by Derek Fee
Owen Boyle pulled in beside Big George and lowered the driver’s window. ‘Get in,’ he said simply.
Big George walked around the car and opened the passenger-side door. He squeezed himself into the front seat.
Boyle could feel the weight of the Hi Point 9 millimetre automatic in his right-hand pocket. At 29 ounces, it wasn’t the heaviest gun in the world, but he could feel it more because it wasn’t his favourite weapon. He would have preferred a Ruger, a Sig Sauer or a Beretta. They were class guns. The Hi Point was a piece of American shit. Some people would call it cheap and cheerful, but if it’s your intention to kill someone, you’d be better off beating them over the head with it than trying to shoot them. Sammy had told him what he wanted done with George. It was one of the only times that he heard emotion in Sammy’s voice. That was highly unusual. He concluded that Sammy was either drunk or high, or maybe a combination of both. In any case, the result was the same. Big George had become a problem, and that problem had to disappear. Boyle felt oppressed by the body sitting next to him. The guy was a human ape. Boyle was astonished that Sammy had taken Big George on the O’Reilly business. He could just imagine the witnesses, ‘it was a guy who was built like a brick shithouse officer’. Big George wasn’t made for normal seats. They’d modified a black cab just for him, so an ordinary sedan was a bit of a challenge. At least, they weren’t going too far and there would be more room on the return journey.
CHAPTER 54
The office of Laurence Gold QC was located in a modern office building in Arthur Street just around the corner from Chichester Street and the Royal Court of Justice. It was in the same area where Kate operated her office. Wilson stepped out of the elevator on the third floor and into the nineteen seventies. Whereas Kate’s offices were decorated in Scandinavian chic, the heavy mahogany furniture and thick silk curtains that dominated Gold’s office spoke of a long legal tradition and stability. This was no fly-by-night operation but a serious legal outfit that could be depended on to ensure that justice was well served, for a price. Wilson announced himself to the receptionist and was pointed to a leather button-back chair. The coffee table in front of him held magazines with titles like Tatler and Field & Stream. This was no place for the readers of Football Monthly. Wilson watched as juniors and paralegals raced around the offices trying to convince themselves, and each other, that they were enormously important. Those who did manage a look in his direction could see that he was either a client or a witness, both of whom ranked low on the scales of the budding lawyers.
The receptionist left her desk and approached Wilson. ‘Laurence will see you now,’ she said and headed off down the corridor.
Wilson followed, impressed at the level of democracy in the office whereby the lowly staff referred to their superior by his first name.
She knocked on a door and pushed it open. ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson,’ she announced moving away from the opening and ushering Wilson inside.
Wilson entered the large office that was almost the size of the murder squad room at the station. It was seven good long strides between the door and the desk from which Gold was rising to greet him. Laurence Gold was an imposing character. He was almost as tall as Wilson and although in his early sixties, he still stood at his full six feet two inches. His leonine head was set off with a mop of silver hair which was combed back from his forehead and terminated in what used to be known as a duck tail. He had two piercing blue eyes and a hooked nose, which would have done credit to a wooden Indian. His lips were full and most likely naturally so. He had put on some weight since Wilson had seen him last.
‘Detective Superintendent,’ he said rounding his large desk and striding purposefully towards Wilson. He held out his hand in advance. ‘May I call you Ian?’
Wilson shook his hand. ‘Absolutely.’ Gold’s voice was captivating. It had the kind of timbre that could have replaced the Pied Piper’s flute in leading people astray.
‘And you shall call me Laurence,’ Gold said leading him towards the desk. ‘After all you’re almost a member of the legal fraternity by association.’
There was a knock on the door. The receptionist stuck her head in and announced ‘Professor Guilfoyle’.
Wilson turned towards the door and frowned. He wondered what the hell Brendan Guilfoyle was doing here.
‘Ian,’ Gold said stopping at his desk. ‘May I introduce—.’
‘We’re acquainted,’ Wilson said quickly cutting Gold short.
Guilfoyle walked forward and offered Wilson his hand. ‘Good to see you, Superintendent.’
‘Better call me Ian,’ Wilson said taking his hand. ‘We all seem to be on first-name terms here.’
Gold smiled. ‘No professional jealousy I hope.’
‘The good professor is trying to lure my sergeant away to Boston,’ Wilson said. ‘And I’m afraid that he’s succeeding.’
‘I had no idea,’ Gold pointed to two chairs in front of his desk. ‘Because of his experience with serial killers, I asked Brendan along as a consultant.’
‘Good,’ Wilson said. ‘I thought that this was going to turn into an episode of Lie to Me. I understand that Brendan is an expert at knowing when people are lying.’
‘My last job in Belfast,’ Guilfoyle said, a touch of sadness in his voice.
‘We in the legal profession will certainly miss you, Brendan,’ Gold said. ‘Now I understand that Ian’s time is limited. He’s heavily involved in finding out who killed David Grant.’
‘The investigation has expanded somewhat,’ Wilson said glancing at Guilfoyle. He saw no sign that he was aware of the extension of the investigation to Malone and O’Reilly. The pillow talk was probably on more important topics, like their future life in Boston.
‘Unfortunately,’ Gold continued, ‘there is one major point to be cleared up before we go to trial. We’ve examined all the documents, and we’re wondering how Maggie Cummerford got to attend murder squad briefings.’
‘There’s a lot of research that shows that smart killers try to get themselves as close to the investigation as possible,’ Guilfoyle said. ‘They always seem to be around the investigating officers, drink where they drink, that kind of thing. In this case Cummerford wasn’t just around. She was right in the centre of the investigation. She knew what leads you were following up, what your investigation strategy was. In fact, I was intending to use this case in my lectures.’
Wilson shifted uneasily in his seat. He saw that Gold recognised his disquiet.
‘Ian?’ Gold said.
‘How important is this issue?’ Wilson asked.
‘A murderer who killed three women was at the very centre of a police enquiry into the killings,’ Gold said. ‘I have a feeling that the defence would be remiss in its duty if it didn’t investigate for the jury how this situation arose. I should say that what is said within these four walls will stay here. But I need to know what happened so that I can prepare some kind of counter.’
Wilson tried to remember whether he had promised Jennings that he would bury the affair. Had he obtained something as a quid pro quo or had he simply used Jennings’ written order to allow Cummerford access to the briefings in order to save his own skin? The look on Gold’s face said that he was going nowhere until he explained. ‘It all started when my old boss shot himself,’ Wilson began, and the story of how Maggie Cummerford had blackmailed Deputy Chief Constable Jennings into letting her attend the briefings tumbled out of him.
‘Holy Cow,’ Guilfoyle said when Wilson had finished. ‘I’m definitely including this in my lectures.’
‘Now I understand your difficulties,’ Gold said. ‘And mine. There’s a strong possibility that DCC Jennings will be dragged into the trial. You kept his written instruction, I assume.’
Wilson nodded.
‘I must speak with the DCC.’ Gold made a note on the pad in front of him. ‘I’ll try to keep your name out of the conversation.’
Wilson smiled. He could just imagine the fall
out from that conversation. Jennings wouldn’t need two guesses at who had spoken to Gold. That meant that he would find himself in the centre of the biggest shit storm in a career already noted for significant shit storms. ‘Did I lie?’ he asked Brendan.
‘It’s too bizarre to be a lie,’ Brendan answered.
‘Well I’d like to thank both of you for stopping by,’ Gold said rising from his seat and extending his hand across the desk.
Wilson and Guilfoyle shook his hand then turned and left together.
‘You really think I’m winning?’ Brendan asked when they were at the elevator.
Wilson looked into his earnest face. ‘I’m afraid so, and I’m about to lose a very talented policewoman.’
CHAPTER 55
Neither man spoke as the BMW left Belfast via Donegall Square and made its way towards the M1. Traffic was light, and they covered the two miles to the start of the motorway in ten minutes. Boyle looked occasionally at Big George, who just stared directly ahead. They took the M1 and travelled about eight miles before taking the exit towards Sprucefield. The weather continued to be kind. Ireland would be the most beautiful country in the world if it weren’t situated directly in the path of the Atlantic weather systems. The rain and the wind always militated against the beauty of the countryside. Boyle was close to forgetting the purpose of the trip as he piloted the BMW onto the AI and headed in the direction of Hillsborough.
‘Are we going to the seaside?’ Big George asked as they turned left onto Hillsborough Road.
Boyle was surprised by the question. Usually, George was the strong silent type and his breaking of the silence was totally out of character. ‘We’ll run by the sea, but we won’t be going through any decent-sized towns.’
‘Can we get an ice cream?’
Where the hell was this coming from? Boyle asked himself. Was it possible that Big George had some kind of presentiment about what was going to happen? Boyle didn’t answer but drove on through Dromara and headed towards Castlewellan.
‘I’d like an ice cream,’ Big George said with a deadpan expression.
What was with the fucking ice cream, Boyle thought. He turned and looked at Big George, who was examining the road signs. Either this guy was the simplest man on the planet or he was one of those savants who knew what was about to happen next.
‘Can we go to Newcastle?’ George asked. ‘There’s a really good ice cream shop there.’
‘Maybe,’ Boyle said. They were already on the Newcastle Road and while he had no intention of going into Newcastle itself, he couldn’t think of any reason why a condemned man shouldn’t get his final request. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll do Newcastle, and you can have your ice cream.’ He looked at Big George expecting to see some sign of pleasure on his face. He was disappointed.
Big George shifted in his seat. He was aware that he was crushing Boyle, but he never travelled in the rear and if Sammy wanted Boyle to drive that was his decision. He felt a certain level of satisfaction that they were going to the seaside on such a beautiful day. He loved the sea and more than that he loved ice cream.
Newcastle was a small town on the coast of the Irish Sea, set at the base of Slieve Donard mountain. The green and the purple of the mountain were perfectly set off against the light blue of the sky.
‘I want to go to Maud’s for a poor bear ice cream,’ Big George said.
Boyle sighed. He knew Maud’s was on Main Street and that parking was a nightmare, but a condemned man’s wish and all that shit. He drove along the promenade and was lucky enough to find a parking place. They walked together to Maud’s drawing stares from people who saw this man mountain walking along with what appeared to be a midget. Boyle was five feet nine and weighed in at seventy-five kilos but walking beside someone standing six and a half feet and weighing a hundred and seventy kilos made him look like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
Maud’s was full of the elevenses crowd enjoying their coffees and cakes. George selected his poor bear ice cream and added two additional slices of cream cake. He stood waiting for Boyle to take care of the bill.
Boyle smiled and fished the money from his pocket. It felt like taking his son to the ice cream parlour. He took his change and motioned to George that they had to leave now. George was already stuck into his poor bear ice cream, white streaks hanging from the edges of his mouth. He carried his back-up cakes in his left hand as they left the café.
Boyle piloted the car back the three or so kilometres that they had strayed off their original path to satisfy Big George’s wish. They passed through the minor village of Bryansford, and Boyle was on the lookout for the small side road that led into the Tullymore Forest. He saw it directly ahead and turned in. The BMW bumped over the rough path. Although Tullymore was a popular area for tourists, it was early in the season and with six hundred and thirty hectares, there were plenty of areas well away from prying eyes.
Boyle brought the Beemer to a halt two hundred yards into the forest and pulled it in near a copse of trees. ‘We’re here,’ he said shutting off the engine.
Big George had finished his poor bear ice cream and was about to start in on his cakes.
‘Put those away, for God’s sake,’ Boyle said. ‘We’ve got work to do. You can have them on the way back.’ He got out of the car and looked around the forest. The trees were bare and foreboding despite the warmth in the air. The only sound he could hear was the hammering of a woodpecker.
Big George eased himself out of the front seat and placed his cakes on the seat he had occupied. He was looking forward to the trip back to Belfast.
Boyle moved to the rear of the car and opened the boot. He removed a spade and shut the boot. He pressed the car key and locked the BMW. ‘Come with me,’ he said. They walked together off the path, and Boyle made a drama out of looking for a particular spot. In fact, he was just searching for a convenient place to plant Big George. He stopped in a clear area and motioned for his companion to join him. ‘It’s here,’ he said pointing at the centre of the clearing and tossed the spade to Big George. He paced out a rectangle of approximately six feet by three. ‘Dig it out to about two feet.’
Big George moved the spade along the rectangle that Boyle had laid out. He removed his pullover and tossed it onto a branch of a tree. The earth was soft, and the first spade of earth came out easily.
CHAPTER 56
Wilson arrived back at the station and went immediately to the squad room. He had just entered when Moira rushed into his office.
‘Traffic came through,’ she said. ‘Come out and have a look.’
Wilson went to her desk. Moira sat and began to run through the CCTV footage. ‘They picked him up on the A57 on his way from the airport. You can get a good view of the passengers. It’s definitely Baxter and Weir.’ She moved the picture forward. ‘Here he is on the M2 heading south into town.’ She rushed the CCTV ahead. ‘We have him in the street adjacent to Malone’s apartment. There’s no CCTV on Fitzroy Avenue, so he disappears for a while.’ She moved the mouse. ‘We pick him up next on his way to Ashley Avenue. He parks a bit away from Grant’s house, and his passengers get out. They’re carrying a case.’ She moved the picture ahead. ‘Here’s one of them who comes back and collects Carroll.’ Again the picture shot forward. ‘Then the three of them return to the cab.’
‘Stop it there,’ Wilson said.
Moira pressed some keys, and the picture paused.
‘Zoom in on the bag in Baxter’s hand.’
Moira moved the mouse, and the picture zoomed in on Baxter’s right hand.
‘Grant’s brother told me that he had bought his brother a very distinctive briefcase. Does that look like a distinctive briefcase to you?’
Moira looked up at him and smiled. ‘If I’m not much mistaken, that looks like the kind of briefcase that is unique in the Province. We’ve got them.’
‘Now we need Big George Carroll,’ Wilson said. ‘Where’s Peter?’
‘Out and about,’ Moira said. ‘Tr
ying to get a fix on Carroll.’
‘Get him on the phone and bring him up to date. We don’t just want to talk to Carroll, we want him in an interrogation room, and we want him there now.’
‘On it, Boss,’ Moira said.
‘I just ran into your boyfriend at Laurence Gold’s office.’
Moira looked puzzled. ‘What was he doing there?’
‘Consulting for Gold,’ Wilson said. ‘Apparently.’
‘Gold is on the side of the angels in this one, right.’
Wilson smiled. ‘Laurence Gold is always on the side of the angels. I was just surprised to find Brendan there.’