Cold in the Soul

by Derek Fee

  O’Neill wrote the names in her notebook.

  He went back to his desk and tried to concentrate on putting the papers together for the DPP on the murder of Colin Payne, the police whistle-blower who’d been drowned in a slurry tank. There was no way to follow up Whyte’s disappearance on his own. There was too much legwork involved and he would need experienced detectives like Graham and Moira if he were to investigate. Somehow he’d have to get the boss onside.

  Wilson slept late. It crossed his mind that Reid may have slipped something into his drink the previous evening because he had no memory of falling asleep or getting himself to bed. She had already left when he rose and his head was feeling fuzzy. He downed a couple of painkillers and followed them with two cups of strong coffee. He was relieved to see there were no messages on his phone. He showered, dressed and turned on the television in time to catch the news from BBC Northern Ireland.

  A modified version of the statement Baird had shown him was read out. It was terse and contained the minimum amount of information. If Media Affairs intended to create a ‘one-day wonder’, he believed they had succeeded. There was no mention of who the officer was or of possible fatalities. There was no follow-up expected. The people who needed to know what happened were informed and that was the end of the matter. There would be handshakes all round on an incident well covered up.

  Except somebody had tried to kill him. Maybe the next time they would be better prepared or Duane wouldn’t be on hand. It was a sobering thought that he couldn’t allow to dominate his thinking. After one more cup of coffee, he headed to the station.

  The desk sergeant’s greeting was a little cheerier than usual. It might have been Wilson’s imagination, or perhaps, despite the lid on the affair, word had got out as to the identity of the officer whose life had been threatened. If so, he’d soon be receiving a call from Jock McDevitt, the crime correspondent for the Belfast Chronicle. That wasn’t an eventuality he looked forward to. The sergeant pointed up, which was the signal that Wilson had an immediate audience with the chief super. His steps seemed more laden as he made his way up the three floors to his boss’s office.

  Chief Superintendent Davis closed the meeting she was holding as soon as she was told of Wilson’s arrival. She waited until they were alone in the office before inviting him to sit. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Still here.’

  ‘It was a close-run thing. The warehouse has been closed off, but word has it that thirty shots struck the wall where you were hiding.’

  ‘He must have been a lousy shot.’

  ‘There’s no point in being blasé. Someone wants you dead. I want to know who.’

  ‘I hear it’s a dissident republican group.’

  ‘Cut the crap, Ian. I’m trying to have an adult conversation here. First Peter Davidson and now you. I think someone’s cage must be well and truly rattled. There’s nothing much on at the moment, maybe you should take a week off.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s over for a while. Well, I hope it is, since they took my weapon away yesterday.’

  ‘You and Jack seem to think you’re immortal. The bad news is, you aren’t. You know who’s behind it, or at least you have a good idea.’

  He didn’t speak.

  ‘Something else I’m not supposed to know?’ she said.

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘I think I’ll suggest trauma counselling,’ she said. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen you speechless.’

  ‘It appears that I’ll be doing a lot of talking in the next few days to the Police Ombudsman’s team. They might not be so adept at accepting the dissident republican theory as the general population. But you can count on me being discreet. Especially where Duane’s involvement is concerned.’

  ‘These people mean business. If you know who they are, get them behind bars as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘Okay, get to it and no more gunplay.’

  He stood. ‘It wasn’t my call.’

  ‘Why don’t I believe it?’

  Wilson entered the squad room but didn’t go to his office. He stood at the top of the room and called the team together. He explained to them what had happened at the warehouse, excluding the information that Moira had been on hand. He knew there were rumours around, but he expected the squad to keep quiet about what he’d told them.

  ‘This situation is serious, boss,’ Graham said when he’d finished. ‘It’s got to be the Carlisle investigation.’

  ‘It might have been Best,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Davie’s not that stupid,’ Graham said. ‘And he’s got guys on his team who blew up half of Afghanistan and wouldn’t have worried about taking out you and a dozen innocent bystanders. It’s Carlisle and it’s money.’

  ‘I will handle Carlisle.’

  ‘What about Helen’s Bay?’ Moira said.

  ‘That’s your priority.’ He moved towards his office. Once inside, he flopped into his chair. Davis and Graham were right. Davidson had lifted the wrong rock and the snake hiding underneath was proving venomous. He needed to get busy. Moira and he had already proved to be an effective team. If they couldn’t finish what Peter started, it would be a surprise to him.

  He noticed Browne lurking around outside his office. His sergeant was not the easiest to get along with, but he was an honest, clever young copper who would probably go places. Anyone taking Moira’s place had a lot to live up to and Rory was getting there. If only he would try to be a little more personable. He motioned him to come into the office.

  ‘What’s all the shuffling about?’ Wilson asked as soon as Rory entered.

  ‘You’ll be angry when you hear what I’ve done.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Wilson prepared himself for the confession.

  ‘I ignored your instruction to stay away from the Whyte disappearance.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Last evening I met with the guy Heavey who told me about the disappearance and we went to Whyte’s flat.’

  The hesitation was there again. ‘I can’t keep waiting for this story. Get on with it.’

  ‘We rang, but there was no one there. So I picked the lock and we went inside. There was no sign of Whyte, and Heavey reckoned that nothing was missing.’

  ‘Any sign of a struggle?’

  Browne shook his head. ‘The place was scrupulously clean. There was no upturned furniture, no blood visible to the naked eye. The flat looked as though the occupant had just gone down the road for a pint.’

  ‘What made you follow up on this when I told you to let it go?’

  ‘It was just the way Ward dismissed the disappearance.’

  ‘People will get pissed if we tramp over their territory.’

  ‘Whyte was an obsessive-compulsive. Everything had to be just so. You can see it in the flat. He lived a regulated life. There were certain things that had to be done at certain times and on certain days. Guys like that don’t just drop off the radar. His friend Heavey isn’t the only one who’s concerned. Everybody who knows him is worried.’

  Wilson hadn’t looked on Browne as an intuitive copper, but maybe he’d got that wrong. ‘Get your jacket. We’re going to Musgrave Street.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After checking in with the desk sergeant, Wilson and Browne made their way to the office of DCI Noel Jones, head of the Missing Persons unit of the PSNI. Wilson shook hands with Jones and introduced Browne.

  ‘Can I get you guys a tea?’ Jones asked and pointed to two chairs.

  ‘I think we’ll pass.’ Wilson sat.

  ‘Good call. Did you hear about a republican group targeting an unnamed officer?’ Jones said. ‘Rumours abound.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to believe everything you hear,’ Wilson said. Jones had been one of his colleagues in the old days when he had worked in Musgrave Street and Donald Spence ran CID. In those days, Jones had a full head of reddish hair and the start of a beer-belly. Over the years, the hair had thinned to a f
ew strategically placed strands and the belly had taken over the body. While several months of plentiful sunshine had left even the most sun-shy of Irish people with a light tan, Jones’s round countenance was still alabaster white.

  ‘Aye, I’m aware of that. What can I do for you?’

  ‘DS Browne was here yesterday looking into the disappearance of a Roger Whyte,’ Wilson said. ‘Whyte’s friends are concerned for his safety. As in they fear something has happened to him.’

  Jones tapped keys on his computer and then turned the screen around to face the two men. It showed a vertical listing of missing persons and their photos. Roger Whyte was at the top. Jones gave them an opportunity to look at the screen before turning it back. He tapped some more keys and the printer beside him spat out five A4 pages. ‘This is what we’ve collected. We have a description, where he was last seen, the clothes he was wearing when last seen, his vehicle, his telephone number. We’ve checked social media. You know the drill.’

  ‘And that’s led nowhere?’ Wilson asked.

  Jones shook his head. ‘We’ve put out requests for information on the Internet but so far nothing. There are people on our list who have been missing since 1962. Many people are just unhappy with their lives and opt out. Check out the homeless shelters, they’re full of runners.’

  ‘I wouldn’t class Whyte with them,’ Browne said. ‘He lives in a nice flat, he worked in financial services and had made enough money to afford to live off his investments. On the surface, he had no reason to disappear.’

  ‘What do you think, Ian?’ Jones asked.

  ‘There has to be a judgement call that Whyte has been the victim of foul play if we’re to take the case on. I need to hear that from you.’

  ‘I think we’ve taken it as far as we can,’ Jones said. ‘I don’t know that I can conclude that Whyte has been the victim of some evil deed. But if you have the resources to take the case on, you can have it.’

  Wilson looked at Browne, who nodded. ‘Apparently, we have the resources.’

  ‘We’ll need everything you’ve got,’ Browne said.

  ‘I’ll have the file sent over before close of play. But don’t be surprised if it’s no more than the machine spat out. If he turns up, you’ll let us know?’

  Wilson nodded and stood. He extended his hand. ‘Good to see you again, Noel.’

  Jones shook. ‘Good to see you too, Ian. There’s no truth in the rumour that you were the police officer in question, is there?’

  ‘Not a word of truth.’

  Jones winked. ‘Aye, well, take care of yourself.’

  ‘What do we do now, boss?’ Browne asked, once they had left the building.

  ‘Go through Whyte’s life with a fine-tooth comb.’

  ‘I’ve already started that process. I asked O’Neill to dig up what she could on Whyte.’

  Wilson valued initiative but not insubordination. ‘You and I need to have a talk about how hierarchy works in the PSNI.’

  ‘I’m sorry, boss.’

  ‘You’re taking this too personally for my liking. Is there something that you want to tell me? If there is, now is the time.’

  Browne shook his head.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wilson gathered the team around the whiteboard. ‘Roger Whyte has been missing for almost a month. He is a man of regular habits and his friends are worried that he’s come to harm. Our colleagues in Missing Persons have gone as far as they can and they’re happy to let us run with it. They’re sending over the file as we speak. I understand Siobhan is already looking into Whyte’s life. I want to go deep: bank statements, credit cards, ATM withdrawals. By this evening I want this whiteboard covered in information on Whyte’s life.’ He turned to Graham. ‘Harry, you’re working with Rory on this one. Get to it.’

  Wilson was just about to shut his office door when Moira put her hand out to stop him. She walked in after him and closed the door. ‘What’s with the statement issued by the media people?’

  ‘Case closed.’ Wilson sat and motioned for Moira to do the same. ‘HQ arranged everything. Brennan’s body has probably been found by now, and he will be treated as another victim of the drugs war in Dublin. Forensics will clean up the warehouse. The Gardaí arrested the van driver. All is well in our little world up here. Didn’t they fill you in at Strandtown?’

  ‘The chief super checked my gun and confirmed that it hadn’t been fired. Then he told me to piss off home and forget that I was ever at the warehouse.’

  ‘Sound advice.’

  ‘You and Duane only got the hitman; whoever was behind it is still out there and might try again.’

  ‘They might.’

  ‘And you’re okay about that?’

  ‘Have you ever had an AK-47 loosed off in your direction?’

  She shook her head. ‘I take it you’re not okay.’

  ‘Somebody will have to pay. How are things going on Helen’s Bay?’

  ‘I’ve put the word out to the drone clubs and I’m looking into Best’s and Hills’ backgrounds to see if either of them has an association with Helen’s Bay.’

  That was sound police work. She’d made more progress in a week than they had in the previous three months. The case was alive again. He knew she was the best person to replace Davidson on the Carlisle investigation and he knew she would jump at the chance. The downside was that he would be putting her in danger. He opened his desk drawer and took out the file that Peter had made on his investigation. It was all there, from the interviews at the hospice to the finding of the mobile phone at the airport. It also contained the name of the person at the end of the phone call from the murderer. He put it on the desk between them and made a snap decision. ‘I want you to have a look at this file. I want you to read it with an open mind because I haven’t given it to you yet.’

  She picked up the file and ran through the pages. It was organised like a murder book, with sections on the victim, details of the interviews and statements taken. She noticed the name of Jackie Carlisle as the victim.

  ‘This was Peter’s investigation,’ he said. ‘And a damn fine job he did too.’

  Moira closed the file. ‘This is what both he and you almost got killed for.’

  ‘That’s why I haven’t decided yet who to give the continuation of the investigation to.’

  ‘I’ll read it and I’ll probably want it.’

  ‘It won’t be your decision. It’ll be mine. How can I be sure that you’ll manage it after what you did yesterday? Duane and I knew what we were heading into, but you tagged along with no idea of the danger or the consequences for you. How do you think I would have felt if you’d been killed or injured on my account?’

  ‘I’m sorry, boss.’

  ‘No you’re not. You’d do it again in a heartbeat. But that file is dangerous. You’ll see why when you’ve read it. And going off half-cocked will get people hurt. Read the file and then we’ll talk.’

  He watched her leave the room. She was the kind of person he liked having in his corner, but he really wasn’t happy about giving her such a dangerous assignment. He switched on his computer and tried to deal with administrative tasks. It was all so much bullshit. Today wasn’t the day to be thinking about budgets or overtime allocations. Whoever cleaned up after Duane had dumped Brennan’s body in a lane like it was a sack of potatoes. He was having difficulty coming to grips with the fact that he might have taken a life. It was the opposite of what he had dedicated himself to. It all depended on whether he had lured Brennan to the warehouse to kill him. He had followed the correct protocol and he remembered giving the shouted warning. But would they believe him?

  His computer pinged indicating an email. The Police Ombudsman’s Office would like to know when Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson would be available for an interview.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Wilson emerged from his office at five-thirty and went to the whiteboard. Browne and O’Neill had worked hard since he returned from Musgrave Street. A new board ha
d been set up with an eleven-by-fourteen-inch black-and-white photo of Roger Whyte at the top. According to his date of birth, which was below the photo, Whyte was fifty-five years old. He looked older. His hair was snow-white, thin on top but plentiful at the sides. The face was oval and soft, the cheeks depressed and fleshy, the lips thin and the mouth small. His eyes looked sharp and Wilson thought he saw a curiosity there. ‘Gather round children, while Rory fills us in on what he’s found so far about our missing person.’

  Browne stepped forward and tapped the board beside the photo. ‘This is Roger Whyte from a photo supplied by Musgrave Street. He was born in Ballymena on March 25th, 1963, which makes him fifty-five years of age. He attended St Louis Grammar School before obtaining a first-class honours degree in classics from Oxford. After university, he became a successful investment banker in the City of London with a small private bank. When a larger rival purchased the bank, Whyte had a financial windfall and retired. He returned to Belfast five years ago and bought his flat in Elmwood Mews. He was last seen on July 11th. He is a practising homosexual and well-known within the gay community. He is not active on social media. His bank account is at the Ulster Bank and we’ve requested a court order to examine his statements. Harry and I will check his flat tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good work,’ Wilson said. ‘I received a request from the Police Ombudsman’s Office for an interview concerning the shooting in Ballymacarrett. I have no idea how the investigation will impact on my work, but Moira and Rory are more than capable of keeping the ship on course. Although Whyte is considered a missing person, we will treat him as a victim of violence and this as a murder inquiry. We don’t have a body and there’s a possibility that we might never have one. We start by interviewing everyone who’s been in contact with him over the past few months.’

  ‘On it, boss,’ Browne said.

  ‘Moira will continue with the Helen’s Bay case for the moment. You can give us a quick rundown.’