by Derek Fee
Gibson re-joined him. ‘We’ll need to talk to you at some point.’
Wilson’s eyebrows rose.
‘Just a statement,’ Gibson said. He extended his hand. ‘I hope your friend is OK.’
Wilson shook hands. He also hoped McDevitt was OK. He didn’t have so many friends that he could afford to lose one.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aughnacloy is twenty-nine miles from Craigavon. The journey generally takes thirty-five minutes, but Wilson arrived in front of the doors of Craigavon Community Hospital twenty minutes after leaving the scene of Tom Kielty’s murder. He parked his car in a deserted car park and made straight for the A&E Department. He was not a man who made friends easily. As a top-class rugby player, his company had been sought by all and sundry. During that period of his life, he couldn’t enter a restaurant or a pub without someone insisting on paying for his meal or offering him a drink. Polite refusals on his part were generally met with mumbled remarks about him being a ‘big head’ and occasionally with outright aggression. He had also had the opportunity to observe the older players and the entourage that surrounded them. It was the part of being a top player that he hated most. Consequently, he developed a hard skin that was difficult for people to penetrate. During his twenty-five years as a police officer, he had made no attempt to develop friendships. Donald Spence had been his boss and his mentor, but he wouldn’t really have said that he was a friend. That left him to reflect on the role Jock McDevitt played in his life and the feeling he’d had in the pit of his stomach on hearing that feeble voice on the telephone. Jock had announced himself as Wilson’s new best friend and while that had been a running joke between them in the early days, there was no doubt that an unlikely bond had grown between them.
Wilson pushed open the glass hospital doors and made straight for the reception desk. He could see from the look on the receptionist’s face that it had been a long night. He took out his warrant card and showed it to her. ‘A man was brought in maybe an hour ago with gunshot wounds. Where is he and what’s happening?’
She had taken a cursory look at his identification. ‘Take a seat and I’ll find someone to help you.’
Wilson glanced behind him at three rows of chairs. Two were occupied, one by a man with a series of cuts on his face, who was asleep, and the second by a young man with his shoeless right foot resting on a second chair.
‘Now,’ Wilson said. ‘Get me a doctor.’
The receptionist picked up a phone and pressed a number. Wilson ignored her and walked through the double doors leading to the triage area. There was a small office to the left of the large room and several cubicles with the curtains closed. There was no white coat in evidence. Frustration was building in Wilson when a nurse exited one of the cubicles pushing a trolley. She looked up, surprised to see someone standing in the centre of the room.
‘You can’t be in here. Please wait in reception until you’re called.’
Wilson took out his warrant card and held it up. ‘A man was brought in about an hour ago with gunshot wounds. I want to know what’s happening with him.’
Nurse Smythe examined his card. ‘He’s in surgery. Come with me.’ She started to push the trolley in the direction of the open office. ‘I’ll get someone to bring you down.’ She made a phone call.
‘How was he?’ Wilson asked.
‘He was alive when he was brought in, but the consultant was quite concerned. They rushed him to surgery straight away.’ She could see the look of concern on his face. ‘Was he one of yours?’
‘No, but I know him.’ Wilson was aware that he hadn’t described McDevitt as a friend and he felt a stab of mental pain at that disavowal.
A young nurse wearing a hijab came into the office.
‘Will you take Superintendent Wilson to surgery?’ Smythe said.
The young nurse nodded and started towards the rear of the triage room. Wilson followed closely behind and they made their way through a labyrinth of corridors before taking a lift to the basement level. They finally reached a reception desk at the entrance to a corridor with several numbered doors marked ‘Operating Theatre’. The young nurse turned without speaking and returned the way they had come.
Wilson approached the desk and coughed.
A nurse looked up from the form she was filling in. ‘Yes?’
‘A man was brought in here about an hour ago with gunshot wounds,’ he said for the third time. ‘I understand that he’s currently in surgery. I want to know what his condition is.’
‘Name?’
Wilson was becoming frustrated with the bureaucratic bullshit. ‘How many people were brought in with gunshot wounds this evening?’
‘A gunshot victim is currently in surgery. I have no idea how long the surgery will take or what the possible outcome will be. Unfortunately, there’s no doctor available to talk to you at the moment.’
It was the first plain answer he’d had since he entered the hospital. ‘Is there somewhere I can wait until I can talk to someone?’
‘The family room isn’t in use,’ the nurse said. She came out from behind her desk and led him back the way he had come. She stopped at a door. ‘I’ll leave a message that you want to be informed as soon as surgery is over.’
Wilson pushed the door open. ‘Thanks.’ He entered the darkened room and as soon as his eyes were accustomed to the dark he saw that a white-coated figure was asleep on the couch. There were two armchairs set together so he sat in one and put his feet up on the other. He was tired, but he knew that sleep wouldn’t come easily.
CHAPTER FIVE
Wilson awoke with a start. He looked across at the sofa and saw that the young doctor was no longer there. The poor bugger was probably starting on another twelve-hour shift. He looked up into the smiling face of a nurse.
‘Tea,’ he nodded at a cup on the table in front of him. ‘Milk and two sugars, it’s standard and we don’t take individual orders.’
Wilson looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock. He’d been asleep for almost two hours. ‘What about my friend?’
The nurse put on his professional face. ‘He’s not out of surgery yet but should be soon. One of the doctors wants to talk to you when you’ve finished your tea.’
‘Can you get him or her here now?’ Wilson picked up the tea and took a slug. ‘I need to know how he is before I get back to Belfast.’
‘I’ll check if he’s available.’ He handed Wilson a clipboard. ‘In the meantime there a wee form that needs filling.’
Ten minutes later a young intern who looked remarkably like the man who had been asleep on the couch entered the room. ‘I’m Dr Barry,’ he announced as he took the seat beside Wilson. ‘You’ve been enquiring about the man who was brought in early this morning with gunshot wounds.’
‘His name is Jock McDevitt.’ Wilson finished his tea and put the empty cup on the coffee table. ‘He’s a journalist on the Chronicle.’
‘He should be out of surgery in the next half-hour. As you can imagine, he’s very ill and we’ve been requested to prepare a bed for him in the Intensive Care Unit.’
‘But he’s alive.’
‘Yes, I have no idea of the prognosis and you probably know more about his fighting qualities than I do. A lot will depend on how resilient he is and how badly he wants to live once the surgeons have done their work. Don’t worry, we’re going to take good care of him.’
‘So the message is I won’t be able to see him when he comes out of surgery.’
‘Not today anyway. He’s going to be out of it for quite a while. Give us a call this evening and we’ll update you on his progress. You may be able to visit tomorrow evening, but I can’t make any promises. This is the period when we have to hope for the best. If you’re a believer, a prayer might not go amiss. From what I hear Mr McDevitt is a very lucky man. He was shot twice. The bullet in his body didn’t hit any vital organ, and the other one just took off a piece of his ear.’
Wilson hadn’t been a believer fo
r quite a long time, but this was a special case. He just hoped that God was in listening mood. His mobile started to ring. He took it from his pocket and saw that it was Reid. He was about to answer when the young doctor stayed his hand.
‘Would you mind taking the call outside? We’ve a lot of delicate machinery here that can be impacted by radio waves. You need to leave. Give us a call this evening.’
Wilson killed the call and stood up. ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’
‘Are you a relative?’ the doctor asked.
‘No, I’m a police officer.’
‘Better mention that when you call. We’re only supposed to give the patient’s condition to relatives.’
Wilson shook hands with the doctor and left. He made his way through the hospital, following the exit signs until he reached the front door. As he exited, he took his phone from his pocket and called Reid.
‘Where the hell are you?’ There was anxiety in her voice. ‘I dropped by the apartment a half-hour ago and found you gone. The apartment looked like the Mary Celeste. I take it you left in a hurry.’
‘I’m at Craigavon Community Hospital. Jock was shot last night. He called me about three o’clock from a field outside Aughnacloy in South Tyrone.’
‘How badly was he hit?’
‘I don’t know. He’s been in surgery for over four hours.’ There was a catch in Wilson’ voice.
‘So he’s still alive. He’s a fighter, Ian. How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’ He steadied his voice.
‘It’s OK to be concerned for your friend, Ian. It isn’t a sign of weakness.’
The fact that he was concerned, and worst of all emotional, about the possible fate of Jock McDevitt suddenly hit him. He didn’t speak.
‘Are you still there? Ian?’
He took a deep breath. ‘Yes, he’ll be out of surgery soon and they have a bed for him in ICU. They say that I should phone them this evening, but he won’t be able to receive visitors for a day or two.’
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Nobody seems to know. He was with a local farmer who was fatally wounded. The senior investigating officer is a local from Armagh. I’ll check him out when I get back to the station. I’m not having this investigation botched by some amateur.’
‘Have you slept?’ she asked.
‘Enough,’ he had reached his car and sat in. ‘I’ll be in Belfast in half an hour.’
‘Poor Jock, I just received the invitation to his book launch. I suppose it’ll have to be postponed.’
‘To hell with the book launch.’ He started the car. ‘I’ll call you when I get to the station.’ He ended the call and drove out of the car park. He needed to find out what Jock was doing in a field in South Tyrone in the company of a local farmer. And he needed to find who had tried to kill him. Somebody was going to pay for shooting Ian Wilson’s best friend.
CHAPTER SIX
‘You look like shit.’ Chief Superintendent Yvonne Davis stared into Wilson’s haggard face. ‘Hard night?’
Wilson flopped into the visitor chair directly in front of Davis’s desk. She had had a tough baptism as the new head of the station, but she was growing into the job and, more importantly for Wilson, their relationship was blossoming. ‘You could say that.’ He recounted the events of the previous eight hours.
‘Holy God, wait until the Chronicle gets hold of that nugget of news. Their number one crime reporter is shot and we don’t have any idea why. That’s going to piss off someone in Castlereagh.’
‘I have a strange feeling that when we do find out the why, someone in Castlereagh is going to be even more pissed off.’
‘McDevitt must have quite a few enemies in the criminal fraternity, this could be a case of chickens coming home to roost.’
Wilson rubbed his sore eyes. ‘I’m not so much worried by “the who”. What’s intriguing me is “the where”. What the hell was Jock doing in the middle of bandit country? There are some very bad characters in that part of the province. Belfast is his patch.’
‘Not our problem.’ Davis smiled. ‘Armagh is responsible for the investigation, thanks be to God. What do you make of this Gibson fellow?’
Wilson leaned forward. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Armagh haven’t had a murder case in years. Gibson looks like a capable enough officer, but he’s never run a murder enquiry. The chief constable gave me the remit to assist in murder investigations throughout the province. I was thinking I might offer to give Gibson a hand.’
‘Don’t we have enough on our plate here? We can’t have you running off to Armagh every day. You’re my boldest child and I don’t like the idea of letting you out of my sight. You have the habit of getting up to mischief. Anyway, isn’t this one of those cases where you should really recuse yourself?’
‘Someone tried to kill my friend.’ He was getting used to calling Jock his friend.
‘That’s the reason I don’t think you should be involved. Your heart might overrule your head and that might lead somewhere we don’t want to go.’
‘We could discuss this with the chief constable.’
‘I’m glad we don’t play poker with each other. Maybe Chief Constable Baird will back me up.’
‘I’m ready to put it to the test.’
She played with the pen on her desk while she thought. ‘I’ll ring the chief superintendent in Armagh, and I’ll run it past Assistant Chief Constable Nicholson in Castlereagh.’
‘Remind him of the terms of reference of my job, as issued by the chief constable.’
Davis could see that Wilson had made up his mind about his involvement in the investigation. If she were in charge of Armagh, she would not be happy. There would be some resistance from her colleague there and certainly the SIO wouldn’t be happy to have Wilson standing at his shoulder. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said.
‘Gibson is going to be interviewing the Kielty family about what Jock McDevitt and Tom Kielty were doing in that field. I’d like to be there for that interview.’
Davis picked up the phone. ‘OK, I’ll call Armagh. You want to be a consultant on the investigation and present at the interview with the Kielty family. Any other requests?’ This was going to be a difficult conversation.
Wilson pushed himself out of the chair. He was tired and definitely not as young as he used to be. ‘Nothing I can think of at the moment.’
The atmosphere in the squad room was subdued. A quick glance at the whiteboard told Wilson that there was nothing new in the hunt for Sammy Rice. He wasn’t about to give up the search, but he was aware that it might take a lucky break rather than diligent police work to find Sammy’s final resting place. Only two men knew where Sammy could be found and neither one was speaking. He walked over to Detective Sergeant Rory Browne’s desk. Browne was new to the squad. He was obviously intelligent and ambitious but so far Wilson was unconvinced that he had the personal skills for the job. Wilson, who prided himself on his ability to read people, was stumped by Browne, but it was early days. ‘Nothing new?’ he asked.
Browne looked away from his computer. He didn’t have to answer, the look on his face said everything. ‘We’ve examined every frame of the CCTV footage that we managed to get. We have the one grainy image of two men loading something large into the boot of a car. The enhancement of the film made the grains clearer but did nothing for the images. And Peter Davidson is still pounding the pavements but no one seems to be speaking.’
Wilson pulled up a chair and sat beside his sergeant. ‘It looks like Best and Wright have kept things tight. One of them is going to have to break if we’re going to progress. In the meantime, the file stays open.’
‘Why can’t we get Simpson for firing the fatal shot? He’s already admitted his part in Rice’s murder.’
‘The Director of Public Prosecutions would never agree to prosecute. We have no proof, and Simpson has retracted his statement. We’ve got to keep plugging away and hope that something gives.’
Detective Constable Harry Graham came into the squad room. He made straight for Wilson. ‘Is it true? Jock McDevitt’s been shot and he’s critical?’
Wilson nodded. ‘The wee fool was up to something in a field in South Tyrone and got himself shot. He was operated on at Craigavon Community in the early hours of the morning and he’s in ICU.’ He recounted the story of the phone call and the trip to Aughnacloy.
‘Have we got it?’ Graham asked.
‘No, it’s Armagh’s.’
Graham frowned. ‘They’re fucking amateurs. The majority of the murders committed in mid-Ulster in the 1970s and 80s went unsolved. There were some very bad guys operating in their area and they’re still around. Maybe McDevitt pissed one of them off.’
‘Harry, trawl back through McDevitt’s reports,’ Wilson said. ‘Find out whether he’s written anything on criminal activity in mid-Ulster. Also, see what the rumour mill has on a Detective Sergeant Gibson. He’s already designated himself as SIO.’
‘Glory hunter,’ Graham said.
‘Or an opportunity to screw up in a major way.’ Wilson stood up and went into his office, where the phone was ringing. He picked up the receiver. ‘Wilson.’
‘DS Gibson.’
‘Oh,’ Wilson said. He hadn’t expected to hear from Gibson.
‘My boss has heard from your boss and some big shot from Castlereagh has followed up. It appears you want to muscle in on our investigation.’
Wilson smiled. ‘Come now, Sergeant.’ He laid a heavy emphasis on the rank. ‘I wouldn’t use the phrase “muscle in”. The chief constable came up with the brilliant idea that my squad and I should be available to consult on murder investigations across the province. I think it might have something to do with our extensive experience in the field.’
‘Have it your way.’ There was a sharpness to Gibson’s voice. ‘I’m interviewing the Kielty family at eleven o’clock at their farm. I’ve e-mailed you a map. I assume you’ll be there.’