Yield Up the Dead

by Derek Fee

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Before his meeting with McDevitt, Wilson had done some basic research on Alan Evans. His concentration was on whether Evans had been married and if so, what had happened to Mrs Evans? Harry Graham was a damn sight better on the computer than him so he had left Graham slaving over a hot computer while he had left for his meeting with McDevitt. The fact that he drew a blank with McDevitt made the location of the former Mrs Evans all the more important. As soon as Wilson left Clement’s Café, his phone pinged indicating the arrival of a new message. He opened it and saw that Graham had been successful. The message was a name, an address and a telephone number. He stood on Donegall Square watching the people of Belfast going about their business while he punched in the number on Graham’s message. The phone was picked up quickly and answered by a lady with a very correct accent.

  ‘Mrs Karin Faulkner?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Yes, who is this?’

  ‘My name is Detective Superintendent Wilson. I was wondering whether you might have some time this morning to meet me.’

  ‘Is this about the article in the Chronicle this morning?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Wilson said.

  ‘I don’t think I can be of much help, superintendent. It was such a long time ago. It’s like another lifetime.’

  ‘I understand. But I would appreciate a meeting nonetheless.’

  ‘Can you be here within the hour?’

  Wilson looked at the address. ‘Absolutely.’

  Wilson returned to the station, picked up his car and headed for the Westlink. He felt a sense of loneliness as he drove east along the A20. It was one of those occasions when he wished that his former detective sergeant hadn’t decided to abandon him for a new life in the US. He hated admitting it but he was missing her. After a twenty-minute drive, he turned into Castlehill Road and drove on to Castlehill Park before arriving at the Faulkner address in Stormont Wood. This part of Belfast was light years away from the narrow Victorian streets of the inner city. He drove into the driveway of the address that Graham had provided and surveyed the Faulkner residence. Karin Faulkner had certainly done well for herself. The house was an imposing pile. It consisted of two wings connected by a central area containing the front door. The ground floor of each side of the house had a large picture window that looked out on the well-tended lawn and mature garden. He parked by the front door.

  The door was opened as Wilson was exiting from the car and an elegantly dressed lady with well-coiffed hair stood in the opening.

  ‘Mrs Faulkner,’ Wilson said covering the distance from the car to the door in several strides.

  ‘Superintendent Wilson, may I have some identification please?’

  ‘Of course.’ Wilson took out his warrant card and handed it to her.

  She examined the card before returning it and then stood aside to allow Wilson in. ‘I was anticipating a visit from some journalist or other.’ She led Wilson into a living room to the left of the large hall. ‘Can I offer you some tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  The room was decorated in the classical manner with a well-upholstered suite of a three-seater, two-seater and two club chairs. There were two coffee tables and several other pieces of classical Regency style furniture.

  ‘Please, superintendent, sit.’ She sat on one of the club chairs and straightened her skirt.

  Wilson guessed that his hostess was in her sixties, her dark hair had turned grey at the sides and she made no attempt to hide it. Her face was open and slightly cherubic and her lightly tanned skin was smooth like that of a much younger woman. She wore an expensive sweater over a silk blouse. The Faulkners were not short of money. ‘I’m sorry for imposing on you but I’m sure you realise that the article in the Chronicle this morning has caused some consternation in PSNI HQ. Your former husband is numbered among the “disappeared” and any information that might lead to the discovery of his body must be treated as a matter of urgency. I’ve been tasked with assessing whether the information in the paper is accurate.’

  Karin Faulkner smiled. It was the smile of a sweet old lady. ‘I understand your desire to speak with me but as I said on the phone Alan’s disappearance seems a lifetime ago. It has a dreamlike quality for me. I’m sure there’s a file somewhere with the interviews I gave at the time.’

  ‘Why would someone murder your former husband and hide his body?’

  ‘I have no idea. Alan had some fairly controversial views and he was beginning to be listened to in some quarters but he was on the far left of the political spectrum. The politics of the province at the time were sectarian and Alan was more concerned with social justice. I can’t imagine that anyone felt threatened by him. He was beginning to develop a bit of an ego about himself but aside from that nothing.’

  ‘I don’t like to ask but might he have been involved with dangerous people on either side?’

  She laughed. ‘Alan would have run a mile at the first sign of violence. He was more anti-establishment than anything else.’

  ‘I suppose there was no question of another woman?’

  She reddened. ‘Like I said, Alan was beginning to get an ego. He was speaking to bigger crowds and I’m sure that there might have been possibilities for him to wander. But I wasn’t aware of anything in that direction.’

  Wilson was disappointed at the dearth of new information that was forthcoming. ‘Do you think that your former husband might have run away? Might he have wanted to get away from Ulster?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not a chance, his ego had clicked in. He was beginning to see himself as some kind of Messiah.’

  Wilson stood. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘What do you think, superintendent?’

  ‘Thirty years is a long time. I think it’s as likely that he’s in a boghole in Ballynahone as that he is living in a shack in Bora Bora.’

  She stared directly into his eyes. ‘I’d prefer if you didn’t dig him up. I’ve left that life behind and I don’t want it brought up again.’

  Wilson stood up. ‘I appreciate you meeting me. I’ll keep you informed if you like.’

  She continued staring into his face. ‘No, I’d prefer to forget that part of my life. I was left alone and destitute, a young woman whose husband had vanished off the face of the earth. You have no idea the thoughts that ran through my brain. It took an effort to pull myself up from the floor and get on with my life.’

  ‘I can understand your reluctance to relive a horrible time for you.’

  They walked to the front door together.

  ‘Leave him where he is, please,’ she said.

  ‘It won’t be my call.’ Wilson walked out on to the tarmac drive and looked at the perfectly manicured lawn and the beautifully maintained garden. He could understand Karin Faulkner’s desire to leave Alan Evans at rest wherever he was. And he supposed that she wasn’t the only one feeling like that this morning. If Alan Evans was in a boghole, someone had put him there. If that someone were still alive, they would be wondering whether their crime was going to come to light. Digging up Ballynahone bog wouldn’t be his call alone but if he advised against it then maybe Evans would be left where he was. On the other hand, every man should have his resting place recognised. He still had half a day before he had to report to Nicholson. He took out his mobile phone and called Graham. ‘Did Evans have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘One brother, Robert Evans.’ There was a slight pause while Graham consulted his notes. ‘He works in a garage on the Ravenhill Road.’ Graham gave him the address.

  Wilson closed the phone. The address that Graham had given him was fifteen minutes away via the Newtonards Road. What did he have to lose?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The article on the front page of the Chronicle had included a photo of Alan Evans, and the man who sat behind the desk at the garage reception had such a strong resemblance to the photo that Wilson immediately assumed that he was Robert Evans. He took out his warrant card as
he approached the desk.

  ‘Robert Evans?’ he asked as he stood before the man on reception.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson.’ He held the warrant card up so that the man could read it.

  ‘So bloody predictable, yes, I’m Robert Evans and I was wondering when someone from your lot would be around.’

  Evans was probably in his late fifties, which would make him the younger brother. He was well built and his hair was cut so short that he appeared to be bald. A pair of spectacles was pushed up on the top of his head. His face was blotchy with red patches and Wilson assumed that he was a drinker. He was wearing a blue mechanic’s overall.

  ‘You’ve seen the story in the Chronicle?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Who hasn’t? All the lads have been at me this morning about it.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

  ‘The only place private here is the men’s toilet and for obvious reasons I don’t think we should go there together. At least this time they sent one of the head boys.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘When Alan disappeared, the lad they sent around to interview us was a wet-behind-the-ears copper. Now that he’s been missing for over thirty years, they send a detective superintendent no less. Looks like they’re taking things more seriously this time It’s a bit late, eh!’

  ‘You used the word “missing”. You don’t believe that your brother is dead.’

  ‘It was part of the family mantra. Alan wasn’t dead; he’d turn up any day now. God, but we were naïve.’

  ‘So you think he is dead?’

  ‘Of course I think he’s bloody dead. We seen or heard neither hide nor hair of him since the day he disappeared.’

  ‘And what do you think happened to him?’

  ‘Who the hell knows! They were killing people for no reason at all around then. Every day you picked up the paper there was some fella or girl’s picture on the front page. We were living in the Wild West.’

  ‘You think he was a random killing? If so, why did the murderers hide his body? Why not dump him in a lane somewhere he could be found?’

  ‘Search me. All I can tell you is that his disappearance hastened the death of our parents. Why couldn’t the bastards who killed him have given us the body to bury? It was the not knowing that preyed on our minds. Sick fuckers, the lot of them.’

  ‘Why pick on your brother?’

  ‘He was an uppity bugger, always talking about how Russia was great and how we needed to set up a workers’ republic for the whole island of Ireland.’

  ‘That must have pissed some people off.’

  ‘Are you kiddin’? Nobody took him seriously. Russian soldiers on the Foyle to protect the working people of Derry? He was my brother but I’d be the first to admit that he was off beam.’

  ‘Do you think he might be in Ballynahone bog?’

  Evans shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have no idea where he is, but it’s as good a guess as any. If he is there, I want him back so I can bury him properly.’

  ‘I just spoke to his former wife. She’d prefer it if we left well enough alone.’

  ‘Aye, she would. Made a pretty good life for herself has our Karin. She doesn’t want anything to upset the well-stocked apple cart. Her and her new husband started the process of declaring Alan legally dead a few months after he disappeared. They demanded a coroner’s inquest so that they could have an official death certificate. Karin said it would bring the family closure. Bullshit. She was in a hurry to get hitched. In the heel of the hunt, she divorced Alan. It was a much simpler procedure and it provided her with the closure she was looking for. Anyway, I never thought that Karin bought into Alan’s Communist crap. They met at college before the real world hit them. ’

  So much for the prim and proper Karin Faulkner, Wilson thought. ‘What does Mr Faulkner do?’

  ‘He was an accountant. I think he now runs some kind of investment fund. I have no idea what that is but he seems to make lots of money from it. Have you seen the house in Stormont Wood?’

  Wilson nodded.

  ‘Then you know what I mean.’

  ‘So, you think that your former sister-in-law and Faulkner were involved before your brother’s death’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Would Faulkner be involved in your brother’s death?’

  ‘What’s this you people say, it would only be speculation. You didn’t meet Faulkner?’

  Wilson shook his head. Maybe that had been a mistake.

  ‘He’s a sad wee prick,’ Evans said. ‘I don’t think he has the balls for murder himself but he might have found someone who was up for it.’

  A crime of passion was a tempting hypothesis, but Wilson felt that if he accepted it, he would be grasping at straws. He was beginning to come to the conclusion that if there was even a possibility of finding Evans’s body they should take it. ‘Thanks for your time.’ He extended his hand to Evans.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Evans asked taking Wilson’s hand and shaking it.

  ‘Not my call, people beyond my pay grade will make the final decision.’ Wilson removed a business card from his pocket and put it on the counter. ‘Call me if you think of anything that might be useful.’

  Evans picked up the card and put it in the top pocket of his overall. ‘Alan needs justice.’

  ‘He’s not alone.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Robert Faulkner spent the afternoon ensconced in his office. After instructing his secretary to hold all his phone calls and cancel his appointments, he closed his office door and took his place behind his desk. This was the day that he prayed would never come. When he opened the Chronicle on his arrival at the office, he felt an instant lump form in his throat as his eyes fell on the front-page headline. It was the first time in more than thirty years that the name Alan Evans had appeared in print. He read the article and realised that somehow a map showing Evans’s resting place had come to light. How could such a thing happen? He had immediately called his wife and given her the news. As usual, Karin was not fazed. He often wondered what it would take to put her in a blue funk like the one he was experiencing. Her response was very much as expected, they had done nothing and they had nothing to fear. They were beneficiaries of his death but they neither planned it nor executed it. Her words did a lot to calm him and he could feel his heart rate drop as she made a rational analysis of the news. She was quite a woman. By the time he put the phone down, he had dismissed the Chronicle report and was ready for the purpose of the day – making money. His calm had lasted until almost lunchtime when Karin called to tell him that she had been visited by a detective superintendent looking into the report. The name of the superintendent had struck a bell with him and after putting down the phone; he went immediately to his computer and put the name into the search engine. If his heart rate had increased at the appearance of the report in the Chronicle, it had almost forced its way out of his chest. Ian Wilson wasn’t any old PSNI detective. He was the head of the murder squad and was possibly the most famous detective in Ulster. As soon as Faulkner finished reading, he ran for the toilet and vomited the contents of his stomach into the bowl. It was all so long ago. His wife was right. They had done nothing wrong. But he had a good idea who was responsible and as long as Alan Evans stayed disappeared that knowledge wasn’t dangerous. Now everything was changed. The PSNI would dig up the body. There would be a new investigation and God only knew what might come to light. He tried to calm himself. Over the past thirty years, he had made a bucketful of money and gained a lot of influential friends. Whatever came his way, he had the resources to stand against it. He thought about calling Lattimer but decided against it.