by Derek Fee
PROLOGUE
He whistled as he dug. He had selected an area where the ground was loose and the digging was easy. Progress had been better than he’d expected. A hole three feet deep should do the job. Six feet long by two feet wide by three feet deep was the ideal in his experience. No inquisitive dog would ever stumble on a grave he had dug. He stopped digging and leaned on his shovel. The whistling had been unconscious. He recognised the tune as ‘You are my sunshine’. Where the hell had that come from? Was he ever anyone’s sunshine? Did he ever make anyone happy? He wasn’t about ‘happy’; he was about hate and about pain. He thought people should be able to see the hate in his face, but they didn’t seem to and that was to his advantage. He laughed at the body in the wheelbarrow. I’m certainly not going to make you happy. Or perhaps I did for a while. But it was always going to end like this. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and then returned to digging, changing the whistling to humming and singing a few words in between. The hole was taking shape. The evening was still bright and the air was still heavy after a day of blazing sunshine.
He had contemplated using a chainsaw to cut the bodies up and had even purchased a plastic jacket and trouser combination for the task. Then a police officer on a reality television show had said that murderers who use a chainsaw are stupid. Sawing the body simply spreads blood spatter all over the place and leaves lots of forensic evidence. He had reluctantly reconsidered his plans, realising it was better to be safe than sorry. His safety was always the primary consideration.
Ten minutes later he stuck the shovel into the loose earth he had piled up beside the hole and went over to the body. A pair of startled eyes stared back at him. The eyes could see and the brain could register, but the drug had paralysed the body. He saw a tiny movement and wondered what was happening behind those staring eyes. There was certainly fear, but there would also be horror at the prospect of being interred while still alive. He felt exultation. It was the feeling he lived for. No stimulant he had taken had ever come anywhere close to the feeling he got from taking a life.
Eager to finish, he began to dig with more gusto and a louder hum. It reminded him of the way black members of the chain gangs in the films sang to establish the rhythm of their work. Small droplets of sweat fell from his face into the hole. Another couple of inches and it would be perfect. He looked again at Browne’s body. Bye bye, Rory, he whispered and blew a kiss.
Two weeks earlier
CHAPTER ONE
Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson’s eyelids fluttered and he forced himself to concentrate on what was happening around him. He was sitting in Chief Superintendent Yvonne Davis’s office and enduring the weekly senior officers’ meeting. It was an event he normally avoided like the plague, but he had run through his full list of excuses and was, therefore, obliged to spend a precious two hours of his life listening to the drivel spewed out by his colleagues. His own contribution had been the minimum acceptable. He had two active cases: the search for Sammy Rice, the former Shankill gang lord, and the ongoing investigation into the body found in a burned-out car in Helen’s Bay. There was a third investigation, but that wasn’t to be discussed, even with the senior officers. One of his detectives had proved that former political bigwig Jackie Carlisle had not died by suicide but had been sent to his maker with a hot shot administered by a Special Branch officer who was now missing. Davis and he had not informed HQ of the progress of that investigation. In the meantime, the colleague who established that murder had been committed, Peter Davidson, had retired and was sunning himself on a beach in Spain. Wilson glanced at his watch, hoping the officer speaking would take the hint. Davis looked as bored as him, but he supposed that she was responding to some edict from HQ saying she should meet with her senior staff once per week to prove that she had her finger on the pulse of her station. He pitied her.
Wilson came out of his reverie when he realised that everyone around the table except him was standing up. He thanked God under his breath and stood. He picked up one of the pads that had been left in front of every participant and slipped it into his jacket pocket. It was virginal and he didn’t want to advertise the fact by leaving it behind him. He was a member of the management team as Davis called it, and members of the management team took notes.
‘Ian, would you mind staying behind for a few minutes,’ Davis said as she moved towards her desk.
The rest of the management team filed out and closed the door behind them. They cast envious glances at him before they left. He supposed he was developing a reputation as the chief super’s pet.
‘Have you seen Jack?’ Davis sat behind her desk.
Wilson didn’t have to ask which Jack she was referring to. DCI Jack Duane of the Garda Special Branch appeared to spend as much time in Belfast as he did in Dublin, particularly since he and Davis had become an item. Wilson sat in a visitor’s chair. ‘I haven’t seen him in a week or so. Why do you ask?’
‘He’s been around for the past few days.’
Wilson had been surprised when Duane and Davis got together. Jack was a bit of a rough diamond, whereas she was a cool intellectual. Whatever the chemistry was between them, it was certainly working on Davis. When she had taken over as chief superintendent from Wilson’s old mentor Donald Spence, she often dithered, but lately she exuded confidence. She had also adopted a decidedly more female look in her fashion choices. ‘Is he here socially or on business?’
‘Both.’
‘And you’re telling me because … ?’
‘There was a briefing at HQ yesterday from DCC Jennings. He slipped in a piece of intelligence from Dublin that a police officer’s life is in danger. He made little of it by saying that the life of every police officer in the province is in danger. Then he cited the trouble in Derry. There was a smile on his face that I didn’t like. Jack’s sure it’s you who is in danger. Do you keep your weapon handy?’
He opened his jacket to show there was no gun.
‘That’s downright stupid. Jack says the hitman is well-known to the Garda Síochána and he’s the kind that over-weapons.’
‘And that’s why Jack’s in town?’
‘I think it’s part of it. He likes you and I don’t think he wants to see you dead; neither do I.’
She looked genuinely worried. ‘Okay, if it makes you happy, I’ll carry my gun.’
Her face creased in a smile. ‘Good man, with a bit of luck you won’t need it. I suppose the threat is linked to the Carlisle investigation. Davidson was getting too close to the real culprit and that’s why he was assaulted.’
If she only knew who the real culprit was, maybe she wouldn’t sleep so well at night, thought Wilson. ‘I think you’re right. He did a hell of a job. We wouldn’t be where we are on the investigation if it wasn’t for him. Thank God he didn’t pay the ultimate price for his good work.’
‘Any news from him?’
‘Just a postcard, one of those where you send a photo to some digital company and they make up an individual card. It’s a picture of him and Irene Carlisle sitting by a pool in Spain toasting us with cocktails. He looks pretty well recovered.’ Wilson was glad Davidson was happy.
‘It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.’
‘The pity is that Simon Jackson’s in the wind. I’d like to give that bastard a taste of what he gave Peter.’
‘No sign of him?’
‘Disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘How are things downstairs? Is Moira McElvaney fitting in okay?’
‘I don’t think that DS Browne is happy with the new situation.’
‘That I can imagine. How about the others?’
‘Harry worked with her before, so there’s no problem there. But Siobhan do
esn’t appear to be onside just yet.’
She glanced at the papers in her tray. ‘Keep in touch, and the next time I see you I want to see a bulge in that jacket.’
He stood up. ‘Your concern is both touching and appreciated.’
‘You’re too much, Ian. Get back to work.’
CHAPTER TWO
He heard the argument before he opened the door to the squad room. Detective Sergeants Moira McElvaney and Rory Browne were standing in front of a whiteboard shouting at each other. The other members of the squad, Detective Constables Harry Graham and Siobhan O’Neill, were spectating. It was not the best example of team spirit he’d ever seen. He knew that reintegrating Moira into the team that already had a sergeant might prove problematic, but to say that she and Browne hadn’t exactly hit it off would be an understatement.
He marched up to the arguing couple. ‘Enough! I could hear you two down the hall. We have a rule in this squad: arguing is okay but shouting isn’t.’
‘Sorry, boss,’ Moira said. ‘You asked me to take a look at the murder book on the body found in the boot at Helen’s Bay. I was just pointing out some holes in the investigation and Rory took it as a personal slight.’
‘She seems to believe that she can make much more progress than me,’ Browne said. ‘Maybe I should just quit and leave everything to her.’
Wilson had huge respect for Moira’s ability as a detective and was sure that she might well have done better than Browne, but he wasn’t about to say that. ‘We’re a team, and if we perform well individually that means the team performs well collectively. So when we review our performance, it’s with a view to doing better next time. We don’t take offence. We move on.’ If the argument had happened on the rugby field, the referee would have asked the participants to shake hands. However, Wilson wasn’t ready to play referee in an argument between his sergeants. ‘What’s your point, Moira?’
‘There was a giant conflagration on the edge of the sea and yet nobody at the café down the road saw anything. I don’t buy it. Whoever set the fire must have left in that direction. I think we should interview the café staff again. There were also two patrons and we should check in with them again as well. Maybe they have remembered something in the meantime.’
‘That’s the argument?’ Wilson said. ‘If you have the time, it might not be a bad idea to have another word with them. If I were to hazard a guess as to who we’re talking about, I’d say Eddie Hills. Moira hasn’t met Eddie yet, so she’s a fresh pair of eyes. Go talk to the people at the café and the patrons. It’s worth a try. Rory, let’s go to my office.’
Wilson motioned to Browne to close the door behind him. ‘Take a seat. Look, I get it that Moira has ruffled your feathers a little, but we can’t go on like this.’ He saw Moira pick up her jacket and head for the door. She glanced into his office as she passed.
‘She can be so bloody superior, boss. She thinks she knows everything.’
‘That’s not the picture I have of her. She’s a first-class detective who gets results. And up to now, she’s been a good colleague. She’s not taking your job. She’s taking Peter Davidson’s place and we’re lucky to have her. You two will have to get along sooner or later and I’d prefer if it was sooner.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Don’t think of her as a threat, think of her as an opportunity. You’re a smart guy and part of being smart is learning from others.’ Browne was sitting with his head bent. ‘And stop looking like an errant schoolboy. I want Moira to cast an eye over both the Sammy Rice murder and disappearance and the body in the burned-out BMW. You never know, fresh eyes might give us a lead.’
‘I am sorry, boss.’
‘There are two of you in it. I’ll have a word with her as well when she gets back.’
Browne stood and left the office.
Wilson swivelled in his chair and took a small key from his pocket. He opened a locked steel box attached to the wall behind him, removed his PSNI issue Glock 17, two magazines and a shoulder holster, and laid them on the desk in front of him. He didn’t like guns. Maybe it was because his father had put one into his mouth and blown the top of his head off. He moved the slide on the top of the pistol and verified that there was nothing in the chamber. He handled the gun and found that it still fitted his hand like a glove. As a trained athlete, he had excellent hand–eye coordination, and he was one of the best shots on the range. He removed a box of 9 mm shells and loaded each of the magazines with a full load, seventeen. Then he slapped a magazine into the gun and put it into the shoulder holster. It was a hell of a bind having to carry a gun on his person, but he had made a promise. He put the holster on and settled the gun underneath his left armpit. A fully loaded Glock 17 weighs about two pounds, so when people tell you you won’t notice it when it’s under your armpit, they’re not exactly telling the truth. He knew he would get used to it; however, as far as he was concerned, it was an interim measure until they discovered that the whole hitman/assassination thing was a figment of someone’s imagination. At that point, the Glock would be back in the box and could stay there as far as he was concerned. He slipped on his jacket and looked across at the glass door where Graham was looking in. He motioned for him to enter.
‘What’s up, boss?’ Graham asked. ‘I saw you tooling up. There must be something serious on the cards.’
‘Nothing. It’s just been a while since I wore the damn thing and I have to go to the range next week. I thought I’d get used to the feel.’
‘That’s why you loaded a full magazine?’
‘Look, Harry, it doesn’t concern you and it’s on a need-to-know basis.’
‘Peter reckoned he could remain safe and it almost cost him his life. What’s going on, boss, maybe I can help?’
‘It’s probably nothing, but there’s a threat against a PSNI officer and the chief super thinks it may be me. It’s all a load of crap.’
‘You got to be kidding me, boss. The people who put Jackie Carlisle in the ground know you’re after them. They murdered one of the biggest politicians in the province, and you’re not afraid of them? Those people would off you in a heartbeat. What if the chief super’s right?’
‘And what if she’s wrong? All this is for nothing.’
‘Holy shit, I thought after Peter that things couldn’t get worse, but as long as you investigate Carlisle’s death they will. Give it up, boss. Whoever killed him has the power and is not afraid to use it.’
‘Don’t involve yourself in this, Harry. You’ve got the kids to think about.’ He stood up. ‘I feel like Wyatt Earp walking around with this thing under my arm. Concentrate on giving the kids their tea and help them with their homework and stay lucky.’
CHAPTER THREE
Moira parked her fifteen-year-old Ford in the car park on Coastguard Avenue. Her finances had been decimated by her sabbatical and an old banger was all she could afford. She closed the driver’s door carefully, feeling that if she slammed it, the door would simply give up the ghost and fall off. She walked towards the sea. It was a beautiful summer’s day and the ocean ahead of her was a deep blue. She watched as two large ferries passed each other. She was carrying the murder book and, although the wreckage of the BMW had been removed, she wanted to see the exact spot where the car was left. Looking at a page with an A4-sized picture of the area in front of her, she could see that the BMW had been parked on a grass verge at the end of the road. She walked on until she reached the place where the car had stood. The burned grass had not grown back. Why had this place been chosen? The killer might have driven to any out of the way location and torched the car. She supposed the location must have some significance for the killer. Few enough people knew this place so presumably he had been here before. But for what reason? She walked around the area and then headed towards the café.
She was thankful to be back in the Murder Squad. It hadn’t been an easy return and she had learned a great truth as a result: you can never go back to how it was before you left. S
omewhere at the back of her mind, she’d expected to just waltz back into her slot in the squad. She knew that she had been replaced, but she’d ignored that problem. Then there was her temporary appointment to Vice to cover some corrupt asshole who was on suspension. Her old flat had been let, no big surprise, and she had spent a week in a cheap hotel looking for something reasonable, and inexpensive. She had finally landed a studio in the University area. When the boss had called and told her that he had organised her back into the squad she almost jumped for joy. But the joy was short-lived when she heard that she would be replacing Peter Davidson.
A lot had changed since the time she had first joined the squad. Ronald McIver was in the nuthouse, Eric was shuffling paper at HQ and now Peter had retired. Good old Harry was still there, but she wasn’t too sure about the newer colleagues. She’d heard that Rory Browne was a clever lad and a fast-track appointment. She’d expected some resistance from him, given that they both held the same rank, but she was frustrated that he appeared to take her interventions personally. If she cared to be strategic, she’d just keep her mouth shut – but that wouldn’t be doing her job. She was more surprised at the frosty reception she had got from Siobhan O’Neill. She hadn’t had time to work that young woman out yet, but most of what she’d learned about her didn’t gel. She was a clever lass, maybe a bit too clever to be a copper and maybe a bit socially backward. Whatever the problem was, she regarded Siobhan as a work in progress. She pushed open the café door and went to the counter.
‘How can I help you, love?’ the lady behind the counter asked. She had a badge on her lapel identifying her as Hazel.
‘A cup of coffee, please.’
Moira waited until she returned with the coffee to take out her warrant card. ‘Were you working here the day the car was torched at the end of the avenue?’
Hazel set the coffee on the counter and looked at the warrant card. ‘Two pound fifty, love.’ She held out her hand. ‘There are no freebies for the police in this café.’