by Derek Fee
‘He has considerably more than that. He collected over two million pounds when he sold his shares in that bank. He’s also a shareholder in Sunny Days.’
‘Did he ever tell you he was in danger?’
‘No. On his visits we discussed books, TV, plays and films he’d seen lately, that kind of thing.’
‘He’s an only child?’
‘My husband died two years after he was born. I never remarried.’
‘Have you nephews and nieces?’
‘I’m the youngest of three, my brother and sister are dead. They had no children. My husband was born in Canada. We’ve totally lost touch with that side of the family.’
That would be a job for O’Neill. ‘Is there anything you think might be relevant to our investigation?’
‘I’m sure you know that Roger is gay. He never hid the fact. He came out at a very early age.’
Wilson nodded. ‘Do you know if your son has made a will?’
‘I have no idea. If he has, I wouldn’t expect to inherit. Roger is informed on my life expectancy.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Whyte, you’ve been most helpful.’
‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He stood. Her hand felt like tissue paper when he took it. There was no shake just a touch.
On the way back to the reception he passed Mrs Cassidy, who was asking another visitor whether he was there to take her home. There was no Miriam to intervene and when the man said ‘No’, the old woman cried.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
There were four Post-its on Wilson’s computer screen when he returned to the office. Each had the same message, ‘Matthews called’, and a time. He tore the notes from the screen, bundled them up and tossed them in his wastebasket. The man from the Police Ombudsman’s Office would have to wait. He called O’Neill to his office and told her about Whyte’s Canadian connection and the lack of heirs on the maternal side of his family.
‘It appears possible that Roger Whyte had other banks accounts and other investments,’ Wilson continued. ‘The four hundred and twenty thousand pounds might just be the tip of the iceberg. We need to find a figure for his exact wealth. His mother said he received over two million pounds for his share in the bank’s takeover. We need to find out where it is. He’s also a shareholder in Sunny Days, so follow that up.’
‘I’ll do my best. It would be quicker if we could find his accountant or have a look at his latest tax declaration.’
‘Get working. If money is the motive, we need every piece of information we can dig up. Where are Rory and Harry?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Okay, concentrate on the financial information.’
The news on the inheritors was good and bad. Good in that there was no one on the maternal side and bad because there could be many inheritors on the paternal side, all hidden in the Canadian woods. He was becoming more and more convinced that Whyte’s jackpot was the reason for his disappearance. He turned on his computer and brought up his emails. There were two from Matthews complaining that his phone messages were being ignored. Wilson deleted them and was about to get down to work when his mobile phone rang. There was no caller ID and he sighed as he pressed the green button.
‘Colm Matthews here.’
‘Good afternoon, Colm.’
‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all morning.’
‘I’ve been out on an investigation, meeting a witness in Bangor. I’ve only just returned to the office and I was in conference with one of my team until now.’
‘If I hadn’t read your excellent record as a police officer, I might think you were trying to avoid me.’
‘I wish I had the time to just avoid someone. I’m available whenever you want me.’
‘Excellent. I’m downstairs, so I’ll be straight up.’
Wilson opened his drawer and threw his mobile into it before slamming it shut. He looked up to see Matthews standing at his door.
‘I know you’re busy,’ Matthews said as he entered. ‘I’ll try to be as quick as possible.’
Wilson pointed at his visitor’s chair. ‘Take the weight off your legs.’
Matthews smiled and sat. ‘It’s been a while since I heard that phrase.’
‘Let’s get to it.’
Matthews’ smile faded. ‘I went out to the Ballymacarrett Road and talked to the local residents. There’s a lot of confusion about the sequence of events.’
Wilson didn’t respond.
‘The police presence was noted by most of the people living in the warehouse’s vicinity. They saw some police activity, including an ambulance, and then after a lull there was a second phase of police activity. That scenario doesn’t seem to gel with the official PSNI account. Why two phases of activity?’
‘How many witness statements have you taken in your career?’
‘Hundreds.’
‘Then I don’t have to tell you that memory doesn’t work like a videotape or a computer, it’s constructed, so memories can change over time, particularly when we’re questioned about them. How many times have you taken statements from two witnesses to the same event?’
‘I know what you’re getting at. I think every detective in the world has seen Rashomon. I asked PSNI HQ about the body cams, but apparently, the responders weren’t wearing them. That alone is unusual.’
‘Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?’
‘I’m certain there was a shooting event at the warehouse. I doubt it went down in the manner you and your colleagues in the PSNI say it did.’
‘You’ve examined the scene and spoken to the residents, the first responding officers and me. How do you think it went down?’
‘I’ve also spoken to the ambulance crew. And even though all the accounts tally, I think there’s something wrong. Maybe you could call it “the reverse Rashomon effect”. The accounts differ ever so slightly, but they all confirm each other.’
‘And that’s a sin?’
Matthews stopped and left a pregnant pause. It was a tactic that all police officers knew of and which Wilson regularly used. Normally, he would wait his questioner out. Matthews was aggravating him and he assumed that it was intentional.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Wilson said. ‘How do you think it went down?’
‘I think that maybe you shot your attacker and killed him.’
‘And what did I do with the body?’
‘An ambulance took it away and it has been disposed of somehow.’
‘Let’s assume that somebody in the criminal fraternity attempted to assassinate me and I killed my attacker. What reason on God’s earth would the PSNI, or I, have to suppress that fact?’
‘That’s a question that’s been troubling me. I’ve checked with the hospitals and they have no record of a gunshot victim in the days after the event.’
Wilson saw that Matthews’ brow was furrowed with frown lines. ‘It’s our job to be a doubting Thomas. But sometimes the simplest explanation is the truth. You’re not looking at Dirty Harry here. I’m not some gun-happy idiot. Someone tried to shoot me and I shot back.’
Matthews stood. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll be discussing the case with the chief investigating officer.’
And I haven’t seen the last of you, Wilson thought.
‘I suppose you’ve pondered why some “dissident republican” might want to kill you.’
‘I’ve made a lot of enemies in my time on the force. I’ve put many people in jail and I’m sure some of them hold a grudge. And no, I am not happy that someone tried to kill me. And it bothers the hell out of me that they might try again. This time no one got hurt. The next time we might not be so lucky.’
Matthews hesitated before offering Wilson his hand. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Helen’s Bay case was not advancing, so Moira spent the morning researching Helen McCann. It was a formidable task that invol
ved downloading hundreds of pages from the Internet. McCann had been a personality in Ulster for over thirty years. Moira remembered a famous graphic from Rolling Stone magazine showing the world in the grasp of the Goldman Sachs vampire squid; she saw a parallel to Helen McCann and Ulster – the woman’s tentacles seemed to stretch everywhere. The mass of paper on her desk was about a quarter of the information publicly available on McCann. Even when she had accumulated all of it, she knew it would only be the information that McCann wanted to show the world. The part that wasn’t in the public domain would contain all the juicy stuff. And that was where she would find the reason for Jackie Carlisle’s death and the assassination attempt on Wilson.
Before she had worked in the Murder Squad and got to know Helen’s daughter Kate, Moira had had no idea that a creature like Helen McCann existed. Like many of her fellow citizens, she would have described Northern Ireland as a patriarchal society. It was all about Edward Carson and a succession of male voices. Not many women had infiltrated that world. So she was intrigued to discover that a woman was actually at the centre of the province’s business and political life.
Moira ploughed through the paper mountain in anticipation of the day she would get to dig into the unseen treasure that had to exist. She picked up the latest mention of the McCann family in Hello magazine. Kate McCann QC and her investment banker fiancé Daniel Lattimer had announced their nuptials, which would take place on the Lattimer estate outside Ballymoney. She contemplated showing the announcement to Wilson, but he had enough on his plate. He’d learn about it sooner or later, and she doubted it would have much impact on him. Kate McCann had been consigned to history. She wondered what was happening with her own ex. She hadn’t heard a word from Brendan since leaving Boston and she didn’t expect to hear from him until she found an invitation to his wedding in her letter-box. That was the way of the world and she had no regrets.
Wilson entered the squad room and went straight to his office. She was just going to approach him about taking over the Carlisle investigation when the investigator from the Police Ombudsman’s Office arrived and went straight to Wilson’s door. She settled down to read more about the life and times of Helen McCann.
Browne and Graham had used up a good proportion of shoe leather traipsing around Belfast visiting Whyte’s haunts and inquiring into his movements on July 11th and 12th. However, they had little to show for it. Everyone knew Whyte but the dates were a blur to those people who had been celebrating Protestant Ulster’s sacred day. If Whyte could have chosen a day to disappear, he couldn’t have chosen a better one. A secondary problem was that, aside from the lunch engagement with Heavey, there were no other agenda items for those two days. Given that Whyte was a creature of habit, the two police officers used the entries of the previous week as a guide, but the reality was Whyte could have been anywhere or nowhere. He might well have spent the day at his flat and disappeared from there.
O’Neill had mocked up a poster and the local uniforms had distributed two hundred copies around the University area. Graham would have the dubious pleasure of sifting through the responses. It was approaching one o’clock and they ended their quest with a pub lunch. Graham was about to recommend a local hostelry in the Shankill area when he saw that his superior had other ideas.
‘We’ll try Kelly’s Cellars,’ Browne said.
‘Suits me,’ Graham said without enthusiasm. His wife had made him a sandwich for lunch and it was sitting in the top drawer of his desk. His financial situation didn’t extend to buying lunch. The kids needed new shoes more than he needed to eat out.
‘I picked the venue, so lunch is on me.’
Graham noticed that it was a beautiful day and the sun was shining on Belfast.
‘Ever work on a disappearance before?’ Browne asked when they were seated in the corner examining their menus.
‘One or two.’ Graham was busy selecting his lunch.
‘What happened?’
‘What usually happens when people drop off the radar. They wander home when their money runs out or they get bored. Of course, some of them are never heard of again or turn up dead. Your friend Whyte could be in that last category.’
‘He’s not my friend. I didn’t even know the guy. And he hasn’t turned up dead yet.’
‘I think he will.’
The waitress appeared and they both chose the beef boxty. Graham added a pint of Guinness while Browne stuck with water.
‘What makes you so sure he’s dead?’ Browne asked.
‘If he wasn’t dead, the boss wouldn’t have taken the case. He has a nose for death. There are two people we need to talk to: his doctor and his accountant. If the doctor gives him a clean bill of health, it’s unlikely that he’s developed amnesia and wandered off or thrown himself off a tall building.’
‘And the accountant?’
The drinks arrived and Graham took a large slug from his glass. ‘If we’re wrong and he lost four hundred and twenty thousand, we have to look at the bottom of tall buildings or in the Lagan.’
‘I didn’t know you were a comedian.’
The food arrived and cut their conversation short. The lack of progress disappointed Browne. He had hoped that someone would remember seeing Whyte on the evening of the eleventh. There was a possibility that a connection would be found between the disappearances of Whyte and Carmody, and he was apprehensive about what would happen when the boss discovered that he was holding back information. If the girl outside Carmody’s flat was reliable, the two men had disappeared at different times. But that didn’t mean that the cases weren’t connected. He wished to God that Carmody would turn up, dead or alive. His thoughts were interrupted by his ringing mobile phone.
Wilson spoke as soon as Browne answered. ‘The forensic boys have finished at Whyte’s flat. The team leader, Finlay, will meet us there at two o’clock.’ The background noise of clinking glasses and raucous laughter indicated that Browne and Graham were enjoying a pub lunch. He envied them.
‘See you there, boss,’ Browne said, ending the call.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Wilson was standing at the door of the flat in Elmwood Mews when Browne, Graham and Finlay arrived together. Finlay produced a key that opened the door. The three detectives looked at each other and laughed.
‘It was in a small fissure in the brickwork,’ Finlay said. ‘It was cleverly hidden and impossible to see with the naked eye.’ He led the way up the stairs and into the living room.
Wilson looked around. One wall was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, loaded with volumes. The furniture was antique, expensive and comfortable. The carpets were Persian and there was a hint of cigar smoke in the air. The picture he had been building up in his mind of Roger Whyte as an erudite, cultured man was accurate.
‘At least six different sets of fingerprints. One of them belongs to Sergeant Browne and one is female,’ Finlay said.
Wilson looked at Browne.
‘Sorry, boss.’
‘So, five unidentified sets of prints,’ Finlay continued.
‘Heavey?’ Wilson asked.
‘I’ll get him into the station for elimination,’ Browne said. ‘And there may well be a cleaning lady.’
‘If he left, he didn’t leave in a hurry,’ Finlay said. ‘The dishes have been put away. He doesn’t appear to have packed any clothes. There are no signs of a struggle or of the furniture being rearranged.’ He moved to the desk. ‘The filing cabinet contained all his private papers, which we’ve bagged.’ He nodded at a large plastic bag. ‘We’ve dusted the papers for prints. Only one set matches with those we found in the room and we’re assuming they belong to Whyte. Not a speck of blood in the flat. The medicine cabinet has a cornucopia of drugs, most of which are on prescription except for some small blue pills I understand assist with erections. He apparently has problems with his bowel movements. There are medicines to help him go and others to help him stop going.’ He looked at Wilson. ‘I think we can safely say that if something
bad happened to Mr Whyte, it didn’t happen here.’
Wilson walked around the room. He didn’t bother to don the latex gloves. There was a crystal whiskey decanter on a side table. He removed the stopper and smelled the contents. It was top-drawer. He opened a polished oak humidor and took out a cigar, the label read Romeo y Julieta. Another premium brand.
He moved to the rear of the flat. The bedroom furniture was expensive, the sheets crisp white Egyptian cotton. They would have to get their finger out on this one. Roger Whyte was dead. Since the body hadn’t turned up, it must be concealed somewhere, which made life difficult but not impossible. They wouldn’t know the cause of death, or the time of death other than the last day he was seen. There was probably forensic evidence on the body that would point to the killer, but unless they found the body that evidence didn’t exist. He returned to the living room and nodded at the plastic bag Finlay had indicated. ‘Harry, get that bag back to the station.’ He shook hands with Finlay. ‘Good job.’
‘Sorry we couldn’t be more help,’ Finlay said.
‘You can’t manufacture evidence,’ Wilson said.
They all smiled. If they had done, it wouldn’t be the first time.
‘Take the key, Sergeant Browne,’ Wilson said as he headed out the door. ‘And I want to see you and Graham as soon as we get back to the station.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The team assembled at the whiteboard. Wilson began by outlining the results of the forensic examination of the flat, or rather the lack of results. O’Neill had already emptied the contents of the plastic bag and stacked them on her desk. ‘We have to assume that Roger Whyte is dead and that we are conducting a murder inquiry. At first I wasn’t sure that he was deceased, but now I’m convinced. I’ll be speaking to the chief super this evening so she can inform HQ and we’ll get the machine wound up to assist us. We’re starting late in this game, and it hurts that we have no corpse and no forensic evidence to go on. We are going to have to rely on old-fashioned police work. We’ve already delved into Whyte’s life. This morning I interviewed his mother. It appears he is, or rather was, a very wealthy man. We’re all aware that money is probably the most powerful motive for murder. According to his mother, the Whytes are not a large family in Northern Ireland. So there may not be many beneficiaries here. We need to locate a will if it exists.’ He looked at the stacked documents on O’Neill’s table. ‘Okay, Siobhan, you’ve scanned the material, run us through it,’ he said.