Yield Up the Dead

by Derek Fee

  Simpson watched the two men leaving the café. His heart, which had been pounding, was gradually slowing down. Best was one of the most dangerous men in Belfast. He was a cold-blooded killer and possibly a psychopath. Simpson knew that in Best’s mind he was expendable. If they had Sammy stored somewhere, there was no way he would ever be able to stop looking over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When Wilson returned to the station he was surprised to find Siobhan O’Neill sitting in the squad room. She stood up as soon as he entered.

  ‘Siobhan,’ he said walking towards her. ‘I didn’t expect you so soon.’

  ‘I turned up for work this morning as usual,’ she said. ‘At ten o’clock, the boss called me in and handed me my new assignment. It said “with immediate effect”. So, here I am.’

  Harry Graham came into the room and Wilson made the introductions. ‘We have three murder cases on at the moment,’ Wilson said to O’Neill. ‘Harry will give you the murder books. I want you to get yourself up to speed on all of them. Your initial responsibility will be keeping those books up to date and making sure that the whiteboard reflects the progress on the investigations. ‘

  ‘Yes, boss. Where do I sit?’

  He pointed at Eric Taylor’s old desk. ‘You can camp there.’ He noticed the cardboard box at her feet. ‘Your personal stuff?’

  She nodded.

  ‘OK, get settled in. Find out where the toilet and cafeteria are located and then get to work.’ He turned to Graham. ‘The murder books.’

  Graham nodded.

  Wilson fell into his chair in his office. The small box containing O”Neill’s personal effects had at one time held photocopy paper. He wondered what she might have inside; a photograph of her partner, copies of her annual assessments, staples and paper clips, a personalised coffee cup. He looked around his office. When he’d been side-tracked by Campbell, he’d taken nothing with him. There were no personal photographs on his desk, no diplomas on his walls, nothing that he would pack up and bring to his next life. He thought about the two weeks he’d spent in Nova Scotia. It was a different life to the one he had in Belfast. He’d enjoyed the change but deep down he knew that he was where he should be, doing what he should be doing. The Chronicle, in the person of McDevitt, had followed up on the Evans theme demanding action from the PSNI. Wilson didn’t want to be diverted from the search for Sammy Rice but Nicholson had made it clear that the responsibility for the operation to recover Evans’s body would be his. Therefore, he wasn’t surprised when he received a call to attend a meeting in Davis’ office in the early afternoon.

  When he entered Davis’s office, he was taken aback to see the visitor’s chair was already occupied by a man who was almost as big as he was.

  ‘Superintendent Wilson.’ Davis motioned him forward. ‘Pull over a chair and meet Detective Chief Inspector Duane from the Garda Siochana.’

  Wilson grabbed a chair and walked towards the desk. Duane stood. He was maybe two inches shorter than Wilson but was as broad. His head was completely bald and was as round as a bowling ball. He could see that there was still a growth of hair but the head had been shaven. Duane’s face was round and his cheeks were ruddy showing that he spent a good deal of time outside the office. His nose was neither too big nor too small; he had full lips and blue eyes that seemed to bore into Wilson. He extended a large hand as Wilson walked towards him. Wilson placed the chair in front of Davis’ desk and took Duane’s hand. As they shook hands, he did a double take; Duane’s hand was the size of a baseball mitt.

  ‘DCI Duane is here to assist us,’ Davis said as soon as they were all seated.

  ‘Jack, please, ‘Duane said. ‘We’re not very formal in the Gardai.’

  Davis pursed her lips. ‘You can address me as ma’am, Jack.’

  ‘Ian,’ Wilson said.

  Davis continued. ‘Jack has already supervised two exhumations of bodies that were interred in bogs in the South. So he’s here to give us the benefit of his experience.’

  Duane smiled showing a full set of white teeth. ‘It seems that your boss called my boss yesterday. And I was told to get my arse up here double quick. I had a chance to look at the article in the Chronicle. To be honest, I never heard of this fella, Evans. What I do know of him after reading the article, he’s not the usual candidate for an IRA hit and disappearance. Do you have any further information?’

  Davis looked at Wilson.

  Wilson sighed. ‘We’re as much in the dark in terms of motive. Evans doesn’t appear to be associated with either the IRA or the UDA. He was some form of communist.’

  Duane laughed. ‘So you haven’t worked out yet whether he was a Catholic Communist or a Protestant Communist.’

  Wilson joined in the laughter. Black humour helped most people in Northern Ireland to make sense out of the sectarian situation. ‘That’s the core of the problem as to who might have planted him in Ballynahone bog. That is if that’s where he really is.’

  ‘My boss says you want to get the show on the road right away.’ Duane looked at Davis.

  ‘We’re under some considerable political pressure,’ Davis said. ‘The “disappeared” as we call those people we think have been murdered and buried in secret is an emotive issue in this province.’ She spoke directly to Duane. ‘You’ve been at the sharp end of the process in the South. Up here we have to deal with the emotional impact.’

  ‘Understood,’ Duane said. ‘So the search for the body will attract a certain amount of attention.’

  ‘That might turn out to be an understatement,’ Davis said. ‘You can expect to find yourself in the newspapers and on TV regularly. So, considering the timing to be imperative, how soon can you start?’

  ‘I’ve already started,’ Duane said. ‘As I understand it, Ian is in charge of the search. I’m along simply to provide technical support. That being the case, I suggest that you keep quiet about my involvement. Ian can handle the press and TV. I’ve already contacted the company that leases the ground-penetrating radar and he can have a suitable system up here tomorrow. I’ll have a budget for the operation prepared as soon as I’ve seen the area. Have you restricted access to the area in question?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Then as soon as we’re finished here, I’d like to see the area and we can arrange to restrict access at the same time.’ He turned to Davis. ‘When I come up with a budget, how soon will you have approval?’

  ‘Assistant Chief Constable Nicholson has already given provisional approval for the ground-penetrating radar. HQ wants to carry out the operation in bite- sized chunks. They don’t want to commit until they know what exactly they’re committing to.’

  ‘That’s reasonable,’ Duane said. ‘We have to find out whether there’s someone there first. But I’ll lay out a possible budget so that we can keep going.’

  ‘How long will this take?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘How long is a piece of string?’ Duane said. ‘The ground-penetrating radar will take a couple of days. If we find someone, we can’t just dig the area up with a JCB. I suppose this man had a violent death so we’ll have to preserve as much of whatever evidence remains. I suppose it might take a week depending on the depth of the grave. How long does it take from here to Ballynahone bog?’

  ‘About an hour,’ Wilson answered.

  ‘Then we should be on our way,’ Duane said.

  Wilson was impressed by the Garda’s professionalism. The two police forces on the island often cooperated with each other but there was a history of distrust where political issues were concerned. The RUC and even the newly reformed PSNI were considered to be too close to Protestant military groups. There was considerable proof that the members of the RUC were actively involved in Protestant death squads along with their colleagues from the Ulster Defence Regiment. On the other hand, the Garda Siochana had been accused by their PSNI colleagues of colluding with members of the IRA. There was less evidence for the latter conclusion than for t
he former.

  ‘Don’t let me detain you,’ Davis said. ‘Superintendent Wilson will drive you.’

  Wilson and Duane rose together.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Wilson managed to get out of Belfast before the rush hour began. Before leaving, he told Graham to arrange with the local uniforms to restrict access to the area of Ballynahone bog indicated on the map that had appeared in the Chronicle. He was more than a little peeved with himself that he hadn’t done so already. He might not believe the story of Evans’s interment, but there was good reason to close off the area due to rubberneckers, ghouls or possibly even the return of whoever put Evans there. The only reason for his lack of forethought was his almost total concentration on finding Sammy Rice and closing the cases on Grant, Malone and O’Reilly. Wilson commandeered a police Land Rover. He doubted whether he and Duane would have been able to squeeze into the front of a saloon car. He also grabbed a driver.

  ‘I checked you out before coming North,’ Duane said as he settled himself in the back of the Land Rover. ‘They say that you’re good at what you do. They also say that you were pretty good at rugby until you ran into a bomb. What was that about?’

  Wilson winced at the memory. ‘I was running away at the time. A piece of shrapnel caught me in the thigh.’

  ‘Did you try a comeback?’

  ‘Of sorts, but it didn’t work. I’d lost the speed. I walk with a bit of a limp on my bad days.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed. I played a bit of Gaelic football myself, full forward for Galway for more than ten years. Broke my bloody heart when I had to give up.’

  Wilson was silent for a moment. He wished he’d had ten years of rugby. He had three years at the top and then the scrapheap.

  They left Belfast on the M2 heading in the direction of Newtownabbey. ‘What unit of the Garda are you attached to?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Special Branch.’

  Wilson’s brow furrowed. He looked out the window at the passing countryside. He had recent experience of the duplicity of his Special Branch colleagues.

  ‘I take it that you don’t appreciate Special Branch officers,’ Duane said.

  ‘You might be right, PSNI Special Branch might be different from down South.’

  Duane laughed. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘So why is the Garda Special Branch in charge of exhuming bodies?’ They were heading northwest skirting the northern shore of Lough Neagh. The sun was in their faces and they could see the sparkling waters of the lake away to their left.

  Duane looked out at the lake. ‘You have a spectacular country here, Ian. I’m not an expert on exhuming bodies. I’m an expert on the IRA. The one led me to the other. The IRA had a habit of murdering people in your jurisdiction and burying them in mine. During interrogations, I managed to elicit information on where two bodies were buried. My bosses, in their infinite wisdom, thought it was my case so it was my responsibility to bring up the bodies. But I have my doubts about your Alan Evans. What can you tell me about him?’

  Wilson gave Duane a potted history of the man they thought might be buried in Ballynahone.

  ‘It doesn’t fit,’ Duane said when Wilson had finished.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘He has no apparent connection with either the IRA, or the UDA. Why would they want to kill him? He wasn’t a threat to either of them. So, why would they “disappear” him? That was usually reserved for people considered to be traitors. It was an insult to the person and his family to hide the corpse. One thing I can tell you for sure, it wasn’t the IRA. They always bury them in the South.’

  ‘And it’s probably not the UDA,’ Wilson said, ‘because they don’t do “disappeared”. Where does that leave us?’

  ‘You mean where does that leave you? I’m only here to find and lift the body. If there is a body.’

  The Land Rover left the A6 before Maghera and drove to the entrance of the bog. Ballynahone bog is situated in County Derry about three kilometres south of the town of Maghera on low-lying ground immediately north of the Moyola River and about fourteen kilometres from the mouth of Lough Neagh. It is one of the largest lowland-raised bogs in Northern Ireland. Wilson had brought along a GPS (Global Positioning System) with the coordinates of the area closest to the place marked ‘X’ on the map printed by the Chronicle already installed. The Land Rover travelled about two hundred metres into the bog before Wilson gave the driver the instruction to stop.

  ‘We get out here,’ Wilson said. ‘I hope you’re not wearing your best shoes.’

  Duane smiled. ‘I don’t have best shoes.’

  They descended from the Land Rover and surveyed the bog. ‘Who owns it?’ Duane asked.

  ‘It’s a natural nature reserve.’

  ‘So the government owns it. What about permission to dig?’

  ‘HQ are organising that. But first we have to have a reason to dig. If they don’t think there’s a body, no permission to dig.’

  ‘Sensible enough.’ Duane started walking across the bog his feet squelching in the water-sodden turf. He noticed a large number of bog holes surrounded by hills or small knolls. He marched on examining the flora and fauna as he went.

  Wilson watched Duane bend and examine plants as he made his way through the bog. They both stopped on a small hillock and surveyed the bog.

  ‘Did you ever think of the millions of years it took to create a bog like this?’ Duane said. ‘We look at historical remains that are five thousand years old and we’re amazed. This bog was formed millions of years before man even put his foot on this earth. And we go around digging these places up so that we can burn turf in our fireplaces.’

  ‘I’m sure the people of West Virginia think the same about their vanishing countryside to satisfy the need for coal.’

  ‘You’re right. But there’s a rare beauty to stand here with the sun setting to the west and the waters of the great lake away to the south. I hope we don’t have to screw it up too much.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘We’ll section off the area of the bog where you think the body is buried. The ground radar people will set up a grid and they’ll examine each section of the grid.’

  ‘And that’s going to start when?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow. We’re done here.’

  They moved carefully through the bog back to the Land Rover. ‘Have you organised somewhere to stay in Belfast?’ Wilson asked when they were settled in the rear.

  ‘I’m in Dublin for the next few days,’ Duane said. ‘I’ll return with the ground radar crew and we’ll probably stay somewhere local. I suppose you’ll be over here too?’

  ‘There’s nothing I can add and I’ve got an important case on at the moment. I’ll come over when I can do something useful.’ Wilson eased back into his seat and closed his eyes. He needed the search for Evans’s body like he needed a hole in the head. He cursed McDevitt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Congratulations!’ ACC Nicholson looked across his desk into the face of Rory Browne.

  ‘I’m looking forward to the challenge, sir,’ Browne said.

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ Nicholson had been given the job of ensuring that Browne was the stand-out candidate among those presented to Wilson. ‘But the job may present more than one challenge.’

  Browne had been around long enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘Superintendent Wilson needs careful watching. He has a habit of ignoring the wishes of his superiors while pursuing an investigation. We, at HQ, need someone in the squad who can report back if investigations are going off the rails.’ Nicholson didn’t read enthusiasm in Browne’s face. ‘You’re an ambitious young officer. It would certainly be in your interest to be seen in a good light by your superiors.’

  This was a turn of events that Browne had not anticipated. He actually wanted to work closely with Ian Wilson. The man was a legend in the force and he knew he could learn a lot from him. Now he was b
eing asked to spy on him. It hadn’t been couched in those words but that was what Nicholson was asking. If he agreed, and there was very little chance that he would not be able to agree, then his relationship with Wilson would be compromised at the least and poisoned at worst. ‘I can’t say that I would be happy to spy on my superior.’

  ‘It’s not exactly spying.’ Nicholson tried a smile. He had been assured that Browne was his man. He decided it was time to appeal to his vanity. ‘You’re a young man with a glittering career ahead of you. Ian Wilson is yesterday’s man. In fact, a few months ago he was almost getting the boot. It’s unwise to hitch yourself to a star that’s on the wane. All you have to do is to inform me when an investigation is heading in a direction that might be detrimental to the Force.’

  Browne knew that resistance was futile. He tried to drum up even a moderate level of enthusiasm. ‘As long as I’m not required to subvert my superior.’

  ‘Nothing could be further from our minds.’ Nicholson withdrew a paper from his desk and passed it across the desk. ‘You are now a member of the new regional murder squad.’ He stood up and held out his bony hand. ‘I look forward to working with you.’

  Browne picked up the paper and stood up. He folded the paper and put it in his inside pocket. Then he took the outstretched hand and shook it. His stomach had suddenly gone a bit queasy. He knew that the next time he looked in a mirror he wasn’t going to like what he saw.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Dublin

  It was already dark when Duane arrived at the Dublin Metropolitan Region Headquarters of the Garda Siochana in Harcourt Street that housed the Special Detective Unit (SDU). He made his way directly to the office of Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Nolan, the head of the agency. Although it was after ten o’clock, he knew that Nolan seldom left the office before eleven and was sometimes still at his post at midnight. The SDU was the modern equivalent of the former Special Branch and its principal remit was terrorism. The agency was the most secretive in the Irish Republic and had close connections with military intelligence.