by Derek Fee
The PSNI had never dealt with a serial homosexual killer. At least, Wilson hadn’t come across one. He had heard about the alleged London Underground serial killer Kieran Kelly, who had pushed his victims under trains. He was an alcoholic who hated alcoholics and a closet homosexual who despised homosexuals. The murders were apparently motiveless, just like the murders of Whyte and Carmody. According to Mezrich, he was looking for a homosexual, a narcissist, a psychopath who displays no empathy and a good liar who kills out of boredom. He would have to keep Mezrich’s theory within the team.
The man from Quantico and Wilson were agreed on some points: solving the disappearances was almost impossible without finding the bodies, and if the crimes were motiveless, delving into the lives of Whyte and Carmody was a waste of time. The precepts of a police investigation are based on developing hypotheses relating to the motive, forensics, taking witness statements and identifying suspects. If any of those factors is missing, the difficulty of solving the crime increases. As long as the killer stuck to his modus operandi and didn’t make a silly mistake, the province stood a chance of having its first real serial killer. It wasn’t in Wilson’s DNA to wait for the killer to make a mistake. Somehow or other he would have to concentrate the investigation on lines that stood a chance of producing results. Otherwise more innocent men would die. The room was bathed in light and he turned to see Reid standing at the entrance.
‘I think a cup of cocoa is in order.’ She moved to the kitchen, filled the kettle and pressed the switch.
Wilson joined her at the breakfast bar. ‘I tried not to wake you.’
‘I missed you in bed. We must be getting used to each other.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘And you won’t catch this killer if you don’t get your beauty sleep.’
‘I don’t think I’ll catch this killer period.’
‘It’s not like you to be so pessimistic. They all get caught in the end.’
‘I suppose that’s why we have over one thousand unsolved murders in the province. This killer is very careful, or very lucky; in either case, if we don’t stop him, more people will die. And our friend Mezrich wasn’t much help.’
‘You’re only saying that because he fancied me.’ The kettle boiled and she poured hot water into two mugs containing a liberal measure of cocoa. She handed one to Wilson.
‘I’ll recognise him when I see him.’ He sipped the hot chocolate. ‘What crap! If Mezrich is right and our killer is gay, I’ve worked out there are, at a minimum, over two thousand suspects in metropolitan Belfast. Whyte has been missing for a month, Carmody for at least two weeks. For any crime, if we don’t have a suspect within the first forty-eight hours, the chances of finding the culprit tumble.’
‘And as your doctor, I can tell you that losing sleep won’t help you find your killer. Maybe it’s not Whyte and Carmody’s killer that keeps you up at night.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘For God’s sake, Ian, somebody tried to kill you. Even in your macho world, that is a traumatic event. You should see a counsellor. And okay, they failed this time, but there’s a good chance that they’ll try again. This province lives on a knife-edge. We all like to believe that the trouble is in the past, but in our hearts we know it isn’t. If it’s Belfast or Northern Ireland that’s responsible for someone trying to kill you, I want out.’
He saw she was on the point of tears. ‘There’s a cancer in this province and it isn’t just the religious divide. There are people who foster division and who profit from the ruined lives of good decent people. And they are not above murder. That’s how I think I might have inadvertently stumbled across them. I can’t let them win.’
‘Even if it costs you your life?’
He didn’t answer.
She finished her cocoa. ‘I’m going back to bed, but I doubt that I’ll sleep.’
He drained his cup and put it in the sink. He took her hand and they walked back together to the bedroom. He was wondering whether he was part of the solution, or part of the problem.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Moira had been up into the small hours working on her Helen McCann dossier and then had had a long call with her friend and former colleague Jamie Carmichael in Boston. Her life was turning into a series of agonising decisions and recriminations. Her parents had been harsh on her when she had split from Brendan. What did she want? Brendan had offered her what ninety-nine per cent of people would consider a ‘good life’. And she had turned her nose up at it, to quote her mother. Sitting at a vintage 1960s plastic-covered table in a dingy flat, she saw where her mother was coming from. She opened the file in front of her and took out a magazine photo of McCann’s pad in the south of France. The house and grounds were stunning and had to be worth several millions. There were no plastic tables on view there. The wages of sin had provided McCann with an enviable lifestyle. This woman was at least guilty of murder and Moira wanted to bring her down. That wouldn’t be easy.
She finished her breakfast and washed and put away the single dish she’d used. Her meal plan had changed since living alone. It was all about easy cooking and cleaning, but at least she wasn’t gaining weight. She needed to get out more. Since arriving back in Belfast, she had become a monk. Work was an obsession, but it wouldn’t always be there and it wouldn’t keep her warm at night. A picture of Frank Shea floated through her mind. Maybe, she thought. Then she quickly banished that idea. She put away her file on McCann. She had another day of CCTV viewing ahead, plod, plod, plod.
Browne woke up in a strange bed. Thankfully he was alone. He dressed and was almost out the door when he ran into last night’s lover holding a small brown bag.
‘I popped out for croissants,’ he said by way of explanation.
Browne brushed past. ‘Sorry, I’m late for work.’ He found himself in the University area and had a faint recollection of the taxi from the club. Although he must have been drunk the previous evening, he had no headache. But he was in need of a shower. He checked his watch. There was no time to go back to his flat. He felt uncomfortable turning up at work in last night’s clothes. He popped into a chemist, bought a deodorant and sprayed himself liberally. He sniffed and smiled. He smelled like a whorehouse in Istanbul.
Something was happening to him that he didn’t quite understand. Maybe it had to do with Moira’s return to the squad or maybe it was about Whyte and Carmody. He’d sometimes wished Vinny dead, but really he was a harmless bastard. Now that he probably was dead, Browne castigated himself for having such evil thoughts. His nocturnal exploits were a way of atoning for how he felt about Vinny. It should have been something to do with his being a police officer, but he wasn’t so sure.
The team assembled before the whiteboard and Wilson gave them a potted version of his conversation with Mezrich. He had already written the characteristics that Mezrich had specified onto the board. Browne gave himself an imaginary clap on the back. He’d already worked them out. Perhaps he had the makings of a detective after all.
‘We’re still as much in the dark, boss,’ Moira said. ‘We can’t put out that kind of character sketch. Aside from the gay connection, the other attributes are shared by most of the male population.’
‘You move in limited circles,’ Wilson said. ‘Either that or you have a very poor opinion of men. Mezrich’s observations are for team consideration only. I don’t want the press to get wind of this. The forensic reports of Whyte’s and Carmody’s flats have turned up nothing of interest. We have lots of fingerprints. None of them are in the system. We don’t have either man’s mobile phone. Siobhan has logged in to Whyte’s phone, which apparently he hardly ever used. Carmody’s not on any system so he must have a burner phone.’
‘So we’re left with a hundred per cent of feck all,’ Graham said. ‘The confidential line hasn’t produced anything either. It’s a bust.’
‘Someone out there has murdered two men for no clear reason other than their sexual orientation,’ Wilson said. ‘He may have satisfied his bloodl
ust, but my guess is that he’s only just beginning. We’re up against it. But we’ll keep going until we find the thread that we can pull to unravel the story. We keep working the CCTV and listening to the crap that’s coming in on the confidential line. This killer is a cold, ruthless bastard who will kill again. We have to stop him.’
Wilson closed his office door and sat down at his desk. He had got back to sleep for a few hours but nightmares still disturbed him. He and Reid had clung together as shipwreck survivors cling to flotsam. He knew that she was worried for him. He wasn’t as nonchalant about the attempt on his life as he seemed. Helen McCann was a ruthless and resourceful foe. All the evidence against her was circumstantial and a decent barrister would rip their case apart in court. There was a long way to go before Helen McCann would be standing in the dock. Right now, he needed to find the man who he was sure had killed two gay men. His computer pinged and a pop-up on his screen told him that he was late for the chief super’s senior officers’ meeting. He wasn’t sure that he’d be able take a bullshit session, but he didn’t want to undermine Davis’s authority by slacking off any time he felt like it. He picked up the file containing the papers that had been circulated for the meeting. He hadn’t read any of them, but it didn’t matter. He rarely contributed. He was drowning in an ocean of administration.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Wilson returned to the office just before lunch and checked in with the team. There was nothing new. He was angry about the two hours he’d spent listening to colleagues climbing up Davis’s arse. Maybe Reid was right. He was a relic, a dinosaur whose time had passed. ‘Organisation man’ was dominating the force now, with the strange idea that it could solve all crime using computers and technology. Orwell’s 1984 would soon be a reality. They were already standing on the threshold with one hand on the doorknob. His phone beeped and he looked at the message. It was a single word and a question mark: ‘Lunch?’ There was no caller ID, which meant Duane. He didn’t know if he wanted to do this, but what the hell, at least it would be entertaining. He messaged back: ‘Where?’
Duane was already halfway through a bowl of ramen when Wilson arrived in Obento.
‘Where’s your American sidekick?’
‘Probably taking your missus to lunch.’ Duane sucked in a noodle. He looked up and saw that Wilson was taking him seriously. ‘I’m only kidding, although he sure took a shine to her. Strange fish.’
‘He’s a strange fish because he took a shine to her?’ Wilson concentrated on the menu.
‘Don’t be an eejit. Any man still with a breath in his body would take a shine to Steph. I recommend the ramen followed by the eel and crab sushi.’
Wilson closed the menu. ‘What are we doing here? You’re telling me there’s another hit on me?’
Duane took a paper from his inside pocket and put it on the table. ‘A present.’
Wilson took up the paper and opened it. The face of Simon Jackson was visible through the windscreen of a black SUV. ‘Where was this taken?’
A waitress arrived and Wilson followed Duane’s recommendation on the ramen.
‘Rosslare Ferry Terminal. We’ve got some new facial recognition software and we’ve been trying it out. I asked them to look for your guy. Took about an hour to run through all the passengers in the past six months.’
‘Where was he heading?’
‘France.’
The waitress returned with the ramen for Wilson and sushi for Duane.
‘That’s a coincidence.’
‘Want to tell me about it.’
Wilson explained about the Carlisle investigation and Jackson’s part in the murder. He left out Helen McCann’s role.
‘There have been rogue policemen since the job was created,’ Duane said. ‘Wyatt Earp was a lawman one day and an outlaw the next. A major contract killer turned out to be a New York cop. This Jackson guy seems like a right bastard, just perfect for Special Branch.’
‘I thought you were Special Branch.’
‘Good God no, I wouldn’t be seen dead with that crowd.’
‘I’ll ask HQ to put a request in to Interpol.’
‘It’s difficult to hunt one of your own. He was smart enough to run and he’ll have been trained to have a plan that won’t involve him showing his face for a while. We’ve had dumb criminals who’ve stayed on the run for years.’
Wilson had a good idea where Jackson had gone to ground. You had to admire the swine for running to the one person who would have to take him in. Jackson would come to grief someday, and Wilson wanted to get him before that happened. He had to answer for almost killing Davidson.
‘Steph is subdued these days.’ Duane finished his sushi and pushed his plate away.
‘Her mother’s death hit her a lot harder than she’d expected. She’s still working her way through the grief.’
‘You guys ready to do something permanent?’
‘How are things going with you and Davis?’
‘Do you follow Gaelic football?’
‘I’ve been to a few games.’
Duane waved at the waitress and called for the bill. ‘I have two tickets for the all-Ireland football final in September. Why don’t you and Steph take a break in Dublin?’
‘Sounds like a fine idea.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Moira and O’Neill were bent over their computers when Wilson returned from lunch. He was glad he had accepted Duane’s invitation for two reasons. The first was he now knew where Jackson had run to and who was protecting him. The second was that spending some time with Duane was the perfect antidote to the tedium generated by listening to several hours of bullshit. He and Duane had something in common: they were both dinosaurs. He stood behind Moira and O’Neill. ‘Where are we?’
‘The evening of the eleventh.’ Moira brought up an image on her screen. ‘This is Whyte entering Queen’s Film Theatre. We’re looking for him leaving.’
‘I’ve got him here,’ O’Neill said.
Wilson and Moira turned their attention to O’Neill’s screen. There were time-stamped framed photos of the crowd leaving the theatre.
‘Stay with Whyte and see where he goes,’ Wilson said.
O’Neill had the images from six different cameras on her screen. ‘Where the hell has he gone?’ She was searching through the images.
‘Check the camera on University Road,’ Moira said. ‘He’d have to pass there on his way back to his flat.’
O’Neill brought up CCTV from that camera. A small crowd of cinemagoers were dispersing in both directions, but there was no sign of Whyte. ‘He must have gone in the other direction.’
‘Check it out,’ Wilson said.
O’Neill brought up another bank of cameras and played the tape forward. ‘Nothing, he must have slipped down a street without a CCTV camera.’
‘We need to find him,’ Wilson said.
Three heads were concentrated on O’Neill’s screen. They watched the images until only deserted streets appeared on the screen. ‘Go back to the images of the crowd exiting the cinema.’
O’Neill hit some keys and the departing crowd appeared. The picture was jerky.
‘Can you get a continuous picture?’ Wilson asked.
‘Old-style security cameras don’t record a continuous stream,’ O’Neill said. ‘My guess is that we’re looking at about 7.5 frames per second. The human eye can discern 150 frames per second. So you’re looking at twenty still photos per second.’
‘Watch the young man on Whyte’s right,’ Wilson said. ‘Maybe I’m imagining it, but he appears to be speaking to Whyte as they exit.’
Moira stared at the picture. ‘He might be, boss, but it’s impossible to tell. Half the crowd have their mouths open and appear to be speaking.’
‘Run it frame by frame,’ Wilson said.
O’Neill moved the picture forward.
‘Stop,’ Wilson said. ‘Can you zoom in on Whyte’s face?’
O’Neill zoomed in. Whyte was smiling.<
br />
Wilson turned to Moira. ‘Find out what film was playing there on the eleventh of July.’
Moira went online. ‘Believe it or not, there was a talk on queer cinema.’
‘Run it on again,’ Wilson said. This time he concentrated on Whyte and the man at his shoulder. They didn’t appear to be together, and yet. The departing crowd swallowed them up and their faces were turned away from the camera. Then they disappeared. ‘Where did they go?’
‘They must have turned onto Botanic Avenue, we have no coverage there,’ O’Neill said.
‘Keep looking,’ Wilson said. ‘See if you can find either Whyte or the young man again.’
Wilson went into his office. There was something there. They had exchanged a remark, Whyte had smiled. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. Perhaps no remark had been made and Whyte was smiling at the memory of some joke that had been told at the talk. At some point, O’Neill would come bounding into his office and tell him that she’d found Whyte and he was alone.
He signalled to Moira. She entered the office and closed the door. He took out the picture of Jackson and handed it to her. ‘That’s Simon Jackson. The photo was taken as he passed the checkpoint for the Rosslare to Cherbourg ferry. Put it in the Carlisle file. I’d bet a month’s pay he’s at Helen McCann’s place in the south of France.’