Yield Up the Dead

by Derek Fee

  ‘Oh God! This Jennifer Bowe business put Simpson out of my mind.’ She wondered whether it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to be told to pack up her pictures and head for the hills. ‘They’re thinking about it. It’s a question of budgets. Protective custody costs money, witness protection costs money.’

  ‘Someone should tell them that you can’t catch criminals without spending money. I need Simpson to put McGreary and Best in the warehouse when Rice was murdered. We’ll eventually get CCTV that puts them in the area but Simpson was there. He saw who pulled the trigger. And hopefully he saw what happened to the body. Whatever he costs, he’s worth it. They need to get that message.’

  ‘Don’t worry that’s the message I passed. I should hear the result later today.’

  Wilson stood. ‘I’m more than a little pissed that I didn’t get Rice myself. He was responsible for the deaths of at least three men.’ He was thinking of the parents of Brian Malone standing tear-faced in the morgue at the Royal Infirmary examining the body of their dead son. It wasn’t justice for them that Rice was murdered for some gangland feud. They deserved their day in court. So did he.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Richie Simpson was bored with Bundoran. He had walked the town from end to end and sat for hours looking out at the blue of the Atlantic. He thought back to the halcyon days when he joined the Ulster Democratic Union. Jackie Carlisle was already a political figure and somehow he picked Simpson out of the crowd and made him his contact with the paramilitaries. Simpson had traded on his leader’s power. He was somebody in Loyalist circles as long as the UDU existed and Carlisle was at its head. All that was gone now. Every time he thought about the future all he saw in front of him was bleakness. He was thirty-five, unmarried, no trade to speak of bar a couple of years as a labourer on a building site and skint. The best he could do was to fill his pockets with stones and walk into the Atlantic but that would take a certain amount of desperation and he was not there yet. He had played the only card in his hand and it was either shit or bust. Either Wilson would come through for him and he would have some kind of future, or maybe he would fill his pockets full of stones. There was no way he was going to let Best get him. He knew a psychopath when he saw one and he was aware of what Best would do if he ever laid hands on him. He looked at his watch. It was almost twenty-four hours since he had phoned Wilson. He had waited long enough. He took out his mobile phone and made the call.

  Wilson didn’t recognise the caller ID on his mobile but answered anyway.

  ‘Any news?’

  He recognised Simpson’s voice. There was more than a little fear in it. He pressed the record button on his phone. ‘We’re working on it.’

  ‘The hell you’re working on it. I’m sittin’ here with my arse hanging out and you’re working on it. I’m the only one that can give you Rice’s murderers and time is running out for both of us. You know that it’s only a matter of time before McGreary or Best finds me. Either you come through for me or I have to run again and I won’t be calling from the next place I run to.’

  ‘Patience, Richie. These things can’t be arranged in a day. You come in to us and we’ll make sure that you’re safe. ‘

  ‘Bollocks to that.’ Simpson’s voice raised an octave. ‘I go to Belfast without a copper-fastened arrangement and I’m a dead man. There isn’t a station in Ulster that McGreary can’t get to me. I want to be on the mainland.’

  Wilson was going to tell him that they would need at least twenty-four hours in Belfast to interrogate him but Simpson was already freaked out enough. ‘Call me this evening at about six o’clock.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  The line went dead in Wilson’s hand.

  Simpson sat with his head in his hands. The stones in the pockets were one step closer.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Wilson sat in his office. Facing him across his desk was Rory Browne and Peter Davidson. Wilson’s mobile phone was on the desk replaying his conversation with Simpson.

  ‘I’ve never heard Richie so twitchy,’ Davidson said when the conversation ended. ‘The guy is on the edge. It could go either way. We need to bring him in asap.’

  Wilson valued Davidson’s advice. He had been born and raised in the Shankill and he was personally acquainted with every “character” in the area. He’d known Simpson since the time he’d become prominent as Carlisle’s bagman.

  Wilson switched off the phone. ‘They’re making their minds up in Castlereagh. We should have the result of their collective reflections by this evening.’

  Davidson shook his head. ‘That’s thirty-six hours since the first call. From the sound of it, Richie already has his fingers bitten to the quick. He’s not a million miles from doing something crazy.’

  ‘Like what?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Like topping himself,’ Davidson said. ‘If I had McGreary and Best on my tail, and if it was a question of them going to prison for a long stretch, then I would surely be crapping myself that they’d catch up with me. That’s particularly true of Best. I know hard men who wet themselves every time that they have to deal with that guy. He’s a right nasty piece of work.’

  ‘So what should I do?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Lie to him.’ Browne spoke for the first time. ‘Call him back and tell him everything has been arranged and Peter and I will pick him up from wherever he is.’

  Wilson looked at his new sergeant. He felt he had just learned something about him. ‘That lie could get him killed. If he’s right and McGreary can get to him if we put him in protective custody, we lose our chance to nail McGreary and Best for Rice’s murder. I prefer to bring him in when we have an agreed plan of action. The two of you should be ready to travel as soon as we have word from Castlereagh.’

  ‘I don’t want to add fuel to the fire,’ Davidson said, ‘but Best is no longer in Belfast. They don’t have the same resources as us but they have other channels. You can bet that they’ve traced him as far as Londonderry. Let’s hope they lose the trail there.’

  Wilson’s mobile rang. He picked it up looked at the caller ID and pressed the green button. ‘Harry, speak to me.’

  Graham’s voice was breathless. ‘Boss, get your arse down here pronto.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Not on the phone. Just get down to the Royal immediately. You got to see this for yourself.’ The line went dead.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  It wasn’t like Harry, Wilson was thinking as he parked his car in a free parking spot outside the mortuary of the Royal. He made his way as fast as he could to the autopsy room. Harry was standing beside Reid at the autopsy table. Both were fully gowned. Wilson assumed that the gowned figure on the far side of the table was a forensic technician.

  Reid turned as Wilson entered. ‘Put a gown on first.’

  Reid’s assistant appeared from the office at the corner of the autopsy room carrying a gown.

  Wilson slipped the gown on. He was also handed a pair of overshoes and a plastic hat. When he was fully covered he made his way to the table. The figure Reid was examining wasn’t the skeleton he had expected. There were still strands of hair visible at the head and the skin was still there although it was tobacco coloured. ‘What’s the problem?’ Wilson asked.

  Reid turned the head of the figure around. ‘Cause of death, multiple blows to the top of the head.’

  ‘And that’s interesting because?’ Wilson stared at the head. The crown was totally caved in.

  Reid turned to face him. ‘It’s consistent with the victim being dropped on her head multiple times.’

  ‘Are you telling me that this woman could be Francis McComber?’ Wilson was staggered.

  Reid turned her gaze back to the table. ‘We’ll have to try to scrape enough DNA together to do a match with the Cummerford woman but I’d say there’s a pretty good chance that it’s her. The damage to the head is consistent with the supposed method of death. I still have a lot of work to do. Cummerford said that she was pregnant
. I’ll have to check that out.’

  Wilson motioned the technician to join them. He addressed her directly. ‘If there is one scrap of evidence on this woman, I want you to find it.’

  ‘I’ve sieved all the water that was used to clean her,’ the technician said. ‘If there was anything on the body, I’ll have it. I was super careful when I bagged the clothes. We’ll examine them back at FSNI.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Wilson said. ‘As soon as you know something, I want to be contacted. Immediately. Got it?’

  The technician nodded.

  Wilson turned to Reid. ‘When will you be finished?’

  ‘There’s not much work on her. There’s a lot of degradation on the organs. I suppose I’ll be through in a half hour or so.’

  ‘OK, I’ll wait.’

  ‘You’re really so busy?’ she asked smiling.

  ‘Three bodies in a bog in Ballynahone and a missing, presumed dead crime boss, I’d call that a full house.’

  ‘Then I should crack on.’ She pulled down the microphone and began her examination.

  Almost an hour later, Wilson, Reid and Graham sat in Reid’s small office. They were each cradling a cup of coffee. ‘So,’ Wilson said. ‘What do you think?’

  Reid sipped her coffee. ‘Like I said, the wounds are consistent with the woman being dropped on her head. Given that people don’t get dropped on their heads until their heads crack open every day of the week, I’d say there’s a damn good chance that the woman on the slab is Francis McComber.’

  ‘Holy God!’ Graham said to himself

  ‘I wonder what else there is in Ballynahone bog,’ Wilson said. ‘It was obviously somebody’s own private burial ground.’

  ‘You’re talking about a serial killer,’ Reid said.

  Wilson blew on his coffee. The words “serial killer” were ones he didn’t like hearing. ‘I hope to God we’re not. Two issues bother me. Firstly, the IRA were the main force behind the “disappeared” and most of the people they did disappear were buried in locations down south. Secondly, we’ve already established that Francis McComber met her end in the romper room operated by the Loyalists. Both of these factors lead me to believe that we’re looking at a Loyalist burial ground.’

  ‘It’s not their style,’ Graham said. ‘There have never been the witch-hunts among the Loyalist paramilitaries that took place among the Republicans. They weren’t so paranoid because the security services were assumed to be on their side. When the Loyalists killed they wanted people to know about it. I can understand the need to get rid of McComber’s body but what’s behind Evans and the Bowe woman?’

  Wilson took a slug of his coffee. ‘That’s a question we’re going to have to answer. For the moment we’re only assuming that we have McComber’s body.’

  ‘It’s her,’ Reid said. ‘Forensics will get some DNA and you’ll be able to confirm her identity but you can take my word for it now.’

  ‘That screws things up a bit.’ Wilson finished his coffee. ‘We know McComber was killed by Loyalists and they buried her in Ballynahone. We can hypothesise that Loyalists also killed Evans and Bowe. The question is why?’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Gerry McGreary went over the figures for the past month. Revenues were up substantially since Sammy had gone missing. The McGreary gang’s drug business was gradually expanding its reach and if it kept going at this pace he would soon be the biggest drug dealer in Northern Ireland. The news was good on every front except one; they hadn’t yet found Richie Simpson. McGreary’s gang was in fact two gangs. The men who habitually sat with McGreary in the back corner of the Queen’s Tavern were the old crew. They were men that McGreary had grown up with and who he trusted completely. Times had been good for them and they had done well from their association with him. But they were getting old and tired. The second part of McGreary’s gang was the younger guys on the way up and they were centred on Davie Best. A lot of the younger crowd had served in the British Army and had seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan. They were tough, aggressive and vicious. McGreary would never admit it but he was scared of the guys on the way up. He wasn’t dumb and he realised that sooner or later he would be pushed out. Like his old crew he was tired and he had no desire to meet his Maker prematurely. But realistically, that was a distinct possibility. He wondered whether getting rid of Best would dampen the enthusiasm of the young men around him. It might delay the inevitable challenge to his leadership but the train was coming and there was very little he could do about it. Simpson might present him with a heaven-sent opportunity to get rid of Best. But Simpson would place him in the warehouse just before Sammy Rice was murdered. The Crown Prosecution Service would not need doctorates to join that particular set of dots. If Best went down, he would drag McGreary with him. He had contemplated killing Best both to protect his arse and to send a message to the up-and-comers. But he had been forced to accept the fact that Simpson held the key. First Simpson and then Best, he thought to himself. He looked up as the front door of the Tavern opened and Best entered. He had two of his ex-army mates with him. ‘Speak of the devil.’ McGreary watched as Best pulled up a chair and sat at the table. He noticed the old crew’s nervousness at Best’s arrival. He realised that he wasn’t the only one who saw the train coming. ‘I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘I’ll bet you were.’ Best knew that he was an existential threat to McGreary. The only advantage he had was the fact that Simpson was an existential threat to both of them. ‘I’ve tracked Simpson as far as Londonderry. Our best guess is that he took a bus from the Ulsterbus station in Foyle Street. We’ve canvassed the Ulsterbus guys but nobody remembers seeing an inconsequential fucking pipsqueak.’

  ‘Is it so bad if he disappears?’ McGreary asked. ‘As long as he stays away, he’s no threat.’

  ‘I don’t intend to spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder,’ Best said. ‘I’m only going to feel right when Simpson is planted in the ground.’

  McGreary folded the paper with the month’s revenue figures on it. ‘Simpson is becoming a diversion. We have a business to run.’

  Best had known Gerry McGreary since he was a child. McGreary was famous in the Shankill as ‘Slim Ger’, probably the best midfield player Linfield ever had. McGreary had been a skilful player but he was also a vicious bastard. It was the latter quality that propelled him through the ranks of the paramilitaries when his playing days were over. McGreary was no longer slim but he was still venomous. Best glanced around the table. They were all yesterday’s men, grown fat and complacent. Best knew that his turn was coming and when it did every man at this table would be on his knees begging for his life. For only one man that would be a forlorn hope. Gerry McGreary was going to have to die.

  McGreary watched Best as his eyes scanned the men at the table. I know what you’re thinking, McGreary said in his mind. He looked at the men behind Best. Their eyes looked vacant. They were trained killers. Maybe it would be better if Wilson found Simpson first. Best would go down for killing Rice and he might just squirm clear. Maybe.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Stephanie Reid took a light lunch in the cafeteria of the Royal. She wanted to have a word with Wilson but saw that the discovery of what would surely turn out to be Francis McComber had set his mind working in that direction. She wished that he’d accepted her invitation to stay for lunch but he was like a hound after a rabbit. He was as obsessed with his job as she was with hers. They were a fine pair. Both were weighed down with a mass of baggage. She had no illusions as to how their affair, if that’s what it was, would end up. They both valued their space but she was beginning to want more time with him. This was unusual for her. She’d tried the cohabiting route before and it had ended in a nasty break-up. Perhaps it had something to do with the years she had spent in Africa working for Doctors Without Borders. When you’ve spent two years living in a cramped tent with three other women, you get an appreciation for living on your own. But her emotions were mixed. She loved waki
ng up in his bed in the morning but at the same time she loved going home to her own place where she could do what she wanted. Sometimes she wondered what he thought about their arrangement but she didn’t want to ask in case there would be a change. At this point of their relationship, she didn’t want to talk about commitment. Like most women of her age she wanted it all: the fantastic job, the stunning house, the hunk of a husband and two beautiful children. But it was a fantasy and she wasn’t buying into it. Most of the female hospital consultants that she knew had miserable lives trying to juggle the fantastic job, the housework, the always-on-the-prowl hunk and the needy children. She was happy with what she had. Things might change but that was the future. Three years in the Kivus in the Congo in constant fear for her life had convinced her that the only important time was now. She finished her salad, nodded to a few of her colleagues and headed back to her office at the mortuary. She was in the middle of her reports on the autopsies she had performed over the past few days when her assistant rushed into her office.

  ‘Professor, please come quick!’

  She looked up from her computer. ‘Can’t you see that I’m busy?’

  The young man was breathless. ‘We need you. One of the corpses has disappeared.’

  ‘Corpses don’t disappear.’ Her new assistant wasn’t a patch on his predecessor. She wondered where the hospital was finding these people. ‘You’ve probably put it in the wrong compartment.’

  ‘I’ve checked and double-checked. One of the corpses is missing.’