by Derek Fee
Wilson closed his computer and stood up, it was time to head for Aughnacloy and a possible interview with Aiden Keenan. He was exiting his office when he saw Graham with his mobile to his ear gesticulating wildly from the other side of the room. It didn’t take much detecting to know that one of Graham’s leads on the whereabouts of Gillian McAuley had come good.
‘We have her, Boss.’ Graham joined him at the door of the squad room. ‘Old guy two doors down from the abandoned house on Earlscourt Street saw her and a couple of guys arriving there last night. The men left but we believe she’s still in the house.’
‘Good work, Harry, rustle up a couple of uniforms, and Peter and yourself can pick her up. Bring her back here and have a go at her. I’m in Aughnacloy and on the mobile. Keep me informed.’
‘OK, Boss, I’m on it.’ Graham signalled to Davidson and they left the room. Wilson felt a sense of relief as he watched them disappear down the corridor. It was a shitty case, the murder of a child always is, but it was a result. She might go down for it, but more likely the inevitable psychological examinations would show that the balance of her mind had been disturbed by drugs and she would convince the judge that she had seen the Devil in the boy’s eyes and she had tried to beat Satan out of him. It would be a crock of shit, but the legal system would buy it. That was in the future. Right now he had to concentrate his mind on putting the frighteners on Aiden Keenan in the hope that he would crack.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Artie Ward watched the two police cars pull up almost outside his house. As soon as he’d put the phone down after calling DC Graham, he’d cursed himself. Seventy-two years old and he had learned nothing. Forty years of keeping his head under the parapet and then he had to go and ruin everything. This was going to make the papers. Some clever bugger in the police would collect fifty quid for giving the Chronicle his name and some equally clever bugger with a camera would take his photograph, which the paper might publish. Then the blokes who brought the prossie last night would know his name and what he looked like. So much for keeping his head down. The secret to staying safe in Belfast was minding your own business and he’d just screwed that up. His only option was to limit the damage.
Graham and Davidson were wearing their stab-vests and stood back to allow the armed unit to break into the house and enter first. Ward had told him that the men had left and not returned, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Three uniforms entered the house screaming ‘Armed police.’ They rushed from room to room with Graham and Davidson close behind them.
‘In here,’ one of the uniforms shouted from the living room.
The two detectives pushed past the other officers and entered the living room. ‘Fucking hell,’ Graham said as his eyes fell on the prone figure of Gillian McAuley sitting in one of the armchairs. There was a needle protruding from her left arm. It wasn’t necessary to feel her pulse, rigor mortis had already set in and she had taken on the appearance of a plastic dummy. It looked like she’d been on the road to this death for more than a few months. Her frame was skeletal and tracks ran up both arms. Lying back in the chair she looked fragile. Graham knew that somewhere in the city there would be a series of photographs cataloguing the life of a sweet young girl, before it had all gone wrong and led to the sight he was looking at. The next step would be to go to the house that those photographs were in and inform Margaret McAuley that her little girl had been found but that she wouldn’t be speaking to her again. Graham took out his phone and called the station. He ordered a Forensic crew and the pathologist. Meanwhile Davidson told the uniforms to set up a perimeter around the house and seal it off with crime-scene tape.
‘Everyone out,’ Graham shouted. He looked at the mess in the front room and pitied the Forensic team that would have to sift through the mass of rubbish and drug paraphernalia. He went outside and phoned Wilson. ‘Bad news, Boss,’ he said as soon as Wilson came on the line. ‘We found McAuley alright but she’s dead. Looks like an overdose.’
‘Shit.’ He didn’t bother to ask whether Graham had already secured the scene and called for Forensic and the pathologist. That would have been done before the phone call was made to him. ‘What do you think, Harry?’
‘It looks kosher, Boss, but I don’t know. We spent the day looking for her and there was no sign, then we find her but she’s already dead. Although on the surface it looks straightforward, something doesn’t feel right.’
‘Let Forensic and the pathologist at it, we’ll see what they turn up. In the meantime, you and Peter take a run at this old guy who phoned in the information.’
‘Will do, Boss.’ Graham broke the connection. He was royally pissed. An hour ago it looked like they could mark it down as a result. Now the whole case was up in the air again.
Artie Ward jumped in his chair when he heard the knock on his door. He’d watched from the window as the uniformed police officer put a barrier of coloured tape around the house two doors down. He had seen enough television programmes to know that meant only one thing. The house was the scene of a crime and someone inside was either injured or dead. That upped the ante considerably for Artie bearing witness to what he had seen. He contemplated sitting where he was and ignoring the knock at the door, but he knew that was not a viable strategy. Sooner or later he was going to have to speak to the peelers. It was just important that he be careful what he said. He stood up as the second knock came to the door. When he opened the door he looked into the face of the peeler he’d phoned. He looked behind him and saw a second peeler. That was bad news.
‘DC Graham. Remember we met two days ago? You were kind enough to call me this morning.’ Graham stood aside to fully display Davidson, who was holding up his warrant card. ‘This is my colleague, DC Davidson.’ He waited a few moments for an invitation to enter, when it didn’t come he asked, ‘May we come in?’
Ward wanted to say no but it was one of those occasions when he shook his head no while saying yes. He led the way into his front room and asked them to sit. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No thank you, Mr Ward.’ Graham spoke for both of them. He watched as Ward settled himself in his favourite chair. He would check Ward out back at the station but guessed he was something around seventy. He was almost bald and his head was covered with liver spots, as were his hands. He was no more than five foot five and slightly built. There was a series of photographs on the mantelpiece, the centre one showed Ward and what was almost certainly his wife on their wedding day. On either side were photos in expensive silver frames of two young women.
‘You live alone?’ Graham asked.
Ward wet his lips as he’d done since he was a boy when he was nervous. ‘Aye, the wife died five years ago, early dementia.’
‘That must have been difficult.’
‘Aye, it was.’
‘And you have family?’
‘Two daughters, one’s a nurse in London, the other is married to an oil engineer in Aberdeen.’
‘Do they visit you often?’
Ward was wondering what all these questions had to do with the goings-on in the house two doors down. He reckoned the peelers were probably trying to get the measure of him. ‘As much as they can. What’s happenin’ outside?’
Graham smiled. ‘I’m afraid we can’t discuss that. We’d really like to know what you saw last night though.’
This was going to be the crux of the matter for Ward. Say the wrong thing now and one night a Molotov cocktail would come through the window while he was watching EastEnders. And every door in the place would be blocked while he burned like a Christmas candle. ‘Just like I told you on the phone, I was sitting here watching the television when I heard a car pull up outside. I looked out and saw a black taxi parked two doors down. Three people were going into the house. One of them was the young woman that you were looking for and one must have been the taxi driver. They went inside and I went back to watching my TV programme.’
‘Do you think that you’d be able to give u
s a description of the two men?’ Graham asked.
‘It was dark and I only saw them when they went into the house and my eyes aren’t so good anymore.’
Davidson stood up and went to the window. There was a perfectly clear view of the house and there was a street light directly behind it that would have cast light on any car stopped outside. Ward was a typical Belfast man, see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil. As he moved away from the window, he nodded in Graham’s direction.
Graham leaned forward. ‘You understand, Mr Ward, that if you saw the men who accompanied the young woman into the house, and if we establish at a later date that you lied to us, then we will be obliged to charge you with impeding a police enquiry.’
Ward ran his tongue over his lips. Since the death of his wife he had learned to treasure every day as though it were his last. He recognised the threat but thought it unlikely that a judge would send him to prison. On the other hand, the men he had seen entering the house would have no compunction in ending his life. ‘Like I said, I didn’t get a good look at them and my eyes are not what they used to be.’
‘I’m going to send around a uniformed officer tomorrow to take an official statement from you. If I were you, I would reflect on the seriousness of making a false statement to the police.’
Ward stood up. ‘I’d like you to leave now. I did my duty by informing you about what happened last night and you have threatened me. I’m going to call my solicitor and ask his advice on this statement. Until I hear back from him, I’m saying nothing.’
Graham stood. ‘I’m sorry that you’re taking this approach. My colleague and I are both Belfast men and we understand your reticence in identifying individuals that you find threatening. But a serious crime has been committed and you are a material witness.’
‘Leave now,’ Ward said.
Graham and Davidson walked into the hall with Ward, who opened the door.
‘We’ll be back,’ Graham said as they exited.
Ward closed the door and returned to the lounge. His hands were shaking. He walked over to the mantelpiece and looked at his wedding photo. He stared at the beautiful young woman standing beside him in the picture. She had been far too good a person to die in such a lousy fashion. ‘This is a fine mess you’ve got me into, Mary.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Wilson’s car was travelling along the M1 and was almost past Lurgan when his phone rang and Gibson informed him that the interview with Aidan Keenan would take place in Armagh. He instructed the driver to turn off at the M12 and head south with Armagh as their new destination. Wilson sat with Rory Browne in the rear of the vehicle while Siobhan O’Neill was in front. He had already decided that Browne and O’Neill would proceed to Aughnacloy and he would follow as soon as the interview with Keenan was completed. He needed O’Neill to start work on the profiles of Hanna’s two sons. During the trip, Wilson was aware of the continual beeping of Browne’s mobile phone as text messages were being received. It looked like Browne was carrying on a conversation by text.
Seated next to Wilson, Browne was trying to stem the flow of angry texts from his now former lover. The last week had convinced him that Vincent Carmody, or Fab Vinny as he called himself, was seriously unhinged. He might be beautiful and an active lover but it had taken only a couple of days for him to become obsessive about Browne. In the course of twenty-four hours, Browne’s phone had received an avalanche of messages, most of which were unintelligible and some downright threatening. The upshot was that Browne had suggested that they cool their relationship. That had gone down like a lead balloon and resulted in almost continual phone calls and texts. He had managed to stem the flood of calls, citing his job, but that only multiplied the text traffic. Since leaving Belfast, he had received more than thirty texts and he was aware that Wilson was watching the level of activity on his mobile phone. The more he tried to end the text conversation, the more the traffic increased. Vinny had threatened to expose his sexuality to his work colleagues. Browne’s texts would have left Vinny in no doubt that such a tactic would be responded to in the most extreme manner. He wondered what he had let himself in for. Getting rid of Vinny wasn’t as easy as a simple goodbye over an Americano. The texts were a combination of pleading and vitriol. In the end he shut his phone off and sat back in his seat. He was beginning to realise that he was a sexual neophyte. He had never once stopped to take stock of what was really happening and the character of the man he thought he was falling in love with. It was a harsh lesson that sex and love don’t always equate. He welcomed the new world of free and easy sex in Belfast, but he wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship and in fact wasn’t sure whether he ever would be.
While Wilson was aware of the texting going on beside him, his mind was almost totally occupied by the news from Earlscourt Street. He needed every officer totally concentrated on his or her work. Gillian McAuley was dead two days after they had launched a police hunt for her in relation to the death of her son. Wilson didn’t believe in coincidences, and that was one hell of a coincidence. He could imagine that in the midst of guilt and despair a grieving mother could take her own life. But why hadn’t that happened directly after the battered body of the child had been deposited at the Royal? Why had she waited until the police had launched a hunt for her to top herself? If indeed she had topped herself. Perhaps it was a simple case of an overdose. Reid might be able to tell after she ran a tox screen.
The main police station in Armagh is located just off the A28 Newry Road. Given its position in the centre of ‘bandit country’, it is a three-storey reinforced block building surrounded on all sides by three-metre-high wire fencing. An effort had been made to soften the harsh image of the building by landscaping the area outside the fence, but the building still looks like a blockhouse set in enemy territory. The car bearing Wilson and his colleagues was stopped at the imposing gate across the entrance to the station. After they were permitted to pass through the gate, they were stopped at a second barrier, where all their warrant cards were examined. Gibson was waiting in reception. Wilson gave Browne and O’Neill their instructions and they left for Aughnacloy.
‘Is our boy here yet?’ Wilson asked as Gibson led him into the CID office.
Gibson glanced at his watch. ‘He’ll be here in about half an hour. Apparently his solicitor had an early morning appointment.’
That was the first Wilson had heard about the presence of a solicitor but it didn’t surprise him.
Gibson cleared his throat. ‘In the meantime, I’m afraid it’s tea with the chief super.’ He saw the look of despondency on Wilson’s face. ‘It’s part of the ritual. He likes to meet all the high-ranking visitors and he’s a big rugby fan so he’s asked especially to meet you.’
Wilson nodded. He’d been there before. Twenty minutes later he exited from the chief superintendent’s office having drunk his cup of tea, eaten a biscuit and told five or six stories from his rugby repertoire. He left behind an apparently happy chief super who would be only too pleased to assist him in the future. Would that every hierarchical officer had the same positive emotions towards him, but that would be too much to ask for.
The interview room had been constructed according to some manual or other developed by a government bureaucrat who had studied what a typical interview room should contain. In other words, it was a plain square room painted in neutral colours and containing a table and four chairs, two on each side of the table. A recording device was located on the side of the table and a CCTV camera was installed in one corner of the room. It was the cousin of the rooms in other police stations throughout the United Kingdom. Wilson and Gibson were already seated at the table when Keenan and his solicitor were shown in. Without being asked, they sat facing the two policemen.
‘Good morning, Ian,’ the solicitor placed his heavy briefcase on the table.
‘Good morning, Gerard.’ Wilson had dealt with Gerard O’Grady BL on many occasions. He was known as the IRA’s go-to solicitor. He look
ed at Gibson. ‘Sergeant, would you do the honours?’
Gibson switched on the tape, gave the time and date and introduced himself and Wilson before asking Keenan and O’Grady to introduce themselves.
Wilson was watching Keenan. He was half a foot shorter than Wilson and squat with curly black hair. His face was ruddy and he sported a well-cut red beard. He looked fit and wore prescription glasses. Wilson thought that he would have made a decent enough scrum half if he’d ever taken up rugby. O’Grady by contrast was slight, fine featured and dressed to impress.
As soon as the introductions were over Wilson turned again to Gibson. ‘I think this interview should be under caution.’
‘Do you really think that is necessary, Superintendent?’ O’Grady asked.
‘I think that it’s advisable.’ Wilson looked at Gibson. ‘Proceed, Sergeant.’
Gibson looked at Keenan. ‘Aiden Keenan, you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Wilson looked at Keenan. ‘First, I’d like to thank you, Mr Keenan, for agreeing to come here today to speak with us. This is by way of a preliminary interview and we may require to speak to you again depending on the direction of our enquiries.’
‘My client will be happy to assist the police in any way he can.’ O’Grady had removed a leather-bound notebook from his briefcase and was writing in it with a gold pen.
Wilson smiled at O’Grady. ‘Mr Keenan, what do you do for a living?’
Keenan straightened himself in his seat. ‘I have a small carpentry business located in Crossmaglen.’
‘And, I suppose that is your principal source of income?’