by Derek Fee
‘Will you be staying the night?’ he asked as she settled herself.
‘Probably.’
There it was, there was no mention of “love” or “commitment”. It wasn’t in their lexicon. Yet.
CHAPTER TWENTY
1947, Coleville House, Ballymoney
The five men were seated in the dining hall. The doors to the great hall had been closed and the servants warned not to interrupt the meeting for any reason. The scion of the Lattimer family, Sir Jeffrey Lattimer, sat at the top of the table. On his right were his two overseas guests. Directly beside him was Gary Sabulski, a thickset Polish American from Chicago who had served with the Office of Strategic Services during the Second World War and was now employed by the recently established Central Intelligence Agency. Next to Sabulski sat Richard Evershed who had spent his war in the British Special Operation Executive. He, like his American cousin, had gravitated toward the intelligence community after the war and was currently employed by MI6. The two men on the other side of the table were Northern Irish. On Lattimer’s left sat George Johnson, the seventh Baron Carncastle. Next to him was the recently demobbed James McCann who at twenty-seven years of age had been one of the youngest lieutenant colonels in the British Army.
‘Gentlemen,’ Lattimer started after a round of introductions. ‘What we will discuss here today is of the highest importance and utmost secrecy. No notes will be taken and nothing that is said in this room will be repeated to another living soul.’ He glanced around the group looking for signs of assent. Carncastle and McCann nodded. Sabulski and Evershed remained silent. Secrecy was their stock in trade. ‘Mr Sabulski, perhaps you’d like to start.’
Sabulski smiled. ‘Gary, please. First, I want to thank Dick here for organising this meeting with you folks. We’re all busy people so I’ll get right to the point. The geopolitics of the world has changed radically since the end of the war. The Soviets were our allies against the Nazis but they now pose the greatest threat to what we know as democracy. They have a worldview with Communism as the dominant political philosophy. They’re already transforming the political landscape of the countries in Eastern Europe that they took over on their way to Berlin. There are active communist cells in Greece and Italy and we in Washington consider it highly likely that a domino effect could take place in Europe with most of the continent falling to the Commies. We’ve decided that we need to do something to counteract this movement. I’ve just come from Italy and I can tell you there’s a good chance that Italy will go communist unless we do something. We’ve decided to establish “stay behind” groups in several countries to be ready to fight in case of a Communist take-over. We intend to make sure that these groups will be well funded and well armed with weapons that we will hide in caches. We’re calling these groups Gladio. That’s where you guys come in.’
James McCann leaned forward. ‘Northern Ireland is a long way from Russia.’
‘But you do have your subversives,’ Evershed said, ‘who could be useful to political agitators.’
McCann nodded. ‘So, you are proposing to set up one of these “stay behind” groups in Ulster.’
‘We don’t intend to set up a group,’ Evershed said. He looked from Lattimer to the other two men at the table. ‘We intend to co-opt your little group for our purpose.’
‘Our little group?’ Lattimer frowned.
Evershed leaned forward. ‘Please do not try to be obtuse. We’ve been aware of your Circle since its inception and we have no desire to interfere with it. We want to strengthen it and use it. It contains the kind of people we want to deal with, former army officers, the business elite, politicians. It’s a ready made organisation.’
‘And we are going to fund it,’ Sabulski interjected.
‘During the war,’ Evershed said, ‘the MOD hid weapons throughout Britain that could be used by local resistance groups in case of a German invasion. Some of those weapons are cached in Northern Ireland. Should you agree to Gary’s proposal we would be prepared to put the weapons buried in Northern Ireland at your disposal.’
‘What exactly would be expected of us? McCann said.
‘You would have to resist any move toward Communism in Ulster,’ Sabulski said.
‘Or any other form of subversion,’ Evershed added.
‘And who would we take orders from?’ McCann asked.
‘You would have a level of autonomy.’ Evershed was now the main interlocutor. ‘But, of course, if there were specific tasks to be performed, you might be requested to carry out operations from time to time.’
‘And the level of funding?’ Lattimer asked.
‘I have approval from Washington to offer you an upfront payment of $1.5M.’
Lattimer had difficulty in maintaining a poker face. One and a half million dollars invested in the province would give the Circle unheard of economic power. He looked at Carncastle and McCann. As usual, the baron had remained silent during the entire meeting. He epitomised the phrase ‘a man of few words’. However, he had immense political power. McCann on the other hand was gaining a reputation as one of the most astute legal brains in the province. His impressive war record allied to his double first from Oxford presaged a glittering career. He was the future of the Circle and his opinion would be valued by many of his peers. Carncastle’s nod was almost imperceptible, McCann’s more definite.
‘I think we have an agreement,’ Lattimer said. He should have been ecstatic but he felt a level of disquiet. He looked at Sabulski and Evershed. They had self-satisfied looks on their faces. At the back of his mind, he wondered whether they had just made a pact with the Devil.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
East Belfast was not only the industrial heartland of the city; it was the industrial heartland of the province. Although the hammers of the great shipbuilders of Harland and Wolff had been long silent, that area still included the iconic industry set up by Short Brothers. East Belfast is famous for the production of the Titanic but is equally famous for producing writers, musicians and famous footballers. While many of the iconic industries were no longer present, much of the infrastructure associated with those industries is still there.
Reid was already gone by the time Wilson woke up. He was always astonished at the way she could silently slide from his bed, dress and leave. They had discussed the possibility that she might be part Apache. She concluded that her ability to move silently came from her years living in the northeast of the Congo. As soon as he rose, he put on his running gear for an early morning run. The run was part of his daily routine, a chance for him to psyche himself up mentally for the day ahead and get his blood flowing. The sun was up and shining over Belfast as he took his turn around the Titanic Exhibition building and headed back to Queen’s Quay. He had the luxury of a leisurely breakfast since he was already close to the location of Sammy Rice’s warehouse. When the intercom sounded, he knew it was Harry Graham. He picked up the phone and said ‘I’m on my way.’
Graham was sitting outside in one of the station cars when Wilson exited the apartment building.
‘Morning, boss,’ Graham said as Wilson slid into the passenger seat. ‘Next stop the Upper Newtonards Road.’
‘Do we have a set of keys?’
Graham started the car and shook his head. ‘I brought along a means of gaining access.’ He nodded at the back seat where a set of large bolt cutters lay.
Fifteen minutes later they pulled up outside the two-storey warehouse just off the Newtonards Road. Graham parked beside what looked like the main entrance. Wilson got out of the car and looked at the warehouse. It wasn’t what he had envisaged, principally because it looked more like a disused office building than a warehouse. It was solidly constructed of brick and there were windows along the side of both floors. The building was also a lot larger than he’d anticipated. It was at least two hundred feet long and one hundred feet wide giving a total area of forty thousand square feet when both floors were considered. Wilson was sorry that he hadn’t orga
nised several uniforms to accompany them. Searching a building of this size could prove to be a time consuming job depending on what they might find inside. Graham was standing at the entrance which had a chain running through the handles of the double doors. He had already inserted the chain into the jaws of the bolt cutters and was awaiting the instruction from Wilson to cut the chain. Wilson was wondering whether they should have gone ahead with a search warrant. The building had the air of being unoccupied so the lack of a search warrant might not prove an impediment. However, there might be an alarm on the inside. He nodded at Graham who immediately put pressure on the bolt cutters. Graham struggled for a few minutes before the chain snapped.
‘Back to the gym, I think, Harry.’ Wilson watched Graham pull the chain through the two handles in the double doors and then push the doors in. They entered into the front of the building. It appeared enormous because it was relatively empty. It was apparent that the warehouse hadn’t been in use for some time. If there was an alarm, it was a silent one. On the left of the entrance, there was a set of iron stairs leading to the upper floor, which appeared to contain a small number of offices most of which had no doors and whose windows were broken. Wilson nodded at Graham and pointed upstairs. He took out his torch and turned it on. He moved forward into the body of the building turning the beam from the torch on the piles of rubbish that were heaped up at the sides of the building. He moved along the right side of the building poking at the rubbish. It was beginning to look like a wild goose chase. If Sammy Rice had been here, he was no longer in residence. He made his way slowly along the right side of the building and reached the end without discovering anything of interest. The floor of the warehouse was covered in a fine dust. He proceeded back towards the entrance along the left side of the building. He was halfway down the side of the building when Graham appeared from the other end. He shook his head when Wilson looked at him. Wilson continued along the side while Graham started down the centre of the building.
‘Boss,’ Graham called after he was about twenty feet down the centre of the building.
‘What have you got?’ Wilson asked.
‘Stains.’
‘The whole place is covered in stains.’
‘Could be blood’
Or engine oil, Wilson thought. He walked over to Graham and looked down. There were definitely some recent dark stains on the floor. He shone the light on the floor and motioned Graham to stand back. There were two very distinct marks. One was larger than the other and had a different pattern. The larger mark looked like the liquid that created it had flowed while the smaller stain was concentrated. He saw the indent of what looked like a chair in the dust close to the stains but there was no chair in evidence. The dust around the area was more disturbed than at the edges of the warehouse. ‘Mark out an area around these stains. Then give forensics a call. We need someone here now.’ He bent down to examine the marks. Graham might very well be right. He could be looking at blood.
Graham marked out a circular area of five metres around the stains and then placed the call to forensics. ‘Possibly half an hour,’ he said closing his phone.
‘We’ll wait outside.’ Wilson started toward the entrance.
The forensics team arrived forty minutes later and suited up before entering the building. Wilson and Graham waited at the entrance and watched as the technicians collected samples from the stains that they had identified. When they had finished they assembled outside the warehouse.
‘The two stains you identified were blood.’ The chief technician pulled off his plastic jumpsuit. ‘We tried UV light on the rest of the building but there was no other signs of blood. We collected samples and we’ll have them at the lab by this afternoon. Of course, that doesn’t mean that they’ll be dealt with immediately but that’s something I have no control over.’
‘Are the stains recent?’ Wilson asked.
‘Fairly,’ the chief technician replied. ‘We don’t have the equipment with us to check that. The lab will be able to tell.’
‘But they’re good enough to get DNA from?’ Wilson asked.
‘I don’t think DNA will be a problem.’
The forensics team loaded up their van and left.
‘What are you thinking, boss?’ Graham asked.
‘I’m thinking one of those bloodstains belongs to Sammy Rice. If it’s the large one then we’re looking for a body. Whatever the outcome, that warehouse is a crime scene. I want it secured.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Richie Simpson spent the morning rambling around the Castlecourt Shopping Centre on Royal Avenue. In his pocket was £100 from the £2,000 that McDevitt had given him. He would have loved to have gone on a splurge with the money but he’d learned his lesson. He had no idea how long the money would last, but he knew that conserving it was a damn sight better than throwing it out the window. However, two grand wasn’t going to last forever. He’d been a fool to settle for so little. McDevitt had run with the map and the Chronicle had followed up with an article speculating on what options were open to the PSNI. The Justice Minister was already calling for the body to be exhumed. McDevitt had got his money’s worth. Simpson had been conned. He’d spent two hours looking around Debenhams and some of the other shops without buying anything. He noticed a Starbucks ahead and decided it was time for a cup of coffee. He joined the queue and was almost at the counter when he felt an arm on his shoulder.
‘Mine’s a smoked butterscotch latte and Eddie will have a latte macchiato.’
Simpson whirled and found himself looking into Davie Best’s smiling face. A few feet behind Best he saw another of Gerry McGreary’s thugs.
Best motioned to his companion and pointed at an empty table. ‘There’s a table over in the corner that Eddie’ll grab. I’ll wait with you and give a hand with the coffees.’
Simpson was no longer interested in coffee. In fact, he felt that if he put something into his stomach, it would be instantly rejected. He took a deep breath before speaking. ‘Davie, good to see you.’
‘Aye,’ Best’s hand circled Simpson’s shoulder. ‘Sure, aren’t we the best of friends.’
Simpson had reached the counter and gave the order. He removed the roll of tens from his pocket and pulled one off.
‘You’re in the money,’ Best said. ‘Happy days are here again, eh! Big win on the gee-gees?’
‘Something like that.’ Simpson had no desire to go into details. He was too busy wishing himself somewhere else. He watched the server put three Starbucks-decorated cardboard cups on the table before him. The server’s mouth moved and he said something but Simpson didn’t hear. He handed over the £10 note and held his hand out for the change. Meanwhile the active part of his mind was thinking that he was experiencing his last day on the planet.
Best pushed past him and picked up two of the cups. He stood back and waited for Simpson to pick up the remaining one.
Simpson picked up the cup and followed Best to the table that had been taken by Best’s companion. The cups were distributed to the proper recipients and Simpson sat on one of the empty chairs. Best smiled and took a seat across from him.
‘Haven’t seen you around much lately.’ Best took the lid off his cup, poured three sachets of sugar into the coffee and used a small plastic spoon to stir the contents. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing much.’ Simpson raised the cup to his mouth and drank. Christ, but it was hot. He looked at Best’s companion who was built like a brick shithouse. ‘Eddie’ appeared to be taking no interest in the proceedings.
‘The Peelers have been around asking about Sammy again,’ Best said without looking up from his coffee.
‘I hadn’t heard,’ Simpson said. He didn’t want to say that he went into a blue funk every time Sammy Rice’s name was mentioned. Carlisle had screwed him good and proper. That wasn’t exactly true. He was aware that his own greed was the source of his problems.
‘We’re wondering what sparked their interest again. The
search for Sammy had gone cold. Now we have a couple of Peelers goin’ around askin’ questions. It looks like someone has been opening their big mouth.’ Best sipped his coffee.
‘You think I’m stupid,’ Simpson said. ‘You have the Beretta with my fingerprint on it. If they manage to find Sammy, they’ll be able to match the bullet to the gun and I’m in prison for the rest of my life.’ That was if they ever found Sammy. He had no idea what Best and Ray Wright did with the body. He assumed that Sammy was at the bottom of the Irish Sea, which would mean that they could shove the gun up their proverbial arses. Sammy would have to be found in order for the bullet to be retrieved. He had convinced himself that the threat associated with Best having the murder weapon was negligible. He was hoping that Best would open up on what he’d done with Sammy but there was little or no hope of that happening
McGreary was probably right, Best was thinking. They had taken the opportunity to kill Sammy without having a plan for the future. It was Iraq all over again. You go in, do the business and don’t think about the consequences or the exit strategy. Planning on the hoof had been shown not to be the smartest way to go. But it was what it was. Perhaps they had screwed up. If they’d taken him out in the street, there would have been some tit-for-tat. Having him disappear seemed like the best idea at the time. He would dearly like to fit Simpson up for the murder but the arsehole was right, there would have to be a bullet to link the gun to the murder. Sammy was in a hole in Tullymore forest. Bringing him back wasn’t an option right now. ‘It would be better for all if the Peelers lose interest again,’ he said. He had intended to throw the frighteners into Simpson but he knew the bastard had worked things out for himself. Maybe he’d kill Simpson anyway. Plant the gun and point the Peelers in the direction of Sammy’s grave. He wasn’t about to do anything without thinking on it, and running it past McGreary. He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘We’ll be seein’ you around, Richie.’