by Derek Fee
‘I see you’ve been feeding McDevitt.’ Moira handed Wilson a copy of the Chronicle with the second page exposed. ‘He’d didn’t do the “have you seen this man” line, but it’s plain that Roger Whyte has been missing and the police are worried about his safety. I suppose the media people at HQ will have something more substantial to plant in tomorrow’s edition.’
‘They will, and the line will be “have you seen this man”,’ Wilson said. ‘I want a photo of Whyte over to HQ pronto. It will have to accompany the request for information. The chief super will handle the press conference and I’ll be on hand in case there are questions.’ He turned and looked at the board. ‘I see Heavey has come through with a list of friends. We need to speak to all of them. I want formal statements. When they last saw Whyte, was he worried about anything, had he been threatened? Rory and Harry are on that.’
‘I’d like to help out there, boss,’ Moira said. ‘I’m still waiting for a response from the drone clubs on Helen’s Bay. It might speed things up if there are three of us interviewing.’
Wilson looked from Browne to Graham and saw no objection. ‘Okay, you can split up the names between you.’
‘I’ve given DS McElvaney the financial records I’ve obtained,’ O’Neill said.
Neither Wilson nor Moira missed the formality.
‘I’ve started on them,’ Moira said. ‘One thing is clear: as Whyte’s mother said, he’s far wealthier than we realised. It’ll probably need a court order to get the full information from his stockbroker, but the guy is a millionaire.’
Wilson looked at O’Neill. ‘Have you contacted his lawyer?’
‘I rang at nine o’clock. He’s due in court this morning and he’ll call as soon as he’s free.’
‘Okay,’ Wilson said. ‘I’ll take the lawyer. He might not be forthcoming since we haven’t found his client’s body. If he is resistant, we’ll go the court order route. Until we know any better, we follow the money. Let’s get to it.’
‘Why don’t we take the names to the cafeteria and distribute them over coffee?’ Moira said.
‘Your treat?’ Graham said.
Moira nodded. She was about to invite O’Neill but saw that she was already on her way to the ladies room. She would have to find out what makes her tick.
They sat at a table in the cafeteria looking at the list of ten names and addresses. ‘We should do this by area,’ Moira said. ‘Otherwise, we’ll spend a lot of time running around town.’ She looked at Browne. ‘Is that all right with you, Rory?’
He nodded, but there was a slight hesitation. ‘There are three over by the Royal Victoria and the Falls Road, I’ll take those if you like.’
Graham looked at the addresses. He was the only Belfast man of the three. ‘That part of Broadway is ropey. Maybe I should handle it.’
‘I hope you don’t think I’m not up to an area that’s ropey,’ Browne said.
‘No offence,’ Graham said. ‘But you and Moira aren’t from this neck of the woods and you may not know the local geography. There are a lot of junkies down there.’ He looked down at the list. ‘It might be better if we did Carmody together.’
‘That will cost us time.’
‘There are a couple of handy addresses in the University area,’ Graham said. ‘They would suit you right fine.’
‘What if I said I preferred the Broadway/Falls area?’ Browne said.
‘Boys,’ Moira said. ‘The purpose is to get the job done. I can see Harry’s point. But we need to get the interviews over as soon as possible. Rory, you want Broadway, you’ve got it. I’ll take University and Harry will take the rest.’ She looked at the other two, neither of whom spoke. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ She picked up her coffee, drank, then grimaced. Some things never change, she thought.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Wilson and Davis reviewed a press statement whose content had been carefully worded to exclude anything associated with the word ‘murder’. They were simply searching for a missing man. The usual suspects were gathered in the media centre at Castlereagh, where a female constable led Davis and Wilson to their places on the dais. Wilson nodded at McDevitt as he passed. There was a twinkle in the journalist’s eye that he didn’t like. That twinkle said that McDevitt was up for diversion. At midday, the constable picked up a hand-held microphone and professionally did her welcome patter to the assembled journalists. She introduced Wilson and Davis and handed the proceedings over to them.
Davis read her statement with the aplomb of a seasoned professional. She held up a poster-sized photo of Whyte. ‘We need to find this man. Anyone who has any information as to his whereabouts can call the confidential police line. The number is on the screen. If you saw or spoke to him at any time on or since the eleventh of July, your help could prove crucial. Thank you.’
McDevitt’s hand shot up. ‘Is this a murder inquiry?’
‘Roger Whyte is a missing person,’ Davis said. ‘We have no reason to believe that he is the victim of foul play, and in the interest of not wasting police time, we’d like anyone with information to come forward.’
McDevitt continued. ‘I notice you’re sitting beside Detective Superintendent Wilson. Does that mean that the Murder Squad is leading the investigation?’
‘DS Wilson is the SIO on this case of a missing person. It is unusual; however, his team have the skills for this investigation. Our overall concern is for the safe return of Mr Whyte, whose relatives are concerned at his disappearance. That’s all, thank you.’ Davis and Wilson stood.
Most of the journalists were on their feet and preparing to leave when McDevitt continued. ‘Anything to report on the shooting in Ballymacarrett? Has the shooter been located?’
The exodus paused and the journalists looked to the dais. Davis gathered her papers. ‘For an answer to that question, I have to refer you to the Police Ombudsman’s Office.’
Wilson led the way and Davis followed him. ‘That man is a pest,’ she said as they exited the building.
‘He sells newspapers, and sometimes we find him useful.’ Wilson opened the car door for her. ‘After that performance, they’ll be polishing the leather on that chair they’re preparing for you at HQ.’
‘I know he’s your friend, but he’s still a pest.’
‘Being a pest is part of his job description.’
He’d made it. He’d been on a high since he’d seen the piece in the Chronicle. Although he wasn’t mentioned, it was about him. The cutting was already pasted into his album, along with still photos of his victims. Inevitably, there would be more press articles, now that Whyte’s disappearance is out in the open. He would make a point of watching the news reports on all the channels. He’d make recordings. He would be famous, but in the meantime, a lot more people would die. He imagined the police running around like little ants looking for Whyte. It amused him to think they’ll never find him. He wondered why they hadn’t rumbled that Carmody is also missing. He deduced that nobody gave a shit about him.
Moira learned nothing new from her three interviews. She had a couple more names to pursue, but she didn’t hold out much hope. Whyte kept himself to himself. Like most individuals he had a few friends, a wider circle of acquaintances and an even wider circle of casual acquaintances. The uniforms would concentrate on the third category and she didn’t envy them. Every now and then a neighbour or the local shopkeeper might provide a lead, but door-to-door inquiries rarely produced the goods.
She found herself close to Bedford Street and one of her favourite haunts, the Harlem Café. She wasn’t enamoured by the décor, which she found overwhelming, but she liked the coffee, the food and the eclectic mix of people. She sat at a corner table and examined her notebook while she ate. None of her interviewees could be classified as friends of Whyte. They saw him occasionally and she felt that the reason they were on the list was they had once been the missing man’s sexual partners. She leafed through the pages searching for some nugget of information. Whyte wasn’t a comple
x person. He was someone who enjoyed his own company and who found pleasure in cultural pursuits. As far as her interviewees knew, he had no interest in politics, never took drugs and liked to drink fine whiskey. It looked like Wilson was right. It had to be about the money. Otherwise, Whyte had no ostensible reason for being missing. But was it about the entirety of his wealth or the money in his pocket? People could be killed for a handful of change.
She dug into her veggie breakfast. Her liking for vegetarian food was a carryover from the States. She was treating herself because she had finally deposited Frank Shea’s cheque and in a few days her bank balance would be back in the black. Cashing the cheque had been a ‘will I, won’t I’ moment. It came down to the fact that she needed it and Frank wouldn’t even miss it. A guy at a table across from her was staring. She shot him a quick ‘fuck off’ look. She needed a break from romance, although she doubted her admirer had romance in mind. She closed her notebook and returned it to her jacket pocket. Ever since the business with Ronald McIver, she was acutely aware of signals from those around her, especially colleagues. She had picked up vibes from both O’Neill and Browne that she wasn’t keen to ignore. Reintegration into the squad would never be easy, and she understood Rory’s nose being out of joint, but instinct told her that something else was the matter with him. She finished the last of her veggie sausage and pushed her plate away. She wasn’t looking forward to returning to the station empty-handed, but as the boss often said, it was what it was. She paid her bill. As she passed her admirer’s table, he gave her a look of disgust. She was smiling as she exited into the sunshine. She took in a deep breath. She loved Belfast.
Browne had completed his interviews. Like Moira, he had learned little titbits from Whyte’s life but nothing extraordinary. Both of his interviewees were surprised when he had announced that he was gay. He had hoped it would help loosen their tongues and it had succeeded to a limited extent. Whyte had been obsessed about his former partner and had no desire to enter another long-term relationship. He was well-known in the gay community for being promiscuous and not monogamous. That might be the connection between Whyte and Carmody. Vincent was always in need of money and had worked as a male prostitute. Browne’s stomach flipped at the thought of it. He hadn’t even bothered to pass by Vinny’s place on Broadway. There was no point, he wasn’t there. He thought about inventing an interview with Carmody but that would only dig a deeper hole than the one he was already in. He knew he was impeding the investigation and he knew it couldn’t go on.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The entrance to Nicholas Norwood Solicitors, one of the most preeminent legal firms in Northern Ireland, was in the middle of a row of shops on Castle Street. Wilson entered and climbed the stairs to the first floor, where a stout wooden door blocked his path to the offices proper. He pushed the button on the electronic pad and announced himself. The door buzzed and he entered. Inside, the office’s stained oak panelling spoke of a long tradition of legal representation. His appointment was for two o’clock and he had been advised to be on time. The receptionist confirmed that Mr Norwood was busy and could only be available for a fifteen-minute conference. Time was money at Nicholas Norwood and Wilson didn’t represent billable hours. The receptionist directed him to the rear, where a formidable-looking woman sat at a desk guarding the entrance to Norwood’s office, the inner sanctum. She was middle-aged, wore the obligatory legal business suit of white blouse, black jacket and skirt, her grey hair tied back in a bun and one of the sternest countenances Wilson had seen. She was perfect for the post she occupied.
‘Superintendent Wilson,’ she looked at him with a level of disdain. ‘Warrant card.’
He removed it from his pocket and flipped it open.
‘Mr Norwood will see you now.’ She pressed a hidden button beneath her desk and the door buzzed.
Wilson entered an office larger than the squad room. At one end was an enormous oak partner’s desk, behind which sat a small man wearing a pair of pince-nez spectacles. The desk was piled with stalagmites formed from brown files tied together by blue or red ribbons.
Norwood stood, displaying his perfectly cut pinstriped suit. Although it was a warm day, he was wearing his jacket and his blue tie was pulled tight against his neck. His eyes blinked as he took in Wilson at a glance and then pointed at a chair in front of his desk. ‘Please sit down, superintendent. I’m rather busy today.’ He shuffled papers on his desk. ‘However, I’m told that your visit concerns a valued client and is urgent.’
‘I won’t take up any more of your time than necessary. I understand that you handle legal work for Roger Whyte with an address in Elmwood Mews.’
‘The firm has that pleasure.’
‘You may not be aware but Mr Whyte has been missing for nearly a month.’
‘I read the Chronicle from cover to cover each morning. How can I help you?’
‘We’ve established that Mr Whyte was wealthy and our current line of inquiry centres on the possibility that harm may have come to him because of his wealth.’
‘That would seem logical.’
‘We would be interested to know if Mr Whyte had made a will.’
Norwood’s head moved from side to side not in a negation but more out of habit. ‘I must consider lawyer–client confidentiality.’
‘We have no desire to meddle in Mr Whyte’s legal affairs, but as his lawyer you are no doubt as interested as the PSNI in establishing what happened to him.’
‘I have heard of you, superintendent. And most of what I have heard is positive. I can therefore trust that what I discuss will not be divulged outside this office.’
‘You have my word.’
‘There is a will.’
‘We are spending considerable resources on searching for heirs to Mr Whyte. We understand there are few in Northern Ireland and there is a family connection to Canada. It would be a major saving in time to know if the will names an heir.’
Norwood rocked in his chair. ‘I see your predicament. There is no heir. If Roger Whyte proves to be deceased, the bulk of his estate will go to charity. Now, you have the information you require and I have to prepare for a meeting.’ He stood and extended his hand. ‘I hope you find Mr Whyte safe and well.’
The strength of the shake surprised Wilson. ‘So do I.’
He passed the secretary, half-expecting her to snarl at him, but she was concentrating on some papers.
Wilson made his way down the stairs and through the door to the street. Perhaps plots involving an heir in an overseas dominion only exist in Agatha Christie novels. If this disappearance wasn’t about money, it was most likely about sex or revenge, or both. And that would mean a lot more digging into Roger Whyte’s life.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Wilson had already altered ‘Motive = Money’ on the whiteboard by the time the team assembled for the evening briefing. He had replaced ‘money’ with a question mark. ‘It looks like I might have got the motive wrong.’ He briefed the team on the visit to Norwood’s office.
‘I wouldn’t dismiss money as the motive just yet,’ Moira said. ‘I’ve been going over Whyte’s financials and he has been very generous to some of his friends. There are lots of transfers of two or three hundred pounds into accounts that we’ve identified as belonging to some of the men on our list. Perhaps those sums were repaid in cash, we have no way of knowing, but there’s one person who received a lot more, and that’s our friend Charles Heavey. He received two transfers of ten thousand pounds. Maybe we should find out whether he’s repaid Whyte because there is no evidence of bank transfers in the reverse direction.’
‘Get him in,’ Wilson said. ‘Let’s see if he has an answer.’
‘On it, boss,’ Moira said.
‘Any news from the house-to-house?’ Wilson asked.
‘Too early, boss,’ Graham said. ‘The uniforms only started this afternoon. I’ll give them a bell in the morning.’
‘Anything from the interviews with Heavey’
s list of friends?’
Graham shook his head. ‘Nothing, boss, I don’t think the man really made friends. Seems to have been more of a loner. The three guys I interviewed knew him from what they called “the circuit”.’ He tried not to look at Browne. ‘The general gay hangouts around town.’
‘More of the same story with me, boss,’ Moira said. ‘I’m writing up my notes, but there’s nothing that would raise an eyebrow.’
‘What about you, Rory?’ Wilson asked.
‘He was pining after his partner who died in London,’ Browne said. ‘He’s had lovers. Maybe some of the guys who got money from him were former sexual partners. But he didn’t seem to have any enemies.’
‘He wouldn’t have topped himself?’ Graham said.
‘Yes, Harry,’ Wilson said. ‘He might have topped himself and then hidden his own body.’
‘What about the Lagan?’ Graham said. ‘If he’d gone in there, we’d still be looking for him.’
‘A body would have turned up by now,’ Wilson said. He gave himself a mental slap for demeaning Harry’s contribution. A leader should listen not belittle. ‘Thanks for thinking outside the box, Harry. We should all follow that example. What about the CCTV?’
‘The first lot of disks arrives tomorrow,’ O’Neill said.
‘We need to come up with another motive for Whyte’s disappearance and we need to do it soon. Before we break, does anyone have anything constructive to offer?’ Lack of sleep was catching up with Wilson, the investigation was stalled and he had a pile of administrative tasks waiting for him.
This is the moment to speak up, Browne thought. But something was holding him back. He glanced around the team and found Moira staring at him. Perhaps she knows. Just say it, he thought. Say it. But the words wouldn’t come.