. And going back to almost nobody recognizing who Lily Feagins was, I agree with everything said so far. Like most of you, I know this group by their reputation only, for what they mean to Derry. I’m too young, sure. Like most of us, I’ve heard the Sparklettes being mentioned as I was growing up, but only because they were from Derry. And because of that Eurovision debacle, which I’m sure we’ll discuss at some stage. It’s certain to give us a motive. Sure, I also know Dana won Eurovision, and she’s from Derry, and I know the Undertones, the Divine Comedy and Nadine Coyle from Girls Aloud are also from Derry. And D:Ream are from Derry and had a number one that was later used for the Labor Party’s campaign. But can I hum any of their songs? Well, maybe the D:Dream one, aye. But the others, no. I don’t really know their details as artists.”
There were nods all around. Many famous music acts had come from Derry and were part of the city’s rich history.
“But I went to a Sparklettes fansite forum, and I read there that the two things Lily Feagins was known for, besides her dancing and maracas, of course, which some say was an indication she had no talent and shouldn’t have been in the group...she wasn’t the most popular of the four...and she was disliked for another reason I’ll get to...och, where was I? What was I on about?” He was dithering.
“A deep breath, lad,” McLaughlin encouraged. “You’re doing grand so far.”
Cahill did as instructed and concentrated. “Aye, I was saying...the two things she was known for were her, er, misshapen nose and her, erm, large breasts.” Why he was glancing at D’Arcy for approval he didn’t know, but the DS’s face was neutral, which was encouraging. “We know the vic had a nose job and a breast reduction. She surely knew her two most distinguishing features, and if she wanted to distance herself from the person she was, those are the things she’d change to hopefully avoid detection.”
A raised hand. “If you don’t know the group well, how did you end up recognizing her?”
“When even her mammy and daddy didn’t?”
“DC Cahill is mad into his music, especially the music charts,” Lyons said from the wall, forefinger running over his mustache. “If anyone could truffle out the least important member of a pop group, it would be him.”
Cahill looked gratefully at Lyons and nodded. “It happened by chance. Their hit song came on when we were at the pub with the boss.”
“‘Hey! You! Yeah, you!’” sang someone in a horrible, high-pitched voice. The girls’ yells at the opening of ‘No Man? So What! We’re Sparkly!’
“Aye, that’s the one. It took me a while before it clicked, but it did. Don’t ask me how. The next morning,” he looked apologetically at McLaughlin, “I, er, did all my research before coming to the station. I resorted to a mistruth, I admit, but I didn’t want to show myself up. I downloaded some aging software, uploaded the photo we have of Regina Steps onto it, removed her glasses, aged her 25 years, changed her nose and bob’s your uncle. It resembled the Regina Steps photo, vaguely. I still wasn’t convinced, so I had to google like a mad thing. I found out as much about them as I could. And there was a lot to find out.” He indicated the sheets of paper in their hands. He paused to gather his thoughts.
