Yield Up the Dead

by Derek Fee

  PROLOGUE

  March 1984, County Down

  Alan Evans left the village of Saintfield behind and was heading towards the town of Carryduff. The meeting in Downpatrick had been a huge success and he had attracted his largest, and most enthusiastic, crowd to date. Maybe his message was catching on. Unfortunately, the success of the public meeting meant that he was late on the road home. He didn’t much like travelling in the dark. It was something to do with his night vision being bad. Also, he was beginning to lose faith in his ten-year-old Peugeot 504. The road ahead to Carryduff was pitch black and the headlights of the Peugeot must have been designed to be measured in candlepower. He looked at the young woman in the passenger seat. She was the best-looking woman at the meeting and he was more than a little surprised when she sought him out when the evening was winding down. She put herself in the group that surrounded him afterwards and as people drifted away they had found themselves the last two present in the hall. It was at that point that she asked whether she could have a lift back to Belfast. Evans had been more than pleased to oblige. She was at least twenty years his junior and he assumed that she must be a student of politics in Queen’s University. Given the way the attendances were going, he supposed that he should expect to attract more attention from the fair sex. He wasn’t exactly an evangelical preacher but his stage presence was improving, and he was getting better at projecting himself. The young woman had made no secret of the fact that she would not be averse to spending the night with him. She lay back in her seat listening to the music on the radio. Her eyes were closed and she was humming along to the song that he recognised as Karma Chameleon by Culture Club. Evans flicked his eyes back to the road but his mind was on a potential sexual coupling with this beautiful woman on their arrival in Belfast. He had phoned his wife from Downpatrick to let her know that he might not be home due to his aversion to travelling in the dark. All in all, it was turning out to be a most satisfactory evening. They were about three miles from Carryduff on a dark stretch of road when he saw the roadblock directly before them. Bloody hell, he thought, this was just what he didn’t need. These roadblocks had become a feature of the Ulster landscape and were generally manned by people with IQs measured on the Richter scale. He peered through the windscreen but his high beams made no impression on the scene in front. He slowed down as he approached the makeshift roadblock. So far, he saw no sign of movement. Eventually, he was obliged to bring his car to a stop. When he had done so, he saw two men in what he took to be Ulster Defence Regiment uniforms approaching from behind the roadblock. He looked quickly at his watch and saw that it was almost midnight. The young woman beside him, whose name he had forgotten, stirred and sat upright.

  ‘Why have we stopped?’ she asked.

  ‘UDR roadblock by the look of it,’ he replied. He was concentrating on the man approaching the driver’s side of the car. He was of medium height, a trifle overweight and was wearing some kind of army fatigues. Evans wasn’t an expert on army uniforms but in Ulster there were three kinds of roadblock: British Army, UDR or IRA. Since the men were not wearing balaclavas, he assumed one of the former two.

  The woman was now fully awake and sitting forward. ‘I don’t like it,’ she said simply.

  ‘It’s no problem. We’ve nothing to hide. We’ll show them the papers for the car and we’ll be on our way.’ He wound down the driver’s side window.

  Willie Rice approached and at the same time shone his torch across the occupants. There were two and he had been led to believe that there would only be one. The second occupant was a young woman. Wrong place, wrong time, Rice thought. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said as he came level with the driver’s window.

  ‘Good evening. ‘Evans looked at the marking on the man’s jacket but didn’t recognise any rank. He decided to play to the man’s ego. ‘Eh, sergeant,’ he added.

  Rice smiled displaying two rows of tobacco-stained teeth. ‘You’re out late, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Just driving back to Belfast from Downpatrick,’ Evans said. He could feel the young woman shifting in her seat.

  ‘Do you have any identification?’ Rice asked. He was looking at the woman who was staring back at him.

  Evans pulled his wallet out from his pocket. ‘My driver’s licence.’ Evans withdrew the document from the wallet and offered it to the man who he assumed was in charge.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Rice took the licence, examined it and handed it back to Evans. Then, in one swift movement he removed a .22 calibre pistol from his holster and shot Evans in the face. Evans slumped over the steering wheel, blood already pouring from his mouth. Rice then turned the gun on the woman.

  ‘Wait,’ she shouted. ‘I’m....’ She didn’t get to finish the sentence. A .22 calibre bullet hit her directly in the face, entered her skull and bounced around destroying her brain in the process. She slumped forward in her seat.’

  Rice returned the gun to its holster. ‘Jimmy,’ he shouted.

  A small thin man came forward dressed in similar fatigues to Rice. He looked into the car but didn’t say a word.

  ‘Get rid of that fucking roadblock. Then get in the car and be ready to follow me.’ Jimmy immediately disappeared and started dismantling the roadblock.

  Rice pulled Evans from the driver’s seat and put him in the rear of the Peugeot. He pushed the woman back into the passenger seat. Her face was a mess. She’d been a good-looking biddie before he’d changed her looks. There wasn’t much blood in the front of the car and Rice settled himself in the driver’s seat. One more job to do and he’d be back in Belfast.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wilson looked forward from his seat in the fourteenth row on the left side of the nave in Belfast Cathedral. The church was filling up as the great and the good of Ulster, and beyond, came together for the memorial service for the recently-deceased Chief Constable of the PSNI. The corpse had already been laid to rest in his birthplace of Great Malvern on the border of England and Wales. Therefore, the only representation of the man was his cap sitting on a pedestal directly facing the congregation. The first three rows of seats on the left side of the nave were reserved for the deceased’s family. The third to sixth row contained members of the Ulster Assembly led by the Chief Minister, her deputy and representatives from all the political parties. Directly behind them were seated the newly-appointed Chief Constable, Deputy Chief Constable Royson Jennings and four Assistant Chief Constables. Behind them was the officer commanding the British Army in Northern Ireland accompanied by several heavily-braided officers. Then came the Chief Superintendents and finally the row where Wilson sat among the Superintendents. Behind them were the Chief Inspectors, Inspectors and a scattering of other ranks displaying that the PSNI was an egalitarian organisation. The PSNI cohort was resplendent in its dress uniforms. Across the aisle from the Wilson sat the representatives of the sporting fraternity headed by the former Chief Constable’s golfing buddies, the business community, the cultural community and local government. Sitting in the middle, and no doubt representing the financial community, sat Helen McCann conservatively dressed in black suit and matching hat. Wilson had received his invitation for the event the previous week and his first reaction had been to bin it. He had been on leave for a month. The first two weeks were spent in Nova Scotia reconnecting with the mother he had excluded from his life for more than twenty years. The reconciliation had been a great success and he enjoyed exploring the Canadian island with his mother and her husband. The second two weeks were spent having chats with a counsellor. Wilson preferred the word counsellor although the diploma on the wall used the word ‘psychotherapist’. Wilson wanted to avoid that word and its more colloquial ‘shrink’. He thought psychotherapist ill-suited since his counsellor dispensed no th
erapy at all. Wilson had endured six sessions in which he spoke and his counsellor listened and wrote what looked like copious notes. Wilson was looking for answers as to why his relationships, including that with his mother, generally ended in disaster. Thus far, this effort at self-examination had proved fruitless. The counsellor’s future as Wilson’s listening post was bleak. While trying to find enlightenment, Wilson had more or less convinced himself that he and the PSNI were on separate paths and it was time they made the change in direction permanent. He didn’t really know why he hadn’t binned the invitation to the Chief Constable’s memorial but he had no intention of attending when he tossed it onto his coffee table. His hand was forced by a phone call from Donald Spence, his old boss at Tennant Street. Spence was several months into his retirement and had used all his emotional blackmail to convince Wilson to attend. It was evident that Spence had an agenda but Wilson had no idea what it might be. By the end of the phone call, Wilson had not only promised to attend the memorial but also agree to join Spence for a post-event lunch at his new home in Portaferry. Looking at the number of PSNI officers present, Wilson wondered who was keeping Ulster’s criminals at bay. He had searched the faces of his uniformed colleagues for Peter Davidson and Harry Graham, his former colleagues in the murder squad. But they were conspicuous by their absence. Ten minutes before the memorial was about to begin the empty seat beside him was taken by Donald Spence.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be sitting with the other head buck cats up front?’ Wilson said offering Spence his hand.

  ‘Nothing changes.’ Spence shook hands. ‘I asked for this particular seat.’

  ‘Trying to make sure that I don’t make an early exit?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Spence smiled. ‘How are the sessions with the shrink going?’

  Wilson winced theatrically. ‘You mean my counselling sessions. I’m beginning to see what an absolute shit I am. Next week we’re going to explore how I managed to get you bumped with only a few months to retirement.’

  ‘So you’re making progress then?’

  Wilson smiled.

  ‘I don’t blame you for having to retire a couple of months early,’ Spence continued. ‘Jennings took advantage of the Chief Constable’s illness.’

  On cue Jennings turned and looked at Wilson and Spence.

  ‘The bastard must have exceptional hearing,’ Wilson said. ‘Either that or his antennae are set to vibrate every time his name is mentioned.’

  ‘Maybe he’s in league with the Devil.’

  Wilson had no doubt about that.

  At that moment the Archbishop of Armagh and a coterie of clergymen suitably cloaked for the solemn occasion entered stage left and the congregation fell instantly silent.

  The congregation spilled out of St Anne’s and stood in groups on the stone steps or the area in front of the cathedral, which had been kept clear of cars. The lesser ranks of the PSNI group had already departed for their day jobs while the higher ranks paid homage to their new boss. Chief among the group surrounding the new Chief Constable was DCC Jennings who was doing a more than passable impression of Uriah Heep. Wilson and Spence had moved to the side and both were watching the fawn-fest. Wilson let his gaze fall onto the latest group spilling out of the large wooden doors. Helen McCann had latched on to the group of Assembly Ministers as they exited. It was obvious that she was well-known to them all. For a second, her head turned and she looked directly at Wilson and Spence. It was not a look that conveyed affection. Wilson had not heard a word from Kate, Helen McCann’s daughter and his former lover, since they had made their ‘break’ definitive. He half expected Kate to be part of the congregation and was disappointed when she hadn’t shown up. As a leading light of the legal fraternity she would certainly have received an invitation.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Spence said. ‘We’ll travel in my car. On the way you can regale me on the details of your latest investigation. I understand it was particularly personal.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Portaferry is a small town located at the southern end of the Ards Peninsula near the narrows at the entrance to Strangford Lough. It has become a mecca for retirees with a desire to brave the Northern winter rather than fly south to the Canary Islands. Spence had done well in the selection of his retirement property. His five-bedroomed house stood on a small incline facing a beach and the ferry port.

  ‘I understand why you decided to engage a shrink,’ Spence said as he drove his car into the driveway and parked in front of the garage. He was enthralled by Wilson’s recounting of the Lafferty investigation. ‘A lesser man might have gone under by proving that their father was a murderer. Someone badly misjudged you.’ He switched off the car but didn’t move. ‘You shouldn’t be too hard on your father, Ian. It was a strange time. People did things that they ordinarily would never have done. Try to remember that your father was a victim. There were plenty of others.’

  Wilson stared straight ahead. He had covered this ground with the counsellor already but had received less therapy than Spence had given him. ‘It’s all in the past. Right now I’m concentrating on the future.’

  ‘I’m glad you said that,’ said Spence as he pushed open the driver’s door. ‘Come and look at our new palace.’

  ‘If this is retirement, I can’t wait,’ Wilson said when the tour of the house was completed. They were standing on the small patio to the side of the house and looking across Strangford Lough. Miriam, Spence’s wife, stuck her head out of the kitchen door and told them that lunch would be ready shortly. During the tour, Wilson noted that the dining table was set for three and assumed that he was Spence’s sole guest. He was, therefore, a little surprised when Spence told his wife to hold lunch until their guest arrived. They were settled with a pre-lunch drink in the living room when Wilson saw a large black Mercedes coming up the drive. He was more surprised when he saw the occupant of the rear seat emerging. He had never met Chief Constable Norman Baird and he had no idea what he was doing at the Spence residence. He turned to look at Spence but his former boss was already on his feet and heading for the front door. Wilson stood and waited for the two men to enter the living room.

  ‘Superintendent Wilson,’ said Baird as he came forward with his right hand extended. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

  ‘Sir,’ Wilson said shaking the proffered hand. Baird cut an impressive figure in his dress uniform. He was several inches shorter than Wilson but he was obviously into fitness. His slim figure could have been that of a model for the uniform. His steel grey hair was cut short and his blue eyes showed a keen intelligence behind them. His face was narrow and his high cheekbones were more Scandinavian than Celtic. What Wilson noticed most was something he learned from his sporting life, Baird had the charisma associated with good leaders.

  ‘Norman today,’ Baird said. ‘But if you ever call me Norman on business, I’ll be quick to reprimand you.’ He beamed a smile at Wilson and started to remove his jacket. ‘I’m famished. I hope Miriam hasn’t forgotten how to cook.’

  During lunch Wilson discovered that Spence and Baird went way back and that Spence mentored Baird as a young copper. Wilson was obliged, as he often was, to tell some rugby stories but he had the feeling that the objective of the lunch was to give him and Baird the opportunity to get the measure of each other. They reached dessert without any mention of why Baird, or indeed Spence, had gone to the trouble of wasting a lunch on a meet-and-greet.

  ‘I understand that I owe my job to you,’ Baird said as the coffee arrived.

  ‘I had no idea I was so influential,’ Wilson said. He saw that Spence had left the table unobtrusively, and he and Baird were alone.

  ‘Jennings was a shoo-in until he shat on his doorstep trying to screw you. So, in a perverse way I owe you for getting me the big job.’

  Wilson smiled. ‘Don’t say that in front of the Deputy Chief Constable.’

  ‘I daresay the DCC has a doll representing you somewhere into which he regularl
y places needles,’ Baird said. ‘Donald tells me that there’s no love lost between you. I have no doubt that situation will be acerbated by my elevation to the job he covets.’

  ‘I’ll try not to worry too much,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Has Donald told you why I wanted to speak to you in private?’

  ‘No.’ Wilson shook his head.

  ‘I understand you are contemplating your future in the PSNI.’

  ‘Things haven’t been going too well.’

  ‘I’ve looked at your record and I definitely don’t want to lose you. You may have heard that the former Chief Constable was undertaking a reorganisation.’

  Wilson nodded.

  ‘I’ve cancelled it.’

  Wilson suppressed a smile. It was so true to form. He thought Baird might be different but the reorganisation upon taking over the job was par for the course.

  ‘I see you’re a cynic,’ Baird smiled. ‘The proposed reorganisation had some good elements but there were some aspects I couldn’t live with. One of them might involve you. If you’re still interested of course.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘I want you to head up a squad which will investigate murders throughout the province. It will be a specialist squad dealing only with homicide.’

  ‘So, the Serious Crime Squad idea is being scrapped.’

  ‘Precisely, we need specialist units not generalists. We already do it for drugs and fraud, and it works. Most rural coppers may see one homicide in their career. They don’t have either the tools or the skills to carry out a professional investigation. We only have to look at the way some of the historical crimes were investigated. The RUC were rightly criticised for the slipshod way some of the homicides were treated.’

  ‘That wasn’t only the case in rural areas.’ Wilson could speak from experience.

  ‘So are you interested?’