Death on the Line

by Derek Fee

  ‘Thanks, that’s good to know.’

  ‘It’s been a long day for you.’ Her voice was concerned. ‘Both in time and emotion. What would you say if I invited you to have a drink with me in the Crown?’

  ‘I’d decline. However, if you told me that you’d organised a Chinese takeaway, procured a nice bottle of red wine and that you were going to spend the night at my place, then I would be sorely tempted to accept.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m just about to order a Chinese takeaway, I have a wonderful bottle of red and I’d love to spend the evening with you.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ He put down the phone and put on his jacket

  On his way through the squad room, he saw DS Browne with his nose buried in some reports. ‘Don’t stay too long,’ Wilson said. ‘There’s more to life than work.’ Despite the long day, he was feeling light as he left the office.

  Browne had no intention of staying late. He had a file on Jackie Carlisle and had spent the afternoon acquainting himself with the man and his times. Carlisle had been one of the giants on the political scene in the 1980s and 90s, a populist who espoused the Unionist philosophy. While Browne read, another part of his brain was struggling with a dilemma. He had sold his soul to Assistant Chief Constable Nicholson in Castlereagh in order to secure a job in the Belfast Murder Squad. Wilson was not universally liked and Nicholson wanted Browne to report on any of his boss’s unusual manoeuvres. Launching an investigation into the death of Carlisle without the approval either of his hierarchical superior or of HQ certainly fell within the definition of an unusual manoeuvre. He was uncomfortable with the position Nicholson had put him in. If he informed on his boss, he was sure that Nicholson would immediately cancel the line of enquiry involving Carlisle’s death. Where would that leave him? Looking into the cold case files. There was no need to jump too soon. If the shit hit the fan, he would just have to stand up and take it. He closed the file on Carlisle. Tomorrow he and Davidson would be interviewing Carlisle’s widow. If she launched a complaint, he was done. Nicholson had hinted that he knew Browne was gay. Browne wasn’t ready to come out so that was a sword that Nicholson held over his head. Fuck Nicholson. He stood up. Tonight he was going to trawl the clubs and have some fun.

  CHAPTER TEN

  An early morning call to Craigavon Hospital confirmed what Reid had learned the previous day. Jock McDevitt was making good progress and was going to survive. Wilson was relieved when he heard the news from the doctor. McDevitt would have to spend at least two days in ICU before being moved to a ward. He might be awake by that evening, but Wilson would not be able to visit before tomorrow. It was unlikely that McDevitt would be capable of being interviewed until he was moved out of ICU. Wilson had picked up a copy of the Chronicle on his way to the station. The newspaper had done McDevitt proud. Jock would have been delighted to see his name feature so prominently on the front page, but he would certainly have preferred it to be as a byline. Jock’s attempted murder had given the editor an opportunity to rail against the random violence of the province and particularly violence perpetrated against members of the fourth estate. There was the usual call for the PSNI to use every means at their disposal to find the gunman. The picture of Jock on the front page had been taken ten years previously and was quite flattering. As soon as Wilson reached the station, he called DS Gibson.

  ‘That’s good news on McDevitt,’ Wilson said as soon as they had the pleasantries out of the way. ‘Maybe now we’ll find out what he and Kielty were up to.’ He was surprised when Gibson didn’t reply. ‘Given the fact that someone just tried to kill him, I think it would be advisable to have a guard on him as soon as he’s discharged from ICU. Maybe you could arrange that.’

  ‘Ok, we’ll put a uniform on it.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours, at least until he’s interviewed. Did you manage to speak to Kielty’s doctor?’

  ‘Yes. He confirmed that Kielty was suffering from early dementia.’

  Wilson wondered whether that diagnosis had been influenced by Reverend Hunter. ‘When is the post-mortem taking place?’

  ‘This afternoon.’

  ‘Good, when the pathologist removes the bullets we should be able to see whether the gun has been used in a previous crime.’ Again there was no response from Gibson. ‘Look, I understand that you’re not too happy about my involvement in what is essentially your investigation, but McDevitt is a resident of Belfast and a major media figure. Maybe you should take a look at today’s front page of the Chronicle. If you prefer, I can always arrange for our collaboration to be put on an official footing.’

  ‘We like to handle our own business ourselves,’ Gibson said. ‘We’ve had our own share of murders in the past, so we’re not totally without experience.’

  ‘That’s why I’m trying to remain hands-off and let you run with the investigation. Otherwise I, or one of my squad, would be at your shoulder every time you spoke to someone. I assume that you set up an incident room somewhere around Aughnacloy.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  You’re not as experienced as you think, Wilson thought. ‘Get it done by lunchtime. There must be some suitable building available. See if they have a village hall or a disused schoolhouse. Get some computers in and hooked up and a whiteboard. Would you like me to send someone down to help out?’

  ‘I think we can manage.’

  Well then get your finger out, Wilson thought but didn’t say. ‘I’m going to visit McDevitt in Craigavon this evening and I’ll drop by to look at progress. I assume that you have uniformed officers canvassing the area of the shooting.’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  This was worse than pulling teeth, Wilson thought. He’d been on a half-dozen management courses during his career in the PSNI. Every one of them emphasised the importance of cooperation between the different sections and divisions of the force. Nobody expected Special Branch to cooperate with anybody and Wilson’s own experience with Intelligence put them in the same basket, but Gibson’s response to his offer of assistance was baffling. The object of the exercise was to find the person or persons who had murdered Tom Kielty and attempted to murder Jock McDevitt. It wasn’t about protecting an area of operations. Wilson was beginning to feel frustrated. Somewhere down the line he was going to have the extreme pleasure of putting Gibson’s balls in a sling. It was that thought that kept him from venting. ‘Thank you, DS Gibson, I’m looking forward to meeting you in the incident room this evening to review progress.’ He put down the phone before the man on the other end could reply. He looked into the squad room and caught the eye of Detective Constable Siobhan O’Neill, who, along with Browne, was new to his team. He motioned her to come to his office.

  She stood at his door and waited for him to invite her in.

  ‘Come in, Siobhan. You’ve been here long enough to know that I don’t stand on ceremony. You can come in here any time you like. Sit down.’

  O’Neill dropped her ample figure into the chair facing Wilson’s desk.

  Wilson realised that he hadn’t spoken to her for some time. She had been helping to prepare the papers on Willie Rice for the Director of Public Prosecutions. Everyone knew that Willie would be in his grave before a case could be brought, but procedures had to be followed. Despite the futility of the task, Siobhan had done a thoroughly professional job. ‘I want you to do a bit of research for me.’

  She nodded and opened the notebook that was in her hand. She produced a pen from her pocket and sat ready to take instructions.

  ‘I want everything you can find on a Reverend Hunter. I don’t have a first name, he’s a parson in South Tyrone. I have no idea of the denomination. I want his life story. Then I want you to use whatever dark skills you have on the computer and get me the name of the doctor who had a Thomas Kielty of Aughnacloy on his register. And when you’ve done that, I want the service record of DS Gibson currently serving in Armagh. Got all that?’


  ‘Got it, Boss.’ She was about to stand up.

  ‘How are you settling in?’ Wilson asked. Siobhan was the only Catholic on his team.

  ‘Good, I’m enjoying it as much as I thought I would.’

  Wilson tried to think of something else to say but found himself tongue-tied. ‘Get back to me as soon as you have something.’

  She stood up. ‘Yes, Boss.’

  He watched her leave the office. He wondered whether the excess weight was due to some physical condition or was it psychological. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d heard the name Siobhan O’Neill but Siobhan was a common enough name in Northern Ireland and the province was full of O’Neill’s. But he had heard it somewhere.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Peter Davidson let out a long whistle as he turned the car into the street in Hillsborough containing the Carlisle residence. ‘It looks like politics pays well.’ He guided the car to the front gate of the house they were seeking. The gate was an elaborate cast iron affair but didn’t have the ‘Fort Knox’ look that many of the gates on the street possessed. Jackie Carlisle had been a man of the people after all. He turned off the car. ‘This is certainly how the other half live.’ Davidson had been married and divorced twice and currently lived in a bedsit in Belfast commensurate with the net revenues of a man paying two lots of alimony.

  Browne picked up his notebook and opened the door of the car. He wasn’t about to disagree with Davidson about the opulence of the area. He had phoned ahead and was surprised that Carlisle’s widow was so open to an interview. ‘Let’s do this.’ He was hoping that his apprehension and his tiredness were not apparent to his colleague. Either way, he was going to have to cut back on his social life.

  They stood on the steps for several moments marvelling at both the size of the house and the garden. Eventually, Davidson pushed the bell.

  The lady who opened the door was in her mid-fifties and wore a blue silk blouse over a long plaid skirt . ‘You’ll be from the police.’ She pronounced it ‘pole-is’. ‘Warrant cards, please.’

  Browne knew that Jackie Carlisle had been in his seventies when he died, which meant that his wife was at least fifteen years his junior. He was also aware that there was no mention of Mrs Carlisle in the material he had collected on her husband. He assumed that she disliked the limelight. He took out his warrant card and held it up. Davidson did likewise. ‘Detective Sergeant Rory Browne and Detective Constable Peter Davidson. I called you yesterday evening.’

  Davidson was appraising the widow. She was an attractive woman and he was wondering what she had seen in a wizened old creature like Carlisle.

  ‘Of course you did.’ She opened the door wide. ‘Come you in.’

  They entered the house, which was even bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside, and found themselves in a large open-plan living and dining room with a well-equipped kitchen visible through on open door on the left.

  ‘I’m Irene Carlisle.’ She ushered them into the living room. ‘Go on through. We’ll talk in the conservatory.’ She pointed at a glass-covered room to the side of the house. ‘It was Jackie’s favourite room and there’s a great view of the garden. He was very proud of that garden. I suppose you wouldn’t turn your noses up to a cup of tea.’ She smiled showing a perfect set of white teeth.

  ‘Thank you, that would be very nice.’ Browne followed her progress in the direction of the kitchen. As he and Davidson passed through the large open-plan room, he thought it was like a mini-museum, a homage to the dead former resident. The walls were a mass of frames holding photographs of Carlisle shaking hands with various British prime ministers, Irish prime ministers and assorted dignitaries. There were also photos of Carlisle with local industrial and banking bigwigs. Jackie Carlisle, man of the people, certainly had a fondness for mixing with the top echelons of society.

  Davidson walked slowly around the room examining the photographs. He had been raised in the same area of West Belfast as Carlisle and was aware of the many contacts between the ‘Great Man’ and the men of violence. It was noticeable that there were no photos of Carlisle shaking the hands of men whose faces were obscured by balaclavas. That part of his life had been excised from the myth of the man.

  As soon as they entered the conservatory, Browne knew what Mrs Carlisle meant about the view. If Jackie Carlisle had created the garden, if was a far greater testament to him than the many photos in the living room. It was a legacy that would endure. Browne was still standing admiring the view when Irene Carlisle entered carrying a tray holding a tea pot, milk jug, sugar bowl and three cups along with a plate of chocolate biscuits. Davidson jumped up quickly and took the wooden tray from her hands and laid it gently on the coffee table in the centre of the room.

  ‘Please sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll play mother. Milk and sugar for everyone?’

  Browne and Davidson sat. ‘Please,’ Browne said.

  She busied herself pouring tea and distributing cups. When she had finished she sat back. ‘I don’t get many visitors these days. Since Jackie died, I might as well have died with him as far as some people are concerned.’

  Sic transit gloria mundi, Browne thought. He looked closely at Irene Carlisle. Her clear blue eyes seemed to take everything in. Browne sipped his tea. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us and, of course, thank you for providing us with tea and biscuits.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She passed the plate of biscuits to Davidson. ‘In fact, ever since Jackie died I’ve been wondering when someone from the police would come by.’

  Browne almost dropped his teacup. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Jackie wasn’t the type to commit suicide.’ She picked up her cup from the table. ‘Don’t get me wrong. He was in considerable pain and he only had a few months to live. I have no doubt that the thought of ending it all crossed his mind. But Jackie had a huge ego. We had already arranged with a local hospice that a nurse would come and give him a morphine shot daily. As the cancer progressed, he intended to move into the hospice. But the most salient point for me is that he didn’t wait to say goodbye to our son. He loved our lad and he wouldn’t have gone without one last meeting. Our son was devastated.’ She looked across at Browne. ‘He was sitting exactly where you are when I found him. He was facing into the room, but he always loved the garden. If he would have wanted a final view imprinted on his brain, it would have been the garden.’

  ‘Where do you think he got the morphine?’ Davidson asked.

  She finished her tea. ‘I have no idea. I know where every pin is in this house. Jackie was useless around the place. I wasn’t only his wife, I was a kind of personal assistant. His life was so full that he never developed the usual home skills. He never knew where he left things and was continually wandering around looking for something he had mislaid. I don’t think he could have hidden a vial of morphine, a syringe and that rubber contraption for bringing up a vein. I would have known.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Browne asked.

  ‘I’m not saying anything.’ She smiled. ‘I’m simply giving an opinion. The coroner has already ruled Jackie’s death as suicide. The insurance refused to pay out and if I were to make any noise about the manner of his death, it might be considered as sour grapes. But, of course, if you were to find that the coroner’s verdict was incorrect, that would be a different kettle of fish.’

  Browne looked into those clear blue eyes. Irene Carlisle was someone to reckon with. The question was where did they go from here. She certainly believed that her husband didn’t inject himself with a lethal dose of morphine. Apparently, so did their boss. But how were they going to prove it. The crime, if there had been a crime, was committed in this very room. Whatever evidence that might have existed was long gone. So where did that leave them? ‘Your husband was going to die in several months, why would someone want to cut his life short?’

  She watched the two PSNI officers. ‘I have no idea and I’m not about to speculate. However, I did notice that you both have detec
tive in your job titles.’

  Browne almost felt the slap on his face, but he smiled. ‘Point taken, however, we might need just a modicum of assistance. Perhaps you’d like to speculate on who might have had an interest in helping your husband into the next world? Who would have liked to see your husband dead?’

  This time she laughed out loud. She looked at Davidson, who was trying to contain himself. Eventually the laughing subsided. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘My husband was detested by the Catholic population of Belfast, possibly even the Catholic population of the province. Not only that, he had also alienated quite a lot of Protestants as well. If you’re asking me to compile a list of the people who hated my husband, it might take me some time and the list would still be fairly incomplete.’

  Browne was becoming desperate. He needed to develop a plan to further the enquiry and he didn’t want to go to Wilson with one hand as long as the other. ‘Can we examine your husband’s papers? Maybe he kept some letters threatening his life.’

  Irene leaned forward. ‘My husband made only one request and he made me swear that I would carry out his wishes. He wanted every piece of paper in his study burned. I’m sorry to say that I complied. People did some pretty terrible things in this province. I never painted my husband as a saint and I’m quite sure that his request to burn his papers was to ensure that his reputation would remain unsullied. Although I would never say it to his face, my husband had a nasty streak. Over the years whatever conscience he had gradually disappeared.’ She sat back.

  Browne could see that her eyes had become glassy and he assumed that tears were not far away. He closed his notebook. They would have to examine every aspect of Jackie Carlisle’s life and that seemed like a Herculean task. He stood up. ‘Perhaps we can come back and talk to you again?’