by Derek Fee
‘I accept that.’
‘No hard feelings?’
‘Absolutely none, boss.’
The detritus of Wilson’s half-eaten lunch was still on his desk when Moira walked into his office and shut the door behind her. ‘What’s going down, boss?’
‘What are we talking about?’
‘You haven’t noticed the atmosphere in the squad room?’
‘I was only there for a few minutes. Tell me about it.’
‘There’s something going on with Rory and Siobhan. Rory has been like a lost soul since you took him off the case, and Siobhan is as jumpy as a scalded cat.’
‘I’ve talked to Rory already, and he understands he was a liability on the Carmody investigation.’ In reality, there was no separate Carmody investigation. Since learning of Carmody’s disappearance, he had made a connection between Whyte and Carmody that might not exist. The whole investigation was a shambles. The lack of evidence was forcing him to make all kinds of mental jumps that had no basis in fact.
‘I tell you, boss, something is up and it involves both of them. He’s gay and she’s straight, yet there are a lot of eye signals passing between them.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know, and that worries me. Rory is quiet and Siobhan is young and a bit naive. If it’s not about sex, what is it about?’
‘Keep an eye on them. We don’t want a recurrence of the McIver business.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Browne reread the text. It had arrived after lunch and his stomach hadn’t been the same since. He was exchanging messages with the prime suspect in a double-murder case. It was so against the rules that it was ridiculous. The prime suspect wanted to meet with him and gave specific instructions as to the meeting place and how to get there. The instructions were a little too precise. Browne had no doubt now that he’d put his head into the lion’s mouth, the only question was when the lion would close its jaws. Probably sooner rather than later. He wasn’t a brave man, neither was he a coward. He was a man who had embarked on a plan of action that had graver consequences than he had first envisaged. There was a way out. He could ignore the text and forget that he had ever met the man. But he had studied the whiteboard and it was obvious to him that the man responsible for the disappearance of Whyte and Carmody was going to get away with it. There was no evidence against him. All they had was a photo of a crowd leaving a film theatre. The case would go cold. They would move on to other investigations and Timoney would have slipped the net. He didn’t want that to happen, but did he want to risk his life to prevent it? And then there was the fact that Timoney would probably try to kill again. Wasn’t it better if the next target was him rather than some unsuspecting member of the public? At least he would be prepared. He didn’t have to guess what Wilson’s reaction to his plan would be. There was no way he would approve it. The days of using police officers as bait for murderous criminals were long gone. The decision to go undercover had to be his alone. It’s also a possibility that Timoney isn’t a killer. In that case, he will be making a complete fool of himself. But only O’Neill would know, and she wouldn’t talk because she’d look as foolish as him.
O’Neill wasn’t able to concentrate on anything. Why had she agreed to Browne’s crazy plan? What the hell had she been thinking? If Browne ended up being injured, or God forbid killed, then she could kiss her career in the PSNI goodbye. She worked for a hierarchical organisation with rules and procedures. If the shit hit the fan in a big way, she could claim that Browne had instructed her as her superior and that he told her he had Wilson’s approval. That thought did not console her. Whatever way she looked at it, she’d made a mistake, and unlike the shopping of Noel Armstrong, it was a mistake that she instantly regretted. But she’d agreed to be Browne’s back-up and that wasn’t something she felt she could walk away from now.
Moira watched Browne and O’Neill. The sense of apprehension in the squad room was palpable. O’Neill was fidgeting with every item on her desk and Browne had stood up and walked around the room aimlessly several times. Something was up and she could feel the fear. One of the amazing qualities of fear is that it is transferable. She didn’t know how the process worked, but it did, and she needed to know what they were afraid of. Identifying a problem wasn’t the end point for Moira, she was all about finding solutions. There was no apparent reason for Browne and O’Neill to share fear. They were working on separate cases. But she had seen the looks that passed between them. It was nearing the end of the afternoon and she knew that she couldn’t let the situation wait. She would have to confront one of them. Browne would be the more difficult prospect. They were the same rank and he could tell her to piss off and mind her own business. Also a confrontation would only bring to the surface the resentment he felt about her return to the squad. O’Neill was an easier target. Moira could pull rank although she wouldn’t like to.
Browne left on the stroke of five o’clock, closely followed by Graham. Wilson was still in his office. Moira judged the time was right for a chat with O’Neill.
‘What’s going on?’ Moira stood beside O’Neill’s desk.
O’Neill turned off her computer. ‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t like bullshit, so don’t give me any. I felt your fear from across the room. What have you got yourself into? What are you and Rory up to?’
‘I told you, nothing.’
Moira could hear the quiver in O’Neill’s voice. ‘Have it your way, but I’ll find out and when I do, you’ll find yourself filling a Xerox box with your personal effects. Use that big brain of yours. Tell me what’s going on and we’ll sort it out.’ She could see that O’Neill was struggling to keep her composure.
‘If there was anything to tell, I’d tell you.’
Moira knew that O’Neill had been on the point of spilling, but the young woman’s resolve had held and was now stronger than before. She took out one of her business cards and wrote her mobile number on the back. ‘Call me night or day, but do not screw up whatever you’re involved in.’
O’Neill took the card, dropped it in her bag and stood up. ‘I’m away home.’
Wilson watched the scene in the squad room. As soon as O’Neill left, he motioned Moira to join him. ‘What’s up?’
‘We definitely have a problem, boss. Rory and Siobhan have cooked up something between them. I tried to get her to open up and I think that she might have been on the point of telling me, but it passed.’
‘I don’t like it. Rory has been off-colour since this whole business began. Carmody and he were lovers. It’s always bad news when the job collides with your personal life, especially in our business. I hoped that Rory wouldn’t have a personal stake in finding what happened to Carmody. That’s why I took him off the case. But maybe Rory hasn’t been as “off” the case as I imagined.’
‘He’s been spending a lot of time staring at the whiteboard.’
‘He knows about Timoney.’ The thought was becoming more concrete. ‘He couldn’t be that stupid?’
Moira was on the same wavelength. ‘He could screw up the entire investigation.’
‘Think of it another way. Ever since this case began, we’ve had a great big handful of nothing. Maybe when Rory looked at the whiteboard, he drew the same conclusion that I have; we won’t find Whyte or Carmody. Even if Timoney is a murderer, we don’t have a shred of evidence against him. Whatever Rory has in mind will probably end up in shit. But what exactly has he in mind and how would it involve Siobhan?’
‘She’s his back-up plan.’ The idea had just struck Moira. ‘He’s recognised the risk he’s running and he’s using her as his back-up. If everything is cool, they walk away without a word. But if things go tits-up, O’Neill is the cavalry.’
‘So, whatever he has planned is outside the rule book.’
‘Way outside the rule book.’
‘Do you think he’s approached Timoney?’
‘Could have.’
‘We’ll have
to stop whatever they have planned.’
Moira stared at him. ‘I don’t like what you’re thinking. It’s too bloody dangerous.’
‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’
‘Because I’m thinking the same thing. You don’t want Timoney to go free.’
‘Maybe it’s not him, and even if it is, this isn’t the way to do it. What the hell does Rory think he can do?’
‘He wants to get evidence.’
‘You’ve been in the room with Timoney, do you think he’ll bare his soul to a stranger?’
‘Maybe that not what’s on the cards.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What if Rory is setting himself up?’
The suggestion hit Wilson like a hammer blow. ‘I don’t even want to contemplate that.’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘Rory is a smart guy, he wouldn’t do something that stupid.’
‘Let’s say that someone you’d loved had disappeared, and you felt guilty, what might you do?’
She was right. Rory wasn’t thinking with his brain. ‘And you think it’s going down now.’
‘It may be going down as we speak.’
‘Then what the hell are we doing sitting here talking about it. If Howard Timoney is our man, and Rory is playing the tethered goat. We need to find out where he is.’
Moira took out her phone and called Browne. There was no answer.
‘Get on to technical. Find out what tower Rory’s phone is pinging.’
Wilson called Reid and told her not to expect him home. Then he called O’Neill’s mobile. There was no answer. ‘Shit.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Timoney had been delighted when Rory Browne accepted his invitation for a drink and dinner. He’d chosen a nice rural location, Wally’s Bar in the townland of Culcavy, and sent instructions on how to get there. His sense of excitement was so great that he had already installed himself in the shaded corner of the outside garden. It was strange, but he never felt more alive than when he was about to take a life. Whyte and Carmody had flitted into his life without a thought in their heads. They died without knowing how or why, and in effect, there was no why, other than his desire to rape and kill. Some of the best shrinks had examined his head, but despite their efforts to peer into the real him, he kept such important information to himself. How could one explain to a rational person that the first thought that crossed his mind upon meeting someone was that he would like to kill them? How could they understand a feeling so outside their experience? The air in the garden was balmy and there was a sweet scent from the flowers that hung over the walls enclosing the space. It was a wonderful day to die.
Browne had taken the bus from Belfast and alighted at the stop closest to Wally’s Bar. He contemplated crossing the road and taking the next bus back to the city rather than walking the two hundred yards that separated him from a callous murderer. He started to walk in case his resolve failed him.
Wally’s Bar was in a thatched cottage that had probably been operating as a shebeen since King Billy’s pikemen marched through County Down. He made his way through the single room that was the pub to the beer-garden at the rear. The evening was perfect, and the sun was flooding the outside drinking area. Timoney sat at a table under an awning advertising Jameson whiskey. He waved a hand to acknowledge Browne’s arrival.
‘Hi,’ Browne couldn’t get the nervousness out of his voice, but he hoped that Timoney would judge it as first-date jitters. He sat on the wooden bench.
Timoney beamed. ‘Have any trouble finding the place?’
‘Not really, your instructions were clear. What’s the plan?’
‘A few drinks here and then move on to a restaurant I know for a nice meal. This round is on you.’
‘What would you like?’
‘Let’s see if they know how to make a decent vodka martini.’
‘Shaken not stirred.’
Timoney smiled. ‘Another Bond fan.’
Browne rose and went inside to the bar. It was early evening and there were only three other patrons. He looked around for a CCTV camera but saw none. If he were to disappear, nobody would come to the middle of nowhere looking for CCTV footage. He ordered the martini and a pint of lager. He checked his mobile and saw the missed call from Moira. He ignored it and sent the ‘all OK’ code to O’Neill. His hands shook as he paid the barman. He composed himself before taking the drinks outside.
He handed Timoney his martini and sat down. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ Timoney raised his drink and they touched glasses.
‘Tell me about yourself?’ Browne asked.
‘Not much to tell. I was born quite close to here. After school, I went to Queen’s. When I got my degree, I decided work wasn’t for me so I stayed on for a PhD. That’s it.’
‘And when did you realise you were gay?’
Timoney was surprised. He hadn’t expected the question. ‘I suppose I always knew, but I came out to my parents when I was fourteen or fifteen. What about you?’
‘Somewhat the same. Except after school, I bummed around Australia and New Zealand before coming home and doing an IT degree.’ The truth was so different.
‘You’re what, thirty or thirty-two, no boyfriends?’ Timoney asked.
‘A few along the way but nothing that lasted.’ Browne had been struggling all day with the development of his new character. He’d decided that simple was best.
‘I have great travel plans.’ Timoney drained his drink. ‘As soon as I complete my PhD. Hurry up and finish that pint, it’s my round.’ He held his hand out to take Browne’s empty glass.
Browne waited until Timoney disappeared inside before sending another ‘all OK’ message to O’Neill. He was wondering if they all had called this one wrong. Timoney was charming and appeared to be well-adjusted. He relaxed. Maybe he should try to enjoy the rest of the evening.
Timoney entered the bar with a wide grin on his face. It was looking good. Rory Browne appeared to be a bit of a waif. He probably wouldn’t be missed for a while and by the time he was, the trail would be as cold as it was for Whyte and Carmody. He went to the bar and ordered a soda water for himself and another pint of lager for his victim. He rejected the barman’s offer to deliver the drinks to their table and instead hung around at the bar waiting. When the drinks were ready, he asked for them on a tray. While the barman searched for one, he shook the contents of a small sachet into the pint of lager. He’d given Whyte a dose that would have stunned a horse, but he had been experimenting and was sure that the quantity he was giving Rory Browne was just the right amount to paralyse him. He carried the tray to the table and placed the fresh pint in front of his next victim.
‘Drink up, Rory, our reservation is for fifteen minutes.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Wilson had been calling O’Neill every five minutes while Moira was dealing with the technicians trying to use Browne’s mobile signal to locate the tower closest to his position. O’Neill wasn’t responding and Wilson guessed why. Moira was pacing the squad room, waiting for information from the technicians. Wilson’s mobile rang. He turned it on without looking at the caller ID.
‘Boss, you’re trying to reach me,’ O’Neill’s voice was an octave higher than normal.
‘Moira and I have worked out what you and Rory are up to. If this goes pear-shaped, both of you have spent your last day working for the PSNI. Now tell me where Rory is.’
‘I don’t know.’ O’Neill was sobbing. ‘I was his back-up. If things went wrong, I was to call you. But it’s okay, we have an all-right code and a problem code. He’s already sent two of the former.’
‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’
The sobbing on the line intensified. ‘I’m sorry, boss.’
‘No, you only think you’re sorry. I’d start praying if I were you.’ He cut the line.
‘They just got a ping,’ Moira shouted from the other side of the room. ‘It’s the tower
at Hillsborough.’
Wilson hadn’t yet been formally cleared by the Police Ombudsman’s Office, which meant his weapon was still with Matthews. ‘Moira, bring your gun and get the address of the Timoneys’ house.’
Moira looked at the whiteboard. There was no address. She rushed back to her desk, unlocked the bottom drawer and removed her service pistol. ‘I’ll call Harry from the car.’ They rushed out the door.
Browne shook his head to clear his senses. The scene in front of him appeared to have fuzzy edges. It usually took well over two pints for him to get a buzz on. But this was different. He was slurring his words and his tongue felt like it was wrapped in a fur coat. His brain told his hand to pick up his almost empty glass, but his hand wasn’t obeying. He wondered whether he was having a stroke. There was something he urgently had to do, something to do with Siobhan O’Neill, but he had no idea what it was. He tried his best to concentrate. His eyes fluttered, he wanted so much to close them and sleep.
Timoney lifted Browne out of his seat and started to half-lead half-carry him towards the car park. As he left the bar, he made the sign to the barman that his friend had had too much to drink. He put Browne into the passenger seat. There was an attempt at resistance, but he overcame it. He logged the resistance though as an input to developing future dosages. He put on Browne’s safety belt, it wouldn’t do to be stopped by the police for a minor infringement. He tapped Browne’s pockets and found his mobile phone. He removed the battery and tossed it and the phone into the bushes. Then he sat into his parents’ Mercedes and drove the short distance to Hillsborough.
Moira called Graham as soon as they left the station and got the Timoneys’ address. She put the address into Google maps. Their ETA was thirty minutes. A lot could happen in thirty minutes.
Timoney used the remote to close the electric gate behind him. He drove into the garage and closed the garage doors. Rory Browne was now a dead weight, and it was an effort to pull him out of the seat before standing him up and grasping him under the shoulder blades. He dragged him through the side door of the house and into the living area.