Cold in the Soul

by Derek Fee

  ‘I think I know a place.’

  ‘I’ve been on to our guy in Philly Brennan’s gang and he’ll do the necessary to put pressure on for the hit to be sooner rather than later. What’s your idea?’

  Wilson told him about the warehouse fitting the bill, especially regarding possible civilian casualties.

  ‘It seems ideal. I’m waiting for a call from Dublin. Hopefully, tonight will be the night. I have some guys sitting on Philly and his mate.’

  ‘Get back when you can and thanks, Jack.’

  ‘Anytime. Sure, it’ll be craic. I’ve wanted to take Philly off the board for quite a while.’

  Wilson didn’t like the sound of the latter remark. ‘I wish I had your confidence.’

  Browne spent the afternoon pondering. He was a little pissed off with the way Wilson had dismissed his request to look into Roger Whyte’s disappearance. Maybe if Wilson had seen the scant effort that Ward had made, he wouldn’t have been so dismissive. But the boss was strangely preoccupied these days. It looked sometimes like he was on another planet. Wilson was right, of course, when he said that it was none of their business. It would only become their business if Whyte’s corpse turned up. But that would be too late for Whyte. There was the added factor that he felt that Ward and his colleagues considered Whyte to be less worthy of their attention because he was gay. Indignation flared in him every time he realised that for some people the disappearance of a homosexual counted less than any other disappearance. The same could possibly be said for an indigent or a foreigner.

  He spent the afternoon being angry with both Ward and the boss. He fanned the anger because it justified the decision he’d made to ignore Wilson’s edict and look into Whyte’s disappearance himself. There was also the nagging question of Vincent Carmody’s disappearance. The absences of Whyte and Carmody might have nothing to do with one another, but then again they might. The boss had taught him not to accept coincidences. He would contact Heavey and go with him to Whyte’s residence to see what they might learn. He would have to keep things quiet in case the boss found out, but he was damned if he’d allow Ward and his pals to short-change Whyte because of his sexual orientation.

  Moira spent most of the afternoon on the phone speaking with the organisers of the four drone societies in the city. What she had learned had both encouraged and discouraged her. On the positive side, most of the members were fanatical about flying their drones and transferred the video they shot to their phones or computers. So, if anyone flew that afternoon there was a good possibility that they had caught something on film. On the negative side, many were doubtful that their members would have been in the Helen’s Bay area because the terrain there is devoid of features.

  While she worked away on her line of inquiry, she decided she would follow Wilson when he left the station. If some bastard was lying in wait to kill Wilson, he’d have to deal with her as well. She had already removed her Glock from the gun cabinet in the office and loaded a magazine. She was ready to move when he did.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jack phoned Wilson just before five. ‘It’s on. Philly is under pressure. As I speak, he’s sitting in a stolen Audi A8 with Dublin licence plates just down the street from the station. You lead him to the warehouse and go inside. I’ll be close. I’m informed that the weapon involved is an AK-47, so if you have a Kevlar vest handy, I’d bring it along. See you there.’

  Wilson’s heart was racing as he put down the phone. He was about to face a hitman who had never failed a contract. He knew the kind of damage an AK-47 would do in the hands of an experienced shooter and in an enclosed space. He inhaled a deep breath and let the air out slowly, repeating the exercise several times. His first impulse was to pick up the phone and call Reid. If he was about to die, he wanted at least to hear her voice one more time. He decided against calling her. She might hear something in his voice and that might affect his resolve. He contemplated placing a call to his mother but decided instead to visit her if things worked out. They were the two most important people in his life and the thought of being without them hurt him.

  He tried to envisage a scenario that might avoid confrontation but knew there was no way out. He could call in an armed response team, but the hit wouldn’t go down until the last moment and he would still be in danger. The best way to protect himself was to show that anyone who came after him would be met with maximum force. He slipped on his shoulder holster and made his way downstairs to the storeroom. He signed for a Kevlar vest, put it on and went out to his car.

  Moira saw Wilson leave his office and head downstairs. She closed her computer and picked up her bag with her Glock inside. She watched from a corner of the courtyard as he made his way to his car. She saw him leave and then jumped into her small Ford and took off after him. She was so focused on Wilson that at first she took no notice of the Audi that was behind him or the transit van that was behind her.

  Wilson drove to the Crumlin Road, where he joined the A12 and the took the M3 across the Lagan. It was the journey he made every day on his way home and it wouldn’t raise a red flag for anyone stalking him. He recognised that this was another of those existential moments in his life. He had already survived a bomb blast that had killed a dozen others. Maybe this time his luck would run out. He took the slip road down to Middlepath Street and headed for the Ballymacarrett Road. A bout of déjà vu hit him as he pulled in through the open gate of the abandoned warehouse where Sammy Rice had lost his life.

  He exited the car and made his way to the grey concrete block building. The lock had already been opened, which meant Duane was already inside. He pulled open the door and walked into the empty space. When the door closed behind him, the interior was pitch-black. He gave his eyes several minutes to get used to the darkness. There weren’t many places to hide. He moved to the rear, casting a glance upwards to the first floor where the offices were located. The rooms appeared deserted. He prayed that Duane was somewhere up there.

  The Audi A8 with the Dublin licence plates slowed down before turning into the gate on the left-hand side of the road. Moira drove past but kept an eye on the mirror. She watched the van follow the Audi. She turned right at the next junction and immediately made a U-turn to drive back the way she had come. She pulled up across from the gate and saw a man take what looked like an assault rifle from the rear of the van and hand it to a second man, who then moved towards a large building with steel double doors. She turned her car off, removed her gun and slid out of the driver’s seat.

  Philly Brennan cradled the AK-47 and appraised the situation. He didn’t like it. There was something off about it. He told himself he’d find the arsehole in Dublin who had moved the hit up. This wasn’t the way he operated. Slow and steady wins the race was his motto. He held the assault rifle close. Instead of going into the warehouse he circled around the building. He half-expected to find the place crawling with PSNI officers. He’d been assured that no information on the hit or the possible subject had been leaked, but he wasn’t a first–timer. The organisation that didn’t leak like a sieve didn’t exist. Leaks didn’t bother him. Half the men he’d taken out had been expecting it.

  The building was rundown and looked abandoned. It was rectangular, about a hundred and fifty feet long and there were no windows so it would be dark as soon as he entered. He’d done his reconnaissance. He took a deep breath. Ah fuck, he thought, it’s time to start the fireworks. He went to the door and slipped inside, crouching low and keeping close to the wall. The interior was as dark as the pit of hell. He stayed low, waiting for his eyes to acclimatise to the darkness.

  Wilson saw the figure slip through the door and move to the side. It was one of those occasions where the rules of engagement were fuzzy. His adversary was carrying an assault weapon and a cry of ‘Stop police’ might allow him to fire. But it would also expose him and a burst from an AK-47 might catch him before he got a shot off.

  Moira sneaked through the gate and made her way along a bushy perimete
r fence until she came up behind the van. The driver was smoking a cigarette and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The engine was running, ready to make a quick exit. The man with the assault rifle had done a swift recce of the area and was now inside the building. Not for the first time she thought that men shouldn’t be born with the ability to create testosterone. They seem to be bent on reliving Old West clichés. This one was a recreation of the gunfight at the OK Corral in a deserted building in East Belfast. She crouched and moved along the side of the van until she came level with the driver’s door. She jerked the door open and put the Glock into the man’s face. ‘Move one fucking muscle and I’ll blow your head off.’

  The cigarette dropped from the man’s lips and he stared ahead without moving.

  ‘Okay, now that we’ve established who’s boss, get out of the van and lie flat on the ground.’ She backed away and the man did as he was told. When he was on the ground, she handcuffed him. ‘You move and you’re dead,’ she whispered in his ear. She listened, but there was no sound from the warehouse.

  Wilson knew Brennan was waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. As soon as they were, he would spot Wilson at the rear of the building and all hell would break loose. Wilson lay flat and pointed his gun where he saw Brennan crouching. ‘PSNI. Drop your weapon.’

  Brennan heard the shout from the rear and decided this was his chance. He fired off a quick burst in the direction he was sure he’d heard his target. He’d asked for a forty-round magazine and his burst used thirty shots.

  The empty warehouse resonated with the grating sound of gunfire and the wall behind Wilson exploded, showering him with shards of shattered brickwork. He fired six shots in the direction of the flash from the muzzle of the AK-47.

  Duane had been watching Brennan through night-vision glasses and had had a bead on him from the moment he entered the warehouse. As soon as the first burst was fired, he’d turned on his gun’s laser sight and shot three times. Brennan was lying prone on the ground. ‘It’s okay, Ian, he’s hit.’

  Wilson stood up and walked forward. He looked at the wall behind him, which was peppered with bullet holes. The vertical pattern showed that he would certainly have been hit if he hadn’t been lying flat. Duane joined him and they walked over to the still body of Philly Brennan. He had pitched forward, so Duane turned him over with his foot. Brennan had taken shots to the shoulder, the legs and the side. But it was the shot to the head that had killed him.

  ‘Not like it is in the movies, eh Ian?’

  The door moved and both men pointed their guns in that direction.

  Moira sighed with relief when she saw Wilson and Duane towering over the motionless body. They weren’t exactly Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but standing there, guns in hand, they were a decent Irish approximation.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘I followed you from the station. I thought you might need some help.’

  ‘You didn’t think we were up to the task?’ Duane asked.

  ‘Something like that,’ Moira said. ‘I’ve disabled the guy outside who supplied the weapon.’

  Duane started for the door. Wilson and Moira followed him. The van driver was where Moira had left him. Duane picked him up and manhandled him into the rear of the van. ‘Shite. He’s a loose end, but I’ll take care of it.’

  Wilson didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘Who’ll make the call?’ Duane asked.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Wilson said. ‘I’m in this up to my neck, but Moira was never here.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Duane said. ‘She’s the only one who doesn’t deserve to have a pile of shit thrown at them.’

  ‘Where’s your car?’ Wilson asked Moira.

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘Get the hell out of here, now.’ He pushed her shoulder. ‘Go on.’

  ‘No way,’ Moira said. ‘It’s not time to send the girlie on her way.’

  Wilson took out his mobile as he walked back into the building. He didn’t care about the shit he’d have to take. He had survived and as he looked at the body slumped by the wall, he felt no guilt. The dead man was a murderer who had accepted money to kill him. The guilt would kick in later.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Browne left work at five and went straight to meet Heavey at Ryan’s Bar on the Lisburn Road. The resolve that he had been building up all afternoon to go against the wishes of his superior was melting as he got closer to actually doing it. He hoped that Heavey wouldn’t show and he could go home and forget about the whole business. His hopes were dashed when he arrived at the bar and saw Heavey sitting in the rear, sipping a glass of white wine. He ordered a pint of lager, waited for the drink to be poured and then joined Heavey. ‘Did you do as I asked?’

  ‘Good evening to you too,’ Heavey said.

  Ryan’s was popular with students, but since it was the summer holidays, there was only a scattering of patrons.

  ‘I’ve checked with all our mutual acquaintances. Nobody has seen hide nor hair of Roger in more than three weeks. They’re all as concerned for him as I am. What did you learn at Musgrave Street?’

  ‘It appears they’re not anxious about homosexuals disappearing.’ He didn’t bother to add a comment on the PSNI’s obvious failures on the subject of disappeared individuals.

  ‘So, what’s the next step?’

  ‘Why do you think we’re meeting here?’ Browne sipped his pint. Even at six o’clock in the evening, it was hot outside. The news said it was hotter in Belfast than it was in Lisbon. That was one for the books. ‘The next step is a visit to Whyte’s flat. Any luck with a key?’

  Heavey shook his head.

  ‘That means breaking and entering, which I suppose you’re aware is a crime, even for a police officer.’ What sort of idiocy had he got himself into, he thought. ‘Let’s finish up here and get on with it.’ He slammed his glass on the table, drawing looks from the other patrons.

  It took them less than five minutes to arrive at Whyte’s address in Elmwood Mews. A small metal plaque fixed to the wall beside a letter-box bore the legend ‘Mr Roger Whyte Esq.’ Browne looked around before producing a pack of lock-picks from his pocket. He selected two and put them in the lock. After a bit of fiddling, the lock sprung open. He pushed Heavey inside and followed behind him. They entered a dark corridor with a set of stairs on the left. Browne closed the door and followed Heavey upstairs. At the top, they entered a large living room reminiscent of the studies of Browne’s university professors. The chairs were large and comfortable and from another era. Original works of art covered the walls and books filled every nook and cranny. The only concessions to modernity were a modem, a state-of-the-art music system and a forty-inch flat-screen television. The rest of the flat was stuck in the early twentieth century.

  ‘How old is Whyte?’ Browne asked.

  ‘Mid-fifties.’ Heavey was moving around the room, letting his hand slide over the furniture.

  ‘Figures.’ Browne found a small kitchen at the rear of the room. It was meticulously clean. It mirrored the situation in the living room. There was no sign of a Marie Celeste situation. If Whyte had left, he hadn’t done so in a hurry. He moved on to the single bedroom and bathroom. The bed was made and the bathroom was spotless. The whole flat spoke of someone obsessive about cleanliness. Browne was no forensic expert, but there was nothing to suggest that anything of a violent nature had occurred in the flat. He returned to the living room and found Heavey flicking through a folio. ‘Everything looks normal. You’ve been here before, what do you think? Is there anything out of place?’

  Concentration lines furrowed Heavey’s brow as he held out the folio. ‘He’s writing the great Irish novel and has been at it for the past ten years. It’s all in here, handwritten. He would never have left it here if he were going away somewhere. It’s his most valuable possession.’

  ‘Maybe he left it here by accident.’

  ‘Not Roger. Look at
this place. He’s the most organised man you’ll meet in your life. He wasn’t the type to have accidents with things important to him.’

  ‘What does Roger do for a living?’

  ‘He worked for an investment firm in London. He quit and started investing for himself. As you can see, he was comfortably off.’

  ‘Did he have a partner?’ Browne noticed some photographs of two men taken in various European cities.

  ‘As I understand it, he had one about twenty years ago in London. The poor fellow died of AIDS, apparently.’

  Browne was getting angry with himself again. He shouldn’t be doing this. He was a professional police officer behaving like some amateur sleuth. If Whyte was genuinely missing, someone in the PSNI should be making the necessary inquiries. But the point is they weren’t. There was a desk at the end of the room. He wanted to examine it but, if he did, his fingerprints would be all over it and the contents. He was in a bind. Whyte could walk in his front door at any moment and find two men wandering around his flat. And one of those men was a serving police officer. But if Whyte had come to some harm, he was obliged to investigate or to at least push the system to investigate it.

  ‘What do you intend to do?’ Heavey asked.

  ‘I don’t know. There are procedures and protocols for this kind of situation and I’m breaking most of them. We’ve already committed one crime and I’d like that to be the last one.’