by Derek Fee
‘At the station tomorrow morning.’
CHAPTER 31
Wilson had had a habit of getting sick before important rugby games. The apprehension used to find its way directly to his stomach, and he would be obliged to leave the team talk in order to vomit. And he wasn’t alone. At the time, he had decided that the sick feeling was simply a response to the tension. But that was positive tension. His stomach was rumbling ominously as he pushed in the door of the apartment that evening. He struggled with the fact that he had relished the thought of facing a fearsome South African pack, but he was uneasy about facing his partner. He had come directly from the Crown and was aware that there was the smell of booze on his breath. Both the McCann ladies were seated in the living room. Their conversation stopped abruptly as he entered the room.
‘Hi,’ he said walking to Kate and bending for a kiss. She presented her cheek, and he kissed it. He moved to Helen and got the traditional air kiss.
‘Have you eaten?’ Helen asked.
‘No, I’m ravenous,.’ He went to the drinks cabinet. ‘Can I get either of you ladies a pre-dinner drink?’
‘Gin and tonic,’ Helen said quickly. ‘Make it two.’
‘I saw McIver today.’ He thought the subject was the most anodyne he could bring up. ‘I think I managed to get him onside. I suggested that he take your advice, Kate.’ He carried two gin and tonics to Kate and Helen. They nodded rather than thanked him. He returned to the cabinet and poured himself a stiff whiskey.
‘Well done,’ Helen said raising her glass in a toast.
‘Yes, well done,’ Kate said and the temperature in the room rose appreciably.
‘Kate and I were just discussing the hiring of a maid,’ Helen said.
Wilson noted that he hadn’t been part of the discussion. It didn’t worry him. He was a guest in Kate’s apartment. Despite his protests, she insisted that she pay for everything. He thought about the money he had sitting in the bank. The sale of the house in Malwood Park netted him a profit of two hundred thousand pounds. It ranked as the best investment he’d ever made. Correction, the best investment his dead wife had ever made. ‘And what conclusion did you come to?’
‘I have several difficult trials coming up,’ Kate said. ‘And Helen has found this wonderful woman from the Philippines who will take care of the apartment.’
‘Great,’ Wilson said. ‘When does she start?’
‘She already has,’ Kate said.
Wilson sucked on his whiskey and looked at Kate. She looked drowsy. He wondered whether she had taken, or was taking, something. The change from her usual belligerence was striking. Her moods were oscillating wildly these days. He decided to play along. ‘Great,’ he said.
‘She’s made us some dinner,’ Helen said. She finished her drink and went into the kitchen. ‘I’ll just heat it up.’
‘I’ve never tried Philippino food,’ Wilson said. He took advantage of Helen’s absence to sit beside Kate. ‘How are you, darling?’ he said.
‘Tired, Ian, oh so tired. Everything has changed. I feel so wretched.’
‘Maybe you should take some time off work.’ He tried to hold her hand but she removed it.
‘How can I? The Chambers is generating more business than I can manage.’
‘Take on another partner.’
‘Chicken inisal and rice,’ Helen said from the kitchen. ‘I have no idea what it is, but it smells divine.’
Kate stood up slowly. ‘Let’s not talk shop.’
He saw that she barely touched her drink.
‘I’m worried about Kate,’ Wilson said. It was only eight o’clock, and Kate had already retired. There was no indication either during or after the meal that the sleeping arrangements had changed.
‘How so?’ Helen asked.
‘She was very different this evening. She couldn’t even raise the energy to fight with me, and she looked drowsy. Is she on something?’
‘The doctor gave her something to help her sleep. Some kind of painkiller as well. Do you want me to broach the subject?’
‘Just keep an eye out. It’s easy to become hooked on drugs like Lunesta, Ambien and Sonata and barbiturates like Seconal and Amyta. See what the doctor prescribed.’
Helen nodded. ‘How’s the investigation into David Grant’s death going?’ she asked.
‘It’s going nowhere.’ Wilson didn’t like making the admission.
Helen shook her head. ‘Perhaps your pathologist friend made an error.’
‘Could be.’
‘And if she did, won’t the PSNI and you be embarrassed?’
‘Won’t be the first time.’
‘Wouldn’t it be wise to drop the investigation before that happens?’
Something was trying to break through the cotton wool in Wilson’s brain. Jennings had tried to make him drop the case, the chief administrator at the Royal had tried to get Reid to change her opinion and now a concerned citizen had stuck her oar in. What had all these people in common? They were all part of the establishment. The thought flew through Wilson’s head and then left.
Helen stood up. ‘I’m off to bed. Sweet dreams.’
Wilson picked up the TV controller. Yeah, sweet dreams, he thought.
CHAPTER 32
Big George Carroll spent the early evening sitting in Cosgrove’s Bar waiting for Mark O’Reilly’s car to show up. The March air still bore the vestiges of winter. Carroll was a non-smoker, but he was obliged to pretend to be one in order to stand watch in the alcove at the front of the pub. The light was fading rapidly when he saw O’Reilly’s black Volkswagen Golf turning into Francis Street on its way to the multi-storey car park. He took out his mobile phone and sent a text message to Sammy Rice. His phone buzzed one minute later and then stopped. It was the signal that the Boss was on his way. Carroll tossed away his half-smoked cigarette and re-entered the pub. He enjoyed the rush of warm air that surrounded him before stationing himself in plain view of the door, and waited.
Twenty minutes later, Sammy Rice pushed in the door of Cosgrove’s. He was wearing a black beanie down to the edge of his eyes. He nodded at Carroll and left. He was waiting on the footpath at King’s Street when Carroll exited the pub. The junction wasn’t busy. The evening rush hour had ended an hour ago. Without speaking, Rice led the way down Francis Street. They passed the taxi station beneath the multi-storey car park. They walked on until they came to the rollover doors leading to the car park. Rice removed a remote control from his pocket and pointed it at the door. He operated a fleet of black cabs, and his contacts in the business had been happy to provide him with the means of entry. The steel door rolled up, and the two men entered. As soon as they were inside, the door closed. They located the emergency stairway and started their climb to the fifth floor. The apartment section of the building was separated from the car park by a stout door with an electronic control. Carroll removed an iron jimmy from inside his coat and slipped it into a gap at the door jam. He wedged the jimmy into place and then pushed. The door creaked. He increased the torque, and the door gave way. They were on the fifth floor of the apartment complex. Rice removed the hat and straightened his hair. They went to the door of O’Reilly’s apartment and knocked.
Mark O’Reilly was no dab hand in the kitchen. When he did prepare dinner for himself, it generally came out of a packet and was cooked by the microwave. He’d had a substantial lunch so he decided on a bowl of soup as his evening repast, and the contents of a can of Scotch broth were already in a saucepan. Manchester United were playing in the Champions League, and UTV was tuned in. Everything was set up for an evening in front of the box. He heard the rapping on his front door and was taken aback. There was an intercom in the entrance hall and that was supposed to be the only method of entry to the apartments. He went to the front door and looked through the peephole. A blond-haired man, looking confused, was standing at his door. The rapping started on the door again. The bloody ass must be lost, O’Reilly thought. He released the latch on the do
or and opened it a crack. The door flew into his face, and he fell back onto the floor of the hallway of the apartment. By the time he got his senses back, there was a giant of a man standing over him.
‘What the hell,’ he said pushing himself up with his hands.
Big George Carroll bent down and lifted O’Reilly off the ground.
Rice pushed the apartment door shut. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he said. ‘Bring him into the living room.’
Carroll half-carried half-walked O’Reilly into his living room. The man was shaking so hard he had to hold on tight to his arm.
‘Take whatever you want,’ O’Reilly said. ‘You can have my Barclaycard, and I’ll give you the pin number.’
Rice grabbed O’Reilly by the throat. ‘Fuck your Barclaycard. David Grant sent you some files.’
O’Reilly did a double take. This wasn’t a robbery. It was something much, much worse. He had already examined the files that David sent him and was well aware of the contents. They exposed a major corruption. The men who had invaded his apartment were obviously part of the criminal conspiracy that David had uncovered. The Chronicle’s story about David’s death caused a shiver to run down his back. He looked into the face of the man holding him. He was certainly a thug. The only possible way out for him was to give them whatever they wanted. ‘David did send me some files, but I haven’t had time to get around to them. If you want, I could delete them.’
Rice smiled and released his grip on O’Reilly’s throat. He could give lessons to the FBI on spotting liars. ‘Get your computer,’ he said.
O’Reilly scurried away to a corner and removed a computer from its bag. He placed the computer on a coffee table and opened the lid. He pressed some of the keys and brought up his emails. ‘See.’ He lied. ‘I haven’t even opened the files.’
Rice came over and stood behind him. He knew fuck all about computers, but he knew enough to see that the email had indeed been opened.
‘Look,’ O’Reilly said. ‘I’ll dump it.’ His fingers flashed over the keys again, and the email from David Grant disappeared. The television suddenly burst into life as the music announcing the start of the football game reverberated around the room.
‘Good boy,’ Rice said and moved to the large window in the living room. The apartment looked directly down on Francis Street. At this time of the evening, the street was relatively empty. He opened the window wide and looked out.
O’Reilly was trying to remain calm. Maybe he would get out of this after all. It was a victory of optimism over experience. He had blanked from his mind the fact that David Grant was murdered.
‘Rice turned to Big George Carroll. ‘Fuck him out the window,’ he said simply.
Norman White was pissed off. The bloody match was live on TV and yet his wife had insisted on him driving her to meet a colleague from her company’s office in Glasgow. He dropped her at the Ibis Hotel and decided not to bother heading home. There was a television in Cosgrove’s Bar, and they’d surely have the match on. He was driving his company BMW 520 so there was no way he was leaving it on the street. He’d put it in the multi-storey across the road from Cosgrove’s. That way it would be safe, and he would be ready to pick up his wife as soon as she was through. What the hell had been wrong with a taxi anyway? He turned into Francis Street and was approaching the car park when there was an almighty thud on the front of his car. His windscreen turned red as though someone had thrown a bucket of paint over it. He stopped and turned on his windscreen wipers. The red liquid was viscous and spread as the wipers gradually assisted it in covering the entire windscreen. Through a gap in the liquid, he could see what he took to be a man’s head. It looked like he wouldn’t be seeing the match after all.
CHAPTER 33
Professor Stephanie Reid was attending a dinner for the British Medical Association hosted by the chairman of the Northern Ireland Council. It was held in the members’ dining room at Parliament Buildings, and the great and the good of the medical profession in the Province were in attendance, along with representative Assembly members from each of the five major political parties. Invitees included the chief officers of the Association, the Northern Ireland members of the UK Council, the local committee chairs as well as key stakeholders from across the health service in the Province. The occasion was announced as an excellent networking and influencing opportunity for all concerned. Except that Professor Reid was bored out of her tree. She loved being a doctor, and she was sure that she was an excellent pathologist, but she abhorred having to prostitute herself at these events in order to promote the reputation of the Royal Victoria. She noted the predominance of men in the official photographs. Although it was an acknowledged fact that women were superior in fields requiring caring and empathy, men dominated the upper echelons of the profession. Unfortunately, women were not really good golf companions; they didn’t appreciate lewd jokes, or understand the finer points of rugby. So while a great many men fawned over her during the rubber chicken dinner, she was in no doubt that were she to run for office, votes from her male colleagues would be thin on the ground. The hospital required her to attend such events in order to ensure its position as the primary care and teaching establishment in the Province. It was with a sense of relief that she responded to her beeper during one of the long-winded and extremely boring speeches. She excused herself from her table, and as soon as she was outside the dining room she called her office. The news ensured that her evening was over and she made her way to the car park. There was no point in heading home to change, so she drove straight to Castle Street. Two police Land Rovers had already arrived and a traffic diversion had been set up. She pulled in before the crime-scene tape and identified herself to the officer manning the entrance to the scene. She removed her crime-scene suit from the back of her car. She had dressed conservatively for the Association dinner, but she was aware of the spectacle her bare legs made as she was required to hitch the black dress up in order to get into her plastic suit. Spending four years in Africa where one was required to squat in front of whatever group was around in order to perform one’s toileting had removed most of her inhibitions. In any event, she was sure that she wasn’t showing the onlookers anything that they hadn’t seen before. She ignored the stares of the men gathered at the edge of the crime-scene tape and their jibes as she strode forward carrying her black bag.
The jumper had landed with some force on the bonnet of a passing car. The only person inside the police cordon wearing civilian clothing was sitting on the edge of the pavement holding his head. Reid concluded that this was the driver of the car. The body lay sprawled across the bonnet. The head had impacted with the windscreen and had been opened like a coconut on a fête booth. Frothy cranial blood covered the shattered glass.
‘Ma’am.’ A police officer came forward. ‘Can we help?’
‘Thanks,’ Reid said. ‘But it would be best if you just stay out of my way for the time being. I’ll get through as quickly as I can, and we can close off the spectacle.’
‘The ambulance crew is already here.’
She looked to her left and saw a man and a woman in paramedic gear standing beside their white and orange vehicle. Beside the crew, spectators were pointing mobile phones in her direction. The whole scene would be on YouTube this evening. The police had already set up a screen, but the early spectators would already have their pictures of the man spread across the bonnet of the car. It was the new availability of instant news. There was certainly no dignity in death, and the mobile phone had added to the lack of dignity. She walked to the body. A police photographer was just completing a series of photos that covered the body from every angle. She didn’t see any point in a detailed examination. The man had died on impact. There would most likely be bodily injuries, broken limbs and ruptured organs, but death was certainly occasioned by the injuries to the head. She examined the body from every angle before signalling to the ambulance crew. She could leave it to the police to deal with the driver and his car. She could hear
him in the background repeating ad nauseam ‘He just fell out of the sky’. She crossed the road and looked up at the Tannery Building. She could see a window open on the fifth floor. ‘Is this exactly where the impact took place?’ she asked the officer who had offered her assistance.
‘Pretty much,’ he said. ‘The driver slammed on the breaks as soon as the body hit. He was making for the entrance to the car park, so he wasn’t travelling at speed.’
She walked across the road and looked up at the open window. Strange, she thought. She would have guessed that if he had jumped, he would have hit the footpath. The car had been in the roadway, so he would have had to jump outwards in order to land on the bonnet as he had.
‘Has anyone been upstairs?’ she asked.
‘We called it in so I would expect they’ll send someone along,’ the policeman said. ‘We’ve sealed off the apartment until the Murder Squad guys arrive.’
Around the time Reid had been digging into her rubber chicken in the members’ dining room, Moira McElvaney was at home ploughing through CCTV footage from the area around the apartment where Brian Malone had lived. Her boyfriend, Brendan sat in the corner of her living room watching a Champions League match on the television. Although he had never watched soccer in the US, since arriving in Belfast he had joined the local population in supporting the premier Manchester club. His arms were folded which was a clear sign that Brendan was not very happy.
He stood up and walked up behind Moira. ‘Boring,’ he said looking over her shoulder at the grainy black and white images of time-elapsed cars going up and down a street. ‘You work ridiculous hours, and you even bring the boring stuff home with you.’
‘Sit down and watch your match.’ She continued to scan the image on her computer. ‘Your team is winning and if you’re a good boy, we can go for a drink later.’