by Derek Fee
‘You know I’ve got a feeling that you’re trying to avoid discussing some issues with me.’
She hit the pause button and looked up into his face. ‘We can’t all have nice nine-to-five jobs like some university professors I could name. This is my life, and you’re well aware of it.’ She didn’t want to answer the remark about avoiding the issues because she was afraid that that was exactly what she was doing. She knew she wasn’t being fair to Brendan, but she was still churning inside trying to come to a decision. Her parents were not being helpful. Yes they loved having her around but sure wasn’t Boston just a few hours away by plane, and hadn’t they always wanted to visit New England. For them, the decision was already made. Her mother’s last comment during their phone conversation that day was ‘don’t be a fool’. The problem was that she had already been a fool once, and she didn’t feel like repeating the error.
‘We really need to talk,’ Brendan said. ‘Whenever we try we always end up making love but not coming to any conclusion.’
She was about to speak when her mobile phone rang. She grabbed it and pressed the green button. She listened for a few moments and then said, ‘I’m on my way.’ She turned to Brendan and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Sorry, baby, but we have a jumper.’
Brendan picked up the remote control and killed the television picture. ‘I always wanted to go on a ride-along here.’ He picked up his jacket.
‘No can do,’ she said.
‘Let’s assume that we were in a restaurant, and you got that call. You wouldn’t just leave me there. You’d take me along. Same difference.’
She picked up her jacket and put it on. ‘OK, but for God’s sake let’s make it a silent ride-along.’
‘You got it.’
When Moira arrived in Castle Street, Reid was putting her black bag into the boot of her car. The two women noted each other but didn’t speak.
Reid saw that the DS had a young man in tow. She smiled at Brendan and he returned her smile as he was borne along in Moira’s wake.
Moira went immediately to the car. The ambulance crew were carefully removing the corpse from the bonnet. The windscreen was covered in blood.
A policeman approached Moira.
She produced her warrant card. ‘DS McElvaney,’ she said.
The policeman looked at Brendan.
‘He’s with me,’ she said without adding any detail. ‘What have we got?’
‘Looks like he jumped from the open fifth-floor window. Landed smack on the car of a poor bugger driving down the street.’ He nodded in the direction of the man seated on the side of the road. ‘Pathologist said he died instantly.’
‘Has anyone been upstairs?’
‘I sent one of the boys up, and we’ve sealed the apartment off. But we haven’t been able to locate keys. You’ll have to instruct us to break in. We don’t want to screw up any evidence.’
‘Good man.’ Moira led the way into the building.
Each level of the building had four individual apartments. A young officer was standing before the door of one on the fifth floor.
Moira checked the door and saw that it wasn’t forced. ‘Break it,’ she said to the young officer.
The door shattered by the first impact, and the officer tumbled through the shattered door.
Moira and Brendan entered the living room. The first thing they noticed was that they had to bat their way through a wall of smoke. An alarm was wailing somewhere in the apartment. The second thing was the smell of burning.
‘Turn that bloody noise off.’ Moira shouted at one of the uniforms as she made her way quickly into the kitchen where a pot was emitting a spiral of black smoke. She switched off the electric cooker and wafted away some of the smoke with her hand. She saw an empty soup can on the counter top beside the cooker. The kitchen was of modern design with both high and low units and had its own small dining area.
‘Looks like he didn’t wait for his supper,’ Brendan said.
Moira looked sharply at him. ‘I thought we agreed to a silent ride-along.’ She exited the kitchen and went into the living room. Despite the smoke, she was able to see that Manchester United still had a one goal lead. The living room was about twelve metres squared and outfitted by IKEA. It was only a guess, but she was fairly sure that the man currently on his way to the morgue was the tenant. She moved to a small wooden bookcase on which a number of letters were scattered. She picked them up and saw that they were addressed to ‘Mark O’Reilly’.
Brendan looked over her shoulder. ‘I don’t think that Mr O’Reilly jumped. Maybe you should call it in and have Forensics give this place a going-over.’
She knew that Brendan was probably right but was miffed that he had said it first and especially in front of one of the uniforms. ‘Maybe you’d like to wait for me downstairs. You’ll need to come to the station tomorrow to give elimination fingerprints.’
Brendan nodded and left the room.
Moira took out her mobile phone.
Wilson wandered around the living room of the apartment in the Tannery Building. It was a typical yuppie pad. The living room was sparsely furnished, and the smaller of the two bedrooms had been turned into a storeroom for packed cardboard boxes and miscellaneous sports equipment. The boys in the white plastic jumpsuits were already there and were busy photographing everything, and bagging samples. On his arrival he had said hello to Brendan Guilfoyle, who he found sitting forlornly in Moira’s car. It was safe to assume that Brendan was a bit pissed at not being part of the action.
‘Mark O’Reilly,’ Moira said. ‘Works as an accountant at Watson Accountants, they’re located in Windsor House in Bedford Street.’
‘And he didn’t jump?’ Wilson asked.
‘It doesn’t look like it,’ she said.
He continued to look at her.
‘There was a pot of soup on the cooker, and the Champions League match was on the TV,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit unusual for someone who has just prepared a meal, and is settling down to watch a match, to suddenly decide to throw themselves out of a window onto a passing car.’
‘So tell me. Has Brendan been up here?’
‘He’ll pass by the station tomorrow to give elimination prints,’ she said defensively.
‘I’ve been noticing more inputs from Brendan lately. Like your idea on the sexual paraphernalia at Grant’s place.’
‘OK, Brendan thinks that O’Reilly didn’t leave the room under his own steam. He thinks he was helped through the window.’ She glanced inadvertently at the open window.
‘We need to find out whether any of the neighbours saw or heard anything. Get on to that straight away, and get some of those uniforms who are standing around to carry out a house-to-house.’
Wilson moved around the room and went into the kitchen. He picked up the soup pot and examined the blackened mess on the bottom.
‘We’re all set,’ she said rejoining Wilson. ‘Three of the uniform officers are starting a house-to-house enquiry.
Wilson walked to the sink and dropped the pot into it. ‘Three relatively young men die in strange circumstances. Even for Belfast, that’s a bit too much of a coincidence.’ His phone rang, and he saw that it was Reid on the line. He hit the red button and put the phone in his pocket. ‘Was Reid here?’
‘She was just leaving when I arrived.’
‘We might just have to eat our pride and admit that she could be right about both Grant and Malone. The problem for us is locating who’s behind this mini murder spree.’
‘You think they’re all connected?’ she asked.
‘Why don’t we ask Brendan what he thinks?’
She didn’t know whether he was being serious or facetious. She felt her face colouring, but didn’t reply.
‘There’s nothing more for us here,’ Wilson said smiling at her discomfort. ‘Cosgrove’s is across the road, and we might just catch the end of the game. Let’s pick up Brendan on the way. He looked like an errant schoolboy sitting in the car.’
They sat in the only quiet corner of the pub.
‘So,’ Wilson said looking pointedly at Guilfoyle. ‘You think he didn’t jump.’
‘I’m sure of it,’ Brendan said. ‘The meal, the TV, it all points to an evening in with the football game. Anyway this method of suicide is relatively unusual. The latest statistics recorded show that firearms made up fifty two per cent of all suicides, hanging twenty three per cent and poison eighteen per cent. Many people who die by suicide, as best we can determine, may have had some level of ambivalence right up until that final moment. If you use a less lethal means like an overdose, there’s still the possibility of taking it back. You need to find out whether O’Reilly has threatened suicide before. Check his phone records for calls to the Samaritans, and check with his friends. If he committed suicide, and I seriously doubt it, then you’ll find something to corroborate it.’
Wilson nodded. Brendan Guilfoyle certainly knew his business. ‘We’ll follow your advice,’ he said. Given the resources he had it would be a bit of a stretch. ‘The uniforms discovered that a door from the garage to the apartments was forced. Unfortunately, the Property Management Company didn’t bother to install CCTV so there are no pictures. If someone assisted him through the window, he let that someone in. Moira confirmed that the door was closed properly and an officer had to break it down. Whoever was inside was long gone.’
‘So he might have known his assailant,’ Brendan said.
‘It’s possible,’ Wilson sipped his Guinness. ‘Either that or he was scammed. You saw the body?’
‘We did,’ Moira answered before Brendan could speak.
‘Height and weight?’ Wilson asked.
‘Come on, Boss,’ Moira said. ‘He wasn’t in a great situation to assess his height and weight.’
‘OK then,’ Wilson said. ‘Was he small, medium or large?’
Moira and Brendan looked at each other. ‘Medium,’ they said together.
‘That means if he was pushed it would have required someone larger to do the pushing,’ Wilson said.
‘Unless whoever pushed him convinced him to lean out of the window,’ Brendan said. ‘Or maybe there was more than one assailant.’
Wilson was about to comment when his phone rang. He removed it from his pocket and saw Reid’s name on the screen. He decided to take it.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You’re obviously at home,’ Reid said.
‘Actually I’m in Cosgrove’s in Castle Street,’ Wilson said.
‘So, the Rottweiler worked it out.’
‘DS McElvaney did indeed work it out and she’s sitting next to me right now.’
‘Lucky girl. By the way, he didn’t jump. Your people measured the distance of the car from the Tannery Building. You’ll find that the deceased was propelled through the window. Autopsy tomorrow morning at ten, are you coming?’
‘Perhaps DS McElvaney will attend.’
‘Spoilsport.’ She cut the connection.
‘Reid, I assume,’ Moira said.
‘The autopsy is at ten tomorrow morning,’ Wilson said. ‘Think you can make it?’
Moira sighed. ‘I’m up to my tonsils.’ She stood up. ‘I need the loo.’
Brendan waited until she had disappeared. ‘She’s not sleeping.’
‘So I hear,’ Wilson said. ‘Any idea why?’
‘The case?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Ah Jeez.’ Brendan rubbed both sides of his temples with his fingers. ‘I know I’m the problem. I was supposed to go back to Boston a month ago, but I extended. Right now, one of my colleagues and a teaching assistant are taking my classes, and the goddamned head of department is putting the screws on me. I have a ticket for the week after next.’ He leaned forward. ‘I love her, and I want her to come with me. She respects you. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know but I think she would be bloody stupid not to go with you.’
‘She loves the damn job. If it wasn’t for the job, I’m sure she’d come.’
‘It’s been my experience that the job won’t keep her warm at night. In fact, I know more than one person that this job has destroyed. Personally, I got tired of shovelling other people’s shit years ago.’
‘But you still stay on.’
‘As they used to say in the Westerns, ‘it’s what I do’. There are lots of times when I wished it wasn’t what I’m good at but unfortunately we don’t get to choose our talents, and mine appear to be centred on cleaning up crap in this city.’ Wilson was pleased to see Moira exiting the Ladies. Talking with Brendan was getting dangerously close to a bleating session. He could imagine Brendan being a good psychologist. Maybe he should have spent more time talking to him, or maybe not.
‘You two boys getting along without me?’ Moira asked sitting down.
‘Manchester United managed to lose so we were commiserating,’ Wilson said.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Strange, Brendan hasn’t managed to pick up the niceties of kickball, or whatever they call football in the States.’
Brendan gave her a tap on the top of her head. ‘There’s only one football and it’s played by the New England Patriots. Manchester United play soccer.’
‘Tomorrow.’ Wilson finished his drink and stood up. He’d had enough for one day. As he stood he looked along the bar, and his eyes were drawn to a slight man dressed in a light-brown safari jacket who raised a glass in his direction.
Jock McDevitt smiled at Wilson.
‘Enjoy the rest of the evening.’ Wilson turned to Brendan and extended his hand. ‘You and I should have a drink again soon.’
‘I’d love to.’ Brendan grasped his hand and they shook.
Wilson walked slowly in McDevitt’s direction.
‘Mr Wilson,’ McDevitt said. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘I’ve had my quota for the night,’ Wilson said.
McDevitt laughed. ‘I can’t imagine a copper pulling in the famous Detective Super. It’d be more than his job would be worth. Guys like you are Teflon.’
‘OK, Jock, suppose I ask you what you’re doing in this neck of the woods?’
‘I love old pubs. Cosgrove’s is one of my favourites. All that wood and shiny old mirrors, and you never know who you’ll meet.’
‘Cut the crap, Jock. I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘Like people taking swallow dives out of fifth-storey windows.’
Wilson sighed. ‘Like people taking swallow dives out of fifth-storey windows.’
‘Any news on the Grant murder?’
‘We haven’t decided it was murder.’
‘I’ve got something to trade.’ McDevitt finished his whiskey. ‘Sure I can’t offer you something.’
Wilson shook his head. ‘What do you mean you have something to trade?’
McDevitt motioned to the barman for a refill. ‘I’ve come by a morsel of information from my contacts in Glasgow. I’d be happy to trade it for something on the guy who just took a dive.’
Wilson watched McDevitt’s drink arrive and wished he had asked for one. ‘Impeding a police enquiry is an offence.’
‘Let’s say I never spoke,’ McDevitt saluted Wilson with his glass.
‘What would I have to trade?’
‘Did the guy jump or was he pushed?’
‘OK, show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.’
‘Two mechanics from Glasgow did a job here some weeks back. Might have been Grant.’
‘Any evidence?’
‘These people don’t leave evidence and they’ve already skipped Glasgow. Apparently, my article in the Chronicle spooked them.’
‘Names?’
McDevitt shook his head.
Wilson tried to assimilate the news. Grant’s murderers weren’t local, and were already on the run. However, someone local must have hired them. That meant that the motive must be local as well. ‘I don’t suppose your informant has any idea who was behind them.’
‘End
of the information trade on my side, now what about the guy who landed on the car?’
‘He might not have jumped.’
‘Check out the Chronicle tomorrow. I’ve got a peach of a photo of the scene. It’s amazing the clarity you can get from a mobile phone these days.’
Shit, Wilson thought. They should have thought of canvassing the watchers for photos. He reminded himself to mention it at the briefing. He turned to leave.
‘Mr Wilson,’ McDevitt held his arm. ‘We have complementary information sources. We can help each other.’
Wilson looked at McDevitt’s hand on his arm, and McDevitt removed it. ‘Tread carefully, Jock.’
‘Always Mr Wilson.’
Wilson turned and left the pub.
CHAPTER 34
Wilson woke at six o’clock. He pushed aside the covers and stood up. He needed to clear his head. So after he finished his toilet, he slipped into his running gear. Light was just dissipating the darkness and there was a chill in the air when he closed the front door of the apartment building behind him. There was also a smell of salt which indicated that the tide was pushing up along the river. He suddenly realised that this was the first time he had a run in over a week. If he kept this up, it wouldn’t take long for his paunch to reappear. He started off at a good lick filling his lungs with the cold air. His leg was apt to give him some gip during the winter, but spring was in the air so the nagging pain was at its most bearable. He loved these early-morning runs. They invigorated him for the day ahead. He had always been a good trainer. Maybe he should have taken up the coaching jobs he had been offered when he left rehabilitation. The morning run was his equivalent of meditation. As his feet beat the pavement, his mind could banish all external thoughts and concentrate on his priorities. Three young men had lost their lives and he wanted to know why. His feet pounded the concrete path running alongside the river. He passed several slow moving runners dressed in all black running outfits of skintight pants and matching hoodies. He took no notice of them as he tried to establish his normal rhythm. He had an effective staff of four and three possible lines of enquiry, one for each murder. That gave him one and one third officers for each murder. That was some kind of sick joke. Add to that Jennings’ threat to cut his staff by one, and the impending departure of Moira, and it was more and more certain that three deaths would go unpunished. He hit his rhythm, and his feet pounded the ground as he turned and headed back to the apartment pushing hard. It was becoming clear that Jennings meant to disband the Murder Squad. This may be the last case he worked on for the PSNI. Well if that was so, he would give it his best shot.